To Dream of Snow

by Rosalind Laker

  She raised her eyebrows at his assumption that she would have agreed to a meeting. ‘It would have made no difference. I’m far too busy to make any social arrangements.’

  He dismissed her statement with a shake of his head. ‘But that was nearly two weeks ago. I think you will have organized your working routine by now. Nobody can sew twenty-four hours a day. Not even for an empress!’

  ‘Perhaps not at the moment, but those times will come, I’m sure. It happened often enough when I was in Paris.’

  ‘But you are free to have supper with me now while you’re able to do whatever you wish! The lackey said you were about to sit down to a meal and so I know you haven’t eaten.’

  ‘That’s true, but—’

  ‘But you’re tired of Russian food,’ he interrupted, finishing her sentence in a way she had not intended, ‘and I know a hostelry where French dishes are served.’

  She showed her surprise. ‘Here in St Petersburg? It must be on Vasilievsky Island.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I was in the French quarter there the morning after my arrival in the city, but I was too worried then to take much notice of my surroundings.’

  ‘Obviously you haven’t had a chance to fully explore this city yet. So let me take you back briefly to France tonight in the very heart of St Petersburg. At the same time I can probably answer anything you want to know about the city.’

  His invitation was enticing. It was a chance for a little self-indulgence in allowing herself to enjoy all things French again for a very short time.

  ‘I’ll come and I thank you,’ she said decisively. ‘I do want to know everything possible about this extraordinary city.’ It had been a revelation to see it as she had done first in moonlight and then by day in all its multi-pastel colours and its gilded spires and domes – first impressions she would never forget. ‘All I really know is that it was built through Peter the Great’s whim to create a new capital on wide and desolate marshes.’

  He grinned. ‘So fetch your cloak. I’ve a troika waiting.’

  When she was back upstairs dinner was already being served and her companions were all at the table, except Violette, who had gone to meet one of the footmen.

  ‘We shall want to hear all about your evening when you get back,’ Jeanne called out merrily as Marguerite bade them goodnight.

  Wrapped in her cloak with the hood over her head, she went with Jan out into the starry night to where a coachman and his three-horse troika were waiting. Jan tucked a fur rug around them both and they were swept on their way. There were enough street lanterns for her to glimpse the various places of interest he pointed out that ranged from the Admiralty to various churches.

  ‘Over there,’ he said, pointing in the direction of what she knew to be the Peter and Paul fortress, ‘is the little house where Tsar Peter lived like a peasant while this city of his was taking shape.’

  ‘I was told about that, but I wasn’t sure where it stood.’

  ‘Perhaps I could take you to see it one day. Did you know he stopped building work everywhere else in the land to gather hundreds of thousands of workers here to fulfil his dream?’

  ‘What a dedicated and powerful man he was! Tell me more.’

  She enjoyed listening to him as they crossed the frozen river to reach the island and shortly afterwards the troika drew up outside what appeared to be a private mansion, except for the painted sign hanging above the entrance. It showed an unmistakably French vineyard.

  Inside there was the golden glow of candlelight, the warm air rich with the aroma of good food, and the place was crowded. Several Russian officers were carousing noisily at one of the tables. The landlord, who seemed to know Jan well, showed them to a table in a quiet alcove, where her cloak and his greatcoat were taken away by a serving maid.

  ‘We are very busy this evening, Mynheer van Deventer,’ the landlord said, ‘but I shall see that you are well looked after.’ He then listed several dishes and they made their choice. A waiter came with the wine Jan had selected and then there was the chance to continue their conversation.

  ‘It was like a revelation to me when I saw the city by moonlight upon arrival and then next morning saw it again in all its pastel colours with its gilded spires and domes. First impressions that I’ll never forget. To me there is something jewel-like about St Petersburg as if Peter the Great saw it glittering in the mud of the marshes and scooped it out with his bare hands.’

