Had Patrick sensed this? Was this, as much as any troubles of his own, what lay behind our break-up? Perhaps I should blame myself as much as him. And lying there in that Russian dawn, I did blame myself. Somehow I had frightened Patrick away. The notion that he had been paid to leave me struck me now as ridiculous. Still, he had gone, and now some terrible disaster had struck him in India. I felt as though I didn’t understand about this disaster. As if the story, as presented to me, was false. I did not believe in the mutiny tale.
I thought about that for a little while. ‘But I’ve only heard about it at third hand,’ I thought. ‘What actually happened in India, and the story as told to me, may bear very little relation to each other … What a lot I don’t understand;’
The next day – quite unexpectedly – I got my first taste of the other Russia. So far I had been on the whole cocooned in a world of luxury and security; now I was to see the dark side.
That morning early, before breakfast, I buttoned myself into a cool, white linen shirt – for St Petersburg was beginning to be hot – and went downstairs where Ariadne was waiting for me to go with her to church. Like many Russian girls of her class and generation, Ariadne had strongly developed religious feelings, although of a somewhat dreamy and simplistic sort. Religiosity rather than religion, my old Tibby would have called it. It was a matter of duty that I should go with her, but in fact, I was entranced by the richness and beauty of the Orthodox service and music. We went quite often. Church was not, as in Presbyterian Scotland, a Sunday affair; one could go on any day of the week, at almost any time; sometimes we planned to go, but sometimes, too, we went quite casually, just because Ariadne felt like it.
I had instituted the habit of walking; Ariadne fell in with the idea, to humour me. This morning we were turning into the street which led to the church when we saw a line of police drawn up across the road, and we were stopped. Beyond them we could see a small group of people being questioned by two policemen, and in the distance, right down at the end of the road, was a glimpse of the Nevsky Prospect where a large crowd seemed to be milling about.
‘What’s going on?’
The police officers were eyeing us, and one man stepped forward. ‘You may not go that way, Excellencies,’ he said politely.
‘What is it?’ asked Ariadne.
He bowed. ‘A bomb in the Imperial Library, Excellency.’
‘Oh, the Anarchists again, I suppose. Was anyone hurt?’
‘I believe so.’ He was clearly reluctant to add more.
Ariadne turned back to me. ‘The police must think the criminals are still in the neighbourhood; you can see they have the area cordoned off and are searching.’
I had my eyes on the little group already under investigation; I saw a girl, quite young and neatly dressed in dark clothes, a young man in the characteristic suit and narrow cap of the student, and two older men, both working-class.
‘Perhaps they have them, or think they have,’ I said. Even as I looked, the four were led away by the police.
‘The girl was very young,’ said Ariadne. ‘Younger than me. It frightens me a bit.’
There was much to frighten one in Russia, and I was only just beginning to realise it. All the newspaper reports of violence I had read at home, the cautious speculation on the possibility of widespread unrest, suddenly took a concrete form. I was witnessing the break-up of a society. This was the edge of a volcano.
‘Let’s go home.’ And I took Ariadne’s arm, and we turned our backs on the scene.
‘It’s exciting, though, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘She was so brave, that girl, and must have dared so much.’ She was like a child who had just been given an experience that both shocked and delighted her, so that she wanted to go on re-living it in her imagination. For myself, it made me wonder how I should bear myself in this strange new country full of alarming portents.
In the hall Ariadne excused herself. ‘I’ll have some tea and bread in my room. I won’t come in to breakfast. I think I would like to be alone for a little while. You know, if we had been a bit further on on our walk we might have been near that bomb. The Imperial Library is not so far away from the church. We might have been hurt.’
‘And the girl?’ I said. ‘If she’s guilty, what will happen to her?’
‘The Fortress of St Peter and St Paul first,’ said Ariadne. ‘That’s where they take political prisoners. And then – ’ she shrugged – ‘Siberia, I suppose. It is terrible, isn’t it? However you look at it. Terrible what she did, and terrible what will happen to her. Russia is a terrible country. And today I have to go shopping for clothes with my mamma!’ And she ran away upstairs.
