The Red Staircase

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘Heard, not seen. Yes, I have considered that too,’ I said sadly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, I heard a tune whistled where no one was. Did I really hear anything at all? And if so, what?’

  He turned to stare at me. ‘You really are serious.’

  ‘Mind the wheel. Do please watch the road, or I am sure we shall hit something.’

  ‘There are no ghosts at Shereshevo,’ Peter said, returning his attention to the road, where a peasant woman and a goat had materialized.

  ‘No, I rather believe I may have brought it with me.’ I spoke cautiously, waiting for his reaction.

  ‘That is possible, I suppose. But how sad for you.’ I ought to have known that no Russian was going to laugh at me for being haunted.

  ‘I’m not sure if the person concerned is dead or not, but it begins to look as if he is.’

  ‘One can be haunted by the living, indeed one can,’ he said thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m getting fanciful,’ I sighed. ‘If the incident had happened at home, I’d have thought nothing of it.’

  Peter drew the car into the side of the road in the shade of a tree, and stopped. ‘Now, tell me exactly what happened that worried you.’

  Briefly, I said: ‘I was coming down the stairs from my bedroom to meet you, when I heard someone whistling the music to which a poem of Robert Burns is set: “My love is like a red, red rose.” But when I went down to look and see who the whistler was, I could see no one. Nor do I know who it could have been, either. Ariadne thinks she saw someone leaving the room by another door on to the terrace, but she is vague. It wasn’t you, I suppose?’

  He shook his head. ‘No.’

  ‘I swear I heard someone.’

  He said: ‘You’re rather given to hearing things, aren’t you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ But I thought I knew.

  ‘You heard a voice speaking to you from the disused speaking-tubes in St Petersburg, didn’t you?’

  I turned away from him, and found that I was looking at a great field of sunflowers. We didn’t grow fields of them back home in Scotland, but here they extracted some sort of oil from the seeds. ‘I hadn’t forgotten,’ I said. ‘And indeed I saw the connection myself. It’s a little madness, I suppose, invented specially for me. The madness of the voices.’

  ‘Don’t be melodramatic. And silly as well,’ he said gently. ‘You are a very sensitive young woman. It’s not remarkable you should occasionally hear things that others do not. Perhaps you hear them with an inner ear we others lack.’

  I hadn’t told him everything, not whose favourite tune it had once been, nor the exact associations it held for me, but I had the impression that he understood perfectly well what it was all about. I was skating on the surface of things, but somehow he saw what was underneath.

  ‘How rational and simple and easy to bear you make it all seem,’ I said.

  ‘Most situations are when you seize them by the right handle.’

  ‘I don’t think I invent things,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘I am rather a matter-of-fact person. Our old Tibby always says I have no imagination at all.’

  ‘From what I have heard, it seems to me as though your old Tibby underrates you. She sounds very overweening.’

  I opened my eyes wide. We never criticized Tibby, she was the bedrock on which we rested. ‘I love her,’ I said. ‘And she loves me. She sees me clearly, I dare say.’

  ‘Of course you love her. It’s the fault of our educational system, Russian as well as English, that we put sensitive, intelligent children into the hands of peasants in their youngest and most formative years.’

  ‘You couldn’t call Tibby a peasant. Her father was a sea-captain. Only his ship went down with all hands.’

  ‘She has allied herself with them, then. Seen through your eyes, she seems a conservative, pig-headed old woman.’

  ‘And are all peasants like that?’ I asked, thinking I heard a sort of anger in his voice.

  ‘Yes, God help them, they are; conservative, archaic in their ways and customs, obstinate and obstructive. How could they be anything else? One never knows whether to flog them or love them.’

  ‘I think you know,’ I said gravely.

  He laughed, started the car and began to drive on. ‘Forget the outburst. The shaming truth is I believe I am jealous of the love in your voice when you speak of that old woman. I never hear it when you speak of anyone else.’

  He drove very fast then for a mile or two; I saw the speedometer needle tick towards fifty, then sixty miles an hour. I was half-exhilarated, half-frightened, but there was no expression on his profile at all. Certainly not love.

