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.

‘I wish to take a drive in the landau,’ she said. ‘It is such a bright sunny day today. You will drive, as you used to do when I was a child.’

I bowed, feeling incredibly relieved.

‘Which pair of horses would you like to be harnessed?’

‘The sorrels, they are friskier.’

‘Right away.’

But my feeling of relief proved premature. When I drove up to the porch Xenia Georgievna did not get into the carriage alone, but with Fandorin, who looked a genuine dandy in a grey top hat, grey frock coat and mother-of-pearl tie with a pearl pin. Now it was clear why her Highness had wanted me to occupy the coach box instead of the coachman Savelii.

We drove through the park, along the avenue, and then Xenia Georgievna ordered me to turn towards the Sparrow Hills. The carriagewas brand new, with rubber shock absorbers, and driving it was a sheer pleasure – it did not jolt or pitch, and only swayed ever so slightly.

While the horses were trotting between the trees, the quiet conversation behind my back merged into themuted background of sound, but on the Kaluga Highway we had a strong following wind that snatched up every word spoken and carried it tomyears, with the result that, despite myself, I played the part of aneavesdropper, and therewas nothing I could do about it.

‘. . . and nothing else matters . . .’ Those were the first words that the wind brought me (the voice belonged to Her Highness). ‘Take me away. It doesn’t matter where to. I would go to the end of the world with you. No, truly, do not grimace like that! We can go to America. I have read that there are no titles or class prejudices there. Why don’t you say something?’

I lashed the entirely innocent horses and they started trotting a bit faster.

‘Class p-prejudices exist even in America, but that is not the problem . . .’

‘Then what is?’

‘Everything. I am forty years old and you are nineteen. That is one. I am, as Karnovich recently put it, “an individual of no definite profession”, while you, Xenia, are a grand princess. That is two. I know life only too well, and you do not know it at all. That is three. And the most important thing of all is that I belong only to myself, but you belong to Russia. We could not be happy.’

His habitual manner of numbering off his arguments seemed inappropriate to me in this particular instance, but I had to admit that this time at least Erast Petrovich was speaking like a responsible man. From the ensuing silence I concluded that Her Highness had been sobered by his words of reason.

A minute later she asked quietly: ‘Do you not love me?’

And then he spoiled everything!

‘I didn’t s-say that. You . . . you have d-disturbed m-my emotional equilibrium,’ Fandorin babbled, stammering more than usual. ‘I d-did not think that such a thing could ever happen to me again, b-but it seems that it has . . .’

‘So you do love me then? You love me?’ she persisted. ‘If you do, then nothing else matters. If you don’t, it matters even less. One word, just one word. Well?’

My heartwas wrung by the hope and fear that I heard in Xenia Georgievna’s voice, and yet at that moment in time I could not help admiring her resolve and noble candour.

Naturally, the sly seducer replied: ‘Yes, I l-love you.’

How could he possibly dare not to love Her Highness!

‘At least, I am in love,’ Fandorin immediately corrected himself. ‘Forgive me for speaking absolutely honestly. You have completely turned my head, but . . . I am not sure that it is simply a matter of you . . . Perhaps the m-magic of a title played some part in it . . . In that case it is shameful . . . I am afraid to p-prove unworthy of your love . . .’

At this point I found this heroic gentleman rather pitiful. At least, in comparison with Her Highness, who was prepared to abandon everything for the sake of her feelings, and in this case ‘everything’ signified so much that it was simply breathtaking.

‘And also . . .’ he said in a more restrained, sadder voice, ‘I do not agree with you that nothing matters apart from love. There are more important things than love. That is probably the main lesson I have drawn from my life.’

Xenia Georgievna replied in a ringing voice: ‘Erast Petrovich, you have been a poor student of life.’ And then she shouted to me: ‘Afanasii, turn back!’

For the rest of the way they did not say a word to each other.


I was not present at the meeting that preceded Mademoiselle’s departure for her next meeting with Lind, since none of the grand dukes were involved and no drinks were served. I was left languishing in the corridor, and now that my fears for Xenia Georgievna were a little less acute, I was able to focus on the most important thing – the fate of the young prisoner. What the all-wise Snezhnevskaya had said about having to sacrifice the lesser for the sake of the greater had seared my heart, but Izabella Felitsianovna did not know anything about Fandorin’s plan. There was still hope – everything depended on whether Mademoiselle was able to determine the location of the hiding place.

The meeting did not last long. I caught Mademoiselle in the corridor and she told me in French: ‘I just hope I don’t lose count. I didn’t sleep all last night – I was training my memory. Erast said that the best way to do it is to learn poetry that you do not completely understand. So I learned a passage from your terrible poet Pushkin:

‘Oh ye at whom have trembled

Europe’s mighty tribes,

Oh, predatory Gauls (ce sont nous, les français)1

You too have fallen in your graves.

Oh dread! Oh fearsome times!

Where are you now, beloved son of fortune and Bellona (il parle de Napoléon)2

The voice that scorned the truth, and faith and law,

Dreaming in pride of casting thrones down by the sword,

Has vanished like a frightful dream when morning comes!’


‘After that, memorising the creaks of the wheels will be a sheer pleasure. Just as long as I don’t lose count. Imust not lose count. Today is our last chance. I am very nervous.’

