Konrad and Alexandra (pdf) - Rolf Gross

Alexandra smiled affectionately. "Aunt Sophia is my natlideda, my very special
godmother."
Prince Tarkhan-Mouravi scrutinized Konrad with unmitigated severity. He switched from
Russian to a rather formal German and inquired after Konrad’s professional interests, while
Aunt Sophia, smiled warmly. "An unusual dress you are wearing," she teased Alexandra.
"Forever the elegantly understated Dadiani! But you must go and take your professor to meet
your young friends. We'll see you later."
"A daughter of the mythical kings of Georgia?" whispered Konrad when they walked
away.
Alexandra raised her eyebrows. "Tchi, not now, later. Look, over there is our famous
poet Varzha Pshaveli talking to the feared literary critic Gregori Robakidze. You see him, the
one with the prominent hooked nose. The stiff threesome over there are the ‘celebrated’
German architects Grimm, Stern, and Schröder. Ha, ha!"
She bowed her head again.
"This was Ivane Javakhishvili who is the driving force behind a Georgian University in
Tiflis. But the Russians are suspicious, we are much too Georgian for their comfort. This man
there is Akaki Tsereteli, another one of my relatives and the beloved poet of our time. He is
talking to Lado Korisheli, a young actor on whom every girl in Tiflis has a crush," she smiled,
"except I."
Konrad observed that in contrast to Berlin or St. Petersburg few men wore military
uniforms.
"You are right, this is a land of poets and wine growers, besides we are now under the
gracious protection of Russia and have no need for an army."
Konrad, weary of running the gauntlet, was relieved when the bell sounded.
They shared a private loge with the Tarkhan-Mouravis. Alexandra, sitting next to Sophia
Bagrationi at the balustrade, produced an opera glass from her bag, and the two ladies
enjoyed themselves exchanging gossip about the people present. In the back row, behind the
ladies, the ferocious looking gentleman continued his private examination of Konrad.
"You should visit us at our estate in Kaspi-Akhalkalaki. I am experimenting with some
new grape vines, and could very well use some advice," Mouravi was saying when the lights
went out and an expectant hush fell over the audience.
Two large gauze curtains, one behind the other, spanned the entire opening of the
stage. Actors in various poses stood on the nearly dark stage, some in front, others between
the curtains. A few pieces of furniture barely indicated the existence of a room up front. A few
trees between the curtains simulated a garden, and the second curtain veiled a romantic,
moon-lit landscape, a lake, and a rowboat. Except for the front room everything lay in a dreamlike
haze.
While the actors remained frozen in their poses, a deceptively real looking, brightly
illuminated, white seagull, screeching "Íya, Íya", fluttered towards the moon above the lake.
"Gespenstisch!" whispered Mouravi to Konrad. "Ghostly!"
The play’s bill had announced "A Drama in Four Acts". This scene looked like a setting
for a ghost story. Alexandra was shuddering.
The play, without a trace of comedy, developed into a somber, symbolic melodrama,
which during the evening became more and more depressing. After several chaotic love
tangles the manic-depressed lover/hero shot himself in the darkness behind the second
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