Russka (87 page)

Did a lover, he wondered, in the great act of passion, gain a glimpse of eternity? Possibly. In his love of Adelaide, this ten-year passion which defied the passing of the years, he did not think he saw eternity, but rather something else which he preferred. Their love, it sometimes seemed to him, was like a drop of amber which has trapped some tiny animal, centuries ago, in its warm embrace – and in doing so, captured the sunlight itself from that distant, long-forgotten day. He liked the analogy. The amber falls to the earth and is buried; yet it is preserved, as long as the earth shall last, he thought. At other times, he felt as if he and Adelaide were together on the vast, endless plain, enjoying their brief, passionate moment before they disappeared. And because their physical love was complete, he felt: This is enough. This is what I am. When it is done, I am content to be no more. And if the great darkness that followed was eternity, then he saw that too. One thing at least was certain. When he encountered Adelaide’s body he knew with certainty that this, and this alone, was his true homecoming and that, for the rest of his life, it would be his years with her against which all things would be compared.

For Adelaide, it was a little different. She did not look for eternity because to her that meant only age, and death. She knew that all sensations are passing. When she was younger, as her mind drifted after lovemaking, she would sometimes feel like a little boat, floating away upon a huge ocean; but nowadays, the images and sensations which came into her thoughts were rather different, and she felt herself more often a spectator watching the progress of her own life: at which times it seemed to her that she and her lover were not in a boat, but rather upon an island, slowly
eroding in the middle of a river, and that the river was the passing of the years.

It was past one in the morning when Alexander woke. After making love he had fallen into a sudden, deep sleep; but it had been troubled, for an image had repeatedly come to him – he was not sure how many times – so vivid, so insistent, that it seemed more like a vision than an ordinary dream.

It was the countess. She was very pale as she rose up before him; she had an accusing look on her face and, for no reason he could understand, she was shaking a reproving finger at him and saying, in a voice that seemed to explain the whole universe: ‘Voltaire. Voltaire.’ The fact that this made no particular sense did not make it any less impressive or alarming.

He woke up with a shiver and lay for several minutes collecting his thoughts. It was comforting that Adelaide was dozing beside him: her pale form was not quite covered and after a little while he began to feel better. He looked at her. Could he make love again? He thought so. As he touched her lightly, her eyes slowly opened and she smiled a little drowsily. ‘You want more?’

He was looking down at her; his mouth began to part in a grin.

‘Ah, I see.’ She reached out her arms. ‘Come then.’ Yes, he decided. He certainly could.

Yet it was just as he had gently entered upon this second, late-night communion, that to his surprise, before the pale form of his lover, another paler image seemed to arise before his eyes, interposing itself between them.

It was the old countess again. She did not speak this time; indeed, her white face was so motionless that it seemed she was sleeping – except for one thing: her eyes were wide open and staring. Try as he might to banish the phantasm, she remained obstinately between them, gazing at him stonily, as if to say: ‘You see, I sleep with my eyes open.’

It was absurd. He tried to ignore her, but it was no good. It was as though the phantasm refused to let go of him. Did she sleep with her eyes open? While his body continued to perform, slowly, a little absently, the act of love, his mind could not seem to tear itself away from this proposition. Was she sleeping now, thinking of him perhaps, and all the time like some still, Roman statue, staring out into space? Perhaps it was because of his earlier dream
about her, or because of their conversation that evening, but the question seemed to become more important with every moment that passed.

Suddenly he stopped and slowly withdrew himself from Adelaide’s embrace.

‘What is it?’

‘I must go.’

‘Where?’

‘I have to see her. The old woman.’

‘Countess Turova? You’re mad. She’s asleep.’

‘I have to see her asleep. I have to know.’

‘Know what?’

‘If her eyes are open.’

Adelaide sat up and looked at him carefully.

‘You are serious?’

‘Yes. It’s all right. I know the way.’

