And then … what a destiny! Mother Russia and all her mighty empire at his feet: he would be one of the innermost circle who ruled with the empress. There was no greater position in all the world. If he could just hold out a little longer.
Outside, St Petersburg slipped silently by, huge and magical. They were coming into the huge expanse of Peter’s Square, in front of the Admiralty. On his left he could see the long pontoon bridge that stretched across the frozen Neva to Vasilevsky Island. The bridge was not really needed, for the huge lagoon of ice was a busy thoroughfare in these winter months. Huge fairs were held upon it. He could see half a dozen roads across it, marked out by avenues of cut trees, or lamps which gleamed dimly until they almost faded in the darkness by the distant northern shore. A bonfire burned by the tip of the island. Further away, opposite the Winter Palace, was the faint shape of the St Peter and St Paul Cathedral’s slim spire against the night sky.
And it was now, as he came out on to the big expanse of the square, that something else, quite nearby, caught his eye: and for a few moments he seemed to forget himself, pulling the window of the sled open, letting the icy air freeze on his face as he gazed at it, with a look so strange that one would almost have thought he had been hypnotized.
It was the Bronze Horseman.
This huge statue, which had taken the French sculptor Falconet years to make, had only been put up recently; but already it was the most famous statue in all Russia. On a colossal granite rock a mighty horse, three times life size, reared up on its hind legs. Below it lay a serpent. And astride the horse, dressed in a Roman toga, was the living image of great Peter himself. In his left arm he held the reins, while his right, in a tremendous, imperial gesture, was stretched out, pointing across the broad Neva that lay before him.
Nowhere in the world, they said, was there a greater block of granite; never had such a huge casting in bronze been made. The splendid horse, copied from the finest in Catherine’s stables, seemed to be launching itself in an almost impossible leap forward into space. And now, as it did every time he saw it, the great statue took Alexander’s breath away. All his dreams and ambitions seemed to be expressed in this huge bronze hymn to Russia’s might. It had to be huge: had not Russia already cast, in Moscow, the biggest cannon and the greatest bell the world had ever seen? Of course St Petersburg should cast the largest statue in bronze. And although the narrow-minded priests had objected to Peter’s Roman, pagan dress, Bobrov saw that the French sculptor had captured the very essence of the new, imperial destiny that Peter had created for his country, and the genius of Catherine would complete. Russia, by her unconquerable will, would make a final, mighty leap and rule half the world.
The statue’s huge, granite plinth bore only the simple legend:
To Peter the First, from
Catherine the Second
Like a great phantom it dominated the dimly lit square. It was unassailable. And as Alexander stared, the statue seemed, like the inner voice of his own ambition, to speak to him and say: ‘Little man: would you turn back now?’
No, Alexander thought. No, I cannot turn back. I have come too far. Better to gamble – to win an empire or lose all – just one more time.
And he took the silver coin he was to have tossed, and threw it out of the window, into the night.
‘Dear Alexander!’ She was smiling. ‘I am so glad you have come.’
‘Daria Mikhailovna.’ He bent down to kiss her. ‘You are looking wonderful.’
In fact, the countess wasn’t looking too bad. One could even see that she had once been attractive. Her little face, rather too heavily painted, always reminded him of some bright bird’s, especially as now, with age, her hooked nose had become more prominent. Her small, blue eyes were lively, darting glances from place to place. She was wearing a floor-length antique dress of mauve gauze, decorated with white lace and pink ribbons, which made her look like a figure of the previous generation from the French court. Her hair was fine; but somehow, despite the fact that it was powdered, it had a strange yellowish tinge at the sides, like tarnished silver. It was swept up high above her head into a daunting coiffure topped with curls and decorated with pearls and a pale blue ribbon.
To receive her guests, Countess Turova was seated on a gilt chair in the middle of her salon, which lay up one flight of the staircase in the great marble hall. Like most such rooms in Russian palaces, it was huge and magnificent. Its ceiling was over twenty feet high; its gleaming parquet floor contained at least a dozen woods. A gigantic crystal chandelier glittered above.
