To Dream of Snow (11 page)

There were also stalls full of brightly coloured, very Russian wares as well as those more familiar, including displays of second-hand clothes, furs and boots. Violette bought two skirts for work and a long fur cape that was worn bare in places but warmer than her own woollen cloak. The others followed her example or bought furs that they could use as linings to their cloaks. The stallholder, like those they had observed on other stalls, used beads on a frame to add up the price of their purchases, each bead representing a certain value. Jeanne was interested in the lace stall, but could see nothing to compare with the fine lace that she made.

On the outskirts of the market was a pathetic cluster of women, nearly all with little children, offering simple home-made things for sale. Out of compassion Marguerite bought a small wooden bowl, brightly painted, and Jeanne a straw-plaited basket. Isabelle chose a rag doll.

At midday they went down some steps into a small cafe where they each had a bowl of steaming borsch, served with wedges of dark rye bread, which warmed them through. Here again the price was settled with a rattling of beads. Before returning to the palace they went into Kazan Cathedral and stood together in a little group, taking in everything from its glorious gilded height to the jewel-coloured frescoes and the great golden altar that shone like the sun before them. There was nowhere to sit, but they had heard that all congregations had to stand. Each of them chose a place to kneel privately on the vast marble floor for a few minutes on her own.

When they were back in their atelier again, taking up their needles, there was plenty of chatter about what they had seen and Marguerite left them to work without her for a while. There was a meeting arranged with Madame Markarova, supervisor of the long-established sewing rooms, that she could delay no longer.

From directions she had been given she found her way to it in another part of the Palace, not knowing how she would be received. Neither Madame Markarova nor her seamstresses were resident, coming and going by an entrance far from that which Marguerite and her companions had been allotted.

The kitchens where they might otherwise have met at mealtimes were forbidden territory to all of them. It was to ensure that they and their clothes and subsequently their delicate work were kept free of cooking odours and the greasy atmosphere that permeated the kitchens. It was also why cold food was taken to both ateliers during the day, hot dishes only served in the evenings when work was over and the sewing rooms closed.

Madame Rostova had arranged with Madame Markarova that she and her women should continue to make the imperial garments, except for all elaborately embroidered gowns and accompanying accessories, which would be under Marguerite's supervision.

‘Madame Markarova speaks French,' Madame Rostova had informed her, ‘and so do some of her workers, but the majority know only Russian.'

Marguerite paused for a moment and took a deep breath before entering Madame Markarova's atelier. There were at least forty women of varying ages seated at four long sewing tables and every face in the room looked up with an expression of intense curiosity. Although none of them had seen her before they all knew that she was the Frenchwoman from faraway Paris. Just for a matter of seconds needles were idle and a variety of rainbow threads hung suspended in mid-air.

Agrippina Markarova, who sat at a small worktable on her own, was the only one who did not look up immediately, even though she was expecting this visitor. She finished a stitch before putting down her work and rising from her chair. She was tall, very upright and sternly good-looking in her late forties, her fair hair streaked through with grey and topped by a frilled white cap. Then to Marguerite's relief she smiled, her whole face softening, as if thankful to see that there was no arrogance in the newcomer's attitude, no haughty disdain as if nobody could match the skills of a Parisian seamstress and embroiderer.

‘I'm pleased to see you here, Mam'selle Marguerite. I heard that you did not get a very warm welcome from Madame Rostova when you first arrived.'

‘There was a misunderstanding for a little while,' Marguerite admitted carefully.

‘You and your fellow countrywomen must have thought you'd come to the most inhospitable country in the world! I know that you were even threatened with being turned out into the street before you'd barely crossed the threshold! I want to assure you that we in Russia are friendly people. As soon as I heard what had happened I was determined to make amends.' She crossed to a cupboard and brought out a little painted bowl that held bread and salt. ‘It is an old tradition in Russia to welcome strangers with bread and salt, and may your days in this country be long and peaceful.'

