7

Marie Feodorovna sat in her music room at Gatchina making notes, while one of her ladies sorted out a pile of compositions and another read aloud in French. It was typical of Marie’s methodical routine that no opportunity for cultural improvement should be lost, and while she muttered over her list she half attended to the reader’s droning voice, nodding at intervals as if she appreciated and understood.

At last she raised her head and signalled the reader to stop.

“There, everything is arranged for to-night. You haven’t forgotten the list of guests, have you, Anna?”

“No, Madame, I have it here, do you wish me to read it to you again?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. They’re all coming, aren’t they? Including that horrible Araktchéief, I suppose; still, I had to invite him. Oh, someone must go to the Czarevitch and tell him I shall dine privately as I want to rest before the concert.… Who’ll go to him? Well, in Heaven’s name don’t look so nervous; he objects to pages coming with personal messages from me and somebody has got to tell him.…”

“I will go, Madame.”

Marie turned to look at the speaker and raised her light eyebrows contemptuously. It was the Nelidoff, of course, always willing to run errands, mild, stupid little creature; her gentle obedience and self-effacing airs always irritated Marie, who only wished to be surrounded by attractiveness and wit. Slight, dark-eyed Catherine Nelidoff possessed neither of these qualities, added to which she was an old maid of thirty without even a romantic scandal to her credit.

“Very well, go then, but hurry; I have things for you to do!”

The maid of honour slipped out of the room and began walking quickly along the dark, tapestried gallery which led to Paul’s apartments.

Thank God for those messages of the wife to her husband, messages which brought her into his presence and permitted her to see and speak to him alone. Though the occasions were rare and their duration brief, though he seldom looked at her or seemed aware that she existed, the insignificant lady-in-waiting lived for those encounters. She moved with remarkable grace, a grace that found expression in a talent for dancing that was preserved in an old painting commissioned by the Empress years ago after a performance by the childish Nelidoff had caught her notice.

But there was little dancing at Pavlovsk, where the Grand Duchess still spent several months, and none at all at Gatchina. She glanced round her at the dismal, Spartan furnishings and shivered; it was so gloomy, more like an enormous barracks than a home, its courtyard echoed to the tramp of soldiers, all day long the guards were being changed, companies were being drilled … and there were some days when she dared not Took out of a window because some wretched criminal was being publicly flogged for an offence. Yet she preferred it to Pavlovsk, and though she shuddered in its atmosphere, she understood it, whereas the heavy, cloying air of Marie’s Teutonic residence depressed her unbearably.

Pavlovsk was hideous, hideous in its attempt to appear tasteful: every piece of furniture, every ornament and painting was a clumsy sham, a replica of someone else’s treasure. The gardens, which might have been beautiful left in their natural setting, were flattened and carved into the semblance of a French Tuileries.

Everyone in it was bored to death except Marie Feodorovna, and the Czarevitch was the most ill-at-ease of them all.

The Nelidoff paused before the entrance to his private suite, her way barred by two sentries of the Gatchina garrison, two snub-nosed Russian peasants, their bodies buttoned into elaborate Prussian uniforms, grotesque with powdered hair and monstrous conical hats. They recognized her and let her pass, springing back into position like clockwork toys.

A page directed her to his bedroom and she entered quietly, curtsying to the ground.

It was a large high-ceilinged room, dominated by two objects, the big canopied bed that stood in the centre and a huge portrait which hung on the wall opposite the bed, so that it was the first object on which the sleeper’s eyes would rest when he awoke.

Catherine Nelidoff recognized the picture only too well; the irregular features, bulbous head and half-witted expression of Peter the Third were painfully familiar to the inhabitants of Paul’s household. Quickly she glanced away, and Seeing the Czarevitch seated before the fireplace, she advanced towards him.

He sat with his back to her, aware that she had entered, unable to turn round, because a servant was leaning over him, laying cold cloths on his head.

The servant looked up at her with inquisitive black eyes, and she recognized his valet, the Turk, Koutaïssof.

“Who is it?” Paul demanded.

“Mlle. Nelidoff, your Highness.”

The valet answered for her, watching her intently.

“Tell her to come round where I can see her.”

She approached him, careful to tread lightly, for his attitude was rigid with pain.

“I have a message from the Grand Duchess, your Highness,” she whispered, and he opened his eyes with an effort and looked at her. For an instant she sustained his glance, noting the terrible pallor and strained expression, before the treacherous colour dyed her olive skin and forced her to look down.

