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.
How still it was. Inside the house there was not a sound – not even a scratch or a whisper. He passed through Adelaide’s rooms. The evening sunlight outside softly lit up the tapestries and damasks. There was a faint smell of roses in the salon. A moment later he passed into the main body of the house. Since this, too, was silent he guessed that the old lady had probably retired early. He made his way carefully up the little staircase to the landing, and paused. The door of the maid’s room was closed: obviously she had not come up yet. But the door of the countess’s bedroom was open. He listened. Was she there?
Then he heard her. At first he thought she must be talking to someone, she was muttering with such conviction, but after a few moments, hearing no answering voice, he moved into the doorway. Then he was sure: the countess was muttering to herself. What was she saying? He could not make it out but suddenly the thought crossed his mind – perhaps the old woman was going a little mad. Mad or not, it was time to act. Calmly he stepped into the room.
She was reading, sitting up in bed, just as she had been that night five years ago. She looked older and frailer now; her hair, tied with ribbons, was getting thin. Her shoulders, slightly exposed, showed the bones sharply through the sagging skin. She was propped up on pillows, leaning slightly forward, following the text of a newspaper by holding a magnifying glass close to the page, and muttering irritably to herself while she did so.
She started with a little cry when she saw him. He saw her swallow with alarm. But then, quickly collecting herself, she noisily slammed down the newspaper on the bedclothes and hissed furiously: ‘What do you want? How dare you come here!’
He tried to look soothing.
‘I wanted to speak to you, Daria Mikhailovna, but,’ he gave a wry smile, ‘you would not let me in.’
‘Get out.’
He wondered if anyone could hear them, but stood his ground. It was all or nothing now.
‘Daria Mikhailovna, permit me at least, and with great respect, to say that you have done me an injustice. And even if you are unfairly angry with me, do not, I beg you, destroy my poor wife and children, who are innocent.’
‘You sent them to pester me already once today and I sent them away,’ she retorted sharply. ‘Now leave my house.’
His wife and children there? What was she talking about? ‘I did no such thing,’ he replied truthfully.
But the old woman’s attention seemed to wander now. She began to mumble, ‘First one comes, then the other, pretending they don’t know. Liars! They’ll get nothing from me.’ Could it be, Alexander wondered, that the countess really was becoming senile? The thought had just formed when she abruptly hissed: ‘Or their children. Filthy creatures! Snakes!’
This last was said with such vehemence, in a manner so insulting, that he could not help tensing with anger.
‘You do not understand, Daria Mikhailovna,’ he went on patiently. ‘You are angry with me but I assure you, no one admires the great Voltaire more than I do. But at the moment, my dear Daria Mikhailovna, even those of us who think as you do cannot speak. The empress won’t hear of it. I’m a State Councillor. Surely you know that I have to be careful.’
He paused, wondering if she had understood. For a moment she did not reply. She stared down at the newspaper that lay before her. Then she looked up at him, with contempt, and spat out a single word.
‘Deceitful!’
What a foolish, vicious old woman she was. And now she continued muttering, though whether to herself, or addressing her remarks to him, it was impossible to tell. ‘He says one thing to this one, another to that. Two-faced. You can’t trust him an inch.’ And just because, in his heart, Alexander was ashamed of the way he had deserted his old patron Potemkin, and because it was true that he had altered his views to the prevailing wind, the crazy old woman’s accusations made him all the more angry. First the hot drive out to the Summer Palace, then his utter humiliation, now this.
‘You don’t understand. I assure you …’ he began.
But she cut in: ‘You think I don’t know you for what you are. This is the second time you’ve come sneaking in here, you snake.’
‘I most certainly have not,’ he retorted hotly.
‘Liar!’ She fell silent, then continued her colloquy with herself. ‘Oh, yes, I saw him creeping in here in the middle of the night like a wolf. Thief! Thinks he can just come in here and mock me. Blackguard! Picking up my books, dancing about in front of me like a lunatic. Snake! Viper!’ She spat out the words.
