At some point Olga Mikhailovna finds out that Dmitry Ilich has also rented a little dacha in their village—Dmitry Ilich, whom she knew slightly in the city; she’d run into him at friends’ houses, and they even kind of took to one another. Olga Mikhailovna thinks it’s only natural that people like her; she’s considered pretty, and from Dmitry Ilich’s viewpoint she’s still quite young. Dmitry Ilich is an interesting man, too: he’s a sculptor, and he knows tons of stories and amazing incidents, like for instance how once they unveiled a monument and it was headless! Well, and stuff like that. Dmitry Ilich limps, he walks with a stick, and it suits him. He says things like “No, I’m not Byron, I’m something else,” but somehow it ends up that he is sort of Byron, after all—he’s lame, he writes a little poetry, and he was in Greece for a day and a half on a cruise. He’s seen Europe, and this automatically commands respect. He says, “Italy—huh, nothing special. But Greece, now— Greece is something,” and though everyone understands that Italy is probably not exactly nothing special, he’s been there and they haven’t, so it’s hard to argue. Well, he says a lot of other things—he’s had plenty of adventures in his time. He was at the front for a speck, and in the camps—he “went camping” in Siberia for two years, as he puts it, not for any particular reason, naturally—but he doesn’t hold a grudge, he believes in destiny and has a sense of humor. So when Olga Mikhailovna runs into him in the village, she says, “Drop by and see us some evening,” and he thanks her and says, “I will be sure to limp by.” He’s really a gorgeous man—he plays the bohemian, of course, but so what?—he has hair down to his shoulders, streaked with gray, a slightly pockmarked face, yellow hawk eyes, and he wears a smock. He says to Olga Mikhailovna, “I must sculpt you.”
So he actually does come to see them one evening, and they slice a pound cake and put the kettle on. Dmitry Ilich tells them about his cruise, and about how one old guy in their group blew all his foreign currency the first day out, and when they were already on their way home through Turkey he suddenly remembered that he hadn’t bought anything for his wife, so then he raced down to the Turkish market and traded his hearing aid—which he passed off as a radio—for a necklace. And he brought his old lady this necklace. Everyone’s laughing, including Olga Mikhailovna’s husband, and Olga Mikhailovna looks out the window and says, “Here comes Korobeinikov, he’s got a mushroom. Oh, he’s such a dear, and he tells the most amusing stories—about this woman named Dolores and all!”
Dmitry Ilich says, “Korobeinikov! Which Korobeinikov? Could it really be the same Korobeinikov?” And he doesn’t explain what he means. Olga Mikhailovna is intrigued, of course, and looks to and fro, and in comes Korobeinikov with his mushroom and his stories, sweet and affable as ever—he likes it here, and it’s a nice day, and the air is good, and the woods are lovely, and the people are nice, and he’d be happy to stay forever.
The guests are introduced to each other, everybody has tea, the evening chitchat begins. Korobeinikov, it must be said, is in top form, and Olga Mikhailovna is simply thrilled, but Dmitry Ilich is watching sort of intently and there’s some thought glimmering in his yellow eyes. Olga Mikhailovna is dying of curiosity—what did he mean?—her eyes shine, and everyone finds her charming. As always, for that matter.
“Hmm. Well, what do you know?” says Dmitry Ilich, after the ulcer patient, playing with his flashlight, has disappeared into the grove. “Who would have thought?”
“Well, what? What is it?”
“No, who would have thought?” And he drums his fingers on the table. Then he lays out everything he knows about this Korobeinikov. They were in school together, as it happens. In different classes. Korobeinikov, of course, has forgotten Dmitry Ilich—well, it’s been forty years now, that’s only natural. But Dmitry Ilich hasn’t forgotten, no sir, because at one time this Korobeinikov pulled a really dirty trick on him! You see, in his youth Dmitry Ilich used to write poetry, a sin he still commits even now. They were bad poems, he knows that—nothing that would’ve made a name for him, just little exercises in the fair art of letters, you know, for the soul. That’s not the point. But, as it happened, when Dmitry Ilich had his little legal mishap and went camping for two years, the manuscripts of these immature poems of his ended up in this Korobeinikov’s hands. And the fellow published them under his own name. So, that’s the story. Fate, of course, sorted everything out: Dmitry Ilich was actually glad that these poems had appeared under someone else’s name; nowadays he’d be ashamed to show such rubbish to a dog; he doesn’t need that kind of fame. And it didn’t bring Korobeinikov any happiness: he got neither praise nor abuse for his reward; nothing came of it. Korobeinikov never did make it as an artist, either: he changed professions, and now he does some kind of technical work, it seems. That’s the way the cookie crumbles.
“How do you like that,” says Olga Mikhailovna.
“How do you like that,” says her husband. “What a bastard!”
“Now then, I wouldn’t call him a bastard,” said Dmitry Ilich, softening. “At that time people saw things differently. Who could have known that I would come back? And this way my humble verse didn’t perish—at least it saw the light of day. Maybe he was even prompted by noble motives.”
“But he could have apologized after your return,” says Olga Mikhailovna. “That’s what I would have done, at any rate.”
“Those were different times, my child,” Dmitry Ilich explains indulgently. Olga Mikhailovna likes it when he calls her a child. At forty, it’s pleasant. “Different times. And how would he have known that I came back? I didn’t report to him. We weren’t even really acquainted. God will forgive him, and I already have. Right here and now I’ve forgiven him.”
So once again evening falls, and from the woods comes that vile Korobeinikov, carrying his foul toadstool. Everyone already knows about his treachery, about the mark of Cain on him. Olga Mikhailovna stands on the porch. “You have to forgive him,” said Dmitry Ilich, but she doesn’t want to forgive him. “Judge not, that ye be not judged,” said Dmitry Ilich. All right, so she’ll be judged, but at least she’ll have the satisfaction of making judgments herself. She loves truth, what can you do, that’s how she is. Of course, she’s not about to persecute Korobeinikov—he has an ulcer, after all—but inside, in the pure house of her soul, she has the right to keep things in their proper place. And the place for trash is the kitchen, not the parlor.
There he sits, in the wicker chair, weaving a lot of nonsense about miracles. There he goes, slurping tea and chomping on cake. There he goes, singing like a nightingale about how some kind of mysterious voids were supposedly found deep inside the pyramid of Cheops, and what could this signify? You’re the pyramid of Cheops yourself, thinks Olga Mikhailovna. “Megahertz…” mutters Olga Mikhailovna’s husband. And everyone else thinks hostile thoughts. And Korobeinikov can’t help but feel this.
Korobeinikov is confused; Korobeinikov mumbles on—about how one fine evening, see, the skies over Petrozavodsk convulsed and a heavenly flame descended, a column of horrendous force, and everything turned bright as day, while crimson stripes ranged the sky and the whole shebang flashed and quaked, and what could this possibly signify? But knowing what they now know about Korobeinikov, the hosts and their guests no longer ooh and ah, no longer laugh, no longer cry out in disbelief. Olga Mikhailovna forces a smile, even though it’s about as easy for her to smile as it would be to lift weights, and she curses herself for her fake smile, her female cowardice: if only she could somehow give Korobeinikov to understand that that’s it—that’s it!—he needn’t come around here again, that’s enough, we don’t want him anymore. We know about your low-down dirty trick. And your ulcer is no excuse! Your ulcer is a heavenly flame sent down on you as a punishment, that’s what! We wish you no ill—go and get yourself cured, take your little vitamin pills, go drink buttermilk in your sanatorium—but don’t come around here! And don’t bring us any mushrooms.