“What is this message, then?”

“The Grand Duchess begs you to excuse her from dining with you this evening; she wants to rest before the concert.”

He frowned and pushed back the compress from his forehead.

“What concert … what is she talking about …?”

“A musical evening. Sir,” the valet told him, never taking his eyes off Catherine Nelidoff’s face. ‘“You were to attend, don’t you remember …?”

“Oh, God.… Yes, I remember. Well, since you’re here, Mademoiselle, you may inform my wife that I have another headache and cannot be present. Also I excuse her from coming to dine with me.”

“Yes, your Highness.”

She curtsied again and backed out of the door, which a page closed silently behind her. Koutaïssof stared after her for a moment and then bent over his master.

“Sir … will you excuse me for an instant … only an instant?”

Paul motioned with his hand for him to go, and then closing his eyes, relaxed in the chair, fighting the pains that tore through his brain.

The Turk caught up with her in a deserted corridor, still within the confines of the Czarevitch’s suite, and seeing the slow walk and drooping shoulders, smiled momentarily before he spoke.

“Mademoiselle …”

She swung round, startled by the disembodied whisper, and seeing him, raised a hand to her eyes, which were quite red with recent tears.

“I must speak to you,” he said urgently. “Please, Mademoiselle.”

“What is it?” she asked him. Without answering he opened a door in the tapestried wall and motioned for her to enter a small ante-room.

“If you will come in here … I cannot speak where we might be overheard.”

For all her timidity Catherine Nelidoff was curious; also he served the Czarevitch; it might be that Paul had sent him.…

“I speak on behalf of the Czarevitch,” the valet said suddenly and saw that her pale face flamed at the mention of that name.

“Speak then, for the love of God!”

“He’s sick, Mademoiselle. Very sick. These headaches are more frequent and he suffers greatly.”

“I know,” she murmured, and her eyes filled with tears, so that she turned away and would not look at him.

“I love him,” Koutaïssof continued. “I would give my life to serve him. Therefore I lay it in your hands, and come to you.”

She swung round on him then. “You come to me? But why … what can I do? … I am helpless, Koutaïssof. I have no friends at Court.”

“I know that, Mademoiselle, and I come to you for aid of a different kind. I say that I love my master. I will say more. I believe that you, too, are devoted to him.”

For a moment there was silence, while Catherine Nelidoff’s heart pounded in mingled terror and determination. Then she faced the valet, her hesitation passed.

“I am,” she said quietly. “Like you, I would give my life.…” Koutaïssof’s narrow black eyes considered her, mentally appraising her attractions.

She was certainly not pretty, he reflected, but delicately made, with small hands and soft eyes. And her mouth was good; it was full and naturally red, and his considerable experience recognized that such a mouth bespoke sensuality. Perhaps even a virgin, he thought, and his confidence rose. It might be accomplished, if she was as love-sick as he thought her.

“The Czarevitch needs the affection you could give him. He needs a woman’s comfort, Mademoiselle, and I know that you have already found favour in his eyes. Will you not come to him?” he asked her.

She had begun to pace the room while he was speaking, and seeing her wipe her eyes he knew that she wept. Again her reaction pleased him. Emotion was what his master needed after the stolid embraces of his hated wife. This gentle, sensitive creature could afford him boundless pleasure, and by reason of her nature, she, as well as Paul, would remain for ever in the valet’s debt.

“What can I do, Koutaïssof?” she whispered through her tears. “I confess that I love him; that I have loved him for years, watching while he married two women, neither of whom were worthy to approach him!”

“Two women? You knew the first Grand Duchess … Natalie?”

“I was among her ladies. But no one noticed me; they just passed me into the service of her successor … I don’t think he knew I was alive.… Now you say he needs me. Oh, Koutaïssof, help me!”

He came close to her then.

“I will help you, Mademoiselle. Do nothing until I give the word. And remember, you can trust me.”

She was so late in returning to the Grand Duchess that Marie rebuked her severely, and dismissed her to cry in her room for the rest of the evening. But instead, Catherine Nelidoff lay in bed and dreamt wild dreams, dreams in which the central figure of Paul Petrovitch no longer viewed her from a distance, but approached close to her, his arms extended, asking to be sheltered, and finally slept with his head on her breast.

