Chapter 24 24. Jumping woman
All Olga Ivanovna's friends and acquaintances were present at her wedding.
"Look here: isn't he interesting?" she said to her friends, nodding in her husband's direction, as if to explain why she married such an ordinary, very ordinary, unremarkable people.
Her husband, Osip Stepanech Dymov, was a doctor and civil servant of the ninth rank.He worked in two hospitals: as a non-staff attending physician in one hospital and as an anatomist in another hospital.Every morning from nine o'clock to noon, he sees the outpatients, checks the wards, and rushes to another hospital in a public carriage in the afternoon to dissect the patient's body.He also practiced medicine privately, but his income was very small, five hundred rubles a year.That's all.Besides, what else is there to say about him?Olga Ivanovna and her friends and acquaintances, however, were all very different.Each of them has their own strengths and is famous.Some are already famous and are recognized experts and celebrities, and some are not yet famous, but they have a brilliant future. There is a theater actor who has long been recognized as a great talent. An orator, he taught Olga Ivanovna to read.There was a singer in the opera house, a kind-hearted fat man, who often persuaded Olga Ivanovna with a sigh: she is destroying herself, if she is not lazy and can control herself, then she will definitely become a woman. An excellent singer.Then there are several painters.The leader is Ryabovsky, who is good at genre painting, animal painting and landscape painting. He is a handsome young man with light hair. He is in his twenties. ruble.He revised the drawings for Olga Ivanovna, and said she was likely to be successful someday.There was also a cellist whose instrument whimpered like a human cry.He honestly admitted that, of all the women he knew, the only one who could accompany him was Olga Ivanovna.There was also a young but already famous writer who wrote novellas, plays, and short stories.Who else?Oh, and Vasily Vasilyich, aristocrat, landowner, amateur illustrator, masthead curlicue maker, fond of old Russian styles, heroic songs and ballads, on paper, on china and blackened He can work real miracles on his plate.This group of free-spirited entertainers, the darlings of fate, although they are all polite and modest, they only think of the doctor when they are sick.The name Dymov sounded indistinguishable from Sidorov and Tarasov to them.Among the group, Dymov looked strange, superfluous, and small, despite his tall stature and broad shoulders.He looked as if he was wearing someone else's dress and had a shop clerk's beard.But then again, if he had been a writer or an artist, it would have been said that his beard reminded one of Zola.
The actor told Olga Ivanovna that, in that beautiful wedding dress and flaxen hair, she looked like a graceful cherry tree in spring, full of delicate white flowers.
"No, listen to me," Olga Ivanovna said to him, taking his arm, "how did this happen? Listen, listen . . . I must tell you: I Papa worked with Dymov in the hospital. Poor papa fell ill once, and Dymov stayed by his bedside day and night. What a self-sacrifice! Listen to me, Ryabovs Kei... and you, writer, listen, it's interesting, you all get a little closer. What a great self-sacrifice, what genuine concern! I too stayed up for several nights, watching over my dad, and all of a sudden, Wonderful, the girl conquered the boy's heart! My Dymov fell in love with a man. Indeed, fate is often so strange! After my father died, he often came to see me, and sometimes the two met in the street. Then one night, out of the blue, he proposed to me...it was like a snow mountain...I cried all night, and I fell in love myself. Now, you see, I'm his wife. Is it him Kind of interesting; strong, powerful, bear-like? At this moment, three-quarters of his face is facing us, the light is bad. When he turns around, look at his forehead. Ryabovsky, you have to How about the forehead? Dymov, we're talking about you!" She called the doctor, "come here and give Ryabovsky your honest hand... That's right. Let's be friends .”
Dymov smiled mildly and honestly, held out his hand to Ryabovsky, and said: "It's a pleasure to meet you. I had a classmate who was also named Ryabovsky. He won't be yours." relative?"
At that time Olga Ivanovna was twenty-two and Dymov thirty-one.After marriage, their life is very good.Olga Ivanovna covered the four walls of the drawing-room with her own and others' drawings, some framed and some unframed.She arranged a beautiful and lively corner between the piano and the furniture, using nothing more than little Chinese umbrellas, easels, little colorful cloth strips, daggers, busts and photographs... In the dining room, she used rough folk Woodblock prints were plastered on the walls, bark shoes and scythes were hung, and a scythe and a rake for raking grass were placed in the corner, so that the dining room was full of Russian country charm.In the bedroom, she nailed black velvet to the ceiling and walls to make it more like a mountain cave, hung a Venetian lantern above the two beds, and stood a clay sculpture holding an ax lock by the door.It was agreed that the young couple had a very lovely little nest.
Every morning Olga Ivanovna did not get up until eleven o'clock, after which she played the piano and, if the sun was shining, painted in oils.Then, after twelve o'clock, she drove to her seamstress.Since she and Dymov did not have a lot of money, just enough for daily expenses, she and her seamstress had to work hard to always have new clothes to wear and attract people's attention.They often dyed old clothes, added some cheap odds and ends of tulle, lace, plush and silk, and they could do wonders.The things made are so charming that they can't be called clothes, but dreams.After leaving the seamstress's house, Olga Ivanovna drove to call on an actress she knew, in order to inquire about news about the theater, and in the meantime, to get a few copies of the first performance of a new play or a commemorative benefit. movie tickets.From the actress's house, she had to drive to a certain painter's studio, or to see a certain art exhibition, and then to visit a certain celebrity—invite him to his house, or pay a visit, or just chat with him.Everywhere she received a pleasant and friendly welcome, and was told that she was beautiful, lovely, a rare woman... and those whom she called famous and great regarded her as family, as their peers.These people unanimously predicted to her that with her many talents, taste and intelligence, as long as she didn't distract her energy, she would definitely achieve great things in the future.She sang, played the piano, painted in oils, sculpted, and participated in amateur performances, all of which she did not sloppily, but with great talent.Whether it's putting up lanterns, or dressing up, even if it's just a tie, she does it very artistically, elegantly and lovably.However, there was one aspect of her talent that stood out most, and that was her knack for quickly acquainting famous people and getting to know them quickly.As soon as someone became a little famous and caused people's discussion, she immediately went to visit him, made friends with him that day, and invited him to her house.Each new celebrity is a real celebration for her.She idolized celebrities, was proud of them, and dreamed of them every night.Her hunger for celebrity is insatiable.The old celebrities disappeared and were forgotten, and new ones took their place.But even with these new celebrities she soon got used to it, or was disappointed, and began to look eagerly for new celebrities, new great men, and found and searched again.Why is this?
