Anne was introduced to the Kovanins: the Princess plump and golden-haired, with a short upper lip and a merry smile that reminded Anne of Kira’s, and the Prince very small and dark and slightly bow-legged, rather frog-like, and very knowledgeable about horses. Both welcomed her kindly.
The Tiranovs were there, and the Fralovskys, and all four Tchaikovskys arrived shortly afterwards. Olga, her black curls piled high, was the only other woman all in white, like Anne; but unlike Anne she was sparkling with crystal spars and diamonds, like an ice-queen. Her brother Basil, his dark face seeming darker against his powdered hair, claimed Anne, surprisingly, as an old acquaintance. He bowed lower than ever over her décolletage and spoke quite pleasantly about Paris and London and the difference between public and private balls, with the pleasant assumption that Anne would have attended enough of them to have an opinion.
When everyone had been assembled for some time, chatting, the doors were flung open, and footmen wheeled in several long tables covered in white cloths, on which a large number of silver dishes were arranged. Vsevka, who was standing beside Anne at that moment, intercepted her look of enquiry and explained, ‘It’s called zakuska – different sorts of small things to eat, which we have before dinner begins, to whet the appetite.’
The tables had been set up at one end of the room like buffets, with the footmen standing behind them ready to serve, and people were beginning to move towards them. Prince Kovanin offered Vera Borisovna his arm, and the Count escorted Princess Kovanina. Anne had the impression that Basil Tchaikovsky was about to offer her his arm when his sister thrust her hand under his elbow and pulled him away, saying, ‘I must go with you, mon cher. It is bad enough that we shall be separated at dinner, for there is no one else here fit to talk to.’
Vsevka smiled kindly down at Anne. ‘Will you do me the honour of taking my arm, Miss Anna? I’ll tell you what everything is, and make sure you taste everything you ought.’
‘Yes, gladly,’ Anne said. Later, learning to balance a plate and glass and still to manipulate a fork, she reflected that it was a strange way of eating. The footmen helped each person to a selection from the dishes, some of which were hot and set over chafing-dishes, and others cold, and the guests stood about in groups, plate in hand, talking and laughing as they ate, and returning to the buffet to replenish.
With Vsevka, genial and amused, to help her, Anne went a fair way to trying everything. There was caviar, grey and unappetising to look at, but quite delicious; various kinds of salt fish; strips of smoked duck and of smoked chicken rolled about olives; and slices of spicy sausage like little marbled coat buttons. There were tiny tartlets, filled with creamed chicken, with buttered egg, with fillets of anchovy in a savoury paste; there were hot dishes of stewed prawns and stuffed eggs and pickled mushrooms; there were hearts of artichokes, radishes, and a dozen different kinds of cheese.
Every time Anne was about to discover what the pattern was on her exquisite porcelain plate, it was taken out of her hand and a new selection of delicacies appeared, while her glass never seemed to have a chance of becoming empty. There was vodka to drink, from the Count’s own distillery, but of a finer brew than what was sold in the peasant kabaks, she was assured by Vsevka; and champagne, both kept chilled in great wooden coolers full of ice. It was well, Anne thought, looking around the room at the munching, laughing company, that she had not eaten that day since breakfast, or this extensive preliminary feast would have spoiled, rather than whet, the appetite for what was to come.
It was well after six o’clock when the Prince and Princess led the way into the huge dining-room for dinner, and ten o’clock before any of them set foot in the ballroom, where the orchestra, on a raised dais at one end, was playing quietly to itself as if to pass the time. Anne had never been at Versailles nor seen a picture of it, so she did not know whether the comparison were just, but the ballroom at Grubetskaya was the most beautiful and magnificent room she had ever seen. It was about a hundred feet long and thirty feet high, with three of the walls entirely covered with gilt-framed mirrors, interspersed with gilded, three-branched sconces. From these and from the huge crystal lustres, the light of hundreds of candles was reflected in the mirrors to dazzling effect.
The fourth wall was pierced all along with pairs of glass doors leading out on to the terrace, a broad, marble-paved walk, set here and there with flowering shrubs and ornamental trees in pots, and a stone balustrade, beyond which was a sheer drop of thirty feet to the river, from whose far bank rose up beautiful hanging woods. The whole scene was reflected in the mirrored walls, so that, as the ballroom filled with guests, it seemed to hang suspended in a vast space like a gold and crystal box filled with jewels and flowers.
Anne found she did not need the kindness of Vsevka to ensure that she danced. He claimed the first dance with her, but when it was over, young Boris Tiranov came up to ask her, and after that she never lacked a partner. Russians, she discovered, from the youngest to the oldest, loved to dance, so there was no fear that anyone would languish against the wall. She danced the third with Borya’s grandfather, old Admiral Tiranov, who, like the Count, claimed to have met her father, but could give no clear account of when or where; and when pressed, admitted with a twinkling eye that it might have been Admiral Parker, not Admiral Peters, but that it was a good enough excuse to talk to her.
Half a dozen partners later, Borya’s brother Pavel came and bowed to her, only to be gently but firmly brushed aside by Basil Tchaikovsky, who said, ‘You Tiranovs can’t expect to monopolise mademoiselle all night. Wait your turn, young Pavelasha! She is promised to me since before dinner – you may have her next, perhaps.’ And before Anne could have any say in the matter herself, she was swept away into the set.
Facing her partner a little stiffly, she said, ‘Do you always dispense with the ceremony of asking, before claiming a partner, sir?’
‘Now, mademoiselle, don’t poker up with me!’ he returned, completely unabashed. ‘You know quite well I meant to ask you at zakuska, only I couldn’t get near you.’ He smiled vividly at her, displaying his white teeth, a feature for which he was famed. It was to emphasise their whiteness that he had grown a narrow black moustache like a Frenchman, which Anne regarded with particular dislike.
‘How should I know it,’ she replied coolly, ‘when you made no attempt to ask me, or even to speak to me until this moment? Why should 1 suppose you had the least desire to dance with me?’
‘Every man in the room desires to dance with a pretty woman,’ he replied, leaning towards her, his eyes bulging softly. His upper eyelids, she noticed, were abnormally short, and for an instant she was absurdly afraid that they might fall out, and had an image of herself leaping forward nimbly to catch them. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said, watching her closely. ‘You almost smiled. You look so very pretty when you smile, mademoiselle.’
‘Absurd,’ she said. ‘I, pretty?’
‘Well, not just in the common style, perhaps,’ he said appraisingly, ‘but you have something, mademoiselle, I assure you; and my opinion is worth having. I am acknowledged as an expert on women. It was I, for instance, who brought La Karsevina to Moscow – and kept her there for a twelvemonth! Now there’s something about you, mademoiselle, something very fine and original, that shows in your face. Intelligence, too–’
‘Too much intelligence to take your nonsense seriously, I promise you,’ Anne said firmly.
He lifted his hands in a gesture of innocence. ‘Mademoiselle, I protest! I could make you the toast of Petersburg, if I took you up, you know. My opinion is much sought. You could have anyone you wanted.’ Anne was not really paying attention to him, and her eyes had involuntarily strayed to the next set, where the Count was dancing with the Princess. Basil followed the direction of her gaze and gave a shrug. ‘Kirov? No, no, I assure you, you are wrong.’ Anne looked at him, startled, and he showed his teeth again. ‘Kirov may have a very pretty woman for a wife, but he has not the power to make you fashionable, as I have. No one asks his opinion about women. About horses, yes; but everyone knows dear Vera Borisovna chooses his wives for him, and does it very well indeed.’