For three days the Czarevitch was ill; his head pained him and he remained in his rooms, sitting in silence before his father’s portrait for hours on end, the victim of intense melancholy. Koutaïssof never left him; he served his master’s food, barbered and dressed him, and persuaded him to go to bed at night.

And in the stillness and gloom of that strange sickroom, he whispered and hinted into Paul’s ear, knowing that though he said nothing, the Czarevitch heard well enough and would remember.

On the evening of the third day, Paul Petrovitch left his chair and began to move around his room, one hand pressed to his forehead in the habit of pain.

“It’s passing,” he murmured to himself. “Thank God, it’s going away.…”

He felt for the furniture as he walked, his inflamed eyelids half closed against the feeble light of a few candles and the brighter glow of the fire, and he stepped quietly with the instinctive care of a man who had known many hours of semi-blindness.

At last his groping hand found a small toilette mirror; it was too dim to see his own reflection and he moved towards a double candlestick, shielding his eyes with his fingers.

“I must look,” he said aloud. “It will hurt for a moment, but I must see myself.…”

With an effort he opened his eyes and stared at his own reflection in the glass, the light of the wax candles illuminating his face.

The skin was bloodless and stretched tightly over the prominent brow and cheekbones; two deep lines of pain were cut across his forehead; his eyes, so fine and out of all proportion in their expressive beauty to the rest of that ravaged countenance, were red-rimmed and half closed against the light.

“Merciful God …” he said aloud. Mastering the impulse to hurl the mirror against the nearest wall, he put it down and turned away, his hand pressed to his throbbing head, the other outstretched, seeking for his chair.

A moment later his valet entered the room and bowed before the seated, motionless figure.

“Koutaïssof.”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Send her away. I have just looked at myself.” The valet’s black eyes narrowed but his lips smiled down at Paul.

“The lady is already in your ante-room, Sir. She’s too distressed to turn away. She begs to see you.… Just for a few moments.”

Paul turned his head away into the shadows. Catherine Nelidoff. He tried to remember what she looked like but beyond the merest outline, his memory could supply no detailed picture. She was small, he thought, and not pretty. And after days of hinting, Koutaïssof had finally informed him that his wife’s insignificant lady-in-waiting was in love with her Czarevitch.

Apparently she had cried on this account, and Paul smiled wryly at the thought. In his experience women’s tears were weapons of deceit; they wept from fear, like Natalie, when she was lying and cajoling, or from greed like Marie, when she wanted something.

No one had ever shed a tear of love or sympathy for him. No one but this little creature Nelidoff who had sought out Koutaïssof as her advocate. Paul sighed suddenly; he felt ill and desolate in mind as well as body. Koutaïssof was insistent, he thought wearily, he praised the lady for her gentleness and good reputation; he also hinted that the Grand Duchess Marie bullied her, and knowing his wife’s tendency towards petty domestic tyranny, Paul quite believed it.

“Please, Sir, see Mademoiselle Nelidoff. Just for five minutes.…”

A sudden temptation assailed him, urging him to listen to that smooth, prompting voice, to take advantage of the situation offered him. Perhaps she could comfort him; perhaps for once it would be pleasant to relax in the gentle company of a woman with the knowledge that he could dismiss her in an instant if she wearied him.…

“Very well. For a few moments then. When I ring for you, show her out.”

Contented, the valet turned and vanished through the door.

When he returned, Catherine Nelidoff was with him. She stood in the centre of the room, uncertain what to do or say, paralysed by shyness, until the Turk pushed a small silver basin into her hands.

“Bathe his eyes and forehead, if he will let you. It soothes the pain. Go to him now.”

Then the door closed softly behind him and she was alone with Paul. She was an emotional woman and her sense of awkwardness suddenly disappeared when she came close to him and saw how tired and ill he looked. She placed the bowl of scented water on a little table, and then knelt beside his chair.

Paul held out his hand to her and glanced down at her face. He saw the expression in it clearly for a moment, before the ache in his head and eyes forced him to give up.

It was a gentle face, as Koutaïssof said, and it was full of sympathy; he even fancied that he saw the gleam of tears.

“Thank you for coming to wait on me, Mademoiselle. It is kind of you.”

She raised his fingers to her lips and kissed them.

“I hardly dared hope that you would receive me, your Highness. Only Koutaïssof encouraged me.”

“He is faithful,” Paul remarked slowly. “And he has spoken well of you.”

