The Red Staircase

by Gwendoline Butler

  I looked at Ariadne with respect. As I had begun to notice, when she made an observation about herself it was perfectly accurate. I felt that if I could only understand Ariadne, I might begin to comprehend Russia, and that if I watched her the layers of mystery about Russia might peel off one by one.

  Presently Ariadne pointed with her whip: ‘Look, there’s Vyksa.’

  A long wooden bridge crossed the river at this point, and beyond it I could see the low-roofed buildings of a small town where only the bell-tower of the church stood out. ‘The mine is on the further side. We shall drive through the town. What there is of it.’

  We rumbled over the wooden bridge and on to cobbled streets. The centre of the town was a small square lined with flat-faced two-storey buildings. Square, bevelled cobble-stones – setts, we called them in Scotland – covered the street surface; they were not very well kept up, and bare, dusty patches appeared at intervals. At present they were dry, but in winter they would be full of mud. There were no pavements, pedestrians took their chance. A few carts loaded with sacks trundled through the square. A dray carrying casks of what smelt like beer passed us, going in the opposite direction. I saw no private vehicle.

  In the middle of the square, a small market in vegetables and fruit was being conducted. Great sacks of cabbages, purple and green, were heaped together, with marrows and melons. I saw a wooden bin of peppers, and strings of onions. The street market seemed to be conducted by men. To my surprise, I saw no women. Perhaps it was not the custom for women to go to market in Vyksa.

  Several of the houses had wooden balconies built on to their fronts, and on them plants in pots were growing. But this was the only sign that the owners of the houses cared much for decoration. Everywhere the paintwork seemed in need of renewal and there was a sad and seedy air about the town, as if no one took much pleasure in it. Across the square from the market and facing the church was a hostelry or inn – it couldn’t be called an hotel – with a great painted board spread across its front, on which its offer of hospitality and the price for it were written in gold capitals. It was the only hint of gold in the place.

  ‘Dreary, isn’t it?’ said Ariadne. But what can you expect?’

  I didn’t answer, because I was watching a strange contraption which had come rumbling into the square from the opposite direction. Two horses, draped in what looked like crocheted or knitted coats of thick white cotton, pulled a towering structure of silver and black which ran on two slender, high wheels. Above was raised a curving, curling, highly ornamental rococco shrine. An empty shrine at the moment.

  Ariadne saw it too. ‘Dear me, a hearse. To see one is supposed to be unlucky. I hope you aren’t superstitious?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. ‘Are you?’

  She thought for a moment. ‘I believe I am, but I must try to grow out of it. I might manage to. When I was little, I believed in Baba Yoga, the old witch of the fairy tales, and I don’t believe in her any more.’

  The town dwindled into a few scattered houses, and then we were back on a country road. The fields seemed uncultivated, full of dust and emptiness. But they were fenced in, and the gates had been wired up as if they were not meant to be opened. Ariadne pointed with her whip. ‘The mine lies straight ahead.’

  A wooden stockade stretched great arms on either side of the road, which disappeared under a high arch. As we got closer, I could see that strong doors were drawn back under the arch. I looked questioningly at Ariadne.

  ‘Oh yes, those doors are locked at night. And these are only the outskirts; there are other precautions inside. Not that anyone could escape, of course. Where could they go? Everyone would know them.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ was all she said.

  Beside the gate was a small house from which emerged a man in uniform with a large bunch of keys hanging from his belt. He bowed to Ariadne, whom he obviously knew. ‘There you are then, miss. You’re expected. In fact, they’re waiting for you.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘No, nothing’s good here, and why say it is?’ He came forward and took the pony’s bridle. ‘I’ll look after the pony. You know I can’t let you take it any further.’ He made a noise that passed for a laugh. ‘You might smuggle a prisoner out. It can be brought round for you when you leave. I’ll do that myself. There now, out with you.’

  ‘The goods waggons go through,’ grumbled Ariadne. ‘I hate walking here. One gets so dusty.’ Still, she was preparing to hand over the reins.

  ‘But you ain’t goods.’ He took the reins as she scrambled out. I got out the other side.

