One evening, Courilof seemed more animated than usual. As he was saying good night to me, he added: “Don’t go to St. Petersburg tomorrow: the students at the Imperial Secondary Schools intend to present a petition to the Emperor, who is currently at the Winter Palace, in support of the striking workers in the Poutilov factories.”
“What’s going to happen?” I asked.
He laughed curtly. “No one knows anything yet, and His Excellency”—he stressed the words sarcastically, as always when he mentioned his successor—”His Excellency knows even less than anyone. It will end quite simply. The commander at the palace will be caught off guard and will call in the troops. When that happens, power automatically passes to the colonel, and since there will be no lack of protestors to insult the army, the soldiers will be forced to open fire. That’s what will happen,” he said, forcing a little laugh. “That’s where it will all end—with a minister like Baron Dahl who treats the children he’s responsible for as if they were dogs!”
I said nothing.
“It could prove very damaging to him,” Courilof murmured pensively.
I asked why, and Courilof started laughing again and patted me on the shoulder; his large hand was unusually strong.
“So you’re interested in these events, are you? You don’t understand? You really don’t understand?” he repeated. (He seemed enormously amused.) “Do you think the Emperor will be pleased to see dead bodies underneath his windows? Such things are perfectly acceptable as long as they happen far from view …” (he suddenly frowned, no doubt recalling some inconvenient facts), “but not right in front of you, at your home. Do you know what Emperor Alexander I is supposed to have said? ‘Princes sometimes like crime, but they rarely like criminals.’ That’s a good one, don’t you think? And then of course there’s the press; even though they are conveniently censored here, thank God, they still have some influence.”
He went over to his wife and took her arm. “You see, my darling, personally, I am very happy not to be taking such risks, no longer having these problems,” he said, in French, forcing his voice to sound light-hearted and indifferent. “Yes indeed, this has made me feel better! I admit I foolishly allowed myself to fall into a kind of depression. Next week we’ll leave for Vevey, my darling. We shall cultivate our garden. Do you remember the sea gulls by the lake? Unless of course …”
And he drifted off, dreamily. “Those poor children!” he spat, thoughtful and grave. “Now there are truly innocent souls for whom they must answer before God.”
He stood silent for a long time, sighed, then took Marguerite Eduardovna’s hand. “Let’s go upstairs, my dear.”
Just then, the bell rang downstairs. He jumped; it was nearly midnight. A servant entered, saying there was a small group of men who didn’t wish to give their names, asking to see him at once. His wife begged him not to let them in.
“They’re anarchists, revolutionaries,” she kept saying, anxiously.
“Let me go with you,” I said to Courilof. “With the two of us and the servants within earshot, we’ll be safe.”
He agreed, doubtlessly to appease his wife: I knew how naturally calm and courageous he was. Still, he suspected something wasn’t right and it made him curious. Whatever the reason, he agreed. The visitors were taken downstairs to the empty office. They apologised for having come so late at night, without having requested an audience. It was a delegation of teachers from the Imperial Secondary Schools; they were pale and shaking as they huddled by the door, afraid to come in, petrified by the heavy, fixed stare of the Killer Whale. As for my Courilof, he proudly stood up straight, as tall as a peacock. He let his hand drop on to the desk in his usual way; it was a large, powerful hand. It was white and freckled, adorned with a large gemstone ring, a garnet that caught the light and gleamed blood-red.
The teachers were old and frightened. They said they’d come to try to prevent something terrible from happening. The Minister of Education had refused to see them. A scornful little smile hovered over Courilof’s lips… They had come to beg His Excellency to please warn Dahl, whom they believed was indebted to Courilof as his former colleague, his friend. (They had no idea that Dahl had stolen the post from Courilof; in the city, the official story was that Courilof had to retire for health reasons; the secrets of the gods were carefully guarded. The important people at the court knew every detail of what had happened, naturally, but the secondary schools teachers were hardly important people there.) Just as Courilof had said, a delegation of young people had decided to present a request to the Emperor, asking him to pardon the strikers who’d been deported. The teachers feared the children would be mistaken for strikers and shot. (Two years later, this is exactly what would happen to the workers led by G. in front of the Winter Palace.)
