“Isn’t he the chap who had an exchange of words with that bulldog of a fellow a few days ago?”
An “exchange of words” was something of a polite diminution of the facts. For on the afternoon in question, when this Soslovsky had wondered aloud to his luncheon companions why the Belarusians seemed particularly slow to embrace the ideas of Lenin, the bulldog (who had been sitting at a neighboring table) had cast his napkin on his plate and demanded to know “the meaning of this!” With a disregard as pointed as his beard, Soslovsky suggested there were three reasons, and he began to tick them off:
“First, there is the relative laziness of the population—a trait for which the Belarusians are known the world over. Second, there is their infatuation with the West, which presumably stems from their long history of intermarriage with the Poles. But third, and above all else—”
Alas, the restaurant was never to hear the above-all-else. For the bulldog, who had knocked back his chair at the word intermarriage, now hoisted Soslovsky off his seat. In the scramble that ensued, it took three waiters to separate the various hands from the various lapels, and two busboys to sweep the chicken Maréchal from the floor.
Recalling the scene in a flash, Andrey looked back toward table thirteen, where the bulldog in question was currently seated with a woman of such similar aspect that any seasoned logician would conclude she was his wife. Spinning on his heels, Andrey rounded the forsythia blossoms, headed off Soslovsky and his protégé, and led them back to table three—a lovely spot at south-southeast, which could comfortably accommodate a party of four.
“Merci beaucoup,” said Andrey upon his return.
“De rien,” replied the Count.
In replying It is nothing to Andrey, the Count was not simply resorting to a Gallic figure of speech. In point of fact, the Count deserved as much thanks for his little intervention as a swallow deserves for its trill. For since the age of fifteen, Alexander Rostov had been a master of seating tables.
Whenever he was home for the holidays, his grandmother would inevitably call him into the library, where she liked to knit by the fireplace in a solitary chair.
“Come in, my boy, and sit with me a moment.”
“Certainly, Grandmother,” replied the Count, balancing himself on the edge of the fire grate. “How can I be of assistance?”
“The prelate is coming for dinner on Friday night—as are the Duchess Obolensky, Count Keragin, and the Minsky-Polotovs. . . .”
Here she would let her voice trail off without further explanation; but no further explanation was needed. The Countess was of a mind that dinner should provide one with respite from life’s trials and tribulations. Thus, she could not countenance discussions of religion, politics, or personal sorrows at her table. Further complicating matters, the prelate was deaf in his left ear, partial to Latin epigrams, and prone to stare at décolletage whenever he drank a glass of wine; while the Duchess Obolensky, who was particularly caustic in summer, frowned upon pithy sayings and could not abide discussions of the arts. And the Keragins? Their great-grandfather had been called a Bonapartist by Prince Minsky-Polotov in 1811, and they had not exchanged a word with a Minsky-Polotov since.
“How many will be in attendance?” asked the Count.
“Forty.”
“The usual assembly?”
“More or less.”
“The Osipovs?”
“Yes. But Pierre is in Moscow. . . .”
“Ah,” said the Count with the smile of the chess champion who has been confronted with a new gambit.
The Nizhny Novgorod Province had a hundred prominent families, which over the course of two centuries had intermarried and divorced, borrowed and lent, accepted and regretted, offended, defended, and dueled—while championing an array of conflicting positions that varied by generation, gender, and house. And at the center of this maelstrom was the Countess Rostov’s dining room with its two tables for twenty standing side by side.
“Not to worry, Grand-mère,” assured the Count. “A solution is close at hand.”
Out in the garden, as the Count closed his eyes to begin moving through the individual permutations one by one, his sister enjoyed making light of his task.
“Why do you furrow your brow so, Sasha? However the table is arranged, we always have such delightful conversations when we dine.”
“However the table is arranged!” the Count would exclaim. “Delightful conversations! I’ll have you know, dear sister, that careless seating has torn asunder the best of marriages and led to