by Olga Wjotas
I explained that Scott often used archaic language for stylistic purposes, and that mine was more up to date.
“What I mean is that you’re treating Sasha as an object, thinking of him purely in terms of your own gratification rather than seeing him as a person in his own right.”
The princess clapped her hands again. “Exactly so! My dear princess, it is as though you can see directly into my soul! So I am sexist and I objectify – how marvellous. I had no idea I was doing anything so profound.”
“Yes, but . . .” I gazed helplessly at the ceiling and found myself completely unable to appreciate its exceptional stucco work. “You see, it’s not necessarily a good thing. We don’t like it when men behave like that to us, so it’s not very fair if we behave like that to them.”
There was silence. The princess was obviously pondering the justice of what I had said and would resolve to behave herself. Then I realised that she had stopped breathing and was turning bluish purple, clashing unpleasantly with her emerald dress.
I had to make an instant decision, and I made it, thumping her hard on the back. There was a small chance that this would cause arrhythmia, and the more cautious strategy would have been to go through her reticule in search of sal volatile. But that would have lost vital seconds. I thumped again, harder. The respiratory arrest continued. I thumped again. No response. I thumped again, really, really hard.
There was a faint breath and I managed to make out some words.
“ . . . no . . . more . . .”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you, but it was an emergency.”
“Not . . . that . . .” the princess wheezed. She lay back in her seat, eyes closed, fanning herself until she revived. “No more, I beg you, Princess Tamsonova, of your wicked Scottish wit! I might have died laughing. ‘We don’t like it when men behave like that to us, so it’s not very fair if we behave like that to them.’” She began to cackle again but restrained herself with an effort. “Princess, I’m sure you won’t object to my repeating your epigram at my next social engagement.”
“Not at all,” I said, suspecting that the princess was still missing the point. But if she repeated it often enough, I was sure the wisdom of my words would eventually percolate through the Russian female consciousness.
“And I want to hear about the little Lidia Ivanovna, now that she is no longer a hermit,” she said. “The last time I was in that house must have been over twenty years ago. They had quite a reasonably sized ballroom, as I remember. Her late father would never dance with me. An extraordinarily handsome man but a dreadful prude. His wife was always very wary of me – she probably imagined I was planning an affaire with her husband. Which of course I was, but one cuts one’s losses and moves on.”
I would have to explain the concept of sisterly solidarity to her.
I gave a glowing description of Lidia’s party, not forgetting to mention the ten Nebuchadnezzars of Veuve Clicquot.
The princess raised an eyebrow. “A successful party indeed. I was not invited but I forgive her. She didn’t know I was in town, since I came only when I heard about the countess’s – what was it you said, protégé?” The princess began cackling again and I kept a close watch on her in case more first aid was needed.
“The vulgarity of the countess’s so-called palace. It was a relief to find the youth was so well-bred. I’ve decided to throw a proper party tomorrow evening to help people recover. You must come, of course, and bring the little Lidia Ivanovna with you. She was a sweet, pretty thing as a child. Has she aged well?”
Aristocratic myopia had again taken its toll, I reflected, since the princess had seen her the previous evening when we helped the countess to her feet. But of course she hadn’t paid any attention to her because at that point, she believed her to be a nobody.
“Extremely well. She’s lovely. Very lovely indeed. In fact, every bit as attractive as – young Sasha.” I had been going to say “the countess’s protégé” again, but I was getting a bit fed up with the way the princess cackled every time I said it, particularly as my French pronunciation is flawless.
“I should like to meet her,” decided the princess. “I should like to see how she has turned out when she has scarcely seen the light of day for twenty years.”
“Yes, about that,” I said. “Why did the family lock themselves away like that?”
The princess’s eyes lit up. “You don’t know about the scandal?”
“Scandal?” I said. “Just a minute, let me get you another wee glass of tea.”
In my haste, I nearly did myself a mischief with the samovar eagle’s razor-sharp beak as I poured out the water. It really wasn’t acceptable to have something so dangerous in what was, after all, my place of work. Just as I had sent out a “thank you” where it was appropriate, I sent out vibes of complaint. And I got the distinct impression that my vibes were being blocked.
The princess settled back with a fresh glass of tea and a plate of Old Vatrushkin’s melt-in-the-mouth pastries. “Lidia’s mother was said to be the most virtuous of women, devoted to her prude of a husband. It made her downfall all the more delicious.”
“I had no idea there was a downfall; I just knew there was a tragedy, a terrible loss, which was very distressing.”
The princess barked with laughter. “A terrible loss? Indeed there was! The loss of the virtuous lady’s reputation!”
“That’s not the impression I had,” I said. “I thought Lidia’s mother was a living saint.”
“Do living saints dispose of their infants as soon as they are born? No, no, Lidia Ivanovna’s saintly mother was guilty of an indiscretion and never dared show her face in public again.”
“Hang on,” I said.
“Hang what on what?”
“It’s just an expression,” I said. “I mean, please will you go back to the beginning and tell me what happened? And how do you know?”
