CHAPTER II.


Two in the afternoon. In the second-rate, two-rouble establishment
of Anna Markovna everything is plunged in sleep. The large square
parlor with mirrors in gilt frames, with a score of plush chairs
placed decorously along the walls, with oleograph pictures of
Makovsky's Feast of the Russian Noblemen, and Bathing, with a
crystal lustre in the middle, is also sleeping, and in the quiet
and semi-darkness it seems unwontedly pensive, austere, strangely
sad. Yesterday here, as on every evening, lights burned, the most
rollicking of music rang out, blue tobacco smoke swirled, men and
women careered in couples, shaking their hips and throwing their
legs on high. And the entire street shone on the outside with the
red lanterns over the street doors and with the light from the
windows, and it seethed with people and carriages until morning.

Now the street is empty. It is glowing triumphantly and joyously
in the glare of the summer sun. But in the parlor all the window
curtains are lowered, and for that reason it is dark within, cool,
and as peculiarly uninviting as the interiors of empty theatres,
riding academies and court buildings usually are in the middle of
the day.

The pianoforte glimmers dully with its black, bent, glossy side;