She blushed, remembering that hysterical avowal of her love for him, made in that room off the corridor. Hope and fear of what that confession might bring her had become fused in quivering anticipation when she read the valet’s scribbled message.

‘He will see you. Come this evening and wait outside his rooms.’

She had come prepared to serve him in any way he wished.

There was silence for some minutes, and while it lasted, Paul found a certain tranquil pleasure in her presence in the room. It was comforting not to be alone; it affected him oddly to imagine the shape and features of the woman kneeling quietly by his chair. He tried to analyse the feeling, and in his attempt to do so, felt suspicion and discomfort rising in him.

She must want something, he said to himself; money, favours, vengeance on an enemy … he shifted uncomfortably, unwilling that these brief moments should be poisoned, however illusory they might prove to be.

“Koutaïssof gave me some scented water, your Highness. Would you like me to bathe your forehead if the pain is bad?”

Her voice was soft, and pitched low; a thin tremor of uncertainty ran through it which made her seem vulnerable, and the sound of it dispelled his evil thoughts.

“If you would be good enough, Mademoiselle.”

There was a cloth in the basin; she dipped her fingers in the sweet-smelling water and wrung it out, then she stood behind his chair and wiped his forehead. For an instant her hand rested on his brow, and the tips of her fingers touched his eyelids. Her touch was light and extraordinarily comforting, her fingers cool and skilful at their task. Catherine, he thought resentfully: who had given her that hated name that suited her so badly? It conjured up visions of hands that bore no resemblance to those that soothed him at that moment. His mother’s hands were beautiful, long-fingered and very white; when they moved the brilliance of diamonds dazzled the eye; but for all their beauty they were strong, ruthless hands, capable of directing men and armies, and they were pointed and sensual, made for amorous play. He hated her hands as he hated everything to do with her.…

“Put the cloth over my eyes,” he said. “Then sit by me, if you please.”

She obeyed him promptly and he heard the sound of her silk skirt rustling as she settled at the side of his chair once more.

“Have you any other name besides Catherine?” he asked suddenly.

“No, your Highness. But sometimes I am called Katya.”

He smiled his rare smile, blindly, under the cover of the compress which masked his sight.

“Then that shall be my name for you. Katya.…”

“How is your head?” she asked him, trembling, because he used her foolish nickname and smiled at her, so that his ugliness seemed to have disappeared.

“Much better; you’ve soothed it, Katya. You have cool fingers; give them to me.…”

She caught hold of the hand he held out to her, and pressed it to her lips in a gesture in which there was no formality; then she held it against her cheek and leant on the carved wood of the chair arm, watching the firelight blaze and flicker in the marble grate. He moved a little and enclosed her hand firmly in his own.

“Stay with me, Katya.”

“I will stay with you; rest now, my Prince. I’ll stay with you until you send me away.…”

In his alcove off the Czarevitch’s room, Koutaïssof waited, listening for his master’s bell. When one’ of the palace clocks chimed, he counted the notes and smiled. She had been with him for an hour and the signal for her dismissal had not come.

In the weeks that followed, Catherine Nelidoff came to Paul’s rooms almost every evening, slipping away as soon as she dared, often pleading illness to escape the Grand Duchess’s service; though the servants watched and whispered, and the other ladies speculated, no rumour reached Marie of the reason for those absences and convenient spells of sickness. She scolded her lady-in-waiting when she remembered her existence, and remained in happy ignorance of the liaison which was being strengthened with every hour they spent together.

If others noticed that the plain little Nelidoff seemed happy, almost gay, Marie remarked nothing to excite suspicion. Instead she busied herself with preparations to return to her own palace at Pavlovsk, and broached the subject to the Czarevitch one evening when they dined together. Their meetings had grown rarer still since his last illness, and no one was more thankful for Paul’s absence than his wife, but since permission to leave must be obtained, she sought him out.

It was a silent meal, occasionally punctuated by Marie’s attempts at conversation which met with slight response. Privately she thought him excessively moody and abstracted, and longed fervently to turn her back on Gatchina and all it represented.

“I was thinking that Pavlovsk will be very pleasant at this time of year,” she ventured, wondering why making a request of Paul always unnerved her, though she seldom met with a refusal.

The Czarevitch watched her with expressionless eyes, aware that she wished to leave him and as anxious for her departure as she was herself.

“I have no doubt of it. Do you wish to go there, Madame?” His directness always disconcerted her, and she blushed.