Thoughtfully, I went into the breakfast parlour. So now Ariadne knew that politics could reach out and touch her.
I found Mademoiselle Laure there, for once, coolly drinking tea. Her appearances on occasion were as puzzling as her disappearances. No rule seemed to account for them. But this morning, I learnt, Ariadne was to go to her mother’s French dressmaker, and Mademoiselle Laure was to go along too, presumably to see fair play. I was to be left to my own devices.
Mademoiselle Laure inclined her head to me over the teacup, as if it gave her some satisfaction to pass on this information. She was wearing a tight black dress with a small miniature, set with seed pearls and plaited hair, at her throat; I was in white even to my shoes. We made a strange pair, I all white and Mademoiselle Laure all black. There was something total in that blackness. Almost as if she was in mourning.
She saw me looking at the miniature and laid her hand protectively across it. ‘It is the anniversary of his death, and on that day I always wear his likeness, and dress,’ she indicated with her hand, ‘as you see.’
‘His death?’
‘Georges. Georges Leskov, my betrothed. He died of a fever before we could be married.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I had no idea.’
‘No matter. He loved me, and to the end. I have that consolation.’ And she gave me a meaning look.
I flushed. Bitch, I thought. And then: even she knows! ‘I wouldn’t have let him die,’ I said.
‘I too would have saved him, Miss Gowrie, if I could.’ She looked at me: there were tears in her eyes. ‘I nursed him day and night, did all the unpleasant duties a nurse must do, never flinched at inflicting pain. Could you do that, Miss Gowrie?’ She lowered her eyes. ‘But you would not have had to, one touch of your hand …’
‘What do you mean?’ I said sharply.
‘You know what I refer to, Miss Gowrie. Do you suppose Madame Denisov did not get a nice little character sketch of you before she engaged you?’
I flushed again. ‘I suppose she did. Indeed, I know it.’
‘Oh, you have no need to worry. She finds you magnificent. You are quite the “new woman” to her, all that she wants Ariadne to be. Or so she thinks at the moment. She’s a sceptic, not one of these sensation-hungry, superstitious Russians. Changeable, you know. Fickle. Better be prepared for that. You’re the chosen one now, but you won’t last. I’ve been used myself by someone in this house, to my cost.’
‘Oh, I can’t believe it,’ I said, stretching out my hand to her. To myself I thought she was madly in love with Peter, and that was her trouble.
She didn’t drag her hand away as she had done before, but her face softened a little. ‘Then you are truly unfortunate,’ she remarked.
As this chilling comment was uttered, we both heard the voice of Madame Denisov outside. Quickly Mademoiselle Laure said: ‘Take a word of advice from me, if you are not too proud.’
‘I’m not proud at all.’
She gave me a sweeping look. ‘Oh, you have pride. I can see it in the way you hold your head and in the stare of your eyes. Well, you’ve come to the right place to take a fall.’ She buttered a slice of bread and divided it into four equal segments, one of which she put into her mouth and ate carefully. ‘You have been with the Princess Drutsko.’ I made a quick movement of alarm. ‘Oh, don’t w
orry; I have said nothing to Madame Denisov.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I saw you come down the staircase. I have taken that walk myself, and know where it leads. Oh, yes, the Princess was my friend before she was yours. Don’t trust to her loyalty, will you? It does not exist. Come to my room when you can, and I will tell you a story.’
There was no mistaking the bitterness in her voice, nor could I fail to understand what lay behind it. ‘You have no need to fear me,’ I said slowly. ‘I am not your rival. Nor will I listen to any tales.’
She gave a short, incredulous laugh. At this moment, Dolly Denisov, accompanied by her brother Peter and followed by Ariadne, swept into the room. Behind, fussing and chattering in various tongues, came the little suite of attendants who seemed needed to get her off on any major expedition: French maid, Russian assistant and German secretary.
‘You will not be going,’ hissed Laure Le Brun in a whisper. ‘You’ll see.’
‘Oh, Rose, you are not to come with us,’ said Ariadne.
‘No, I know. Mademoiselle told me.’
‘We are too frivolous for you today.’
‘I should have enjoyed a peep inside a couture house.’
