The park was immense, but neglected. Rolling acres of overgrown lawns were spread on both sides, with trees that had clearly been arranged precisely to achieve maximum effect ~ here a single oak, there a chestnut, over there a clump of birch. In some places, there were large areas of woodland, where I could imagine royal hunting parties out for a day's sport, and in others, pretty little pagodas peeped at us from leafy hideaways. It was mid-morning on a bright, beautiful late-August day, and the sun gleamed on colourful bushes, alive with flowers.
After what seemed an age, but in reality was only a few minutes, we turned a wide, sweeping bend, and a huge, ancient building swung into view. From the window on my side of the car it looked magnificent, a symbol of a kind of affluence that would only be enjoyed today by business tycoons and some overpaid celebrities. "There it is!" I cried, feeling like a child as the words shot out.
Sergey smiled. "No, devushka, that is the Catherine Palace. It is much as grand of Alexander Palace."
"May we visit it, please?" asked Nan, suddenly alert again.
"Of course."
He spoke to the driver, who picked up a device from his dashboard, like a telephone handset, and rattled off something in Russian, receiving a swift reply which he relayed to Sergey.
"We will soon meet another road ~ it is going to the Catherine Palace," Sergey told us.
And indeed, within a minute or two, the car took a fork in the road and shortly pulled up beside the impressive building. Closer to, I could see that there was scaffolding erected across the centre of it, and quite a number of people were hard at work.
Our smart military escort, in their long grey coats with crimson piping, jumped from their Jeep and waited for us, while our chauffeur opened our door.
We stepped out into the sunshine, suddenly warm after the air conditioned car.
Catherine Palace was a long building, stretching away to our right and left, looking for all the world like a grand parade of terrace houses. It rose three floors, with entrances and balconies protruding at intervals along its length. There was gold in excess, and bright colours fought for attention like children in a classroom.
Sergey came to stand beside us as we looked.
"The German army it is here in the war, for a head- … (mmm) … -quarter, after he captures Staligrad. When they go, they made big fire," he said, simply, with sadness in his face.
And we could see some of the damage. Apart from the area at the centre, where considerable restoration work had already taken place, much of the building was clearly fire damaged: many of the windows were just gaping holes, and smoke-blackened smudges rose from each to stain the once-elegant façade.
Sergey led us, accompanied by our escort, towards an entrance hidden amidst the scaffolding. Some workers stopped to watch us, and some words were exchanged. "They say to be … (mmm) … caring? No ... careful ... because much not safe," he explained.
Close up it was beautiful. As far as I could see, the external reconstruction work in this section was finished, and the workers were painting the walls a light shade of blue, and the window frames white ~ rather like some Wedgwood pottery I had seen. Here and there were tall, sturdy columns, with beautifully carved stone statues at the base of each, and at every door and window were gold cherubs and ornamental scrolls and crests.
"The family hardly ever used this palace," said Nan, unexpectedly, looking up and around her. "They preferred the cosier Alexander Palace. This was reserved for state occasions and an occasional ball."
We followed Sergey inside, and found ourselves in a large room, where more restoration was taking place. Here, murals were being painstakingly cleaned and repainted, and ornamental door frames erected.
"This was an anteroom to the State Dining Room," Nan informed us, suddenly talkative, becoming our unofficial guide, "where the Russian royal family showed off their wealth to other royal families. There would be an orchestra playing over there ..." she waved her stick towards a far corner, "... as the Tsar and Empress greeted guests here at the door. And tables were laid out with hors d'ouvre along both sides, there."
It was stunning in its ostentatious beauty; beautiful marble tiles covered the floor, a mural depicting a battle scene covered one wall, and gold ornamentation dripped from every window frame and the ceiling above us like melting candle-wax. But it was so overstated, so garish, that its effect on me was not to inspire awe, but rather, to my amazement, I was sickened by it. I found that I could understand the resentment felt by the ordinary Russian citizens at the ostentatious wealth and power of this privileged few, who had so much while they had little or nothing. The strength of that feeling, and its sudden manifestation, surprised me. All at once I knew what Nan had tried to explain to me. How it had driven the masses to revolt against the monarchy and aristocracy, not just in Russia, but in France too, a hundred years earlier.