Yes, I could see that her affected cheerfulness and all this jolly banter was merely a screen for profound anxiety.

I wanted to say that I was I was verymuch afraid for her. After all, Fandorin had said that Doctor Lind did not leave witnesses. It would be nothing to him to kill the intermediary when she was no longer needed. If those in higher spheres were willing to abandon Mikhail Georgievich to his fate, then who would be concerned about the death of a mere governess?

‘I should not have run after that carriage. It was an unforgivable mistake,’ I finally said in Russian. ‘You see, now you will have to carry the can for me.’

It was not what I wanted to say – it came out wrongly – and there was that phrase ‘carry the can’, which a foreigner was unlikely to know. But even so Mademoiselle understood me perfectly well.

‘Do not be so afraid, Athanas,’ she said with a smile, calling me by my given name for the first time. On her lips it acquired an unfamiliar Caucasian ring. ‘Lind will not kill me today. I still have to bring him the Orlov tomorrow.’

I am ashamed to admit it, but at that moment I felt a sense of relief as I recalled how confidently Snezhnevskaya had declared that the Orlovwould not be handed over to the kidnappers under any circumstances. Itwas a base unworthy feeling, and I blanched at the realisation that in that moment I had betrayed poor little Mikhail Georgievich, who had already been abandoned by everyone else. In my opinion, the very worst of sins is to abuse those most precious of human feelings, love and trust.

And then I felt even more ashamed, because I remembered that Mr Masa had called me that Japaneseword. Ura . . . girimono?

I really had behaved irresponsibly on that occasion. And as a decent human being I was obliged to apologise.

Having wished the governess success in her difficult and dangerous mission, I went to find the Japanese servant.

I knocked at the door and heard an unintelligible soundwhich, upon reflection, I decided to regard as permission to enter.

Mr Masawas sitting on the floor in nothing but his underwear, that is in the same attire in which I had once seen him jumping against the wall. There was a sheet of paper lying in front of him, and Fandorin’s valet was painstakingly tracing out complicated patterns on it with a brush.

‘What you want?’ he asked, squinting at me with his narrow, spiteful little eyes.

I was rather taken aback by his rude tone of voice, but I had to finish what I had begun. My late father always used to say that true dignity lay not in the way one was treated by others, but in the way one acted oneself.

‘Mr Masa,’ I said, bowing, ‘I have come to tell you, firstly, that I harbour no claims on you for the blow that you gave me, for my own offence was fully deserving of such treatment. And, secondly, that I am truly sorry that I was unwittingly responsible for the failure of Mr Fandorin’s plan. Please forgive me.’

The Japanese bowed formally to me in reply, without getting up off the floor.

‘And I ask you forgive me,’ he said, ‘but cannot forgive you. Your humbre servant.’

And he bowed again.

Well, have it your own way, I thought. I had done my duty. I said goodbye and left the room.

I needed to occupy myself with something until Mademoiselle’s return, so that the time would not drag so very slowly. I walked round the rooms, and in the drawing room my eye was caught by a carpet on the wall hung with weapons from the Caucasus and Turkey. I stood on a chair, took down a dagger with silver knurling decoration and ran my finger along it. The scabbard was clean, with not a single speck of dust. I wondered if Somov was meticulous enough to pay the same attention to the blade as he did to the scabbard.

I slowly drew the blade out, breathed on it and held it up to the light. Just as I had thought – smears. And what if one of the guests were to examine it, out of simple curiosity? That would be awkward. Somov had a long way to go before he would be a genuine butler after all, I decided with a certain feeling of inner satisfaction.

I heard strange flapping footsteps and saw Mr Masa, still in his Japanese underwear and with no shoes on his feet. Good Lord, the liberties that he took! Wandering round the house in that state!

I suppose Imust have looked very angry, and the naked dagger in my hand probably looked most ominous. In any case, the Japanese was clearly frightened.

He ran up to me, seized hold of my arm and began jabbering so fast that I could not make out more than half of what he said: ‘Now I see you trury sorry. You genuine samurai, accept your aporogies. No need hara-kiri.’

All I understoodwas that for some reason he wished to temper his wrath with mercy and was no longer angry with me. Well then, so much the better.


I did not complete my round of the rooms. The footman Lipps sought me out in the pantry, where I was checking whether the napkins had been well ironed, and told me I was wanted immediately in Pavel Georgievich’s room on the first floor.

Lieutenant Endlung was also sitting in the room. He glanced at mewith a mysterious air as he smoked a longTurkish chibouk.

‘Sit down, Afanasii, sit down,’ His Highness said to me, which was already unusual in itself.

I cautiously lowered myself onto the edge of a chair, anticipating nothing good from this conversation.

Pavel Georgievich looked excited and determined, but the subject that he broached was not at all what I had been dreading.

‘Filya has been telling me for a long time, Afanasii, that you are not at all as simple as you seem,’ the grand duke began, with a nod towards Endlung, ‘but I would not believe him. Now I see that it is true.’

Iwas on the point of trying to explain myself, but His Highness gestured abruptly as if to say ‘Be quiet’ and then continued.

