It has come to our attention, through the relentless chatter of the town's gossips, that Mr. Prokhor Shalyapin—a gentleman whose ambitions are as vast as his repertoire—has found himself the subject of most vulgar scrutiny. The current fashion, it seems, is not merely to admire the performance, but to calculate the precise weight of the gold that accompanies it.

Certain scribblers, acting with the delicacy of a street urchin in a jewelry shop, dared to inquire after the sudden inflation of the singer's fees. These gentlemen of the press, citing various organisers, whispered that the cost of Mr. Shalyapin’s presence at a gala has soared to the staggering sum of two million rubles. One might imagine such a price reflects the singing of angels, yet it appears it is merely the market price for a certain brand of theatrical flair.

When confronted with these pecuniary revelations, Mr. Shalyapin did not offer a ledger or a receipt. Instead, with the air of a man who finds the very notion of accounting to be a symptom of the most tedious philistinism, he remarked:

'It is quite unbecoming to count the coins in another man's pocket.'

One cannot help but admire the irony, dear readers. A gentleman who has watched his own fee climb from eight hundred thousand to a million, and finally to two million, now lectures the world on the impropriety of counting money. It is a most exquisite piece of social choreography—to crave the gold, yet treat the mention of it as a breach of etiquette. Truly, the modern salon has become a place where the only thing more inflated than the egos is the invoice.