Byzantium Endures: The First Volume of the Colonel Pyat Quartet

by Michael Moorcock

  ‘Of course she isn’t. She’s studying. She won’t be home until six. Who are you?’

  I bowed. ‘I am Dimitri Mitrofanovitch Kryscheff. I am currently staying with my friend Count Nicholai Feodorovitch Petroff.’ I gave Kolya’s address, ‘and can be contacted there.’

  She was mollified. She apologised. Or rather she offered some unlikely rationalisation for her bad manners. She said she would give Marya Vorotinsky my message. If I wished to call again I should almost certainly find her at home. I could not be there that evening, since I had arranged to have dinner with Mademoiselle Cornelius and some of her friends. I said I would hope to call the next evening.

  I dined at a place called Agnia’s, run by a hard-faced widow incapable of smiling at anything. It was the sort of café which had American-cloth on the tables and a general atmosphere the bourgeoisie like to think is working-class. It was, of course, occupied entirely by bourgeois revolutionaries plotting, without any evidence of irony, the downfall of their own kind. I was unhappy about going to the place, which was in the Petersburgskaya and not that far from my lodgings. There was a chance the place might be raided by the police. I found the food uneatable. The company (Lunarcharsky and his friends) was boring and rude and Mrs Cornelius was desperate for conversation which, much as I tried, I was unable to supply. My only interest was in Science. I had no casual conversation. Amongst Kolya’s friends I would be asked for information, for a scientific opinion, which I could always offer cheerfully, keeping silent when there was nothing to say. Mrs Cornelius was beautiful, of course, and I enjoyed her ambience, but my anger at the nonsense being spouted by her companions was countered only by natural tact. I left early. I hoped to see her again. She understood my situation, I think, and felt a little guilty. As I left she kissed me on the cheek, wafting roses, and said softly, ‘Ta, ta, Ivan. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

  In some trepidation I walked back through the wretched streets of our besieged capital. I paused on the Sampsoneffskaya Bridge to watch men breaking holes in the ice, which was still too thin here to use as a thoroughfare. They were like tramps. The only thing which identified them as anything else was their uniform. Why they were smashing at the ice, with pieces of wood and old railings, I still do not know. Perhaps they were hoping to fish.

  At school the next day I was singled out for attack by Professor Merkuloff. He had a horrible cold and his nose was bright red. His eyes glared from beneath a ridiculous woollen hat which reached to the top of his glasses. The lecture was on something simple, the construction of a dynamo. He sarcastically asked me if I knew what a dynamo was. I replied quietly that I did know.

  He asked me to define an ordinary dynamo and the principles by which it worked. I gave him the usual definition. He seemed disappointed. He asked if I knew anything else. I described the various sorts of dynamo then in general use, who the manufacturers were. I then talked about current experiments with new types, the kind of power it could be possible to generate, what machines could be run off such and such a source, and so on. He became flamboyantly angry. He screamed at me, ‘That will do, Kryscheff!’

  ‘There is more, your honour.’

  ‘I asked a simple question. I need simple answers.’

  ‘You asked me to elaborate.’

  ‘Sit down, Kryscheff!’

  ‘Perhaps you would like me to prepare some kind of paper on the development of the dynamo?’ I said.

  ‘I would like you to sit down. You are either insolent or you are a bore, Kryscheff. You might simply be a literal-minded idiot. You are certainly a fool!’

  This was exactly what my envious schoolmates wanted to hear. His sarcasm drew an easy laugh from them. I had it in mind to face Merkuloff down; to demonstrate his lack of intelligence and imagination. He was a time-server. He only had his job because of the War. But it would mean my dismissal from the Institute and I could not afford it. I would be spitting in Uncle Semya’s eye. I would kill my mother. So I sat down.

  This was when I finally resolved to display the profundity and complexity of my knowledge. I would eventually show the whole school that I knew more than teachers and pupils together. I would wait for the best chance. When I did this I wished to show Merkuloff up for the opinionated cretin he was. Our examinations, as I have explained, were chiefly oral. There would be a main end-of-term exam before the whole teaching board of the Institute. That was when I would take my revenge.