  It was Ariadne who next made an urgent demand on my attention. ‘I want you to come with me to Vyksa,’ she said when we met early one morning, a few days after my first driving lesson.

  ‘Vyksa?’ For the moment I was lost. Where and what was Vyksa?

  ‘Where my friend lives. I want you to come with me. Remember you said I was to ask. Well, I’m asking. I daren’t take the horses because they tell tales in the stables. And I am frightened to cycle all that way on my own. One feels safe on a horse. So I want you to come.’

  ‘You mean we aren’t to tell your mother?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Ariadne sounded surprised at my question. ‘She would refuse. She detests Marisia. Not without reason, perhaps, as Marisia has been very cheeky to her. Dislike is usually mutual, isn’t it? A pity love isn’t, too, but it isn’t; I’ve noticed.’

  ‘And I’ve noticed that you always talk too much when you are uneasy.’ Two could play at Ariadne’s game of sharp perception. She looked very pretty, though, when she was so eager.

  ‘Well, I do want to go, and I’m afraid you’ll say no.’

  Trying to hide my dismay, I said: ‘You must see that I couldn’t go behind your mother’s back and disobey her.’

  ‘Nothing direct was said,’ murmured Ariadne sulkily.

  ‘Sophistry,’ I said, aware that I sounded more or less like Tibby, stern daughter of the voice of God.

  Ariadne muttered something in Russian under her breath, no doubt uncomplimentary to me. She followed it up with: ‘Mademoiselle Laure came with me sometimes.’

  ‘How very unlike her,’ I said. ‘I would have said such behaviour was not in her character.’

  ‘People always act out of character at Shereshevo,’ came the reply, delivered with calm conviction. ‘I told you that. Or they behave unusually, if you prefer to put it that way. It’s something in the atmosphere of the countryside which loosens their strings.’

  ‘Ah, but you aren’t telling me all the truth, are you? Unveil it a little. So Mademoiselle went with you to Vyksa? Well, why did she? She must have had her reasons.’

  Ariadne smiled and gave a minute shake of her head; I believed she thought she had got the better of me. ‘So she had, then. The man she hoped to marry was a dancing master there once. Although heaven knows what they have to dance about in Vyksa.’

  ‘I see.’ Yes, I could see Laure making a sentimental journey of it.

  Ariadne reinforced this by saying: ‘She always wore black when we went there. Nothing ostentatious, she was clever about it, but I knew.’ She added naughtily: ‘I do wonder what sort of man he was to want to marry poor Laure. But it may have been losing him that made her what she was. Yes, now, I surprised you by saying that, didn’t I? I only did so because I could see the very words trembling on your own lips. You have no idea how clearly your thoughts are mirrored on your face. So I thought I’d get there first.’ And she went off into peals of laughter. ‘So what will you do? Shall we go?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, good.’ Undoubtedly I had surprised her now.

  ‘But I will ask your mother first. I’m sure she will give permission if we put it the right way.’ And when Ariadne looked incredulous, I said: ‘I’ll seek my opportunity.’

  Dolly frowned when I asked her. ‘It’s not a friendship I care for.
Nor one I wish to encourage. It has brought Ariadne nothing but harm.’

  ‘And for that reason you should let them meet openly,’ I said firmly, ‘and give Ariadne no reason for secrecy.’

  ‘I see you know my daughter,’ said Dolly. ‘No, I am not going to ask any questions that will strain your loyalty.’

  We were sitting together after dinner. I had settled on this cool, pleasant evening hour as the best time to talk to Dolly. We were more or less alone in the dusk as the others were grouped round the piano where Ariadne was picking out a few notes. Edward Lacey, amazing man, had produced a banjo (‘All the rage in town, my dear girl’) and was plucking it in rag-time.

  ‘If they meet under supervision, Ariadne will be safe and satisfied,’ I said.

  ‘Very well. If you will do it?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  How easily and confidently I rushed upon my fate. Looking back, I marvel at myself. But Vyksa, and all it was to mean, was always lying there in wait for me, and one way and another I would have got there. I believe that there is a larger ‘I’ than this present and local one whose penumbra stretches tendrils far out into the future. Even when I was back home in Scotland, happily affianced to Patrick, a part of me had stretched out and reached Vyksa.

