Oh, isn’t he sweet!’

The guests would eat and as they looked at Dymov would think: ‘Actually, a really nice chap!’ But they soon forgot him and carried on talking about the theatre, music, painting.

The young couple were happy and all went swimmingly. However, the third week of their married life was not altogether happy – the reverse, in fact. Dymov caught erysipelas at the hospital, spent six days in bed and had to have his splendid black hair shaved to the roots. Olga sat at his bedside and wept bitterly, but the moment he felt better she draped a white handkerchief over his cropped head and started painting him as a Bedouin. Both found this immense fun. And then, a couple of days after he had recovered and had returned to the hospital, disaster struck again.

‘I’m not having the best of luck, Mother!’ he said one day over dinner. ‘I did four postmortems today and right at the start I cut two fingers. I only noticed it when I got home.’

Olga was scared, but he smiled and said it was absolutely nothing and that he often cut his hands when doing autopsies.

‘I get carried away, Mother, and then I become careless.’

Olga was worried that he might get blood poisoning and prayed every night, but all was well. Once again their quiet, happy life resumed its course without incident or alarm. The present was beautiful enough, but spring was coming to take its place, smiling from afar and bearing the promise of a thousand joys. There would be endless bliss! In April, May and June there would be the holiday cottage a long way from town, walks, sketching, fishing, nightingales and then, from July right up to autumn, a painting trip on the Volga in which Olga too would take part as an indispensable member of the société. She had already had two gingham travelling costumes made, purchased paints, brushes, canvases and a new palette for the trip. Ryabovsky called almost every day to see how she was getting on with her painting. When she showed him her work he would thrust his hands deep in his pockets, purse his lips, sniff loudly and say:

‘Well now… that cloud over there is all wrong. And that’s not evening light. The foreground is a bit chewed up… you know, something’s not right… And that cottage seems to have choked on something, it’s making a pitiful squeaking… And you should have used a darker shade for that corner. But on the whole quite a decent effort… well done!’

And the more unintelligibly he spoke the easier it was for Olga to understand him.

III

On Whit Monday afternoon Dymov bought food and chocolates and went to visit his wife at the cottage. Since he hadn’t seen her for a fortnight he missed her terribly. When he was on the train and later, when he was looking for the cottage in a large wood, he felt hungry and exhausted the whole time and dreamed of a leisurely supper with his wife and then tumbling into bed. Just looking at the parcel, in which he had wrapped the caviare, cheese and white salmon, cheered him up.

By the time he had sought out and recognized the cottage the sun was setting. An ancient housemaid told him that the mistress was out, but that no doubt she’d soon be back. The cottage, which was really hideous to look at, had low ceilings pasted all over with sheets of writing paper and its uneven floorboards were full of gaps. There were only three rooms. In one of them was a bed, in another chairs and windowsills piled high with canvases, paintbrushes and scraps of greasy paper, men’s overcoats and hats, whilst in the third Dymov found three men he had never set eyes on before. Two were dark and had small beards, while the third was fat and clean-shaven – an actor by all appearances. On the table a samovar was boiling away.

‘What can I do for you?’ asked the actor in a bass voice, giving Dymov a chilly look. ‘Looking for Olga Ivanovna? Wait here, she won’t be long.’

Dymov sat down and waited. One of the dark men gave him a languid, sleepy look and poured himself some tea.

‘Perhaps you’d care for a glass?’ he asked.

Dymov was both thirsty and hungry, but he refused the tea, as he did not want to spoil his appetite. Soon he heard footsteps and a familiar laugh. The door slammed open and into the room ran Olga, in a wide-brimmed hat, carrying a box in her hands, followed by the jovial, rosy-cheeked Ryabovsky with a large parasol and a folding-chair.

‘Dymov!’ cried Olga, flushing for joy.