with　it　scraped　over　his　very　best　sketch。　After　his　tea　he　sat　plunged　in　gloom　at　the　window　and　gazed　at　the　Volga。　And　now　the　Volga　was　dingy；　all　of　one　even　colour　without　a　gleam　of　light；　cold…looking。　Everything；　everything　recalled　the　approach　of　dreary；　gloomy　autumn。　And　it　seemed　as　though　nature　had　removed　now　from　the　Volga　the　sumptuous　green　covers　from　the　banks；　the　brilliant　reflections　of　the　sunbeams；　the　transparent　blue　distance；　and　all　its　smart　gala　array；　and　had　packed　it　away　in　boxes　till　the　coming　spring；　and　the　crows　were　flying　above　the　Volga　and　crying　tauntingly；　〃Bare；　bare！〃
  Ryabovsky　heard　their　cawing；　and　thought　he　had　already　gone　off　and　lost　his　talent；　that　everything　in　this　world　was　relative；　conditional；　and　stupid；　and　that　he　ought　not　to　have　taken　up　with　this　woman。　。　。　。　In　short；　he　was　out　of　humour　and　depressed。
  Olga　Ivanovna　sat　behind　the　screen　on　the　bed；　and；　passing　her　fingers　through　her　lovely　flaxen　hair；　pictured　herself　first　in　the　drawing…room；　then　in　the　bedroom；　then　in　her　husband's　study；　her　imagination　carried　her　to　the　theatre；　to　the　dress…maker；　to　her　distinguished　friends。　Were　they　getting　something　up　now？　Did　they　think　of　her？　The　season　had　begun　by　now；　and　it　would　be　time　to　think　about　her　〃At　Homes。〃　And　Dymov？　Dear　Dymov！　with　what　gentleness　and　childlike　pathos　he　kept　begging　her　in　his　letters　to　make　haste　and　come　home！　Every　month　he　sent　her　seventy…five　roubles；　and　when　she　wrote　him　that　she　had　lent　the　artists　a　hundred　roubles；　he　sent　that　hundred　too。　What　a　kind；　generous…hearted　man！　The　travelling　wearied　Olga　Ivanovna；　she　was　bored；　and　she　longed　to　get　away　from　the　peasants；　from　the　damp　smell　of　the　river；　and　to　cast　off　the　feeling　of　physical　uncleanliness　of　which　she　was　conscious　all　the　time；　living　in　the　peasants'　huts　and　wandering　from　village　to　village。　If　Ryabovsky　had　not　given　his　word　to　the　artists　that　he　would　stay　with　them　till　the　twentieth　of　September；　they　might　have　gone　away　that　very　day。　And　how　nice　that　would　have　been！
  〃My　God！〃　moaned　Ryabovsky。　〃Will　the　sun　ever　come　out？　I　can't　go　on　with　a　sunny　landscape　without　the　sun。　。　。　。〃
  〃But　you　have　a　sketch　with　a　cloudy　sky；〃　said　Olga　Ivanovna；　coming　from　behind　the　screen。　〃Do　you　remember；　in　the　right　foreground　forest　trees；　on　the　left　a　herd　of　cows　and　geese？　You　might　finish　it　now。〃
  〃Aie！〃　the　artist　scowled。　〃Finish　it！　Can　you　imagine　I　am　such　a　fool　that　I　don't　know　what　I　want　to　do？〃
  〃How　you　have　changed　to　me！〃　sighed　Olga　Ivanovna。
  〃Well；　a　good　thing　too！〃
  Olga　Ivanovna's　face　quivered；　she　moved　away　to　the　stove　and　began　to　cry。
  〃Well；　that's　the　last　straw　　crying！　Give　over！　I　have　a　thousand　reasons　for　tears；　but　I　am　not　crying。〃
  〃A　thousand　reasons！〃　cried　Olga　Ivanovna。　〃The　chief　one　is　that　you　are　weary　of　me。　Yes！〃　she　said；　and　broke　into　sobs。　〃If　one　is　to　tell　the　truth；　you　are　ashamed　of　our　love。　You　keep　trying　to　prevent　the　artists　from　noticing　it；　though　it　is　impossible　to　conceal　it；　and　they　have　known　all　about　it　for　ever　so　long。〃
