In point of fact, the Count could not see the position that this put the manager in. But given the Count’s unmitigated feelings of sympathy, he decidedly did not want to put him in any position. So, he listened attentively as Mr. Halecki went on:
“If it were up to me, of course, it goes without saying. But what with . . .”
Here, just when the manager might have pinpointed the most specific of causes, he instead gave an indefinite twirl of the hand and let his voice drift off. Then he cleared his throat.
“Naturally, I have little choice but to insist that my staff refrain from using such terms when addressing you. After all, I think we can agree without exaggeration or fear of contradiction that the times have changed.”
In concluding thus, the manager looked to the Count so hopefully, that the Count took immediate pains to reassure him.
“It is the business of the times to change, Mr. Halecki. And it is the business of gentlemen to change with them.”
The manager looked to the Count with an expression of profound gratitude—that someone should understand what he had said so perfectly no further explication was required.
There was a knock at the door and it opened to reveal Arkady, the hotel’s desk captain. The manager’s shoulders slumped at the sight of him. He gestured toward the Count.
“As you can see, Arkady, I am in the midst of a conversation with one of our guests.”
“My apologies, Mr. Halecki, Count Rostov.”
Arkady bowed to both men, but did not retreat.
“All right then,” said the manager. “What is it?”
Arkady gave a slight gesture of the head to suggest that what he had to relate might best be related in private.
“Very well.”
Pushing himself up with both hands, the manager shuffled past his desk, out into the hall, and closed the door, such that the Count found himself alone.
Your Excellency, the Count reflected philosophically. Your Eminence, Your Holiness, Your Highness. Once upon a time, the use of such terms was a reliable indication that one was in a civilized country. But now, what with . . .
Here, the Count gave an indefinite twirl of the hand.
“Well. It is probably for the best,” he said.
Then rising from his chair, he approached the engravings, which upon closer inspection depicted three phases of a foxhunt: “The Scent,” “Tallyho,” and “The Chase.” In the second print, a young man in stiff black boots and a bright red jacket was blowing on a brass horn that turned a full 360 degrees from its mouthpiece to its bell. Without a doubt, the horn was a carefully crafted object expressive of beauty and tradition, but was it essential to the modern world? For that matter, did we really need a crew of nattily dressed men, purebred horses, and well-trained dogs to corner a fox in a hole? Without exaggeration or fear of contradiction, the Count could answer his own question in the negative.
For the times do, in fact, change. They change relentlessly. Inevitably. Inventively. And as they change, they set into bright relief not only outmoded honorifics and hunting horns, but silver summoners and mother-of-pearl opera glasses and all manner of carefully crafted things that have outlived their usefulness.
Carefully crafted things that have outlived their usefulness, thought the Count. I wonder . . .
Moving quietly across the room, the Count put an ear to the door, where he could hear the voices of the manager, Arkady, and a third party talking outside. Though muted, their tones suggested they were still a few steps from resolution. Quickly, the Count returned to the wall with the etchings and counted two panels beyond the depiction of “The Chase.” Placing his hand in the center of the panel, he gave a firm push. The panel depressed slightly. When a click sounded, the Count pulled back his fingers and the panel popped open, revealing a hidden cabinet. Inside, just as the Grand Duke had described, was an inlaid box with brass fittings. Reaching into the cabinet, the Count gently lifted the lid of the box and there they were, perfectly crafted and peacefully at rest.
“Marvelous,” he said. “Simply marvelous.”
Archeologies
Pick a card,” the Count was saying to the smallest of the three ballerinas.
When he had entered the Shalyapin for his reinstated nightly aperitif, the Count had discovered them standing in a row, their delicate fingers resting on the bar as if they intended to plié. But for a solitary drinker hunched over his consolation,