The Passion and the Flower

Chapter One ~1867-2

No serfs were better treated than those who had belonged to him and long before the Czar’s Manifesto had given them their freedom there was no agitation for it on the Volkonski estates.

And in his private life the Prince was extremely open-handed.

No woman who left his arms could ever complain that he had not loaded her with presents and in many cases seen to it that her future was secure.

But whether women were of the aristocratic monde or of the demi-monde, they always eventually ceased to hold the Prince and he was off again, galloping, as it were, towards an indefinable horizon in search of someone else.

With a quick change of mood he said,

“Curse it, I have not come to Paris to sermonise! For God’s sake, Hugo, offer me a drink.”

“My dear fellow, I am sorry!” Lord Marston exclaimed. “I was so astonished by your unexpected appearance that I forgot my manners.”

He rose to ring the bell as he spoke and a few minutes later footmen carried in a bottle of champagne resting in a silver wine cooler and a tray with not only glasses but also caviar, pâté de foie gras and other delicacies.

The Prince sipped his champagne and remarked,

“You seem very comfortable here, but if you prefer to stay with me you know I shall be delighted.”

“It’s an idea,” Lord Marston replied, “but I would not wish to offend the Ambassador and his charming wife. They have been exceptionally kind to me.”

The Earl Cowley had been British Ambassador to Paris for fifteen years. He was polished, conscientious and cautious, but it was his wife who represented Britain better than anyone else. She was an experienced hostess, extremely popular with the French and had a great sense of humour.

Lord Marston related how she had become on practical joke terms with the French Foreign Minister, Dromyn de Lhuys.

“When the Countess advertised for a wet nurse for her pregnant daughter, the Foreign Minister applied for the job dressed up for the part by stuffing himself with cushions!”

The Prince laughed.

“That is worthy of some of our pranks, Hugo.”

“I thought it would amuse you,” Lord Marston said. “But if you are going to behave outrageously, Ivan, I had better move to that mansion of yours in the Champs-Élysées.”

“Yes, do that. I intend to give some very unusual parties.”

Lord Marston held up his hands.

“For heaven’s sake, Ivan, I know only too well what your parties are like and my reputation in Paris will be completely ruined!”

“Nonsense,” the Prince retorted. “You know as well as I do that I shall liven the whole place up.”

That, Lord Marston thought, was an understatement.

The Prince’s parties in the past had been the talk of Paris from the Court at the Tuileries Palace to the lowest café on the Boulevards.

They were not only spectacles of wild extravagance, they were also undoubtedly so amusing that those who were not invited were humiliated to the point where they would rather leave Paris, pretending that they had pressing engagements in the country, than admit that their names had been omitted.

The two friends were still chatting when the door opened and the British Ambassador entered.

Both men rose to their feet and, after a speculative glance at the Prince, the Earl held out his hand.

“I am delighted to see Your Highness,” he said. “It has been too long since you paid us a visit.”

“Your Excellency is very kind,” the Prince answered, “but I am here alone and I hope that you will forgive me if I steal your guest from you to keep me company.”

The Earl looked at Lord Marston with a smile.

“I think you have sent back enough reports by now to fill the Prime Minister’s waste-paper basket. It is time you enjoyed yourself.”

“Thank you, my Lord,” Lord Marston replied.

*

The Prince's open chaise drawn by two outstanding horses was waiting in the Embassy yard.

An hour later the two friends drove off together after Lord Marston had left instructions for his valet to pack and follow him to the Prince's mansion.

“Now, what shall we do tonight?” the Prince asked.

“I will take you to see something new,” Lord Marston replied, “and that I think will interest you.”

“What is that?”

“I am not going to tell you, it shall be a surprise.”

“Very well,” the Prince answered, “but I insist on a good dinner first.”

“Magnys or Le Grand Véfour?” Lord Marston enquired.

“Véfour,” the Prince responded promptly. “I want to eat and not be distracted by all the celebrated diners who will ornament Magnys.”

Lord Marston smiled.

“Very well, we will have their spécialité, which I know was one of your favourite dishes in the past.”

He was thinking as he spoke of the fine Rhenish carp that had been declared by Alfred Delvau in Les Plaisirs de Paris, which had just been published, to be one of the great glories of the restaurant.

Alfred Delvau was the same author who had written,

“Pleasure is the mania of Paris, their malady and their weakness. They love violent emotions and entertainments which create noise, stir and excitement.”

It was a description. Lord Marston thought, that might as well apply to the Prince.

Nevertheless, after some weeks of attending nothing but Court and Embassy functions and playing the part of the perfect Diplomat, he now felt a quickening of his pulses.

The two men were welcomed at Le Grand Véfour. The restaurant was in the Palais Royal, which during the reign of Louis XVI, the Duc d’Orleans had turned into a place of gambling and amusement and he became overnight one of the richest men in France.

It was still the haunt of les cocottes, who had made it their special promenade and Le Grand Véfour was decorated in the same way as it had been immediately after the French Revolution.

With its red plush sofas and its mirrors inset in painted wooden panels it was comfortable, intimate and appropriate for those who wished to concentrate on what they were eating.

The Prince and Lord Marston ordered carefully and selectively.

The Maitre d’hôtel suggested ‘a Russian bird’ and the Prince looked surprised until Lord Marston explained,

“There is now a large trade between Paris and Russia in game. The birds are packed in oats, put in wicker baskets and arrive here in five days.”