The princess rearranged the cushions to make herself more comfortable. “My coachman, of course. Coachmen know everything. And mine is under firm orders to pass everything he knows on to me. Lidia’s parents called the priest to make the arrangements for the christening, but no christening took place. Instead, they claimed the child had suddenly died. The child had been hale and hearty. So tell me what happened?”
“It’s probably better if you tell me what happened,” I said.
“The lady had been able to fool her husband into thinking the child was his, but she could not fool the man of God. It is my belief–” She leaned forward confidentially, “–that the child was ginger.”
I have to say I took this as something of a racial slight. Some members of my own family are ginger (fortunately nobody that close), so I understand the importance of tolerance. But I was never going to get any information out of the princess if I intervened every time she needed her consciousness raised.
“Lidia Ivanovna’s father could not face the world knowing that he had been betrayed, so there was no question of divorce. But he never allowed his wife to leave the house again. She died of shame a few years later.”
“And this is all fact?” I said.
“Of course not,” said the princess, tapping me with her fan. “This is all gossip. Marvellous fun! Lidia’s father refused to let Lidia mix with society in case she turned out the same as her mother. And look! He’s scarcely cold in his grave and she’s throwing champagne-fuelled parties, the hussy.”
“From what I know of her, she seems a very nice girl,” I said firmly. “Is any of what you’ve told me possibly true?”
“All of it could be,” said the princess robustly. “I knew the couple who were going to be godparents, and they never said a word about it. That proves it. They were obviously sworn to secrecy.”
“I’m not sure that–”
“The family pretended that there was a funeral, but i
f there was a funeral, you tell me where the infant’s grave is.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Nowhere!” crowed the princess. “That child was smuggled out of the house in the dead of night.”
“You mean Lidia’s got a brother who’s still alive somewhere?”
The princess nodded. “Exactly!”
“Shouldn’t somebody look for him?”
“I can’t imagine who would want to.”
“Lidia?”
“Princess Tamsonova! Even with her sheltered upbringing, she could not be so foolish. These family scandals should be left where they belong, to add excitement to conversation in the salons of the upper classes. I’ll invite the girl to my party, but I’d like to meet her in a more intimate situation first. I won’t trouble myself to call on her, in case I find her boring. But you are never boring, Princess Tamsonova. Perhaps you would arrange a little gathering for tomorrow and invite her?”
Once the princess had wafted off home, I sought out Old Vatrushkin in the pantry. He was slumped against the wall and his face had a ghastly pallor.
“You don’t look too clever,” I said.
He hung his head. “Indeed, your excellency, I can make no claim to intelligence.”
“It’s just an expression,” I said. “I mean you look a bit ill. Anyway, I apologise for the princess’s dreadful behaviour. I had no idea how bad she was. Thank goodness you signalled to me that you wanted to get away. She’s sexist and she objectifies.”
Old Vatrushkin shook his head. “It wasn’t that, your excellency. If you had required me to entertain her highness, of course I would have done my best to give satisfaction.”
I gaped at him. If only I didn’t have a mission to deal with: there was serious consciousness-raising work to be done on everyone. “I can assure you, Old Vatrushkin, that sort of thing will never be part of your job description.”
Old Vatrushkin bowed. “As always, your excellency is too good to me. But I was anxious to leave as quickly as possible, since I had stupidly sustained a small cut on the samovar and was afraid I might stain something.”
I nodded in agreement, thinking of the bloodstains on the cushion cover back home when I inadvertently stabbed Dad with the throwing knife. “That thing’s a menace. Take it down to the pantry and bring up the other one for tomorrow – I’m having a girls’ afternoon tea.”
Old Vatrushkin gave a moan of distress. “In this one instance, your excellency, I must contradict you. The samovar in the pantry is of mediocre quality, intended only for serfs. These ladies will all be curious to see your home and it is essential they recognise that you are a great lady. I must serve them from the samovar in the salon.”
I shook my head at him. “Old Vatrushkin, have you not paid attention to anything I’ve told you? To paraphrase the national bard’s hymn to egalitarianism, the samovar’s but the guinea’s stamp, the man’s the gowd for a’ that. Gowd means gold.”
“But it’s the samovar that’s gold,” protested Old Vatrushkin. “Please, your excellency, let it stay. All I need do is file down the beak a little.”
He was flapping his hands with anxiety, and I noticed a massive bandage on his right hand, with blood oozing through it.
“This is the slight cut?” I asked.
“It is nothing,” he said. “I found a needle and thread and sewed the skin back together.”
“Old Vatrushkin, you can’t possibly have done it properly one-handed, especially not left-handed,” I said, unwrapping the bandage to reveal a confusion of knots in a gaping wound. “See? This is a complete mess.”
Old Vatrushkin’s bottom lip trembled. “Forgive me, your excellency. I did my best. I’m sorry it was not good enough.”
“Why on earth didn’t you ask the maid to do it?”
“I did,” said Old Vatrushkin. “She said it wasn’t part of her duties.”
My mouth set in a firm line. “She’s having a laugh,” I said.