After studying it in pensive silence for a while, we followed the long, worn carpet through the centre of the room (there to protect the floor from the feet of the many workers passing back and forth) into an even larger hall, where, again, the mural painters were at work, and carpenters were busy building a huge table.
"Ah, this is the State Dining Room," Nan declared.
The table under construction was enormous, big enough to seat fifty people. Nan waved her arm in a big sweep, warming to her topic, and nearly catching Sergey with her stick as it hurtled past his head.
"The original table had an amazing system. Beside each place setting there was a round slate, and a guest would write on the slate what they wanted to eat, anything that came to mind, then ring a bell beside it. The slate would disappear down into the table, and a little later would come back up again with whatever the guest had ordered." A smile suddenly pulled at her mouth. "Or, sometimes, what someone else had ordered," she giggled.
"Ladies and gentlemen . . . ," began Sergey.
"Sergey, darling," Nan interrupted. "Forgive me for correcting you, but just 'ladies' will do. You are the only gentleman here." She smiled sweetly at him. The change in her demeanor was amazing; she was on home ground.
He became flustered. "(mmm) … Thank you. I am learn only English now, not … (erm) ... many."
He was blushing. I wasn't sure, but I think he was more embarrassed at being called 'darling' than at having his broken English corrected.
"Devushka, will you like follow me? There is more to see." He gestured towards a door at the end of the dining hall, the frame of which was being fitted with more carved, golden mouldings, and we followed him through into a modest room with a wide staircase rising to our left. However, this was not our destination, apparently, for we passed straight on and through another door into a huge hall.
"The Great Ballroom," sighed Nan, a small smile again on her lips. Her eyes glittered like diamonds as more memories emerged from the shadows of the past.
It was indeed an immense ballroom, as large as a cathedral. More people were working all around the walls, and on scaffolding right up to the ceiling, restoring the grandest murals I have ever seen, illuminated by banks of glaring floodlights.
The vast, original, unsupported ceiling had clearly been destroyed in the fire, and must have completely collapsed, because the splendid ornate tiled floor, though cleaned up, was chipped and pitted where masonry had fallen upon it as the upper floors fell through, and the new ceiling was currently mostly plain white plaster, upon which skilled artists were painstakingly recreating the colourful murals.
But I could see how spectacularly beautiful this room must have once been. Lacking, for now, the dripping gold of the other rooms, it had an elegance that was captivating. I could almost imagine a hundred women in lavish ball-gowns swirling around with their immaculately uniformed partners to the music of an orchestra.
I remembered sitting with Nan, long before this trip was even conceived, listening as she described glittering occasions in ballrooms like this, in the more carefree days of the monarchy. We would sit, in her kitchen
with a cup of tea and a home-made scone in winter, or with a glass of wine in her pretty little garden in summer, talking about the wealthy and powerful from all over the world who had come to this palace and danced in this ballroom, watched from the side-lines by the young Natalie.
Suddenly she said "I once danced with a prince here."
I looked at her in amazement. "Really? I did not know that."
"Ah," she said, "I don't tell you everything," and grinned wickedly.
* * *
"Of course, I wasn't officially part of the royalty," Nan explained, "so I shouldn't even have been there. But Alexandra always allowed me to attend and watch, and one of the girls would lend me a gown. On this occasion, just before my sixteenth birthday, we were here for a grand dinner and ball. I was standing over there, near the windows, when a young man walked up to me, bowed, and asked me to dance. He was about my age ~ a little older, perhaps, but not much ~ and my height, very good looking, with neat blonde hair and a shadow of a moustache under his nose. He wore a dark blue military dress uniform, which suited him very well.
