Ingenious Pain

by Andrew Miller

  Nov 27. Tnght we arrive at our destination — if the hrses and the rnrs and rds hold good. Thnks be to God, and to his servant M. About. I have not spoken with him but suspect he is a deist or an agnostic or some such. No matter. He is my friend. Wthout this jrny I might have languished mnths or yrs. When man is at his wit's end he must hve some actvty. I have been foolish and yt I embrace myself and take comfort from knowing I shall be a better shphrd for this falling off. I long to see Diddy. Cow too and Lady H and my grdn which evn in Wntr is a comfort. The Fs I shall alwys remember with fondness thgh

  we shll not meet in England, I am sure of it. D likewise I shall not see again after St Ps. M likewise not. I trst she shall be left in peace. She is a type that will alwys arouse the prejudice of the ignrnt. This is a picture of her teeth. I passed a vast stool this mrning of gd colour which gave me satisfaction. I have almost begun to think that D may be a Ittle mad. I pray it is not so. It may only be the bgnning of some physcl disease - evn of love! There is nthng to be feared like madness. How mny have felt the shdw of its sable wngs. Sure, to be mad is to be damned this side of the grve.

  They enter the city by night. Braziers burn in the streets and the drovsky drivers beat their arms for warmth, watching with eyes ignited by the flames as Monsieur About enquires after the residence of the British Envoy. Fingers point; the drivers speak a language Hke the grating of pebbles. Mami Sylvie trundles through the city; lights show on the Neva, on its back of ice, and in the tall double windows of several of the finer houses they see the shadows of dancers. Everywhere, it seems, there are palaces, pavilions, golden-spired churches; and between them, behind them, the wooden slums, the wastelands. The air smells of the marshes, the river, winter.

  At the envoy's residence a party is in progress; parties are in progress all over the city. The Reverend, descending stiffly from the coach, says: 'One could stand in the street and hear nothing but the popping of champagne corks!'

  Servants admit them into the hall and they stand beneath a portrait of King George III, breathing on to their finger tips, dabbing at the water from their noses. The envoy appears at the

  top of the stairs. He is chewing something. His napkin is tucked in at his neck.

  'How may I assist you?'

  They wait for Dyer to answer, to introduce himself. When he says nothing, the Reverend points him out. 'This is Dr Dyer, sir. Come from England.'

  'Dyer? A physician?'

  About says: 'He has come to inoculate the Empress.'

  'Has he so? Yes. Of course. Damn. We had better go, then. Allow me to change my coat. I have some Burgundy on this one.'

  He disappears, returns ten minutes later, steps lightly down the stairs shouting for a servant. 'How was your journey? No unpleasantness, I hope. You have eaten? What is new in England? I believe I would stand the amputation of a limb to feel English rain again. I have Nikita Panin's mistress upstairs together with a pair of Cossack generals. One is required to drink them under the table, you know. I only pray they do not rape her while we are at the palace.'

  Says Mrs Featherstone, flustered: 'Should we not change our clothes?'

  'Lord, no. It's all quite informal these days. Not Peter the Great any more. Anyway, she Hkes foreigners. French is best but English is quite acceptable. Do you speak French, Doctor?'

  Dyer shakes his head.

  The envoy says: 'No matter. I shall translate for you. You don't hear Russian spoke at court at all. Not unless you're in the servants' quarters. French language, French manners, French fashion. We call it the monkey on the bear's back. What do you think of that? There's our sledge. Crowd aboard. These furs are wolfskins. What was your name again?'

  'James Dyer.'

  'I believe they have a place for you on Millionaya. Everyone's

  being looked after handsomely. We shall pass by on our way to the palace.'

  The air brings tears to their eyes. The driver shouts, cracks his whip above the ponies. The envoy is asleep. The Reverend thinks: Why did Dyer not ask if he is the first? Was he afraid to know the truth? Surely the envoy should have said. Said something.

  They turn, the horses kick up snow. On their right is the freezing artery of the river; to the left it is Amsterdam, Venice, Athens. Amazing, thinks the Reverend, snug beneath his wolfskin and grinning with the strangeness of it all, amazing that the place does not sink. Yet, for all its weight, it seems the mere outline of a city, an enormous stage for some improbable piece of theatre. No business being here at all.

