Charsky waited anxiously for the impression made by the first moment, but he noticed that the costume which had seemed so improper to him did not have the same effect on the public. Charsky himself found nothing ridiculous in him when he saw him on the stage, his pale face brightly lit by a multitude of lamps and candles. The applause died down; the talking ceased…The Italian, expressing himself in poor French, asked the ladies and gentlemen of the audience to set a few themes, writing them down on separate pieces of paper. At this unexpected invitation, they all exchanged silent glances and no one made any reply. The Italian, having waited a little, repeated his request in a timid and humble voice. Charsky was standing just under the stage; he was seized by anxiety; he sensed that things could not go ahead without him and that he would be forced to write down his theme. In fact, several ladies’ heads turned to him and began to call his name, first softly, then louder and louder. Hearing Charsky’s name, the improvisator sought him with his eyes and, finding him at his feet, handed him a pencil and a scrap of paper with a friendly smile. Charsky found playing a role in this comedy very unpleasant, but there was nothing to do; he took the pencil and paper from the Italian’s hand and wrote a few words; the Italian, taking the vase from the table, stepped down from the stage and carried it to Charsky, who dropped his theme into it. His example worked. Two journalists, in their quality as literary men, considered themselves each obliged to write down a theme; the secretary from the Neapolitan embassy and a young man who recently returned from his travels raving about Florence put their rolled-up papers into the urn; finally, an unattractive girl, on her mother’s orders, with tears in her eyes, wrote several lines in Italian and, blushing to the ears, handed them to the improvisator, while the ladies silently watched her with barely perceptible smiles. Going back to his stage, the improvisator placed the urn on the table and started taking the papers out one by one, reading each of them aloud:
“What is the esteemed public’s wish?” asked the humble Italian. “Will it set me one of the proposed subjects itself, or let it be decided by lot?”
“By lot!…” said a voice from the crowd.
“By lot, by lot!” the public repeated.
The improvisator again stepped down from the stage, holding the urn in his hands, and asked:
“Who would like to draw a theme?”
The improvisator passed a pleading glance over the first rows of chairs. Not one of the glittering ladies sitting there budged. The improvisator, unaccustomed to northern indifference, seemed to be suffering…Suddenly he noticed to one side a small white-gloved hand held up; he turned briskly and went over to a majestic young beauty who was sitting at the end of the second row. She rose without any embarrassment and with all possible simplicity lowered her aristocratic little hand into the urn and drew out a slip of paper.
“Kindly unfold it and read it,” said the improvisator. The beauty unfolded the paper and read aloud:
These words were uttered in a low voice, but such silence reigned in the room that everyone heard them. The improvisator bowed low to the beautiful lady with an air of deep gratitude and went back to his stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, addressing the public, “the lot has set me Cleopatra and her lovers as the subject of my improvisation. I humbly ask the person who chose this theme to clarify his thought for me: what lovers are we speaking of here,
At these words many of the men burst out laughing. The improvisator became slightly embarrassed.
“I wish to know,” he went on, “what historical particulars the person who chose this theme was hinting at. I would be very grateful if that person would please explain.”
No one was in a hurry to reply. Several ladies turned their gazes on the unattractive girl who had written a theme on her mother’s orders. The poor girl noticed this unfavorable attention and became so embarrassed that tears hung from her eyelashes…Charsky could not bear it and, turning to the improvisator, said to him in Italian:
“The proposed theme is mine. I had in mind the evidence of Aurelius Victor,6 who writes that Cleopatra supposedly set death as the price of her love, and that admirers were found who were neither frightened nor repulsed by this condition…It seems to me, however, that the subject is somewhat difficult…won’t you choose another?…”
