Russka

by Edward Rutherfurd

  It was absurd. He tried to ignore her, but it was no good. It was as though the phantasm refused to let go of him. Did she sleep with her eyes open? While his body continued to perform, slowly, a little absently, the act of love, his mind could not seem to tear itself away from this proposition. Was she sleeping now, thinking of him perhaps, and all the time like some still, Roman statue, staring out into space? Perhaps it was because of his earlier dream about her, or because of their conversation that evening, but the question seemed to become more important with every moment that passed.

  Suddenly he stopped and slowly withdrew himself from Adelaide’s embrace.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I must go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I have to see her. The old woman.’

  ‘Countess Turova? You’re mad. She’s asleep.’

  ‘I have to see her asleep. I have to know.’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘If her eyes are open.’

  Adelaide sat up and looked at him carefully.

  ‘You are serious?’

  ‘Yes. It’s all right. I know the way.’

  ‘You mean to go into the house, to her bedroom?’ She shook her head, not sure if she was angry or amused by this eccentricity. ‘You do not choose a very good time to go on your expedition,’ she remarked.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry. Do you want to come too?’

  She threw herself back on the bed and put her hand to her forehead.

  ‘Mon Dieu! No.’

  ‘I shan’t be long.’ He did not fully dress but, thinking it might be cold in the passage, he pulled on his coat. Then, still in stockinged feet, he made his way along the darkened passageway, through the connecting door, and into the main part of the house.

  It was silent. By the great marble staircase, a guttering lamp gave a little light, but the corners and passages were in deep shadow. Downstairs by the main door an old footman was sleeping on a bench; Alexander could hear him snoring. The floor above, he knew, would be deserted except for the countess’s room and another little room across the passage where an old serving woman slept, in case the countess should require anything in the night.

  He did not need much light. He knew the house well. Softly, making only two slight creaks, he mounted the wooden stairs that led to the countess’s room. At the top there was a little landing. On the right, through the open doorway, he could hear the rhythmic, heavy breathing of the servant. On the left, the door of the larger room was just ajar. Light came through the opening, but no sound. He moved silently to the doorway and peered through the crack.

  On a painted wooden table he could see a large, three-branched silver candelabra. The candles had burned low but they shed a bright light. He could see pictures on the wall, and the edge of a gilt mirror; but the bed was hidden from view. He stood there fully a minute, hesitating. If she were not asleep and he opened the door, she would certainly see it. She would cry out, the house would be woken, and how would he explain himself then? He listened intently, hoping to hear her breathing, but could not.

  Surely she was not still awake. Besides, having come this far, he did not want to give up now. Very carefully he began to push the door. It creaked. He stopped, waited, his heart pounding: still no sound; he pushed again. Now the door swung wide open, and he stepped into the room.

  Her bed was to the right. It was a heavy affair with four carved posts and a canopy covered with huge festoons of heavy silk. On each side, on a night table, a single candle burned. And in the middle of this stately tableau, propped nearly upright with cushions, sat Countess Turova. Her hair had been undone. It had been parted in the middle and hung loosely down over her shoulders, the ends arranged in little strands tied with pale blue ribbons. Her chin rested on the thick lace which decorated her nightdress, so that her mouth was only just open.

  And as he turned, Alexander found himself staring straight into her open eyes.

  He stood stock still, waiting for her to speak. How could he explain himself now? Would she scream; would she be furious? Her face registered no expression at all. It was just possible to see that she was breathing, lightly, through her mouth, but her eyes remained fixed on a point somewhere just past his head. For perhaps half a minute they both remained there, silently; the little trickles of warm wax down the candles seeming to be the only things moving in the room. Then her lips made a dry, smacking sound; there was a single, faint snore. And only at that moment did Alexander finally realize: My God, it is true. She sleeps with her eyes open.

  He knew that now was the moment to leave. He had discovered what he wanted. Yet somehow he could not pull himself away. He looked round the room. In one corner there was another little bust of Voltaire; on a table, some books; beside it a chair. But otherwise it was more sparsely furnished than he had expected. There was only one, thin rug on the floor. As he moved quietly across the room, her eyes remained fixed. He stood at the foot of the bed and gazed at her. What should he do now? For no particular reason, he made her a low bow. The eyes did not move. He grinned, made her another.

  How did he feel about her? Did he hate her for what she had done to him? Not really. She had always been wilful and eccentric. Indeed, at this moment he felt only a sense of relief and light-headedness that he could stand before her like this without being afraid of her for once. Truly, he thought to himself, it is a wonderful thing to be awake when someone else is asleep. It gave one a feeling of extraordinary power.

  He went over and glanced idly at the books upon the table. There were some French plays, a book of psalms, and several journals. One, he noticed, contained a radical article by Radishchev; but then he looked at the others – and smiled in astonishment. They all contained articles by himself! These were the anonymous articles, the daring compositions on the very borderline of what could be said about democracy and the serfs, of which he was most proud. He opened the journals. Besides his articles there were numerous underlinings and little notes, in the countess’s own hand. So she really had taken an interest. Could it be that, after all, she did approve of him?