Dolly dimpled. ‘You shall have one, but on another day. Today, your cousin Emma wishes to meet you, and wants you to see your godfather, Erskine Gowrie. She sent a message round early. It’s one of his good days and she wants you to take advantage of it. She is there herself today.’
Everything had obviously been arranged in detail days before, and without a word to me. I was becoming increasingly annoyed, and puzzled, by the Denisovs’ habit of presenting me with ready-made decisions, careful faits accomplis. Was it a Denisov habit – or was it the way that Russians behaved in general? It made one feel awkward and helpless, particularly if one pretended to any kind of independence …
But I accepted it without protest; I wanted to see my Gowrie relatives. Soon after Dolly and her party had left, one of the Denisov carriages came for me, and after a smart ten-minute trot, drew up outside a large house in another fashionable district of St Petersburg. The footmen took me up to the Gowrie apartment and there was Emma Gowrie herself waiting for me.
Emma Gowrie was short, plump and elderly, with a frizz of grey hair and bright, bird-like eyes. I could just imagine the kindly relish with which she had prepared my little biography for Dolly Denisov. There was no doubt that she would love to have spent an hour with me now in interesting gossip about Jordansjoy, and my life with the Denisovs, but she plainly felt she had a duty to perform, and Erskine Gowrie must not be kept waiting.
Erskine’s apartment was full of dark wood and dark leather, very masculine in tone, with no trace of a feminine influence. His style of furnishing was a mixture of Russia and Europe: heavy oak and well-stuffed tartan cushions side by side – or even in competition with – shiny baroque furniture clearly of local workmanship. There was even something Asiatic about the total effect, and this notion was reinforced by the appearance of Erskine Gowrie himself. My godfather, a tiny shrunken figure propped up on silken cushions in a great chair, with his slippered feet on a stool, and wearing a rich brocade robe, looked like some Chinese Mandarin.
‘Here we are, Erskine, then,’ announced Emma cheerfully. ‘It’s Emma Gowrie.’
‘I can see that,’ said my godfather. ‘I know you. No need to shout.’
‘It’s one of his good days,’ whispered Emma to me. ‘He knows me.’
‘I always know you, Emma Gowrie,’ announced the old man. ‘Only sometimes I prefer not to.’
‘Well, that seems wise,’ said Emma, in no way put out. ‘Only fair, too. There are many days I’d prefer not to know you, Erskine Gowrie, ill-tempered chiel you can be, but I promised your wife.’
So there had been a wife, I thought. ‘Hardly remember her myself,’ said Erskine. ‘So don’t you bother.’
‘Oh, you old wretch, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Why, I’ve seen you weeping over her memory.’
‘Can’t say I remember,’ repeated the old man. ‘I expect you’re making it up. You always were a liar, Emma Gowrie. If you are Emma Gowrie; I’ve only got your word for it.’
Looking at him, I thought he displayed the essential unpredictability of impaired old age, his rudeness, his disparaging remark about what had probably been a loved wife, were part of his sickness. Underneath was a man who did indeed still remember, but who had to struggle against an irrational disturbance of his feelings which he could no more control than we ought to mind. Perhaps Emma understood this as well as I did, because she remained unmoved.
‘I’m Emma Gowrie, all right,’ she said.
‘Of course you are. Know your face, know it anywhere. As I would know you, my dear,’ he said, turning to me and speaking with great tenderness. ‘A perfect amalgam of your grandmother and your grandfather. So lovely to see their sweet faces again.’ He pressed my hand. ‘My perfect Rose.’
I was deeply touched. ‘Oh, sir,’ I said – I may even have blushed a little, without benefit of rouge. ‘But Granny was such a great beauty, and I’m not that.’
He still hung onto my hand. ‘Ah, how do you know? Do you see what I see, then? Let’s have some tea,’ he announced, ringing a little silver bell. ‘Good strong Scotch tea, not this weak Russian stuff.’ His eyes closed.
‘He’ll drop off in a minute,’ said Emma, with irritation. ‘And he hasn’t gone into things nearly enough.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve said quite enough,’ said Erskine Gowrie, opening his eyes. ‘Inside myself, at least.’
