The Family Frying Pan by Bryce Courtenay

Author:Bryce Courtenay [Courtenay, Bryce]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780857960139
Publisher: Penguin Books Limited
Published: 1997-04-15T07:00:00+00:00

He chuckled happily at his own remark, then declared, ‘I have thirteen children, all of them born into the nobility, and there is not a decent specimen, not even a good acrobat, amongst them!’

Tolstoy turned to where my father stood and dis-missively touched the magnificent sable coat he wore with the tips of his fingers, flicking them away from the soft fur. ‘Sir!’ he said, almost imperceptibly nodding his magnificent white beard and, at the same time, completely ignoring the presence of my mother who stood thin-lipped beside my astonished and speechless papa.

Tolstoy again addressed me. Scowling at me he said, ‘I don’t much like children, but that was a fine wish, young lady. Remember, my dear, faith and love require courage and daring.’

Then the old man turned and walked slowly out of the ballroom, through the long gallery, out of the house and was helped into his waiting troika by his manservant, who wrapped a well-worn marmoset fur blanket around his master’s knees. He then removed Tolstoy’s top hat and placed a Cossack fur hat upon his bald head and wrapped a woollen scarf about the old man’s face.

I recall my father still looking completely stunned and running down the steps, his shoes crunching in the snow and shouting, ‘A new fur blanket for the troika, maybe? A little champagne, Master? Some hot beef soup to take on the journey?’

Count Tolstoy removed the scarf from his face. ‘Good God, man! Is there no end to your impertinence? I am a vegetarian!’ Then he wrapped the scarf back over his face, settled into his cocoon of fur, and was off in a snuffling of horses and jingle of sleigh bells.

Whereupon my poor papa was so overcome with gratitude at this visit by the great writer that his eyes brimmed with tears and he started to shake all over, and had to be led back indoors and up the grand staircase on my mother’s arm, sniffing and sighing all the way to the bedchamber.

My mama, though, was less impressed by the intrusion. She had been completely ignored and humiliated by a member of the aristocracy and she was very angry. She returned to the ballroom soon afterwards. ‘You and your little friends will eat a piece of cake and then they must go home! There is a present for each of them,’ she said. Then, calling my old babushka nanny over, she whispered into her ear and then looked in my direction and smiled at me. It was a smile I knew well, cold as ice. It was only then that I realised that she was also angry with me, though I could not imagine what I had done to upset her. As I cried myself to sleep that night I thought her anger couldn’t possibly be simply because I had made a childish and inappropriate wish, but that it must somehow have something to do with the silly old man who had so rudely interrupted my party.

While Tamara is talking,

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