“I found him amusing. Do you still remember? He predicted that Matriona would get pregnant again when she gets old!” Irina’s laugh rang out loudly.
The princess shook her head. “No, no, I prefer to follow the advice of my flower girl. Her white blooms do show off Kostia’s pictures to their best advantage, don’t you think? And the vernissage seems to be quite the sensation among my guests.”
“Oh, definitely. We will be so grateful for every little bit of distraction this season. Baden-Baden has become such a crashing bore,” said Irina, with a thin-lipped smile. “Perhaps the flower girl can tell us more about talking flowers one day?”
Flora looked from one woman to the other in confusion. They were talking about her as if she were not even there!
Princess Stropolski suddenly turned and peered across the room toward the door. “Oh, look, Konstantin has finally arrived.” Her wrinkled face stretched into a smile that only made it more wrinkled.
Flora’s gaze followed the princess’s.
That tall young man who was making his way slowly through the throng of guests was the artist? If that was so, then he was considerably better looking than his pictures.
In contrast to most of the other men, he wore neither uniform nor tails, but a slim-cut, peplumed jacket of the style one saw more often among hunters. His hair was long and tied back loosely with a black velvet band. Flora had never seen hair like that on a man before, though she thought it looked very masculine and dashing.
Flora looked down at herself and her plain brown dress, and took a step backward.
Chapter Thirty-Six
When Konstantin first heard that Püppi had organized an exhibition of his pictures, he would have liked nothing more than to slap her face. Instead, he had acted surprised and put on his most modest smile. An exhibition? For him? But he had not yet matured as an artist, not at all . . . and in his mind, he called down fire and brimstone on Püppi’s head. He had been doing so well as a “would-be artist,” but where would he stand after this exhibition?
In the end, he had no choice but to put on a brave face, because the portfolio containing his pictures was already at the framer’s, after which the hotel concierge would get to work hanging his works in the ballroom.
Anyone witnessing Konstantin’s charming smile at the vernissage would never have suspected just how much the event disgusted him.
“As is so often the case with true art, we laymen do not have to understand everything that we see . . .”
He tilted his head almost reverently in the direction of the speaker—Count Popo—as if the man’s words were the most moving he had ever heard.
“As these white flowers are the herald of a new age, so will the painter of these works proclaim a new age to us, and . . .”
What an old windbag Popo could be! Konstantin had no intention of proclaiming anything to anyone, because this damned exhibition had not been his idea at all.
“And the transience of nature moves us much as does the transience of glorious art.”
Glorious art? His hastily splashed watercolors had never been intended to go before any kind of audience. And why was Popo rattling on about flowers and nature?
Konstantin turned and looked toward the back door of the ballroom. The flower girl, admittedly, was a pretty thing, and she probably found the whole affair terribly exciting. Maybe he would exchange a few words with her later. She’d probably turn pale with awe at being able to talk to the artist in person.
Konstantin smiled. Perhaps his vernissage might be amusing after all.
Püppi nodded at Popo’s words, visibly moved, along with the rest of them. Even Piotr Vjazemskij acted as if he were listening to the count, although in spirit he had more likely wandered off to the casino long before. Matriona, who had been at a party all through the previous night with Püppi and him, tried to stifle a yawn behind her hand, and Konstantin noted that she was swaying with weariness.
The sight abruptly made him laugh out loud.
What a mad crowd he was part of! They would do anything for a bit of fun and distraction. They were even willing to see him as an artist and were not above applauding his “work.”
So why should he spoil their fun? Who was he to curse Püppi for her crazy impulse? His job here was to play along, with a solid dose of self-mockery and humor, not to turn tail and run like a thief caught in the act.
He waved over one of the serving girls and plucked a glass of champagne from the tray she carried.
“My friends!” he called loudly, with a sweeping gesture to take in everybody around him. The guests all turned from Popo to him. “Let us drink to the health of our speechmaker, who is able to compare my pictures to art like no other man on earth!” Accompanied by the assenting murmur from the crowd, Konstantin drained his glass and immediately accepted another. “And a toast to you all, dear friends, for taking note of my amateurish attempts with such benevolence.” Those standing around him laughed and lifted their glasses to him, and he returned the gesture in kind.
“And I would like to propose another toast to our most beloved Püppi, to whom alone all credit must go for the idea for this exhibition—I would never have dared to bore you with my pictures.” Konstantin noted with satisfaction that not one single person there seemed bored. On the contrary—they all seemed to find the event extremely entertaining. “Unfortunately, I have been neglecting my painting of late, which I am sure everyone in this room can attest to.” He shrugged nonchalantly, then kissed Püppi’s hand for a provocatively long time. “But what does one’s own career matter when one has been given the love of a wonderful woman?”
His words were met by a storm of applause. Konstantin smiled.
An artist? Oh, he was certainly that. But in which métier, he wondered . . .
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Konstantin Sokerov’s vernissage was the start. While Flora’s lilies of the valley were not exactly the talking point of Baden-Baden, word about the clever placement of the flowers in front of the pictures—Count Popo had even mentioned it in his speech—certainly did get around. Afterward, those who had heedlessly put their copy of Flora’s ABC of Flowers aside rediscovered the little booklet. Word quickly spread to spa visitors who were not on Püppi’s guest list, and soon everyone had heard about the “talking flowers.” Many were taken with the idea—Seraphine was right that it appealed to the Romantic nature of the Russian soul.
And so, in the 1872 spa season in Baden-Baden, Flora and her flowers were suddenly en vogue among the visitors to the beautiful town.
“I have a very special . . . concern,” a pimply young Russian man said to Flora one morning. He had introduced himself as Igor Salnikov after he came rushing into the store. Excitedly, he told Flora about the girl he was courting, a girl so arrogant that she did not even notice how intensely he was trying to court her.
“She simply ignores my existence! For her, I’m no more than air. How am I supposed to declare my love to her?” The young admirer ran his hands through his hair despairingly. “I’m afraid my situation is so hopeless that not even your famous language of flowers can help.”
Flora was amazed at how perfectly he spoke German. She had been worried, at first, that the meanings she had attached to the flowers in her ABC would not be understood by the foreign visitors, but Friedrich had reassured her. “Anyone with that much money can afford the most expensive schools and the best teachers. Believe me, they are exceptionally well educated.”
For the first time in her life, Flora was glad that she had studied English and French herself. “If you go out into the world, you have to speak its languages”—that was the motto of the seed traders.