‘You mean to go into the house, to her bedroom?’ She shook her head, not sure if she was angry or amused by this eccentricity. ‘You do not choose a very good time to go on your expedition,’ she remarked.

‘I know. I’m sorry. Do you want to come too?’

She threw herself back on the bed and put her hand to her forehead.

‘
Mon Dieu!
No.’

‘I shan’t be long.’ He did not fully dress but, thinking it might be cold in the passage, he pulled on his coat. Then, still in stockinged feet, he made his way along the darkened passageway, through the connecting door, and into the main part of the house.

It was silent. By the great marble staircase, a guttering lamp gave a little light, but the corners and passages were in deep shadow. Downstairs by the main door an old footman was sleeping on a bench; Alexander could hear him snoring. The floor above, he knew, would be deserted except for the countess’s room and another little room across the passage where an old serving woman slept, in case the countess should require anything in the night.

He did not need much light. He knew the house well. Softly, making only two slight creaks, he mounted the wooden stairs that led to the countess’s room. At the top there was a little landing. On the right, through the open doorway, he could hear the rhythmic,
heavy breathing of the servant. On the left, the door of the larger room was just ajar. Light came through the opening, but no sound. He moved silently to the doorway and peered through the crack.

On a painted wooden table he could see a large, three-branched silver candelabra. The candles had burned low but they shed a bright light. He could see pictures on the wall, and the edge of a gilt mirror; but the bed was hidden from view. He stood there fully a minute, hesitating. If she were not asleep and he opened the door, she would certainly see it. She would cry out, the house would be woken, and how would he explain himself then? He listened intently, hoping to hear her breathing, but could not.

Surely she was not still awake. Besides, having come this far, he did not want to give up now. Very carefully he began to push the door. It creaked. He stopped, waited, his heart pounding: still no sound; he pushed again. Now the door swung wide open, and he stepped into the room.

Her bed was to the right. It was a heavy affair with four carved posts and a canopy covered with huge festoons of heavy silk. On each side, on a night table, a single candle burned. And in the middle of this stately tableau, propped nearly upright with cushions, sat Countess Turova. Her hair had been undone. It had been parted in the middle and hung loosely down over her shoulders, the ends arranged in little strands tied with pale blue ribbons. Her chin rested on the thick lace which decorated her nightdress, so that her mouth was only just open.

And as he turned, Alexander found himself staring straight into her open eyes.

He stood stock still, waiting for her to speak. How could he explain himself now? Would she scream; would she be furious? Her face registered no expression at all. It was just possible to see that she was breathing, lightly, through her mouth, but her eyes remained fixed on a point somewhere just past his head. For perhaps half a minute they both remained there, silently; the little trickles of warm wax down the candles seeming to be the only things moving in the room. Then her lips made a dry, smacking sound; there was a single, faint snore. And only at that moment did Alexander finally realize: My God, it is true. She sleeps with her eyes open.

He knew that now was the moment to leave. He had discovered
what he wanted. Yet somehow he could not pull himself away. He looked round the room. In one corner there was another little bust of Voltaire; on a table, some books; beside it a chair. But otherwise it was more sparsely furnished than he had expected. There was only one, thin rug on the floor. As he moved quietly across the room, her eyes remained fixed. He stood at the foot of the bed and gazed at her. What should he do now? For no particular reason, he made her a low bow. The eyes did not move. He grinned, made her another.

How did he feel about her? Did he hate her for what she had done to him? Not really. She had always been wilful and eccentric. Indeed, at this moment he felt only a sense of relief and light-headedness that he could stand before her like this without being afraid of her for once. Truly, he thought to himself, it is a wonderful thing to be awake when someone else is asleep. It gave one a feeling of extraordinary power.

He went over and glanced idly at the books upon the table. There were some French plays, a book of psalms, and several journals. One, he noticed, contained a radical article by Radishchev; but then he looked at the others – and smiled in astonishment. They all contained articles by himself! These were the anonymous articles, the daring compositions on the very borderline of what could be said about democracy and the serfs, of which he was most proud. He opened the journals. Besides his articles there were numerous underlinings and little notes, in the countess’s own hand. So she really had taken an interest. Could it be that, after all, she did approve of him?

