Only in the dining-room there was some attempt at modernity.
Bad modern furniture, on the walls bad copies of such things as Somoff's 'Blue Lady,' Vrubel's 'Pan' and one of Benoit's 'Peter the Great' water-colours.

Beyond this room the house was of eighty years ago, muffled in its old furniture, speaking with the voice of its old clocks, scented with the scent of its musk and lavender, watched by the contented gaze of the old family portraits.
"Alexandra Pavlovna, Andrey Vassilievitch's wife, was waiting for us.
Has it happened to you yet that your life that has been such and such a life is in the moment of a heart-beat all another life?
You have passed an examination, you are suddenly ill, you break your back by a fall, or more simply than all of these, you enter a town, see a picture, hear a bar of music....

The thing's done: all values changed: what you saw before you see no longer, what you needed before you need no longer, what you expected before you expect no longer....

Alexandra Pavlovna was not a beautiful woman.

Not tall, with hair quite grey, eyes not dark nor light--sad though.