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All through the years of the Revolution Lydia Constantinovna had lived in the Crimea, coming to Marin-Brod for a fortnight the previous summer, afterwards leaving for Moscow. Now she had returned for the Easter holidays, but not alone the artist Mintz accompanied her. Ivanov had never heard of him before.
Ivanov lighted a candle and commenced manufacturing cartridges to pass away the time. Lydia Constantinovna entered the room. "Will you have tea here or in the dining-room?" she inquired. Ivanov declined tea with a wave of his hand.
Ivanov passed him. The artist's shrunken ruffled figure had an air of desolation and abandonment. The drawing-room was next to Ivanov's study. There still remained out of the ruin a carpet and some armchairs near the large, dirty windows, an old piano stood unmoved, and some portraits still hung on the walls. Lydia Constantinovna and Mintz came in from the back-room.
"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.
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.
Lydia Constantinovna remained in the middle of the room, her face turned to the door. Mintz approached, took her hand, and raised it to his lips. "You must not take it to heart, Lit," he said softly and kindly. She freed her hand and laid it on Mintz's shoulder. "No, one should not take it to heart," she assented in a low voice, "One should not.... But listen, Mintz.... How strange it all is!
Why can we not bring back the romantic eighteenth century, and sit in dressing-gowns, musing with delicious sadness over our pipes? Why are we not illustrious lords?" Lydia Constantinovna smiled as she answered: "Why not indeed! That is a poetic fancy. But the reality is very much worse.
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.
But I need a refuge now.... If you only knew how much he loved me in those days!..." Lydia Constantinovna was silent a moment, her head bent, then flinging it back she gave a hollow sardonic laugh. "Oh, what nonsense I talk! Well, we will be cheerful yet. I am tired, that is all.
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.
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