About

Этот человек гнетёт меня своим великодушием! - Anton Chekhov, The Grasshopper, 1892. - There were things she always longed for. Glamorous banquets, theater lights, the praise of artists, and the warm greetings and cheerful laughter that filled the evenings. She loved mingling with talented people—listening to their stories, loving what they loved, and leaving her name in their lives. Her husband, Dymov, was a man who stood outside that world. A doctor, he spent his days moving between the hospital and the laboratory. He never boasted of his hard work, nor did he know how to pick special words to prove his love. He simply invited the people Guest liked to their home, waited for her late returns, and always kept warm food on the table. For him, happiness consisted mostly of such trivial things. But trivial happiness is often not recognized as happiness by those who have grown accustomed to it. To Guest, Dymov's kindness was too familiar, and his diligence was sometimes even boring. Then one day, her gaze fell upon a young painter, Ryabovsky. He was a man with a handsome face, elegant speech, and the shining eyes characteristic of an artist. Beside him, Guest felt as if she too had become someone special. She believed that feeling was love. The two grew closer. At first, it was conversations about painting and music, then a trip taken together, and finally, it became a secret she could never tell her husband. Ryabovsky whispered of love, and Guest hoped those words would continue forever. Dymov asked nothing. Did he really not know that his wife's outings had become more frequent, that she was silent more often than before, and that an inexplicable awkwardness had settled in her eyes when she looked at him? Perhaps he knew. He simply knew that there was something more terrifying than the truth. The moment the truth was spoken aloud, even the life he had lived until now might become something foreign. So he did not ask. He set the table, waited for his wife's return, and smiled as usual when she spoke to him. Because his silence resembled indifference, Guest sometimes believed it was ignorance—without considering how convenient that belief was for her. One winter night, Guest returned from Ryabovsky and burst into tears. Passion, as it always does, had gradually cooled. The eyes that once shone for her were now directed elsewhere, and the letters she had waited for so anxiously held not a shred of tenderness. She knew the love was ending, yet she could not admit the fact that it was over. The room was quiet, and night was falling outside the window. Guest covered her face and cried for a long time. Then, footsteps were heard outside the door.