  Dolly sighed. ‘Perhaps you should see Vyksa. For you have seen something of the best of Russia, now you should see what we have to hide.’

  To Ariadne, when we met next, I said briefly: ‘We can go.’

  ‘Oh, good. I’m glad. I want to see Marisia again soon. We have so little chance. It is only when we are here at Shereshevo that I can manage anything. She would never dare come here.’

  ‘You’re very fond of her?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ she said defensively. ‘Is that so wrong? She befriended me at school.’

  ‘And yet, according to you she was the one whose background did not fit in.’

  ‘Ah, but she is so clever. Nothing mattered to her, you see. She could manage any of us. She was too clever for them, that’s why they got rid of her.’

  ‘Things aren’t usually as simple as that, Ariadne.’

  She gave me a startled glance, and I guessed I had struck home. She licked her lips. ‘Rose?’

  ‘What is it, Ariadne?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing. After all, nothing. But of course you are right: it was not simple, my being expelled, and especially not for Marisia. Being at the school meant so much to her.’

  ‘And she threw it away?’

  Ariadne didn’t answer, and I left it there. One day she would explain if she wanted to. ‘There’s something you can tell me, though,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Is Vyksa such a dreadful town?’

  ‘Oh, the town is pleasant enough. A perfectly ordinary provincial town.’

  ‘Then why is it considered so terrible?’

  ‘It’s the copper mine,’ said Ariadne. ‘That’s what makes it so terrible.’

  ‘But many countries have mines. We have in Scotland.’

  ‘Not like this,’ said Ariadne with a shiver. ‘You wait till you see it. Or as much as one is allowed to see.’

  ‘Allowed?’

  ‘Yes. You see, all the people who work there are prisoners.’

  I stared at her, perhaps not quite taking in what she said.

  ‘Yes, prisoners,’ she repeated. ‘All of them prisoners. Prisoners of the State.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Without a word being said, Ariadne and I knew that we would set off early on the next morning. The matter was settled by a look between us. She was wonderfully sharp, Ariadne, when there was something she wanted to know.

  ‘You’ll order the horses?’ I said.

  ‘Of course. There’ll be no trouble now we have permission.’

  ‘Or we might take the pony and governess-cart we used before. The pony seemed a canny beast.’

  For a while in the afternoon, however, it looked as if our next day’s visit would have to be put off. Dolly interrupted Ariadne and me at work in the garden. ‘Madame Titov wants us all to spend the day with her. I thought of going tomorrow.’

  Ariadne pulled a face.

  ‘I am aware you don’t like her,’ said Dolly, ‘but she is one of my oldest friends.’

  ‘Whom you never see.’

  ‘We meet when our respective social duties allow,’ said Dolly with dignity. ‘Naturally that’s not often, considering what her life is like, and mine.’

  While I was thinking what a pity it was we couldn’t go to Vyksa the next day after all and get it over, Ariadne said thoughtfully: ‘How tiresome that old Sasha won’t have finished altering my white poplin dress, as it’s just the sort of style for Madame Titov. You know how quietly she dresses.’

  ‘You have many other dresses,’ said Dolly.

  ‘Oh yes, oh, of course. But that one is so exactly right, if you know what I mean.’ And I thought that I at least did know, whatever Dolly understood by it. ‘And then what a shame I haven’t quite finished that album of the photographs we took of the holy hermit’s shrine at Kazan. I meant to give it to Madame Titov. I was telling her about it and she was so interested.’

  ‘The visit to Kazan was three years ago,’ said Dolly suspiciously.

  ‘I have been slow, but it’s almost done. Just a few more days. Bother.’

  ‘I suppose it wouldn’t matter if we went this day week. She does offer us a choice,’ observed Dolly.

  Ariadne smiled brilliantly. ‘Oh, thank you.’

  When I saw how easily she manipulated her mother, I began to wonder exactly how far she did the same to me.

