You barely put your foot inside the door when the potent stench of shoddy boudoirs and bathhouse changing rooms washes over you. The guests are slightly tipsy. Incidentally, I would discourage a visit to the salon by anyone who is—how shall I put it—not at least three, if not four, sheets to the wind. It is a fundamental requirement. If a guest arrives with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his bleary eye, it is a good sign: it is unlikely that he will die of boredom, and he might even get a small taste of bliss. Unlucky is the teetotaler who ventures into the Salon des Variétés. It is doubtful that he will take a shine to it, and when he gets home he will give his sons a good hiding so they will know better than to visit the salon when they grow up. Tipsy guests totter up the stairs, hand the doorman their ticket, enter the hall filled with portraits of the great, brace themselves, and plunge bravely into the hurly-burly, stumbling through all the rooms, from door to door, thirsting to catch a peek of something rare. They push and jostle as if looking for something. What a seething hodgepodge of faces, colors, and smells! Ladies—red, blue, green, black, variegated and piebald, like three-kopeck woodblock prints. The same ladies were here last year and the year before—and you will see them here next year, too. Not a single décolleté, as they are in corsets and bloomers and . . . have no busts worth mentioning. And what strange and marvelous names: Blanche, Mimi, Fanny, Emma, Isabella. You will not find a single Matryonna, Mavra, or Pelageya.

The dust is terrible! Specks of powder and paint hang in the air in a haze of alcoholic fumes. You cannot breathe, and the urge to sneeze tickles your nose.

“What a rude man you are!”

“Me? Ah . . . hmm, well, permit me to express to you in prose that I am fully up-to-date on feminine ideas. Allow me to escort you.”

“How dare you, young man! You had better introduce yourself first, and wine and dine me a little!”

An officer hurries over, grabs the lady by the shoulders, turning her away from the young man so that she faces him. The young man is not pleased. He pauses, decides to take offense, grabs the lady by the shoulders, and turns her so she faces him again.

A big German with an oafish, inebriated face stumbles through the crowd. He emits a loud belch for all to hear. A pockmarked little man comes shuffling up behind him, clasps his hand, and shakes it.

“F-f-fool!” the German says.

“I wish to express my sincerest gratitude for your sincere belch,” the little man says.

“Um . . . ja . . . th-th-thank!”

By the entrance a crowd has gathered. Two young merchants are gesticulating furiously at each other in blind hatred. One merchant is red as a lobster, the other pale. Needless to say, they are both drunk as lords.

“How about . . . I punch you in the mug!”

“You ass!”

“No, You’re an ass yourself! You . . . philanthropist!”

“You rat! Why are you waving your arms around? Go on, punch me! Go on!”

“Gentlemen!” a woman’s voice rings out from the crowd.