All the women in the room stopped work to applaud with smiles and a little chatter among themselves as Marguerite gladly accepted the offering. She had feared animosity and even aggression, but instead she had found quite the opposite. ‘Thank you so much, madame. You have made it easier for me to make a request.'

‘Yes? What is it?'

‘There will be occasions when I shall need extra hands. In fact I should like to start off with at least three more seamstresses and at least two apprentices for the mundane tasks. Would you be able to help me in this matter?'

Agrippina nodded. ‘Yes, that can be arranged. But first of all I expect you'd like to see the work we're doing here.'

All the women had resumed their tasks and Agrippina guided Marguerite around the room, giving her the chance to see everything. The stitching was exquisite, some sewing delicate petticoats, nightgowns and chemises, others at work on bodices, skirts and drapery destined to become new gowns for the Empress and the Grand Duchess. In an adjoining room the younger and less experienced seamstresses were engaged in the embroidery of bed linen and other such tasks. Agrippina spoke quietly to Marguerite.

‘The work of all the girls here is full of promise. I can have a choice of new workers any time I wish and I soon sort the wheat from the chaff. At the moment I can spare you two seamstresses, but they speak only Russian.'

‘I'm sure it will not be difficult to demonstrate what I shall require.'

‘I'll let you have the apprentices later.' She waved aside Marguerite's thanks. ‘In the meantime I'll send the two young women I select along to you this afternoon.'

‘How many gowns do you make a year?' Marguerite asked with interest as they returned to the main sewing room.

‘It's difficult to say. We make many for the Grand Duchess, but for the Empress there have to be several new gowns ready for every single day of the year. No gown is ever worn twice, but they are only thrown away afterwards if they are irretrievably soiled in any way. It is my personal responsibility to check each one, and if they are not fit to be saved I salvage the good material out of them. As I do all the designing, it can often be incorporated advantageously later on. I doubt that the Empress realizes how I save her money in this way since economy is of no importance to her, but I cannot bear to see exquisite fabric wasted.' Her glance was inquiring. ‘Would you like to see some of the gowns that have been kept?'

‘Yes, indeed!'

Together they left the atelier and went up a flight of stairs to double doors at the end of a corridor. Agrippina put a key in the lock.

‘I have access here as it is my task to supervise the care of the gowns. Most of them are encased in panels of Venetian glass, which keeps them free of dust.'

Marguerite followed her into the dark room. Agrippina began opening the inner window shutters and light flowed in to reveal an amazing sight. Marguerite stood still in amazement, looking incredulously at the sight that had opened up before her. It was like being in a great ballroom full of headless women. Hundreds of dummies in glorious gowns stood four or five deep with many more encased in glass on both sides of the enormously long room.

‘However many gowns are here?' Marguerite exclaimed in astonishment.

Agrippina looked over her shoulder as she opened yet another shutter. ‘In this room? Fifteen hundred, but this is only one of several rooms where the gowns are stored. Four thousand were destroyed last winter in a fire at the palace in Moscow, but altogether there are many thousands more. None of them will ever be worn again. The Empress loves finery and everything to do with it. In her own private apartments there is an adjacent room where she has the choice of five thousand pairs of shoes in every conceivable colour and at least as many pairs of gloves.'

Marguerite continued to be amazed. She was already wandering along past the cases, gazing at the gowns. There were watered silks with a lovely sheen, autumn-shaded taffetas, velvets of imperial scarlet, forest green and sapphire blue that were dramatized with trimmings of sable, as well as a variety of rich gold and silver brocades. It showed Marguerite that the Empress had no preference for one colour or fabric over another. She was most interested in the beautiful embroidery that encrusted the bodices of a number of the gowns and spread down and over the skirts, but lacked the imaginative use of it that had made the Empress lust after the Comtesse's gowns.