The longer he listened to them, the paler and more silent Courilof became. This man’s silences had extraordinary power; he seemed frozen into a block of ice.
“What do you want me to do, gentlemen?” he finally said.
“Warn Baron Dahl. He’ll listen to you. Or at least ask him to receive us. You will be preventing something awful, much loss of life.”
They didn’t realise that my Courilofwas thinking of only one thing: how to seize the opportunity, offered to him by fate, to throw his successor into an impossible situation. He could first reclaim his job, then, later on when the moment was right, he would be hailed as the defender and saviour of the Monarchy. I felt I could read his mind. I don’t know why, but I imagined he was quoting deus ex machina to himself, in Latin, as he liked to do.
“I cannot do it, gentlemen: what you are asking of me is quite improper. I have retired from public life, not because of my health, as you thought, but because the Emperor wished it. Go and see Baron Dahl yourself. Insist.”
“But he refused to see us!”
“Well then, gentlemen, what can I do? … I am powerless.”
They begged him. One of them was a pale old man in a black coat. Suddenly he leaned forward and (I can still picture it) grabbed Courilof’s hand and kissed it.
“My son is one of the leaders, Your Excellency; please save my son!”
“You shouldn’t have allowed him to get mixed up in this,” said Courilof, his voice icy and sharp. “Go home and lock your son in.”
The old man gestured in despair. “So you refuse?”
“Gentlemen, I cannot intervene, I repeat, it’s got nothing to do with me.”
Quietly they conferred with one another; then they began to all talk at once, imploring this motionless man.
“Their blood will be on your hands,” one of them said, his voice shaking.
“It won’t be the first time,” said Courilof, smiling slightly. “Norwill it be the first time I’ve been held responsible for blood I haven’t spilled.”
They left.
The next day, before they reached the gates of the Winter Palace, the thirty young people were stopped by the army. As the army tried to disperse them, someone grabbed the reins of one of the horses. The Cossack felt his horse rear and thought he was being attacked; he fired. The youngsters responded by throwing stones; the crowd angrily took sides and a shower of stones fell against the bronze gates and the Imperial Eagles that decorated them. The colonel ordered his men to open fire. Fifteen people were killed: students and passers-by (amongst the first shot was the son of the elderly gentleman who had come to beg Courilof’s help), and all right under the Emperor’s windows. The scandal caused by the death of these fifteen victims would rid Courilof of Dahl and return him to his post as Minister of Education.
CHAPTER 25
NATURALLY, IT DIDN’T happen immediately; for a long time, even I knew nothing about it.
The following week, Courilof and his family left for the Caucasus, and I went with them.
Their house was not far from Kislovodsk, at the very edge of the city. From its large, circular wooden balcony, you could see the first foothills of the mountains. It was extremely beautiful, thou
gh arid and bare, with the occasional dark cypress tree surrounded by stones and water. In the garden, there were wild rose bushes in bloom; they had twisted branches, spiky thorns, and flowers whose perfume filled the evening air. Just like here in France, they grew in clusters, beneath the windows.
The air was too chilly for me; I couldn’t stop coughing.
One day, Dahl arrived. He seemed perfectly calm. He told us he’d come to relax in the spa at Kislovodsk, take the waters of Kislovodsk, and that the moment he’d arrived, he’d immediately cometo see “his dear friend.” During the meal, he openly told all of us how he had been unfairly blamed for the events in August.
“Once again, ‘they’ found their scapegoat,” he said, smiling. “And this time, it was yours truly.”
(The expressions “they,” ” you know who,” ” those people,” all meant the Imperial Family and the grand dukes. My Courilof often used these terms as well.)
