Some time passed. There was an air of quiet lethargy in the room, which was not unusual at Countess Turova’s these days. He managed to catch a few words with Adelaide, who complained of the heat. Then he stared out of the window at the bright evening street for some time. How boring everything was.
So he scarcely noticed that there had been a subtle change in the atmosphere of the room. People were changing position. The countess was suddenly coming to life. A little group was gathering about the old lady, drawn there, it seemed, by some new arrival. Only now did he realize that she was beckoning to him. Wearing a faint smile to hide his boredom, Alexander strolled over. No doubt they wanted him to supply some repartee. And it was only when he reached the countess, and saw the figure who was standing on her right, that his smile froze.
It was the old generaclass="underline" the man he had humiliated in this very place five years ago. Alexander could hardly believe it. He hadn’t even set eyes on the old man since then, and might have forgotten his existence if he had not heard that the general had acquired a surprising influence at court in recent years. Now, as he bowed politely, to his dismay he saw two things. The first was that the old man’s eyes were glittering with dislike; obviously the general had not forgotten him. The second was the look in the countess’s face, and with it came the awful realization: My God, she thinks I’m going to humiliate him all over again.
Didn’t she realize that five years had passed? Didn’t she know that the Enlightenment was out of fashion and that the general was now dangerous? But of course she didn’t. Or if she does know, she doesn’t care, he supposed. She just wants to be amused.
Already, she was smiling with happy malice. ‘Well, General,’ she began, ‘I understand you mean to burn all our books now, as well as close our theatres.’
If only there were some way out: but there was none, and the general knew it. Alexander was trapped.
What followed was worse than anything he could have imagined. The general played his hand to perfection. He understood precisely how the universe had changed since the French Revolution: he had no need to defend himself from the Enlightenment. Instead, repeating their previous argument, point by point, he calmly and bluntly stated his case, pausing after each statement to announce: ‘But Alexander Prokofievich, I know, will disagree.’
It was brilliant. The old fellow had him exactly where he wanted him. Every time he invited Alexander to take up Countess Turova’s cause, he also gave him the chance to proclaim himself against the government: and Alexander guessed that the general would be delighted to take any statement he made and repeat it, verbatim, to the highest circles at court. Once, as a further taunt, he even remarked: ‘But you, as a friend of Radishchev, will no doubt disagree.’
What could Alexander do? He squirmed. It was humiliating. Once or twice he managed, lamely, to take the countess’s part; but most of the time he was reduced to defending himself, even weakly agreeing with the general, so that the old fellow, with quiet sarcasm, was able to say several times: ‘You seem to have changed your tune, young man,’ or: ‘I’m so glad that, after all, you agree with me.’
And all the time, Alexander could see the old countess becoming more and more irritated. She gave him a stern look at first, then tried to interrupt, then began to drum with her fingers on the arm of her chair. After a time she lifted up her hand and gazed at the back of it, as though to say: ‘I am so sorry that you, too, should have to be present at this débâcle.’ Couldn’t she really see the danger he was in? Obviously not. With each exchange he could feel her growing colder until, at last, she retreated into an ominous silence.
The general saved the coup de grâce for the end, and he executed it with all the confidence of a card-player who is taking the last, inevitable tricks. He set Alexander up nicely.
‘The Enlightenment,’ he said calmly, ‘has led to these Jacobins. But perhaps Alexander Prokofievich may have something good to say about these fellows?’
‘I have nothing good to say about Jacobins,’ Alexander replied quickly.
‘Very well. Yet these same Jacobins have claimed as their hero that Monsieur Voltaire who they say inspired them. The empress, as you know, has repudiated Voltaire. Do you?’
The trap was sprung. ‘Please go on,’ the general’s eyes seemed to glint triumphantly, ‘and give me something I can use at court to break you.’ And as Alexander wondered what to say, the silence was interrupted only by Countess Turova’s voice, cold as ice: ‘Yes, Alexander Prokofievich: what would you like to say about the great Voltaire?’
‘I admire the great Voltaire,’ he said carefully, after a pause, ‘just as the empress does. As for the Jacobins, they are utterly unworthy of such a great man.’
It was a clever answer. There was nothing there for the general to use, but it seemed to mollify the countess. The grim expression on her face seemed to relax a little.
But the general had scented the kill.
‘Very good,’ he said with lethal blandness. ‘Yet since his writings have caused such trouble, would it not be better if they were removed from the eyes of those dangerous gentlemen?’ And he looked around the little group with a smile.
‘You mean censorship?’ the countess cut in sharply.
‘I do.’
‘Censor the great Voltaire?’
‘Perhaps the empress will decide to make a bonfire of all his books, my dear countess. But no doubt Alexander Prokofievich would not agree to it?’
The countess stared first at the general, then at Alexander, in horror. It was one thing to ban a few seditious tracts, even if she disapproved of it; but to burn the entire works of the great Voltaire, to cut off civilization itself… ‘Unthinkable,’ she murmured.
But it was not. How cunning the old general was. A trap within a trap. For only a few days before, a friend who frequented the court had whispered to Alexander that the enemies of the Enlightenment were secretly pushing for just such a terrible act. ‘And with the empress in her present mood, they may get their way,’ he had said. ‘Before a year is out, Voltaire may be banned.’ Clearly the general hoped Alexander did not know this. A denunciation of the idea was all he needed: then Alexander would be an enemy of the government. There was no way out. The general had trapped him and he knew it.
‘Well, Alexander Prokofievich?’ the old man gently enquired.
‘I am the loyal servant of the empress,’ Alexander lamely replied.
The general shrugged; but from the countess there was a little gasp, then a terrible silence. The little group around her watched in fascination; the old general gazed at them all with contemptuous satisfaction. Then at last Countess Turova spoke.
‘I am interested to learn, Alexander Prokofievich, that you would burn the works of Voltaire. I had not known this before.’ She stared down at her hands thoughtfully. ‘I am sure that your wife must be waiting for you. So we will bid you goodnight.’
It was a dismissal. He bowed his head, and left.
A few days later, when Alexander called at her house, he was told that she was not receiving. Two days after that, when Tatiana went at her usual time, she was told the countess was not at home. A third time, the servant at the door informed Alexander insolently that he was not to call again; and that very day, he received the following ominous message from Adelaide de Ronville:
I must tell you, dear friend, that the countess absolutely refuses to see you. She also says she intends to cut you out of her Will. I can do nothing with her. But you should know that her lawyer, who is in Moscow, will return in three days, and if she does not change her mind, he will be sent for as soon as he is back. I fear the worst.