At four o'clock in the afternoon, she and her husband had lunch at home.His simplicity, reason and kindness moved her to the point of obsession.She jumped up from time to time, hugged his head impulsively, and kissed him again and again.
"You, Dymov, are a clever and noble man," she said, "but you have one great defect. You are not at all interested in art, and you deny music and painting."
"I don't know them," he said mildly. "I have spent my life in the natural sciences and medicine, so I have no time for the arts."
"It's terrible, Dymov!"
"Then why? You don't blame your acquaintances for not understanding natural science and medicine. Everyone has their own specialty. I don't know landscape painting or opera, but I think this way: since there are a group of intelligent They are useful when men devote their whole lives to them, and other wise men are willing to spend a fortune on them."
"Come, let me shake your honest hand!"
After lunch Olga Ivanovna went out again to visit friends, then went to the theater or to a concert, and did not return home until midnight.Every day.
Every Wednesday, there is always a party at her house.At these evenings, the hostess and guests did not play cards or dance, but entertained them with various arts.Dramatists recited, opera singers sang, painters painted in albums (such as Olga Ivanovna's), cellists played, and the hostess herself painted, sculpted, sang, and accompanied.Between readings, playing, and singing, they talked about literature, drama, and painting, and often argued.There were no ladies at the party, because Olga Ivanovna considered all women, except actresses and her seamstress, dull and vulgar.This kind of scene is inevitable at every party: when the doorbell rang, the hostess would startle suddenly, then with a smug look on her face, she said: "This is him!" new celebrity.Dymov was not in the drawing-room, and he must not have been remembered.But at half-past eleven the door to the dining room opened, and Dymov appeared at the door with his kind and gentle smile, rubbed his hands and said: "Please, gentlemen, have something to eat."
Everyone entered the dining room, and every time they saw the same things on the table: a plate of oysters, a piece of ham or veal, canned sardines, cheese, caviar, mushrooms, a bottle of vodka and two bottles of wine.
"My dear steward," said Olga Ivanovna, clapping her hands lightly with joy, "you are charming! Gentlemen, watch his forehead! Dymov, turn your face away. Gentlemen, look at his face, which is more like a Bengal tiger, but with a kind and lovely expression, like a deer. Wow, my dear!"
The guests ate, looked at Dymov, and thought: "Indeed, a very nice fellow," but soon they forgot about him, and went on talking about their plays, music, and paintings.
This young couple is very happy and their life is carefree.But the third week of their honeymoon was not very happy, even a little bleak.It turned out that Dymov had contracted erysipelas in the hospital, had been lying in bed for six days, and had to shave all his beautiful black hair.Olga Ivanovna sat beside him, weeping with grief.But as soon as he got better she wrapped his bald head in a white kerchief and drew him as a Bedouin.The two were happy again.After recovering from his illness, he went to work in the hospital, but three days later he was in trouble again.
"Unlucky me, my dear!" he said over lunch. "I had four autopsies today and cut two fingers at once. I didn't find out until I got home."
Olga Ivanovna was terrified.But he smiled and said that it was a trivial matter. He often cut his hand when doing autopsies.
"The moment I concentrate, my dear, I become careless."
Olga Ivanovna anxiously anticipated his septicemia, prayed for him late at night, and luckily, all was well.So they lived a stable and happy life again, carefree.Life is good in front of us, and with spring on the horizon, it is already smiling in the distance, promising countless joys.Happiness is endless!In April, May, and June, you can live in a villa far away from the hustle and bustle of the city, take a walk, sketch from life, fish, and listen to nightingales singing.Then, from July to late autumn, the painters would travel to the Volga, and she, as an essential member of the group, was sure to participate in this activity.She had sewn two travel suits out of linen and bought paints, brushes, canvases and a new palette for the road.Ryabovsky came to her house almost every day to see how her painting progressed.Whenever she showed him the painting, he would put his hand deep into his pocket, bite his lip, sniff his nose, and say, "Oh, it's like this...your cloud is crying: its The light isn't right, it's not like a sunset. The foreground is chewed up, something, you know, something's not right... that little log cabin of yours is held down by something, it's squeaking and screaming... this corner should be A little darker. But overall not bad...I appreciate it."
The more incomprehensible he spoke, the more intelligible Olga Ivanovna was.
On the second day of Whitsun, after lunch, Dymov bought some wine, food and sweets, and set off to see his wife at the dacha.He hadn't seen her for two weeks and missed her terribly.He took a train ride, and then searched for his own villa in a large forest, which made him hungry and tired, and he was looking forward to resting later, having dinner with his wife, and sleeping soundly.He was glad to see the package, which contained caviar, cheese and salmon.
It was almost sunset when he finally found his own cottage and recognized it.An old maid told him: the wife is not at home, but they will be back soon.The villa looked very ugly, with low ceilings, covered with written paper, and uneven floors with many cracks.There are three rooms in total.In one room there was a bed, in another canvases, paintbrushes, dirty paper, men's coats and hats littered chairs and windowsills, and in a third Dymov saw three different A man I know.Two of them were dark-haired men with beards, and the third was a fat, clean-shaven actor who looked like an actor, and the samovar on the table creaked.
"What do you want?" asked the actor in a bass voice, looking coldly at Dymov. "Do you want Olga Ivanovna? Please wait a moment, she will be back in a moment."
Dymov sat down and waited.A dark-haired man looked at him sleepily and listlessly, poured himself a cup of tea, and asked, "Do you want a cup?"
