The Red Staircase

by Gwendoline Butler

  ‘Rose?’ Grizel came speeding down the staircase, arms held out to me; we gave each other one swift glance before hugging each other, midway between laughter and tears.

  ‘Ah, you look bonny,’ I said spontaneously to Grizel. Her hair was fashionably curled, her skirt stopped just above her ankle, her cheeks were pink and her eyes bright. She looked prosperous and happy.

  ‘And you look thin,’ was the response.

  ‘Ah well,’ I said, wondering what to say.

  ‘It suits you, though.’ She stepped back and gave me an appraising stare. ‘Yes, Rose, you have become what my horrid mother-in-law calls a “thoroughly elegant woman”.’

  ‘Is she horrid?’ I asked, amused.

  ‘Yes,’ said Grizel briefly. But I am more than a match for her, and mean to go on being so. A thorough-going old snob, she is, and don’t we have the Maid of Scotland in our family tree? I don’t let her forget the blood royal, I can tell you.’

  And then I was being greeted by her sandy-haired Archie and given a brotherly kiss.

  The rest of the day was pleasant: Dolly was always a delighful hostess and Peter was a courteous and attentive host, and I, for my part, was happy to have my sister and her husband with me. Ariadne roamed around the outskirts of our group, making little conversational forays into it but not really joining us, so that I thought to myself with surprise: that girl’s not happy.

  When I was helping Grizel into her cloak she said: ‘And what do you think of Archie?’

  ‘He looks very clever.’

  ‘Oh, he is, but so am I clever. We shall do. He’s very much in love with me. I love him, of course, but he loves me more. That way I have him nicely in thrall.’ She sounded pleased with herself. ‘I hope you don’t love your Peter too much,’ she asked anxiously. ‘Better not, you know. I expect you got over all that with Patrick.’

  I did not answer, but helped her fasten her cloak; she did not press. But as she went off with her husband, and I saw Archie’s confidence with her and Grizel’s joyful acceptance of it, I thought that she did love, quite as much as she should.

  All the same, I was thoughtful as I brushed my hair that night. I knew my Grizel, and there had been a sort of self-consciousness about her. Either she had a secret, or she was plotting something.

  I found out the next day. It was something I might have expected, knowing all the characters concerned.

  I went round to the Hotel Geneva because I had promised to take Grizel shopping; I was given the use of Dolly’s car and chauffeur. Dolly knew now that I could drive, but she said she wasn’t going to let me drive her car round St Petersburg where everyone knew her: I could wait until I was married, after which I could do anything.

  I was early by a few minutes, and I was ushered into their room before Grizel expected me. Archie greeted me, and Grizel called to me that she was almost ready, ‘just putting my hat on’, from the inner room; following it up with the comment that ‘Archie will amuse you.’ Archie, who had been holding a newspaper from which my arrival had torn his attention, politely put it down and prepared to do his bride’s behest.

  The more I saw of my brother-in-law, the more I liked him. Not only did he look clever, but there was distinction of mien and manner. He had, or at least it was in the making, that subdued grand seigneur air which one hardly ever sees now but which I remembered from one of my grandfathers.

  ‘Rose, I want you to see something.’ And there was Grizel, her face half exultant, half frightened. Behind her was a sturdy, beloved figure: Tibby.

  ‘Oh, my darling girl.’ And in a moment I was in her arms being thoroughly hugged.

  ‘Tibby, Tibby, how I have longed to see you!’

  ‘What, let my girl marry without me seeing her wed! No, I had my little nest-egg and I’ve come under my own steam.’

  There were tears of happiness between us, with hugs and kisses from an unexpectedly demonstrative Tibby – she who hardly ever showed emotion. Grizel, of course, was always overflowing with tears and laughter. Archie looked on in a friendly fashion. ‘He’s got three sisters,’ whispered Grizel. ‘Nothing puts him out.’

  But I knew I had to tell Peter about Tibby, and I did wonder how he would act.

