ashamed and angered, and would have given millions to be spared speaking before the strange woman, the rival, the liar, who hid behind the picture and tittered, no doubt, maliciously.
“I have brought a study . . .” she said in a thin, frightened voice. Her lips trembled. “Nature morfe.”
“What? What? A study?”
The artist took the sketch, looked at it, and walked mechanically into another room. Olga Ivanovna followed submissively.
“Nature morte . . .” he stammered, seeking rhymes, “Kurort . . . sort . . . porte . . .”
From the studio came hasty footfalls and the rustle of a skirt. She had gone. Olga Ivanovna felt impelled to scream and strike the artist on the head; but tears blinded her, she was crushed by her shame, and felt as if she were not Olga Ivanovna the artist, but a little beetle.
“I am tired . . .” said Riabovsky languidly. He looked at the study, and shook his head as if to drive away sleep. “This is charming, of course, but . . . it is study to-day, and study to-morrow, and study last year, and study it will be again in a month. . . . How is it you don't get tired? If I were you, I should give up painting, and take up seriously music, or something else. . . . You are not an artist but a musician. You cannot imagine how tired I am. Let me order some tea. Eh?”
