and luxuries dragged all the way from London.  Moreover, Markovitch figured very slightly in the consciousness of his guests, and the rest of the flat was roomy and clean and light.  It was, like most of the homes of the Russian Intelligentzia over-burdened with family history.  Amazing the things that Russians will gather together and keep, one must suppose, only because they are too lethargic to do away with them.  On the walls of the Markovitch dining-room all kinds of pictures were hung—­old family photographs yellow and dusty, old calendars, prints of ships at sea, and young men hanging over stiles, and old ladies having tea, photographs of the Kremlin and the Lavra at Kieff, copies of Ivan and his murdered son and Serov’s portrait of Chaliapine as Boris Godounov.  Bookcases there were with tattered editions of Pushkin and Lermontov.  The middle of the living-room was occupied with an enormous table covered by a dark red cloth, and this table was the centre of the life of the family.  A large clock wheezed and groaned against the wall, and various chairs of different shapes and sizes filled up most of the remaining space.  Nevertheless, although everything in the room looked old except the white and gleaming stove, Vera Michailovna spread over the place the impress of her strong and active personality.  It was not a sluggish room, nor was it untidy as so many Russian rooms are.  Around the table everybody sat.  It seemed that at all hours of the day and night some kind of meal was in progress there; and it was almost certain that from half-past two in the afternoon until half-past two on the following morning the samovar would be found there, presiding with sleepy dignity over the whole family and caring nothing for anybody.  I can smell now that especial smell of tea and radishes and salted fish, and can hear the wheeze of the clock, the hum of the samovar, Nina’s shrill laugh and Boris’s deep voice....  I owe that room a great deal.  It was there that I was taken out of myself and memories that fared no better for their perpetual resurrection.  That room called me back to life.

On this evening there was to be, in honour of young Bohun, an especially fine dinner.  A message had come from him that he would appear with his boxes at half-past seven.  When I arrived Vera was busy in the kitchen, and Nina adding in her bedroom extra ribbons and laces to her costume; Boris Nicolaievitch was not present; Nicolai Leontievitch was working in his den.

I went through to him.  He did not look up as I came in.  The room was darker than usual; the green shade over the lamp was tilted wickedly as though it were cocking its eye at Markovitch’s vain hopes, and there was the man himself, one cheek a ghastly green, his hair on end and his chair precariously balanced.

I heard him say as though he repeated an incantation—­“Nu Vot...  Nu Vot...  Nu Vot.”

“Zdras te, Nicolai Leontievitch,” I said.  Then I did not disturb him but sat down on a rickety chair and waited.  Ink dripped from his table on to the floor.  One bottle lay on its side, the ink oozing out, other bottles stood, some filled, some half-filled, some empty.