‘And that iswhy we have discussed things and decided to enlist your support. Youmust not think that I am some heartless good-for-nothing, and I have just been sitting around doing nothing all this time or making the rounds of the restaurants. No, Afanasii, all that is nothing but a facade, in actual fact Filya and I have been thinking of only one thing – how to help poor Mika. The police are all well and good, but we’re not entirely useless either. We have to do something, otherwise those state know-it-alls will finally get the criminals to starve my brother to death or just simply kill him. That glass bauble means more to them!’

This was the plain truth. I thought exactly the same but, to be quite honest, I was not expecting any sensible proposals from the dashing sailors, and I merely inclined my head respectfully.

‘Endlung has a theory of his own,’ Pavel Georgievich went on excitedly. ‘Tell him, Filya.’

‘Gladly,’ the lieutenant responded, blowing out a cloud of smoke. ‘Judge for yourself, Afanasii Stepanovich. It couldn’t possibly be simpler. What do we know about this Doctor Lind?’

Iwaited for Endlung to answer his own question. He raised one finger and continued: ‘Only one thing. That he is a misogynist. He simply has to be a misogynist! Any normal man fond of the tootsies, like youandme–’ I could not help wincing at that remark ‘– would never stoop to such abominations. That’s true, surely?’

SomehowIwas not really convinced of the lieutenant’s powers of analysis. However, Endlung surprised me.

‘And who is it that cannot stand women?’ he asked with a triumphant air.

‘Yes, indeed, who?’ Pavel Georgievich echoed.

His Highness and his friend exchanged glances.

‘Come on now, Afanasii, think.’

I thought a little more.

‘Well, there are many women who cannot bear their sisters.’

‘Ah, Afanasii, what a slowcoach you are, really. We’re talking about Doctor Lind, not women.’

Endlung said emphatically: ‘Buggers.’

For a moment I did not understand what he meant, but then I realised that he was employing the French word bougre, which means menwho are referred to in decent society as homosexuals. In any case, the lieutenant immediately explained his idea by using a different term that is not accepted at all in good society, and which I therefore shall not repeat.

‘And suddenly everything is clear!’ Endlung exclaimed. ‘Lind is a bugger, and his entire gang are all queers – buggers and pansies.’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘Pansies, also known as girlies, little nieces, snivellers, passive queers. Naturally, in a gang like that, they’ll all stick up for each other! And it’s no accident that Lind chose Moscow for his atrocities. Thanks to Uncle Sam, this place is a real Mecca for queers now. You know what the people say: “What a queer place Moscow is these days!”’

I had heard this phrase alluding to the specific partialities of Simeon Alexandrovich before and I considered it my duty to say to Endlung: ‘Surely, Mr Gentleman of the Bedchamber, you do not think that the governor general of Moscowcould be involved in the abduction of his own nephew?’

‘Of course not!’ Pavel Georgievich exclaimed. ‘But crowds of all sorts of riff-raff hang around Uncle Sam. For instance, take our own dear guests, Carr and Banville. Let us concede that His Lordship is more or less known to us, although the acquaintance is only recent. But who is this Mr Carr? And why did Banville ask Papa to invite him here?’

‘Oh come now, Your Highness, such a great event – the coronation.’

‘And what if it was for a completely different reason?’ Endlung asked, with a sweeping gesture of his pipe. ‘What if he’s not really a lord at all? And of course that slicker Carr is especially suspicious. Remember, they arrived at the Hermitage on the very day of the kidnapping. They’re always wandering about, ferreting things out. I’m absolutely certain that one or the other of them is connected with Doctor Lind, or perhaps even both of them are.’

‘Carr, beyond a shadow of a doubt, it’s Carr,’ the grand duke declared confidently. ‘Banville is a man from high society, after all. There’s no way to fake those manners and that way of talking.’

‘And just who, Paulie, told you Doctor Lind is not a man from high society?’ the lieutenant objected.

They were both right, and in general it all sounded very far from stupid. This was something I had not expected.

‘Should you not inform Colonel Karnovich of your suspicions?’ I suggested.

‘No, no,’ said Pavel Georgievich, shaking his head. ‘He or that blockhead Lasovsky will only ruin everything again. And in any case they both have plenty to worry about with the coronation tomorrow.’

‘Mr Fandorin, then?’ I asked reluctantly.

Endlung and His Highness looked at each other.

‘You know, Afanasii,’ the grand duke said slowly, ‘Fandorin is a clever chap, of course, but he seems to be preparing some cunning kind of operation. So let him get on with it.’

‘We’ll manage on our own,’ the lieutenant snapped. ‘Andwe’ll see whose operation is more cunning. But we need someone to help us. Tell me, Ziukin, are you with us or not?’

I agreed immediately, without even the slightest hesitation. I found the idea of doing something useful again, and without Mr Fandorin being involved, immensely inspiring.

‘What do we have to do?’ I asked.

‘First, tail them,’ Endlung announced briskly. ‘Both of them. Paulie can’t do it – he’s too conspicuous and also he has heaps of responsibilities. The royal family has an all-night vigil today, and in general he’s going to be like a little pug dog on a tight lead. That’s why we’ve brought you in. So I’m going to follow Carr and you, Ziukin, are going to follow Banville.’

I noted that he had kept the most promising suspect for himself, but I did not object – itwas Endlung not Iwho had come up with the idea.

‘Ah, how I envy you!’ His Highness exclaimed ruefully.


