A Gentleman in Moscow (5 page)

An
affaire d'honneur
 
. . .

Or so thought the Count with a touch of self-recrimination as he sat alone later that night in the hotel's bar with a snifter of brandy.

Situated off the lobby, furnished with banquettes, a mahogany bar, and a wall of bottles, this American-style watering hole was affectionately referred to by the Count as the Shalyapin, in honor of the great Russian opera singer who had frequented the spot in the years before the
Revolution. Once a beehive of activity, the Shalyapin was now more a chapel of prayer and reflection—but tonight that suited the Count's cast of mind.

Yes, he continued in his thoughts, how fine almost any human endeavor can be made to sound when expressed in the proper French. . . .

“May I offer you a hand, Your Excellency?”

This was Audrius, the Shalyapin's tender at bar. A Lithuanian with a blond goatee and a ready smile, Audrius was a man who knew his business. Why, the moment after you took a stool he would be leaning toward you with his forearm on the bar to ask your pleasure; and as soon as your glass was empty, he was there with a splash. But the Count wasn't sure why he was choosing this particular moment to offer a hand.

“With your jacket,” the bartender clarified.

In point of fact, the Count did seem to be struggling to get his arm through the sleeve of his blazer—which he couldn't quite remember having taken off in the first place. The Count had arrived at the Shalyapin at six o'clock, as usual, where he maintained a strict limit of one aperitif before dinner. But noting that he had never received his bottle of Baudelaire, the Count had allowed himself a second glass of Dubonnet. And then a snifter or two of brandy. And the next thing he knew, it was . . . , it was . . .

“What time
is
it, Audrius?”

“Ten, Your Excellency.”

“Ten!”

Audrius, who was suddenly on the customer side of the bar, was helping the Count off his stool. And as he guided the Count across the lobby (quite unnecessarily), the Count invited him into his train of thought.

“Did you know, Audrius, that when dueling was first discovered by the Russian officer corps in the early 1700s, they took to it with such enthusiasm that the Tsar had to forbid the practice for fear that there would soon be no one left to lead his troops.”

“I did not know that, Your Excellency,” the bartender replied with a smile.

“Well, it's quite true. And not only is a duel central to the action of
Onegin
, one occurs at a critical juncture in
War and Peace, Fathers and Sons,
and
The Brothers Karamazov
! Apparently, for all their powers of invention,
the Russian masters could not come up with a better plot device than two central characters resolving a matter of conscience by means of pistols at thirty-two paces.”

“I see your point. But here we are. Shall I press for the fifth floor?”

The Count, who found himself standing in front of the elevator, looked at the bartender in shock.

“But, Audrius, I have never taken the lift in my life!”

Then, after patting the bartender on the shoulder, the Count began winding his way up the stairs; that is, until he reached the second-floor landing, where he sat on a step.

“Why is it that our nation above all others embraced the duel so wholeheartedly?” he asked the stairwell rhetorically.

Some, no doubt, would simply dismiss it as a by-product of barbarism. Given Russia's long, heartless winters, its familiarity with famine, its rough sense of justice, and so on, and so on, it was perfectly natural for its gentry to adopt an act of definitive violence as the means of resolving disputes. But in the Count's considered opinion, the reason that dueling prevailed among Russian gentlemen stemmed from nothing more than their passion for the glorious and grandiose.

True, duels were fought by convention at dawn in isolated locations to ensure the privacy of the gentlemen involved. But were they fought behind ash heaps or in scrapyards? Of course not! They were fought in a clearing among the birch trees with a dusting of snow. Or on the banks of a winding rivulet. Or at the edge of a family estate where the breezes shake the blossoms from the trees. . . . That is, they were fought in settings that one might have expected to see in the second act of an opera.

In Russia, whatever the endeavor, if the setting is glorious and the tenor grandiose, it will have its adherents. In fact, over the years, as the locations for duels became more picturesque and the pistols more finely manufactured, the best-bred men proved willing to defend their honor over lesser and lesser offenses. So while dueling may have begun as a response to high crimes—to treachery, treason, and adultery—by 1900 it had tiptoed down the stairs of reason, until they were being fought over the tilt of a hat, the duration of a glance, or the placement of a comma.

In the old and well-established code of dueling, it is understood that the number of paces the offender and offended take before shooting should be
in inverse proportion to the magnitude of the insult. That is, the most reprehensible affront should be resolved by a duel of the fewest paces, to ensure that one of the two men will not leave the field of honor alive. Well, if that was the case, concluded the Count, then in the new era, the duels should have been fought at no less than ten thousand paces. In fact, having thrown down the gauntlet, appointed seconds, and chosen weapons, the offender should board a steamer bound for America as the offended boards another for Japan where, upon arrival, the two men could don their finest coats, descend their gangplanks, turn on the docks, and fire.

