Russka

by Edward Rutherfurd

  So he scarcely noticed that there had been a subtle change in the atmosphere of the room. People were changing position. The countess was suddenly coming to life. A little group was gathering about the old lady, drawn there, it seemed, by some new arrival. Only now did he realize that she was beckoning to him. Wearing a faint smile to hide his boredom, Alexander strolled over. No doubt they wanted him to supply some repartee. And it was only when he reached the countess, and saw the figure who was standing on her right, that his smile froze.

  It was the old general: the man he had humiliated in this very place five years ago. Alexander could hardly believe it. He hadn’t even set eyes on the old man since then, and might have forgotten his existence if he had not heard that the general had acquired a surprising influence at court in recent years. Now, as he bowed politely, to his dismay he saw two things. The first was that the old man’s eyes were glittering with dislike; obviously the general had not forgotten him. The second was the look in the countess’s face, and with it came the awful realization: My God, she thinks I’m going to humiliate him all over again.

  Didn’t she realize that five years had passed? Didn’t she know that the Enlightenment was out of fashion and that the general was now dangerous? But of course she didn’t. Or if she does know, she doesn’t care, he supposed. She just wants to be amused.

  Already, she was smiling with happy malice. ‘Well, General,’ she began, ‘I understand you mean to burn all our books now, as well as close our theatres.’

  If only there were some way out: but there was none, and the general knew it. Alexander was trapped.

  What followed was worse than anything he could have imagined. The general played his hand to perfection. He understood precisely how the universe had changed since the French Revolution: he had no need to defend himself from the Enlightenment. Instead, repeating their previous argument, point by point, he calmly and bluntly stated his case, pausing after each statement to announce: ‘But Alexander Prokofievich, I know, will disagree.’

  It was brilliant. The old fellow had him exactly where he wanted him. Every time he invited Alexander to take up Countess Turova’s cause, he also gave him the chance to proclaim himself against the government: and Alexander guessed that the general would be delighted to take any statement he made and repeat it, verbatim, to the highest circles at court. Once, as a further taunt, he even remarked: ‘But you, as a friend of Radishchev, will no doubt disagree.’

  What could Alexander do? He squirmed. It was humiliating. Once or twice he managed, lamely, to take the countess’s part; but most of the time he was reduced to defending himself, even weakly agreeing with the general, so that the old fellow, with quiet sarcasm, was able to say several times: ‘You seem to have changed your tune, young man,’ or: ‘I’m so glad that, after all, you agree with me.’

  And all the time, Alexander could see the old countess becoming more and more irritated. She gave him a stern look at first, then tried to interrupt, then began to drum with her fingers on the arm of her chair. After a time she lifted up her hand and gazed at the back of it, as though to say: ‘I am so sorry that you, too, should have to be present at this débâcle.’ Couldn’t she really see the danger he was in? Obviously not. With each exchange he could feel her growing colder until, at last, she retreated into an ominous silence.

  The general saved the coup de grâce for the end, and he executed it with all the confidence of a card-player who is taking the last, inevitable tricks. He set Alexander up nicely.

  ‘The Enlightenment,’ he said calmly, ‘has led to these Jacobins. But perhaps Alexander Prokofievich may have something good to say about these fellows?’

  ‘I have nothing good to say about Jacobins,’ Alexander replied quickly.

  ‘Very well. Yet these same Jacobins have claimed as their hero that Monsieur Voltaire who they say inspired them. The empress, as you know, has repudiated Voltaire. Do you?’

  The trap was sprung. ‘Please go on,’ the general’s eyes seemed to glint triumphantly, ‘and give me something I can use at court to break you.’ And as Alexander wondered what to say, the silence was interrupted only by Countess Turova’s voice, cold as ice: ‘Yes, Alexander Prokofievich: what would you like to say about the great Voltaire?’

  ‘I admire the great Voltaire,’ he said carefully, after a pause, ‘just as the empress does. As for the Jacobins, they are utterly unworthy of such a great man.’

