Meanwhile the astonishing fact was that the success of the dinner was Jerry Lawrence.  He was placed on Vera Michailovna’s left hand, Rozanov, the Moscow merchant near to him, and I did not hear him say anything very bright or illuminating, but every one felt, I think, that he was a cheerful and dependable person.  I always felt, when I observed him, that he understood the Russian character far better than any of us.  He had none of the self-assertion of the average Englishman and, at the same time, he had his opinions and his preferences.  He took every kind of chaff with good-humoured indifference, but I think it was above everything else his tolerance that pleased the Russians.  Nothing shocked him, which did not at all mean that he had no code of honour or morals.  His code was severe and stern, but his sense of human fallibility, and the fine fight that human nature was always making against stupendous odds stirred him to a fine and comprehending clarity.  He had many faults.  He was obstinate, often dull and lethargic, in many ways grossly ill-educated and sometimes wilfully obtuse—­but he was a fine friend, a noble enemy, and a chivalrous lover.  There was nothing mean nor petty in him, and his views of life and the human soul were wider and more all-embracing than in any Englishman I have ever known.  You may say of course that it is sentimental nonsense to suppose at all that the human soul is making a fine fight against odds.  Even I, at this period, was tempted to think that it might be nonsense, but it is a view as good as another, after all, and so ignorant are all of us that no one has a right to say that anything is impossible!

After drinking the vodka and eating the “Zakuska,” we sat down to table and devoured crayfish soup.  Every one became lively.  Politics of course, were discussed.

I heard Rozanov say, “Ah, you in Petrograd!  What do you know of things?  Don’t let me hurt any one’s feelings, pray....  Most excellent soup, Vera Michailovna—­I congratulate you....  But you just wait until Moscow takes things in hand.  Why only the other day Maklakoff said to a friend of mine—­’It’s all nonsense,’ he said.”

And the shrill-voiced young man told a story—­“But it wasn’t the same man at all.  She was so confused when she saw what she’d done, that I give you my word she was on the point of crying.  I could see tears... just trembling—­on the edge.  ‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ she said, and the man was such a fool....”

Markovitch was busy about the drinks.  There was some sherry and some light red wine.  Markovitch was proud of having been able to secure it.  He was beaming with pride.  He explained to everybody how it had been done.  He walked round the table and stood, for an instant, with his hand on Vera Michailovna’s shoulder.  The pies with fish and cabbage in them were handed round.  He jested with the old great-aunt.  He shouted in her ear: 

“Now, Aunt Isabella... some wine.  Good for you, you know—­keep you young....”