The guests were still arriving; many of them Alexander recognized. A German professor, an English merchant, two young writers, a distinguished old general, an even older prince: it was one of the pleasures of St Petersburg that one might find people of all nations and classes in such an aristocratic setting. For there was a warmer and easier spirit in Russia than in the noble houses of western Europe.
And it was a long tradition that, once a week, such people should come to the great Turov house on Vasilevsky Island. For the count had been a remarkable man. He had helped the great Shuvalov found Moscow University thirty years before; the writers of the mid-eighteenth century – the first such intellectual group in Russia – counted him their friend; even Lomonosov, Russia’s first philosopher and scientist, used to call upon him. Turov had travelled widely – even visited the great Voltaire – and brought back many treasures of European painting, sculpture and porcelain as well as a fine library, all of which were still housed in this splendid palace. And the countess, whose magpie mind had picked up a number of ideas in the course of her life with him, now clung to these with a tenacity which was in perfectly inverse proportion to her understanding of them. She kept open house for the intellectuals who, partly from habit, and partly amused by her eccentricity, continued to come. ‘They rely upon me,’ she would say. ‘I am their rock.’ She was certainly unchanging.
And upon nothing was the Countess Turova more constant than her devotion to the chief object of her worship. For if she revered her late husband, to her greatest hero she had erected nothing less than a temple. ‘In this house,’ everything seemed to say, ‘the enlightened worship the great leader.’
Voltaire. His quizzical image was everywhere. There was a bust of him on a pedestal in the huge marble hall, and another at the turn of the great staircase. There was a portrait in the large gallery at the top, and another bust in the corner of the salon. The great philosopher was her icon. His name came into the conversation ceaselessly. If someone made a good point, the countess would say, with finality: ‘So Voltaire himself might have said.’ Or even better, and with warmth: ‘Ah, I see you have read your Voltaire.’ Something which, Bobrov was sure, she had never done herself. It was astonishing how any subject could be suddenly brought back to the great man and his authority invoked. For all I know, she even thinks he regulates the weather, Alexander thought.
In deference to Voltaire, Diderot and the other French philosophers of the Enlightenment, only French was spoken in Turova’s house.
And one had to be careful what one said. It was amazing what the old woman could hear, and what she knew. She loved to catch people out. Indeed, after invoking the blessed name of Voltaire, her favourite phrase was a sharp: ‘Take care, monsieur. For I sleep with my eyes open.’ And it was never clear whether this was a figure of speech, or whether she meant it literally.
Now, however, still beaming, she tapped his arm lightly. ‘Do not go too far, mon cher Alexandre: I have special need of you tonight.’ He wondered what she was up to. ‘For the moment, however, you may go. Indeed, I see someone waiting for you.’
Alexander turned. And smiled.
Countess Turova’s house was a very large building with a heavy, classical portico between two wings. The basement rooms were almost on street level, and though many nobles let such places to fashionable merchants and shopkeepers, the countess did not, preferring to live in the house entirely alone with her servants.
With one exception. She allowed a widowed Frenchwoman, Madame de Ronville, to occupy a suite of rooms in the eastern wing. This suited the countess very well, for though this Frenchwoman was not a paid companion, she was dependent in that her charming quarters were let to her at a very low rent, and it was understood that she would be available when the countess wanted her company. ‘It’s so convenient for her to be near me,’ the countess was often pleased to say.
It was also quite convenient for Alexander Bobrov. For Madame de Ronville was his mistress.
Was there anyone more charming in St Petersburg? As he always did, he now felt that sudden tingle of almost adolescent excitement and joy in her presence, which was accompanied, usually, by a little trembling down his back. They had been lovers for ten years, and he never tired of her. She was almost fifty.