“It’s a sad story,” Dahl added, shrugging his shoulders with indifference. Most likely it was feigned, for he too had the pleasure of gathering up the dead bodies at nightfall. I had noticed they were all stony-faced when it happened behind their backs; but when they actually saw the massacred children with their own eyes, touched them with their own hands, that was different. “If only I could have known what they were plotting… I heard the entire city knew what was going on, but I, well, I was the last to know. That’s always the way it is. So there you have it! The Emperor considerately asked me to tender my resignation. His Majesty, in his great kindness, deigned to promise me a post in the senate and also asked my advice, even in my disgrace, about who to eventually name as my successor. Moreover, to top off his goodness, he kindly appointed my son secretary to the embassy in Copenhagen. It’s a city that doesn’t maintain the same importance as in our day, Valerian Alexandrovitch, but the imperial couple go there often enough to make the post desirable. We’re lucky to end up anywhere the sun spreads its rays, if you’ll allow me the metaphor.”
He said no more, and changed the subject.
After lunch, the two former ministers went into Courilof’s office, where they remained for a long time. Froelich nudged me to point out Irene Valerianovna’s worried expression.
“I think that the old fox has come to negotiate his son’s marriage to Mademoiselle Ina,” he whispered.
That evening, Dahl stayed for dinner; he was very happy and several times before leaving, he kissed the young girl’s hand. This was very unlike him and clearly gave away his intentions. After he’d gone, Courilofwanted to see Irene Valerianovna, but she’d gone up to her room. It was the next morning, in front of me— for they thought I knew no Russian—that Courilof spoke to his daughter.
He complained of having been in pain all night long; when his daughter came in to say good morning the next day, he asked her to stay.
“Ina,” he said solemnly. “Baron Dahl has done me the honour of asking for your hand in marriage for his son. We had discussed this last year.
She cut in. “I know,” she said quietly, “but I don’t love him.”
“There are serious considerations at stake, my child,” said Courilof in his haughtiest tone.
“I know Dahl doesn’t just want my dowry for his son, and that you…”
He blushed suddenly and banged his fist against the table in anger. “That does not concern you. You will be married, rich, and free. What else do you want?”
“That’s it, isn’t it?” she asked, ignoring what he’d said. “You want an alliance with the baron, don’t you? He’s promised to get you back your miserable post as minister if I agree, hasn’t he? That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Courilof. “You understand, you’re not stupid. But why do you think I want the post?” he continued, and I could have sworn he was being sincere. “It’s my cross to bear and will send me to an early grave, for I’m not well, not at all well, my child, but I must serve my Emperor, my country, and those unfortunate children being led to their downfall by the revolutionaries. I must serve them with all my strength and until I breathe my last. I must watch over them, punish them if necessary, but as a father would do, not as an enemy. Certainly not like Dahl, whose guilty negligence got them killed. And it is quite true that the baron promised to help me if you agree to this marriage. The Emperor holds him in great esteem; it is only public opinion following this unfortunate event that has forced him to distance himself from Dahl. Of course, Dahl has hardly behaved brilliantly,” he continued, sounding disgusted, “but it is up to God to judge him… As far as I’m concerned, my conscience is clear. Moreover, Dahl comes from an honourable family that was often allied with ours in the past. It is natural to wish to increase one’s worldly possessions by marrying wealth … and, my poor girl, as for love …”
He stopped: he’d been speaking French as he usually did when the conversation turned to higher or sensitive subjects. He frowned and turned towards me. “Please leave us, my dear Monsieur Legrand; I do apologise.”
I went out.
That same evening, Courilof took his daughter’s arm, and they strolled along an isolated little path where they could sit together. When they returned, he seemed happy; his face had taken on its normal solemn expression. His daughter, very pale, smiled sadly, ironically.
