Russka (92 page)

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. For 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.

‘My dear Alexander Prokofievich,’ Zubov now declared, ‘you have timed your visit perfectly. I have just heard this morning that Vilnius is ours.’ The ancient Lithuanian capital. Another Baltic province to add to the lands of Latvia and Estonia that Peter the Great had secured for Russia. ‘By the end of the year,’ the young man went on, ‘Poland will be half its present size. We’ll give a piece to Prussia and keep the rest for ourselves.’ It would certainly be a triumph.

‘I share your joy,’ Alexander said carefully, in a voice which, once again, gently reminded him that a favour was due.

‘Ah, yes.’ Zubov looked at Alexander thoughtfully. ‘You were rather useful to us, weren’t you?’ Alexander bowed. ‘Of course, I remember it all.’ And the young man gave him a smile of total understanding.

It had not been anything to be proud of. At a time when Zubov was still unsure of prevailing on the subject of Poland, Bobrov in his modest way had done useful work for him in the bureaucracy. In doing so, he had deliberately betrayed his old patron, the sick Potemkin. He was still secretly ashamed of it. And all this Zubov perfectly understood.

‘So,’ the favourite said quietly, ‘tell me what you want.’

It was not much: just one of those many positions which existed throughout the cumbersome Russian administration and which carried a handsome salary for minimal duties. It would not make him rich, but it would supplement his income nicely and let him save some money until some better chance arose. He had rather despised these sinecures before, but this was not the time to be too particular. Zubov let him finish. Then he turned to his monkey.

Alexander had heard of the monkey. It was Zubov’s favourite pet and was often present at audiences. It was said that important courtiers had been sent out of the room because the monkey did not like them. He was not sure what kind of monkey this little object with a long, curling tail might be, but he eyed it rather nervously.

‘Alexander Prokofievich wants a present,’ Zubov said to the little brown creature. ‘What do you think?’

Alexander held his breath.

What happened next took place so fast that Alexander never actually saw it. All he knew was that the little creature must have sprung – for suddenly the monkey was on his chest, its arms clasped round his neck, and its face, like that of a tiny old man, pressed close to his – and that the force of its landing was so unexpected that it made him topple and fall with a crash on to the marble floor.

The whole room burst out laughing. The monkey was still pressing its face to his, squealing excitedly, opening and closing its little mouth so that Alexander wondered if it was going to bite him. He struggled to get up, slipped and fell. The little creature was all over him again, tugging at his ears, pushing its nose against his. And above it all he could hear, almost squealing in mirth, Zubov’s voice.

‘He likes you, Bobrov! He loves you!’

And then, suddenly, silence. Alexander turned his head: legs in silk stockings, uniforms all around, and everything motionless. He looked up; and now he saw, standing in the centre of the room, a short, stout figure in a simple, pale silk robe, rather like a dressing gown.

It was Catherine.

Awkwardly, scarlet with humiliation and trying to straighten his clothes, he rose and bowed. The monkey had disappeared somewhere. He was conscious only of the circle of twenty or so courtiers watching him, and of the empress, whose face was like a mask.

So at last, after all, he had met her face to face. Humiliating though it all was, he looked at her with curiosity. This was the woman whose bed he had hoped to share.

Her face was still fine. The brow was noble. But her short, stout body looked coarser and flabbier than he had realized, and some of her teeth were clearly missing. Her golden autumn had shed nearly all its leaves, and she knew that nothing could disguise it. Alexander gazed at her, and did not envy Platon Zubov any more.

‘Who is he?’ The empress’s voice cut coldly, authoritatively, through the silence.

‘Alexander Prokofievich Bobrov,’ Zubov answered, and gave
Alexander an encouraging smile. ‘He came to ask for an appointment,’ he added kindly.

Catherine looked at Alexander, apparently searching the large storehouse of her mind for scraps of information, saying nothing while she did so. She might be getting old, perhaps unwell, but her prominent, calm blue eyes were still rather alarming. For years Alexander had vowed that when they met he would astonish her: now, in her presence, after this ridiculous beginning, he was idiotically speechless. He felt himself growing hot. And then he saw a faint recognition in her eyes.

‘You are State Councillor Bobrov?’

He bowed. Perhaps Potemkin had spoken of him formerly and she remembered. She must, at least, be aware of his family’s ancient services. Was it possible that, after all, his hour had come? God knows I have deserved it, he thought. Then she spoke.

‘Aren’t you a relation of that tiresome and ridiculous Countess Turova?’

It was not a question. It was a cold, contemptuous accusation. At this signal of royal displeasure, it seemed to him that he could feel the whole room grow instantly cold towards him.

‘I am distantly related. I’m afraid she is rather absurd,’ he said lamely.

‘Quite. Now I know who you are.’

And with that she turned her back and began to walk out of the room. Just before the doorway, and without turning her head, she called: ‘Come, Platon.’ Then she swept out.

Zubov started after her quickly; from somewhere the monkey reappeared and loped along behind him. At the door, Zubov turned, gave a regretful little shrug to Alexander, and then suddenly grinned. ‘Oh, well, Alexander Prokofievich,’ he called out, ‘at least my monkey liked you! Goodbye.’ Then he was gone, and all the room was laughing.

It was over. He would never, as long as he lived, get any court favour. And why? Because the empress associated him with Countess Turova, and her stupid views.

My God, he thought, I might as well have kept on the right side of the old witch and her damned Voltaire.

Sadly, his head down, he left. He was broken. As he made his way back to where his carriage was waiting, he scarcely noticed the old general going into the palace, with a faint smile on his face.

All the way back to St Petersburg he brooded. He was finished. He could see it all. They would move to a smaller house. There would be almost nothing for the children. Even his most modest hopes had been dashed.

Perhaps I should just go and live at Russka, he thought. There would be nothing to do, but it would be cheap. ‘A fellow from Riazan,’ he muttered. That was the popular phrase for a country bumpkin. Twice during the journey back he put his head between his knees, in a gesture of despair.

It was eight o’clock in the evening when he reached St Petersburg: the bright haze in the streets would continue, growing gradually paler until midnight when the strange, electric luminosity of the White Night would begin. Shortly he would have to face Tatiana with the news of his failure. As his carriage approached the Second Admiralty quarter however, an idea occurred to him and he ordered the coachman not to stop but to continue across the Neva to Vasilevsky Island. Once there, he told him to wait by the
Strelka
, the tip of the island, then he proceeded on foot. He would have one last try. After all, he had nothing to lose.

The great house of Countess Turova was quiet. It might have been deserted. It was as though, having no wish to take part in that interminable, pale summer night, it had retreated into itself, behind its large, heavy and slightly dusty façade. Its big, silent pillars and their deep recesses made Alexander think of a mausoleum or a government office on a Sunday. Yet he knew the old woman was in there somewhere.

He approached discreetly, keeping out of sight of the main door where some lackey might observe him, and made instead for the little side entrance that led to Madame de Ronville’s quarters. Her note had said she would be out at the Ivanovs’ that evening. So much the better. He had no need to involve her, only to get access to the building. When he reached the door he pulled out the ring of keys which he always kept with him. Although they were no longer lovers, he had never been able to bring himself to part With the key to that little side door. He let himself in, and went up the stairs.