As he turned the pages, he glanced up at her from time to time. Did her eyes flutter once? How strange: he was not even afraid any more. I could just sit here and discuss my articles with her, he thought pleasantly.

Finally Alexander got up and, in a sort of celebration of this curious interlude that providence had granted him, he did a little dance on the floor in front of her. Then he made her a solemn bow and withdrew. As he made his way back, no one stirred in the big house.

Except for the Countess Turova who, when she was sure he had gone, called her maid.

Tatiana was in love so much that it hurt. If Alexander came close,
she trembled; if he smiled at her, she flushed; if she heard no word from him for a day, she became pale and silent. By now, therefore, her face was thin: she had scarcely eaten for two weeks.

Since early morning, she had been at the window, watching. Countless times she had seen a sled approaching that she thought was Bobrov’s and had pressed her face to the window uselessly until it had gone past. Once, catching sight of a muffled figure walking through the snow, she became convinced it was he, and hurried frantically from room to room, keeping pace with him, until he turned the corner and vanished.

It was dusk when, having been persuaded by her mother at last to sit down, she suddenly heard a small commotion downstairs, followed by a lengthy pause. Then her father was in the doorway.

‘Alexander Prokofievich is here to see you. He has something to say.’ She rose, very pale, trembling slightly. With terror she noticed that her father was looking concerned. ‘Before you go down, Tatiana, I must ask: are you sure, truly certain, that you want this man?’ She stared at him. Then Alexander had come to claim her. She flushed. How could her father ask? ‘Just a minute, Papa.’ She rushed to her room, followed by her mother, while her father was left, still frowning. He had some reservations about Bobrov.

Below, Alexander waited. The minutes passed and no one came. My God, he thought, what if after all this, she’s changed her mind? It was nearly a quarter of an hour before the door opened.

Tatiana’s entrance took him by surprise. She was wearing a dress of dazzling blue that perfectly complemented her fair complexion and made her pale blue eyes look brilliant. He had always thought of her face as rather round and placid; but now it had grown thinner, shedding its puppy fat and allowing the form of her cheekbones to show through. She had a fresh glow on her skin that was wonderful and advanced towards him with a calm smile.

‘Alexander, my father tells me you wish to speak to me.’

And he, gazing at this commanding heiress, could only think: Well, I’m damned! She
has
taken charge. Yes, he could see now that this strong young woman was capable of writing that amazing letter that had brought him so abjectly to heel. He was impressed.

There was only one thing that Alexander did not know: Tatiana
had not written the letter at all. To be exact, she had written out the words, but not composed them. And even as she wrote them she had trembled, hesitated, and looked up with large, tearful eyes at the older woman who was calmly dictating them to her.

For her mother, when she could bear the girl’s agony no longer, had called upon the one person who, though they hardly knew each other, she felt sure could resolve the business. She had secretly taken Tatiana to see Countess Turova.

It was the countess who had taken the firm tone in the outrageous letter; the countess who had given Bobrov the deadline. She had been rather proud of her handiwork and quietly confident of the result. ‘He’ll be yours, if you want him,’ she had predicted coolly.

And why had she gone to such trouble? Not, certainly, because she cared particularly for Alexander or this poor little German girl. For she did not. But Alexander was a kinsman; the girl was an heiress. Properly established with a rich wife he might yet be a credit to her. Besides, it was a wonderful opportunity to exercise power – and such chances, it had to be admitted, did not come to her very often these days.

She had kept the business to herself. But when the unsuspecting Alexander had come to her asking about an inheritance – the very same evening – she had almost laughed out loud. Only by inspecting her hands had she been able to keep a straight face. And hadn’t she played her cards to perfection? How she enjoyed that – defeating the gambler at his own game!