That night, I went out on the balcony. Irene Valerianovna was sitting very still, her head in her hands. The moon was very bright, and I could clearly see the young girl’s white nightdress and her bare arms leaning on the hand-rail. She was crying. I understood she had given her consent and that everything was going to change, which is exactly what happened.
Shortly afterwards, the engagement was made official. And finally one morning, his hands trembling, Courilof opened a package that I could see contained a small photograph of the Empress and two of her children, supreme proof of their reconciliation. Courilof hung the picture in a gold frame above his desk, just below the icon.
All that remained was to wait for a telegram from the Emperor informing Courilof that he was to be reinstated to the post of minister, assuming his improved health would henceforth allow him to resume his public duties. All of us were waiting for this telegram, in fact, and all with different emotions. It arrived in the middle of September. Courilof gathered everyone around and read it out loud to the whole family, made a large sign of the cross, and said, tears in his eyes: “Once again the great burden of power falls upon my shoulders, but God will help me bear it.”
CHAPTER 26
I FELT STRANGE: I was devastated, but at the same time, understood the intensely bitter joke destiny had played on us.
It was nearly time to go back; every day Courilof seemed happier and in better health. The weather was beautiful, golden. I had grown accustomed to the mountain air; at times, I felt a kind of drowsiness and calm; while at other moments, I was so tired of the world that I felt like smashing my head against the rocks. Those beautiful red rocks; I remember them: they were like the rocks here …
One evening I made my decision. I announced I was urgently needed back in Switzerland. I would leave the next day; I said I needed to speak to the minister.
After dinner (it was nearly eight o’clock and the sun was setting) Courilofwas in the habit of going for a walk before tea was served later in the evening. He took the path in front of the terrace and, from there, walked up a narrow road lined with rocks. I went with him.
I remember the sound the stones made under our feet; they were round and shiny and reddish beneath the setting sun. But the sky was tinted violet, and under its mournful, dazzling light, Courilof’s face took on a strange expression.
There were waterfalls above; great torrents crashed down and echoed off the rocks angrily. We walked past them, climbed higher still, and it was there that I told him I had considered the matter seriously and was leaving. I said I felt it was my duty as a doctor to tell him he was undoubtedly more ill than he thought. I believed he should take better care of himself, give up any unnecessary a
ctivities; if he did, he would live longer.
He listened to me, his face impassive, without moving a muscle. When I had finished, he stared at me calmly. I can still picture that look.
“But my dear Monsieur Legrand, I am quite aware of my condition. My father died of liver cancer, you know.” He fell silent, sighing. “No good Christian fears death so long as he has fulfilled his duty here on earth,” he said (and little by little, his sincere voice turned solemn and pompous again). “I intend to accomplish much in my few remaining years before sleeping in eternal peace.”
I asked if I had understood him correctly, that he refused to give up his public duties, knowing what he now knew. I always suspected, I added, that he was aware of his condition, despite what that idiot Langenberg said; but did he realise that liver cancer progresses quickly, and that he had only months to live, a year at the most?
“Of course,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “I willingly put myself in God’s hands.”
“I think that when a man is facing death, it is better to give up any work that could be harmful, in order to achieve peace of mind,” I said.
He winced. “Harmful! Good Lord! My work is my only consolation! I am the holy guardian of the traditions of the Empire! I shall be able to say, just as Augustus did as he was dying: Plaudicite amici, bene agi actum vitae! Applaud friends, I have acted well in life!”
He could have gone on in the same vein for a long time. He had no regrets… I cut in. I tried to speak as simply and sarcastically as possible.
“Valerian Alexandrovitch, don’t you think it’s terrible? You know very well that what you did caused the deaths of innocent people, and will cause many more. I am not a politician, but I do wonder if that ever keeps you awake at night?”
He sat silently. The sun had set, so I could no longer see his face. Still, since I was very close to him, I saw how he tilted his head towards his shoulder. He looked like a dark block of stone.
David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) Page 38
