And who else? Well, there was Vasily Vasilych, a gentleman landowner, amateur illustrator and vignettist with a profound feeling for the old Russian style, for folk ballads and epic poetry. This man could produce virtual miracles on paper, china and smoked plates. In this highly artistic, free and easy, spoilt company, sensitive and unpretentious though it was, but which acknowledged the existence of doctors only in times of illness and for which the name Dymov meant absolutely nothing – in this company Dymov was a stranger, a superfluous, diminutive figure, although he was actually tall and broad-shouldered. He seemed to be wearing someone else’s frock coat and his beard was like a shop assistant’s. Had he been a writer or artist, however, people would have said that he positively resembled Zola with that beard of his.

The actor told Olga Ivanovna that with her flaxen hair and in her wedding dress she bore a strong resemblance to a graceful cherry tree in spring when it is festooned with delicate white blossoms.

‘Now, just you listen!’ Olga Ivanovna told him, gripping his arm. ‘How did all this happen so suddenly? Well, just listen, listen… You should know that Father worked in the same hospital as Dymov. When poor Father became ill Dymov sat at his bedside for days and nights. Such self-sacrifice! Now listen, Ryabovsky… And you too, Mr Writer – you’ll find it most interesting. Come closer… Such self-sacrifice, such genuine concern! I too didn’t sleep and stayed with Father. And then – what do you know! That fine young man had fallen for me! My Dymov was head over heels! It’s true, fate can play such strange tricks. Well, after Father died he would come and visit me now and then. Or we’d meet in the street. Then, one fine evening – crash! bang! – he proposes, right out of the blue! I cried all night and I too fell madly in love. And now, as you see, I’m lawful wedded Mrs Dymov. Don’t you think there’s something brawny, something powerful and bear-like about him? Just now he’s three-quarters turned towards us and the light’s wrong, but when he turns round just look at that forehead! Ryabovsky, what do you say to that forehead? Dymov! We’re talking about you!’ she shouted to her husband. ‘Come here. Hold out your honest hand to Ryabovsky… That’s it. I want you two to be friends.’ With a good-humoured, naïve smile Dymov offered his hand to Ryabovsky.

‘Very pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘There was a Ryabovsky in my last year at university. Could he be a relative of yours?’

II

Olga Ivanovna was twenty-two years old, Dymov thirty-one. After their marriage they settled down to a beautiful life. Olga Ivanovna covered the drawing-room walls with sketches – her own and other people’s, framed and unframed – and she filled every inch of space around the grand piano with a picturesque array of Chinese parasols, easels, brightly coloured bits of material, daggers, small busts and photographs. She pasted cheap folksy prints on the dining-room walls, hung up bast sandals and sickles, and stood a rake and a scythe in one corner to create an effect truly à la Russe. To give their bedroom the appearance of a cave, she draped the ceiling and walls with dark cloth, hung a Venetian lantern over the beds and stationed a figure with a halberd by the door. Everyone thought that the newly-weds had created an awfully sweet nook for themselves.

Every day Olga Ivanovna rose at eleven o’clock and played the piano, but if it was sunny she painted in oils. After twelve she would drive to her dressmaker’s. As both she and Dymov were very hard up, she and her dressmaker had to resort to all kinds of cunning devices so that she could always appear in new dresses to dazzling effect. Very often, from old dyed frocks or worthless scraps of tulle, lace, plush and silk there would emerge something miraculous and truly seductive – a dream of a dress. From the dressmaker Olga would usually drive to some actress friend to discover all the theatre news and at the same time try and get a ticket out of her for a first night or benefit performance. From the actress she would drive to some artist’s studio or to an exhibition of paintings and then on to one of her celebrity friends to invite him home, to return a visit or simply for a chat.