lights; she heard solemn music and cries of rapture; she saw herself in a white dress surrounded by flowers cast at her from all sides. And she believed that here beside her, leaning on the bulwark, stood a really great man, a genius, the elected of God. He had already accomplished things beautiful, new, uncommon; what he would do when time had ripened his great talents would be greater immeasurably — that was written legibly in his face, his expressions, his relations to the world around. Of the shadows, the hues of nights, the moonlight, he spoke in language all his own, and unconsciously betrayed the power of his magic mastery over Nature. He was handsome and original; and his life, unhampered, free, alien to the trifles of the world, seemed the life of a bird.
“It is getting cold!” said Olga Ivanovna, shuddering.
Riabovsky wrapped her in his cloak and said mournfully —
“I feel myself in your power. I am a slave. Why are you so ravishing to-night?”
He looked at her steadily, and his eyes were so terrible that she feared to look at him.
“I love you madly . . .” he whispered, breathing against her cheek. “Say to me but one word, and I will not live . . . I will abandon my art. . . .” He stammered in his extreme agitation. “Love me, love. . . .”
“Don't speak in that way!” said Olga Ivanovna, closing her eyes. “It is terrible. And Duimoff?”