Dymov was thirsty and hungry, but he didn't want to spoil his appetite, so he didn't ask for tea.Soon footsteps and familiar laughter were heard.The door slammed, and Olga Ivanovna ran into the room, wearing a straw hat with a wide brim, and carrying a painting box.Immediately after, a cheerful, flushed Ryabovsky entered, carrying a large umbrella and a folding chair.
"Dymov!" cried Olga Ivanovna, flushing with joy, "Dymov!" she cried again, laying her head and hands on his chest, "this is You! Why haven't you come for so long? Why? Why?"
"Where do I have time, my dear? I'm always busy when I'm free, and the trains are often inappropriate."
"I'm glad to see you though! I dream about you every night! I'm so worried you're sick. Oh, you don't know how lovely you are, you're just in time! You're my savior! Only You'll save me! There's going to be a very fancy wedding here tomorrow," she went on, smiling as she tied her husband's tie. "Chikriteyev, the telegraph operator at the station, is getting married tomorrow. A very handsome fellow, He's not stupid, you know, he has a strong, bear-like look on his face... You could use him as a model for a young Varangian. All of us at the villa loved him I am interested, and I have promised him to attend his wedding... He has no money, is lonely, and is timid, so, needless to say, it is a sin not to sympathize with him. Think about it, after the prayer The wedding ceremony, and then coming out of the church, we all walked to the bride's house... You know, the green groves, the birds chirping, the sun dappled on the grass, on this bright green background, we They're all colorful blotches—the picture is so chic, it has the flavor of French Impressionism. But, Dymov, what clothes do you want me to wear to church?" said Olga Ivanovna, making With a crying face, "I have nothing here, really nothing! No clothes, no flowers, no gloves... You must save me. Since you are here, then, that is to say, it is fate You came to my rescue. My dear, you take this bunch of keys, go home and get my pink dress from the closet. You know it, it hangs at the front...and then on the right side of the storage room On the floor, you'll see two cardboard boxes. You open the top box, and it's full of lace, lace, lace, and all kinds of odds and ends, and underneath those things are flowers. When you take the flowers , be very careful not to wrinkle it, my dear. Bring them all, and let me choose here . . . and buy a pair of gloves."
"Very well," said Dymov, "I'll go back tomorrow and have it delivered."
"How about tomorrow?" asked Olga Ivanovna, looking at him in amazement. "How can you make it in time tomorrow? Tomorrow the first train leaves at nine o'clock in the morning, and the wedding is at eleven o'clock. No, my dear, we must." Go back today, you must go back today! If you can't come tomorrow, then find someone to deliver it. Well, let's go... There will be a bus passing here later. Don't miss the train, dear."
"Ok."
"Oh, I can't bear to let you go," said Olga Ivanovna, with tears welling up in her eyes. "Oh, I am a fool, why did I agree to that telegrapher?"
Dymov hastily drank a cup of tea, took a bagel, smiled mildly, and went to the station. The two dark-haired men and the fat actor ate all the caviar, cheese, and salmon.
On a quiet moonlit night in June, Olga Ivanovna stood on the deck of a cruise ship on the Volga, looking now at the water and at the beautiful banks.Beside her stood Ryabovsky, who told her that the dark shadows on the water were not shadows but dreams, and that the mysterious waters and their strange gleams, the boundless sky, and The sad and contemplative riverbanks are all telling the emptiness of our life, showing that there is a kind of lofty and eternal happiness in the world; on such a charming moonlit night, if people can forget themselves, die, and become memories, that would be great!The past years are vulgar and boring, and the future is meaningless. This wonderful night is only once in a lifetime, and it will soon disappear and become eternity-what is the purpose of human life?
Olga Ivanovna listened now to Ryabovsky's ravings, now to the silence of the night, and thought to herself that she was immortal and would never die.The emerald water--she had never seen such a color--the sky, the bank, the shadows, and the involuntary joy that filled her heart, told her that some day she would be a great artist; In the distant place, on the side where the moon cannot shine, in the boundless world, what awaits her will be success, honor and the love of the people... She stared at the distance for a long time, as if she saw the swarming crowd, the glory It seemed that she heard the high-spirited music and the cheers of the people at the celebration. She herself was wearing a long white dress, and flowers were sprinkled on her from all directions.And it occurred to her that this man standing beside her, leaning over the side rail, was a truly great man, a genius, God's favorite.... All his works so far were so good, so original, so different. , once his rare talent is fully matured, his creations will be infinitely superb and captivate the world.This can be seen from his face, from his expression, from his attitude towards nature.About the shadows and the mood of the evening, about the moonlight, he spoke differently, in his own language, and all this made one feel his alkaline power over nature.He himself was very handsome and had unique talents.His life is unencumbered, free and otherworldly.He lives like a bird.
"It's getting cold," said Olga Ivanovna, shuddering involuntarily.
Ryabovsky threw his raincoat over her and said sadly: "I feel that my fate is in your hands. I am a slave. Why are you so charming today?"
He kept looking at her intently.His eyes were terrible, and she didn't dare to look up at him.
"I love you madly..." he whispered, breathing on her cheek, "as soon as you say 'no' to me, I don't want to live anymore, I'm going to give up art..." He He murmured excitedly, "Love me, love me..."
"Don't say that," said Olga Ivanovna, closing her eyes, "it's terrible. And Dymov?"
"What Dymov? Why mention Dymov? What have I to do with Dymov? Here is the Volga, the moon, beauty, my love, my obsession, and there is no Dymov at all! . . . I don't know anything... I don't need the past, just give me a moment...a moment of joy!"
Olga Ivanovna's heart was beating violently.She wanted to think about her husband, but she felt that everything in the past, the marriage, the Dymovs, the family evenings, was insignificant, meaningless, unnecessary, dull, and far away from her... Really: what is Dymov?Why mention Dymov, what has she to do with Dymov, and besides, is he real, or is he just a dream?
"Actually, for an ordinary and ordinary person like him, the happiness he has already obtained is enough." She covered her face with her hands and thought, "Let others condemn and curse, but I To be so, to be destroyed. To be so, to be destroyed. . . Everything in life should be experienced. My God, how terrible and wonderful it is!"
