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They went in from the yard and up to the fourth storey. The

staircase got darker and darker as they went up. It was nearly

eleven o'clock and although in summer in Petersburg there is no

real night, yet it was quite dark at the top of the stairs.

A grimy little door at the very top of the stairs stood ajar. A

very poor-looking room about ten paces long was lighted up by a

candle-end; the whole of it was visible from the entrance. It was

all in disorder, littered up with rags of all sorts, especially

children's garments. Across the furthest corner was stretched a

ragged sheet. Behind it probably was the bed. There was nothing

in the room except two chairs and a sofa covered with American

leather, full of holes, before which stood an old deal

kitchen-table, unpainted and uncovered. At the edge of the table

stood a smoldering tallow-candle in an iron candlestick. It

appeared that the family had a room to themselves, not part of a

room, but their room was practically a passage. The door leading

to the other rooms, or rather cupboards, into which Amalia

Lippevechsel's flat was divided stood half open, and there was

shouting, uproar and laughter within. People seemed to be playing

cards and drinking tea there.