the wife and other stories-第20章

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ure　draped；　together　with　the　easel；　with　black　calico；　to　the　floor。　There　could　be　no　doubt　that　a　woman　was　hiding　there。　How　often　Olga　Ivanovna　herself　had　taken　refuge　behind　that　picture！

Ryabovsky；　evidently　much　embarrassed；　held　out　both　hands　to　her；　as　though　surprised　at　her　arrival；　and　said　with　a　forced　smile：

〃Aha！　Very　glad　to　see　you！　Anything　nice　to　tell　me？〃

Olga　Ivanovna's　eyes　filled　with　tears。　She　felt　ashamed　and　bitter；　and　would　not　for　a　million　roubles　have　consented　to　speak　in　the　presence　of　the　outsider；　the　rival；　the　deceitful　woman　who　was　standing　now　behind　the　picture；　and　probably　giggling　malignantly。

〃I　have　brought　you　a　sketch；〃　she　said　timidly　in　a　thin　voice；　and　her　lips　quivered。　〃_Nature　morte。_〃

〃Ahah！　。　。　。　A　sketch？〃

The　artist　took　the　sketch　in　his　hands；　and　as　he　examined　it　w　alked；　as　it　were　mechanically；　into　the　other　room。

Olga　Ivanovna　followed　him　humbly。

〃_Nature　morte_　。　。　。　first…rate　sort；〃　he　muttered；　falling　into　rhyme。　〃Kurort　。　。　。　sport　。　。　。　port　。　。　。〃

From　the　studio　came　the　sound　of　hurried　footsteps　and　the　rustle　of　a　skirt。

So　she　had　gone。　Olga　Ivanovna　wanted　to　scream　aloud；　to　hit　the　artist　on　the　head　with　something　heavy；　but　she　could　see　nothing　through　her　tears；　was　crushed　by　her　shame；　and　felt　herself；　not　Olga　Ivanovna；　not　an　artist；　but　a　little　insect。

〃I　am　tired　。　。　。〃　said　the　artist　languidly；　looking　at　the　sketch　and　tossing　his　head　as　though　struggling　with　drowsiness。　〃It's　very　nice；　of　course；　but　here　a　sketch　today；　a　sketch　last　year；　another　sketch　in　a　month　。　。　。　I　wonder　you　are　not　bored　with　them。　If　I　were　you　I　should　give　up　painting　and　work　seriously　at　music　or　something。　You're　not　an　artist；　you　know；　but　a　musician。　But　you　can't　think　how　tired　I　am！　I'll　tell　them　to　bring　us　some　tea；　shall　I？〃

He　went　out　of　the　room；　and　Olga　Ivanovna　heard　him　give　some　order　to　his　footman。　To　avoid　farewells　and　explanations；　and　above　all　to　avoid　bursting　into　sobs；　she　ran　as　fast　as　she　could；　before　Ryabovsky　came　back；　to　the　entry；　put　on　her　goloshes；　and　went　out　into　the　street；　then　she　breathed　easily；　and　felt　she　was　free　for　ever　from　Ryabovsky　and　from　painting　and　from　the　burden　of　shame　which　had　so　crushed　her　in　the　studio。　It　was　all　over！

She　drove　to　her　dressmaker's；　then　to　see　Barnay；　who　had　only　arrived　the　day　before；　from　Barnay　to　a　music…shop；　and　all　the　time　she　was　thinking　how　she　would　write　Ryabovsky　a　cold；　cruel　letter　full　of　personal　dignity；　and　how　in　the　spring　or　the　summer　she　would　go　with　Dymov　to　the　Crimea；　free　herself　finally　from　the　past　there；　and　begin　a　new　life。

On　getting　home　late　in　the　evening　she　sat　down　in　the　drawing…room；　without　taking　off　her　things；　to　begin　the　letter。　Ryabovsky　had　told　her　she　was　not　an　artist；　and　to　pay　him　out　she　wrote　to　him　now　that　he　painted　the　same　thing　every　year；　and　said　exactly　the　same　thing　every　day；　that　he　was　at　a　standstill；　and　that　nothing　more　would　come　of　him　than　had　come　already。　She　wanted　to　write；　too；　that　he　owed　a　great　deal　to　her　good　influence；　and　that　if　he　was　going　wrong　it　was　only　because　her　influence　was　paralysed　by　various　dubious　persons　like　the　one　who　had　been　hiding　behind　the　picture　that　day。

〃Little　mother！〃　Dymov　called　from　the　study；　without　opening　the　door。

〃What　is　it？〃

〃Don't　come　in　to　me；　but　only　come　to　the　door　　that's　right。　。　。　。　The　day　before　yesterday　I　must　have　caught　diphtheria　at　the　hospital；　and　now　。　。　。　I　am　ill。　Make　haste　and　send　for　Korostelev。〃

Olga　Ivanovna　always　called　her　husband　by　his　surname；　as　she　did　all　the　men　of　her　acquaintance；　she　disliked　his　Christian　name；　Osip；　because　it　reminded　her　of　the　Osip　in　Gogol　and　the　silly　pun　on　his　name。　But　now　she　cried：

〃Osip；　it　cannot　be！〃

〃Send　for　him；　I　feel　ill；〃　Dymov　said　behind　the　door；　and　she　could　hear　him　go　back　to　the　sofa　and　lie　down。　〃Send！〃　she　heard　his　voice　faintly。