  ‘You search the waggons. You can see that I could not smuggle a cat out in the governess-cart.’

  ‘Goods waggons may go through, that’s business. Private vehicles may not, that’s regulations. I should have the Tsar down on me if I let you through.’

  Clearly, they were old enemies.

  ‘I’ll just take the pony round the back for you.’ And he moved off round the side of his hut, giving a shout to an unseen underling within to keep the gate for him and the Tsar. He seemed to have great regard for the Tsar. We followed him, and watched while he dealt with the pony. I should think he must have been a groom at some stage in his career. At all events he arranged for the pony’s comfort skilfully and easily.

  There was a series of stables and outbuildings arranged round a narrow yard. At one end a man was standing by a small cart from which the horse had been released, so that the shafts rested on the ground. I wondered why the man was still standing there, it seemed a strange thing to do.

  Ariadne and the gate-man were arguing about the pony. I took a few paces nearer the man. I saw that the reason he remained standing where he did was that he was attached to the cart by a chain. A length of chain was also stretched between his ankles, and another around his wrists. The skin of his hands and face shone with a strange metallic stain of bronze lit with green. I understood why Ariadne said that no prisoners could hope to escape: the stain and the shackles would immediately identify them.

  He was keeping up a constant muttering conversation with himself, which he was glad to extend to me when he saw me. ‘God bless the Tsar,’ he called out in a cheerful, manic voice.

  On his bare arm I saw he had been branded. The burn was new and inflamed, and I thought he looked mad with a fever resulting from the wound. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were over-bright.

  ‘Now that’s enough, you,’ said the gate-man, coming up behind me. ‘Hold your tongue before the young lady. She doesn’t want to hear from you.’

  ‘Oh, but I don’t mind,’ I said quickly; I was wrung with pity for the man.

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Ariadne.

  ‘He’s nobody. Not even a political prisoner. Killed a man, he did once, and found himself here. He tried to escape, but he was caught.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said the prisoner cheerfully. ‘I ran away, but I didn’t get far.’

  ‘Hence the brand,’ I said.

  The gate-man had pushed his way in front of me now and stood between me and the prisoner, half-protective and half-hostile. For the life of me I could not be sure which of us was the object of protection and which of hostility – he seemed to me to be making a pretty fair division of each to both of us. I suppose he had lived so long among the prisoners that he shared in their suffering, as well as imposing it on them. ‘It’s always done in such cases, the branding I mean. A matter of routine.’

  The man held out his arm and looked. ‘Marked for the Tsar,’ he said, happily. ‘God bless him.’

  The gate-man shook his head till the keys at his waist jingled. ‘I would have told you how it would be if you’d asked. I’ve seen others try. Do you think you were the first? Now look at you. What have you got to say for yourself, and what good did it do you? What’s your state? Bad before, and infinitely worse now.’

  ‘I’m to have a hundred lashes,’ announced the prisoner. ‘One hundred. And at the end I
shall call out “God bless the Tsar. Long life to the Little Father”.’

  The gate-man shook his head, and pointed his finger in the direction we should walk. ‘Off with you, young ladies, you’re waited for, and I don’t need your company.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Ariadne, taking my arm. ‘We’d better go, and there’s nothing we can do for the poor fellow.’

  ‘Call a blessing on the Tsar after a hundred lashes, will he?’ said the gate-man in a low voice. ‘He’ll be dead after six, you’ll see.’

  Ariadne gave me a swift look and put her hand into mine. ‘Never mind,’ I said, hardly knowing what I was saying. ‘Never mind. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘But it isn’t myself I’m thinking of,’ she said, ‘but you. You want to help him, I can see it.’

  ‘Yes, I do want to help, to take away his pain. But I can’t do anything. Nothing happens.’

  I was rigid with the effort I was making to efface the pain he was suffering now, and to forge a channel between us through which I could drain the agony to myself. ‘Let him die painlessly, if he must die,’ I was saying to myself, but it was no good. I had no power to help him. I realized now that unconsciously all this time I had been thinking of the power of healing as a spring within me which I could tap at will. ‘I can’t help him,’ I repeated to Ariadne.