"Oh, how? How?" the painter murmured, he embraced her, kissed her hand greedily, and she tried to push him away weakly, "Do you love me? Really? Really? Ah, what a still night! what a wonderful night!"
"Yes, what a quiet night!" she whispered, looking into his bright, tear-filled eyes.Then she looked back quickly, put her arms around him, and kissed him passionately.
"The ship is almost at Kineshma!" someone shouted from the other side of the deck.
Heavy footsteps can be heard.It was the cousin from the catering department passing by.
"Listen," said Olga Ivanovna, laughing and crying with happiness, "bring us wine."
The painter, pale with emotion, sat down on the bench and fixed his loving and grateful eyes on Olga Ivanovna.Then he closed his eyes, smiled lazily, and said, "I'm tired."
He leaned his head against the railing.
On 2 September, the weather was warm and windless but overcast.Early in the morning mist rose over the Volga, and after nine o'clock it began to rain spasmodically.It looked like there was absolutely no hope of a turnaround.Over tea Ryabovsky told Olga Ivanovna that painting was the most unproductive and dull art, that he was not a painter, and that only fools thought he had talent.Suddenly, for no apparent reason, he grabbed a knife and slashed through one of his best drawings.After morning tea, he sat by the window with a gloomy face, silently looking at the Volga.But the Volga River has lost its light, and has become cloudy and gloomy, looking cold.Everything reminds people that the rainy and troublesome autumn is coming.It seems that the beautiful green carpets on both sides of the Volga River, the strings of jewel-like reflections on the river, the transparent blue distance, and all the unique and gorgeous eye ornaments of nature have been put away by the Creator at this moment and hidden in In the cage, it will be used again in the next spring.A group of crows hovered over Volga, mocking it: "Light! Light!".Listening to them, Ryabovsky thought silently: his talent has been exhausted; everything in this world is conditional, relative, and stupid; he shouldn't let this woman restrain himself... In short, He was in a bad mood and very depressed.
Olga Ivanovna was sitting on the bed behind the partition, using.Combing her beautiful flaxen hair with her fingers, she sometimes imagines herself in the living room, sometimes in the bedroom, and sometimes in her husband's study.The imagination took her again to the theater, to the seamstress, to the homes of famous friends.What have they been doing all this time?Do they remember her?The show season has begun, and it's time to think about the evening party.What about Dymov?Ah, lovely Dymov!How tenderly, childlikely, he begged her to come home soon in every letter!Every month he sent her seventy-five rubles.Once she wrote to tell him that she owed the painters a hundred rubles, and he did send the money soon afterwards.What a kind and generous man!Olga Ivanovna was exhausted by the travels, she was weary, and longed to get away from the peasants at once, the dampness of the river would get rid of the unclean feeling which she had grown from a The feeling of moving from one village to another, living in a farmhouse is felt every moment.She would have left here today if Ryabovsky had not promised that he would stay here with the painters until September twentieth.How wonderful it would be if this were possible!
"My God!" Ryabovsky complained, "when will the sun come out? Without the sun, I can't continue to paint the sunny landscape!"
"But you still have a drawing of a cloudy sky," said Olga Ivanovna, coming out of the cubicle. "Remember, in the foreground on the right are trees, on the left a herd of cows and Goose. You can finish it now."
"Hmph!" the painter frowned, "finish it! Don't you think I'm so stupid that I don't know what to do!"
"How you have become to me!" sighed Olga Ivanovna.
"Hey, that's good."
Olga Ivanovna's face twitched, and she went to the stove and began to cry.
"Yes, it's just tears now. Forget it! I have a million reasons to cry, but I just don't cry."
"Thousands of reasons!" sobbed Olga Ivanovna, "and the most fundamental reason is that you have treated me as a burden. Yes!" she finished, and burst into tears, "say To tell you the truth, you are ashamed of our love now. You tried every means to guard against those painters, but there is no way to hide it, they already knew about it."
"Olga, I only ask you for one thing," begged the painter, putting his hand on his chest, "only one thing: don't torture me! Other than that, I don't ask for anything from you!"
"But you must swear that you still love me!"
"It's torture!" the painter gritted his teeth, and he jumped up. "In the end, I have to jump into the Volga River, or I will go crazy! Please forgive me!"
"Well, kill me, kill me!" cried Olga Ivanovna, "hit me!"
She burst into tears again and ran back to the cubicle.On the hay-tops of the farmhouse there was the sound of rain.Ryabovsky was pacing up and down the room with his head in his arms.Later, with a determined look on his face, as if he wanted to prove something to someone, he put on his hat, slung the shotgun on his back, and walked out of the farmhouse.
After he had gone, Olga Ivanovna lay in bed and cried for a long time.It first occurred to her that it would be better to take poison and kill herself, so that Ryabovsky would find her dead.Then the imagination took her back to her living room, to her husband's study.She imagined herself sitting motionless beside Dymov, enjoying the peace and cleanliness of body and mind, and sitting in the theater at night, listening to Massini singing.She missed civilization, the prosperity of the city, and those famous people, and she was full of depression.A peasant woman came into the house and began to light the stove and cook without haste.It was smoky, and the whole room was full of burnt smell.The painters came back to the factory with mud on their high boots and rain on their faces.They analyzed the drawing and said with consolation: Even in bad weather, the Volga River has its own charm.The cheap wall clock was ticking on the wall...frozen flies were buzzing in the corner where the icon was kept, cockroaches could be heard crawling among the cardboards under the bench...
Ryabovsky did not return to the farmhouse until the sun went down.He threw his hat on the table, and without taking off his dirty boots, sat down on the bench pale and exhausted, and immediately closed his eyes.
"I'm tired..." he said, frowning and trying to lift his eyelids.
Olga Ivanodana, to show him affection and to show that she was not angry, sat down beside him, kissed him silently, and pushed the comb into his fair hair.She wants to brush his hair.