In accordance with our agreement, I installed myself with the Moscow Gazette on the bench beside the stairs, from where I had a view of His Lordship’s door. Endlung sat down to lay out a game of patience in the small drawing room, because he could see Mr Carr’s room from there.

In anticipation of our surveillance work I had changed my livery for a good suit of dark-grey English wool, a present from the grand princess the previous year. Endlung had also changed into civilian clothes – a sandy-coloured two-piece suit and dandified shoes with white gaiters.

To while away the time, I read the text of the solemn announcement to the people of the next day’s coronation:

His most Serene, Sovereign and Great Highness, the Emperor Nikolai Alexandrovich, having ascended the ancestral throne of the Russian Empire and the Kingdom of Poland and Grand Dukedom of Finland incorporated therein, has deigned, in the fashion of those devout sovereigns, his ancestors, to decree as follows:

The most sacred coronation of His Imperial Majesty and his anointment from the spiritual world shall take place, with the help of Almighty God, on the fourteenth day of this month of May. His Imperial Majesty has decreed that his consort, Her Majesty the Empress Alexandra Feodorovna, shall also be privy to these most sacred proceedings. This triumphant festivity is hereby proclaimed to all loyal subjects so that on this long-awaited day they might redouble their prayers to the King of Kings to illumine His Majesty’s kingdom with all the power of His grace and strengthen it in peace and quietude, to His own most sacred glory and the unshakeable prosperity of the state.

The sublime dignity of these majestic words filled my heart with a calm certitude. Reading official documents had always had a most salutary effect on me, and especially now, when the inviolability of the edifice of the Russian monarchy had suddenly come under threat.

I also studied with pleasure the composition of the company of heralds that was reading out this message every day on the Senate Square of the Kremlin: ‘An adjutant general with the rank of full general, two adjutant generals of adjutant-general rank, two high masters of coronation ceremonies, two heralds, four masters of ceremony, two Senate secretaries, two divisions in mounted formation – one of Her Majesty the Empress Maria Feodorovna’s cavalry guards and the other of the mounted lifeguards, with kettledrums and full choruses of trumpets, each division to have two trumpeters with trumpets decorated with cloth of gold displaying the state crest and twelve lead mounts in richly decorated horsecloths.’ How beautiful! Such music in every word, in the sound of every rank and title!

The previous year, on the initiative of the new empress, who wished to be more Russian than the Russians themselves, a genuine revolution had almost taken place in the names of court rankingswhen a projectwas conceived to replace all the German titles with old ones from Muscovy. According to Endlung the unrest among the servants at court had been reminiscent of the picture The Last Day of Pompeii by the artist Briullov, but, thank God, it had come to nothing. When the High House Marshal Prince Alten-Coburg-Svyatopolk-Bobruisky learned that under the new (or rather, old) order he would simply be called a butler, there was a great scandal, and the project was consigned to oblivion.

Through a hole I had made in a page of the newspaper, I saw Mr Freyby approaching along the corridor and pretended to be absorbed in reading, but even so the Englishman stopped and greeted me.

The butler’s company usually had a calming effect on me, but on this occasion his appearance was most inopportune, for the door of Lord Banville’s room might open at any moment.

‘Good news?’ Freyby asked, nodding at the newspaper and fishing his dictionary out of his pocket. ‘Khoroshii . . . novost?’

I did not have my dictionary with me – it was in my livery – and so I limited myself to a simple nod.

After looking me over carefully, the Englishman pronounced a phrase of four words: ‘You look better today.’ Then he rustled the pages of his lexicon again and translated it into Russian: ‘Ty . . . smotret . . . luchshe . . .sevodnya.

I started and looked up at his ruddy features. Why would he advise me to look better? How did he know about our plan? What did he know in general?

The butler smiled benignly, bowed and proceeded on his way.

Five minutes later Mr Carr came out into the corridor, looking rather strange: despite the clear warm weather, he was wrapped in a long cloak reaching right down to his heels; his broad hat with a drooping brim was pulled down almost as far as his nose; and I also noticed that his shoes had heels that were high and extremely thin. On pressing my eye right up against the hole in the page, I sawthat the English gentlemanwas even more thickly painted and rouged than usual.

Stepping gracefully, Mr Carrwalked through to the exit. Then Endlung strode past me, whistling light-heartedly. He looked round and winked, and I remained at my post. But I did not have to wait for long. Literally half a minute later His Lordship’s door squeaked and Banville followed them out, walking on tiptoe. He was also wearing a cloak, but not such a long one as Mr Carr’s.

There was something mysterious going on. I waited for as brief a moment as possible, put on my bowler hat and joined this strange procession, bringing up the rear. Onthat day the emperor and empress had moved from the Alexandriisky Palace to the Kremlin, and so all the police agents had disappeared from the park, which was most opportune as to any observer our manoeuvres would certainly have seemed suspicious. I could not signal to Endlung because I was afraid of startling Lord Banville, and the lieutenant himself did not look round. However, he was strolling along casually, and I soon realised that His Lordshipwas not interested in Endlung at all, but in Mr Carr.

Outside the gates the latter took a cab and drove off in the direction of Kaluga Square. As he was getting into the carriage, the flap of his cloak fell open and something bright and pearly, like the hem of a brocade or satin dress, glinted in the light of the setting sun.

