“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. OLD AGE