The Russian Aristocrat

My posh English friend was visiting town with her even posher new boyfriend, and when I invited them for lunch, I prepared myself to be on my very best behavior possible. Fresh water for the flowers, no half-finished wine bottles lingering in dusty corners, and stern words were had beforehand with Mr. Los Angeles about the undesirability for the occasion of his refreshingly untrammeled American habit of speech.

(Photo by Maryna Nikolaieva)

My posh English friend’s new boyfriend was very posh indeed. I’ll call him the Honourable Giles, that being a suitably posh sort of name, and he was tall and patrician with piercing blue eyes and a beautifully modulated voice. It soon became apparent that, as far as intellectual prowess went, the Hon. Giles did have the most beautifully modulated voice; but he seemed benign and was kind to my friend, who went all pink and silly when she looked at him. So we poured him wine, didn’t ask him any complicated questions, and all went well.

“You’re a writer,” he informed me, over the non-controversial roast chicken and salad..

“I am,” I agreed non-controversially, politely passing the non-controversial seven grain bread.

“That must be an interesting life,” he said.

“Oh, it’s real interesting,” smilingly affirmed Mr. Los Angeles, who has for years been privy to my dazed wanderings around the house, spilling coffee over computers and dropping forks down the garbage disposal as my brain tussles fiercely with the burning question of whether to call a gardening implement a shovel or a spade.

I shot Mr. Los Angeles a non-controversially warning glare.

“I’ve always found writers to be extraordinarily interesting people,” the Hon. Giles continued.

“You have no idea,” delightedly concurred Mr. Los Angeles, who has spent many a spellbound evening listening to my writer friends and me exchange bloodcurdling tales of misplaced semi-colons, misspelled by-lines, and entire paragraphs ruined – ruined, I tell you! – by the copy editor’s replacing “however” with “but.”

“That’s very kind of you to say, dear,” I said, delivering just the smallest of non-controversial kicks around the area of the marital shins.

The Hon. Giles was now on a roll.

“I think the thing about writers,” he began, “is that they see so much of the world in their professional lives …”

Mr. Los Angeles, who has known me not to leave the house for days on end when wrestling with a deadline, sat up eagerly in anticipation.

“… that it gives them,” continued the Hon. Giles, “a sort of wider perspective on the world around them. They seem to have just that bit more insight, somehow, than other people have.”

Mr. Los Angeles beamed broadly.

“An interesting thing that I’ve noticed about writers …” he began.

“Well, now,” I rushed to interject in a last-ditch attempt to stave off the social awkwardness of mariticide, “this is a very interesting point you’ve raised, Hon. Giles. Speaking as a writer myself, I think I can say …”

Oh, lord, I thought then. What on earth could I say, speaking as a writer?

Mr. Los Angeles rested his chin on his hand and regarded me with an expression of interest. Privately, I began to question the appeal of the institution of marriage.

“I think I can say,” I repeated wildly, “that …”

Ah, yes, I thought then, here was something I could say.

“ … that you can’t always tell what someone will be like in person just from the way they write.”

Not bad at all, I thought, for someone who was making it up as she went along. In fact, I could even expand on it a little.

“Take for example,” I began importantly. I wavered for a moment, while Mr. Los Angeles raised a brightly inquiring eyebrow. Just in time, I righted myself.

“Take Tolstoy,” I spat, venomously, in the general marital direction. Tolstoy would do, I thought: he was actually quite a good one for being plucked from the ether. “In his writing, he had this wonderful idealistic vision for life, but in his marriage …” and I won’t say that I looked at Mr. Los Angeles just a little hard at this point but then again I won’t say that I didn’t “… he wasn’t very nice to his wife at all.”

“Tolstoy,” said the Hon. Giles thoughtfully.

“Tolstoy,” I nodded, feeling really rather pleased with myself.

“Tolstoy.” Contemplatively, the Hon. Giles narrowed his piercing eyes and stroked his chin with an aristocratic hand.

“Wasn’t Tolstoy,” he mused pensively, “ a (very rude word indeed)?”

There was a pause while I blinked in shock, my friend smiled fondly, and Mr. Los Angeles became suddenly fascinated by the pattern of the cracks on the kitchen ceiling.

“Well,” I said after a moment. “While I do understand that he wasn’t very nice to his wife, I’m not sure I’d actually go that far.”

The Hon. Giles thought for a moment.. “I’m pretty sure he was a (very rude word indeed),” he said, then. “I’m sure I read about it somewhere.”

“Did you?” I said, politely concealing my surprise that the Hon. Giles had learned how to read at all. “I’d say that to call him that was a bit harsh, but,” scrupulous to the end to remain non-controversial, “maybe the writer you read knew something about him that I don’t.”

The Hon. Giles thought some more, and then his eyes cleared.

“Yes, he was!” he cried triumphantly, having successfully placed the high-born Lev Nikolayovich Tolstoy in his correct position in Russian aristocracy. “He was (Very Rude Word Indeed) Leo Tolstoy!”

I not so much rose, as shot, from my chair.

“Oh, my heavens above!” I cried. “I’ve just realized I locked the neighbor’s cat in the garden shed! Please do excuse me while I go and rescue the poor fellow immediately!”

“Do you want some help?” said Mr. Los Angeles.

“Certainly not,” I told him, viciously. “You stay here and talk to our guests about Count Leo Tolstoy.”