  'Is that the palace?' cries Mrs Featherstone, pointing ahead.

  'Lord!' says Featherstone. 'Candles enough in there to light the whole of Bristol.'

  About laughs. 'At last we have impressed you! But how far you made us come.'

  The palace swallows them. The envoy says: 'Stay close! I lost the youngest son of an earl here once and have not seen him since.'

  Two men with diamonds in their shoes are wrestling at the foot of the stairs. The travellers ascend, glimpsing themselves in the abundant mirrors, their faces flushed. About says: 'One could grow oranges in this heat!' Squatting at the base of a marble pillar, a dozen Kalmuck women watch the strangers pass. One points at Mary; the others lower their eyes, mumble. A Mongol officer, black-eyed, skin tight as an apple, nods his head to the envoy. The envoy waves his gloves, hops over a pair of sleeping wolfhounds and runs up the next flight of stairs. A gob of wax drops on to the Reverend's sleeve. Dyer is next to him. How pale he looks. That leg is troubling him again.

  'Take my arm, Doctor. Or we shall be lost Hke that other fellow!'

  Servants scurry past with trays, the bottles steaming and ghstening with the snow they have been pulled from. One servant carries a fish, big as a piglet, slips, lets go of the tray and launches the fish into a dive through depths of yellow air. The envoy asks directions from a child who stands eating candied rose-petals beside a door through which a hundred, two hundred ladies and gentlemen are sat at cards. 'Tout droit,' says the girl. The envoy kisses her and dives among the card tables, waving the others on without looking back. On the walls, expensive and ignored, slung in cumbersome gold-leaved frames, are paintings from another world. Ruby limbs, bloody heroes, profligate gods; princes with their attendant angels, all unsmiHng; and through a background window, a glimpse of hot brown hills, the red tiles of Tuscany.

  From some of the tables, between rounds of Ombre or Boston, a powdered face looks up at the newcomers, smirks, whispers, loses interest, goes back to cards.

  In this room, tables are laid out with delicacies for the players' refreshment. Sterlet from the Volga, veal from Archangel, beef from the Ukraine, pheasants from Bohemia. Icy jugs of gluckwa, orgeat, almond-flavoured ratafia. 'These melons', says the envoy, coming to the end of the table, 'are from Bukovina.' He dips a finger into a bowl of caviare, licks off the glittering eggs, summons a flunky who disappears and returns.

  The envoy says: 'We may go in now. Try to be interesting.'

  To the Reverend it seems they have entered the rehearsal room of an opera company, yet the gold is not painted, nor are the diamonds glass. Like all the rooms they have passed through, it is too bright, too exquisite, too crowded with the purchases of Russian agents who scour Europe with their deep purses. So many fine things, any one of which, alone, would have been remarkable. Together they are like the piled booty of a Khan; toys of power.

  In the centre of the room a woman is leaning over the billiard

  table. There is the sound of struck ivory as she makes her shot, then she looks up at the strangers, her blue eyes, her blue gaze, travelling from face to face

  Amid the chatter, the polite and boorish laughter, floats a voice, distinctly, exotically English.

  '. . . every third night at bedtime eight grains of Calomel, yes indeed, and eight grains powder of crab's claws . . .'

  The woman at the table speaks French with a German accent. She says: Who have you brought me tonight?'

  The envoy bows heroically. 'Your Imperial Majesty,
I have brought you Dr Dyer from England. Dr Dyer, and his companions.'

  Dyer steps forward, bows. The Empress, in an English sentence clearly learnt by rote, says: 'You honour us by coming so far. We are pleased to welcome you to our city.'

  Somewhere among the hunchbacks, the bored dwarves, the maids of honour, the gentlemen of the bedchamber, the Englishman is still talking.

  '. . . then I recommend an eighth of a grain of tartar emetic and, upon waking, a dose of Glauber's salts . . .'

  The Empress turns, the crowd parts. The Reverend has already guessed who they will see; he has heard the voice once before, in Brussels. Dr Dimsdale, sleek and plump, glides to the Empress's side, already a favourite. The room watches, grows hushed. The gentlemen, the sombre-suited foreigners, regard each other; a long, intelligent exchange. In Dimsdale's eyes, a cool relish of his victory; in James Dyer's eyes, a look of incomprehension, as if the guiding genius of his life had suddenly, inexplicably betrayed him.