  〃Olga；　one　thing　I　beg　you；〃　said　the　artist　in　an　imploring　voice；　laying　his　hand　on　his　heart　　〃one　thing；　don't　worry　me！　I　want　nothing　else　from　you！〃
  〃But　swear　that　you　love　me　still！〃
  〃This　is　agony！〃　the　artist　hissed　through　his　teeth；　and　he　jumped　up。　〃It　will　end　by　my　throwing　myself　in　the　Volga　or　going　out　of　my　mind！　Let　me　alone！〃
  〃Come；　kill　me；　kill　me！〃　cried　Olga　Ivanovna。　〃Kill　me！〃
  She　sobbed　again；　and　went　behind　the　screen。　There　was　a　swish　of　rain　on　the　straw　thatch　of　the　hut。　Ryabovsky　clutched　his　head　and　strode　up　and　down　the　hut；　then　with　a　resolute　face；　as　though　bent　on　proving　something　to　somebody；　put　on　his　cap；　slung　his　gun　over　his　shoulder；　and　went　out　of　the　hut。
  After　he　had　gone；　Olga　Ivanovna　lay　a　long　time　on　the　bed；　crying。　At　first　she　thought　it　would　be　a　good　thing　to　poison　herself；　so　that　when　Ryabovsky　came　back　he　would　find　her　dead；　then　her　imagination　carried　her　to　her　drawing…room；　to　her　husband's　study；　and　she　imagined　herself　sitting　motionless　beside　Dymov　and　enjoying　the　physical　peace　and　cleanliness；　and　in　the　evening　sitting　in　the　theatre；　listening　to　Mazini。　And　a　yearning　for　civilization；　for　the　noise　and　bustle　of　the　town；　for　celebrated　people　sent　a　pang　to　her　heart。　A　peasant　woman　came　into　the　hut　and　began　in　a　leisurely　way　lighting　the　stove　to　get　the　dinner。　There　was　a　smell　of　charcoal　fumes；　and　the　air　was　filled　with　bluish　smoke。　The　artists　came　in；　in　muddy　high　boots　and　with　faces　wet　with　rain；　examined　their　sketches；　and　comforted　themselves　by　saying　that　the　Volga　had　its　charms　even　in　bad　weather。　On　the　wall　the　cheap　clock　went　〃tic…tic…tic。〃　。　。　。　The　flies；　feeling　chilled；　crowded　round　the　ikon　in　the　corner；　buzzing；　and　one　could　hear　the　cockroaches　scurrying　about　among　the　thick　portfolios　under　the　seats。　。　。　。
  Ryabovsky　came　home　as　the　sun　was　setting。　He　flung　his　cap　on　the　table；　and；　without　removing　his　muddy　boots；　sank　pale　and　exhausted　on　the　bench　and　closed　his　eyes。
  〃I　am　tired　。　。　。〃　he　said；　and　twitched　his　eyebrows；　trying　to　raise　his　eyelids。
  To　be　nice　to　him　and　to　show　she　was　not　cross；　Olga　Ivanovna　went　up　to　him；　gave　him　a　silent　kiss；　and　passed　the　comb　through　his　fair　hair。　She　meant　to　comb　it　for　him。
  〃What's　that？〃　he　said；　starting　as　though　something　cold　had　touched　him；　and　he　opened　his　eyes。　〃What　is　it？　Please　let　me　alone。〃
  He　thrust　her　off；　and　moved　away。　And　it　seemed　to　her　that　there　was　a　look　of　aversion　and　annoyance　on　his　face。
  At　that　time　the　peasant　woman　cautiously　carried　him；　in　both　hands；　a　plate　of　cabbage…soup。　And　Olga　Ivanovna　saw　how　she　wetted　her　fat　fingers　in　it。　And　the　dirty　peasant　woman；　standing　with　her　body　thrust　forward；　and　the　cabbage…soup　which　Ryabovsky　began　eating　greedily；　and　the　hut；　and　their　whole　way　of　life；　which　she　at　first　had　so　loved　for　its　simplicity　and　artistic　disorder；　seemed　horrible　to　her　now。　She　suddenly　felt　insulted；　and　said　coldly：