Agrippina came to stroll alongside. ‘If ever you should make a gown for anyone except the imperial ladies, always remember that only they have the right to wear silver silks and brocades. It is a long-established tradition in the Romanov family.'

‘Thank you for telling me, but I doubt if that situation will ever arise.'

‘In another of the rooms on this floor there is the Empress's male attire. She never wears those garments a second time either.'

Marguerite showed her surprise. ‘When does she first wear them?'

‘Occasionally there are balls when she commands the men to dress as women and vice versa. As everybody in the Palace knows, the Empress likes showing off her figure and displaying her legs in tight breeches and knee stockings. The older ladies with less than perfect figures detest these occasions. So do most of the men, many of them proud, high-ranking and courageous officers. They often get their skirts wedged in doorways or knock into others while dancing and feel thoroughly humiliated.'

‘That would never happen at our Royal Court in France!'

‘I'm sure there are many differences nowadays,' Agrippina agreed, ‘but perhaps not so many in Peter the Great's time. When he returned from Europe he wanted everything modelled on what he had seen at the Palace of Versailles, which is why French became the Court language and French fashion swept away Russian styles; also it was no longer permitted for any man of rank to be bearded. Some men still wear richly embroidered caftans on occasions, but mostly for less formal wear.'

Marguerite, remembering the carting away of furniture when the Court had departed and the general neglect of the Palace that prevailed, thought that in spite of Peter the Great's great influence lingering on, it was clear that the transition had still not been successfully completed. She also recalled what the Comtesse had first told her of the whole country's lack of culture, which contrasted so sharply with France's richness in the arts and literature.

When the room was locked up again Marguerite thanked Agrippina for showing her the gowns. ‘I'm very grateful. I was so afraid before we met that you would view me as an intruder.'

Agrippina smiled, shaking her head. ‘Far from it! The old saying about many hands making light work is true, and you and your seamstresses are relieving my women of the embroidery that takes so much time.'

‘Tell me a little about them. I'd like to know how they are selected.'

‘There is always a tremendous choice. Some of my needlewomen are the mothers, wives and children of serfs. Although they themselves are of no intrinsic value – only the male serfs count in an estimate of wealth – the Empress still owns them and I can bid any one of them to join my work force.'

‘I knew about ownership, but I never realized the lot of serfs was quite so hard.'

Agrippina shook her head in surprise. ‘Hard? No. Why should you think that? Admittedly there are still instruments of correction in the cellars here as there are in many great houses, but they're only used for cases of thievery or brutal assault. Usually a flogging is enough for slackness or a task poorly done, and plenty of that punishment goes on.'

‘Surely not here!' Marguerite glanced in dismay at the busy seamstresses.

‘Oh, I never have any trouble with my workers, who are glad to be in my charge. On the whole, most serfs do well enough if obedient to an owner's will. Many have small-holdings to keep them and their families fed while working their masters' land. They also carve or make little things out of clay and so forth for sale in the markets. Whenever a serf dies in the streets, it's usually the result of punishment for sloth or spending whatever they have on vodka.'

Marguerite felt that a great void had opened up between her and this woman, who looked at life so differently, seeing nothing untoward in centuries steeped in slavery. She was thoughtful as she found her way downstairs again. Beneath the veneer this was still a barbaric land! The lot of the French peasants was hard and many existed on the edge of starvation, but at least they could raise a voice against injustice as had happened in rumbling little outbreaks from time to time.

She was almost back to her own sewing rooms when she decided, almost on a rise of rebellion on behalf of the serfs, to see something of this great warren of a place that was only one of the Empress's many palaces from which so many millions of people were ruled.

It took her several attempts before she found her way into the state apartments, coming suddenly upon a vast entrance hall that dazzled with gilt and marble. There was nobody about. She went slowly up the great staircase, her reflection in mirrors showing her as a tiny figure in a glittering gold embrace. Who would ever have suspected, coming into this glorious setting, that cruelty, indifference and tyranny lay behind its sparkling façade?