bells of St. Sofia’s even farther afield—calling one to another like flocks of geese across a pond at dusk.
The bells of Ascension . . .
When the Count had passed through Petrovskoye in 1918 on his hurried return from Paris, he had come upon a gathering of peasants milling in mute consternation before the monastery’s walls. The Red Cavalry, it seems, had arrived that morning with a caravan of empty wagons. At the instruction of their young captain, a troop of Cossacks had climbed the campanile and heaved the bells from the steeple one by one. When it came time to heave the Great Bell, a second troop of Cossacks was sent up the stairs. The old giant was hoisted from its hook, balanced on the rail, and tipped into the air, where it somersaulted once before landing in the dust with a thud.
When the abbot rushed from the monastery to confront the captain—demanding in the name of the Lord that they cease this desecration at once—the captain leaned against a post and lit a cigarette.
“One should render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s,” he said, “and unto God what is God’s.” With that, he instructed his men to drag the abbot up the belfry steps and hurl him from the steeple into the arms of his Maker.
Presumably, the bells of the Church of the Ascension had been reclaimed by the Bolsheviks for the manufacture of artillery, thus returning them to the realm from whence they came. Though for all the Count knew, the cannons that had been salvaged from Napoleon’s retreat to make the Ascension’s bells had been forged by the French from the bells at La Rochelle; which in turn had been forged from British blunderbusses seized in the Thirty Years’ War. From bells to cannons and back again, from now until the end of time. Such is the fate of iron ore.
“Count Rostov . . . ?”
The Count looked up from his reverie to find Tanya standing in the doorway.
“Sable I should think,” said the Count, dropping the sleeve. “Yes, most definitely sable.”
December in the Piazza . . .
From the day the Metropol opened its doors, the good people of Moscow had looked to the Piazza to set the tone of the season. For by five o’clock on the first of December, the room had already been festooned in anticipation of the New Year. Evergreen garlands with bright red berries hung from the fountain. Strings of lights fell from the balconies. And revelers? From all across Moscow they came, such that by eight o’clock, when the orchestra struck up its first festive song, every table was spoken for. By nine, the waiters were dragging chairs in from the corridors so that latecomers could hang their arms over the shoulders of friends. And at the center of every table—whether it was hosted by the high or the humble—was a serving of caviar, for it is the genius of this particular delicacy that it may be enjoyed by the ounce or the pound.
As such, it was with a touch of disappointment that the Count entered the Piazza on this winter solstice to find the room ungarlanded, the balustrades unstrung, an accordion player on the bandstand, and two-thirds of the tables empty.
But then, as every child knows, the drumbeat of the season must sound from within. And there, at her usual table by the fountain, was Nina with a dark green ribbon tied around the waist of her bright yellow dress.
“Merry Christmas,” said the Count with a bow when he reached the table.
Nina stood and curtsied. “The joys of the season to you, sir.”
When they were seated with their napkins in their laps, Nina explained that as she would be meeting her father for dinner a little later, she had taken the liberty of ordering herself an hors d’oeuvre.
“Quite sensible,” said the Count.
At that moment, the Bishop appeared, carrying a small tower of ice creams.
“The hors d’oeuvre?”
“Oui,” Nina replied.
Having placed the dish before Nina with a priestly smile, the Bishop turned and asked if the Count would like a menu (as if he didn’t know it by heart!).
“No thank you, my good man. Just a glass of champagne and a spoon.”
Systematic in all matters of importance, Nina ate her ice cream one flavor at a time, moving from the lightest to the darkest in shade. Thus, having already dispatched her French vanilla, she was now moving on to a scoop of lemon, which perfectly matched her dress.