State-Councillor Sharamykin’s drawing-room is wrapped in a pleasant
half-darkness. The big bronze lamp with the green shade, makes
the walls, the furniture, the faces, all green, _couleur_ “_Nuit
d’Ukraine_” Occasionally a smouldering log flares up in the dying fire
and for a moment casts a red glow over the faces; but this does not
spoil the general harmony of light. The general tone, as the painters
say, is well sustained.
Sharamykin sits in a chair in front of the fireplace, in the attitude
of a man who has just dined. He is an elderly man with a high
official’s grey side whiskers and meek blue eyes. Tenderness is shed
over his face, and his lips are set in a melancholy smile. At his
feet, stretched out lazily, with his legs towards the fire-place,
Vice-Governor Lopniev sits on a little stool. He is a brave-looking man
of about forty. Sharamykin’s children are moving about round the piano;
Nina, Kolya, Nadya, and Vanya. The door leading to Madame Sharamykin’s
room is slightly open and the light breaks through timidly. There
behind the door sits Sharamykin’s wife, Anna Pavlovna, in front of
her writing-table. She is president of the local ladies’ committee, a
lively, piquant lady of thirty years and a little bit over. Through
her pince-nez her vivacious black eyes are running over the pages of a
French novel. Beneath the novel lies a tattered copy of the report of
the committee for last year.
“Formerly our town was much better off in these things,” says
Sharamykin, screwing up his meek eyes at the glowing coals. “Never a
winter passed but some star would pay us a visit. Famous actors and
singers used to come ... but now, besides acrobats and organ-grinders,
the devil only knows what comes. There’s no aesthetic pleasure
at all.... We might be living in a forest. Yes.... And does your
Excellency remember that Italian tragedian?... What’s his name?... He
was so dark, and tall.... Let me think.... Oh, yes! Luigi Ernesto di
Ruggiero.... Remarkable talent.... And strength. He had only to say
one word and the whole theatre was on the _qui vive._ My darling Anna
used to take a great interest in his talent. She hired the theatre for
him and sold tickets for the performances in advance.... In return he
taught her elocution and gesture. A first-rate fellow! He came here
... to be quite exact ... twelve years ago.... No, that’s not true....
Less, ten years.... Anna dear, how old is our Nina?”
“She’ll be ten next birthday,” calls Anna Pavlovna from her room. “Why?”
“Nothing in particular, my dear. I was just curious.... And good
singers used to come. Do you remember Prilipchin, the _tenore di
grazia_? What a charming fellow he was! How good looking! Fair ...
a very expressive face, Parisian manners.... And what a voice, your
Excellency! Only one weakness: he would sing some notes with his
stomach and would take _re_ falsetto--otherwise everything was good.
Tamberlik, he said, had taught him.... My dear Anna and I hired a hall
for him at the Social Club, and in gratitude for that he used to sing
to us for whole days and nights.... He taught dear Anna to sing. He
came--I remember it as though it were last night--in Lent, some twelve
years ago. No, it’s more.... How bad my memory is getting, Heaven help
me! Anna dear, how old is our darling Nadya?
“Twelve.”
“Twelve ... then we’ve got to add ten months.... That makes it exact
... thirteen. Somehow there used to be more life in our town then....
Take, for instance, the charity soirées. What enjoyable soirées we
used to have before! How elegant! There were singing, playing, and
recitation.... After the war, I remember, when the Turkish prisoners
were here, dear Anna arranged a soiree on behalf of the wounded. We
collected eleven hundred roubles. I remember the Turkish officers
were passionately fond of dear Anna’s voice, and kissed her hand
incessantly. He-he! Asiatics, but a grateful nation. Would you believe
me, the soiree was such a success that I wrote an account of it in my
diary? It was,--I remember it as though it had only just happened,--in
’76,... no, in ’77.... No! Pray, when were the Turks here? Anna dear,
how old is our little Kolya?”
“I’m seven, Papa!” says Kolya, a brat with a swarthy face and coal
black hair.
“Yes, we’re old, and we’ve lost the energy we used to have,” Lopniev
agreed with a sigh. “That’s the real cause. Old age, my friend. No new
moving spirits arrive, and the old ones grow old.... The old fire is
dull now. When I was younger I did not like company to be bored....
I was your Anna Pavlovna’s first assistant. Whether it was a charity
soirée or a tombola to support a star who was going to arrive, whatever
Anna Pavlovna was arranging, I used to throw over everything and begin
to bustle about. One winter, I remember, I bustled and ran so much that
I even got ill.... I shan’t forget that winter.... Do you remember what
a performance we arranged with Anna Pavlovna in aid of the victims of
the fire?”
“What year was it?”
“Not so very long ago.... In ’79. No, in ’80, I believe! Tell me how
old is your Vanya?”
“Five,” Anna Pavlovna calls from the study.
“Well, that means it was six years ago. Yes, my dear friend, that was a
time. It’s all over now. The old fire’s quite gone.”
Lopniev and Sharamykin grew thoughtful. The smouldering log flares up
for the last time, and then is covered in ash.