in the drawing-room a chandelier hung above the sofa and round table near the piano; it had not been lighted for many years, indeed not since the last christmas before the revolution. now once again it was illumined, and the dull yellow flare of its candles—dimly shining out of their dust-laden pendants—lit up the near side of the room and its contents; at the further side, however, where doors led into the hall and a sittingroom, there was a complete wreckage. the chairs, armchairs, and couches had vanished through the agency of unknown hands, leaving only fragments of broken furniture, and odds and ends of utensils heaped together in casual profusion in a dark corner, only penetrated by grey, ghostlike shadows. the curtains were closely drawn; outside the rain pattered drearily on the windows.

lydia constantinovna played a long while on the piano, at first a bravura from the operas, then some classical pieces, liszt's "twelfth rhapsody," and finally ended with the artless music of oppel's "a summer's night in berezovka"—a piece she used to play to ivanov when she was his fiancée.

she played it through twice; then broke off abruptly, rising from her seat and shaking with gusts of malicious laughter. still laughing loudly and evilly, she began to sip brandy out of a high narrow glass.

her eyes were still beautiful, with the beauty of lakes in autumn when the trees are shedding their leaves. she seated herself on the sofa, and lay back among its cushions, her hands clasped behind her head, in an attitude of utter abandonment. her legs in their open- work stockings were plainly visible under her black silk skirt, and she crossed them, leisurely placing her feet, encased in their patent leather shoes, upon a low footstool.

she drank a great deal of brandy in slow sips, and as she pressed her beautiful lips to the glass she vilified everybody and everything— ivanov, the revolution, moscow, the crimea, marin-brod, mintz, and herself.

then she became silent, her eyes grew dull, she began to speak quietly and sadly, with a foolish helpless smile.

mintz was drinking and pacing up and down the room, speaking volubly with noisy derision. the brandy flowed through his veins, warming his sluggish blood; his thoughts grew vivid and spiteful, engendering sarcastic, malicious remarks. whenever he took a drink, he removed his pince-nez for a moment, and his eyes became evil, vacant and bemused.

lydia constantinovna sat in the corner of the sofa, covered her shoulders with a plaid shawl, and crossed her legs in the turkish fashion.

"what a smell of chipre there is, mintz," she murmured in a low voice. "i think i must be tipsy. yes, i must be. when i drink a great deal i always begin to think there are too many perfumes about. they suffocate me, i get their taste in my mouth, they sing in my ears and i feel ill…. what a smell of chipre … it is my favourite perfume: do you smell it?"

she looked at mintz with a half dazed stare, then continued:

"in an hour's time i shall be having hysterics. it is always the way when i drink too much. i don't feel cheerful any longer, i feel melancholy now, mintz. i feel now as though … as though i have wept on this sofa all through the night … oh, how happy we used to be once upon a time," she sighed tearfully, then added with a giggle. "why i hardly know what i am saying!"

mintz was walking up and down the room, measuring his steps extremely carefully. he halted in front of lydia constantinovna, removed his glasses and scowled:

"but i, when i drink, i begin to see things with extraordinary clearness: i see that we are melancholy because the devil only knows why or for what we are living; i see that life is impossible without faith; that our hearts and minds are exhausted with the endless discussions in cafes, attics and promenades. i realise that no matter what happens, villainy will always exist. i see, too, that we have been drinking because we feel lonely and dull—yes, even though we have been joking and laughing boisterously; i see that there is now the great joy and beauty of spring outside—so different from the distorted images visible to warped minds and clouded eyes; i see, moreover, that the revolution has passed us by after throwing us aside, even though the new economic policy may put on us our feet again for a while, and that … that …" mintz did not finish, but turned round abruptly and strode away with an air of self-assertion, into the remote end of the room, where the debris was littered.

"yes, that is true … you are right," answered lydia constantinovna.

"but then i do not love sergius, i never have done."

"of course i am right," mintz retorted severely from his dim corner.

"people never love others. they love themselves—through others."

ivanov came in from the hall in his cap and muddy boots, carrying his rifle. without a single word he passed through the room and went into his study. mintz watched him in severe silence, then followed him. inside he leaned against the door-post with a wry smile:

"you are shunning me all this time. why?"

"you imagine it," returned ivanov.

he lighted a candle on his desk, took off his coat, changed his boots and clothes, hung up his rifle.

"that is ridiculous!" mintz replied coldly. "i very seldom imagine things. i want to say how very comfortable you seem here, because this is the very essence of comfort…. look at me! i have painted pictures, sold them, painted more in order to sell those also—though i ceased painting long ago—and i lived in garrets because i must have light, and by myself because my wife will not come to such a place…. true, she is no longer with me, she deserted me long ago! now i have only mistresses…. and i envy you because … because it is very cold in garrets…. you understand me?"

mintz took off his pince-nez and his eyes looked bewildered and malignant: "in the name of all who had been tortured, all who have exchanged the springtime beauty of the parks for the erotic atmosphere of boudoirs; all who in the soft luxury of their homes forgot, and have now lost their claim on russia—i say you are supremely comfortable, and we envy you! one may work here, one may even … marry … you have never painted, have you?"

"no."

mintz was silent, then suddenly said in a low tone: "look here! we have some brandy. shall we have a drink?"

"no, thank you. i want to sleep. good night."

"i want to talk!"

ivanov extinguished the candle, through custom finding his bread and milk in the dark, and hastily consumed it without sitting down. mintz stood a moment by the door; then went out, slamming it behind him.

lydia constantinovna now had her feet on the carpet and her head was bowed. her eyes under their long lashes were blank and limpid, like lakes amid reeds. her hands were clasped round her knees.

"how was sergius?" she enquired, without raising her head.

"boorish, he has gone to bed," answered mintz.

he was about to sit beside her, but she rose, arranged her hair mechanically, and smiled faintly and tenderly—not at mintz, but into the empty space.

"to bed? well, it is time. good rest!" she said softly. "ah, how the perfume torments me. i feel giddy."

she went to the other end of the room, mintz following her, and halted on the threshold. in the stillness of the night the pattering rain could be heard distinctly. lydia constantinovna leaned against the white door, throwing back her head, and began to speak; avoiding mintz's eyes, she endeavoured to express herself simply and clearly, but the words seemed dry as they fell from her lips:

"i am very tired, mintz, i am going to bed at once. you go too. goodbye until tomorrow. we shall not meet again to-night. do you understand, mintz? it is my wish."

mintz stood still, his legs wide apart, his arms akimbo, his head hanging. then with a sad, submissive smile he answered in an unexpectedly mild tone: "very well, then, all right, i understand you. it is quite all right."

lydia constantinovna stretched out her hand, speaking in the unaffected, friendly way she had desired earlier: "i know you are a malicious, bored, lonely cynic, like … like an old homeless dog … but you are kind and intelligent…. you know i will never leave you— we are so…. but now i am going in to him … just for the last time."

mintz kissed her hand without speaking, then his tall, bony, somewhat stooping figure disappeared down the corridor.