“Forgive me again, your excellency, for contradicting you, but I don’t think so. I have never seen her laugh. In fact, when she saw the blood, she screamed.”
“It’s just an expression,” I said, summoning the maid with some asperity.
She lounged in the doorway, looking sulky.
“Listen, missy, I’ve had just about enough of your airs and graces,” I said. “I’ve told you already, this is an egalitarian household. I may not be completely conversant with the demarcation between household staff, but I’m pretty sure a lady’s maid gets involved in a little light needlework. You must have to mend torn frocks from time to time.”
The maid opened her mouth to protest but I continued regardless. “That, however, is not the point. The point is that another member of the household asked you for help. You will now get your sewing-case and you will give that help. Understood?”
She dropped a small reluctant curtsy and set off as instructed.
“Your excellency,” said Old Vatrushkin urgently. “If I am to be resewn, I would much rather it was by you than by that incompetent creature.”
“Don’t worry,” I soothed him. “I’ll supervise, and if she doesn’t get it right, she’ll just have to rip the stitches out and start again. I won’t let her get away with shoddy work, however long it takes.”
“Your excellency is, as ever, too good to me,” said Old Vatrushkin.
The maid returned and produced a threaded needle.
“Right,” I said. “Make sure the two flaps of skin are slightly overlapping before you start.”
Old Vatrushkin stretched his hand open to allow the operation to begin, setting off another gush of blood. The maid screamed and, for good measure, fainted.
With Old Vatrushkin’s help, I propped her against a table leg.
“Honestly, I’m sure she did that on purpose,” I said. “Your wish has come true, Old Vatrushkin, and I’m performing the procedure after all.”
“I was being selfish,” he said. “I cannot put your excellency to this trouble. Please ignore it. After all, what is the worst that can happen?”
We both thought.
“It could become gangrenous and your hand would have to be amputated?” I suggested.
“I’m sure I could learn to drive one-handed,” said Old Vatrushkin. “I shall go and practise immediately.”
He was such a conscientious, determined soul that I was sure he’d manage, but I was actually quite keen for an opportunity to try out my surgical skills. In the absence of anaesthetic, I poured Old Vatrushkin a large glass of vodka and then made him take off his leather belt and bite on it. I sutured the wound, and I have to say my precise, delicate stitching would have done credit to Edinburgh Royal Infirmary’s finest. Embroidery tends to be a despised, outmoded skill these days, but I like reclaiming so-called feminine pastimes and reshaping them for modern needs.
“Are you fit to go back to work?” I asked.
Old Vatrushkin spat out fragments of leather. “Better than ever, thanks to your excellency. May I now go and file down the eagle’s beak on the samovar?”
I pondered. The beak was an undoubted health hazard. But the samovar was also a work of art, which I couldn’t allow to be vandalised.
“No filing,” I said. “Just try to be more careful during my girls’ tea.”
I went to my writing desk and began composing the invitations in graceful Cyrillic script. “The Princess Tamsonova has great pleasure in inviting you to a traditional Scottish afternoon tea,” I wrote, carefully adding “Tea” in the bottom right-hand corner, where other occasions might demand “Drinks” or “Cocktails”. Then I wrote “Ladies Only” in the bottom left-hand corner.
Once I had completed a stack of invitations, I handed them over to Old Vatrushkin. And then I had a thought.
“Old Vatrushkin, is it all right just to call in on people unannounced in the
afternoon?”
“That would be a sign of very poor breeding, your excellency.”
“Pity,” I sighed. “I wanted a wee chat with Nanny, and I thought I could see her if I delivered Lidia’s invitation personally.”
“Then you should go now,” said Old Vatrushkin. “You will be there in time for lunch.”
“I can’t do that. I haven’t been invited.”
“But it is the custom among our noble families to welcome anyone to join them at mealtimes. Some people have not eaten at home for years – they simply go to other people’s houses. Of course, nobody will think of going to Lidia Ivanovna’s since her home has been shut for so long, but now that she has entered society, she will be prepared to take up her public duties.”
“So anyone can join them?” I said, a new and improved scheme developing in my head. “Right, let’s go.”
I arrived just before lunch to be told that Nanny was down in the kitchens, supervising the preparations. There was no sign of Lidia and I occupied myself admiring the detail on the wooden model of the Viva Catherine. Suddenly Lidia burst in, looking flustered and slightly dishevelled.
“I forgot the time,” she apologised. “Forgive me for keeping you waiting.”
“No apology necessary. Far be it from me to distract you from your woodwork.”
“But I wasn’t – that is, I am very happy to see you.”
She distractedly ran her fingers through her fair hair.
“I’m having a wee party tomorrow, which is girls only, so I’m sure Nanny will let you come,” I said.
“How kind of you. I should have loved to join you, but I’m afraid I have some business to attend to.”
“The princess is particularly keen to meet you,” I said. “Can’t you rearrange? She has very fond memories of your father.”
She clasped her hands. “My revered father. I shall do my utmost to rearrange things as you request.”
“And keep tomorrow evening free as well, since the princess has invited us to a party at her place. I’ll give you some back exercises that will help for dancing with the general.”