"I was stunned and embarrassed, and looked quickly around me in case he was really addressing someone else, but there was no-one nearby. I stammered that I was not royalty, just a Lady in Waiting, and he smiled and said that it didn't matter to him, I was the most beautiful girl there, and he wanted to dance with me. So we danced; it was a magical moment, like a dream come true.
"He said his name was Frederick, and he was from Sweden. His father was a duke of some kind, close to the Swedish royal family. I told him my name, and as the dance ended, he asked if he may write to me; of course I said yes. He walked me back to where he had first spoken to me, and we found two vacant chairs and sat for a little while talking. But his mother suddenly arrived and, with a glare at me, told him to return to his family. Then he was gone, and I sat alone again in my little corner, floating on a cloud."
She was beaming, and I felt so close to her and so proud I could feel tears in the corners of my eyes. "Oh Nan," was all I could say as I hugged her.
Sergey politely waited until we were ready, then informed us that most of the remainder of the palace was closed off, as extensive rebuilding was still under way. We could see more, he said, but there would be little to interest us, as work was only just beginning, and some parts were too dangerous to open up. He said that the authorities hoped this would one day be a national museum, fully restored to its original splendour, but that they expected it to take many years.
So, by common agreement, we left Catherine Palace and rejoined our driver, who hastily discarded a cigarette as we approached (eliciting a frown from Sergey). He opened our doors for us, then took his seat and drove us the short distance to our real destination.
~ Alexander Palace ~
Alexander Palace, when we reached it after a short drive across the park, was certainly not as large, or as grand, as its sister that we had just left, but impressive in its own way. It, too, was damaged, but not by fire ~ it had clearly been neglected for many years.
The car slowly circled an oval, grassy island, overgrown with wild summer flowers and sprawling shrubs, then stopped beside the central entrance. A pair of bronze athletes reared above us in frozen motion on either side of a short flight of wide, stone steps, flanked by two rows of Roman style columns.
Absent-mindedly, Nan ran her fingers over the pendant of her necklace as she gazed at the Palace. She seemed afraid to go any further, to even get out of the car. I put my hand on her arm and leaned close. "Are you ok?"
She nodded, and I studied her face. Her eyes were still the same warm hazel, and her pale skin was still remarkably smooth, but her hair, once black, was now pure white, and where it had once flowed lustrously down to her shoulders, was now neatly permed. The combination of its colour and shape made the effect of a halo, and she looked for all the world like an angel.
Slowly we stepped out onto the gravel drive. It was hard to suppress a shudder of excitement. In this building had lived the supreme (some said despotic) rulers of Russia, in astonishing luxury, and for a small part of that time, my Nan had been there, close to the family.
I looked around. Above us towered a colonnade of white pillars, stretching right and left, the width of the centre span of the building, topped by an ornate balustrade. Behind the collumns, a broad formal garden, laid out with pools and flower beds and chequered marble walkways, led to the palace doors. There was a sad sense of neglect about the whole place, paint was peeling, gutters broken, weeds filling every space, and I could see that part of the right wing was badly damaged by rainwater and mould.
But the thing that struck me most was the colour of it all. I had only seen black and white photos in books from the library, dating back to the palace's glory years, and had half expected it to be in shades of grey. But, of course, it wasn't. What I saw that day took my breath away. The façade of the palace was painted a luxurious shade of warm umber ~ though flaking now, and smudged with mould and water-stains ~ measured with white window frames and dotted with golden embellishments. It was incredibly beautiful, not as ostentatious as the other palace, but designed to impress in a more restrained way, which it most certainly succeeded in doing.
Sergey accompanied us as we walked slowly the few paces from the car to the first of the wide steps, feeling the mid-day sun warm on our shoulders, smelling the sweet scent of the wild flowers, and hearing the soothing hum of bees as we made our careful way.
