“What is Duimoff? Why Duimoff? What have I to do with Duimoff? The Volga, the moon, beauty, my love, my raptures . . . and no Duimoff at all! . . . Akh, I know nothing. . . . I do not want the past; give me but one moment . . . one second!”
Olga Ivanovna's heart beat quickly. She tried to think of her husband; but her whole past, her marriage, Duimoff, even the evening parties seemed to her trivial, contemptible, dull, needless, and remote. . . . And, indeed, who was Duimoff? Why Duimoff? What had she to do with Duimoff? Did he exist really in Nature; was he only a dream?
“He has had more happiness than he could expect, a simple and ordinary man,” she thought, closing her eyes. “Let them condemn me, let them curse me; but I will take all and perish, take all and perish. . . . We must experience everything in life. . . . Lord, how painful and how good!”
“Well, what? What?” stammered the artist, embracing her. He kissed her hands greedily, while she strove to withdraw them. “You love me? Yes? Yes? O, what a night! O night divine!”
“Yes, what a night!” she whispered, looking into his eyes which glittered with tears. Then she looked around her, clasped her arms about him, and kissed him firmly on the lips.
“We are near Kineshma,” said a voice somewhere across the deck.