  We were interrupted by a cool, light voice. ‘Oh, there you are, Ariadne. I have been waiting for a long time. Come here.’ The speaker, a tall, slender girl, managed to get reproof, command and affection all nicely mingled in her voice.

  ‘Marisia!’ And Ariadne ran forward to hug the girl. She threw her arms round her enthusiastically, and kissed her cheek. Marisia arched her long neck, turning her cheek away and laughing. ‘It’s good to see you, dearest girl, but don’t break my neck!’

  So this was the famous Marisia, the heroine of Ariadne’s expulsion from the Smolny Institute. She looked a few years older than Ariadne, and had a thin, clever face from which her dark hair was drawn tightly and smoothly back.

  ‘Now you are here you’d better come along to the house. I suppose you’ve got to hurry back? Yes, you always have. But I’ve got a luncheon laid out and we can talk over that.’ She held out her hand to me as she spoke.

  Timidly – for her – Ariadne introduced us. ‘But of course, I knew who you were.’ And Marisia gave my hand a brisk shake, almost masculine in style. Turning back to Ariadne, she demanded: ‘Why were you so long?’

  Ariadne hesitated. ‘Oh, we were slow in making our way here.’ I thought for a moment that she was going to tell her friend about the stone-throwing episode, but she didn’t. Not then. ‘And then we were delayed by him.’ Her eyes went to the prisoner by the cart, a silent figure now.

  Marisia took a pair of pince-nez from the pocket of her dress and fitted them on her nose. I realized she was very short-sighted. ‘Oh, him. I advise you not to worry yourself about those you cannot help. Concern yourself with those you can.’ It was calmly and coldly said, with both conviction and astringent good sense. I admitted to myself that I could understand why she might have irritated her preceptors at the Smolny. ‘And how did you come to injure your face, Miss Gowrie? Did Ariadne drive you into a ditch? She has done that before now to me.’

  I put my hand up to my cheek. ‘No, it was another sort of accident.’

  She studied the wound through her pince-nez. ‘It looks sore. Come inside and let me bathe it.’

  ‘A boy in a village threw a stone,’ said Ariadne.

  ‘Fool,’ said Marisia. ‘Fool.’

  ‘That’s what I said,’ answered Ariadne at once. ‘Didn’t I, Rose?’

  ‘Well, come along both of you, then.’ And Marisia offered us an arm each, and in this way, one on either side of her, the trio made its way to her father’s house. It was a very strange way of progressing, but I am sure it was typical of her and that she always did everything in a style of her own. I had not been in the company of Ariadne and Marisia for more than a few minutes, and witnessed the manner of their meeting, before becoming convinced of one thing: Ariadne’s ideas about a scheme for life were deeply influenced by this girl, and very different from Dolly Denisov’s. What a long way I had come since the days when I regarded Ariadne as a light-hearted child.

  We stopped before a square wooden house where Marisia’s father, who was manager of the mine, had both his home and his office. Facing directly opposite was a long, low hut, through the open door of which I could see a clerk in shirt-sleeves sitting at a desk, writing. At right-angles to both these buildings was a high wooden fence with a great door in it, and I took this to be the entrance to the mine workings themselves. Everything about us seemed to be made of wood, everything was dusty and dark, nothing pleasant to look at anywhere. A group of prisoners passed in the distance, all of them shackled and all stained with that characteristic dusky stain.

  At the door Marisia unlinked her arms, producing a large key from her pocket. ‘Welcome to the Lazarev home,’ she said.

  Inside, the house was better than I had expected. True, the rooms were box-like in shape, with ugly windows, but bright colours and well-polished furniture, together with a general feeling of order, made it comfortable if not beautiful. Our meal, although very simple, was tasty and nicely served.

  It was a household of women. They were a family of five girls, the mother dead, and Mr Lazarev, a small, mild man, relegated by Marisia – who managed the house – to his study and his office. The four little girls sat in a row at luncheon and were fed by Marisia like birds. ‘Soup for you, Alicia. Now, here is your soup, Olga. Soup, Katia, a bowl of onion soup for you, Ksenia.’ Each little girl – hard to be sure of their ages, as they seemed so alike – put her head down and supped her soup in silence.

