To the Hermitage

by Malcolm Bradbury

  Yet if it now seems unlikely (for he truly does not want to stay another year) that he will ever move closer to deep Russia, something out there, something stirring in the deep vast nation, seems to be moving ever closer to him. The remarkable rebellion that began when a witless impostor emerged in the Cossack lands out beyond the Volga has turned into something different: something so serious, so strangely menacing, it affects every single thing that happens in the court. Pugachov is a strange impostor, but he matters. Now known through the nation as Emperor Peter Federovich, the wonderfully revived Peter the Third, true husband of she who has become the false usurper, he marches like some operatic hero through the southern towns and villages. He dresses in the grandest robes, goes everywhere bearing his sceptre and axe. His retinue is huge, dressed up as courtiers and priests. His wife has assumed the role of the true tzarina, a stout mockery of the Empress herself. His courtiers have adopted names like Orlov and Potemkin. All point to the marks of the scrofula that prove him to be the one true tzar.

  Over the winter his army has grown vast. He attracts rabid Old Believers, wild nationalists, resentful military conscripts, disappointed generals, frontier cossacks, mounted and wandering tribesmen, defiant fleeing serfs. They have become an army like Kublai Khan’s, another eastern invasion. Everywhere the Old Faithful are turning against the false atheists, and the servants against their masters. The upstart tzar offers bounties for slaughter, prizes for genocide: landowners are slaughtered by the hundred, their wives raped, their children stolen and impressed into fighting service, their serfs released, their cattle killed, their houses and mansions torched. Captured officers are publicly tortured and mutilated, in barbarian atrocities answered by the loyal troops, who have set up torture-wheels in all the village squares. Ten thousand Yaik cossacks have set winter siege to Orienburg, and it now looks likely to fall, while another huge revolutionary army encircles Kazan, so well armed their artillery pieces are blasting down the walls.

  But worst of all the impostor’s emissaries are infecting the other capital, Moscow, stirring up mass demonstrations and protests, riots and cruelties, and making the city impossible for its own court to visit. Pugachov has unlocked the grandest of old Muscovite dreams: dreams of a Grand Tzar of the Old Believers, who will cleanse all the lands of European influences, bring the court home to the true mid-Russian capital, return everyone to the old, mystical, brutal, honest Scythian ways. Disorder slips everywhere now, infecting everything, spreading through all things just like the malady of the Neva. Fear and anxiety unsettle the entire court. The Turkish war where Potemkin wins victories and the Cossack rebellion where the generals yield ground run dangerously side by side. It occupies all the chanceries, it calls forth all the regiments. Our man has come to Russia in a time of revolution, where everyone is preoccupied with their own fates and their best loyalties, should unreliable Moscow fall before the summer comes, the Tzarina topple, the great rebellion succeed.

  It’s no time to be a philosopher. He still goes to court from time to time, dressed in his black philosopher’s suit. But he knows he’s not needed, and he senses a great suspicion, not at all helped by the campaign that Frederick’s emissaries have been so busily waging against him. Her Serene Majesty is no longer serene. Revolution and war have worried her, darkened her, robbed her not only of delight and amusement but any joy she had in the cunning of reason. Her place is no longer secure, the risks of the past have begun to haunt. Perhaps nature – she is forty-five now, after all – and the need for help have made her feel she needs some new attentions. At any rate secret letters have been sent out to the Turkish battlefront, and now shaggy, one-eyed Grigor Potemkin, the hero of the Tauride, has been summoned back right across Russia to take his place at court.

  Our man sees her still. He still writes his papers; still takes his snowy walk to the Hermitage; still sits on the great sofa amid the whippets; still touches her hand and slaps her knees; still expresses his fondness and pays his respects. But she’s not looking, and she’s not listening. The sessions have grown shorter and shorter, rarer and rarer. The papers he writes lay on the table unread. And disorder within matches the disorder without. The colic bites harder than ever, the cold hurts even more. The world beyond, the world he calls the real world, seems ever more distant, terribly so, to the point where he can hardly summon it or the feelings he once felt. He has almost entirely ceased to write letters now, unable to believe his words can possibly reach beyond the great veil – of fog, snow, confused history. The days grow ever darker. The worms seem to wait for him under the arctic snowcap.

  All he wants, if only he could summon the courage and find the moment to say so, is to find a carriage, acquire a guide, leave the country, risk the long white wintry journey home. But how to tell her? It’s even harder to leave than to come.

  DAY FIFTY-FIVE

  Thick snow outside. SHE sits on her imperial sofa, reading a book. It’s her favourite English novel, Tristram Shandy. HE comes in and sits down. SHE raises her head, as if really pleased to see him.

  SHE

  Why don’t you tell me a story?

  HE

  A story?

  SHE

  I’ve had enough of philosophy. And you are not really a true philosopher, are you?

  HE

  I hope I am, whatever Frederick says. At least, I trust I’m a man of reason.

  SHE

  But it’s monarchs who appoint philosophers. And today I prefer to appoint you a storyteller.