  ‘I like what you’ve said,’ he acknowledged seriously. ‘I’m reminded of a famous quote from a traveller seeing St Petersburg for the first time. He said that the beauty of it – and with Heaven to come – was too much joy for anyone.’

  ‘I can identify with that thought,’ she replied with a smile, just for an instant aware of total rapport with him. ‘But there’s one thing that puzzles me.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Although he completed all his fine buildings it seems to me that since his time nothing is ever properly dealt with or finished.’

  He laughed quietly. ‘You’ve noticed that already, have you? Well, Russians get full of enthusiasm about a project, whatever it may be, but as that interest wanes they’ll move on to something else. What wasn’t done yesterday can be kept for another day. The poor serfs are like flotsam caught up in the tide, forever being swept here and there according to their masters’ whims.’

  ‘What you have said explains a lot to me,’ she commented thoughtfully.

  ‘I expect you’ve seen that the embankments along the Neva are still unfinished, although they must have been started years ago, maybe even in Peter the Great’s time. The streets are another example, because when the packed snow melts away you’ll see that some are fully paved, others half-finished and some not at all.’

  ‘So this vast nation with all its resources has its weaknesses too.’

  ‘Never doubt it! It could be said that the Empress personifies her own country. On the one hand she has abolished capital punishment, but allows cruel chastisements to continue. She is a highly intelligent woman, but although she has a great library herself she tolerates appalling ignorance among those in her court. There are exceptions, of course, particularly among the old aristocratic families, as well as the younger up-and-coming intelligentsia, who cleave more to Catherine because she is in every way their match.’

  ‘How do you know so much about the Empress?’

  ‘I have a Russian acquaintance at court.’

  Almost certainly a woman, she thought, but his next words corrected that assumption.

  ‘He knows Amsterdam well, having spent some time in the Netherlands on diplomatic affairs, and he bought several paintings from my gallery when he was there. I had not thought of Russia as a possible market until he suggested it, saying there was a dearth of great art here. That is how I gained an entrée to sell that Rubens to the Grand Duchess, who – unfortunately – was not destined to have it after all.’

  So, she thought, even though she had been mistaken in thinking at first that his court acquaintance was a woman, it had not changed her first impression of him in any way.

  ‘Where did you live in Paris?’ he asked with intense interest. ‘And whereabouts did you work?’

  She told him and, when he wanted to know how her working conditions here compared with Paris, she answered that there was very little difference. ‘Except, of course,’ she added, ‘that it is more spacious and I am now in charge. Yet it all still seems strange to me.’

  ‘That is only because it is taking you a little time to settle down,’ he said. ‘When you’ve been here long enough to really get to know the Russian people I’m sure you will like them. They have a great sense of humour, a huge national pride, and are stoic in every kind of adversity.’

  ‘I have met kindness from almost everyone already.’

  ‘Do you think you will be able to adapt to Russian ways?’ he questioned closely, his fierce eyes never leaving her face. ‘Does the climate alarm you
? It will get even colder than it is now.’

  ‘I can adjust to everything, including the weather, but not to the state of millions of men owned body and soul by masters who are free to flog and work them however they wish.’

  He gave a nod, his expression serious. ‘I agree with you, but there is oppression everywhere in the world in one form or another. That doesn’t mean things can’t change for the better in the fullness of time. I like to think that just one serf, dreaming of freedom, could set a ball rolling towards it that would never be stopped, no matter how long or how difficult its path.’ He paused, smiling seriously. ‘But I’m an optimist. Everything is possible if one sets a course and never turns from it.’

  She sensed a sexual undercurrent in his tone and turned it aside by asking him how successful he had been in selling his pictures. He was interrupted in answering her by the arrival of the waiters with covered dishes, each one announced in the old traditional French way as they were uncovered with a flourish. There was foie gras enhanced by fried apples and a salad dressed with walnut oil, which was followed by lamb with grilled crêpes. Finally an apple tart decorated with candied violets.

