A Gentleman in Moscow

Anyway . . .

Five days later, the Count was pleased to accept a formal invitation to tea from his new acquaintance, Nina Kulikova. The engagement was for three o’clock in the hotel’s coffeehouse at the northwest corner of the ground floor. Arriving at a quarter till, the Count claimed a table for two near the window. When at five past the hour his hostess arrived in the manner of a daffodil—wearing a light yellow dress with a dark yellow sash—the Count rose and held out her chair.

“Merci,” she said.

“Je t’en prie.”

In the minutes that followed, a waiter was signaled, a samovar was ordered, and with thunderclouds accumulating over Theatre Square, remarks were exchanged on the bittersweet likelihood of rain. But once the tea was poured and the tea cakes on the table, Nina adopted a more serious expression—intimating the time had come to speak of weightier concerns.

Some might have found this transition a little abrupt or out of keeping with the hour, but not the Count. Quite to the contrary, he thought a prompt dispensing of pleasantries and a quick shift to the business at hand utterly in keeping with the etiquette of tea—perhaps even essential to the institution.

After all, every tea the Count had ever attended in response to a formal invitation had followed this pattern. Whether it took place in a drawing room overlooking the Fontanka Canal or a teahouse in a public garden, before the first cake was sampled the purpose of the invitation would be laid upon the table. In fact, after a few requisite pleasantries, the most accomplished of hostesses could signal the transition with a single word of her choosing.

For the Count’s grandmother, the word had been Now, as in Now, Alexander. I have heard some very distressing things about you, my boy. . . . For Princess Poliakova, a perennial victim of her own heart, it had been Oh, as in Oh, Alexander. I have made a terrible mistake. . . . And for young Nina, the word was apparently Anyway, as in:

“You’re absolutely right, Alexander Ilyich. Another afternoon of rain and the lilac blossoms won’t stand a fighting chance. Anyway . . .”

Suffice it to say that when Nina’s tone shifted, the Count was ready. Resting his forearms on his thighs and leaning forward at an angle of seventy degrees, he adopted an expression that was serious yet neutral, so that in an instant he could convey his sympathy, concern, or shared indignation as the circumstances required.

“. . . I would be ever so grateful,” Nina continued, “if you would share with me some of the rules of being a princess.”

“The rules?”

“Yes. The rules.”

“But, Nina,” the Count said with a smile, “being a princess is not a game.”

Nina stared at the Count with an expression of patience.

“I am certain that you know what I mean. Those things that were expected of a princess.”

“Ah, yes. I see.”

The Count leaned back to give his hostess’s inquiry a more appropriate consideration.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “setting aside the study of the liberal arts, which we discussed the other day, I suppose the rules of being a princess would begin with a refinement of manners. To that end, she would be taught how to comport herself in society; she would be taught terms of address, table manners, posture . . .”

Having nodded favorably at the various items on the Count’s list, Nina looked up sharply at the last one.

“Posture? Is posture a type of manners?”

“Yes,” replied the Count, albeit a little tentatively, “it is. A slouching posture tends to suggest a certain laziness of character, as well as a lack of interest in others. Whereas an upright posture can confirm a sense of self-possession, and a quality of engagement—both of which are befitting of a princess.”

Apparently swayed by this argument, Nina sat a little more upright.

“Go on.”

The Count reflected.

“A princess would be raised to show respect for her elders.”

Nina bowed her head toward the Count in deference. He coughed.

“I wasn’t referring to me, Nina. After all, I am practically a youth like yourself. No, by ‘elders,’ I meant the gray haired.”

Nina nodded to express her understanding.

“You mean the grand dukes and grand duchesses.”

“Well, yes. Certainly them. But I mean elders of every social class. The shopkeepers and milkmaids, blacksmiths and peasants.”

Never hesitant to express her sentiments with facial expressions, Nina frowned. The Count elaborated.

“The principle here is that a new generation owes a measure of thanks to every member of the previous generation. Our elders planted fields and fought in wars; they advanced the arts and sciences, and generally made sacrifices on our behalf. So by their efforts, however humble, they have earned a measure of our gratitude and respect.”

As Nina still looked unconvinced, the Count considered how best to make his point; and it so happened that at that very moment, through the great windows of the coffeehouse could be seen the first hoisting of umbrellas.

“An example,” he said.