  HE

  Very well. This is a story about two famous travellers, two great men you may very well have heard of. One was the French observer Montesquieu. The other was an Englishman and a friend of his, the Earl of Chesterfield.

  SHE

  Yes, I know of both of them. Well?

  HE

  Tell me, do you know Venice? Marco Polo’s city.

  SHE

  No, I’ve never been there. I know it’s a great republic. A strange water-city of masques and carnivals—

  HE

  The mountebanks, the magicians, the fortune tellers, the rope-dancers. The Doge in his horn-shaped hat, the ladies with their breasts wide open. The crowds, the operas. The fireworks, the huge public feasts. The nationalities – the Arabs, the Orientals, the Turks, the Armenians. The babel of languages. A city of strong moods, strange adventures, deep secrets, dark waters. Do you know they say even the priests and monks go around most of the time in obscene masks and strange disguises?

  SHE

  A wondrous place, I hear.

  HE

  A wondrous place, and perhaps this is why men of rank and power from all over Europe have long loved to go there. For the deceptions, the dissipations, the secrets, the islands, the churches, the rotting palaces, the long canals just like those in Petersburg.

  SHE

  The paintings. The glassware. The glorious silver—

  HE

  Also the remarkable variety of women. The whores, twenty thousand of them. The brothels, the procuresses.

  SHE

  Casanova told me the nuns of Venice had given him more delicious excitement than any women in the world.

  HE

  At any rate, as you know, Venice is a city state, a republic that has never risked itself with kings or emperors. Even the pope has said he seems not to rule there. Instead it’s governed by the Doge and a council, chosen from the leading families, and elected by the strangest of ceremonies—

  SHE

  I was expecting to hear you celebrate its republican spirit. Though the other day you were telling me Venice showed how a republic could be as repressive as a tyranny—

  HE

  It’s true, Your Majesty. Venetian laws are famously strict, and administered by a cruel Inquisition. As Casanova may also have told you. The council itself is large but shrouded in laws of such strict secrecy its members are forbidden on pain of death from conversing with foreigners.

  SHE

  I’ve heard of such la
ws. But naturally in any state there are times when such restriction is entirely necessary—

  HE

  And that was the opinion in Venice. But of course that meant there were spies everywhere, reporting to a secret office. And this often resulted in great misery. For instance, one leading senator had an illicit love affair that excited him so greatly he could scarcely wait for the meetings in the Doge’s Palace to finish before he threw himself into his mistress’s embraces.

  SHE

  I recognize the sentiment.

  HE

  Unfortunately the quickest path to her Palazzo passed through the French Embassy. Love is blind, you know, but the Secret Office is all-seeing. Soon he was spotted, thrown into the Doge’s prison, and interrogated by the Council of Ten. He could have saved himself by naming his mistress. But, as a man of honour, he chose not to. He was beheaded, and his head displayed on a pike.

  SHE

  The lady should have spoken.

  HE

  Her husband was one of the Council of Ten, the Inquisition.

  SHE

  Forgive me for complaining, my dear Didro. But I did appoint you to tell me a story. Are you sure you know how to tell one? You began by talking of Montesquieu and Chesterfield—

  HE

  Indeed I did. I’m grateful you’ve spoken. A writer always needs a reader, a tale-teller, a true listener. Well, it so happened these two great travellers met once in Venice. And they fell into a small quarrel, about their two nations, which have never quite got on—

  SHE

  It’s so. Often to our advantage.

  HE

  Milord expressed the view that the French had more wit than the English but less common sense. And Monsieur said in that case he was delighted to be French, because it was better to have true wit than brute common sense.

  SHE

  Very true—

  HE

  Now, Montesquieu was always a very shrewd observer of foreign customs, always asking questions and making notes on what he’d learned.

  SHE (amused)

  I’ve met such people.

  HE

  And one night he was writing his notes when a stranger, French but very ill-dressed, was shown in. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘I have lived in Venice for twenty years, but remain your compatriot. That’s why I’ve come to warn you. In Venice you can do almost anything you care to, except one thing. Never meddle in affairs of state.’

  SHE

  Quite so, Monsieur Didro.

  HE

  ‘One misplaced word, one indiscreet document, could cost you your head. And it’s come to my notice the Secret Office is watching you. The spies – they have battalions of them – are tracking your every movement, watching your every mood, and reporting on you.’

  SHE

  Naturally. Such investigations happen in a well-run state.

  HE

  ‘Indeed I know for a fact you’ll be getting a visit shortly. Probably in the darkest hours of the night.’

  SHE

  In fact four in the morning is the very best time.

  HE

  ‘So, if you’ve been making notes, consider. It could just cost you your life.’

  SHE

  I have always said so. I presume the man wanted a large reward.

  HE

  No. Montsquieu offered him money, but he firmly refused. ‘No, president, the only reward I ask is this,’ said the fellow. ‘If I’ve come one day too late, please don’t denounce me and lose me my head.’

  SHE

  The usual request.

  HE

  So the moment the man had gone Montesquieu gathered up everything he’d written about Venice and threw it in the fire. He called his servants and ordered his chaise to be ready for three in the morning, to save his life. He was just about to leave when a knock came on the door.

