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Updated: May 17, 2025
They're as puffed up as feather-beds, these fine gentlemen, as soft-soapy as can be, and are always in raptures over the merest commonplaces! And it's no better in art! You go to a concert and listen to our national singer Agremantsky. Everyone is raving about him. But he has no more voice than a cat! Even Skoropikin, you know, our immortal Aristarchus, rings his praises.
Paklin's true and rather apt comparison raised no smile on his listeners' faces, only Nejdanov remarked that if young people were fools enough to interest themselves in aesthetics, they deserved no pity whatever, even if Skoropikin did lead them astray.
Paklin was offended and was about to say something when Nejdanov interrupted him. "I vote we leave politics for a time, ladies and gentlemen!" he exclaimed. A silence ensued. "I ran across Skoropikin today," Paklin was the first to begin. "Our great national critic, aesthetic, and enthusiast! What an insufferable creature! He is forever boiling and frothing over like a bottle of sour kvas.
"Of course," Paklin exclaimed with some warmth the less sympathy he met with, the more heated he became "I admit that the question is not a political one, but an important one, nevertheless. According to Skoropikin, every ancient work of art is valueless because it is old. If that were true, then art would be reduced to nothing more or less than mere fashion.
"All the same," Ostrodumov remarked, "I am not in the least sorry for the young people who run after Skoropikin." "You are hopeless," Paklin thought. "I had better be going." Paklin had already taken up his hat, when suddenly, without the slightest warning, a wonderfully pleasant, manly baritone was heard from the passage.
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