Moscow, winter 1904, In the concert hall of the Bolshoi Theater, on Sverlov Square, and away from these four statues that had been covered in snow for days, the last invited guests sat down in the hall and laid out their clothes to the side. Only delegates, painters and feature writers in their
cultural peculiarities were still sulking in their armchairs next door (in the
bay window) and relaxing behind the compartments of their deck of cards. Auben,
all around in the snow watercolor, the spiritual Moscow walked and chatted.
Multiple crouching citizens of Burgerhaus threw flowery shadow structures on the
north side of the concert hall, which covered the blocking writing on the paper notice on
the gate and candlelight up to the neck of the wick. In
the residential buildings you could see girls in checkered puffy dresses, sitting on
colored velvet armchairs and lining the dull windows of their
barracks. Always innate paths and houses, views and insights, which Zechariah stung with sharp glances. He had covered his already cold drum with a fur and carried it out of duty into everyday life one after another that afternoon. Leaning against the edge of the
arched windows (towards the ballroom), he stared into the prominent
crowd of people in the Odeum, who gathered around a pianoforte to
accompany various virtuosos with passive applause. Soldiers leaned between the
huge proscenium doors, checking the extent of the light
and after the wicks had died and the parade, they only tolerated more shine on the wine-red
carpet. When the first virtuoso smashed the keys of the magnificent grand piano, all the coarse and short people rose up and covered their hearts with the back of their right hand, patriotic and proud of Rachmaninoff's tone poem. Undeterred and made proud by the chauvinism of the people in the hall, Zacharias uncovers his drum and begins to march, first to the left, then to the right, determinedly beating his drum. He rummages through the huge wooden doors and enters the concert hall, drumming. Stopping in front of the pianist - the
invited guests were not sparing with arrogance and at the same time stabbed him with fiery
red looks - he loosened the drum from the bruised leather loop
and placed it in front of the piano. It was the last drumbeat. (At that time
Zechariah was 9 years old.)

SOUMETTRE LES CORRECTIONS