  I took Tibby and Grizel on a sightseeing tour of the city, ending up with a visit to Fabergé’s where there were being prepared the little golden crowns for my wedding – brides have a sort of crown held over their heads in the ceremony in Russia – which made them gasp, although Grizel assured me afterwards that her own mother-in-law’s diamonds were better than any she saw there. Archie had disappeared on his own into a man’s world, to which, as I later discovered, he always found access in whichever city you set him down.

  I watched the meeting between Tibby and Peter, and on her face I saw caution, and behind his formal politeness, anger.

  ‘Why did you let that old woman come?’ he asked furiously when we were alone for a minute. ‘Why did you not order her to stay away?’

  Anger put an edge on my tongue. ‘I think, at heart, you still believe in serfs and slavery. Or you could find a use for its rules. Tibby is no serf.’

  He gripped my wrist so hard that it hurt. ‘That’s unkind and untrue.’

  ‘A lot of the attitudes remain; I’ve noticed it.’ I dragged my hand free.

  We stared at each other with open rage; it was our first quarrel.

  ‘I knew if that old woman came here she would bring nothing but trouble. She influences you too much. Look at you now, changing before my eyes.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  He saw I was truly angry and nothing more was said about Tibby. Tibby, for her part, said nothing at all about Peter. But I took her to see Princess Irene when I paid my almost daily visit.

  To my surprise, as we went up the red-carpeted staircase which I had once so disliked and now took for granted, Tibby said that it was ‘a fusty enough place’, and that she didn’t think she’d care to go up too often. And she gave a genuine shiver.

  With Princess Irene herself she was silent, not saying one single word. But none was demanded of her. The Princess contented herself with doing what she always did on my visits now. She held my hand, as if a new infusion of vigour came that way, and talked to me about her lover.

  ‘Ah, but he’s so beautiful. A soldier, of course. My first lover was a soldier. No technique, but they have such vigour.’

  Whether he existed or whether he was part of a fantasy world in which she seemed on and off now to be living, I was not sure. Perhaps it was old General Rahl, although his vigour looked doubtful. But I knew he visited her, coming up the other staircase straight from the Molka Quay. I saw his back once, shuffling away as I came into her room; no mistaking him, I had seen him at many St Petersburg gatherings now. People talked about him, and avoided him because of his association with the Third Bureau.

  ‘What did you think of her?’ I asked Tibby as we went down the staircase.

  After a pause, she said: ‘She’s near death, I think.’

  ‘She thinks that she’s going to live for ever. Certainly she has had an extraordinary revival of life lately.’

  ‘The last flicker of the flame before it dies.’

  ‘I think so, too.’

  ‘I’ll go when the Good Lord wants me,’ said Tibby.

  ‘Everyone does in the end,’ I said. ‘Tibby tell me, do you think that all the ambitions I have had, still have, are so very wrong?’ She did not know, of course, about the nature of the marriage I was making with Peter – this I had kept from her – but I supposed from her very reserve on the subject that she sensed something amiss.

  ‘No, dear girl, not wrong at all. If I fear your ambitions at all, it is only because of what it seems to do to you.’

  ‘Yes. Sometimes I think it has ruined my life.’

  ‘That’s a strange thing for a girl about to be married to say.’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it? But you forget; I have been about to be married before.’ I couldn’t help that bitter r
emark.

  I took Tibby to my room. It was filled still with boxes which had contained clothes, and evidence of packing. ‘Look, there is my wedding dress.’

  It was hanging up, white and sumptuous, heavy satin, Dolly’s taste.

  ‘It doesn’t suit me at all. I look a frump in it. But you’ll help dress me in it?’ She nodded.

  ‘The one I had for Patrick was the prettier,’ I said.

  She looked sad. ‘Poor Patrick. I liked him very much, you know. I always thought he’d be the one to deal with you when that intense mood takes you.’

  ‘Am I intense?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be aware, but a strange look comes over you at times, as if you were taking all pain into yourself and enduring it.’

  ‘Two wild, giddy things together?’ I said with a sob.

  ‘Yes. It often works best that way,’ said Tibby soberly. ‘Ah, my poor lass – don’t greet so.’

  I suppose I’d got all my tears out of my system, because on my wedding day I did not cry, but allowed myself to be dressed by Grizel and Dolly’s maid in good spirits. Yet I fancy there was a good deal of repressed ill-humour battling away inside, because I was quite sharp with Grizel when she tried to embark on reminiscences of her own wedding.

