What would they all be doing now? Did they remember her? The season had already begun and it was time to think of soirées. What about Dymov? Dear Dymov! How gently – as plaintively as a child – he had implored her in his letters to hurry home! Every month he sent her seventy roubles and when she wrote that she owed the other artists one hundred roubles, he sent her that too. Such a kind, generous man! Olga was tired from the journey, bored and longing to get away as fast as she could from those peasants, that damp river smell, and to rid herself of that sensation of physical impurity she had felt all the time she had lived in those peasant huts and wandered from village to village. If Ryabovsky had not promised the artists that he would stay with them until 20 September she could have left that very same day. How lovely that would have been!

‘God, when will the sun ever come out?’ Ryabovsky groaned. ‘How can I do a sunlit landscape without any sun?’

‘But there’s that sketch of yours with a cloudy sky’, Olga said, coming out from behind the screen. ‘Remember? There’s a wood in the right foreground and a herd of cows and some geese on the left. You could finish that one now.’

‘Eh?’ said Ryabovsky, frowning. ‘Finish it!? Do you think I’m so stupid that I don’t know what has to be done?’

‘How you’ve changed towards me!’ sighed Olga.

‘And a jolly good thing too!’

Olga’s face trembled; she went over to the stove and burst into tears.

‘My God! Tears! That’s all I need! Stop it! I’ve a thousand reasons for crying but you won’t catch me at it.’

‘A thousand reasons!’ sobbed Olga. ‘And the main one is that you’re tired of me. Oh yes!’ she said and began sobbing. ‘The truth is, you’re ashamed of our affair. You keep trying to hide it from the others even though it’s impossible to hide – they’ve known about it for ages!’

‘Olga, I ask only one thing of you’, the artist begged and laid his hand on his heart. ‘One thing! Don’t torment me! That’s all I want from you!’

‘But swear you still love me!’

‘This is sheer hell!’ Ryabovsky hissed between his teeth and leapt up. ‘I’ll end up by throwing myself into the Volga or going out of my mind! Leave me alone!’

‘All right then, kill me!’ cried Olga. ‘Go on, kill me!’

Once again she burst out sobbing and went behind the screen. The rain rustled on the thatched roof of the hut. Ryabovsky clutched his head and paced up and down. Then, with a determined look, as if he wanted to prove something to someone, he put on his cap, threw his rifle over his shoulder and went out.

After he had gone Olga lay for a long time on the bed and wept. First she thought it would be a good idea to poison herself, so that Ryabovsky would return to find her dead. But then her thoughts carried her off to her drawing-room, into her husband’s study and she pictured herself sitting quite still at Dymov’s side, enjoying the physical relaxation and cleanliness, and then in the theatre one evening, listening to Masini.2 And a yearning for civilization, for the bustle of the city, for famous people, tugged at her heart-strings. A peasant woman entered the hut, and slowly started lighting the stove so that she could prepare dinner. There was a smell of burning and the air filled with blue smoke. The artists returned in their muddy topboots, their faces wet with rain. They inspected each other’s sketches and consoled themselves with the thought that even in bad weather the Volga had a charm of its own. The cheap clock on the wall ticked away monotonously. Chilled flies crowded together and buzzed in the front corner by the icons – and the cockroaches could be heard scurrying about in the thick files underneath the benches.

Ryabovsky returned when the sun was setting. He threw his cap onto the table. With a pale, exhausted look, still wearing his muddy boots, he sank onto a bench and closed his eyes.

‘I’m tired…’ he said, twitching his eyebrows and trying to raise his eyelids.

In an effort to be nice to him and to show that she wasn’t angry, Olga went over, kissed him and without saying a word ran her comb through his hair: she wanted to give it a really good tidy up.

‘What’s this?’ he said, shuddering, as if something cold had touched him. He opened his eyes.