  ‘It was all delicious,’ Marguerite said appreciatively. She had no complaint against the Russian food served at the Palace, which was plentiful and usually quite tasty, but often it was heavy and extremely filling as befitted the needs of those living and working in a harsh climate. Yet in every way it was far from the standard of this evening’s dishes. The memory of much bad food eaten on the journey from home had also made this occasion seem like a celebration of French cuisine and it had lifted her spirits. There had been times in the past when she had dined in similar style, but that had been when Anne-Marie was still alive and her lover had occasionally extended an invitation to dine in their company.

  The good wine had eased away the tension she had felt earlier and as they lingered over a final glass, Marguerite found herself telling Jan about her sister.

  ‘Anne-Marie would have liked me to live with her in her fine apartment. She was often lonely when her lover was with his wife and family, but he would not allow it. He wanted her to himself whenever he had time to spend with her. It was only on special occasions that I was allowed to be there. Sadly she contracted sickness of the lungs and was not yet thirty when she died.’

  ‘That was terrible for you,’ he said compassionately, seeing the shadow that passed across her eyes. ‘I have two brothers: Hendrick, whom you know, and Maarten, the youngest, who is following in the footsteps of our late grandfather, a well-known artist in his time.’

  ‘Is Maarten’s work as good?’

  ‘It’s maturing. I’ve sold several of his early works, but the best is yet to come.’

  ‘Does he look after the gallery when you and Hendrick are away?’

  He laughed, shaking his head. ‘He’d get so lost in his painting that everything else would go out of his head! No, it was exceptional for Hendrick to travel as far away from home as he did in coming to Riga that time. Normally he manages my gallery in my absences, and if he should be away somewhere to buy for me his wife Cornelia takes charge. She’s a good businesswoman as well as being the daughter of an established artist. So she knows a great deal about good art and is capable in every way.’

  ‘Do you follow in your grandfather’s footsteps too?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes. One day when I’ve set up a studio and gallery here, which I may well do eventually, I’ll paint a picture for you. A landscape, perhaps.’

  Her delight showed in her face. ‘Just a little picture that I could hang in my room?’

  ‘What would please you most? A landscape?’

  ‘Could it be a view of St Petersburg?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I had in mind.’

  At a nearby table a couple were rising to leave and Marguerite was reminded sharply of the passing of time.

  ‘I should be getting back now,’ she said anxiously, pushing back her chair. ‘I was warned that doors to the domestic quarters get bolted and barred.’

  He glanced at his gold fob watch, although he rose to his feet with her. ‘You’ve no need to worry. There’s another half an hour yet and we’ll get there before time is up.’

  Back at the Palace the guards, their fur hats down to their eyes with flaps over their ears and their high collars covering the rest of their faces, let her pass, but stopped Jan, it being too late to admit visitors at the domestic entrance.

  ‘It’s been a wonderful evening,’ she said sincerely to him as they parted, their breath hanging in the frosty air between them.

  Jan stood watching her as she hurried away along the cleared path in the ice-crisp snow to reach the domestic entrance. Just before she went into the Palace she paused on the lantern-lit steps to cast him a smile over her shoulder. He waved in return, resolved to have her sooner or later.

  As Marguerite had expected, her companions had waited up as promised to hear about the evening. There were laughter and exaggerated moans and groans of envy as she described the food and wine. Only Violette was silent. She had enjoyed her evening too and had done a little delicious moaning of her own, but had no intention of telling anyone what had taken place.

  Nine

  Sarah had kept her promise to write, although the first letter did not come until she was feeling better and able to take up a pen again. Marguerite replied promptly and their letters began to cross as the weeks went by in an exchange of all their news.

  During this time the seamstresses had begun to form social relationships. Violette had finished seeing the footman, who had become too serious, talking sentimentally about marriage, which was the last thing she wanted. She had transferred her interest to a sergeant of the guards, whom she thought very handsome in his red and green uniform. He took her dancing and sometimes out to supper, which she enjoyed. Once in a crowded cafe, after drinking a little too much, he had performed a Russian dance on his own for her with bent knees and kicking feet, which had made her shriek with delight.

