Where there weren't pictures there was gilt, and
where there wasn't gilt there was naked statuary, and where there wasn't
naked statuary there was Rozanov, very red and stout and smiling, gay in
a tightly fitting black-tail coat, white waistcoat and black trousers.
Who all the people were I haven't the least idea. There was a great
many. A number of Jews and Jewesses, amiable, prosperous, and kindly, an
artist or two, a novelist, a lady pianist, two or three actors. I
noticed these. Then there was an old maid, a Mlle. Finisterre, famous in
Petrograd society for her bitterness and acrimony, and in appearance an
exact copy of Balzac's Sophie Gamond.
I noticed several of those charming, quiet, wise women of whom Russia is
so prodigal, a man or two whom I had met at different times, especially
one officer, one of the finest, bravest, and truest men I have ever
known; some of the inevitable giggling girls--and then suddenly,
standing quite alone, Nina!
Her loneliness was the first thing that struck me. She stood back
against the wall underneath the shining frames, looking about her with a
nervous, timid smile.
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