“Such is progress!” the Prince remarked ironically.

“Alternatively you can have birds’ nests from China, ortolans from Italy or truffles from Périgord,” Lord Marston joked.

“In France I expect snails,” the Prince said firmly and ordered them.

Then, as they waited for their food to be brought to them, they sat back comfortably sipping champagne and talking endlessly.

As so often when they were alone, they discussed subjects which would have surprised many of their friends, philosophy, literature, politics, arguing with each other and capping each other’s quotations, both of them being exceedingly erudite.

When dinner was finished, the Prince’s mood changed with a swiftness that was characteristic of him.

“Now, Hugo,” he asked. “Where are you taking me?”

“Hold your breath,” Lord Marston replied. “To see Cinderella!”

“Cinderella?” the Prince exclaimed.

“At the Théâtre Impérial du Châtelet.”

“I am too old for Fairytales!” the Prince exclaimed.

“Not for this one,” his friend asserted firmly.

“I warn you, I shall walk out if I am bored.”

“I am prepared to bet quite a considerable sum that you will not be.”

“Very well,” the Prince conceded in a resigned tone.

They left Le Grand Véfour and walked a little way down a narrow pavement to where the Prince’s carriage was waiting.

It was a closed barouche with two men on the box and very comfortable inside.

There was a sable rug in case the evening grew cold, but for the moment the April air was warm and mellow.

The two friends crossed their legs and puffed reflectively at their long cigars.

They drove through the boulevards with their brightly lit cafés, the crowds perambulating up and down in the golden light from the gas lamps.

Outside the theatre there was, although the performance had started over an hour before, a considerable crowd standing about blocking the doorways and quite a number still trying to buy seats.

“Has Paris returned to its childhood?” the Prince asked ironically.

“This is a fairy story with a difference,” Lord Marston explained. “It has five acts and thirty scenes.”

The Prince groaned.

“Lavish production is a feature of the contemporary theatre,” Lord Marston said in the tone of one giving a lecture. “You will see the Green Grotto, the Fiery Mountain, the Azure Lake, the Glow-worms’ Palace and the Golden Clouds.”

Again the Prince groaned, but Lord Marston thought that he was nevertheless somewhat intrigued.

They arrived during the first interval. There was a crowd of men in the auditorium attempting to find a drink and the clamour and the hum of voices was deafening.

The lights were up in the house, tall jets of gas illuminated a great crystal pendant with a stream of yellow and rose, which was reflected from the arched dome to the pit in a deluge of light.

The footlights threw a sharp flood of colour onto the purple draperies of the curtain and in the boxes men with opera glasses and women with lorgnettes were contemplating each other.

Lord Marston had taken the precaution of engaging the largest and what was known as the ‘Royal Box’ for his friend.

As they entered it, young gentlemen standing in the stalls with low-cut waistcoats and gardenias in their buttonholes turned their opera glasses on them.

There was a flutter of hands from many of the other boxes and the Prince bowed first to one and then to another of the ladies who recognised him.

“You will be deluged with invitations tomorrow,” Lord Marston remarked.

The Prince ran an appraising eye round the theatre.

“I promise you, Hugo, I shall be very selective.”

The interval bell was ringing and now the audience was returning to their seats.

There was the usual confusion of people who had seated themselves being obliged to rise again and the Conductor of the orchestra took his place. The sound of conversation grew lower and quieter although occasionally broken by coarse voices.

They had reached the part of the play, Lord Marston realised, where the scene was a Fiery Mountain.

Gnomes were busy working under iridescent rocks bathed in a red light more vivid than rubies. Then the waves of the azure lake grew larger and the ruby fire from the mountain was extinguished by cool blue lights where half-naked nymphs were swimming.

It was so fantastic that the whole audience burst into applause and for a moment even the Prince seemed impressed.

After a chorus from the gnomes and a song from the Prince Charming who was looking for Cinderella, the scene dissolved into darkness and there was a ‘knockabout’ turn between two comedians whose broad innuendoes had the whole theatre in convulsions.

The Prince’s attention was beginning to wane.

He was looking at the occupants of the other boxes, doubtless, Lord Marston thought, considering if there was anyone present he would wish to renew an acquaintance with.

Then, as the comedians went off, there was a sudden hush and the house was in darkness. The orchestra began very softly a classical tune that was different from anything they had heard previously.

“This is what I brought you to see,” Lord Marston pointed out.

The Prince with a somewhat questioning expression on his face turned his head towards the stage.

The curtains were drawn back and now, instead of the gaudy and flamboyant colours that had characterised the decor for all the other scenes, there were only curtains that seemed to melt into the shadows.

Onto the stage came a dancer.

She was not in the least like any dancer the Prince had ever seen before.

Used to the Imperial Russian Ballet with their blocked ballet shoes, their short frilled tutus, their low-cut bodices and their accentuated make-up, he saw in this girl a complete contrast.

She wore a Grecian robe of white silk and her hair was loose but caught at the back from her face in a style that was neither classical nor modern.

She had sandals on her feet and no ornamentation of any sort, nor as far as the audience could see did she wear any cosmetics.

She stood for a moment quite still in the centre of the stage and then she began to dance.

It was a dance, at the same time a mime, that told a story that was simple and so brilliantly portrayed that no one could fail to understand it.