Of shadows, of evening tints and of moonlight he had his own very special way of talking, his own language, so that one could sense the irresistible fascination of his power over Nature. He was very handsome, unconventional and his life, so independent, so free, so remote from all that was mundane, resembled that of a bird.

‘It’s getting chilly’, Olga said, shivering.

Ryabovsky wrapped his cloak around her. ‘I feel I’m in your power’, he said sadly. ‘I’m your slave. Oh, why are you so bewitching tonight?’

He looked at her and he could not take his eyes off her – eyes that were so frightening she was scared to look at him.

‘I love you madly…’ he whispered, breathing on her cheek. ‘Just say the word and I’ll put an end to my life. I’ll give up art…’ he muttered with deep emotion. ‘Love me, love me…’

‘Don’t say such things’, Olga said and closed her eyes. ‘It frightens me. What about Dymov?’

‘Dymov? Why bring Dymov up? What do I care about Dymov? There’s the Volga, the moon, beauty, my love for you, my ecstasy – but there’s no Dymov… Oh, I know nothing. I care nothing for the past, grant me one instant, one fleeting moment…’

Olga’s heart was pounding. She tried to think of her husband, but her entire past, with the wedding, Dymov and her soirées, seemed so small, trivial, dull, unnecessary, and so very, very far away. And in fact what did Dymov matter? Why Dymov? What did she care about Dymov? Did he really exist or was he only a dream?

‘That simple, ordinary man has already had his fair share of happiness’, she thought, covering her face with her hands. ‘Let them condemn me there, let them curse me – to spite the lot of them I’ll follow the path of perdition, become a fallen woman… One must experience everything in life. Heavens, how terrifying – and how marvellous!’

‘Well, what? What do you say?’ muttered the artist, embracing her and greedily kissing her hands with which she feebly tried to push him away. ‘Do you love me? Yes? Yes? Oh, what a night! A magical night!’

‘Yes, what a night!’ she whispered, looking into his eyes that were glistening with tears. Then she quickly looked round, embraced him and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

‘We’re approaching Kineshma!’1 someone called out on the other side of the deck.

There was a sound of heavy footsteps – it was the bar waiter going past.

‘Listen’, Olga called to him, laughing and crying with happiness. ‘Please bring us some wine.’

Pale with emotion, the artist sat on a bench and looked at Olga with adoring, grateful eyes. As he closed them he said with a languid smile:

‘I’m tired.’

And he leaned his head towards the rail.

V

September the second was warm and calm, but overcast. A light early morning mist was drifting over the Volga and after nine o’clock it began to drizzle. There was no hope of it clearing up. Over breakfast Ryabovsky told Olga that painting was the most thankless and boring art, that he was not an artist and that only fools thought that he had talent. Then, all of a sudden, for no apparent reason, he seized a knife and made scratches on his best sketch. After breakfast he sat gloomily at the window, gazing at the Volga. But the Volga no longer gleamed; it was dull and lustreless, with a cold look. Everything reminded them that dreary, miserable autumn was approaching. Nature seemed to have taken away everything that was showy and flamboyant from the Volga – those luxuriant green carpets on her banks, those diamond-like sunbeams, that crystal clear blue distance – and packed it away in boxes until spring; and the crows that were flying over the river were teasing it for being so bare. As Ryabovsky listened to their cawing he brooded over the fact that he was washed up, his talent had gone, that everything in this world was conditional, relative and stupid, and that he should never have got involved with that woman. In a word, he wasn’t himself at all and he felt very depressed.

Olga sat on the bed behind a screen, running her fingers through her beautiful flaxen hair, picturing herself in her drawing-room, then in her bedroom, then in her husband’s study. Her imagination transported her to the theatre, to the dressmaker, then to her celebrity friends.