  As he turned the pages, he glanced up at her from time to time. Did her eyes flutter once? How strange: he was not even afraid any more. I could just sit here and discuss my articles with her, he thought pleasantly.

  Finally Alexander got up and, in a sort of celebration of this curious interlude that providence had granted him, he did a little dance on the floor in front of her. Then he made her a solemn bow and withdrew. As he made his way back, no one stirred in the big house.

  Except for the Countess Turova who, when she was sure he had gone, called her maid.

  Tatiana was in love so much that it hurt. If Alexander came close, she trembled; if he smiled at her, she flushed; if she heard no word from him for a day, she became pale and silent. By now, therefore, her face was thin: she had scarcely eaten for two weeks.

  Since early morning, she had been at the window, watching. Countless times she had seen a sled approaching that she thought was Bobrov’s and had pressed her face to the window uselessly until it had gone past. Once, catching sight of a muffled figure walking through the snow, she became convinced it was he, and hurried frantically from room to room, keeping pace with him, until he turned the corner and vanished.

  It was dusk when, having been persuaded by her mother at last to sit down, she suddenly heard a small commotion downstairs, followed by a lengthy pause. Then her father was in the doorway.

  ‘Alexander Prokofievich is here to see you. He has something to say.’ She rose, very pale, trembling slightly. With terror she noticed that her father was looking concerned. ‘Before you go down, Tatiana, I must ask: are you sure, truly certain, that you want this man?’ She stared at him. Then Alexander had come to claim her. She flushed. How could her father ask? ‘Just a minute, Papa.’ She rushed to her room, followed by her mother, while her father was left, still frowning. He had some reservations about Bobrov.

  Below, Alexander waited. The minutes pa
ssed and no one came. My God, he thought, what if after all this, she’s changed her mind? It was nearly a quarter of an hour before the door opened.

  Tatiana’s entrance took him by surprise. She was wearing a dress of dazzling blue that perfectly complemented her fair complexion and made her pale blue eyes look brilliant. He had always thought of her face as rather round and placid; but now it had grown thinner, shedding its puppy fat and allowing the form of her cheekbones to show through. She had a fresh glow on her skin that was wonderful and advanced towards him with a calm smile.

  ‘Alexander, my father tells me you wish to speak to me.’

  And he, gazing at this commanding heiress, could only think: Well, I’m damned! She has taken charge. Yes, he could see now that this strong young woman was capable of writing that amazing letter that had brought him so abjectly to heel. He was impressed.

  There was only one thing that Alexander did not know: Tatiana had not written the letter at all. To be exact, she had written out the words, but not composed them. And even as she wrote them she had trembled, hesitated, and looked up with large, tearful eyes at the older woman who was calmly dictating them to her.

  For her mother, when she could bear the girl’s agony no longer, had called upon the one person who, though they hardly knew each other, she felt sure could resolve the business. She had secretly taken Tatiana to see Countess Turova.

  It was the countess who had taken the firm tone in the outrageous letter; the countess who had given Bobrov the deadline. She had been rather proud of her handiwork and quietly confident of the result. ‘He’ll be yours, if you want him,’ she had predicted coolly.

  And why had she gone to such trouble? Not, certainly, because she cared particularly for Alexander or this poor little German girl. For she did not. But Alexander was a kinsman; the girl was an heiress. Properly established with a rich wife he might yet be a credit to her. Besides, it was a wonderful opportunity to exercise power – and such chances, it had to be admitted, did not come to her very often these days.

  She had kept the business to herself. But when the unsuspecting Alexander had come to her asking about an inheritance – the very same evening – she had almost laughed out loud. Only by inspecting her hands had she been able to keep a straight face. And hadn’t she played her cards to perfection? How she enjoyed that – defeating the gambler at his own game!

  As for the girl …

  ‘You know of course that he has a mistress?’ she had remarked with cold casualness to Tatiana, as soon as they had finished the letter, watching curiously to see how she took it.

  Tatiana blushed. She did know. Her mother had found that out. But one expected such a thing in an older man; it even made him more mysterious and exciting.

  ‘I dare say with a young girl like Tatiana he’ll have no need to think of a mistress now,’ her mother had remarked hopefully.

  ‘Not at all,’ the old woman had contradicted her. ‘The more a man gets, up to a certain age, the more he wants.’ She turned to Tatiana. ‘You mustn’t give him time or opportunity if you want a faithful husband. That’s all there is to it.’

  Armed with this information, and the stern letter, the lovelorn girl had returned home and waited.

  Grief and pain had strengthened Tatiana. If she was distraught while she waited for Bobrov’s response, now in her moment of triumph she had steeled herself to be cool; however much she wanted him, she must not give him another chance to humiliate her. From now on she would make him see that it was he who was lucky, not she. And I’ll take him from that Frenchwoman, she thought. Indeed, it was this last determination that helped her, at this moment of crisis, to astonish him by her calm detachment.

  So it was that Alexander Bobrov came to claim his bride.

