“A commercial town, but extremely cultured.⁠ ⁠… For instance, er-er-er⁠ ⁠… the head master of the high school, the public prosecutor⁠ ⁠… the officers.⁠ ⁠… The police captain, too, was not bad, a man, as the French say, enchanté , and the women, Allah, what women!”

“Yes, the women⁠ ⁠… certainly.⁠ ⁠…”

“Perhaps I am partial; the fact is that in your town, I don’t know why, I was devilishly lucky with the fair sex! I could write a dozen novels. To take this episode, for instance.⁠ ⁠… I was staying in Yegoryevsky Street, in the very house where the Treasury is.⁠ ⁠…”

“The red house without stucco?”

“Yes, yes⁠ ⁠… without stucco.⁠ ⁠… Close by, as I remember now, lived a local beauty, Varenka.⁠ ⁠…”

“Not Varvara Nikolayevna?” asked Klimov, and he beamed with satisfaction. “She really is a beauty⁠ ⁠… the most beautiful girl in the town.”

“The most beautiful girl in the town! A classic profile, great black eyes⁠ ⁠… and hair to her waist! She saw me in Hamlet , she wrote me a letter à la Pushkin’s Tatyana .⁠ ⁠… I answered, as you may guess.⁠ ⁠…”

Podzharov looked round, and having satisfied himself that there were no ladies in the room, rolled his eyes, smiled mournfully, and heaved a sigh.

“I came home one evening after a performance,” he whispered, “and there she was, sitting on my sofa. There followed tears, protestations of love, kisses.⁠ ⁠… Oh, that was a marvellous, that was a divine night! Our romance lasted two months, but that night was never repeated. It was a night, parole d’honneur !”

“Excuse me, what’s that?” muttered Klimov, turning crimson and gazing open-eyed at the actor. “I know Varvara Nikolayevna well: she’s my niece.”