"What is this for?" he asked, shivering suddenly, as if something cold touched his body, he opened his eyes, "What is this for? Please let me be quiet for a while, please!"
He pushed her away and walked away by himself.She thought he had a look of disgust and irritation on his face.At that moment, the peasant woman brought him a bowl of vegetable soup carefully, and Olga Ivanovna saw that both her thumbs were soaked in the soup.The constricted peasant woman, the vegetable soup that Ryabovsky ate with gusto, the hut, and the whole life seemed to her at the moment to be terribly frightening, although when she first arrived she liked its simplicity and artistic taste. of clutter.She suddenly felt insulted, and said coldly: "We need to be apart for a while, or we will really quarrel because of boredom. I hate it. I will go today."
"How? Riding a stick?"
"Today is Thursday, so there is a steamer passing here at half-past nine."
"Really? Yes, yes... What's the matter, let's go..." Ryabovsky said gently, wiping his mouth with a towel instead of a napkin, "You're bored here, you have nothing to do, want to The person who left you must be a complete egoist. You go, we will meet again after the twentieth."
Olga Ivanovna was packing up her things cheerfully, blushing with joy. "Is it true," she asked herself, "that it will soon be possible to paint in the drawing room, sleep in the bedroom, and eat at the table covered with a tablecloth?" angry.
"I'll leave you all the paints and brushes, Ryabusa," she said, "whatever I leave, you will bring it back to me in the future... Be careful, don't be lazy or sullen after I'm gone, you Gotta work. You're my best, Ryabusa."
At nine o'clock Ryabovsky kissed her good-bye, and it occurred to her at once that he had done this in order not to kiss her in the presence of the painters on the steamer, which had taken her to the docks.The steamer soon came and took her away.
It was two and a half days before she returned home.Before she could take off her hat and raincoat, she ran panting with excitement into the living room, and from there to the dining room.Dymov, shirtless but in an open waistcoat, was sitting behind the table, sharpening a knife on a fork.There was a grouse on a plate in front of him.The moment Olga Ivanovna entered the house she was convinced that all this must be concealed from her husband, for which she was capable and capable enough.But now, when she saw his bright, gentle, happy smile and those bright, happy eyes, she felt at once that it would be base and ugly to hide from this man, and at the same time it was impossible, she couldn't do it. It's like asking her to slander, steal, and kill.In an instant, she decided to tell the whole story of what had happened.She let him kiss her and hug her, and then she knelt at his feet, covering her face with her hands.
"What's the matter, what's the matter, my dear?" he asked softly, "Is it homesick?"
她抬起羞得通红的脸，用负罪的恳求的目光望着他，但是恐惧和羞愧阻止她说出真情。
“没什么，”她说，“我这是太……”
“我们坐下吧，”他说着把她搀起来，扶她坐到餐桌后，“这就好了……吃松鸡吧。小可怜，你一定饿坏了。”
她贪婪地吸进家里温馨的空气，吃着松鸡；他呢，温存地瞧着她，快活得笑了。
大约直到冬季过了一半的时候，戴莫夫开始怀疑他受骗了。他好像自己做了亏心事似的，遇见她时已经不能正视她的眼睛，脸上再也没有愉快的笑容了。为了减少跟她相处的时间，他常常把他的同事科罗斯捷列夫带回家吃午饭。这个身材矮小的人留着短发，面容惟淬，为人腼腆，每当他跟奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜谈话的时候，总是尴尬地把自己坎肩上的全部纽扣先解开再扣上，然后用右手去捻左侧的唇髭。吃饭的时候，两位医生谈的都是医学问题，如横隔膜一旦升高有可能导致心律不齐，如最近一个时期经常遇到许多神经炎患者。有一次戴莫夫谈到，他昨天解剖了一具尸体，诊断书上写着“恶性贫血”，他却在胰腺上发现了癌变。两人所以这样做，似乎只是为了让奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜可以沉默，也就是可以不必撤谎。饭后，科罗斯捷列夫坐到钢琴旁，戴莫夫叹口气，对他说：“唉，老兄！算了吧，这有什么！你给弹个忧伤的曲子吧。”
耸起肩膀，伸开十指，科罗斯捷列夫在钢琴上奏出几个和音，然后用男高音唱起来：“请你告诉我，在什么地方俄罗斯的农民不呻吟？”戴莫夫又长叹一声，一手支着下颊，沉思起来。