  I was oblivious of the snifflings and jeerings of the other students as I boarded the horse-tram for the slow, freezing journey home. I read an article on Freycinet’s work on reinforced concrete (he had built the famous airship hangars at Orly). I also found a reference to Einstein which I could not at that time completely comprehend. Now I know we were both working towards a very similar end. He was formulating his General Theory of Relativity while I was planning to astonish my professors with my own ontological ideas. Such coincidences are common in science.

  Later that evening, wearing my suit, I returned to the house overlooking the Kryukoff Canal. I was greeted this time by a simpering concierge who said Mademoiselle Vorotinsky was looking forward to entertaining me. If I went through the courtyard and took the staircase up to the first floor I would be welcomed by the young lady herself. She regretted, in a voice like poisoned honey, her duties made her stay at the front of the building or she would have been honoured to show me the way. I crossed a courtyard heaped on all sides with filthy snow. A skinny, tethered dalmatian barked at me. This was an older type of building and rather pleasant. I immediately felt safe here. I wished my own lodgings had the same air of security.

  I found the appropriate landing and the door on which Marya Vorotinsky and her friend Elena Andreyovna Vlasenkova had placed their neatly hand-lettered name-plates. I turned the key which rang a bell on the other side of the door. I waited. Then a small girl, very pretty, with huge blue eyes and brown wavy hair, wearing a simple brown velvet dress we used to call ‘convent best’, offered me one of the widest, most open smiles I had ever received and bowed me into the apartment. ‘You must be M’sieu Kryscheff? I am Lena Vlasenkova and very pleased to meet you.’

  I kissed her hand. ‘I am enchanted, mademoiselle.’ I spoke French.

  She said in delight, ‘You are not Russian!’

  ‘I am Russian through and through.’

  ‘Your French is perfect.’

  ‘I have a talent for languages.’ I removed my hat and coat and gave them to her. We entered a light, airy room heated by a beautiful Dutch stove, each tile individually painted and fired, showing scenes of Netherlands country life. There were peasant fabrics everywhere. The pictures on the wall were fine, conventional prints of Russian rural subjects. The place was a wonderful haven. I immediately conceived a desire to stay there forever. Then from the next room emerged, in a dark green dress trimmed with French lace, my oval-eyed acquaintance from the Kiev-Petrograd Express. ‘My dear friend! Why take so long to call on us?’

  She stepped forward and shook me warmly by the hand. She did this, I suspected, to impress Lena Andreyovna, whose face still wore the same broad, merry grin.

  ‘I have had reasons for not making myself too conspicuous. It has been impossible … ‘

  ‘Of course. We understand absolutely.’

  Both she and Lena Andreyovna seemed to know more about my ‘secret life’ than I did. I wondered if I had said anything on the train which I had now forgotten. I became fairly cautious.

  ‘The day is not far off now,’ Lena Andreyovna murmured as she seated herself on the couch, smoothing her skirt under her.

  ‘No, indeed,’ I said.

  ‘You will have some tea, M’sieu Kryscheff?’ asked Marya Vorotinsky. ‘I am sorry we have nothing else to drink.’

  ‘Tea would be most welcome.’

  ‘It’s ready,’ said Lena Andreyovna. ‘I’ll fetch the glasses.’ She sprang up and returned rapidly with a tray on which were three glasses in wicker holders. The big copper samova
r steamed on the stove.

  ‘You look tired, tovaritch,’ said Marya. ‘You’ve been working hard?’ She used a term which was in general use at the time, but was particularly popular with revolutionaries of the Social-Democrat and Social Revolutionary parties. However, it had no particular significance. As I sat upon the couch and sipped the excellent tea, I nodded. ‘I have had a great deal to do.’

  ‘You know you can count on us for any help,’ said Marya intensely. ‘We’re entirely at your service.’