  Yet Isabelle and Rose were the first to make friends outside the Palace. They were having rides down one of the built-up snow mountains when they met two English girls, Joan Pomfret and her sister Lily. They were the twin daughters of a hydraulic engineer from London, who was working on extending the city’s canals. What started as shared laughter on the slides soon became a steady friendship with invitations to their home in the English settlement. Their mother, a very maternal woman, pitied the two young French girls’ being far from home, even though Rose had her mother and aunt at the Palace. She made them welcome whenever they were free from work to visit.

  Sophie had found a beau for herself quite by chance. She had taken a shoe to a cobbler’s shop, needing to get a heel mended, but found it impossible to understand what the cobbler said to her. A middle-aged Russian, who was collecting a pair of boots, acted as an interpreter for her.

  ‘He is saying that if you will take a seat he’ll mend your heel while you wait, mam’selle.’

  She turned shining eyes full of gratitude on him, her smile wide, and saw a kindly, rugged face with fair brows under his wide fur hat, his clean-shaven chin showing that he was above peasant status.

  ‘Thank you for your help, monsieur,’ she replied. ‘I have yet to learn your language. So far I only know the Russian words for scissors and sewing silk and so forth.’

  She looked about for a seat and he indicated a bench by the wall. To her surprise and pleasure he sat down beside her. ‘You are a seamstress?’ he asked. ‘How long is it since you came to St Petersburg?’

  She had much to tell when she took up her sewing again in the atelier. He had walked her back to the Palace and they were to meet again. He was a fifty-six-year-old widower, an apothecary by profession, with a grown-up son and daughter, both married, who lived in other parts of the city. His name was Valentin Vaganov.

  ‘I told him that I’d come to Russia through your persuasion, Jeanne,’ Sophie said, smiling at her sister, ‘and
that my niece is here too. He was very interested.’

  ‘He sounds a nice type of man,’ Jeanne said approvingly, hiding the sudden twinge of envy. It was not that she wanted any romantic nonsense in her life, but she would have liked some male conversation for a change and to inhale again the aroma of a real man with a strong arm to put around her waist and a laughing mouth to kiss her. But all that belonged to a long time ago before her disastrous marriage. She sighed reminiscently as she lowered her gaze again to the flower she was embroidering.

  A few weeks later it was Sophie who proved instrumental in opening up a more social life for Jeanne. ‘Valentin is having a family party for me to meet everybody,’ she said, her sparkling eyes full of secrets, ‘and he wants you and Rose to be there too.’

  ‘Is there to be a betrothal announcement?’ Jeanne demanded sharply.

  ‘No! But I’m hoping a path is being set.’

  ‘Just don’t rush into anything as I did.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Just say you’ll come.’

  Jeanne was pleased to find that Valentin had a comfortable home with servants and she noticed everything with interest. She could understand why he was attracted to Sophie with her graceful movements and thick-lashed, heavy-eyed good looks. Twenty-five members of his family were present, all ages represented, including his three-month-old grandchild. There was much talk and laughter with plenty of vodka and wine to drink at a long table full of good food. Not many spoke French, but Valentin’s sister-in-law Olga, who was seated beside Jeanne, was fluent and spoke two or three other languages as well.

  ‘It is necessary for me,’ she said to Jeanne, ‘because my husband only speaks Russian and we have a shop selling fabrics and lace where so many foreigners come to buy.’ She had a round, pleasing face with smiling eyes and her friendliness shone through. ‘So in our mutual knowledge of fabrics you and I have much in common, madame. You must come and see the shop at your first opportunity. I always have a samovar ready and we shall drink a cup of tea together.’

  It was to be the first of many cups of tea shared there and led to Jeanne being invited into Olga’s social circle, the Russian woman showing every sign of becoming a staunch friend.