  Someone giggles. In schoolroom French, Dimsdale says: 'And what is your opinion of Glauber's salts, Mr Dyer?'

  The Empress claps; the whole room claps. It is as if the court has never heard such wit, such flare.

  What is that? It is an orrery, is it not?' It is.'

  It must be a particular favourite of yours, Doctor, for you to have brought it all this w^ay.'

  'I have had it years together.'

  'A charming piece. I suppose that is the Sun, and these the planets?'

  The room is feebly lit. James Dyer is by the window, the orrery on the table beside him. The window is not shuttered. A light snow is falling. In the street below, sleds and carriages are bringing home the last of the card players, the revellers, from the Winter Palace.

  'I believe, Doctor, that the girl has lit the stove in your room.'

  There is no answer. The Reverend thinks: I will merely rile him if I stay. He must digest his disappointment alone.

  He goes to the door, then, unable to suppress the instinct to console, he says: 'The envoy assured me there was much to be done here by a man with real ability. Much to be had. I trust you will not think your trip entirely wasted.'

  There is a movement at the far end of the room. Mary. He cannot tell if she is looking at him; the light is too poor, his eyes are too tired. He understands, however, understands perfectly, that he must go.

  'Good night to you, then. You both.'

  He goes to his room, obscurely troubled. Why does this prickly man, who surely cares nothing for him, provoke his pity so?

  He undresses, is briefly naked in the wood-warmed air, then

  draws on his nightgown, his pointed nightcap, a pair of thick woollen stockings. When he lies down he prays, the habit resumed after what now seems an unimportant interval of silence. He prays for Dyer, for himself, for his loved ones: a childhood prayer. He snuffs the candle. Strange how the darkness comes all at once. Where is it when the light is there?

  The Featherstones, Monsieur About, the Reverend Lestrade, in two hackney sledges, go to see a bear belonging to the Empress baited by dogs. Two dogs

  are killed. The dogs look sorry for themselves only at the very end.

  A man comes in to hoick their bodies out. The bear is led away to

  lick its wounds. Fifteen degrees of frost. The drivers' breath freezes

  in their beards.

  A supper at Princess D's. Cold soup, caviare and postilla. The ladies are carried up the stairs by servants. For a wager Monsieur About drinks off a bottle of champagne at a single draught. The Princess says to the Reverend: 'Did you not come with one of the English doctors?'

  'Ma'am, we did, but he is indisposed.'

  Parting, the Reverend kisses the Princess's hand. She says: 'You must come here every day.'

  A man called Bootle takes them to the Newski market. The meat is deep-frozen, hard as stone. Bootle asks after Dyer. The Reverend says: 'He would not come out today.'

  'He is unwell?'

  'He is weary after his journey.'

  What of the woman?'

  When they are alone, About says that Bootle is a spy. St Petersburg, he says, is full of spies.

  Bootle takes them to the bath-house. One rouble for a private room, five copecks for the public. 'Let us not be parted!' says Monsieur About. James Dyer is with them. When they are stripped the Reverend sees a dozen red weals upon Dyer's back, like the marks of a lash, and a mottling of bruises on his chest and legs. There are also marks on his hands, as if he has reached for something through a briar. About is unsettled, offended. He says, loud enough for the Reverend to hear: 'That is too much. Too far.' The day is spoiled.

  The adventure is coming to an end. This adventure. About has sold his toys to an agent of the Empress. She is known to be delighted. To have paid handsomely. About says they will amuse the court for a week, then be dropped in their boxes and forgotten. It does not matter. It will happen to them all in time. To the Empress herself! Forgotten, forgotten. He fills their glasses. It is evening at the apartment. The Reverend and About are alone there. James Dyer and Mary are at one place, the Featherstones at another. The stoves are hissing: good Russian stoves, nothing like them in England. The Reverend thinks: I could be home by the New Year. A fresh start. Home.

  About comes up, smiles, takes his arm, says: 'I am to go to Warsaw, the first of next week. Then as fast as I can to Paris. Come with me. I should not like to travel without you now.'