  The way to Vyksa was hard, with the sun glaring down on the dusty road all the way. ‘This is New Vyksa we’re going to,’ explained Ariadne as we drove. ‘The town really grew up around the mines. There is another Vyksa further north, and sometimes people confuse the two.’

  ‘The road is bad,’ I said, as we jolted down into a large pothole and then up the other side.

  ‘You should see it after the winter snows have melted. Mud, pure mud. Nothing and nobody can move. Even the peasants stay where they are.’

  As we travelled I became aware that, bleak and uncouth as I had thought the village at Shereshevo, it was, compared with some of the places we were passing through, a model village. The peasant houses in Shereshevo were neatly kept and had their little bits of garden about them, but now I saw villages where the houses were no more than huts, and dreadfully dilapidated ones at that, with grass growing on the roofs. Usually there was nothing that could be called a main street, and the pony, who seemed to know her path instinctively, had to pick her way through a huddle of houses. This brought us close to the villagers, many of whom were sitting at their doors or leaning against the house or a wall, or, in some cases, standing in silent groups watching us – probably the only incident of interest in their lives for weeks. I noticed a difference, too, between the peasants here and those at Shereshevo. Here they looked at us with sullen dislike; I could feel the hostility. At Shereshevo there was a relationship between the Denisovs and their peasant tenants; perhaps I had thought it too servile and dependant on one hand, and too demanding on the other, but the bond existed and was strong. These people looked as if they cared for nobody and nobody cared for them.

  I studied Ariadne’s face to see what I could read of her expression, but she was driving the pony, looking neither to right nor left. She knows, I thought; she is as aware of the waves of hostility surrounding us as I am. Soon she said, still keeping her gaze on the road – if such it could be called: ‘I was quite nervous on this stretch when I came alone, so that I wished I had brought one of the grooms. I rode so fast the horse got all lathered, that was what exhausted him so much and caused all the fuss in the stables when I got back.’ She gave a quick look about her. ‘Not nice, is it?’

  ‘No,’ I said, with conviction. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a young boy gather up a stone from the road and nurse it in his hand. He looked at the boy next to him and then back at us. ‘Ge
t a move on, Ariadne,’ I said sharply.

  Surprised, she turned her head to look at me. ‘What?’

  At that moment the stone sailed through the air and hit me sharply on the cheek. I gasped with pain. Without a word, Ariadne whipped the pony to a gallop.

  I put my hand up to my face to feel a trickle of blood. Another stone hit the side of the governess-cart with a heavy thud. I heard a shout from behind. But Ariadne kept her head and we drove steadily on. ‘It’s all right. We’re through the village now. They won’t follow us.’ I thought she sounded more angry than frightened. ‘But how is your face?’

  ‘The bleeding has stopped. I suppose I shall have a bruise.’ I put my hand up to my cheek. No doubt about the soreness. Russia had drawn its first of my blood.

  ‘Yes, I can see the beginning of it already. When we get to Vyksa we must bathe it. Marisia will know what to do, she’s so practical.’

  ‘How much further is it?’ I had found the journey interesting so far, although the countryside, flat, with belts of heavy forest alternating with areas of cultivated fields around each village, was full of repetition. But now I was hot, thirsty and uncomfortable.

  ‘About another twenty minutes’ driving.’ Ariadne added: ‘I wish we could have the use of the motor-car. Then one could be there in no time. Is it hard to learn?’

  ‘There are a good many things to remember all at once. I think I shall master it eventually,’ I said thoughtfully.

  ‘It must give one such freedom. Oh I wish I were free. Or married. Marriage makes all the difference here.’

  ‘Does it indeed?’

  ‘Doesn’t it everywhere? Here some girls make a “white marriage”, just as a formality, you know, simply to be free.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ I said.

  ‘Oh yes, many of the cleverest and more advanced girls do it. Of course, it causes a great upset, their families don’t like it. Still, there’s nothing they can do. We young people very often have the upper hand.’

  ‘But you wouldn’t do a thing like that?’ I questioned. I mean make a “white marriage”.’

  ‘No, I’m not clever enough,’ said Ariadne – whatever that might mean. Except that it was true, of course; there was passion in Ariadne that would always push through, but an intellectual she was not.