‘Will . . . er . . . will there be any instructions?’ I babbled.
Their Highnesses exchanged glances, both looking as if a tapestry or bas-relief on the wall had suddenly started talking. But in any case the threat of infanticide or patricide was clearly over, and Iwas astounded yet again by Izabella Felitsianovna’s presence of mind and acuity of wit.
Their Highnesseswere apparently struck by the same thought, because they said almost exactly the same thing simultaneously.
‘Well, Bella, you are a most amazing woman,’ Georgii Alexandrovich boomed.
And Pavel Georgievich chanted in a bewildered tenor: ‘Izabo, I shall never understand you . . .’
‘Your Highnesses,’ I blurted out, realisingwhat a blasphemous misconception the grand dukes were labouring under. ‘It’s not at all . . . I have not . . .’
Without listening to what I was trying to say, Pavel Georgievich turned to Snezhnevskaya and exclaimed in a tone of childish resentment: ‘So he – he – can, and I can’t?’
I was struck completely dumb, with no idea at all of how to resolve this terrible situation.
‘Afanasii,’ Izabella Felitsianovna said firmly, ‘go to the dining room and bring some cognac. And don’t forget to slice a lemon.’
I rushed to carry out this instruction with a feeling of quite inexpressible relief and, to be quite honest, I was in no great hurry to get back. When I finally entered the room, carrying a tray, the picture that met my eyes was quite different: the ballerina was standing, with Their Highnesses sitting on pouffes on each side of her. I was rather inaptly reminded of a performance of Chinizelli’s circus which Mademoiselle and I had attended with Mikhail Georgievich the previous Easter. We had seen roaring lions sitting on low pedestals while a brave slim female lion-tamer strolled around between them, clutching a massive whip in her hand. The similarity was heightened by the fact that the heads of all three of them – Snezhnevskaya standing and the great dukes sitting – were on the same level.
‘. . . I love you both,’ I heard and halted in the doorway, because this was clearly not the moment to come barging in with the cognac. ‘You are both very dear to me – you, Georgie, and you, Paulie. And you love each other too, do you not? Is there anything in the world more precious than loving devotion and affection for one’s kin? We are no vulgar bourgeois. Why hate when you can love? Why quarrel when you can be friends? Paulie is not going off to Vladivostok – we would miss him wretchedly, and he would miss us. And we will arrange everything excellently. Paulie, when are you on duty at the Guards company?’
‘On Tuesdays and Fridays,’ Pavel Georgievich replied, batting his eyelids.
‘And you, Georgie, when are the meetings at the ministry and the State Council?’
Georgii Alexandrovich replied with a rather dull-witted (I beg your pardon, but I cannot find any better definition) expression on his face: ‘On Mondays and Thursdays. Why?’
‘See how convenient it all is!’ Snezhnevskaya exclaimed delightedly. ‘So everything’s arranged! You, Georgie, will come to see me on Tuesday and Friday. And you, Paulie, will come on Monday and Thursday. And we will all love each other very, very much. And we won’t quarrel at all, because there is nothing to quarrel about.’
‘Doyou love him in the sameway as you love me?’ the admiral-general asked stubbornly.
‘Yes, because he is your son. He is so very much like you.’
‘But . . . what about Afanasii?’ Pavel Georgievich asked, looking round at me in bemusement.
Izabella Felitsianovna’s eyes glinted, and I suddenly sensed that she did not find this terrible, impossible, monstrous scene in the least bit arduous.
‘And Afanasii too.’ On my word of honour, she winked at me. But that is impossible – I must have imagined it – or else it was a nervous tic in the corner of her eye. ‘But not in the same way. He is not a Romanov, after all, and I have a strange destiny. I can only love the men of that family.’
And this last sentence sounded perfectly serious, as if Snezhnevskaya had just that moment made a remarkable and possibly not very happy discovery.
1Thank God! He has recovered consciousness. You were right.
2Affair of the heart.
13 May
I found myself caught in a false and distressing position, and I did not know how to escape from it.
On the one hand, the previous day’s clarification at the Loskutnaya had put an end to the tension between the grand dukes, and at breakfast they regarded each other with a sincere goodwill that reminded me more of two good comrades than a father and son, and I could not but be glad of that. On the other hand, when I entered the dining room with the coffee pot, bowed and wished everybody good morning, they both looked at me with an odd expression on their faces, and instead of the usual nod, they also said ‘Good morning,’ which confused me completely. I believe that I even blushed.
I had to rid myself of this monstrous suspicion somehow, but I had absolutely no idea how to raise such a subject with Their Highnesses.
As I was pouring Georgii Alexandrovich’s coffee, he shook his head reproachfully and yet also, I thought, with a certain hint of approval and droned in a low voice: ‘Well, I never . . .’
My hand trembled and for the first time in my life I spilled a few drops straight into the saucer.
Pavel Georgievich did not utter a single word of reproach; he simply thanked me for the coffee, and that was even worse.
I stood beside the door, suffering terribly.
Mr Carr was chattering away incessantly, making elegant gestures with his slim white hands. I think he was talking about the opera – at least, I heard ‘Khovanshchina’ repeated several times. Lord Banville had not come to breakfast, owing to a migraine.
What I had to do, I thought, was to approach Georgii Alexandrovich and say this: ‘The opinion that Your Highness has formed concerning my presumed relationship with a certain individual well known to you has absolutely nothing in common with reality, and the only reason I happened to be in thewardrobe is that the aforementioned individual wished to avoid compromising Pavel Georgievich. And as for the love that this individual declared for my own humble personage, if a feeling so very flattering to me should indeed exist, then it is without the slightest hint of any passion of a non-platonic nature.’
No, that was probably too involved. What if I were to say: ‘The reverence in which I hold the members of the royal family and also the affections of their hearts would never, under any circumstances, allowme, even inmywildest fantasies, to imagine that . . .’ Just at that moment my glance accidentally met that of Lieutenant Endlung, who assumed an expression of admiration, raising his eyebrows and winking at me, as well as giving me a thumbs up sign under the tablecloth, from which I concluded that Pavel Georgievich had told him everything. It cost me an immense effort of will to maintain an air of imperturbability.
The Lord had truly decided to subject me to grave trials.
As everyone was leaving the table, Xenia Georgievna whispered to me: ‘Come to my room.’
Five minutes later I set out for her room with a heavy heart, already knowing that nothing good awaited me there.
The grand princess had already changed into a promenade dress and put on a hat with a veil, behind which her long beautifully moulded eyes glittered resolutely.