近来，奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜的行为举止并不检点。每天早晨她醒来后心绪总是很坏。她想到，她已经不爱里亚博夫斯基，谢天谢地，这事已经结束了。可是喝完咖啡，她又想到，里亚博夫斯基夺走了她的丈夫，现在她既失去了丈夫，又失去了里亚博夫斯基。后来她回想起一些熟人的谈话，说里亚博夫斯基正准备在画展上展出一幅惊人之作，是风景画和风俗画的混合体，带有波列诺夫的风格。据说，凡是去过他的画室的人，都为此感到欣喜若狂。不过她又想，他是在她的影响下才创作出这幅画的，总之，多亏她的影响他才发生很大变化，达到艺术的高峰。她的影响十分有益，十分重要，一旦她丢下他不管，那么看来他就要毁了前程。她又回想起，上次他来看她的时候，穿一件带小花点的灰上衣，系着新领带，懒洋洋地问她：“我漂亮吗？”是的，凭他那翩翩的风度，长长的鬓发和蓝蓝的眼睛，他的确很漂亮（也许，这是最初的印象），而且他对她很温柔。
就这样胡思乱想着，奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜迟迟才穿上衣服，随后万分激动地去画室找里亚博夫斯基。她来到那儿时，他心情很好，正自我陶醉于那幅真正出色的画。他跳跳蹦蹦，嘻嘻哈哈，对严肃的问题总是开个玩笑了事。奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜嫉妒里亚博夫斯基，痛恨他的那幅画，不过出于礼貌，还是在画前默默站了五分钟，最后，她像人们在圣物前叹息那样，叹了一口气，小声说：“是的，你还从来没有画过这样的画。你知道，简直大惊人了！”
后来她开始苦苦哀求，要他爱她，不要抛弃她，要他怜悯她这个可怜而不幸的人。她哭泣，吻他的手，要求他对她起誓，说他爱她，而且一再向他表明，离开她良好的影响，他将走上歧途，毁了前程。她败坏了画家的好兴致，心里感到深深的屈辱，最后只好去找女裁缝，或者找熟悉的女演员弄几张戏票。
如果她在画室里找不到他，她就给他留下一封信，信上赌咒说：要是今天不来看她，她一定服毒自尽。他害怕了，就来找她，还留下来吃饭。他并不顾忌她的丈夫在场，对她说话粗鲁无礼，她也照样回敬他。两人都感到对方束缚了自己，都觉得对方是暴君是仇敌。他们大发脾气，在气愤中全然没有注意到，他们的举动不成体统，连科罗斯捷列夫也全看明白了。饭后，里亚博夫斯基匆匆告辞，走了。
“您去哪儿？”奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜在前室问他，那目光是仇恨的。
他皱起眉头，眯着眼，随口说出一个女人的名字——这人她也认识。显然他这是嘲笑她的嫉妒，故意惹她生气。她回到自己的卧室，倒在床上。由于嫉妒，懊丧，屈辱和羞耻，她咬着枕头，放声大哭起来。戴莫夫撇下客厅里的科罗斯捷列夫，来到卧室，局促不安地、心慌意乱地小声说：“别哭得这么响，亲爱的，……何苦呢？这种事不可外扬……要不露声色……你知道，已经发生的事就无法挽回了。”
她不知道怎样才能平息心中的妒火，猜忌折磨着她，她甚至感到太阳穴疼痛起来。她转而又想，事情还可以挽回，于是她洗过脸，朝哭肿的脸上扑点粉，飞一般去找那个熟悉的女人。她在那个女人家没有找到里亚博夫斯基，就坐上车找第二家，然后找第三家……起先她还觉得这样乱找一起有点难为情，可是后来她也习惯了，常常是，一个晚上她跑遍了她认得的所有女人的家，为的是找到里亚博夫斯基。大家也都明白是怎么回事了。
有一天，她对里亚博夫斯基说到她的丈夫：“这个人拿他的宽宏大量来压我。”
她很喜欢这句话，所以遇到别的画家时，只要对方知道她和里亚博夫斯基的风流韵事，每一回她总是把手用力一挥，这样说她的丈夫：“这个人拿他的宽宏大量来压我。”
他们的生活方式倒还跟去年一样。每逢星期三总要举行晚会。演员朗诵，画家作画，大提琴手演奏，歌唱家唱歌，而且一到十一点半，通往餐室的门打开了，戴莫夫面带微笑说：“请吧，先生们，请吃点东西。”
奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜照旧寻找伟人，找到了不满意，又重找。跟从前一样，她每天深夜才回家，这时候戴莫夫却不像去年那样已经睡觉，而是坐在他的书房里，在写什么东西。他要到三点才躺下，八点钟就起床了。
一天傍晚，她正准备去剧院，站在卧室的穿衣镜前，这时戴莫夫穿着礼服、系着白领带走了进来。他温和地微笑着，而且像过去一样，高高兴兴地瞧着妻子的眼睛。他的脸上喜气洋洋。
“我刚才通过了学位论文答辩，”他说着，坐下来揉他的膝盖。
“通过了？”奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜问。
“啊哈！”他笑起来，伸长脖子想看看镜子里妻子的脸，她却始终背对着他，站在那里梳理头发，“啊哈！”他又说了一遍，“你知道，他们很可能给我一个病理学概论方面的编外副教授职称。有这方面的迹象。”
从他那张容光焕发、无比幸福的脸上可以看出，此刻只要奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜能分享他的喜悦和成功，那他会原谅她的一切，包括现在的和将来的，他会把一切都忘掉，可是她不懂什么叫编外副教授，什么叫病理学概论，再说她担心看戏迟到了，所以什么话也没有说。
他坐了两分钟，抱歉地微微一笑，走了出去。
这是最不安宁的一天。
戴莫夫头痛得厉害。早上，他没有喝茶，也没去医院，一直躺在书房里的一张土耳其式长沙发上。奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜像平时一样十二点多钟又去找里亚博夫斯基，想让他看看自己的静物写生，再问问他昨天为什么不来找她。她觉得这幅画毫无意思，她之所以画它只是为了找个无谓的借口可以去找画家。
她没拉门铃就走了进去。当她在前室脱套鞋时，听到好像画室里有人轻轻地跑过去，还有女人衣裙的蟋蟋声。她赶紧往画室里张望，只看到棕色的裙角一闪而过，消失在一幅大画后面。这幅画连同画架，从顶端一直到地板，都蒙着黑布。毫无疑问，有个女人躲起来了。想当初，奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜也常常在这幅画后面避难呢！里亚博夫斯基显然很窘，他对她的到来似乎感到吃惊，向她伸出两只手，不自然地笑着说：“哎呀哎呀！见到您真高兴。有什么好消息吗？”
奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜的眼睛里满是泪水。她感到羞辱，感到伤心。哪怕给她一百万，她也不愿在这个不相干的女人，情敌，虚伪的人在场的情况下说上一句话。那女人现在站在画布后面，大概正在幸灾乐祸地窃笑呢。
“我给您带来一幅画稿……”她用极细的声音怯生生地说，她的嘴唇颤抖起来，“一幅静物写生。”
“啊？……画稿？”
画家接过画稿，边走边看，似乎是不经意地进了另一个房间。
奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜顺从地跟着他。
“静物写生……一流的，”他嘟哝着，随后信口押起韵来，“库罗尔特，乔尔特，波尔特……”
从画室里传来匆忙的脚步声和衣裙的蟋蟋声。这就是说，她走了。奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜真想大喝一声，抓起什么重东西朝画家头上砸去，然后转身跑掉。但是她泪眼模糊，什么也看不清楚，沉重的羞辱感压在心头，她觉得自己已经不是奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜，不是女画家，而是一条小爬虫了。
“我累了……”画家懒洋洋地说，望着画稿，不住地甩着头驱赶瞌睡，“当然啦，画得不错，不过今天一幅画稿，去年一幅画稿，下个月还是一幅画稿……您怎么不厌烦呢？我要是您的话，早就把画笔扔了，不如认真槁点音乐什么的。要知道，您算不得画家，您是音乐家。不过，您可知道，我多累啊！我这就去叫他们送茶来……好吗？”
他走出房间，奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜听到，他在吩咐听差什么。为了避免告辞，避免解释，最主要是为了免得放声痛哭，她没等他回来，赶紧跑到前室，穿上套鞋，走了出来。她这才轻快地嘘了一口气，感到自己跟里亚博夫斯基、跟绘画、跟刚才在画室里压在她心头的那种沉重的羞辱感，从此一刀两断了。everything is over.
