"They say that that's a difficult task, that nothing's amusing

that isn't spiteful," he began with a smile. "But I'll try. Get

me a subject. It all lies in the subject. If a subject's given

me, it's easy to spin something round it. I often think that the

celebrated talkers of the last century would have found it

difficult to talk cleverly now. Everything clever is so

stale..."

"That has been said long ago," the ambassador's wife interrupted

him, laughing.

The conversation began amiably, but just because it was too

amiable, it came to a stop again. They had to have recourse to

the sure, never-failing topic--gossip.

"Don't you think there's something Louis Quinze about

Tushkevitch?" he said, glancing towards a handsome, fair-haired

young man, standing at the table.

"Oh, yes! He's in the same style as the drawing room and that's

why it is he's so often here."

This conversation was maintained, since it rested on allusions to

what could not be talked of in that room--that is to say, of the

relations of Tushkevitch with their hostess.

Round the samovar and the hostess the conversation had been

meanwhile vacillating in just the same way between three

inevitable topics: the latest piece of public news, the

theater, and scandal. It, too, came finally to rest on the last

topic, that is, ill-natured gossip.

"Have you heard the Maltishtcheva woman--the mother, not the

daughter--has ordered a costume in _diable rose_ color?"

"Nonsense! No, that's too lovely!"

"I wonder that with her sense--for she's not a fool, you know--

that she doesn't see how funny she is."

Everyone had something to say in censure or ridicule of the

luckless Madame Maltishtcheva, and the conversation crackled

merrily, like a burning faggot-stack.

The husband of Princess Betsy, a good-natured fat man, an ardent

collector of engravings, hearing that his wife had visitors, came

into the drawing room before going to his club. Stepping

noiselessly over the thick rugs, he went up to Princess Myakaya.

"How did you like Nilsson?" he asked.

"Oh, how can you steal upon anyone like that! How you startled

me!" she responded. "Please don't talk to me about the opera;

you know nothing about music. I'd better meet you on your own

ground, and talk about your majolica and engravings. Come now,

what treasure have you been buying lately at the old curiosity

shops?"

"Would you like me to show you? But you don't understand such

things."

"Oh, do show me! I've been learning about them at those--what's

their names?...the bankers...they've some splendid engravings.

They showed them to us."




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