We exchanged a few commonplaces about women, while the
pâté de foie gras
changed into an ice soaked in
porto
, and while we toyed with a soufflé perfumed in some delightful way. This amiable Communist was entertaining me royally. A perfect intimacy already united us. I gave up counting his repetitions of ‘my dear fellow,’ and I was secretly rejoiced to remark the excellent turn which my mission was taking. After the cheese, I took it for granted that the time had come to talk business and, perfectly certain that anything that I might say would not shock my host, I began:
“Now, pay attention to what I say, Varichkine—no unfriendly ear is listening in and you can rely absolutely on my
discretion. I am going to talk frankly to you—you know that expression: ‘Just between you and me and the lamp post.’ I have already told you the main thing that is worrying Lady Diana. You have given me reason to hope that the deal may be put over provided you feel disposed to use your influence in Moscow. So let me be precise as to Lady Diana’s instructions. She thoroughly appreciates the supreme importance of your collaboration. Consequently, she wants me to compensate you to the limit, and on the day when the organization has been properly formed, she will make over to you a percentage of the stock—”
Varichkine interrupted me with a wave of his hand. He caressed the astrakhan fur of his curly beard more affectionately than ever, screwed up his sardonic eyes, and leaned over a dish of peaches, holding the champagne bottle in his left hand.
“Lady Wynham is beautiful. Will you tell her for me that any of the kind of presents that Artaxerxes might offer would leave me cold, and that I’ll countersign the papers for her concession when the rising sun surprises her in my arms.”
And, seeing that I was struck dumb with surprise, he added, “I count on you, my boy, to say what I mean less crudely. But get it through her head somehow that, if I use my influence, my price will be one night of love. You can understand that I might like to know about the kisses of a great lady whom ordinary people can’t even approach, and whose ancestors have been cited in history books. We all have our desires. You have brought me the hope that I may be able to satisfy mine. I thank you in advance.”
I promised Varichkine that I would transmit his conditions to my titled employer. He seemed delighted and, as he was drinking freely, his gayety increased by the minute. He put his knife between his teeth and exclaimed jovially:
“Just look me over. I am the Red Peril! You know what I mean—I strike terror into the hearts of the French Democrats. But perhaps I couldn’t even warm Lady Wynham’s aristocratic blood.”
Then, suddenly becoming serious, he said in a half whisper, “I don’t need to tell you to use the utmost discretion on account of Irina. If she ever finds out about this, my days will be numbered and the number won’t be big. Yours, too, I think.”
“Varichkine, thank you for the warning.”
He called the
maitre d’hotel
and ordered, “Franz, now you can bring in the dessert,” and, noticing my astonishment, inasmuch as we had already finished dinner, he explained, very amiably:
“This is another kind of dessert. I just wanted to demonstrate once and for all that we Communists know a red French heel when we see one. Why shouldn’t we after wallowing about in all this blood?”
He burst out laughing. “That surely is a
bon mot
. I will use it between the acts of the next Pan-Russian committee meeting of the Soviets. Anyway, here comes the dessert. How do you like it?”
Two women had just stepped into our funereal dining-room. They were obviously two natives of Berlin. Their evening dresses were very
decolleté
and their perfect complexions were quite evidently of the removable variety. “Ladies” who were habituées of the
Palais de Danse
and the night restaurants on the Kurfürstendamm.
Varichkine introduced me to them in these terms: “I ordered a blonde and a brunette. I don’t think Franz did so badly, do you?”
And turning to the two demimondaines he demanded, “What are your names?”
“Frieda and Lieschen,” replied the brunette.
“I am Frieda—this is Lieschen. And what are your names?”
Varichkine drew himself up. “My friend is Mr. Müller and I am Mr. Schmidt. That’s all you need to know. You’re here to amuse us.”
The brunette apologized, like a good girl. “We’re not stupid. It makes no difference to us.”
And the blonde came to her friend’s assistance. “The important thing is to offer us a drink, don’t you think?”
Varichkine ignored the remark and said to me with great courtesy, “Which one do you want?”
“After you, Varichkine,” I protested.