Adelaide de Ronville wore a pink silk dress, a little shorter than the countess’s, tightly gathered at the waist and opening out over a hoop skirt. The bodice was decorated with the appliqué silk flowers which the fashionable French called ‘indiscreet complaints’. Her hair, starched and powdered, was charmingly crowned with two little clusters of diamonds. As she stood quietly at his side, almost, but not quite touching him, he was aware of her slim, pale form concealed beneath. Now, her large blue eyes twinkling with amusement, she explained what was going on. ‘Her two stars for the evening have failed to arrive,’ she whispered. ‘Radishchev and the Princess Dashkova.’ She smiled. ‘She needs you to be the star – and her gladiator. Good luck!’
And now Alexander really had reason to smile. Nothing in the world could have been better. Now, he thought, I can please her so much she’ll want to leave me the lot!
There were probably no more brilliant figures in enlightened St Petersburg than those two. Princess Dashkova was almost a rival personage to Catherine herself, a fearless champion of liberty whom the empress had placed in charge of the Russian Academy. As for Radishchev, Alexander knew him quite well: he was already writing brilliant essays. How mortified the countess must be that they had failed to turn up. And what a chance for him.
For, despite all his efforts, Alexander was never quite sure that the old countess took him seriously. He had written articles which were widely praised. He had even, like Radishchev, contributed anonymous articles to journals on such daring subjects as democracy and the abolition of serfdom – subjects which, even in Catherine’s enlightened Russia, were still too radical to be discussed officially. He had shown her these articles and let her into the secret of their authorship; but even then, he did not really know if he had impressed her. Tonight would be his chance.
The role of gladiator, as Countess Turova’s regular guests called it, was always the same. For where other salons encouraged the gentle art of civilized debate, Countess Turova liked to watch a massacre. The victim was always an unsuspecting newcomer of conservative views who was confronted with a man of the Enlightenment – her gladiator – whose job it was to defeat and humiliate his opponent while she and her guests watched.
As Alexander glanced towards the countess now, he could see that a circle was already forming in front of her. On her left he noticed a newcomer, a general – a dapper, grey-haired man, short but erect, with piercing black eyes. So this was the victim. The Countess was beckoning. As he approached, he smiled to hear her reproving one of the young writers for something he had said. ‘Take care, monsieur,’ she was wagging her finger at him. ‘You cannot deceive me. I sleep with my eyes open.’ She did not change.
It was one of the joys of these evenings that Countess Turova never troubled to be subtle. When she was ready to start the argument, she merely picked up one of the fighting cocks, so to speak, and threw it at the other. Now, therefore, she turned abruptly to the unfortunate general. ‘So,’ she said accusingly, ‘I hear you want to close all our theatres.’
The old man stared at her in surprise. ‘Not at all, my dear countess. I just said that one play went too far and should be taken off. It was seditious,’ he added calmly.
‘So you say. And what do you think, Alexander Prokofievich?’
He was on.
Alexander enjoyed these debates. Firstly, he was good at them because he was patient; secondly, though the countess herself might be shallow, the debates in her salon often concerned important matters, touching the very heart of Russia and her future. For this reason, while he was anxious to defeat the general, he hoped also that he would be a worthy opponent.
The countess had set up the subject: freedom of speech. It was a key tenet of the Enlightenment and was supported by the empress. For not only had Catherine allowed private presses to operate legally, she had even written social satire for the stage herself. And so the debate began.
BOBROV:
I am against censorship – for a simple reason. If men are free to speak, the voice of Reason will eventually prevail. Unless, of course, you have no faith in men’s reason.
COUNTESS:
(Nastily) Have you faith, General?
GENERAL:
(Cheerfully) Not much.
BOBROV:
History may be on your side. But what about the future? Men can change and so can the way they are governed. Look how the empress is bringing up her grandsons. Do you disapprove of that?