  She was hurt. ‘I thought you’d like to hear. After all …’

  ‘You married for love. My case is quite different.’

  Grizel blushed, her trick when startled or embarrassed. ‘What are you marrying for, then?’

  ‘I don’t know; I wish I did.’

  ‘Oh, fiddle,’ said Grizel. ‘Nerves, just nerves.’

  ‘Where’s Tibby?’ I demanded. ‘Why isn’t she with you?’

  Grizel didn’t answer, then she said: ‘I had to leave her with Archie. He needed someone to dress him.’ Meeting my eye, she said smoothly: ‘Well, full morning dress, darling; he’s doing you proud. He could never manage it on his own.’

  The wedding was in the private chapel of the Dournkovs’ palace. I had been taken there previously to view it, and had noticed how many empty rooms the palace seemed to have. Now I was taken there again, led through the suites of shuttered rooms and corridors to the chapel. It was bright with candles and the priests and the chanters were already there. By the altar two young men in pages’ uniforms, garcons de noces as they were called, bore golden images, one for me and one for Peter Alexandrov.

  In all Russian weddings the bride and bridegroom have what is known as un père assis and une mére assise, proxy parents who testify to an event which the real parents are presumed to be too emotionally overcome by to witness. I could see Grizel and Archie and Tabitha lined up beside them, with, to my surprise, Edward Lacey.

  The singing started, a candle was placed in my hand and one in Peter’s. At this point he looked at me and smiled. Then we moved into the centre of the chapel and the service began.

  I remember so little of it, and yet at the time it seemed endless. There were three magnificently dressed priests; and three times we exchanged vows. Our hands were joined and rings passed between us. Then two jewelled crowns were brought in from the sanctuary and shown to us. Following Peter’s example, I kissed my crown, after which they were held over our head by the bridegroom’s men. Then, our hands linked together by a silver band from the priest’s robe, we were led three times round the reading desk, carefully followed by the garçons de noces holding our crowns. Then there was the sermon, the hymns, the prayers. On and on it went.

  At last Peter was holding my hand and triumphantly leading me out.

  At the reception afterwards I whispered to Tibby: ‘Why did you not come to me before, to help me dress?’

  ‘I tried, my dear. But they would not let me in at the door.’ Her face was pale but without expression.

  Peter Alexandrov was standing only a few feet from me and heard it all. I looked up and saw the anger at the back of his eyes; I know there was surprise and resentment in mine. So our marriage got off to a bad start, and the difficult business of the honeymoon was made even more difficult.

  Our wedding trip took us to the protected and sheltered Crimean coastline. I had wished to go to Moscow, but Peter said it was a full-time occupation just keeping the snow from the streets at this time of the year, and he wanted to go somewhere warmer and thought I would too – for I still felt as if my whole being was penetrated by the extreme winter cold of Russia. So we went to the Vorontsov-Dashkov palace at Alupka. They were Dolly’s friends and she had arranged it all. ‘It’s so beautiful there, so romantic. Ideal for a wedding trip, you will be so happy.’ And she looked at me as if urging me, above all, to be happy. Of course, she knew there was no romance about it for me, only the empty show of it, about which I now began to feel some shame.

  It was dark when we got to Alupka after our long journey, but the air smelt spicey and warm, different from any other land smell I had ever known. As if I was in Asia, I thought – as indeed I almost was. When I first saw the house, early the next day, the walls seemed to reflect the pale blues and greens and beiges of the landscape like an opal. We were alone there together, except for the customary army of servants, none of whom were ours for we had brought none with us.

  The journey had been a torment, with both of us shut up in our overheated compartment, locked in our anger. A good quarrel would have cleared the air, but that, alas, was impossible, so we had lapsed into silence. Now, arrived, I stood at the tall windows of my bedroom breathing in the air.

  ‘Fantastic structure, is it not?’ said Peter’s voice from behind me. ‘Part Gothic, part Moorish.’

  ‘It’s too dark for me to see much. But yes, what I can see looks like a palace in a fairy-tale.’