她先去找了一趟女裁缝，随后去拜访昨天刚到的巴尔奈，从巴尔奈那儿出来又去了一家乐谱店。一路上她都在琢磨着，她怎样给里亚博夫斯基写一封冷酷无情的充满个人尊严的信，怎样在春天或夏天她和戴莫夫一道去克里米亚度假，从此跟过去的生活彻底决裂，开始新的生活。
这天夜里，她很晚才回家，她没有换衣服就在客厅里坐下写信。里亚博夫斯基说她算不得画家，她为了报复，现在写信告诉他：他每年画的都是老一套，他每天说的也是老一套，他停滞不前了，除了已有成绩外，他将来不会有任何进展。她还想告诉他：他在许多方面得益于她的良好影响，如果说他现在行为恶劣，那只是因为形形色色的轻薄女子取代了她的影响，今天躲在画布后面的那个女人就是其中之一。
“亲爱的，”戴莫夫在书房里叫她，并没有开门，“亲爱的！”
"What's your business?"
“亲爱的，你别进我的房间，站在门口就行了。是这么回事……前天我在医院里传染了白喉，现在……我不舒服。你快去请科罗斯捷列夫。”
奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜对丈夫，就像对她所有熟悉的男人一样，只叫姓，不叫名字。她不喜欢他的名字奥西普，因为它让人联想到果戈里的奥西普和一句俏皮话：“奥西普，哑嗓子；阿尔希普，爱媳妇。”现在她却喊道：“奥西普，这不可能！”
“去吧！我不舒服……”戴莫夫在门后说。可以听到他走回沙发那里，又躺下了。“去吧！”传来他低沉的声音。
“这是怎么回事？”奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜想道，她吓得手脚发凉，“这病可危险呢！”
她毫无必要地举着蜡烛走进卧室，在那里考虑着她该怎么办，无意间看了一下穿衣镜：一张吓白的脸，短上衣的两个袖子高高耸起，胸前一大堆黄色的绉边，裙子上乱七八糟的条纹，她觉得自己这副模样既可怕又丑陋。她突然痛心地感到她对不起戴莫夫，对不起他对她的那份深情的爱，对不起他年轻的生命，甚至对不起他的这张好久没睡过的空床。她不时想起他平日那张温和、柔顺的笑脸。她伤心得放声大哭起来，立即给科罗斯捷列夫写了一封求助的信。这时已是午夜两点了。
早晨七点多钟，奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜因夜间失眠而脑袋发沉，没有梳洗，模样难看，一脸悔愧的神色，从卧室里出来。这时一位黑胡子先生打从她身旁走过，进了前室，看来这是医生。屋里有一股药水味。科罗斯捷列夫站在书房门口，右手捻着左侧的唇髭。
“对不起，我不能放你进去看他，”他阴沉地对奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜说，“这病会传染的。说实在的，您也没有必要进去。他已经昏迷，在说胡话。”
“他真是得了白喉吗？”奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜间，声音几乎听不清。
“那些明知危险却偏要去冒险的人，真应该送交法庭审判，”科罗斯捷列夫喃喃自语，没有回答奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜的问题。“您知道他是怎么感染的吗？星期二，他用吸管吸一个病儿的白喉粘液。这是干什么？愚蠢……是的，胡闹……”
“危险吗？很危险吗？”奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜问。
“是的，都说这病很难治。说实在的，应当请施列克来才对。”
先来了一个身材矮小的人，他头发棕红，鼻子很长，说话带犹太人口音；继而来了一个高个子，他背有点驼，须眉浓重，看上去像个大辅祭；最后来了一个年轻人，他很胖，脸色红润，戴一副眼镜。这是医生们来为自己的同事轮流值班。科罗斯捷列夫值完班后没有回家，他留下来，像个幽灵似的在各个房间里踱来踱去。女仆给值班的医生们送茶，不断跑药房，根本没人收拾房间。家里冷清而凄凉。
奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜独自坐在卧室里，想到这是上帝来惩罚她了，因为她欺骗了丈夫。这个沉默寡言、从不抱怨、不可理解的人，这个温顺得失去个性、由于过分的善良显得没有主见、显得软弱的人，此刻正躺在他书房的长沙发上，默默地忍受着痛苦，连一句抱怨的话也没有。如果他吐出一句怨言，哪怕是高烧中的呓语，那么值班的医生就会了解到，毛病不单单出在白喉上。他们就会去问科罗斯捷列夫：他什么都知道。难怪他看着朋友的妻子时，那眼神仿佛在说：她才是真正的元凶，白喉不过是她的同谋犯。她已经不记得伏尔加河上那个月夜，不记得那番爱情的表白和农舍里的那段富有诗意的生活。她只记得，她由于无聊的苛求，由于娇生惯养，她整个人从头到脚都沾上了一层粘乎乎的污秽，从此休想洗干净了……
“哎呀，我把他骗得太厉害了，”她想道，记起了她跟里亚博夫斯基的那段烦心的浪漫史，“这种事真该诅咒！……”
下午四点钟，她眼科罗斯捷列夫一起吃午饭。他什么也没吃，只喝了一点葡萄酒，皱起了眉头。她也没吃东西。有时她暗自祷告，向上帝起誓，一旦戴莫夫病好了，她一定再爱他，永远做他忠实的妻子。有时她精神恍榴，望着科罗斯捷列夫，想道：“做一个默默无闻的普通人，没有一点出众的地方，再加上面容憔悴，举止粗野，难道不枯燥吗？”有时她又觉得上帝会立即来处死她，因为她害怕传染，竟一次也没去过丈夫的书房。总之，她的情绪低沉而沮丧，相信她的生活已经毁掉，再也无法挽救了……