  The Reverend asks: 'Might we take the doctor? And the woman if he will not part from her?'

  About says: 'Why not?'

  The next day they call at the palace again, but the Empress is

  away. There are only visitors like themselves, w^alking the empty corridors, talking in hushed voices. There are no players at the card tables, no servants running with champagne. The servants sit about on the stairs, drink and eat what they have stolen from the kitchens. Only a few of the lights are lit. It is cold, echoing. A spectacular barracks.

  At Millionaya they have an evening of backgammon and Loo, coffee and wine. The Reverend retires at midnight, goes to his room, then, taking his quill and ink-horn, sharpening the tip of the quill with his pocket knife, dipping it in the ink, wiping it, dipping it, he begins another letter to his sister.

  Rev J Is Lestrade to Miss Dido Les trade

  St Petersburg, 9 December 1767

  Dear Dido,

  I write now to say I shall be returning to England and may even arrive before you receive this. I shall go to Warsaw with M. About and thence back to Paris and so home. You cannot think how I long to be among you again. Not that I regret my coming here. It is something to be able to say one has met the Empress of Russia. I do wonder how that poor postillion has fared and if we might not have some intelligence of him on the way back. Our little party, soon to disperse, is all well, with the exception ofDr Dyer who has taken his being beat by Dr Dimsdale very hard.

  The cold here is shocking but they know how to be warm, and I have been no more uncomfortable than I should have been at home.

  Let me tell you of all we have done since my last . . .

  He lays down his pen. The letter can wait until morning. He rubs the stubble of his face. Who was that fellow he knew shaved three times a day? Collins? Johnstone? Someone at the University? Paston?

  He thinks of his Httle opium pipe and finds the box at the bottom of his bag. He took the drug first as a boy to quieten a persistent cough; took it later as a student for the dreams it brought, and on those occasions when his allowance was all used up it was cheaper and more pleasant to take opium than to eat. He is the mildest of addicts; Dido takes more. He smokes in the armchair, hugging the smoke at the base of his lungs. His mouth becomes dryer. He smiles. He knows he shall pay for this tomorrow: languor, constipation, headaches perhaps. His smile broadens. Tomorrow can take care of itself. Who is to say any of them shall live so long?

  When he has done he lays the pipe down carefully on the box and goes out to get a mouthful of wine to smooth
his throat. He takes a candle with him; his shadow moves over the wall like a grey, ponderous sail. The decanter is still on the table in the drawing room. He takes one of the dirty glasses, sniffs it, and pours out a small measure of wine, swills his mouth and swallows.

  Going out again he sees there is another light, flickering in the corridor outside James Dyer's room. Who is standing there? He squints, and makes out Zaira, the servant girl. He goes towards her, thinking how he has not properly noticed before the loveliness of her hair, very black against the white of her skin. He expects her to turn at his approach; he does not wish to startle her, but she is staring fixedly into Dyer's room. When he sees the expression on her face he wants to be back in his own room. He wants nothing to do with this. He whispers her name; she clutches his arm, transmits to him her terror. Dyer is in bed, lying on his back, eyes closed. Mary is beside the bed. The Reverend opens his mouth to speak but Mary looks up at him, silences him. For a moment he wonders if Dyer is dead, but then sees the slow swelling of his chest, the slight palp of the skin over his heart. Zaira whimpers. There is the noise of her water running off her leg on to the floor. The Reverend starts forward, a single step, then stops. The room is sealed. There

  are forces here he knows nothing of, a magic more powerful than his own. He cannot prevent her. One of Mary's hands is in, now the other works in beside it. There is no blood; the flesh parts like water, like sand. Her arms are trembling, her face racked with the effort of her secret business. Dyer does not move, only sometimes sighs like a sleeper in a dream. When it is finished she sits heavily in a chair, her head falls forward, her shoulders slump. The room is suddenly calm; ordinary. A man sleeping in a bed, and a woman next to him, sleeping in a chair. The Reverend goes in, sets down his candle on the bedside cabinet, buttons Dyer's nightshirt, then pulls up the covers. Zaira is watching him. Is she afraid of him too? He takes her hand and leads her away, quickly, along the corridor.