  ‘I’m glad you said fairy-tale and not nightmare,’ he said soberly.

  I kept my eyes on the view from my window. ‘It’s very beautiful.’

  Or a fairy-tale in which I am the monster,’ he went on, putting his arms round me. He turned me round to face him. ‘Come on now, Rose. You are angry, and when you are angry you become very cold and far away. I think I’d prefer a hot temper.’

  ‘You have to accept me as I am.’

  ‘As you do with me? I see exactly your implication.’

  ‘I didn’t like you stopping Tibby coming to me to help me dress.’

  ‘And I was angry that she should come between you and me, and that you should allow it.’

  I was silent.

  ‘Yes, I’m jealous, Rose.’

  ‘That’s a wicked fault,’ I said slowly. ‘Seeing the terms on which we married.’

  ‘But a very human one.’ He tightened his grip on my arms. ‘Come now, Rose. Am I wrong to have hopes we will change all that? I am your lover. Or I will be, if you will allow anything like free, active love to happen between us.’

  ‘I am not in love with you,’ I said.

  ‘I shall make that happen. You do not know what you are.’

  ‘I am not entirely to be manipulated,’ I said.

  ‘No, but it’s natural, Rose. You are changing, I am changing, we shall both change.’

  He drew me towards him, holding me against his chest so that I could hear the hard little thuds of his heart. Or was it my own heart? Gently he kissed me, but I drew away.

  ‘Very well, I’ll leave you,’ he said. ‘That great bed here is all your own. I sleep next door.’ And he went away, not banging the door behind him.

  In the great warm bed, the hardness inside me melted away and was replaced by softness, and my anger against Peter declined. I was willing to admit that there was truth in what he said. In spite of everything, I slept soundly, and when I next looked out at the Vorontsov-Dashkov palace the sun was bright and the sky a clear blue.

  Inside myself I was slowly accepting the idea that I might, after all, be a happy married woman. The choice would be mine.

  We stayed in the Crimea for one week, and I enjoyed it. Peter was careful to keep his distance, which in a way piqued me. I suppose.

  ‘How lovely i
t would be to stay longer,’ I said the night before our return to St Petersburg. ‘But we must go back. The Gowrie Works need me.’

  ‘And then the Christmas and New Year celebrations at the Winter Palace will be coming on and we ought to be there.’

  I have never thought of you as bothering about Court functions,’ I said.

  ‘Ah, but I want to show off my wife. And then after the New Year Ball – which will be magnificent, I promise you – comes the Tercentenary of the Romanov Dynasty, and no loyal Russian can fail to celebrate that.’ I looked at him suspiciously, but there was no trace of irony on his face. ‘I believe it’s what has been keeping Tante Irene alive.’

  ‘She thinks it’s me,’ I observed. ‘I think she won’t live very long.’

  ‘I shouldn’t preserve her life for one minute,’ he observed ruthlessly. ‘Not at the expense of any energies of yours.’

  ‘Won’t you miss her?’

  ‘Such women deserve no remembering. She’s had her fun in life, now let her go. She should have gone long ago.’

  I was silenced. It was true, but part of my life had gone into her, whether I liked it or not, and her death would diminish me by that much.

  All the festivities in St Petersburg were dominated by the Grand Duchess Vladimir, widow of the Tsar’s uncle. Throughout that late autumn and Christmas season a brilliant series of balls and receptions took place, but at none of them was the figure of the Tsarina seen.

  ‘I’ve heard she’s not even going to give a Ball in the Winter Palace for the Tercentenary,’ said Dolly, sounding worried. ‘The Tsar is to give two, but she won’t attend, so they say. Won’t or can’t. Perhaps she’s mad.’

  We were seated around the luncheon table, just a family group, Ariadne, Dolly, Peter and I. Last night we had been at a costume ball at the Palace of Madame Brianchaninov; she had been born Princess Gorchakov and was immensely rich. We had all worn eighteenth-century costume.

  ‘No, she’s not mad,’ I said.

  ‘Have you ever seen her?’ asked Peter.

  ‘Yes,’ I said briefly. ‘I think I saw her feet.’