There is a particular sort of modern melancholy that affects our young gentlemen of society, a weariness that can only be cured by the most profound indolence. Consider, if you will, the case of young Rodion Gazmanov, a cavalier of some renown, who has recently graced the shores of Vietnam with his presence.

One might imagine a grand tour, filled with the rigorous study of exotic antiquities or the strategic navigation of foreign courts. Yet, as he confided in a recent discourse, the young man’s ambitions were far more modest. He sought not the enlightenment of excursions, but the exquisite pleasure of a long nap and a well-set table.

«It was my first foray into this distant land,» the gentleman observed, with a lightness of spirit that would make any hardworking clerk weep. «After a year of most relentless industry, I found that the only true virtue of a holiday is the opportunity to dine sumptuously, to slumber without interruption, and to allow the sun to tan one's skin in utter stillness.»

How charmingly bourgeois! To travel thousands of miles merely to escape the bustling demands of Moscow, only to discover that the height of luxury is to remain as motionless as a garden statue. It is a tragedy of the most delightful sort: a man of talent who finds his greatest joy in the absolute absence of activity.

Alas, while the son enjoys his blissful lethargy, the elder Gazmanov—the father—has encountered a more watery misfortune. A deluge in his recording studio has swept away his newest compositions. A dark streak, indeed! One can only hope that the father might find some solace in the son's example: perhaps a trip to the Orient and a very large plate of sweets would be the only cure for such a musical catastrophe.