What a pleasure it was to be reminded in a ‘Life and Letters’ column by Allan Massie (28 July) of Desmond MacCarthy. He was an old friend of my parents’ and, in the immediate postwar years, a fairly frequent visitor to their house in Chantilly, outside Paris. One Friday afternoon — it must I think have been 1950 or 1951 — we were sitting opposite each other as the train rattled through Normandy. I was at that time reading Russian at Oxford and was struggling through War and Peace in the original. Not surprisingly, the book caught Desmond’s eye. ‘Did I ever tell you,’ he murmured in that wonderful velvety voice of his, ‘did I ever tell you that I knew the Tolstoys?’
For a moment I thought I must have misheard him, but he went on: ‘Yes, I had a letter of introduction and I went to stay for a few days at Yasnaya Polyana. I arrived at teatime on a lovely summer day. The Countess, in a long white dress, was in the garden pouring tea: “Oh Mr MacCarthy, how very kind of you to have come all this way to see us. A little tea? Yes, of course. And now do tell me about your journey. I won’t offer to take you up to your room, simply because my husband rather likes to do that himself. He is still working in the fields, but he should be back before very long.”
‘Sure enough, the great man arrived a few minutes later, streaming with sweat and looking exactly like his photographs — shirt buttoned up the side, trousers tucked into boots. He too settled down and had his tea, and after a few minutes’ polite conversation he proposed taking me up to my room. I naturally agreed, and into the house we went. I remember being struck by its simplicity. We climbed the wooden stairs, walked down a short passage and there it was — as simple as a bedroom could be, with a single metal bed, a washstand, a wardrobe and, next to the bed, a wooden side table with a small cupboard let into the front.
‘ “There,” said Tolstoy, “I hope you will be comfortable.”
‘ “Oh perfectly”, I replied.
‘ “I’m so glad,” he said. “Well, I’ll leave you to unpack your things. Do come down and join us when you’re ready.”
‘He walked to the door — then suddenly turned back.
‘ “Oh, one more little thing. Forgive me, but you see we have rather progressive ideas here, and we really don’t like asking the servants to empty people’s chamber pots. I wonder if you would mind doing it yourself? It’s perfectly easy — you just turn right at the end of the passage and it’s the little door on the left.”
‘ “Oh, of course, Count, please don’t give it a thought — there’s nothing easier.”
‘ “I’m so glad, I was sure you wouldn’t mind. Well, as I said, do come down when you’ve unpacked.”
‘So he left, and I opened up my suitcase on the bed. But I hadn’t got very far when I heard footsteps in the passage and a gentle knock at my door. It was my hostess.
‘ “Oh, Mr MacCarthy, I do hope everything is all right — are you sure you have everything you need?”
‘ “Oh, yes, Countess, thank you so much, everything is fine.”
‘ “Oh, good. Well, I’ll leave you to finish your unpacking.”
Then, just as her husband had done, she turned at the door.
‘ “Oh, I’m so sorry, I nearly forgot. Did my husband by any chance ask you not to empty your pot de chambre?”
‘ “He did indeed, Countess, but please don’t worry, I shall be only too happy.”
‘ “Don’t you touch it! Those blasted servants never do a hand’s turn.” ’
So there’s the story — not a bad one you’ll agree? But here comes the rub. Some years ago, Desmond’s grandson, Hugh Cecil, and his wife Mirabel, wrote a delightful book about Desmond and his wife, Molly. It was called Clever Hearts, and we awarded it the Duff Cooper Prize. To my surprise, it contained no reference to this meeting. More mysterious still, Hugh told me that there was no evidence that his grandfather — whose life was pretty well documented — had ever been to Russia.
What, therefore, are we to make of all this? First, I could not possibly have fabricated it; it’s well beyond my imaginative powers — far too subtle a reflection on the Tolstoy household. Besides, I can picture the scene now, 60-odd years later, as if it were before my eyes, with both of us in window seats, Desmond facing the engine. I even remember noting the story down afterwards, in the back of my book; but that book has now, alas, long since disappeared.
One possibility, of course, is that Desmond did, after all, pay a brief visit to Russia in his youth, which somehow went
unrecorded. But this seems unlikely; Hugh and Mirabel are thorough researchers, and I can’t think that they would have missed such an event. In those days, a visit to Russia could seldom take less than three or four weeks; it would have made a big hole in Desmond’s social diary.
So could I, after so long an interval, have misremembered my informant? Could it have been someone else sitting opposite me, recounting this fascinating tale? This too is unlikely; I have been telling the story for half a century, always attributing it to Desmond. But if it was not he, then who was it? Maurice Baring, otherwise a likely candidate, was long dead by then; I can remember no one else, then 65 or so, who could have filled the bill.
Perhaps some Spectator reader will come to the rescue with an idea. How I hope so!
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