My God! Then she had not been asleep that far-off night. Her eyes had been open because she was awake. It had never occurred to Alexander that the old lady had been brooding secretly about his foolish nocturnal visit for the last five years. And how on earth could he explain it now? ‘Who do you think you are?’ she suddenly demanded furiously. ‘You think you can deceive me too? Liar!’ she rasped.
He was shattered, yet furious. He was not a liar!
‘All this because I said a few words about Voltaire! What about my children – your own kinsmen? You mean to disinherit them?’
‘You mean to disinherit them?’ She mimicked his words with surprising accuracy and a vicious contempt. ‘I care nothing for your children. Serpent’s brood. Let them starve! Now get out of here. Traitor!’
It was too much. It was cruel beyond reason. The rage and frustration of the day, perhaps of his whole life, suddenly welled up and flooded over.
‘You old witch!’ he cried out. ‘You stupid, senile old hag! What do you know about anything? Damn your Voltaire! Damn you too!’ He raised his fists above his head, tightly clenched. ‘My God, I’ll kill you!’ And he took a step towards her.
It was a gesture of frustration. He had meant, perhaps, to shock her. He hardly knew himself. But now to his horror he saw her shudder, watched her eyes open very wide, then roll up. Then she fell back on her pillow.
He stood still. It was very quiet. He glanced at the door, expecting to see servants, but there was nobody. It suddenly occurred to him that in that huge house, the servants on other floors had probably not heard them. He looked back at her. Her mouth had fallen open, making a small, rather pathetic little O. Her few yellow teeth seemed very long, like a rat’s. She did not seem to be breathing.
Trembling, he went over to her. What should he do? Gingerly he felt her pulse. He could feel nothing. He continued to gaze at her nervously for some time before he fully realized that she was dead.
Because he was so afraid of her, a simple and obvious fact had never entered his mind – that the frail old woman had been terrified of him. He must have given her a heart attack. He crossed himself.
And only after several moments more, as he stood there wondering what to do next, did the true significance of what had happened occur to him.
‘Praise be to God,’ he whispered. She was dead – and she hadn’t yet altered her Will. ‘I’m saved after all.’
Cautiously he went to the door and looked out on to the landing. Everything was quiet, just as it had been before. He glanced back once more at the figure of the countess. She had not moved. He went out, descended the staircase to the main body of the house, then slipped quietly along the passage to Madame de Ronville’s quarters.
A few minutes later
, he was letting himself out of the little street door. No one saw him. He locked the door behind him. Then, walking swiftly, he made his way through the tenuous late evening light to the Strelka where his carriage was waiting.
It was just as his carriage was rolling over the bridge towards Peter’s Square that, in the great house on Vasilevsky Island, Countess Turova’s eyes fluttered and slowly opened.
The dead faint into which she had fallen had lasted some time. She had, indeed, been lost to the world and had herself no idea how long she had been unconscious. Nor was it surprising that Alexander should have believed her dead: for having little experience of old people he did not know that their pulses often become almost impossible to feel. For some while she lay very still, collecting her strength. She called for her maid, but obviously the woman was still downstairs somewhere. Her face puckered up into an expression of disgust and she muttered something to herself. Carefully, she levered herself round, so that her legs hung over the side of the bed, and slowly lowered them to the floor. Holding the bedside table, she made sure that she could walk. Then she went over to the little writing table. Feeling in one of the drawers, she pulled out a piece of paper and looked at it thoughtfully; she had no idea what it meant, but she was sure it meant something.
It was the letter Alexander had unknowingly dropped from his pocket when he had done his foolish little dance in her room that December night, five long years before. And it was signed – ‘Colovion’.
Then, unaided, Countess Turova started to make her way towards the stairs.
Alexander could not sleep that night; perhaps it was the excitement of what had passed, or perhaps it was merely the season, but a little after midnight he set out from his house and began to walk.
There were others about, in that pale gloaming: young couples, even children, walking along the broad embankments of the Neva or beside the silent canals with their little bridges, enjoying the warm magic of those early hours. Sometimes a little party would go by, singing and laughing in the glimmering greyness.