‘But how do you know his whiskers were, as you say, like little sausages?’
‘Now listen. I went to make peace between them today.’
‘So what happened?’
‘That’s the most interesting bit. It turns out that this happy couple consists of a Titular Councillor* and his wife. The Titular Councillor issues a complaint, and I become a peacemaker, and what a peacemaker! … I assure you, Talleyrand* is nothing compared to me.’
‘But what was so difficult?’
‘Well, just listen … We apologized in the proper way: “We are in despair, and ask you to forgive us for the unfortunate misunderstanding.” The Titular Councillor with the little sausages begins to loosen up, but he also wants to express his feelings, and as soon as he begins to express them, he starts losing his temper and saying rude things, and again I have to exercise all my diplomatic talents. “I agree that their behaviour was bad, but I ask you to take into consideration that this was a misunderstanding, and their youth; and then the young men had only just been at luncheon. You understand. They regret this with all their hearts, and ask you to forgive their misdemeanour.” The Titular Councillor relents again: “I give my consent, Count, and am ready to forgive, but you understand that my wife, my wife, an honourable woman, has had to endure harassment, rudeness, and impudence from some young pipsqueaks, scoundr …” Well, I’ve got one of the pip-squeaks right there, you understand, and I have to make peace between them. I call on my diplomatic skills again, and again, just as we are about to settle the matter, my Titular Councillor loses his temper, goes red in the face, his little sausages bristle, and again I am gushing diplomatic subtleties.’
‘Ah, I must tell you this story!’ exclaimed Betsy, laughing, to a lady coming into her box. ‘He has made me laugh so much.’
‘Well, bonne chance!’1 she added, holding out to Vronsky the spare finger on the hand holding her fan, and moving her shoulders in order to lower the bodice of her gown which had risen up, so as to be properly and completely bare when she leaned out towards the stage, into the glare of the gaslights and everyone’s eyes.
Vronsky went off to the French Theatre, where he really did have to see the colonel of his regiment, who never missed a single performance at that establishment, in order to tell him about his peacemaking, which had kept him occupied and amused for the last three days. Implicated in the affair were Petritsky, of whom he was fond, and the young Prince Kedrov, another fine young fellow who had recently joined the regiment and was an excellent comrade. But most importantly, the interests of the regiment were implicated.
Both young men were in Vronsky’s squadron. The official, Titular Councillor Venden, had come to see the colonel with a complaint about his officers, who had insulted his wife. Venden related that his young wife—he had been married for six months—had been in church with her mother when she had suddenly felt unwell as a result of a certain condition, could no longer remain on her feet, and had set off home in the first available fast cab.* At this point the officers started pursuing her, she took fright, and ran home up the stairs, by this stage feeling even more unwell. Venden himself, after returning from his office, heard the bell and some voices, had gone to the door and seen the drunken officers with the letter, and had pushed them out. He had requested severe punishment.
‘No, however you look at it,’ said the colonel to Vronsky, having asked him to come and see him, ‘Petritsky’s becoming impossible. Not a week goes by without some scandal. This official won’t let it drop, he’ll pursue it.’
Vronsky saw all the impropriety of the affair, that there could be no question of a duel in this case, and that everything needed to be done to placate this Titular Councillor and hush the matter up. The colonel had summoned Vronsky precisely because he knew him to be an upstanding and intelligent man, and, above all, a man who cared about the honour of the regiment. They talked it over, and decided that Petritsky and Kedrov should go with Vronsky to see the Titular Councillor and apologize. Both the colonel and Vronsky realized that Vronsky’s name and his imperial aide-de-camp’s insignia would be of great assistance in placating the Titular Councillor. And these two measures were indeed partially effective; but the outcome of the reconciliation remained in doubt, as Vronsky had recounted.
After arriving at the French Theatre, Vronsky withdrew with the colonel to the foyer, and told him about his success, or lack thereof. After thinking it all over, the colonel decided not to take any further action, but then for his own amusement proceeded to question Vronsky on the details of the meeting, and for a long time could not stop laughing as he listened to Vronsky describe how the appeased Titular Councillor had suddenly lost his temper again when he remembered details of the incident, and how Vronsky had beaten a hasty retreat, pushing Petritsky in front of him, right when they were on the verge of reconciliation.
‘It’s a shameful story, but quite hilarious. There is no way Kedrov could fight a duel with this gentleman! So he really lost his temper, did he?’ he asked, laughing. ‘But what do you think of Claire tonight? She’s wonderful!’ he said about a new French actress. ‘No matter how often you see her, she’s different every time. Only the French can do that.’
1 ‘good luck!’
6
PRINCESS Betsy left the theatre without waiting for the end of the last act. She had just enough time to go into her dressing room, sprinkle her long, pale face with powder, dab it off, adjust her hair, and order tea in the large drawing room, before carriages began arriving at her enormous mansion on Bolshaya Morskaya Street, one after the other. The guests stepped into the wide porch, and the corpulent porter, who in the mornings read the newspapers behind the glass door for the edification of passers-by, noiselessly opened this enormous door, letting those who had just arrived come in past him.
The hostess, with her freshened-up hair and freshened-up face, entered through one door at almost exactly the same moment as the guests passed through another into the large drawing room with its dark walls, plush carpets, and brightly lit table, the snow-white tablecloth, silver samovar, and translucent china tea service all gleaming in the candlelight.
The hostess seated herself next to the samovar and removed her gloves. Drawing up chairs and armchairs with the assistance of discreet footmen, the assembled party settled into their seats, having divided into two groups—one by the samovar with the hostess, and the other at the opposite end of the drawing room, near a beautiful ambassador’s wife with arched black brows, who was dressed in black velvet. As always in the first few minutes, the conversation in both groups wavered while it was interrupted by introductions, greetings, and offers of tea, as if searching for something to alight on.
‘She’s exceptionally good as an actress; one can see she’s studied Kaulbach,’* said a diplomat in the ambassador’s wife’s circle. ‘Did you notice how she fell? …’
‘Oh, please, let’s not talk about Nilsson! It’s impossible to say anything new about her,’ said a stout, red-faced, fair-haired lady in an old silk dress, who had neither eyebrows nor a chignon. This was Princess Myagkaya,* nicknamed the enfant terrible,1 and renowned for her straightforwardness and brusque manner of speaking. Princess Myagkaya was sitting with her ears pricked between the two groups, taking part in first one and then the other. ‘Three people have said that same phrase about Kaulbach to me today, as if by some prior arrangement. And I don’t know why they liked the phrase so much.’
The conversation was cut short by this observation, and it was necessary to think up a new subject again.