Nan could not walk fast. Her legs, which had served her so well in the past, were no longer reliable, and she leant on her sticks to steady herself, so we made slow progress to the entrance. I held her left arm lightly, more to reassure her than for support, and I noticed Sergey's hand hovering close to her right elbow in case she should stumble. She stopped several times to look pensively around, but her expression had become inscrutable.
We walked up the short flight of steps, between the two statues and the central pillars of the colonnade, and through the remains of a formal garden, up to the heavy, oak, central doors. There, the soldiers accompanying us had joined with others already present to form a small guard of honour for us.
The doors were open, and another Marine was standing just inside the doors, tall and handsome in his uniform. He was wearing his medals, perhaps in our honour, and they made an impressive row of colour on his chest. He surprised us by demanding to see our passports and visas.
Flustered, we rummaged in our bags and extracted them. When we passed them to him, he made a great and serious show of examining the documents, opening each, scrutinising the pages and comparing our faces the the photographs inside. Eventually, his part acted out to the full, he returned the documents to us and waved us through with a salute and, it must be said, a small, wry smile.
"The building is res-pon-si-bil-it-ay of the Navy," explained Sergey. "But not use now. This, too, is be repair one day."
We stood in a spacious entrance hall, roughly square, with a parquet floor beneath our feet and a heavy chandelier hanging at its centre above our heads.
Another room was visible opposite, through marble columns, and that one was a mournful sight. Daylight was shining from above like a spotlight onto a massive pile of timber and rubble that lay at the centre of the floor. We walked towards it, stepping carefully over debris that had spilled out into the entrance hall. As we stopped between the pillars at the edge of the room, our feet crunched on some broken glass, and we jumped as a flock of pigeons flapped suddenly from the debris, disturbed by our arrival, and flew up and out of the shattered roof.
We could now see that the ceiling had completely collapsed. Broken glass and plaster were scattered all around; there was a smell of decay, and the dust raised by the departing birds rose in clouds that swirled in the daggers of sunlight. Poking from the heart of the debris was the skeleton of a chandelier.
"This was the Semi-circular Hall," Nan informed me as we surveyed the ruin before us. "The family held banquets in here ~ three
or four-hundred guests at a time." She looked upwards and pointed with her stick. "It had a domed roof and a painted ceiling, and that chandelier used to hang down from the centre of it, like the one behind us."
The two side walls of the room held a row of tall windows, every pane smashed, while the far wall opened through broken French doors onto an overgrown boulevard of tall, slender trees. Standing in the midst of the remains, it was possible to feel the weight of centuries of history, of monarchs, good and bad, loved and hated, who had enjoyed enormous privileges there. But now it just looked incredibly shabby and neglected.
"The palace was left empty from 1918, after the family left," Nan told me. "The victorious revolutionary army closed it up. They removed all the treasures, which had become the 'property of the people'."
I nodded. I knew from my research that the building was allowed to gradually fall into disrepair, finally suffering a battering by shells and bombs as the German army advanced into Russia during the Second World War.
* * *
We stood and stared for a while, then Nan turned decisively back to face the entrance. There, keeping a respectful distance, to allow Nan the freedom of her memories, we found Sergey and, beyond him, the starched sentry at the doors. Off to our left, as we now faced it, was an opening leading into what was regarded, in its time, as the 'public' wing, where guests stayed, or were entertained.
But we turned to the doorway on our right, into the 'English' wing, where the family used to live. It took us into a vestibule or ante-room, with a door opposite and two flights of stairs to our right ~ one going up, and one down.
"Down there is the basement," Nan commented, pointing, as we paused to look. "The other stairs go up to the children's rooms and the staff accommodation."
With Sergey still trailing we continued, passing through one room after another, each bare, with only a hint of the luxury of the past in their mahogany panelling or intricate parquet floors.
Nan showed me where the Tsar's rooms had been, and we lingered for a moment in his private office. I had seen photographs of him standing in this very office, smart and erect in full military uniform, beside an enormous oak desk, with thick rugs on the floor and pictures of past monarchs on the walls. Now it was bare and cold and coated with dust.