Амор Тоулз - A Gentleman in Moscow

But for the Count, his philosophical leanings had always been essentially meteorological. Specifically, he believed in the inevitable influence of clement and inclement weathers. He believed in the influence of early frosts and lingering summers, of ominous clouds and delicate rains, of fog and sunshine and snowfall. And he believed, most especially, in the reshaping of destinies by the slightest change in the thermometer.

By way of example, one need only look down from this window. Not three weeks before—with the temperature hovering around 45˚ Fahrenheit—Theatre Square had been empty and gray. But with an increase in the average temperature of just five degrees, the trees had begun to blossom, the sparrows had begun to sing, and couples young and old were lingering on the benches. If such a slight change in temperature was all it took to transform the life of a public square, why should we think the course of human history any less susceptible?

Napoleon would have been the first to admit that after assembling an intrepid corps of commanders and fifteen divisions, after assessing the enemy’s weaknesses, studying his terrain, and carefully formulating a plan of attack, one must finally contend with temperature. For the reading on the thermometer will not only govern the pace of advance, but will also determine the adequacy of supplies, and either bolster or betray the courage of one’s men. (Ah, Napoleon, perhaps you would never have prevailed in your quest for Mother Russia; but ten degrees warmer and at least you might have reached home with half your forces intact, instead of losing another three hundred thousand men between the gates of Moscow and the banks of the Neman River.)

But if examples from the field of battle are not to your taste, then consider instead a party in late autumn to which you and a loose-knit band of friends and acquaintances have been invited to celebrate the twenty-first birthday of the charming Princess Novobaczky. . . .

At five o’clock, when you look from your dressing room window, the weather seems certain to weigh upon the festivities. For with the temperature at 34˚, clouds as far as the eye can see, and the onset of a drizzling rain, the Princess’s guests will be arriving at her party cold, wet, and a little worse for wear. But by the time you set out at six, the temperature has dropped just enough that what begins to land on your shoulders is not a gray, autumnal rain, but the season’s first snowfall. Thus, the very precipitation that might have soured the evening, instead lends it an aura of magic. In fact, so mesmerizing is the manner in which the snowflakes spiral through the air that you are run from the road when a troika passes at full gallop—with a young officer of the Hussars standing at the reins like a centurion in his chariot.

Having spent an hour freeing your carriage from a ditch, you arrive at the Princess’s late but, as luck would have it, so does a portly old friend from your days at the academy. In fact, you get to watch as he alights from his droshky, throws back his shoulders, fills out his chest, and then tests the formality of the footmen—by slipping on a patch of ice and landing on his rump. Helping him up, you hook your arm under his and lead him into the house just as the rest of the party is spilling from the drawing room.

In the dining room, you make a quick circle of the table in search of your name, assuming that—given your reputation as a raconteur—you will once again be placed beside some awkward cousin. But lo and behold, you have been seated at the right hand of the guest of honor. While on the Princess’s left . . . is none other than the dashing young Hussar who had run you from the road.

With a glance, you can see that he fancies himself the natural recipient of the Princess’s attention. Clearly, he expects to regale her with tales of the regiment while occasionally refilling her glass with wine. When the meal is over, he will offer his arm and lead her into the ballroom, where he will display his talents at the mazurka. And when the orchestra plays Strauss, he will not need to waltz the Princess across the floor, because he will be on the terrace in her arms.

But just as the young lieutenant is about to tell his first anecdote, the doors to the kitchen open and three footmen appear bearing platters. All eyes turn to see what Mrs. Trent has prepared for the occasion, and when the three silver domes are lifted simultaneously there are gasps of appreciation. For in honor of the Princess, she has cooked her specialty: English roast with Yorkshire pudding.

In the history of man, no military commissary has raised envy. Due to a combination of efficiency, disinterest, and the lack of a feminine touch, all of the food in an army kitchen is boiled until the tops rattle off the pots. So, having made do with cabbage and potatoes for three months straight, the young lieutenant is unprepared for the arrival of Mrs. Trent’s beef. Seared for fifteen minutes at 450˚ and then roasted for two hours at 350˚, her roast is tender and red at the center yet crispy and brown at the crust. Thus, our young Hussar sets aside his regimental tales in favor of extra helpings and the refilling of his own glass with wine; while in accordance with the established rules of etiquette, it is you who must entertain the Princess with a few amusing stories of your own.

Having cleaned the gravy from his plate with the last crust of the pudding, the young lieutenant finally turns his attention to his hostess; but at that very same moment, the orchestra begins tuning in the ballroom and the guests push back their chairs. So he simply holds out his arm for the Princess, as your portly friend appears at your side.

Now, there is nothing your friend loves better than a good quadrille; and despite his physique, he has been known to hop like a rabbit and prance like a buck. But placing his hand on his tailbone, he explains that his spill on the drive has left him too sore to gallivant. He wonders, instead, if you’d like to play a few hands of cards and you respond it would be your pleasure. But it just so happens that the lieutenant overhears this exchange and, in a boisterous frame of mind, imagines that here is a perfect opportunity to teach some dandies a thing or two about games of chance. Besides, he reasons to himself, the orchestra will be playing for hours and the Princess is going nowhere. So without further thought, he passes her arm to the nearest gentleman and invites himself to join you at the card table—while signaling the butler for another glass of wine.

Well.

Perhaps it was that extra glass of wine. Perhaps it was the lieutenant’s tendency to underestimate a well-dressed man. Or perhaps it was simply bad luck. Whatever the cause, suffice it to say that after two hours, it is the lieutenant who has lost one thousand rubles and you who hold his marker.

But however recklessly the fellow drives his troika, you have no wish to put him in a spot. “It is the Princess’s birthday,” you say. “In her honor, let us call it even.” And with that, you tear the lieutenant’s marker in two and toss the halves on the baize. In appreciation, he sweeps his wine glass to the floor, knocks back his chair, and stumbles out the terrace doors into the night.

Although in the course of the game there were only five players and three observers, the story of the torn IOU quickly makes its way around the ballroom, and suddenly the Princess has sought you out in order to express her gratitude for this act of gallantry. As you bow and reply It is nothing , the band strikes up a waltz and you have no choice but to take her in your arms and spirit her across the floor.

The Princess waltzes divinely. She is light on her feet and spins like a top. But with more than forty couples dancing and the fires in the two fireplaces built unusually high, the ambient temperature in the ballroom reaches 80˚, prompting the Princess’s cheeks to flush and her bosom to heave. Concerned that she may be feeling faint, naturally, you inquire if she would like some air. . . .