Thus commenced the story of Princess Golitsyn and the crone of Kudrovo:

One stormy night in St. Petersburg, related the Count, young Princess Golitsyn was on her way to the annual ball at the Tushins’. As her carriage crossed the Lomonosov Bridge, she happened to notice an eighty-year-old woman on foot, hunched against the rain. Without a second thought, she called for her driver to stop the carriage and invited the unfortunate soul inside. The old woman, who was nearly blind, climbed aboard with the footman’s help and thanked the Princess profusely. In the back of the Princess’s mind may well have been the presumption that her passenger lived nearby. After all, how far was an old, blind woman likely to journey on a night like this? But when the Princess asked where the old woman was headed, she replied that she was going to visit her son, the blacksmith, in Kudrovo—more than seven miles away!

Now, the Princess was already expected at the Tushins’. And in a matter of minutes they would be passing the house—lit from cellar to ceiling with a footman on every step. So, it would have been well within the bounds of courtesy for the Princess to excuse herself and send the carriage on to Kudrovo with the old woman. In fact, as they approached the Tushins’, the driver slowed the horses and looked to the Princess for instruction. . . .

Here the Count paused for effect.

“Well,” Nina asked, “what did she do?”

“She told him to drive on.” The Count smiled with a touch of triumph. “And what is more, when they arrived in Kudrovo and the blacksmith’s family gathered round the carriage, the old woman invited the Princess in for tea. The blacksmith winced, the coachman gasped, and the footman nearly fainted. But Princess Golitsyn graciously accepted the old woman’s invitation—and missed the Tushins’ altogether.”

His point expertly made, the Count raised his own cup of tea, nodded once, and drank.

Nina looked at him expectantly.

“And then?”

The Count returned his cup to its saucer.

“And then what?”

“Did she marry the blacksmith’s son?”

“Marry the blacksmith’s son! Good God. Certainly not. After a glass of tea she climbed into her carriage and headed for home.”

Nina mulled this over. Clearly, she thought a marriage to the blacksmith’s son a more fitting conclusion. But despite the shortcomings of history, she nodded to acknowledge that the Count had delivered a well-told tale.

Preferring to preserve his success, the Count opted not to share his normal coda to this delightful bit of St. Petersburg lore: that the Countess Tushin had been greeting guests under her portico when Princess Golitsyn’s bright blue carriage, known the city over, slowed before the gates and then sped on. This resulted in a rift between the Golitsyns and the Tushins that would have taken three generations to repair—if a certain Revolution hadn’t brought an end to their outrage altogether. . . .

“It was behavior befitting a princess,” acknowledged Nina.

“Exactly,” said the Count.

Then he held out the tea cakes and Nina took two, putting one on her plate and one in her mouth.

The Count was not one to call attention to the social shortcomings of acquaintances, but giddy with his story’s reception, he could not resist pointing out with a smile:

“There is another example.”

“Where is another example?”

“A princess would be raised to say please when she asked for a cake, and thank you when she was offered one.”

Nina looked taken aback; and then dismissive.

“I can see that please would be quite appropriate for a princess to say when she has asked for a cake; but I can see no reason why she should have to say thank you when she has been offered one.”

“Manners are not like bonbons, Nina. You may not choose the ones that suit you best; and you certainly cannot put the half-bitten ones back in the box. . . .”

Nina eyed the Count with an expression of seasoned tolerance, and then presumably for his benefit, spoke a little more slowly.

“I understand that a princess should say please if she is asking for a cake, because she is trying to convince someone to give her the cake. And I suppose, if having asked for a cake, she is given a cake, then she has good reason to say thank you. But in the second part of your example, the princess in question didn’t ask for the cake; she was offered it. And I see no reason why she should have to say thank you when she is merely obliging someone by accepting what they’ve offered.”

To punctuate her point, Nina put a lemon tartlet in her mouth.

“I concede that there is some merit to your argument,” said the Count. “But I can only tell you from a life of experience that—”

Nina cut him off with a wave of a finger.

“But you have just said that you are quite young.”

“Indeed, I am.”

“Well then, it seems to me that your claim of ‘a life of experience’ may be premature.”

Yes, thought the Count, as this tea was making perfectly clear.

“I shall work upon my posture,” Nina said quite definitively, brushing the crumbs from her fingers. “And I will be sure to say please and thank you whenever I ask for things. But I have no intention of thanking people for things I never asked for in the first place.”