Pray, consider the exquisite tragedy of the modern musical salon, where the pursuit of 'fashion' often triumphs over the simple laws of harmony. Mr. Mikhail Muromov, the gentleman whose melody 'Apples upon the Snow' once captivated the masses, has seen fit to comment upon a rendition of his composition by a certain Madame Koroleva.

With a grace that can only be described as excessively indulgent, the gentleman admitted that while the lady’s performance was quite 'smart' and elegant in its presentation, she did, alas, stray most lamentably from the correct note. One imagines a lady in a most elaborate bonnet, attempting a high C and landing instead upon a note known only to the neighborhood cats. Yet, Mr. Muromov remains unfazed, insisting that such a trifle is of no consequence, provided the overall effect remains suitably ornate.

Indeed, the gentleman recalled with a touch of melancholy those days when his creation was shunned by the broadcasters of the era, as if the very notion of 'Apples upon the Snow' were an affront to public taste. He notes with a wry smile that he was utterly ignored until the 'Song of the Year' summoned him—and now, the public clamors for nothing else.

However, the curtain falls upon a more somber note. It appears that Mr. Muromov has expressed a most poignant grievance regarding his pension. At seventy-four years of age, the artist finds his coffers somewhat depleted, for his own entrepreneurial pursuits have, by a cruel twist of bureaucracy, diminished his state allowance. It is the eternal struggle of the artist: to be adored by the multitude while privately wondering where the gold has vanished.