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 soiree 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, 1 believe! Tell me how old is your Vanya?"
"Five," Anna Pavlovna calls from the study.
