When His Highness was quite worn out and began to lose the power of speech, I gave the sign to his valet to undress him and put him to bed, while I went to call on Pavel Georgievich and Lieutenant Endlung. As young men in the very pink of health, they were much less tired after the cognac. You might say, in fact, that they were not tired at all, so it was necessary to keep an eye on them, especially bearing in mind the particular temperament of the gentleman of the bedchamber.
Oh my, that Endlung! I ought not to say so, but Ekaterina Ioannovna made a great mistake when she decided that this gentleman was a worthy mentor for her eldest son. The lieutenant, of course, is a handsome brute, with a clear gaze, a fresh complexion, a neat parting in his golden hair and an almost childishly pink bloom to his cheeks – a perfect angel. Respectful and fawning with older ladies, he can listen with an air of the greatest interest to talk of the preacher Ioann Kronshtatsky or a greyhound’s distemper. Yes, it is hardly surprising that Ekaterina Ioannovna’s heart warmed to Endlung. Such an agreeable and – most important – serious young man, nothing like those good-for-nothing cadets from the Naval Corps or those scapegraces from the Guards Company. A fine mentor she found for Pavel Georgievich’s guardian on his first long voyage! A guardian of whom I have seen more than enough.
In the very first port, Varna, Endlung dolled himself up like a peacock in a white suit with a scarlet waistcoat, a cravat studded with stars and a massive Panama hat, and set out for a house of ill-repute, taking His Highness, still a boy at the time, along with him. I tried to intervene, but the lieutenant told me, ‘I promised Ekaterina Ioannovna that I would not take my eyes off His Highness. Where I go, he goes.’
I said to him, ‘No, Lieutenant, Her Highness said, where he goes, you must go!’ But Endlung said, ‘That, Afanasii Stepanovich, is hair-splitting. The important thing is that we shall be as inseparable as the Ajaxes.’ And so he dragged the young midshipman round every den of iniquity as far as Gibraltar. But from Gibraltar back to Kronstadt both the lieutenant and midshipman behaved very quietly and didn’t even go ashore, although they went running to the doctor four times a day for irrigation treatments. What kind of mentor is that? His Highness has changed in the company of this Endlung – he is quite a different person. I have even hinted this to Georgii Alexandrovich, but he simply brushed it off, saying, ‘Never mind, that kind of experience can only be good for my Pauly, and Endlung may be a bit of a booby, but he is a good, open-hearted comrade; he won’t cause any serious harm.’ But in my view this is letting the goat into the garden, to use an expression from the common folk. I can see right through that Endlung – of course I can, since he is so very open. Thanks to his friendship with Pavel Georgievich, he has even been awarded a monogram for his shoulder straps, and now he has been made a gentleman of the bedchamber, which is quite unheard of – such an honourable title for a mere lieutenant!
Left alone together, the two young men had started a game of bezique for forfeits. When I glanced into the compartment, Pavel Georgievich called to me: ‘Sit down, Afanasii. Have a game of American roulette with us. If you lose, I’ll make you shave off those damn precious sideburns of yours.’
I thanked him and refused, saying that I was extremely busy, although I didn’t have anything in particular to do. That would have been the last straw, to play His Highness at American roulette. And Pavel Georgievich knew himself that I would make a hopeless partner in the game – he was simply joking. In recent months he has developed a dismaying habit of bantering with me, and all thanks to Endlung – this is his influence. Endlung himself, it is true, has recently stopped taunting me, but Pavel Georgievich persists in the habit. Never mind. His Highness may do as he pleases; I have no complaints.
For example, just now he told me with an absolutely straight face: ‘You know, Afanasii, that phenomenal growth on your face is provoking the envy of certain highly influential individuals. For instance, the day before yesterday at the ball, when you were standing by the door, looking so grand with your gold-plated mace and sideburns jutting out on both sides, all the ladies had eyes for no one but you, and no one even glanced at cousin Nicky, even though he is the emperor. You really, really must shave them off, or at the very least trim them.’
In actual fact, my ‘phenomenal growth’ is a perfectly ordinary full moustache with sideburns – sumptuous perhaps but by no means excessive, and at all events maintained in perfectly decent order. My father wore the same whiskers, and my grandfather before him, so I had no intention of either shaving them or trimming them.
‘Skip it, Pauly,’ Endlung intervened on my behalf. ‘Stop tormenting Afanasii Stepanovich. Come on, play. It’s your turn.’
I can see that I shall have to explain the relationship between the lieutenant and myself. There is a story to it.
On the very first day of the voyage on the corvette Mstislav, immediately after we left Sebastopol, Endlung ambushed me on deck, put his hand on my shoulder, looked at me with his eyes totally blank after all the wine he had drunk at the send-off party and said: ‘Well, Afon, my little flunkey soul, those mops of yours are looking a bit wild. Is it the breeze that has swept them out like that? (My sideburns had indeed been tousled somewhat by the fresh sea wind – later I would be obliged to shorten them a little for the duration of the voyage.) Will you do something for me, as a personal favour? Run round to that skinflint of a steward and say that His Highness orders him to send a bottle of rum – to help prevent seasickness.’
All the time we were travelling to Sebastopol in the train, Endlung had teased me and mocked me in the presence of His Highness, but I had tolerated it, waiting for an opportunity to clarify matters face to face. Now the opportunity had presented itself.
I delicately removed the lieutenant’s hand (at that time he was not yet a gentleman of the bedchamber) with my finger and thumb and said politely: ‘Mr Endlung, if you have been visited by the fancy to define my soul, then it would be more accurate to refer to it, not as the soul of a “flunkey”, but that of a “house-master”, since for long and irreproachable service at His Highness’s court I have been awarded that title, which is a rank of the ninth level, corresponding to that of titular counsellor, staff captain in the army or lieutenant in the fleet.’ (I deliberately emphasised the latter title.)
Endlung exclaimed: ‘Lieutenants don’t wait on tables!’
And I said to him: ‘One waits on tables in restaurants, sir, but in the royal family one serves, each performing his duty as honourably as he can.’
After that incident Endlung became as smooth as silk with me: he spoke politely, told no more jokes at my expense, addressed me by my name and patronymic and always spoke politely.
I must say that for a man in my position the question of degrees of politeness is particularly complicated, since we court servants have a quite distinctive status. It is hard to explain why it is insulting to be called by your first name by some people, and insulting to be addressed formally by others. But the latter are the only people that I can serve, if you take my meaning.