  I was impressed by the generosity of her statement, the passion with which she made it. ‘I’m much obliged to you.’ I wondered if they shared a bedroom. It was likely. I found them both attractive not so much for their physical looks as for the quality of youthful enthusiasm and innocence I had been missing. They were already offering to help me when they had absolutely no idea what my work could be.

  ‘You must not be afraid to tell us to be quiet,’ Lena was earnest, ‘if we say the wrong thing. We respect what you are doing.’

  ‘I am obliged to you for your discretion.’

  ‘Have you been travelling abroad?’ asked Marya. She sat on the rug at my feet, her tea-glass beside her. ‘Or have you been in Russia all this time?’ ‘Russia,’ I said, ‘chiefly.’

  ‘You can stay here if you need to,’ Lena said. ‘We have discussed it. We think we should let you know that. It could be of use.’

  ‘Again, I am much obliged.’ It did not really matter to me what they thought my work was. They were offering me everything I had hoped to find. I could not believe my good fortune. I guessed that they thought me some sort of special courier for the military, some engineer working on a mysterious secret weapon, or that I was an envoy for the Tsar himself. It did not matter. If I wished I could come here, spend whole days here. Possibly, in time, I should be able to spend nights here. I wondered to which girl I should show most attention. One should always be seen to be courting the girl one does not actually want. Both had their merits. I decided it would only be polite to pay most attention to my original acquaintance. It would be far safer for me then if Lena succumbed. She knew even less about me than her friend. I luxuriated in their attention for two or three hours. Then, remembering I had agreed to meet Kolya at The Harlequinade’s Retreat, I made reluctant excuses. I left their innocence, their security, their admiration, behind me. I walked on air as I headed for the cabaret. That night, I decided, I would take the best girl in the house and enjoy myself so thoroughly she would not be able to move a muscle by the morning. I felt like the Tsar as I descended the steps to be greeted by the usual friends.

  I had some bad absinthe but a very satisfactory whore. With a new supply of cocaine in my velvet pocket I returned to my lodgings, entering with the key Madame Zinovieff, after much persuasion, had given me. I found four letters of different dates waiting for me in the little black tin box, decorated with painted roses, which my landlady had hung on the wall for guests’ correspondence. I was replete and had not felt so physically well for days. In my room I tested my lamp to see if any oil remained. I decided to wait until morning to read the letters. I slept better than usual and I awakened early. I opened the letters, laid them before me on the quilt. The first two were from Esmé, the third was from my mother. The fourth, surprisingly, was from Uncle Semya. Esmé was at a hospital treating our wounded, as well as German prisoners on Darnitsa across the Dnieper from Kiev. She said they all seemed alike, pathetic and shocked. It was hard to feel the Germans were anything but wretched slaves, forced to fight by rapacious masters. Our own Russian soldiers, she said, were ‘splendidly courageous and always cheerful, true Russians through and through’. The letter from my mother said her health had improved. I was not to worry; she had a slight chill, but doubtless that was the winter. The river was frozen, she said. She hoped that food supplies were easier to obtain in Petrograd. Since Brusilov’s advances against the Germans she had expected improvements. I was to eat, she begged, anything I could. I was to eat ‘for her’. The letter from Uncle Semya was cryptic. Everyone in Odessa was fine. The War made things difficult but the ‘Rumanian decision’ (to change sides) had improved morale all round. There had been minor pogroms by private groups, but nothing like those of ten years before. Happily the wrath of the people was turned against anyone of German origin. It was surprising, he added with his characteristically dry humour, how many more Russians now occupied Odessa than before the War. Dr Cornelius had managed to leave the country. Things seemed to be improving, he said, but there must still be contingency plans. He might need me to journey abroad on his behalf. He would arrange all necessary papers. He knew he could call on me when the need arose.

