“Ah, my dear,” Polina replied, “I am in despair! How insignificant our high society must have seemed to this extraordinary woman! She is used to being surrounded by people who understand her, on whom a brilliant observation, a strong impulse of the heart, an inspired word are never lost; she is used to fascinating conversations of the highest cultivation. And here…My God! Not a single thought, not a single remarkable word in a whole three hours! Dull faces, dull solemnity—that’s all! How boring it was for her! How weary she seemed! She saw what they needed, what these apes of enlightenment could understand, and she tossed them a pun. And how they fell upon it! I was burning with shame and ready to weep…But let her,” Polina went on heatedly, “let her take away the opinion of our society rabble that they deserve. At least she’s seen our good simple folk and understands them. You heard what she said to that unbearable old buffoon, who, just to please the foreigner, took it into his head to laugh at Russian beards: ‘A people who a hundred years ago stood up for their beards, will today stand up for their heads.’ How dear she is! How I love her! How I hate her persecutor!”
I was not the only one to notice Polina’s embarrassment. Another pair of keen eyes rested on her at the same moment: the dark eyes of Mme de Staël herself. I don’t know what she was thinking, but only that she approached my friend after dinner and got to talking with her. A few days later, Mme de Staël wrote her the following note:
This letter is in my keeping. Polina never explained to me her relations with Mme de Staël, for all my curiosity. She was mad about the famous woman, who was as good-natured as she was gifted.
What the passion for malicious talk can reduce one to! Not long ago I told about all this in a certain very decent company.
“Perhaps,” it was pointed out to me, “Mme de Staël was none other than Napoleon’s spy, and Princess * * * provided her with the information she needed.”
“For pity’s sake,” I said, “Mme de Staël, who was persecuted by Napoleon for ten years; the noble, good Mme de Staël, who barely managed to escape under the protection of the Russian emperor, Mme de Staël, the friend of Chateaubriand and Byron, Mme de Staël—Napoleon’s spy!…”
“It’s quite, quite possible,” the sharp-nosed Countess B. objected. “Napoleon was such a sly fox, and Mme de Staël is a subtle thing herself!”
Everyone was talking about the approaching war and, as far as I remember, rather light-mindedly. Imitation of the French tone from the time of Louis XV was in fashion. Love of the fatherland seemed like pedantry. The wits of the day extolled Napoleon with fanatical servility and joked about our reverses. Unfortunately, the defenders of the fatherland were a bit simple-minded; they were mocked rather amusingly and had no influence. Their patriotism was limited to a severe criticism of the use of the French language at gatherings, of the introduction of foreign words, to menacing outbursts against the Kuznetsky Bridge,6 and the like. Young people spoke of everything Russian with contempt or indifference and jokingly predicted for Russia the lot of the Confederation of the Rhine.7 In short, society was rather vile.
Suddenly news of the invasion and the sovereign’s appeal shocked us. Moscow was agitated. Count Rastopchin’s folk-style leaflets appeared; the people became furious. The society babblers quieted down; the ladies lost courage. The persecutors of the French language and the Kuznetsky Bridge took a firm upper hand in society, and the drawing rooms filled with patriots: one poured the French snuff from his snuffbox and began sniffing Russian; another burned a dozen French brochures; another renounced Lafite and took up foaming mead. Everybody swore off speaking French; everybody shouted about Pozharsky and Minin and started preaching a national war, while preparing for the long drive to their Saratov estates.8
Polina could not hide her contempt, just as earlier she had not concealed her indignation. Such a swift about-face and such cowardice put her out of patience. On promenades, at the Presnya Ponds, she deliberately spoke French; at the table, in the presence of servants, she deliberately challenged patriotic boasting, deliberately spoke of the numerical strength of Napoleon’s army, of his military genius. Those present turned pale, fearing denunciation, and hastened to reproach her with devotion to the enemy of the fatherland. Polina would smile contemptuously.