  SHE

  Oh dear.

  HE

  It was the Earl of Chesterfield. Naturally Montesquieu told his friend exactly what had happened. Chesterfield thought a moment and then said: ‘Wait a moment. This man? You’d never seen him before?’ ‘Never in my life.’ ‘Badly dressed, you say? He was after money then?’ ‘No, I offered him a large sum, but he refused.’ ‘Odder and odder,’ said Chesterfield. ‘The fact you were being investigated, where did he get it from?’ ‘I don’t know. I suppose the Council of Ten or the Secret Office.’ ‘But why would they tell someone like that?’

  SHE

  Perhaps he worked for them himself?

  HE

  Exactly so. ‘Except,’ said Chesterfield, ‘why risk his job and his life too for the sake of warning you? It makes no sense.’

  SHE

  I must say your Chesterfield speaks excellent sense himself.

  HE

  ‘So what is going on?’ asked Montesquieu. ‘Who could the fellow possibly be?’ Chesterfield thought some more, then he struck his brow. ‘One thought. Just suppose this fellow who came was—’. ‘What? An agent provocateur?’ ‘Perhaps. Or possibly?’ ‘Go on, do you think you know who sent him?’

  SHE

  Surely the Doge or the Secret Office.

  HE

  ‘Surely the Doge or the Secret Office,’ said Montesquieu. ‘No, I’d say someone even cleverer and more calculating,’ Chesterfield said. ‘His name is Chesterfield, and he just wanted to show an ounce of English sense is worth a ton of French wit. Because if you’d had one ounce of sense you’d have worked it out for yourself and kept hold of your manuscripts.’

  SHE laughs loudly. COURTIERS look in.

  SHE

  I hope Monsieur took it in good grace.

  HE

  What would you have said, then?

  SHE

  I? ‘My good fellow, you’ve shown me there are witty men in England. One day let me show you there are sensible men in France.’

  HE

  And if only he had—

  SHE

  What did he say?

  HE

  He shouted, ‘You vile scoundrel, you British rogue, you’ve made me burn my entire book. I shall never forgive you.’ Then he rushed downstairs, jumped into the post chaise, and didn’t stop till he reached the Papal state of Rome. He contemplated the ruins, and began yet another of his books—

  SHE

  So that’s what really happened.

  HE

  No, Your Highness. None of it happened. You asked for a story. I made one up to please you.

  SHE

  It’s a false story?

  HE

  It’s a story.

  SHE

  Wait, you’re confusing me. In that case my ending could be just as true as yours.

  HE

  Certainly. An excellent ending. Perhaps if the tale is printed in the future, that’s the ending it should have.

  SHE

  But which one is right?

  HE

  None is right. And the listener makes the story as much as the teller.

  SHE

  Well, which is better?

  HE

  Neither is better. Both are possible. Perhaps I prefer my own because it seems closer to what is written in the great Book of Destiny above.

  SHE

  You don’t believe that? That fortunes are made and fates are plotted before we even start? Surely, if everything were predestined, we would have no freedom and therefore no achievement. We should simply be victims of life’s tyranny. There would be no greatness. We might as well do nothing at all.

  HE

  You say we need freedom. Well I too should like to—

  SHE

  You should like to what?

  HE

  I should like to change the fate that seems written down for me in the great Book of Destiny above—

  SHE

  Oh dear, Mr Librarian. Why do I suddenly fear you want to go?

  END OF DAY FIFTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-ONE (NOW)

  GALINA’S APARTMENT is somewhere in a muddle of smaller street
s that lie just off the Fontanka Canal. We go down a wide dirty roadway and enter by a great street-gate into a courtyard filled with logs of wood for the stoves. Children play, women sit talking, washing flaps, the walls are chipped and cracked, the windows unpainted. Inside the inner doorway is a wide neglected staircase of broken stone. Once this must have been some noble’s palace, but it’s gaunt now: its neo-classical grandeurs roughly partitioned off and shaped into people’s flats. Now it’s a building of murky interiors, wandering residents, open doors, disturbing smells. Two floors up Galina stops on a dark landing, takes out a key, and unlocks a black door. She is lucky, she tells me, she is always lucky; she is the one who has an apartment with a door that can be locked. We go inside to a survivor’s space: a narrow hall hung with clothes, a tiny kitchen with a sink and a portable stove, a living room with a daybed sofa, a drab and clanking bathroom.

  Yet the fine-plastered walls created for the old building are high and grand, the cornices splendid, a chandelier still hangs from the living-room ceiling. Galina has filled up the flat, covering the walls with shelves, wardrobes, cupboards, between which hang icons and paintings. Everywhere there are books, everywhere bindings and bibelots, snuffboxes and pomanders, vases and photographs, a mass of small things grandly displayed. A sewing machine sits on the table, a vast row of dresses in the wardrobe, and rich French perfumes scent and savour the flat. There are posters of Paris on the walls, and Delaunay drawings of the Eiffel Tower. There are bottles of French brandy, one or two of wine. Galina sits me down in comfort. She lays out bread and olives; she pours me a glass of brandy; we begin to talk.