  A tray of food was carried into Mr Lazarev’s office, through the opened door of which one caught sight of him bending over a desk with a green eyeshade on his forehead. Bad eyes must run in the family.

  ‘A glass of tea?’ asked Marisia, presiding over the bubbling tea-urn.

  ‘Yes, please.’ I was studying to like the refreshing and ever-present tea.

  ‘Alicia, take a glass in to your father.’ Marisia turned to me. ‘My father leaves everything to me. I manage all.’ She went on: ‘It is his way of keeping his two worlds separate, here and – ’ she nodded towards the window – ‘out there, over the wall. It’s not pleasant, over there, although it’s not his fault, you must understand, he is responsible for the commercial management of the mine only. But there is a lot he has to see that he would rather not see.’

  ‘So I can imagine.’

  ‘He wants to keep us quite apart from it, untouched. But it can’t be done, of course. We breathe the same air, walk on the same dirt. That’s why he keeps separate in his own rooms, so that he shan’t have to admit it.’

  I nodded, partly understanding.

  ‘And then he plays little games.’

  ‘Games?’

  ‘Yes, games with us. Games such as sending me to the Smolny Institute as if I was a noblewoman, and getting governesses and tutors for the other girls. Do you know they all talk English? And dance beautifully. Up here! In this place! Think of it, dancing lessons here.’

  Ariadne said, with a touch of her old archness: ‘If you had never gone to the Smolny, we might never have met.’

  While we drank our tea I told Marisia of the work I hoped to do in Shereshevo, and she looked at me with interest and liking. To my surprise I found myself talking eagerly about my ambitions while Ariadne listened.

  Soon it was time to go. Marisia sent her sisters off to their lessons with a brisk ‘M. Corvus is waiting for you’, and came herself to say goodbye.

  The pony had been groomed free of all the dust picked up on the journey out, and stood fresh and ready in the governess-cart. Even this had been wiped down and dusted; say what you like, there were some things they did well in Russia. Vyksa was the most terrible place I had ever been to in my life – I could not conceive
that there could be any worse place on earth; and yet they polished the horses’ coats here till they shone. Men could be tortured and flogged until they died; and yet people went on eating their lunch and having music lessons. Marisia felt the horror, but did Ariadne? And what about Dolly, who was conducting her life so comfortably not far away? Suddenly her world and her talk of Tsars and Tsarinas seemed a massive irrelevance. What did it matter if the Heir died when Vyksa lived? There must surely be a revolution in Russia soon to sweep all this away.

  Marisia caught my eye then as I stood by the cart, and stared at me as if she could read my thoughts. She looked just the sort of girl to lead a revolution herself, I thought. Was that what she had learnt at the conservative Smolny Institute – and at whose hands? Even for girls like Marisia there has to be a teacher.

  ‘You’ll be home before dusk,’ said Marisia, putting on her pince-nez.

  Ariadne climbed in and picked up the whip. ‘I’ll come back if I can once again this summer, but it might not be easy. But perhaps we shall meet in St Petersburg?’

  ‘If I can get the money together, I want to attend some classes at the university there.’

  Ariadne sighed. ‘If only I could help you. I have so much money, if I could only get my hands on it.’

  ‘Oh, I’ll get there under my own steam, never fear, and be all the gladder for doing it myself. Freedom, one must have freedom.’ And she gave the pony a smart pat on the rump to urge it on its way. Ariadne picked up the reins and the wheels crunched on the gravelly dirt.

  From an open window of the house I heard the tinkling notes of a bad piano well played. I clearly heard the tune.

  ‘Who’s that? Who is that playing the piano?’

  ‘Oh, that’s our music master,’ answered Marisia. ‘The girls will just be beginning their lesson. You ought to get on, Ariadne.’

  ‘But what’s his name?’ I cried, as the pony moved away.

  ‘M. Corvus. He came to us from Hungary.’