While we were carrying on this battle of politeness, the blonde and the brunette waited with all the placidity of two beribboned bovines. The blonde, done up like a candy-box in her straw-colored tango dress, arranged her bodice with a mechanical gesture. The brunette had the muscles of an acrobat, and looked to be hammered out of cold steel or gouged out of real marble. She modestly stooped to adjust a garter.
“Tails for Frieda, heads for Lieschen,” Varichkine suggested, throwing a gold piece on the table.
“Heads!”
“Tails it is! I get Frieda.”
He motioned to the brunette, who sat down docilely on his knee while Lieschen seized me by the neck, gurgling, “
Schatz
! I am going to drink out of your glass. I’ll bet I know what you’re thinking about!”
Varichkine turned a switch. The side lights went out. I was not particularly thrilled to find myself exposed to Lieschen’s advances in this semi-obscurity. But, inasmuch as it would have been most impolite to refuse any of my companion’s hospitality, I made no protest. Suddenly, a raucous cry rang
out. A foot struck the table. A glass smashed into a thousand pieces.
Frieda’s voice articulated in perfect Berlin slang, “
Ach
! Dog of a pig! Brute!”
Lieschen whispered in my ear, “Is your friend always like that?”
I did my best to reassure her. A few minutes passed. Lieschen, stretched out on the sofa beside me, was guzzling—thoroughly happy—the tumblers of Heidsick which I poured out for her. Across the table I heard some whispering, and the swish of silk which resembled nocturnal butterflies beating vainly against a muslin screen. Then, without warning, there came a cry of real alarm. The table was knocked over and the broken dishes scattered here and there. There was the noise of a struggle, followed by a wail from Frieda:
“Help! The murderer!”
Thoroughly alarmed, I turned on the lights and saw the poor wretch clutching her breast. Her eyes were wild with fear. Varichkine had taken a position before the door to prevent her escape.
“What’s the matter?” I cried out.
“Lieschen,” whimpered Frieda, “call the police. That brute! Do you know what he was going to do? Look! He was going to stab me with this fork.”
The blonde in the straw-colored tango dress had got to her feet, terrified.
Varichkine said calmly, “Hold on to her, old chap. What is the use of creating a scandal? Frieda is just a damned little fool who doesn’t understand a joke.”
“Assassin! Murderer! Cutthroat!” She screamed these last epithets in a panic-stricken voice, her face besmirched with tears.
Lieschen, enjoying a fit of hysterics, rolled around on the
sofa and twisted my napkin savagely. I began to regret having accepted Mr. Leonid Varichkine’s invitation to dinner. He seemed to understand my mute rebuke and remarked with the utmost friendliness:
“What difference does it make, my dear fellow, even if this child does make a scene? Diplomatic immunity protects me.”
Then he tried to console his victim: “Great God, little girl, are you as sensitive as all that? Why don’t you try to forget it by thinking of this fifty-dollar bill and all the pretty things you can buy with it.”
While I busied myself with the task of bathing Lieschen’s forehead in champagne, Varichkine gave Frieda a drink of brandy. Half an hour later, the two lovely ladies of the evening, more or less calmed, departed. The blonde supported the brunette. Varichkine, always generous, handed them two more bank notes and patted them on the back paternally.
When the door had closed behind them he remarked disdainfully, “Two little fools.”
And, picking up the brandy bottle which, by a miracle, was not broken, he poured out two tremendous tumblers. At last, he complained, “Really and truly, old fellow, it’s become a physical impossibility to find any amusement in Berlin!”
That same evening, when I got back to the Adlon I sent this cablegram to Lady Diana:
Have met the gentleman. He consents to help you but refuses offer of stock. Exacts natural payment. Consider carefully. Wire decision. Love. Gerard
.
When I awoke the next morning it was to see, through my open window, the sunshine lighting up the Louis XV facade of the French Embassy. I conceived the idea of taking a little walk in the Tiergarten. I was crossing the lobby when a bell-boy stopped me:
“Your Excellency, this gentleman wants to talk to you.”
He pointed out a shabbily attired individual who was waiting for me, his head bared. The stranger approached and informed me in German, with a marked Russian accent, that he had a most important message. At the same time, he handed me a white envelope.