‘What’s the good of that to us?’ demanded Emma, her irritation in no way appeased. ‘Here have I brought Rose to you, and you do nothing but go to sleep.’
‘You always were a fool, Emma Gowrie. I have done enough, and Rose has done everything.’
‘Rose Gowrie has done nothing,’ I said.
He patted my hand. ‘Exactly what was required of you, my dear. Just to be.’
‘Oh Godfather.’ To myself I thought: ‘And that is the hardest thing in the world – just to be. Perhaps I should have handled Patrick better if I had had the knack of it.’ I was beginning to blame myself for Patrick, you see. Guilt has to be apportioned for such a tragedy as his, and I had to bear my share.
‘Where’s my tea?’ Erskine Gowrie demanded, dropping my hand and apparently forgetting me.
‘Tea, you live on tea,’ said Emma, pouring him a cup.
But after one long gulp he set the cup down and closed his eyes. It seemed time to leave, and I followed Emma silently to the door. But before I got there he called me back.
‘Rose.’
‘Yes, Godfather?’
‘Come here.’
He had a struggle for breath then, and I had to wait for him to speak. ‘Come back in a week’s time,’ he whispered. ‘And without that old witch if you can. She listens to everything and then talks about it to everyone else.’
‘I will come if I can.’
‘Promise. Because you see, there is something I wish to do, something I must …’ The words were hard for him.
‘Don’t talk any more,’ I said gently. ‘I’ll be back.’
‘Not longer than a week, mind.’ To himself he said: ‘A week will just do it.’
When I returned to Emma she said: ‘What did he want?’
‘He wants me to come back next week.’
‘Without me?’
‘You heard?’ I said.
‘Erskine’s whispers are not exactly inaudible,’ she said drily, but not with any air of displeasure.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said.
‘Oh don’t be, dear, don’t be. Things work out for the best.’ And she sounded quite pleased.
As she accompanied me down to the street, I said: ‘I wonder if he gets enough to eat.’
‘My dear, he’s a rich man.’ Now she was shocked.
‘No, but you say he lives mainly on tea, and I expect it’s true.
I dare say he does live on soft, sweet, mushy things because they are easy to eat. Whereas I have an idea old people ought to get lots of good nourishing food. It could be that a lot of his weakness and loss of brain power is malnutrition. What do you think?’
‘Oh, I don’t think, my dear,’ she said briskly. ‘Not about that.’
‘What does he make in those factories of his?’
‘Armaments,’ she said slowly. ‘Shells, bombs and grenades for war. And the explosives to go with them.’
I was silent, then I said: ‘Yes, you could get rich that way, but I suppose it is a trade to pray for. Death comes as its end, after all. How sad.’ It seemed the antithesis of my life, which I hoped to turn to healing. ‘But Madame Denisov told me it was an engineering works. Does she know?’
Emma laughed. ‘Oh, of course she knows. Erskine Gowrie’s works are famous. But I suppose she didn’t like to say. Russians can be like that. Devious, one might say; but it’s really a form of politeness.’
We parted without much more conversation, although before I was once again tucked into the Denisov carriage Emma gave me a hearty kiss in farewell. Like the kiss you might give to a good child, was my quick comparison.
Because my first visit to my godfather had been so short, I was home long before Dolly and her party could be expected back, so there I was alone, with time to spare and a burden of interesting thoughts. I looked at my watch. An hour until luncheon. I might amuse or bore myself as I chose. Not that one was ever alone in that house, for a servant was always within call. Watching too, I supposed – knew, indeed. They anticipated one’s wants so finely that they must be keeping a very sharp eye on all that went on. One of the little modernisations put in by Madame Denisov’s father had been an arrangement of speaking-tubes, through which it was apparently possible to hiss a request to a servant waiting in a room below. They were never used, for as Dolly Denisov said, you had only to clap your hands here and a servant appeared. ‘I did use one once,’ she had said, with a peal of laughter, ‘and then the silly creature only shouted back.’ She added: ‘My father would have had him flogged for it, but one doesn’t do that sort of thing now, of course.’
The Red Staircase Page 7