Endlung walked a bit further along the pavement, tapping his cane, stopped a cab coming towards him and, after exchanging a few words with the cabby, drove off in the same direction. But Banville was unlucky – there were no more cabs on the street. The Briton ran out into the roadway, looking after the carriages as they drove away. I concealed myself in the bushes, just to be on the safe side.

Five minuteswent by, or perhaps even ten, before His Lordship managed to get a cab. Banville obviously knew, or had guessed, where Mr Carr had gone to, because he shouted something very brief to the driver, and the carriage rattled off over the cobblestones.

Now it was my turn to feel nervous. But I did not wait for an empty cab to come along – I stopped a little man driving a water wagon, offered him two roubles and took a seat beside a barrel at the front. The man lashed his dray horse with his whip; it shook its tangled mane, snorted and set off along the broad street at a pace every bit as good as a cabman’s mare. No doubt in my respectable attire I must have looked very strange on that rough wooden cart, but at the time that was of absolutely no importance whatever – the important thing was to keep Lord Banville in my field of vision.

We drove across Krimsky Most Street, already familiar to me, and turned into a side street. Leaving the Cathedral of Christ the Saviour behind on our right, we found ourselves on a rich and beautiful street lined with nothing but palaces and mansions on both sides. Carriages were drawing up one after another outside the brightly illuminated front entrance of one of the houses. Banville also got out there and paid his driver. He walked past a haughty doorman covered in gold braid and went in through a pair of tall doors decorated with mouldings. I was left standing on the pavement as the water carter went rumbling on his way with my two roubles.

As far as I could tell, therewas a masquerade about to begin in the mansion because everyone who arrived was wearing a mask. On looking more closely at the guests, I discovered that they were divided into two types: men in ordinary frock coats and suits, and individuals of indeterminate sex, like Mr Carr, swathed in extremely long cloaks. Many people arrived in pairs, armin arm, and I guessedwhat kind of gatheringwas taking place.

Someone took hold of my elbow from behind. I looked round – it was Endlung.

‘This is the Elysium,’ he whispered, and his eyes sparkled. ‘A privileged club for Moscow queers. Mine’s in there as well.’

‘Mr Carr?’ I asked.

The lieutenant nodded and twitched the curled ends of his wheat-coloured moustache thoughtfully.

‘It’s not that simple just towalk in. We need make-up. Eureka!’ He slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Follow me, Ziukin! The Variety Theatre is only five minutes from here; I have lots of lady friends there.’

He took me by the arm and led me across the rapidly darkening street.

‘Did you see that some of them have cloaks that reach right down to the ground? Those are the pansies – they’re wearing women’s dresses under their cloaks. There’s no way you would make a pansy, Ziukin; you’ll have to be the auntie. So be it, I shall perform a heroic feat for the sake of the royal family and dress up as a pansy.’

‘Who am I going to be?’ I asked, thinking that I must have misheard.

‘The auntie. That’s what the pansies’ patrons are called.’

We turned into the stage entrance of the theatre. The attendant bowed low to Endlung and even doffed his peaked cap, for which he received a coin from the lieutenant.

‘Quick, quick,’ said the decisive gentleman of the bedchamber, urging me on as he ran up a steep and non-too-clean staircase. ‘Now, where would be best? Ah, Zizi’s dressing room would do. It’s five to nine now, almost time for the interval.’

In the empty dressing room he took a seat in front of the mirror as if he belonged there, examined his own face critically and said with a sigh: ‘I shall have to shave the damn moustache off. The Russian navy hasn’t made such sacrifices since the Black Sea fleet was scuttled. Right, you English buggers, you’ll answer to me for this . . .’

With a steadfast hand he picked up a pair of scissors from a small table and snipped off first one side of his moustache and then the other. Such willing self-sacrifice demonstrated yet again that I had underestimated Lieutenant Endlung, and that Georgii Alexandrovich had been quite right about him.

When the courageous sailor had lathered up the remaining stubble and opened a razor, two rather pretty but quite incredibly over-painted young ladies came in, wearing dresses with spangles and necklines that were much too low.

‘Filya!’ one of them, light-haired and slim, exclaimed, and threw herself on Endlung from behind, giving him a loud kiss on the neck.

‘Filiusha!’ the other one, a plump brunette, squealed just as joyfully, and kissed the lathered lieutenant on the cheek.

‘Zizi, Lola, careful!’ he shouted at the young ladies. ‘I’ll cut myself.’

Then there was a positive hail of questions and comments, so that I could no longer tell which of the girls had said what: ‘Why are you shaving off your moustache? You’ll look a real freak without it! Hey, you’ll blunt my Zolingen with that stubble of yours! Are we going anywhere after the show? And where’s Paulie? Who’s this with you? Phoo, he’s terribly stuffy, doesn’t look like much fun.’

‘Who’s not much fun – Afanasii?’ Endlung interceded for me. ‘If you only knew . . . He can give me a hundred points start. The moustache? That’s for a bet. Afanasii and I are going to a masquerade. Come on, girls, turn me into a lovably plump little lady, and make him something a bit more, you know, showy. What’s this?’

He took a thick ginger beard off a hook on the wall and answered his own question.

‘Aha, from Nero. Little Lola’s simply delightful in that role. Turn this way, brother Ziukin . . .’