“Were you sent by the Soviet Delegation?”
The man made an evasive gesture and took himself off. Intrigued by this mystery, I tore open the envelope and I read the following lines in a fine but steady hand:
Sir, You tried to deceive me yesterday when you pretended that Lady Diana Wynham was not the legal heir to the oil lands of Telav. That childish lie was no credit to you, because you must have known that I would have definite information on the subject within twenty-four hours. Therefore, would you mind allowing a feeble woman to give you a little bit of good advice: From now on, absent yourself from any interest in the beautiful Scotch lady’s affairs in Georgia. If you don’t you are likely to expose yourself to grave dangers
.
I
RINA
M
OURAVIEFF
.
I read this threatening message twice. I remembered the appearance of the “feeble woman” who had signed it. And the look of that “feeble woman” pursued me during my entire constitutional which took me as far as Richard Wagner’s monument. I saw Madam Mouravieff in her perfectly correct gray tailored suit, as simple as when she advanced into Varichkine’s office; Madam Mouravieff, the terror of the dungeons of Loubianka and the purveyor of death. A warning from such a woman was not easily cast aside.
THE SCRAPING OF A HEAVY TRUNK ALONG THE floor of the next room awakened me. My watch said nine o’clock. I had just enjoyed a funny nightmare in which some devilish hand was pricking a lot of toy balloons with a penknife. The waiter brought my breakfast.
I asked, “Who has arrived?”
He allowed himself to smile equivocally. “I don’t know, your Excellency, except that she is a very beautiful woman—and, as the old Saxon proverb goes, ‘Better a pretty woman on the other side of the wall than an ugly one on this side of the coverlet.’ ”
This gollywog, so well initiated into German folklore, did a half turn and disappeared. I was just buttering my toast when he knocked again. He made his usual salute and said:
“Pardon me, your Excellency, but the lady has ordered me to open the communicating door.”
I was about to express my astonishment at such insolence when I heard a laughing voice from behind the cream and gold lackey:
“Hello, Gerard, it’s just little me.”
Lady Diana entered. She was still in her traveling suit. I apologized for receiving her in lavender pajamas, but she shut
my mouth with her gloved hand. She embraced me the way a happy older sister might embrace her black sheep brother, and cried out:
“Now, who is surprised? Gerard—you didn’t expect me so soon, did you? But I’m a woman who knows what she wants. I received your cable yesterday at eleven o’clock. At one o’clock I was on my way via Dover and Vlissingen—and here I am. Gerard, I’m hungry. You don’t mind, do you, if I eat a bit of your toast and if I drink the rest of your coffee?”
Being sincerely glad to see Lady Diana again, I gave up all idea of having any breakfast. She was charming in her flour-colored tweed and her little hat of
fauve
leather. She pulled a mirror out of her mauve sack and powdered her nose with excusable impatience. Then she unloosed an avalanche of questions.
“So you’ve seen the Communist? Have you made the proposition clear to him? I didn’t understand your telegram. He wants a natural payment? Do you mean in naphtha or in kisses? Does he want one of my oil wells or a place in my affections? They tell me soap is expensive in Moscow—I suppose he is dirty. Have you his picture? Please, Gerard, tell me all about it. I simply must know everything.”
I gave her a detailed account of my activities while her delightful teeth chiseled holes in my last piece of toast. Finally she nodded and said:
“Now I understand perfectly. Here are the obvious points: The Communist can do everything for me if he wants to. The problem is whether or not fifteen thousand acres of oil land in the Caucasus are worth one night of my love. What is your opinion?”
“My darling, that depends on the value which you attribute to one night of love. I know quantities of women to whom
I wouldn’t give the mud on my boots. I’ve met a few others whose favors, as quoted in Love’s stock exchange, are worth the best part of the Milky Way. The agronomical equivalence of a woman can never be codified. There are so many creatures whose hearts are like uncultivated soil and whose more material territories should be thickly fertilized with phosphate. As far as you are concerned there isn’t enough land in the entire world to pay for the savor of your kisses.”
Lady Diana playfully flicked me in the face with the napkin. “Gerard, I don’t want you to flatter me. I want to know what you really think.”