Everyone knew that Catherine had personally taken charge of her grandsons, Alexander and Constantine. She had put them under a democratically minded Swiss tutor who was teaching them how they might be enlightened rulers of the vast empires she planned to leave them.
GENERAL:
I admire the empress. But when her grandson rules, enlightened or not, he will find his choices for action are limited.
COUNTESS:
(Impatiently) No doubt you look forward to the reign of Grand Duke Paul, instead?
Bobrov smiled. The Grand Duke Paul, Catherine’s only legitimate son, was the countess’s pet hate. He was a strange and moody fellow, and whether or not he was actually his son, Paul certainly modelled himself on the murdered Tsar Peter III. He hated the empress for taking over his sons and seldom came to court. An obsessive military disciplinarian, he had no interest in the Enlightenment, and there was a rumour that Catherine might one day by-pass him in the succession for his son. Even so, no sensible official like the general was going to speak ill of this man who might still one day be ruler. Wisely, therefore, the older man said nothing.
BOBROV:
To return to censorship – what practical harm comes from showing a play?
GENERAL:
Probably none. But it is the principle of free speech I object to. For two reasons. The first is that it encourages a spirit of opposition for its own sake. But the second, and worse danger, is not the effect on the people, but on their rulers.
BOBROV:
How so?
GENERAL:
Because if a so-called enlightened government thinks it must defend its action by Reason, then it starts to believe it is morally obliged to win every argument. Now what if a powerful and determined group – which cares nothing for argument and free speech – opposes such a government? It becomes helpless. It’s no use asking a philosopher to defend us against Genghis Khan! That’s the whole lesson of Russian history.
It was a powerful argument. The countess looked put out.
BOBROV:
Yet the Tatars overcame Russia because she was disunited. I believe that nowadays and in the future, only those governments which have the trust of a free people will be truly strong and united.
GENERAL:
I disagree. Freedom weakens.
BOBROV:
You fear the people?
GENERAL:
Yes. Certainly. Remember Pugachev.
Ah, Pugachev. There was an almost audible sigh amongst the onlookers. The little phrase would reverberate in Russia for another century. For only twelve years had passed since the last, awful peasant revolt, which the Cossack Pugachev had led. Like all the others – like the great revolt of S
tenka Razin the previous century – it had begun across the steppe by the Volga and swept towards Moscow. Like Razin’s revolt, it lacked strategy and organization, and had been crushed. But it had reminded the whole Russian gentry and the imperial government once more of that dark belief that plagued all Muscovy’s history: the people were dangerous and to be feared. That’s all one had to say: ‘Remember Pugachev.’
GENERAL:
Russia is huge and backward, Alexander Prokofievich: an empire of villages. We are in the Middle Ages still. Only a strong autocrat and gentry can hold it together. As for the merchants and peasants, they have no common interests with the gentry and if you let them debate with each other, they can’t agree upon anything. Our enlightened empress knows it very well.
It was certainly true that Catherine ruled as an autocrat. The Senate and Council that Peter had set up did nothing but ratify her decisions. As for debates, when Catherine – trying to reform Russia’s antiquated laws – had convoked a huge council with representatives of all the classes, they had refused to cooperate with each other and had been disbanded.
BOBROV:
These things take time.
GENERAL:
No. The nobility is the only class in Russia that is capable of governing: they have their privileges because Russia needs them. Do we want to lose our privileges?
The noble class set up by Peter was there to serve the state: and they were proud to do it. Catherine, needing their support, had showered them with favours. She had placed all local government in their hands. The charter she had enacted the previous year had confirmed almost every privilege they could desire. All their estates, including the old pomestie service estates, were theirs absolutely now. No other class could own land. Yet though they usually chose to serve the state, they were no longer obliged to. They paid no taxes. They could not be knouted. They were even allowed to travel abroad. Thus, from the state servants of the Russian autocracy, had arisen a privileged class with few responsibilities, yet more protected than any other in Europe. The general had shrewdly appealed to the self-interest of most of the people in the room.