  〃We　must　part　for　a　time；　or　else　from　boredom　we　shall　quarrel　in　earnest。　I　am　sick　of　this；　I　am　going　today。〃
  〃Going　how？　Astride　on　a　broomstick？〃
  〃Today　is　Thursday；　so　the　steamer　will　be　here　at　half…past　nine。〃
  〃Eh？　Yes；　yes。　。　。　。　Well；　go；　then　。　。　。〃　Ryabovsky　said　softly；　wiping　his　mouth　with　a　towel　instead　of　a　dinner　napkin。　〃You　are　dull　and　have　nothing　to　do　here；　and　one　would　have　to　be　a　great　egoist　to　try　and　keep　you。　Go　home；　and　we　shall　meet　again　after　the　twentieth。〃
  Olga　Ivanovna　packed　in　good　spirits。　Her　cheeks　positively　glowed　with　pleasure。　Could　it　really　be　true；　she　asked　herself；　that　she　would　soon　be　writing　in　her　drawing…room　and　sleeping　in　her　bedroom；　and　dining　with　a　cloth　on　the　table？　A　weight　was　lifted　from　her　heart；　and　she　no　longer　felt　angry　with　the　artist。
  〃My　paints　and　brushes　I　will　leave　with　you；　Ryabovsky；〃　she　said。　〃You　can　bring　what's　left。　。　。　。　Mind；　now；　don't　be　lazy　here　when　I　am　gone；　don't　mope；　but　work。　You　are　such　a　splendid　fellow；　Ryabovsky！〃
  At　ten　o'clock　Ryabovsky　gave　her　a　farewell　kiss；　in　order；　as　she　thought；　to　avoid　kissing　her　on　the　steamer　before　the　artists；　and　went　with　her　to　the　landing…stage。　The　steamer　soon　came　up　and　carried　her　away。
  She　arrived　home　two　and　a　half　days　later。　Breathless　with　excitement；　she　went；　without　taking　off　her　hat　or　waterproof；　into　the　drawing…room　and　thence　into　the　dining…room。　Dymov；　with　his　waistcoat　unbuttoned　and　no　coat；　was　sitting　at　the　table　sharpening　a　knife　on　a　fork；　before　him　lay　a　grouse　on　a　plate。　As　Olga　Ivanovna　went　into　the　flat　she　was　convinced　that　it　was　essential　to　hide　everything　from　her　husband；　and　that　she　would　have　the　strength　and　skill　to　do　so；　but　now；　when　she　saw　his　broad；　mild；　happy　smile；　and　shining；　joyful　eyes；　she　felt　that　to　deceive　this　man　was　as　vile；　as　revolting；　and　as　impossible　and　out　of　her　power　as　to　bear　false　witness；　to　steal；　or　to　kill；　and　in　a　flash　she　resolved　to　tell　him　all　that　had　happened。　Letting　him　kiss　and　embrace　her；　she　sank　down　on　her　knees　before　him　and　hid　her　face。
  〃What　is　it；　what　is　it；　little　mother？〃　he　asked　tenderly。　〃Were　you　homesick？〃
  She　raised　her　face；　red　with　shame；　and　gazed　at　him　with　a　guilty　and　imploring　look；　but　fear　and　shame　prevented　her　from　telling　him　the　truth。
  〃Nothing；〃　she　said；　〃it's　just　nothing。　。　。　。〃
  〃Let　us　sit　down；〃　he　said；　raising　her　and　seating　her　at　the　table。　〃That's　right；　eat　the　grouse。　You　are　starving；　poor　darling。〃
  She　eagerly　breathed　in　the　atmosphere　of　home　and　ate　the　grouse；　while　he　watched　her　with　tenderness　and　laughed　with　delight。
  VI
  Apparently；　by　the　middle　of　the　winter　Dymov　began　to　suspect　that　he　was　being　deceived。　As　though　his　conscience　was　not　clear；　he　could　not　look　his　wife　straight　in　the　face；　did　not　smile　with　delight　when　he　met　her；　and　to　avoid　being　left　alone　with　her；　he　often　brought　in　to　dinner　his　colleague；　Korostelev；　a　little　close…cropp