“Why, yes. If … if that would be agreeable to you.”

“Perfectly agreeable. I shall remain here and join you in the middle of summer. You may leave whenever you wish.”

The Grand Duchess masked her relief with a smile, and even resigned herself to spending the night with her husband.

That night she lingered, expecting him to approach her, but Paul merely talked trivialities and made no move, and when she rose to leave he kissed her hand politely and wished her a good night.

As soon as she had gone he rang for Koutaïssof.

“Send for Mademoiselle Nelidoff. And hurry; it’s already late.” The valet bowed low to him and smiled.

“I have taken that liberty, Sir. She’s waiting in my alcove in case you should desire her company.”

“You’re a good servant, Koutaïssof. I shall know how to reward you. Now send her to me.”

The valet remarked his eagerness, and his black eyes gleamed with satisfaction. All was well; he was in love with the woman; he chafed in his wife’s presence and refrained from inviting her into his bed even when she dallied in expectation of the summons, as Koutaïssof had noticed.

As he went to fetch the waiting Nelidoff, he decided that in spite of the evidence to the contrary, Paul must have made her his mistress as well as his confidante.

In this he was wrong, for that strange bond which existed between them had not been cemented by passion. Paul sat with her for hours, sometimes talking or listening while she read aloud in her clear soft voice, sometimes in silence, but always contented and at peace. He found her deeply sensitive to his needs, tender in a wordless, servile way, and the sensation of being mothered by her fulfilled an aching need. She was very gentle, yet capable of humour, with a ready laugh that pleased him on the rare occasions when he heard it. And she was virtuous; he sensed that precious quality in her and knew that he was not deceived by the lack of seduction in her manner and expression.

Also he missed her sorely when they were apart, and that night it seemed to him as if the tedious dinner with his wife would never end.

He was trembling with impatience as he waited for her, angry because so many hours of pleasure had been wasted through Marie Feodorovna, and suddenly uneasy for a cause he could not name.

When she came into the room he realized what disturbed him. Pavlovsk. That damned woman would be leaving very quickly now that she had his permission, and Catherine Nelidoff would have to go with her.

Paul advanced to meet her and raised her up when she tried to curtsy to him.

“I’m sorry you had to wait, Katya, but my wife stayed longer than I expected. Come, sit down.”

He examined her by candlelight, still holding both her hands in his and sat beside her on the stiff-backed couch.

“You look pale,” he said. “What have you been doing, what’s the matter …? Tell me.”

She looked at him and tried to smile.

“I’m only tired, Highness. It’s been a busy day; the Grand Duchess has already begun preparing to leave for Pavlovsk.”

“I gave her permission to go there, this evening.… And that’s why you’re pale … and low-spirited. Just tiredness, Katya?”

She tried to withdraw her hands but his fingers tightened on them and his eyes searched her face.

“I shall be leaving Gatchina soon. And I’ve grown so fond of it.”

“You disappoint me, Mademoiselle. I had begun to flatter myself you might be sorry to say good-bye to me,” he said quietly, and felt her stiffen, and knew by the clenching of her hands that she was trembling.

“Why do you make game of me, Sir, when you know this separation from you will be like death?”

Somehow he had never expected to hear her say these words, though he knew then that he had longed for that admission and all that it implied. Koutaïssof had told him that she loved him, but he had doubted, and tried to pretend that he did not nurse a secret hope. No woman had ever loved him; neither his mother nor his two wives. Araktchéief, his commanding officer, his valet, some members of the garrison … they were loyal, but they were men. He might be shorter than they and uglier by far, it didn’t matter, whereas with a woman all that counted were the attributes he lacked.…

He gazed at Catherine Nelidoff intently, his expression almost fierce, wondering desperately whether she too lied and acted in order to achieve some object of her own.

Raising her eyes to his face she read the mingled longing and suspicion there. “Try to forgive me,” she said quietly. “I cheated my way into your friendship, because I have loved you secretly for years and something said to me by your valet gave me hope. These last few weeks have been the happiest of my whole life. Just to sit here and talk to you, to feel that you needed me a little.… You can’t imagine what that’s meant to me.”

“To nurse a sick man, to spend hours in semi-gloom without gaiety or entertainment … has that really made you happy, Katya?”

She smiled ruefully, and withdrawing her hand from his, moved a great silver candlestick that stood behind the sofa, so that the light fell on her face.