  It was a clever answer. There was nothing there for the general to use, but it seemed to mollify the countess. The grim expression on her face seemed to relax a little.

  But the general had scented the kill.

  ‘Very good,’ he said with lethal blandness. ‘Yet since his writings have caused such trouble, would it not be better if they were removed from the eyes of those dangerous gentlemen?’ And he looked around the little group with a smile.

  ‘You mean censorship?’ the countess cut in sharply.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Censor the great Voltaire?’

  ‘Perhaps the empress will decide to make a bonfire of all his books, my dear countess. But no doubt Alexander Prokofievich would not agree to it?’

  The countess stared first at the general, then at Alexander, in horror. It was one thing to ban a few seditious tracts, even if she disapproved of it; but to burn the entire works of the great Voltaire, to cut off civilization itself … ‘Unthinkable,’ she murmured.

  But it was not. How cunning the old general was. A trap within a trap. For only a few days before, a friend who frequented the court had whispered to Alexander that the enemies of the Enlightenment were secretly pushing for just such a terrible act. ‘And with the empress in her present mood, they may get their way,’ he had said. ‘Before a year is out, Voltaire may be banned.’ Clearly the general hoped Alexander did not know this. A denunciation of the idea was all he needed: then Alexander would be an enemy of the government. There was no way out. The general had trapped him and he knew it.

  ‘Well, Alexander Prokofievich?’ the old man gently enquired.

  ‘I am the loyal servant of the empress,’ Alexander lamely replied.

  The general shrugged; but from the countess there was a little gasp, then a terrible silence. The little group around her watched in fascination; the old general gazed at them all with contemptuous satisfaction. Then at last Countess Turova spoke.

  ‘I am interested to learn, Alexander Prokofievich, that you would burn the works of Voltaire. I had not known this before.’ She stared down at her hands thoughtfully. ‘I am sure that your wife must be waiting for you. So we will bid you goodnight.’

  It was a dismissal. He bowed his head, and left.

  A few days later, when Alexander called at her house, he was told that she was not receiving. Two days after that, when Tatiana went at her usual time, she was told the countess was not at home. A third time, the servant at the door informed Alexander insolently that he was not to call again; and that very day, he received the following ominous message from Adelaide de Ronville:

  I must tell you, dear friend, that the countess

  absolutely refuses to see you. She also says

  she intends to cut you out of her Will. I can

  do nothing with her. But you should know that

  her lawyer, who is in Moscow, will return in

  three days, and if she does not change her

  mind, he will be sent for as soon as he is

  back. I fear the worst.

  Alexander looked at the letter with dull horror. The children’s inheritance – gone. The entire business was insane, but he knew the old lady too well to think she would change her mind. He had insulted her idol; that was all she knew, or cared about. He showed the letter to Tatiana, remarking with shame: ‘See what your foolish husband has done.’

  She would not let him take the blame, however. ‘The old woman is mad, that’s all,’ she said firmly, and even in his distress, Alexander smiled to himself as he embraced her. How much closer th
ey were nowadays.

  But what could be done? The first day he wrote the countess a letter. It was returned. On the second, Tatiana wrote to her. That, too, was returned. Early on the morning of the third came a message from Adelaide.

  I have spoken again on your behalf – to no

  avail. She is obdurate. The lawyer has been

  sent for and he comes tomorrow. If you wish

  to talk, if there is anything I can do, I shall

  be at the Ivanovs’ all evening. So you can find

  me there.

  Alexander sighed. What was the point? There was nothing to be done now. Sadly he told Tatiana: ‘It’s no good. I’m afraid we’ve lost it.’ The stupidity of the whole business disgusted him. Miserably he retired to his study to think.

  Yet even at this moment of crisis, he did not despair. Perhaps the shock even gave him strength. If the inheritance was gone, he must think of some other way to get money. All morning, grimly determined, he pondered this question. His aims were modest: the days of Bobrov the gambler were long over. He would pay off his debts and put a little money by. It might take years and sometimes be humiliating, he did not care. He would make a start, right away.

  And so it was that, at midday, he came out, kissed his wife, and ordered his best carriage and horses.

