I went into the artists' room while Poznyakovskaya was on the platform*, drawn there more by curiosity than any special sympathy or antipathy. Sitting there were Zeiliger, two of his friends, and Zakharov, yellow as a piece of old parchment. Zeiliger was thumping out something on the piano with the practice pedal down, while Zakharov responded rather reluctantly to my remarks. I had no real purpose being in the artists' room, but I persuaded Zeiliger to play me two Scriabin Etudes. After that he got up and went out of the room, whereupon Zakharov said: 'I'll now play you a study by Lyapunov.' I listened to the étude, made some irrelevant remark about his cuffs, and left.