The actresses set to work merrily, without stopping talking for a single moment. And five minutes later there was a most unsavoury-looking gentleman glaring out at me from the mirror, with a thick red beard and tangled eyebrows of the same colour, thick hair cut in a fringe and a monocle into the bargain.

Endlung’s transformation took more time, but he became completely unrecognisable. After adjusting the folds of his sumptuous dress, which was completely covered in ruffles, the lieutenant put on a half-mask, stretched out his thickly painted lips into a smile and was suddenly transformed into a well-padded floozy. I noticed for the first time that he had coquettish little dimples in his cheeks.

‘Very chic!’ Endlung said approvingly. ‘Girls, you are absolute kittens! We’ll win this bet. Forward, Afanasii, time is precious!’


As we approached the entrance flooded with electric light, I also put on a half-mask. I was very much afraid that they would not let us into the club, but obviously we looked entirely comme il faut, and the doorman opened the doors for us with a respectful bow.

We entered a richly appointed hallway, where Endlung threw off the cloak he had put on over his ethereal dress. There was a wide white stairway leading up, and the flight of steps ended at a huge mirror in a bronze frame, with two couples like us standing in front of it, preening themselves.

I was about to walk on by, but Endlung nudged me with his elbow, and I realised that it would have looked suspicious. For the sake of appearances, we loitered in front of the mirror, but I deliberately screwed up my eyes in order not to see the caricature created by Lola and Zizi’s deft hands. The lieutenant, however, regarded his reflection with quite evident enjoyment: he adjusted his little curls, extended his leg and stretched out his foot. Thank God, they had chosen him a dress with no décolleté and covered shoulders.

The spacious hall was furnished with luxurious good taste in the very latest Venetian style – with gold and silver panels on the walls, cosy little alcoves and large grottoes created using tropical plants in tubs. There was a buffet with various wines and hors d’œuvres in the corner, and a bright-blue grand piano on a high platform. I had never seen one like that before. On all sides there was the sound of muted voices and laughter, and the smell of perfume and expensive tobacco.

At first glance it looked like a perfectly ordinary high-society rout. On closer observation, however, one was struck by the excessively ruddy cheeks and dark eyebrows of some of the beaux, and the ladies looked very strange altogether: far too broad in the shoulder, with prominent Adam’s apples, and one actually had a slim moustache. Endlung also noticed her, and a shadow flitted across his animated face – apparently he had sacrificed his moustache in vain. Then again, there were some creatures with nothing at all to indicate that they were not men. For instance, one in the costume of Columbine, who seemed vaguely familiar to me, could probably have rivalled the slim waist and suppleness of Miss Zizi herself.

Endlung and I walked arm-in-arm between the palm trees, trying to spot Banville and Carr. Almost immediately a gentleman wearing a steward’s ribbon in a bow on his chest came dashing up to us, pressed his hands to his heart and chanted reproachfully: ‘A breach, a breach of the rules. Those who arrive together must amuse themselves separately. You’ll have plenty of time for spooning later, my darlings.’

He winked at me in a most brazen fashion and pinched Endlung gently on the cheek, for which the lieutenant immediately slapped him on the forehead with his fan.

‘A frisky one,’ the steward said to the gentleman of the bedchamber. ‘Permit me to introduce you to the Count of Monte Cristo.’

He led a red-lipped old man in a black curly wig over to Endlung.

‘And you, Ginger, will discover ecstasy in the company of a delightful nymph.’

I assumed that in this circle it was the custom to address everyone familiarly, and replied in the same tone: ‘Thank you, my considerate friend, but I would prefer—’

However, a brash nymph in a Greek tunic with a gilded harp clasped under her arm was already hanging on my elbow.

She immediately began talking some nonsense or other in an extremely unnatural falsetto, continually pursing her lips up into a tight heart shape.

I dragged the companionwho had been imposed on me across the hall and suddenly saw Mr Carr. He was wearing a velvet mask, but I recognised him immediately from his blindingly bright yellowhair. The fortunate Englishmanwas sitting all alone by the wall, drinking champagne and gazing around. I saw that the lieutenant and his old man had occupied the next table. My eyes met Endlung’s, and he turned his head emphatically to one side.

I followed the direction of his glance. Lord Banville was standing behind a column nearby, although he was more difficult to identify than Mr Carr, because his mask covered his face right down to the chin. However, I recognised the familiar trousers with scarlet trimming.

I seated myself on a couch and the nymph gladly plumped down beside me, pressing her thigh against my leg.

‘Are you tired?’ shewhispered. ‘And you look like such a strong boy. What a sweet wart you have. Just like a raisin.’

She touched my cheek with her finger. I barely managed to stop myself from slapping the impudent woman, that is man, on the hand.

‘Lovely beard, so silky soft,’ the nymph cooed. ‘Are you always such a surly bugaboo?’

Without taking my eyes off Banville, Imuttered: ‘Yes, always.’

‘The way you looked at me just now stung like a whiplash.’

‘I’ll give you a lashing all right, if you don’t keep your hands to yourself,’ I snarled, deciding not to beat about the bush.

‘On my botty?’ she squealed with a quiver and pressed her entire body against me.

‘I’ll give you a drubbing you’ll remember for a long time,’ I said and shoved her away.

‘A long, long time?’ my tormentor babbled and heaved a deep sigh. ‘How lovely you are! Charming! Charming!’

