“What is this clarity?” Uncle Sergei countered. “Is it not clear enough that he has to have shooting match, no matter who it is with? Take Nikolai Pavlovich Vinogradov …”
Herr Tarangolian parried with a smile. “Excuse me, dear sir, but this is a different situation, and a different epoch as well. What might suit a Lermontovian hero of nineteen years …”
“But Nikolai Pavlovich shot himself when he was twenty-one years, in 1911, and Lermontov, je vous en prie, was killed in 1841 in duel with Martinoff. In the Kavkaz. So what you are speaking about?”
Herr Tarangolian maintained his considerate smile. “I am speaking about Lermontov’s bold young descendant. What might have redounded to the credit of a young officer of the guard in a golden era — and please believe me when I say that I mourn its passing as well, because I experienced it — what was a beautiful sign of courage and passion, in such a profaned time as ours can be read as an atavistic throwback in a mature man, a relapse into impulsive belligerence … My friend, don’t forget: we live in Czernopol.”
“Eh bien, alors! And you are not happy to find someone is here who is establishing honor and order?”
A shadow of old, wise melancholy fell across Herr Tarangolian’s smile, narrowing it with a shade of irony. “I would welcome such an effort if I thought it might prove successful,” he said. “Because, in this case, failure would be worse than not having attempted it at all. I understand exactly what you mean; I interpreted Tildy’s actions in the same way. He is concerned with establishing order within the world he inhabits — the order that he loves so much because it is the only one he knows, the only one he knows exists … At least its appearance is essential. Maybe that would mean something, maybe that would be all that was needed, if the appearance of order were established, don’t you think? If it is strong enough that someone is ready to risk his life on its behalf. I see that just as you do. He is a hussar, this strange Nikolaus Tildy. He loves bravery, style, and élan, it’s in his blood. To ride out in single combat against the slovenliness of a city, of a country — that is truly a deed for hussars — beautiful and mad. But permit me to say that he did not handle it skillfully. By allowing this mix-up, by letting people think he was demanding satisfaction on behalf of his sister-in-law, by challenging his commander expressly on her account, makes the whole case a farce. With all due respect for chivalry, dueling on behalf of Madame Lyubanarov is more than quixotic: it is the act of a clown. Above all, and what strikes me as even more important, he is no longer championing a pure cause. We should not underestimate the mystical requirements of heroism — or should one simply call this an act of martyrdom? Tildy knows that he is no longer representing a pure cause. You understand me, yes? It is no longer a pure cause, and therefore he will not succeed in defending it with victory. And he knows that. He is no longer setting forth with the beautiful but painful knowledge of the hero who is bound to perish, but with a bad conscience, and therefore he is at fault. For me that is reason enough to declare him the loser. If in my capacity as prefect of this province I should have to decide for or against Tildy — I’m speaking very hypothetically, because in reality this could never occur, since these things are completely outside my sphere of influence — even so, assuming it did come to that, I can say right now without the slightest hesitation that I would decide against Tildy, that I would let him fall. And not out of a sense of justice so much as just to be on the safe side — sheer superstition, if you will. Or else belief — or whatever you choose to call it.”
These words elicited an awkward general silence that was finally broken by our mother. She said: “I wrote Aida about it. The poor child follows our lives here with such interest; she wants to know everything that’s happening. Perhaps you would be curious to read what she thinks about it.”
She handed the prefect a letter. Herr Tarangolian took it with his fingertips like a rose petal, pulled it close to his face as if he intended to kiss the paper, knitted his eyes and scanned the lines while moving the letter farther and farther away, until it was finally at arm’s length.
“You are wearing glasses when you read?” asked Uncle Sergei, curious.
“Not at all, not in the least, my vision is perfect,” muttered Herr Tarangolian with the quick, defensive tone of someone embarrassed. “Although when I am moved — please forgive me but the fate of your dear sister touches my heart so much …”
Our mother took back the letter. “Here, Aida just wrote a couple lines about the matter: ‘I find Major Tildy’s conduct exceptionally beautiful and noble. Precisely because he chooses to stand up for L. shows him as a man of chivalrous sensibility, of the sort that seems to be extinct in this new world. Standing up for those who are lost is Christian in the noblest way. I admire Tildy as one of the last men under whose protection women can still feel secure.’”
“That is very deeply felt, and very feminine,” said Herr Tarangolian, after a brief moment of emotion. “Very much Aida with her tender sensibilities. May I ask if she mentions how she is doing?”
“Only two sentences at the end of the letter: ‘I am suffering indescribable pain. Pray for me!’”
Herr Tarangolian, shaken, went silent. “If only we could live our lives all over again from the beginning,” he then said. He got up, came over to us children and stroked our heads. “You, in whom our wasted hopes are resurrected,” he said, full of melancholy. He kissed our mother’s hand and left with an elegiac wave.
Uncle Sergei played with the silk tassel of the everlasting match from his cigarette case. “Eh bien, a little game of piquet, ma chère cousine?” he asked Aunt Paulette, Mama’s younger sister.
“You would be well advised to take stock of yourself,” said Aunt Paulette, who flirted with him in a familial, teasing way.
“Is it really necessary for the children to be present after we have eaten?” asked our father, irritated.
“Now that Miss Rappaport is no longer with us there’s hardly any alternative. After all, they can’t simply be sent onto the street.”
“As if that would make any difference,” our father said, getting up to leave as well.
Aunt Paulette, who was twenty-one and progressive and wore her hair short, leaned so far back in her chair that her neck rested on the back, exposing the beautiful curve of her white throat. “Give me a cigarette, Sergei. And if you want, I’ll play with you, but rummy, not piquet. Since we’re all having such a good time … Incidentally, what is it that Madame Tildy takes? Morphine or cocaine?”
“Presumably both, my dear,” said Uncle Sergei softly. “A very interesting lady.”
“Presumably we should pray for Tildy as well,” said Aunt Paulette, blowing her cigarette smoke up toward the ceiling. Then, with a lethargic look to the side: “But you have to shuffle the cards well and let me cut the deck three times. Otherwise I won’t play with you.”
A few days later, Herr Tarangolian brought the latest sensation: the honor court had been dissolved. Tildy had been ordered to report to the division commander.
Thanks to his remarkably competent sources of information, who apparently had their eyes and ears at every keyhole in town, the prefect knew the content of this conversation and did not hesitate to pass it on to us, word for word.