– You're scaring me. Is Madame Kshesinskaya really so withdrawn that I won’t be able to arrange a sincere conversation with her?

– Why so pessimistic? Your respectable appearance and professional skill will play the right role, and it will open up to you. After all, at one time your grandfather managed to talk to the Russian Emperor Alexander III himself.

– Do you know how this interview ended?

– Yes, the emperor died by the end of it. But don't worry, Mali's health won't let you down. If she lived to be a hundred years old, then the interview with you will somehow survive too.

For many years, this incident with the Russian Tsar hung like a sword of Damocles over the reputation of the Jackson publishing house. However, the glory of Robert Jackson, Sr., as an interviewer of the Russian emperor, did not fade because of this accident.

– I have this question. In what language will our communication with Mrs. Kshesinskaya be? Robert asked.

– For her, Polish and Russian are native, but of course she will communicate with you in French, but I warn you – her French is different from Parisian. It is a salon, it was used by the Russian nobility in St. Petersburg.

Robert shook his head placatingly.

– Well, if there are no more questions, gentlemen, then I will order the servants to roll out the carriage with our ward here into the living room, closer to the fireplace.

Soon a carriage with a thin, withered old woman drove into the room. Having managed to live up to the 70s of the twentieth century, Kshesinskaya saw and talked live with the great Tchaikovsky, the legendary Petipa, the father of the heir to the throne, Emperor Alexander III, visited the bed of the last Russian tsar, his brother and uncle, survived two of the bloodiest wars of mankind and now as a living history appeared before those who had not yet managed to live even a third of her life path.

Despite her advanced age, she looked alive. A lot of wrinkles on the face, sagging skin on the neck and senile hands could not spoil the impression that small penetrating eyes and neatly styled hair, woven at the back of the head into a narrow long pigtail, made.

The old age of the woman was also hidden by skillfully applied cosmetics, which did not disfigure her face at all. But Kshesinskaya did not like to smile. The reason for this was the crooked bite of her teeth from a young age. The dentistry of those and subsequent years could not cope with this task, and therefore in all the photographs the ballet prima was captured with her mouth closed, without a dazzling Hollywood smile.

As evidence that her body was still agile and not completely decrepit, Kshesinskaya independently moved from the stroller to one of the armchairs by the fireplace.

Those in the living room watched with satisfaction how stubbornly the former prima of the Tsar's ballet, full of life, stubbornly resists the inexorable years.

Catching a look of delight on herself, Kshesinskaya spoke first, modifying the famous phrase of Mark Twain in her own way.

– As you can see, the rumors about my commemoration are greatly exaggerated.

Marek smiled sourly, but Josephine decided not to give vent to her ward's cynicism and said:

– Mala! Let me introduce you right away to our guest today, North American Review correspondent Robert Jackson.

Kshesinskaya's attention immediately switched to the stranger. She pierced Robert with the eyes of a woman who is obliged to evaluate the merits and demerits of any man.

Robert was embarrassed by the literally exposing the soul and body of the inspection, and he lowered his head.

“And I knew your grandfather, Robert,” Kshesinskaya said, fully enjoying her inexhaustible magic to rule over men, “This talented reporter at one time managed to talk our king in such a way that at the end of the interview he literally stretched out his legs.

Matilda burst out laughing with that universal female laughter, which means genuine joy and sarcasm at the same time, which made Robert even more embarrassed and lost his reporter's gift.

The cunning Josephine, a kind of connoisseur of Matilda's spiritual fibers, decided to smooth the situation.

– The interview has nothing to do with it, Malya. The tsar just overdid it with vodka that day. The man showed off in front of the American guest. The servant then reported that the two of them emptied several bottles of white, only occasionally biting caviar.

Kshesinskaya's face changed, expressing complete disagreement.

– And you're talking to me? I, who personally witnessed how our tsar at the table emptied liters of vodka at a peasant pace, occasionally sniffing with pickles, and after that he went to the stable and unbent the horseshoes with one stroke. Our king was still that drunkard. In this case, he could plug any groom from his stable into the belt. No, my dear, it was not a trifling dose of alcohol that brought down the king that day.