The steward trotted over to a very tall slim gentleman wearing a scarlet silk mask beneath which a well-tended imperial beard could be seen. I spotted the austere dispassionate face of Foma Anikeevich behind the new arrival and immediately guessed who this was. The governor general’s butler looked as if he was accompanying his master to a perfectly ordinary rout. Foma Anikeevich had not put on a mask, and he was carrying a long velvet cloak over his arm – he had deliberately not left it in the cloakroom so that the guests would not be confused concerning his status. A subtle man, no two ways about it.

‘Where shall I seat you, divine Filador?’ I heard the steward ask in honeyed tones.

The governor general glanced round the hall from his height of almost two metres and set off resolutely towards the spot where Mr Carr was sitting alone. He sat down beside the Englishman, kissed him on the cheek and whispered something in his ear, tickling him with his moustache. Carr smiled, his eyes sparkled and he leaned his head over to one side.

I saw Banville withdraw deeper into the shadows.

A Columbine appeared quite close to him, the same one who had recently impressed me with her unaffected gracefulness. She stood by thewall, looking at His Highness and wringing her slim hands. This was a familiar gesture, and now I knew who it was – Prince Glinsky, Simeon Alexandrovich’s adjutant.

Meanwhile a performance began on the stage. Two pansies started singing a duet – a romance by Mr Poigin: ‘Oh, do not go; stay here with me.’

They sang most skilfully, with genuine feeling, and I was quite absorbed despite myself, but at the words ‘My fiery caresses will kindle and consume you’ the nymph suddenly laid her head on my shoulder and her fingers slid inside my shirt, as if unintentionally, which reduced me to a state of genuine horror. Overcome by panic, I looked round at Endlung. He was laughing wildly and lashing his wrinkled beau across the hands with his fan. The lieutenant was apparently faring no better than I was. The singers were rewarded with tumultuous applause, in which my admirer joined, relieving me temporarily of her importunate advances.

The stewardwalked up on to the stage and announced: ‘At the request of our dear Filador, there will now be a performance of the belly dance that everyone has come to love so well. The dancer is the incomparable Madam Desirée, who travelled to Alexandria especially in order to master this ancient and high art! Please welcome her!’

To the sound of applause a well-padded middle-aged gentleman walked up onto the stage, wearing turquoise stockings, a short cape and a skirt studded with sequins, so that his stomach – round and unnaturally white (I assume because it had recently been shaved) – was left exposed.

The accompanist started playing a Persian melody from the opera Odalisque and ‘Madam Desirée’ began shaking her hips and thighs, which set her substantial belly quivering in waves.

I found this sight extremely unappetising, but it threw the audience into a frenzy. There were shouts from all sides: ‘Bravo! You charmer!’

And at this point my nymph cast all restraint aside – I was only just in time to catch her hand as it descended onto my knee.

‘You’re so unapproachable, I adore you,’ she whispered in my ear.

Simeon Alexandrovich suddenly pulled his companion sharply towards him and pressed his lips against Mr Carr’s in a prolonged kiss. I involuntarily glanced at Foma Anikeevich, who was standing behind the grand duke’s chair with an imperturbable expression on his face, and thought: how much self-control and willpower he must have to bear his cross with such dignity. If Foma Anikeevich knew that I was here in the hall, he would probably die of shame. Thank God, I thought, that it is impossible to recognise me in this ginger beard.

And then something happened.

Lord Banville ran out from behind his column, shouting something unintelligible. He covered the distance to the table in several bounds, grabbed Mr Carr by the shoulders and dragged him to one side, lisping something in his foreign language. Simeon Alexandrovich jumped to his feet, took hold of Mr Carr’s dress and pulled him back. I also got up, realising that an appalling scandal highly dangerous to the monarchy was unfolding before my very eyes, but what happened next exceeded even my very worst fears. Banville let go of Mr Carr and gave His Highness a resounding slap across the face! The music broke off, the belly dancer squatted down on her haunches in fright, and it went very, very quiet. The only thing to be heard was Lord Banville’s agitated breathing.

This was unprecedented! A physical insult inflicted on a member of the royal family! And by a foreigner. I believe I groaned, and rather loudly too. But a moment later I realised that there was no member of the royal family present, and there could not be. The slap had been received by Mr Filador, the man in the scarlet mask.

Simeon Alexandrovich’s eyebrows curved together in an expression of perplexity – apparently His Highness had never found himself in a situation like this before. The governor general spontaneously put one hand to his bruised cheek and took a step back. His Lordship, however, no longer displaying the slightest sign of agitation, slowly pulled awhite glove off one of his hands. Oh God! This really would be beyond repair – there would be a challenge to a duel, and a public one. Banville would name himself, and then His Highness would no longer be able to maintain his anonymity.

Foma Anikeevich moved forward, but he was forestalled by Columbine. She ran up to His Lordship and delivered a rapid sequence of slaps – one, two, three, four – to the Briton’s face. They were even louder than the one that Simeon Alexandrovich had received. Banville’s head swung from side to side.

‘I am Prince Glinsky!’ the adjutant declared in French, tearing off his mask. He looked very fine at that moment – not a woman and not a youth, but some special kind of being, like the archangels in old Italian paintings. ‘You, sir, have violated the constitution of our club, and for that I demand satisfaction from you!’

