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
