David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) (45 page)

“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.”

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 activities; 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.

“Every action, every battle, brings death. Ifwe are on this earth, it is to act and destroy. But when one is acting for a higher cause …” He stopped and then said, “It isn’t easy to live a good life.” His voice had changed; it was softer and tinged with sadness. I think it was his frankness, these flashes of sincerity that made him so charming and yet so frustrating.

He stood up, calling over his shoulder, “Shall we go back?”

We retraced our steps in silence. It was very dark now, and we had to be careful of the stones and low brambles that got caught on our clothes. In front of the house, he shook my hand. “Goodbye, Monsieur Legrand. Have a good trip; we’ll see each other again one day, I hope.”

I said that anything was possible, and we parted.

Very early the following morning, I was awakened by the sound of footsteps and muffled voices in the garden. I leaned forward to look out of the window and through the wooden slats, I saw my Courilof with a policeman; he was easily recognisable in spite of his disguise. I remembered seeing this policeman on several occasions when he accompanied the minister to give his reports to the Emperor. I realised that Courilofwas having me followed. As usual, he wasn’t very clever about it; but it was the one and only moment during all the time I spent with him that I suddenly understood what it truly meant to hate. Seeing this powerful man, so confident, calmly standing in his garden, knowing that all he had to do was say the word and I would be tracked down, locked up, and hanged like an animal, made me understand how easy it can be to kill in cold blood. At that very moment, I could have happily held a gun to his head and pulled the trigger.

In the meantime, I had to get away, which I did. I openly took the train to St. Petersburg, followed by the policeman; in the middle of the night, I got off at one of the little mountain stations. From there, I made it to the Persian border. I remained in Persia for a few days; I exchanged my Swiss passport for the identity papers of a carpet salesman, given to me by some members of a revolutionary group in Tehran. Towards the end of September, I went back to Russia.

I
ARRIVED IN
St. Petersburg and went straight to Fanny’s place; she settled me into her room and then went out. I was tired, utterly exhausted. I threw myself down on the bed and immediately fell asleep.

I remember a dream I had, which is rare for me. My dream was very beautiful, very innocent; it seemed to rise up from the depths of an idyllic childhood, for I was young, handsome, and bursting with energy in a way I’d never really been. I stood in a meadow full of flowers bathed in sunlight; the most bizarre thing was that the children standing around me were Courilof, Prince Nelrode, Dahl, Schwann, and the stranger from Vevey. In the end, it turned into a painful, indescribably grotesque nightmare: their faces changed, becoming old and tired, yet they continued running and playing as before.

I woke up and saw Fanny come into the room, followed by a comrade I knew. But he didn’t look as wonderfully calm as the first time we’d met: he seemed worried and annoyed. He warned me that the police had been alerted, they were already looking for me, and I was to take every precaution. I let him talk. I was so utterly frustrated by then that I felt I wanted to be done with him, as well as Courilof.

He looked at me oddly, and I’m convinced he had me followed from that day on, right up until the assassination. His men were better at it than Courilof’s spies, but the minute I stepped out the door, I could sense them behind me.

October had arrived. It got dark early and it was relatively easy to slip away at a street corner. It hadn’t started snowing yet, but the air had that icy heaviness peculiar to autumn in Russia; the lamps in the houses were lit from early morning. A misty, snowy fog rose up and sat low on the ground; the earth was frozen, hollow. A sad time … I spent hours on end stretched out on the
bed, in the room Fanny had given up for me. I was coughing up blood; I had the smell and taste of blood in my mouth and on my skin.

I didn’t see Fanny any more; it had been agreed that she would come to see me the night before the assassination to give the final order, since she was the one responsible for preparing the bombs and giving them to me. The comrade came to see me again, telling me the exact time to go through with it: eleven forty-five. There was no question of going inside the theatre itself, as it was by invitation only, so we’d have to wait at the entrance.

“If you hadn’t been found out,” he said bitterly, “it would have been so simple! Courilof would have got you a seat in the theatre and during the interval you could have gone into his box and shot him! All those months we tailed him, for what! Now, with these bloody bombs, you risk killing twenty innocent people for one Courilof.”