F
ive days later, the Count was pleased to accept a formal invitation to tea from his new acquaintance, Nina Kulikova. The engagement was for three o'clock in the hotel's coffeehouse at the northwest corner of the ground floor. Arriving at a quarter till, the Count claimed a table for two near the window. When at five past the hour his hostess arrived in the manner of a daffodil—wearing a light yellow dress with a dark yellow sash—the Count rose and held out her chair.

“
Merci
,” she said.

“
Je t'en prie.
”

In the minutes that followed, a waiter was signaled, a samovar was ordered, and with thunderclouds accumulating over Theatre Square, remarks were exchanged on the bittersweet likelihood of rain. But once the tea was poured and the tea cakes on the table, Nina adopted a more serious expression—intimating the time had come to speak of weightier concerns.

Some might have found this transition a little abrupt or out of keeping with the hour, but not the Count. Quite to the contrary, he thought a prompt dispensing of pleasantries and a quick shift to the business at hand utterly in keeping with the etiquette of tea—perhaps even essential to the institution.

After all, every tea the Count had ever attended in response to a formal invitation had followed this pattern. Whether it took place in a drawing room overlooking the Fontanka Canal or a teahouse in a public garden, before the first cake was sampled the
purpose
of the invitation would be laid upon the table. In fact, after a few requisite pleasantries, the most accomplished of hostesses could signal the transition with a single word of her choosing.

For the Count's grandmother, the word had been
Now
, as in
Now, Alexander. I have heard some very distressing things about you, my boy. . . .
For
Princess Poliakova, a perennial victim of her own heart, it had been
Oh,
as in
Oh, Alexander. I have made a terrible mistake. . . .
And for young Nina, the word was apparently
Anyway
, as in:

“You're absolutely right, Alexander Ilyich. Another afternoon of rain and the lilac blossoms won't stand a fighting chance. Anyway . . .”

Suffice it to say that when Nina's tone shifted, the Count was ready. Resting his forearms on his thighs and leaning forward at an angle of seventy degrees, he adopted an expression that was serious yet neutral, so that in an instant he could convey his sympathy, concern, or shared indignation as the circumstances required.

“. . . I would be ever so grateful,” Nina continued, “if you would share with me some of the rules of being a princess.”

“The rules?”

“Yes. The rules.”

“But, Nina,” the Count said with a smile, “being a princess is not a game.”

Nina stared at the Count with an expression of patience.

“I am certain that you know what I mean. Those things that were
expected
of a princess.”

“Ah, yes. I see.”

The Count leaned back to give his hostess's inquiry a more appropriate consideration.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “setting aside the study of the liberal arts, which we discussed the other day, I suppose the rules of being a princess would begin with a refinement of manners. To that end, she would be taught how to comport herself in society; she would be taught terms of address, table manners, posture . . .”

Having nodded favorably at the various items on the Count's list, Nina looked up sharply at the last one.

“Posture? Is posture a type of manners?”

“Yes,” replied the Count, albeit a little tentatively, “it is. A slouching posture tends to suggest a certain laziness of character, as well as a lack of interest in others. Whereas an upright posture can confirm a sense of self-possession, and a quality of engagement—both of which are befitting of a princess.”

Apparently swayed by this argument, Nina sat a little more upright.

“Go on.”

The Count reflected.

“A princess would be raised to show respect for her elders.”

Nina bowed her head toward the Count in deference. He coughed.

“I wasn't referring to me, Nina. After all, I am practically a youth like yourself. No, by ‘elders,' I meant the gray haired.”

Nina nodded to express her understanding.

“You mean the grand dukes and grand duchesses.”

“Well, yes. Certainly them. But I mean elders of every social class. The shopkeepers and milkmaids, blacksmiths and peasants.”

Never hesitant to express her sentiments with facial expressions, Nina frowned. The Count elaborated.

“The principle here is that a new generation owes a measure of thanks to
every
member of the previous generation. Our elders planted fields and fought in wars; they advanced the arts and sciences, and generally made sacrifices on our behalf. So by their efforts, however humble, they have earned a measure of our gratitude and respect.”

As Nina still looked unconvinced, the Count considered how best to make his point; and it so happened that at that very moment, through the great windows of the coffeehouse could be seen the first hoisting of umbrellas.

