Gregor von Rezzori - An Ermine in Czernopol

Naturally Herr Tarangolian substituted a hand gesture for this particular expression as well. But the colonel did not, and before he could catch his breath after this denouement and continue his speech in a more dignified flow, possibly bringing it to a more conciliatory ending, Tildy had turned on his heel and left the room. One hour later, two men appeared as Tildy’s seconds and delivered the major’s challenge to Colonel Turturiuk.

Tildy had been downright crafty, as Herr Tarangolian assured us, in his choice of seconds. One was a major whose career on the general staff had been ruined by Turturiuk; the other was a lieutenant colonel who had his eye on succeeding Turturiuk as regimental commander. With that, the case became bitterly earnest.

Because it wasn’t acceptable for an officer to deliver a direct challenge to his immediate superior, an honor court was convened, but this did not reach a verdict. Of course Tildy was temporarily dismissed from service, and it was clear that his career as an officer was over.

Uncle Sergei discoursed on the affair with cheerful expertise. He considered it a truly tragic conflict of two ethical principles: honor and obedience.

“Permit me to raise an objection,” Herr Tarangolian replied. “Fundamentally you are correct. But with Tildy the matter is different: he should have gone out of his way to prevent the misunderstanding that his challenge was over the wounded honor of his sister-in-law. He could have demanded satisfaction from Năstase for, let us say, a more than insinuating remark about his wife. But not because the man had defamed his sister-in-law. Anyone who knows Colonel Turturiuk — and I appreciate his human, or I might say all-too-human, traits, but one should not overestimate his intellectual capacities on their account — should have expected him to miss this subtle difference in a chain of smug provocations. Tildy, too, should have been prepared for that. His otherwise superior calm, his model self-discipline, should have withstood the — admittedly harsh — test of Turturiuk’s loutish behavior, for the clarity of the case.”

“What is this clarity?” Uncle Sergei countered. “Is it not clear enough that he has to have shooting match, no matter who it is with? Take Nikolai Pavlovich Vinogradov …”

Herr Tarangolian parried with a smile. “Excuse me, dear sir, but this is a different situation, and a different epoch as well. What might suit a Lermontovian hero of nineteen years …”

“But Nikolai Pavlovich shot himself when he was twenty-one years, in 1911, and Lermontov, je vous en prie , was killed in 1841 in duel with Martinoff. In the Kavkaz. So what you are speaking about?”

Herr Tarangolian maintained his considerate smile. “I am speaking about Lermontov’s bold young descendant. What might have redounded to the credit of a young officer of the guard in a golden era — and please believe me when I say that I mourn its passing as well, because I experienced it — what was a beautiful sign of courage and passion, in such a profaned time as ours can be read as an atavistic throwback in a mature man, a relapse into impulsive belligerence … My friend, don’t forget: we live in Czernopol.”

“ Eh bien, alors! And you are not happy to find someone is here who is establishing honor and order?”

A shadow of old, wise melancholy fell across Herr Tarangolian’s smile, narrowing it with a shade of irony. “I would welcome such an effort if I thought it might prove successful,” he said. “Because, in this case, failure would be worse than not having attempted it at all. I understand exactly what you mean; I interpreted Tildy’s actions in the same way. He is concerned with establishing order within the world he inhabits — the order that he loves so much because it is the only one he knows, the only one he knows exists … At least its appearance is essential. Maybe that would mean something, maybe that would be all that was needed, if the appearance of order were established, don’t you think? If it is strong enough that someone is ready to risk his life on its behalf. I see that just as you do. He is a hussar, this strange Nikolaus Tildy. He loves bravery, style, and élan, it’s in his blood. To ride out in single combat against the slovenliness of a city, of a country — that is truly a deed for hussars — beautiful and mad. But permit me to say that he did not handle it skillfully. By allowing this mix-up, by letting people think he was demanding satisfaction on behalf of his sister-in-law, by challenging his commander expressly on her account, makes the whole case a farce. With all due respect for chivalry, dueling on behalf of Madame Lyubanarov is more than quixotic: it is the act of a clown. Above all, and what strikes me as even more important, he is no longer championing a pure cause. We should not underestimate the mystical requirements of heroism — or should one simply call this an act of martyrdom? Tildy knows that he is no longer representing a pure cause. You understand me, yes? It is no longer a pure cause, and therefore he will not succeed in defending it with victory. And he knows that. He is no longer setting forth with the beautiful but painful knowledge of the hero who is bound to perish, but with a bad conscience, and therefore he is at fault. For me that is reason enough to declare him the loser. If in my capacity as prefect of this province I should have to decide for or against Tildy — I’m speaking very hypothetically, because in reality this could never occur, since these things are completely outside my sphere of influence — even so, assuming it did come to that, I can say right now without the slightest hesitation that I would decide against Tildy, that I would let him fall. And not out of a sense of justice so much as just to be on the safe side — sheer superstition, if you will. Or else belief — or whatever you choose to call it.”

These words elicited an awkward general silence that was finally broken by our mother. She said: “I wrote Aida about it. The poor child follows our lives here with such interest; she wants to know everything that’s happening. Perhaps you would be curious to read what she thinks about it.”

She handed the prefect a letter. Herr Tarangolian took it with his fingertips like a rose petal, pulled it close to his face as if he intended to kiss the paper, knitted his eyes and scanned the lines while moving the letter farther and farther away, until it was finally at arm’s length.

“You are wearing glasses when you read?” asked Uncle Sergei, curious.

“Not at all, not in the least, my vision is perfect,” muttered Herr Tarangolian with the quick, defensive tone of someone embarrassed. “Although when I am moved — please forgive me but the fate of your dear sister touches my heart so much …”

Our mother took back the letter. “Here, Aida just wrote a couple lines about the matter: ‘I find Major Tildy’s conduct exceptionally beautiful and noble. Precisely because he chooses to stand up for L. shows him as a man of chivalrous sensibility, of the sort that seems to be extinct in this new world. Standing up for those who are lost is Christian in the noblest way. I admire Tildy as one of the last men under whose protection women can still feel secure.’”

“That is very deeply felt, and very feminine,” said Herr Tarangolian, after a brief moment of emotion. “Very much Aida with her tender sensibilities. May I ask if she mentions how she is doing?”

“Only two sentences at the end of the letter: ‘I am suffering indescribable pain. Pray for me!’”

Herr Tarangolian, shaken, went silent. “If only we could live our lives all over again from the beginning,” he then said. He got up, came over to us children and stroked our heads. “You, in whom our wasted hopes are resurrected,” he said, full of melancholy. He kissed our mother’s hand and left with an elegiac wave.