午饭厨天色暗下来。当奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜走进客厅时，科罗斯捷列夫已躺在沙发床上，枕着一个金线绣的绸垫子，在呼噜呼噜地打鼾。
值班的医生进进出出，谁也不曾留意这种混乱状态。外人在客厅里呼呼大睡，墙上的那些画稿，独出心裁的陈设，头发蓬乱、衣衫不整的女主人——所有这一切现在已引不起丝毫兴趣。有位医生无意中不知为什么笑了一声，这笑声显得那么古怪、胆怯，叫人听了不寒而栗。
当奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜再次走进客厅时，科罗斯捷列夫已经不睡了。他坐在那里抽烟。
“他的白喉已经转移到了鼻腔，”他小声说，“心脏功能也不好。说实在的，情况很糟糕。”
“那您去请施列克吧，”奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜说。
“已经来过了。正是他发现的：白喉杆菌已经扩散到鼻腔，唉，施列克管什么用！说实在的，施列克也帮不了忙。他是施列克，我是科罗斯捷列夫——如此而已。”
时间过得很慢。奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜和衣躺在从早晨起就没有收拾的床上，迷迷糊糊地打着瞌睡。她似乎觉得，整个宅子，从地板到天花板，让庞大的铁块填满了，只要把这铁块弄出去，大家就会感到轻松愉快。等她清醒过来，她才想起，那不是铁块，而是戴莫夫的病。
“静物写生，港口……”她想着想着，又陷入昏睡状态，“港口……疗养院……施列克怎么回事？施列克，格列克，弗列克……克列克。现在我的朋友们在哪儿？他们是否知道我们家的不幸？主啊，救救我……饶恕我。施列克，施列克……”
又是铁块……时间过得很慢，楼下的挂钟不时敲响。有时听到门铃声；是医生们来了……一名女仆端着托盘上的空杯子走了进来，问道：“太太，床铺要我收拾一下吗？”
她不见回答，又走了出去。楼下的钟敲响了。她梦见伏尔加河上的细雨，又有人走进卧室来，好像是个外人。奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜猛地坐起来，认出他是科罗斯捷列夫。
“几点了？”她问。
“快三点了。”
“哦，怎么样？”
“还能怎么样！我是来告诉一声：他快要断气了……”
他呜呜地哭了，挨着她坐在床边，用袖子擦着眼泪。她一时明白不过来，但浑身冰冷，开始慢慢地画着十字。
“快断气了……”他用尖细的嗓子又重复了一遍，又一声抽泣，“他快死了，因为他牺牲了自己……对科学来说，这是多么重大的损失啊！”他沉痛地说，“要是拿我们同他相比的话，那么可以说，他是一个伟大的、不平凡的人！才华出众！他给了我们大家多大的希望！”科罗斯捷列夫绞着手，继续道，“我的上帝啊，像他这样的学者现在打着灯笼也找不到了。奥西卡·戴莫夫，臭西卡·戴莫夫，你是怎么搞的呀！哎呀呀，我的上帝啊！”
科罗斯捷列夫双手掩面，绝望地摇着头。
“他有着多大的道德力量！”他继续道，变得越来越怨恨什么人，“一颗善良、纯洁、仁爱的心灵——不是人，是水晶！他为科学服务，他为科学献身。他日日夜夜像牛一样干活，谁也不怜惜他。这位年轻的学者，未来的教授还不得不私下行医，晚上搞翻译工作，好挣钱来买这堆……污七八糟的破烂！”
科罗斯捷列夫用仇恨的目光看着奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜，双手抓过床单，生气地撕扯着，仿佛床单有罪似的。
“他不怜惜自己，别人也不怜惜他。唉，真是的，说这些有什么用！”
“是啊，一个世上少有的人！”在客厅里有个男人低声说。
奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜回想她和他的全部生活，从头到尾，包括所有的细节，这才突然间明白过来，他确实是世上少有的不平凡的人，跟她所认识的那些人相比，可以说是伟大的人。她又回想起她去世的父亲和所有跟他共事的医生们对他的态度，她这才明白，他们都认定他是未来的名人。那墙、天花板、电灯和地毯，好像都在挤眉弄眼地嘲笑她，仿佛在说：“你瞎了眼，瞎了眼！”她哭着冲出卧室，在客厅里同一个不相识的男人擦肩而过，跑进了丈夫的书房。他一动不动地躺在那张土耳其式长沙发上，齐腰盖着被子。他的脸瘦削得可怕，脸色灰黄，这样的颜色活人脸上是绝不会有的。只有那脑门，那黑眉毛，还有那熟悉的微笑，让她认出这是戴莫夫。奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜赶紧摸他的胸、额头和手。胸口还有余温，但额头和手已经凉得叫人发毛。那双半睁半闭的眼睛不是望着奥莉加·伊凡诺夫娜，而是望着被子。
“戴莫夫！”她大声喊道，“戴莫夫！”
她想对他说明：那是一个错误，事情还可以挽救，生活依旧可以美满幸福。她还想告诉他：他是世上少有的不平凡的、伟大的人，她将终生景仰他，崇拜他，对他怀着神圣的敬畏……
“戴莫夫！”她叫他，拍他的肩膀，不相信他已经永远不能醒来，“戴莫夫，戴莫夫呀！”
在客厅里，科罗斯捷列夫正对女仆说：“这有什么好问的？您去找教堂的看门人，跟他打听一下，那些靠养老院救济的老婆婆住在哪儿。她们会给死者洁身、装殓，该做的事她们都会做好的。”
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