Banville also removed his mask, and I seemed to see him properly for the first time. Fire in his eyes, cruel folds running down from the sides of his nose, bloodless lips and two patches of scarlet on his cheeks. I had never seen a face more terrible. How could I possibly have regarded this vampire as a harmless eccentric?

‘I am Donald Neville Lambert, the eleventh Viscount Banville. And you, Prince, will receive complete satisfaction from me. And I from you.’

Foma Anikeevich threw the velvet cloak across the grand duke’s shoulders and delicately tugged on his elbow. Ah, how superb! He had maintained complete presence of mind even in such a desperate situation. The governor general could not be present, even in a mask, at a challenge to a duel. Itwas not merely a scandal but a criminal offence, and itwas the authorities’ sacred responsibility to suppress such activities.

His Highness and Foma Anikeevich hastily withdrew. Mr Carr darted after them, holding on his half-mask.

The steward waved to the accompanist, who started fingering the piano keys again, and I did not hear how His Lordship’s conversation with the prince ended. They went out almost immediately, accompanied by two other gentlemen, one of whom was wearing a smoking jacket and the other a woman’s dress with gloves that reached up to his elbows.

I found the young adjutant’s action truly admirable. How about that for a pansy! To sacrifice his career and reputation, to put his very life at stake – and all to save the superior whom he loved and who had treated him in a manner that was far from charitable.

The nymph immediately jumped to her feet. ‘Yes, yes, let’s go,’ she whispered, grasping me firmly by the elbow. ‘I’m all on fire.’

Believing that it would not be difficult to rid myself of this outrageous creature outside in the street, I started walking towards the exit, but the nymph tugged me in the opposite direction.

‘No, silly. Not that way. Downstairs here, in the basement, they have excellent rooms! You promised to give me a drubbing that I would remember for a long time . . .’

My patience finally snapped at that.

‘Sir, release my arm,’ I said in a cool voice. ‘I am in a hurry.’

‘“Sir!”’ the nymph gasped, as if I had sworn at her in the foullest of language. And then she shrieked, ‘Gentlemen! He called me “sir”! He is not one of us, gentlemen!’

She pulled away from me in disgust.

Someone at one side said: ‘And I see that beard looks false too!’

A sturdy-looking gentleman in a light-blue morning coat tugged on Nero’s beard, and it slipped sideways in a most treacherous fashion.

‘Right, you villain, you odious spy, you’ll pay for this!’ the sturdy gentleman said with a ferocious grin, and I barely managed to dodge the weighty fist that he swung at me.

‘Hands off!’ Endlung roared, dashing up to my assailant and giving him a jab to the jawin accordance with the rules of English boxing.

This blow sent the gentleman in the light-blue morning coat tumbling to the floor, but then others came dashing towards us from every direction.

‘Gentlemen, they are Guardians,’ someone shouted. ‘There’s a whole gang of them here. Beat them!’

Punches and kicks showered down on me from all sides, and one, which landed in my stomach, winded me. I doubled over, was knocked off my feet and not allowed to get up again.

I think Endlung put up a desperate resistance, but the odds were simply too great. We were soon standing side by side, each restrained by a dozen pairs of hands.

There were faces radiating hate everywhere.

‘They’re Guardians! Squares! Bastards! Oprichniks! Kill them, gentlemen, just as they kill us.’

Another hail of blows descended on me. There was a salty taste in my mouth and one of my teeth was wobbly.

‘Put them in the torture chamber. Let them rot there!’ someone shouted. ‘To teach the others a lesson!’

This ominous suggestion met with approval from the others.

We were bundled out into the corridor and dragged down a narrow stairway. I was kept busy dodging kicks, but Endlung swore, using a range of maritime terms, and fought for every single step. Finally we were carried along a dimly lit passage without a single window and tossed into a dark room. I struck the floor painfully with my back and an iron door slammed shut behind us.

When my eyes had adapted slightly to the gloom I saw a small grey rectangle in the top corner of the opposite wall. Holding onto the wall, I went across to it. It was a small window, but I could not reach it – it was too high.

Turning towards the spot where I calculated they must have thrownEndlung, I asked: ‘Have these gentlemen lost their minds? What are squares? Guardians?’

The invisible lieutenant groaned in the darkness and spat. ‘,’ he said with profound feeling, using words that I will not repeat. ‘They’ve broken a crown on my tooth. Squares are non-homosexual men, which includes you and me. And the Guardians, Ziukin, are a secret society that protects the honour of the dynasty and ancient Russian houses against dishonour and disgrace. Surely you must have heard of them? The year before last they forced that . . . oh, what is his name . . . the composer . . . damn, I can’t remember . . . they forced him to take poison for pansifying .’ Endlung mentioned the name of one of the youthful grand dukes, which I shall most certainly not repeat. ‘And last year they threw that old bugger Kvitovsky into the Neva for pestering young lawyers. Those are the Guardians that they took us for. We’re lucky that they didn’t tear us to pieces on the spot. So we’re going to die of hunger and thirst in this cellar. What a fine day, Monday the thirteenth.’

The lieutenant started squirming about on the floor, evidently making himself more comfortable, and remarked philosophically: ‘And a fortune-teller in Nagasaki told me I would die in a sea battle. I’ll never believe any predictions of the future again.’


1That is us, the French.

2He is speaking of Napoleon.

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