He was happy. His eyes
danced appreciatively; he waved his white gloves at the scene as though
blessing it.
"Of course, Mr. Durward," he said to me, "this is nothing compared with
what we could do before the war--nevertheless here you see, for a
moment, a fragment of the old Petersburg--Petersburg as it shall be,
please God, again one day...."
I do not in the least remember who was present that evening, but it was,
I believe, a very distinguished company. The lights blazed, the jewels
flashed, and the chatter was tremendous. The horseshoe-shaped seats
behind the stalls clustered in knots and bunches of colour under the
great glitter of electricity about the Royal Box. Artists--Somoff and
Benois and Dobujinsky; novelists like Sologub and Merejkowsky; dancers
like Karsavina--actors from all over Petrograd--they were there, I
expect, to add criticism and argument to the adulation of friends and of
the carelessly observant rich Jews and merchants who had come simply to
display their jewellery. Petrograd, like every other city in the world,
is artistic only by the persistence of its minority.
I'm sure that there were Princesses and Grand Dukes and Grand Duchesses
for any one who needed them, and it was only in the gallery where the
students and their girl-friends were gathered that the name of Lermontov
was mentioned.
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