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 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 . The chairs, armchairs, and couches had vanished through the agency of unknown hands, leaving only fragments of broken furniture, and and ends of heaped together in casual in a dark corner, only by grey, ghostlike shadows. The curtains were closely ; outside the rain pattered on the windows.  
Lydia Constantinovna played a long while on the piano, at first a 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 , rising from her seat and shaking with of laughter. Still laughing loudly and evilly, she began to 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, placing her feet, encased in their patent leather shoes, upon a low footstool.
 
She drank a great deal of brandy in slow , and as she pressed her beautiful lips to the glass she 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 , warming his blood; his thoughts grew vivid and spiteful, , 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 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 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 . "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 :
 
"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 with the endless discussions in cafes, and . 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 ; I see that there is now the great joy and beauty of spring outside—so different from the distorted images visible to minds and clouded eyes; I see, moreover, that the Revolution has passed us by after throwing us ............