  He was going to Empress Catherine’s summer palace.

  It was in the early afternoon that, unbeknownst to Alexander, Tatiana and her children set out in a modest hired carriage, and crossed the Neva to Vasilevsky Island. When they arrived at Countess Turova’s house, however, it was not to her door that they went.

  It had not been easy for Tatiana. But the Frenchwoman is the only person, she reasoned, who might get me in to see the countess. If it meant she must suffer the small humiliation of asking her husband’s former mistress to save her, so be it. And when the children asked who they were going to see, she told them: ‘An old friend of mine.’

  Her plan was quite simple. Once the countess knew she was in the house, surely she would see her. And when the old woman saw the children, could it fail to soften her? Then Tatiana would explain everything. It was a mother’s plan.

  And so it was that an astonished Adelaide de Ronville found herself confronted with three little children and their mother who, staring with clear, blue eyes straight into hers, declared simply: ‘We are in your hands.’

  ‘Mon Dieu.’ Adelaide gazed at the children. Alexander’s children. She realized, to her surprise, that she had never seen them before. Then she looked quickly at this simple, strong woman, their mother. And because it had happened so unexpectedly, leaving her no time to prepare herself, she experienced a sudden, terrible sense of loss and loneliness so that, for a moment, she found she could not speak.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said after a few moments. ‘I promise nothing, but I will do what I can.’

  She was gone some time. While she waited, Tatiana looked around her curiously. Though she had little understanding of what she saw, she perceived that there was something about the subtle arrangement of the Frenchwoman’s salon that was charming in a way that no room of her own could ever be. Yet what was it? Some of the hangings were old and worn. The colours were muted compared with the bright blues and heavy greens of the Bobrov house. Yet this, it seems, is what he likes, she realized. That the art of Adelaide’s seduction lay in the mind, that the joy of the room’s restful silence was that it evoked a whole civilization – said, in effect: ‘In this house there are countless rooms in which your imagination may wander’ – never occurred to her.

  She sat there, holding her children, for nearly an hour. Then Adelaide returned, looking grim.

  ‘She won’t see you. I’m sorry.’

  And this, too, Tatiana was not able to understand.

  The Catherine Palace. The huge park containing the imperial summer quarters lay only a short distance to the south-west of St Petersburg. Alexander had reached it in under two hours. He loved the place.

  For if anything symbolized the cosmopolitan era of eighteenth-century Russia, it was this building. Like the huge Winter Palace, it had been principally designed by the great architect Rastrelli in Empress Elizabeth’s reign. It was the Russian Versailles. The ornate, rococo façade of the central section was three storeys high, and stretched for well over three hundred yards. Pilasters, caryatids, windows and pediments were picked out in white; the walls were painted blue. At each end, a little cluster of onion domes served to emphasize even further the incredible horizontal line of the place. Catherine had abolished some of the formal gardens for an English park, laid out by John Bush. She had also decided to replace the gilt on the domes with a duller but more sensible paint. ‘But God knows,’ people would remark, ‘there’s enough of Rastrelli’s gold left inside.’

  There was indeed. For here was European elegance blended with true Russian sumptuousness. There were huge halls of multicoloured marbles, rooms decorated with jasper and agate; there was even, unique in all the world, a room whose walls were entirely made of amber. The magnificent parquet floors used dozens of woods. And everywhere was the gold that Rastrelli loved, set off with alabaster, lapis, deep reds and dazzling blues, in such brilliant profusion that even visitors from the greatest courts in Europe gasped. How should it be otherwise when this was the capital of the vast Eurasian empire, which could take such treasures from lands which stretched from the Baltic shores all the way to the desert and mountains of the fabulous orient?

  The Russian Versailles. Yet it was profoundly different from the great French palace. For where the French King had laid out his vast, proud palace and park with a cold classical geometry, this gorgeous Russian palace was essentially simple. It was a long, brightly painted house in the forest. That was all. Despite its magnificence, there was a charming humility about the place, as though to say: Man is still dwarfed, under this sparkling northern sky and this ever-receding horizon, here at the corner of the endless plain. In this, the rococo Catherine Palace was still entirely Russian.