  A light snow was falling that evening as Alexander made his way across the city. The little fires by the watchmen’s huts at the street corners looked orange; the houses loomed as though in a mist. All of which pleased Alexander. For he did not wish to be seen. At the Fontanka Canal, he got out of his sled and, telling the coachman to wait for him, walked across the little bridge alone. In moments, he had disappeared.

  He walked briskly but carefully, occasionally turning round, almost furtively, to make sure that he was not being followed. The quarter was respectable enough: about half the houses were wooden, half brick and stone. He passed a church and turned into a quiet street.

  Only one thing puzzled him. What the devil had become of that letter? When the stranger had brought it to him the night before, he had intended to burn it as soon as he returned home. But then he had forgotten. Only after leaving Tatiana in the early afternoon had he remembered it, felt in his coat pocket, and discovered that it was gone. He shrugged. It didn’t really matter. It would be completely meaningless to anyone who found it.

  Now Alexander turned through a covered archway into the shadowy courtyard of a large building. Its walls were covered with peeling pink stucco, and like many such buildings, it contained a series of sprawling apartments, two per floor, most of which were occupied by merchants of the middling sort. With a last, backward glance, he ascended the ill-lit stone staircase to the second floor. The stairs were deserted with the sole exception of a very large, black cat which sat by a window, and which Bobrov ignored.

  When he reached the apartment he knocked carefully, three times, before the door opened a fraction and a voice from the gloom of the hall said quietly: ‘What do you seek?’

  ‘The Rosy Cross.’

  The door opened wide. For Alexander Bobrov the gambler, unknown even to his mistress, was a member of the innermost circle of that great, secret Brotherhood – the Freemasons. And they had important business that night.

  Perhaps she should have expected it. But she was very young. That was the conclusion Tatiana herself came to, in the years that followed.

  She loved him. When she saw his carriage approaching or watched the lackey at the door help him off with his coat, a thrill of excitement would go through her. He had known how to make her love him. Even in the early days of their marriage he had seemed to control everything. In their lovemaking, when he was done himself, he would still arouse her in other ways, again and again, leaving her glowing, yet always wanting more of him. She loved the way he looked, the way he dressed, his knowledge of things beyond her. Even the slight thickening around his waist, which had begun in their first year together, seemed to her to suit him very well: he looked neat, yet powerful.

  And surely he, too, was excited by their love. She knew he was: she could tell. She was learning too. She was eager to learn, both to experience new delights and to please him. She was happy; she was enthusiastic; she would – and did – astonish him!

  Tatiana had great gifts. She was warm-hearted and practical. She liked to supervise the women in the kitchen; and would proudly make dainty pastries with her own hands, sitting opposite him afterwards, her face flushed with excitement, to watch his reaction to them. How delighted he seemed, how charmed.

  It was therefore a shock to her when, six months after they had been married, he failed to come home one night and she began to suspect that he was still in love with Adelaide de Ronville.

  She was right. And as Alexander often reminded himself, it was his fault. Indeed, he reflected, I cannot blame Tatiana at all.

  It was not her fault that she was so young. It was not her fault if, like most girls of her kind, she had little education. She could not share a joke in French like Madame de Ronville, or even the old countess. It was not her fault if, on the occasions when he took her to salons like that of Countess Turova, she sat rather meekly to one side; nor that the countess, having cursorily asked after her health, would promptly ignore her for the rest of the evening.

  It was not her fault if, after a few months, the subject of her pastries bored him; or that, without either of them saying anything, he usually went alone to the countess’s.

  Nor was it her fault, Alexander knew, if their lovemaking left him on
ly half-contented. That had seemed delightful at first, too; he had been aroused by her slightly plump young body. Yes, he had thought, this is how nature meant things to be. A young girl, full of energy, swept away by the first excitement of love. It was not her fault if she craved passion with either a submissiveness or a violence that were far from the varied subtlety of Madame de Ronville.

  In short, he found his young wife was cloying, and that married life destroyed the delicate balance, the sense of silence within, which is the mark of the confirmed bachelor.

  He felt guilty. He had known how to make his young wife love him and want him; yet he found he could not give Adelaide up. He did not wish to hurt his wife but what could he do? Only with the older Frenchwoman did he find peace. ‘Only with you,’ he would tell her, ‘can I sit, très chère amie, and listen to the ticking of the clock.’ Indeed, his passion did not diminish but increased. The little wrinkles on her face, so finely drawn, so expressive of her character, represented for him, as he gazed fondly down at her, no diminution of her sexuality but rather a distillation. Her body, still young in many ways, filled him now with an extra tenderness. It was strange, but his wife’s very youth made him love the older woman more. So it was that, discreetly but often, he had gone to call upon Adelaide.

  It was a week after this first failure to return at night that Alexander was due to go to the Countess Turova’s salon. Tatiana said nothing, but made discreet arrangements; and shortly after he left, followed him in a hired carriage. She saw him go in, and waited quietly outside. Sure enough, at about eleven o’clock the guests departed and the lights in the big rooms went out. She waited another twenty minutes. The lights in the main body of the house were all out now. In the east wing, however, where Madame de Ronville’s apartment was, she could see a faint flickering of candles. Then they went out. A little later she went home.