Yevgeny Alexeyitch Podzharov, the jeune premier , a graceful, elegant young man with an oval face and little bags under his eyes, had come for the season to one of the southern towns of Russia, and tried at once to make the acquaintance of a few of the leading families of the place. âYes, signor,â he would often say, gracefully swinging his foot and displaying his red socks, âan artist ought to act upon the masses, both directly and indirectly; the first aim is attained by his work on the stage, the second by an acquaintance with the local inhabitants. On my honour, parole dâhonneur , I donât understand why it is we actors avoid making acquaintance with local families. Why is it? To say nothing of dinners, name-day parties, feasts, soirĂŠes fixes , to say nothing of these entertainments, think of the moral influence we may have on society! Is it not agreeable to feel one has dropped a spark in some thick skull? The types one meets! The women! Mon Dieu
, what women! they turn oneâs head! One penetrates into some huge merchantâs house, into the sacred retreats, and picks out some fresh and rosy little peachâ âitâs heaven, parole dâhonneur !â
In the southern town, among other estimable families he made the acquaintance of that of a manufacturer called Zybaev. Whenever he remembers that acquaintance now he frowns contemptuously, screws up his eyes, and nervously plays with his watch-chain.
One dayâ âit was at a name-day party at Zybaevâsâ âthe actor was sitting in his new friendsâ drawing room and holding forth as usual. Around him âtypesâ were sitting in armchairs and on the sofa, listening affably; from the next room came feminine laughter and the sounds of evening tea.â ââ ⌠Crossing his legs, after each phrase sipping tea with rum in it, and trying to assume an expression of careless boredom, he talked of his stage triumphs.