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Updated: June 3, 2025
Dymov leaned his cheek on his hand and softly hummed some plaintive song. Konstantin smiled drowsily and chimed in with a thin voice. They sang for half a minute, then sank into silence. Emelyan started, jerked his elbows and wriggled his fingers. "Lads," he said in an imploring voice, "let's sing something sacred!" Tears came into his eyes.
With a passionate desire to say something extremely offensive, he took a step towards Dymov and brought out, gasping for breath: "You are the worst of the lot; I can't bear you!" After this he ought to have run to the waggons, but he could not stir from the spot and went on: "In the next world you will burn in hell! I'll complain to Ivan Ivanitch. Don't you dare insult Emelyan!"
"Love me, love...." "Don't talk like that," said Olga Ivanovna, covering her eyes. "It's dreadful! How about Dymov?" "What of Dymov? Why Dymov? What have I to do with Dymov? The Volga, the moon, beauty, my love, ecstasy, and there is no such thing as Dymov.... Ah! I don't know... I don't care about the past; give me one moment, one instant!" Olga Ivanovna's heart began to throb.
She tried to think about her husband, but all her past, with her wedding, with Dymov, and with her "At Homes," seemed to her petty, trivial, dingy, unnecessary, and far, far away.... Yes, really, what of Dymov? Why Dymov? What had she to do with Dymov? Had he any existence in nature, or was he only a dream?
Dymov got up, walked about softly by the fire, and from his walk, from the movement of his shoulder-blades, it could be seen that he was weighed down by depression and yearning. He stood still for a moment, looked at Konstantin and sat down.
"I have spent all my life in working at natural science and medicine, and I have never had time to take an interest in the arts." "But, you know, that's awful, Dymov!" "Why so? Your friends don't know anything of science or medicine, but you don't reproach them with it. Every one has his own line.
"Dymov!" cried Olga Ivanovna, and she flushed crimson with pleasure. "Dymov!" she repeated, laying her head and both arms on his bosom. "Is that you? Why haven't you come for so long? Why? Why?" "When could I, little mother? I am always busy, and whenever I am free it always happens somehow that the train does not fit." "But how glad I am to see you!
The face was pale and looked grave and exhausted, but there was no expression of spite in it. "Yera!" he said softly, "here, hit me!" Yegorushka looked at him in surprise. At that instant there was a flash of lightning. "It's all right, hit me," repeated Dymov. And without waiting for Yegorushka to hit him or to speak to him, he jumped down and said: "How dreary I am!"
Another waggoner, a short stubby little man with a bushy black beard, wearing a waistcoat and a shirt outside his trousers, ran up to him. The latter broke into a deep guffaw of laughter and coughing and said: "I say, lads, Dymov has killed a snake!" There are people whose intelligence can be gauged at once by their voice and laughter.
In one there was a bed, in the second there were canvases, brushes, greasy papers, and men's overcoats and hats lying about on the chairs and in the windows, while in the third Dymov found three unknown men; two were dark-haired and had beards, the other was clean-shaven and fat, apparently an actor. There was a samovar boiling on the table.
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