  I wrote back immediately. I owed everything to him. I was doing ‘brilliantly’ at school. When the time came for the end-of-term examinations I should impress everyone, as Pushkin was said to have impressed his teachers at the Tsarskoe Selo Lycée. He could expect an appropriate oil painting of me in due course! Naturally I was always at his disposal and would await news of the service I could perform. Mr Green had told me to expect something of the sort. I was looking forward to my first trip abroad. Could he, through Mr Green, let me have some hint of where I would go? In the meantime, I asked him to give my love to Aunt Genia, to Wanda, to Shura and my other friends and relatives in Odessa. I looked forward to seeing them all again. I asked him especially to apologise to Shura. I had become stupidly suspicious of him. This would show Shura, I hoped, that I was extending the hand of friendship.

  I wrote a brief letter to Esmé. Things went very well in Petrograd. We made sacrifices with the rest of the country but very soon we should sweep the barbarian back to his lair for good. In the meantime she could help the prisoners by teaching them Russian. It might be the language they would be required to speak after the War! I wrote to my mother. I am ashamed to say I asked no specific questions about her chill. Instead I said I was glad she was ‘basically well’. I was sure she would soon be over her sniffles; besides she had a nurse about the place now. My mother, I should say here, was a woman of fundamentally excellent health. She complained of poor health, like so many of us, when she needed a little extra sympathy. I preferred to give her my love, respect and understanding. This was more dignified, I felt. She understood. She said that as an intellectual, I could not always display the ‘direct emotions’ of ordinary people. In this she showed her usual perspicacity.

  If I were to travel abroad, I would have to study harder. I reduced my visits to the Tango and the Retreat. I stopped going to the theatre and the kino with Kolya. I cut down on my visits to the whores. Instead I went more frequently to the flat I called privately ‘the virgins’ nest’. Here I was allowed to read, to write, to remain night and day, if I wished, being fed with relatively wholesome food and with all the tea and coffee I could drink. Marya’s father had been a well-to-do beverage merchant originally situated in Yalta before moving to Moldavia. Lena’s father, she said with some disdain, was a ‘factory-owner’ in Minsk. My interest in Lena increased to the degree that I came close to proposing marriage to Marya. However, neither of these virgins was approached by me. Though they would often purr around me like cats wanting cream, I displayed very little amorous interest in them. I was keeping them for security and tranquillity. Their sexual favours could wait until I was ready for them. When I slept there, I slept on the couch. I rarely let them see either what I read or what I wrote. Not only did they humour me, they became confused if they should accidentally move a book or even glance at a page.

  It was only bit by bit I began to realise they considered me a foolish young Bakunin, plotting the downfall of the Tsar (the event which they sometimes toasted in tea, in low voices), and in one sense I was delighted by their misconception. It gave me even less respect for them. I felt no guilt about making use of them. Knowing as much as I did I was able to drop the odd revolutionary’s name. This meant far more to them than it did to me. Here, some of those who had bored me so badly in the cafés were heroes to
them. They were merely two typical middle-class Russian girls prepared like so many of them to throw away their careers, their freedom, perhaps their lives, for someone who was not only a worthless troublemaker but who coldly schemed their ruin. Better they should devote themselves to me, who had a genuine cause. The flat came to be full of Iskras and Golos Trudas and inflammatory pamphlets. They kept them about, I believe, to impress me. In the end I had to explain that it was bad to ‘call attention to certain facts’ and that it would be best if they kept their anarchist literature elsewhere. They were full of apologies. The ill-printed, ill-written manifestos and declarations soon disappeared.

  My work continued. I visited Kolya, but more frequently at his home (where Hippolyte still resided) than at our old haunts. He was becoming distressed with the progress of the War. He claimed we were as good as done for. I think the Petrograd winter had brought an earlier than usual melancholy. He said the Tsar was doomed. Feeling against Rasputin was high. The Tsar’s running of the War (he had taken personal command of the army) was as inept as his running of the country. Many officers, including some of the ‘old guard’, felt Nicholas should be replaced. ‘The Revolution,’ Kolya said, ‘will not come from an uprising in the streets this time. It will come from within.’