“An example,” he said.

Thus commenced the story of Princess Golitsyn and the crone of Kudrovo:

One stormy night in St. Petersburg, related the Count, young Princess Golitsyn was on her way to the annual ball at the Tushins'. As her carriage crossed the Lomonosov Bridge, she happened to notice an eighty-year-old woman on foot, hunched against the rain. Without a second thought, she called for her driver to stop the carriage and invited the unfortunate soul inside. The old woman, who was nearly blind, climbed aboard with the footman's help and thanked the Princess profusely. In the back of the Princess's mind may well have been the presumption that her passenger lived nearby. After all, how far was an old, blind woman likely to journey on a night like this? But when the Princess asked where the old woman was headed, she replied that she was going to visit her son, the blacksmith, in Kudrovo—more than seven miles away!

Now, the Princess was already expected at the Tushins'. And in a matter of minutes they would be passing the house—lit from cellar to ceiling with a footman on every step. So, it would have been well within the bounds of courtesy for the Princess to excuse herself and send the carriage on to Kudrovo with the old woman. In fact, as they approached the Tushins', the driver slowed the horses and looked to the Princess for instruction. . . .

Here the Count paused for effect.

“Well,” Nina asked, “what did she do?”

“She told him to drive on.” The Count smiled with a touch of triumph. “And what is more, when they arrived in Kudrovo and the blacksmith's family gathered round the carriage, the old woman invited the Princess in for tea. The blacksmith winced, the coachman gasped, and the footman nearly fainted. But Princess Golitsyn graciously accepted the old woman's invitation—and missed the Tushins' altogether.”

His point expertly made, the Count raised his own cup of tea, nodded once, and drank.

Nina looked at him expectantly.

“And then?”

The Count returned his cup to its saucer.

“And then what?”

“Did she marry the blacksmith's son?”

“Marry the blacksmith's son! Good God. Certainly not. After a glass of tea she climbed into her carriage and headed for home.”

Nina mulled this over. Clearly, she thought a marriage to the blacksmith's son a more fitting conclusion. But despite the shortcomings of history, she nodded to acknowledge that the Count had delivered a well-told tale.

Preferring to preserve his success, the Count opted not to share his normal coda to this delightful bit of St. Petersburg lore: that the Countess Tushin had been greeting guests under her portico when Princess Golitsyn's bright blue carriage, known the city over, slowed before the gates and then sped on. This resulted in a rift between the Golitsyns and the Tushins that would have taken three generations to repair—if a certain Revolution hadn't brought an end to their outrage altogether. . . .

“It was behavior befitting a princess,” acknowledged Nina.

“Exactly,” said the Count.

Then he held out the tea cakes and Nina took two, putting one on her plate and one in her mouth.

The Count was not one to call attention to the social shortcomings of acquaintances, but giddy with his story's reception, he could not resist pointing out with a smile:

“There is another example.”

“Where is another example?”

“A princess would be raised to say
please
when she asked for a cake, and
thank you
when she was offered one.”

Nina looked taken aback; and then dismissive.

“I can see that
please
would be quite appropriate for a princess to say when she has asked for a cake; but I can see no reason why she should have to say
thank you
when she has been offered one.”

“Manners are not like bonbons, Nina. You may not choose the ones that suit you best; and you certainly cannot put the half-bitten ones back in the box. . . .”

Nina eyed the Count with an expression of seasoned tolerance, and then presumably for his benefit, spoke a little more slowly.

“I understand that a princess should say
please
if she is asking for a cake, because she is trying to convince someone to give her the cake. And I suppose, if having asked for a cake, she is given a cake, then she has good reason to say
thank you
. But in the second part of your example, the princess in question didn't ask for the cake; she was
offered
it. And I see no reason why she should have to say
thank you
when she is merely obliging someone by accepting what they've offered.”

To punctuate her point, Nina put a lemon tartlet in her mouth.

“I concede that there is some merit to your argument,” said the Count. “But I can only tell you from a life of experience that—”

Nina cut him off with a wave of a finger.

“But you have just said that you are quite young.”

“Indeed, I am.”

“Well then, it seems to me that your claim of ‘a life of experience' may be premature.”

Yes, thought the Count, as this tea was making perfectly clear.

“I shall work upon my posture,” Nina said quite definitively, brushing the crumbs from her fingers. “And I will be sure to say
please
and
thank you
whenever I ask for things. But I have no intention of thanking people for things I never asked for in the first place.”