IV

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.

V

Lydia Constantinovna's bedroom was cold and gloomy. As formerly, it

contained a huge four-poster, a chest of drawers, a dressing table

and a wardrobe. The rain beat fiercely against the window panes

running down in tiny glass globules.

Lydia lighted two candles, and placed them beside the tarnished

mirror. Some toilette belongings, relics of her childhood, lay on the

chest-of-drawers, and the contents of the baggage she had brought

with her the previous day were scattered about the room. The candles

burnt dimly, their yellow tongues flickering unsteadily over the

tarnished mirror.

She changed her garments and put on a loose green neglige, then re-

arranged her hair into plaits, forming them into a coronet which made

her head appear very small and graceful.

From force of habit she opened a bottle of perfume, moistened the

palms of her hands and rubbed them over her neck and bosom. At once

she felt giddy, even the cold, dampish sheets on her bed seemed to

smell of chipre.

Lydia sat down on the edge of her bed in her green negligé, listening

to the sounds around her. Outside, there was a continuous howling and

barking of dogs, now and then she could distinguish the croaking of

half-awakened crows in the park.

The clock struck eleven, then half-past, someone passed along the

corridor, Aganka cleared up in the dining-room, Mintz walked to and

fro in the drawing-room, then all became quiet.

Lydia Constantinovna went to the window and gazed out for a long

time. Then, quietly, she left her bedroom and crept down to Ivanov's

study. All around her it was dark, cold and silent as she passed

through the empty, spacious rooms. A forgotten candle still burnt

wanly in the drawing-room, and a rat ran out from under the table.

She was again plunged in darkness when she entered Ivanov's study,

and she was greeted by a smell of horse trappings and joiners' glue.

Ivanov was asleep on the sofa. He lay on his back, his arms extended;

the outlines of his body could just be discerned. Lydia sat down

quietly beside him and laid her hand on his breast. Ivanov sighed,

drew in his arms and raised his head quickly from the pillow:

"Who is there?"

"It is I, Sergius--me--Lida," answered Lydia Constantinovna in a

rapid whisper. "I know you do not wish to speak to me. I am bored ...

I returned here in a happy mood, not even thinking of you, and now

all at once I feel wretched.... Oh, those perfumes! How they torment

me...." She passed her hand over her face, then was silent. Ivanov

sat up.

"What is the matter Lida? What do you want?" he asked drowsily, and

he lighted a cigarette. The light shone on them as they sat half-

dressed on the sofa. Ivanov had a rugged, lumbering look.

"What do I want?" Lydia Constantinovna murmured. "Age creeps on me,

Sergius, and a lonely old age is terrible ... I feel so weary.... I

came here happy enough, now I am miserable. I can think of nothing

but the time you and I spent here together ... I am always playing" A

Summer's Night in Berezovka "--do you remember? I used to play it to

you in those days.... Well, so there you see.... Age creeps on and I

am longing for a home.... To-day they had the Twelfth Gospel

Service.... Surely we still have a word for each other?" Her face

clouded in sudden doubt. "You have been with Arina then?" she

questioned sharply.

Ivanov did not answer immediately.

"I have grieved and worried greatly, Lida," he said at last, "but

that does not matter. These four years I have lived alone, and have

placed the past behind me. It is gone for ever. These four years I

have struggled against death, and struggled for my daily bread. You

know nothing of all this, we are as strangers.... Yes, I have been

with Arina. Soon I shall have a son. I do not know if I am broken or

merely tired, but for the moment I feel all right. I am going to

bring Arina here, she will be my wife and keep house for me. And I

shall live.... I am keeping step with some elemental Force . . . I

shall have a son.... It will be a totally different life for me,

Lida."

"And for me Moscow--as ever--wine, theatres, cafes, Mintz, an eternal

hurly-burly ... I am sick of it!"

"I cannot help you, Lida. I too am sick of all that, but now I am at

peace. We must all work out our own salvation."

Ivanov spoke very quietly and simply. Lydia Constantinovna sat bowed

and motionless, as if fearing to move, clasping her knees with both

hands. When Ivanov ceased speaking she rose noiselessly and went

towards the door. She stood on the threshold a brief moment then,

went out. The candle still burnt fitfully in the drawing-room. The

house was wrapt in silence.