Stone's Fall полностью

She ordered her evenings well. No subject was banned from discussion; all she insisted on was that conversation was conducted in the most civilised of terms. Argument she allowed as the essence of conversation, but any heat or emotion was utterly forbidden. I have seen many a man conduct a business meeting with less skill than she ran her evenings. She managed to persuade everyone who was invited that they were members of a special group, unusually insightful, witty and sagacious, and that these qualities came, in some mysterious fashion, from being in her presence. Certainly, I thought my own conversation far more sparkling on those evenings than at other times, my jokes better, my understanding of the world stage more profound, and I was far more cautious than most of the other people there.

It was also genuinely interesting and enjoyable. The routine was unvarying: a supper of excellent food accompanied by the best wine, which she spent much of the previous day choosing so that her chef could have all ready, followed by conversation which lasted until eleven-thirty, at which point our hostess would rise and tell us, quite simply, that it was time to leave. The evening would seem to be formless; sometimes we would break up into small groups and discuss different subjects, sometimes the conversation would involve all present. Elizabeth herself rarely gave her own opinion; rather she questioned, sometimes respectfully, sometimes in fun, making her views plain by her responses to the opinions of others. Only on the subject of literature did she give her own views, and in these she demonstrated that, in French, Russian and German, she was remarkably well read. This was, you remember, when Russian Soul and Spirituality were all the rage in fashionable Europe, and everyone had to be able to quote huge chunks of Anna Karenina by heart. Of English Elizabeth knew all but nothing at that time.

It has been said many times both that the French are the world's most accomplished conversationalists, and that the art of conversation is dying. The former is true, and if it is also the case that it has declined since the Revolution, then the conversation of the ancien régime must have been truly splendid. I came to look forward to those evenings as the summit of my week, my evening of pleasure after a week of often unprofitable labour. In winter they would be held in the drawing room of the house she had taken in the rue Montesquieu, with dozens of candles and a fire adding a feeling of comfort to the conversation. It was a large high-ceilinged room, some fifty feet long and thirty wide. On one side was a range of windows that gave on to a glass-enclosed veranda filled with palm trees and birds; on another a wide door opened into a smaller, more intimate sitting room. All around were china, cameos and silver, the walls hung with Gobelins tapestries and paintings, mainly Italian and French. Much of this had come with the house, which she rented from that Marquis d'Alençon who was then living in Mexico to escape the police. But she had added her own touches, and these had been chosen with care – again, where she learned discernment in such matters, and how she avoided the vulgarity of her fellows, I could not understand.

It sounds very artificial and in a way it was so; artificial in the way that an opera or symphony is different from the cacophonous blaring of a music hall band. Some sneer at such meetings, denouncing the formality and the lack of spontaneity; they maintain that conviction is displayed best through loud voices and violent verbal assault, that politeness ensures the triumph of the commonplace. Not so. Politeness, I learned at her salon, is a demanding discipline; to convince others without recourse to the tricks of the demagogue or bully requires a high level of intelligence, especially when the audience is learned and intelligent. Courtesy elevates thought to the highest level, especially when the subject is contentious. And the salons, which were then the principal debating chambers of the French political, financial and intellectual elites, far more important than the Chambre des Deputés, always insisted on courtesy above all other qualities.

That did not mean that the conversations were bland; far from it. Frequently they were highly charged, especially where I was concerned. This was the period – one of the many periods – in which anti-English sentiment was running high in France, and many would have been more than glad to see some sort of armed conflict to vent their frustrations at England's habitual superiority. To convince me that my country was the main source of disorder in the world was a frequent aim and I was required on many occasions to justify my country to my friends – for friends they became, despite the differences between us.