  ‘State Councillor Bobrov.’ They gave him directions immediately, and Alexander entered boldly. Yet all the same, he could not help feeling a sense of mortification as he made his way through the huge, gilded halls. With every step, a little voice, long smothered, seemed to say: ‘This should have been yours, not his.’

  For the man he had come to see was young Platon Zubov – the Empress Catherine’s new lover.

  How inscrutable, indeed, was fate. The very position he had once aspired to occupy now belonged to a handsome young man in his early twenties, who was vain, shallow and ambitious. He was so obvious about it all. Nobody liked him. Yet the whole court sensed – perhaps the empress also knew – that in the autumn of her life, this young lover would be her last.

  And this was the young man whose favour Alexander had, for some time, been trying to cultivate. It had not been pleasant. But what else do you do, when you’ve got a family, he told himself. A little while ago he had actually been very useful to the young favourite, hoping to build up a debt of gratitude with him in the future. Now, in this present crisis, it seemed time to cash in the debt at once. That was what he was counting on today.

  The pavilion rooms in which the young man was holding court had been built onto one end of the palace, together with a long gallery, by Catherine’s Scottish architect Cameron. It was beautifully designed – smaller in scale but in the style of a sumptuous Roman palace, with a Roman bath house underneath. Before the doorway of one of the rooms stood a crowd of people: venerable courtiers, rich landowners, important military men. Three years ago they would not have looked at Zubov: now they waited meekly for admittance to the favourite. It should have been his – Alexander shut out the thought and sent in his name. As the door opened, he heard laughter inside.

  He was only kept waiting an hour before they let him in.

  The room was splendid, done in Pompeian style, with severe Roman furniture. Young Zubov himself stood in the middle of the crowded room, smiling. Fo
r his amusement, he had dressed himself in a Roman toga that day: and, indeed, with his classically perfect face, the vain young man looked very well in this dress. Holding his hand was a monkey.

  ‘My dear Alexander Prokofievich!’ His large eyes seemed surprised but delighted to see the modest State Councillor. ‘What brings you here?’

  This was the moment. Great men easily forget they owe favours, but Bobrov did not give him the slightest chance. ‘Why naturally,’ he replied, ‘I came here to congratulate you upon our triumph in Poland.’ And Zubov positively beamed at him.

  Poland. If the great Potemkin had given Catherine the Crimea, it was young Zubov’s intention to have his name linked to another important addition to the Russian empire. For fate had given him Poland.

  If the great feudal magnates of Poland and her partner Lithuania had advanced like a steady tide into ancient Russia in those centuries when she was struggling with the Tatars, that tide had long since ebbed away. Moreover, Russia’s former rival was still ruled by its famous diet – the sejm – that hopeless body of magnates which, having elected a king, could frustrate any course of action by the veto of a single member. Poland’s weakness had suited Russia very well. Twenty years ago, had not Catherine been able calmly to take another bite out of its borderlands and then have her former lover elected as a puppet king? By what folly then had the Poles, just a year ago, declared a new constitution which allowed for a normal voting system in the diet and a hereditary, constitutional monarchy? The poor King had even been stupid enough to endorse it. Did her former lover really suppose that Catherine would tolerate his ruling over a strong and stable Poland on her borders?

  Her reaction was instant. ‘They are revolutionaries – Jacobins!’ she declared. It was nonsense, of course: the reformers were conservative monarchists. But rulers are entitled to lie. Something would have to be done.

  Here then was the opportunity – for Zubov to make his name, and for Russia to enlarge her mighty empire. While many, including the great fading star, Potemkin, recommended caution, the new favourite urged: ‘Europe’s powers are distracted by the war with revolutionary France. They’ve no time to worry about Poland. Now is the time to invade her.’ That spring, with Potemkin dead, Zubov had got his way. Even now, following plans he had meticulously drawn up, a Russian force was sweeping easily across the Polish plains.