〃Good　Heavens！〃　thought　Olga　Ivanovna；　turning　chill　with　horror。　〃Why；　it's　dangerous！〃

For　no　reason　she　took　the　candle　and　went　into　the　bedroom；　and　there；　reflecting　what　she　must　do；　glanced　casually　at　herself　in　the　pier　glass。　With　her　pale；　frightened　face；　in　a　jacket　with　sleeves　high　on　the　shoulders；　with　yellow　ruches　on　her　bosom；　and　with　stripes　running　in　unusual　directions　on　her　skirt；　she　seemed　to　herself　horrible　and　disgusting。　She　suddenly　felt　poignantly　sorry　for　Dymov；　for　his　boundless　love　for　her；　for　his　young　life；　and　even　for　the　desolate　little　bed　in　which　he　had　not　slept　for　so　long；　and　she　remembered　his　habitual；　gentle；　submissive　smile。　She　wept　bitterly；　and　wrote　an　imploring　letter　to　Korostelev。　It　was　two　o'clock　in　the　night。


VIII

When　towards　eight　o'clock　in　the　morning　Olga　Ivanovna；　her　head　heavy　from　want　of　sleep　and　her　hair　unbrushed；　came　out　of　her　bedroom；　looking　unattractive　and　with　a　guilty　expression　on　her　face；　a　gentleman　with　a　black　beard；　apparently　the　doctor；　passed　by　her　into　the　entry。　There　was　a　smell　of　drugs。　Korostelev　was　standing　near　the　study　door；　twisting　his　left　moustache　with　his　right　hand。

〃Excuse　me；　I　can't　let　you　go　in；〃　he　said　surlily　to　Olga　Ivanovna；　〃it's　catching。　Besides；　it's　no　use；　really；　he　is　delirious；　anyway。〃

〃Has　he　really　got　diphtheria？〃　Olga　Ivanovna　asked　in　a　whisper。

〃People　who　wantonly　risk　infection　ought　to　be　hauled　up　and　punished　for　it；〃　muttered　Korostelev；　not　answering　Olga　Ivanovna's　question。　〃Do　you　know　why　he　caught　it？　On　Tuesday　he　was　sucking　up　the　mucus　through　a　pipette　from　a　boy　with　diphtheria。　And　what　for？　It　was　stupid。　。　。　。　Just　from　folly。　。　。　。〃

〃Is　it　dangerous；　very？〃　asked　Olga　Ivanovna。

〃Yes；　they　say　it　is　the　malignant　form。　We　ought　to　send　for　Shrek　really。〃

A　little　red…haired　man　with　a　long　nose　and　a　Jewish　accent　arrived；　then　a　tall；　stooping；　shaggy　individual；　who　looked　like　a　head　deacon；　then　a　stout　young　man　with　a　red　face　and　spectacles。　These　were　doctors　who　came　to　watch　by　turns　beside　their　colleague。　Korostelev　did　not　go　home　when　his　turn　was　over；　but　remained　and　wandered　about　the　rooms　like　an　uneasy　spirit。　The　maid　kept　getting　tea　for　the　various　doctors；　and　was　constantly　running　to　the　chemist；　and　there　was　no　one　to　do　the　rooms。　There　was　a　dismal　stillness　in　the　flat。

Olga　Ivanovna　sat　in　her　bedroom　and　thought　that　God　was　punishing　her　for　having　deceived　her　husband。　That　silent；　unrepining；　uncomprehended　creature；　robbed　by　his　mildness　of　all　personality　and　will；　weak　from　excessive　kindness；　had　been　suffering　in　obscurity　somewhere　on　his　sofa；　and　had　not　complained。　And　if　he　were　to　complain　even　in　delirium；　the　doctors　watching　by　his　bedside　would　learn　that　diphtheria　was　not　the　only　cause　of　his　sufferings。　They　would　ask　Korostelev。　He　knew　all　about　it；　and　it　was　not　for　nothing　that　he　looked　at　his　friend's　wife　with　eyes　that　seemed　to　say　that　she　was　the　real　chief　criminal　and　diphtheria　was　only　her　accomplice。　She　did　not　think　now　of　the　moonlight　evening　on　the　Volga；　nor　the　words　of　love；　nor　their　poetical　life　in　the　peasant's　hut。　She　thought　only　that　from　an　idle　whim；　from　self…indulgence；　she　had　sullied　herself　all　over　from　head　to　foot　in　something　filthy；　sticky；　which　one　could　never　wash　off。　。　。　。

〃Oh；　how　fearfully　false　I've　been！〃　she　thought；　recalling　the　troubled　passion　she　had　known　with　Ryabovsky。　〃Curse　it　all！　。　。　。〃

At　four　o'clock　she　dined　with　Korostelev。　He　did　nothing　but　scowl　and　drink　red　wine；　and　did　not　eat　a　morsel。　She　ate　nothing；　either。　At　one　minute　she　was　praying　inwardly　and　vowing　to　God　that　if　Dymov　recovered　she　would　love　him　again　and　be　a　faithful　wife　to　him。　Then；　forgetting　herself　for　a　minute；　she　would　look　at　Korostelev；　and　think：　〃Surely　it　must　be　dull　to　be　a　humble；　obscure　person；　not　remarkable　in　any　way；　especially　with　such　a　wrinkled　face　and　bad　manners！〃

Then　it　seemed　to　her　that　God　would　strike　her　dead　that　minute　for　not　having　once　been　in　her　husband's　study；　for　fear　of　infection。　And　alt