“Look at me, Sir. Do you think there’s been much gaiety and entertainment for me? In order to succeed at Petersburg, it’s necessary to be beautiful as well as nobly born, or at least wealthy. I have no money, and as for beauty … you can see that for yourself.”

Paul looked and saw features which had begun to haunt his dreams, an irregular nose, and the wide, brown eyes which reminded him of a small, shy animal. Beautiful, no. But the lack of physical grace was something that he understood as gentle, sweet-faced Katya Nelidoff never would.

“I think you very pretty,” he said solemnly, and she turned away, playing with the embroidery on her skirt so that he shouldn’t see the tears which filled her eyes.

“I shall miss you, when you go to Pavlovsk,” he continued slowly. “I, too, have been very happy these last weeks.”

She began to cry helplessly then, her narrow shoulders shaking, all her poor defences shattered by that simple sentence containing the one lie she longed to hear above all others.

“I think you very pretty.”

She saw them as they really were; two people with a common bond of unattractiveness in a world that worshipped beauty and flamboyance, both lonely, sensitive and proud. The great Prince, the nominal heir to a throne, was as desolate in his need as the plain maid of honour. And she fulfilled that need. Here in Gatchina life held a purpose for her, a dangerous purpose, perhaps, bringing the envy of the mighty in its train, but even if they dealt with her as other favourites had been dealt with throughout history, it would be worth the risk.

“I don’t want to leave you … I can’t, God pity me!”

For the first time Paul gathered her in his arms, murmuring words of comfort, acutely moved by her distress.

He took his own handkerchief out of his sleeve and wiped her face; as he did so he discovered that the feel of her body was stirring and agreeable. She had left him in peace all these weeks, content to sit by him, talking or in silence according to his wishes, engendering in him the luxury of mental ease. Until that moment he had been content with that, afraid to test her feelings by a more intimate relationship in the dread that he would find them wanting.

Her wretchedness was the assurance that he needed, and his hot blood quickened as he held her.

Catherine Nelidoff gazed up at him, her fine brown eyes still wet with tears, sensing that his attitude had changed, knowing with the instinctive subtlety of women that she had reversed the process and reached his senses through his heart.

Inexperience aided her then; a practised movement or a flattering phrase would have destroyed the opportunity in a second. But instead she stayed still in his arms and said nothing.

Her mouth was beautiful, he thought passionately, full lipped and curved in lines of generosity and feeling. Suddenly he bent and kissed her, gently at first, holding himself in check while his desire increased as she stirred and murmured in his arms.

For all her shyness she was extremely sensual and under the stimulus of his embrace, her passion for him broke.

Her hands caressed his face and caught fiercely at the lapels of his coat as he began to kiss her with unrestrained desire, aware that she offered him an outlet denied him since the death of Natalie.

So Catherine Nelidoff surrendered to him, blinded by love and without the assurance that he could protect her from the final consequences.

The first indication that the domestic truce of her marriage was about to end reached Marie Feodorovna in the mid-morning of that day. She was writing letters in her study when one of Paul’s pages handed her a note.

It was brief and written with his own hand. In it, he wished her a good journey to Pavlovsk, with the added injunction to leave as quickly as possible. He also informed her that Mademoiselle Nelidoff would be remaining at Gatchina on his orders.

Marie Feodorovna sat rooted, the letter sliding to the floor.

She was to go, immediately … and her lady-in-waiting was to stay behind at Paul’s command.…

“Oh, no!” she said aloud. “No.…”

When she recovered herself, and, blazing with fury, sent for the culprit, they found her room empty, and its occupant moved to another suite in the Czarevitch’s wing, placed there out of reach by Paul.

There was nothing that the Grand Duchess could do, since he refused to see her, and only replied to her frantic notes by sending his own servants to expedite her packing and departure.

He stood by his window to watch her go, his face expressionless, until the last carriage disappeared from view, knowing that with the dismissal of Marie Feodorovna a turning point had been reached in his life.

By the end of the year rumours of a rift between Paul and his wife were so persistent that the Empress mentioned them to Potemkin, whom she had created Prince of Taurus the year before. The Court was in residence at the Wooden Palace in Moscow, and Catherine sat with her old friend in her study. It was a comfortable, almost domestic scene; the Prince’s uniform coat hung over the back of a chair and his wig was pushed back from his forehead; he stretched himself in his favourite position on one of Catherine’s cushioned sofas, helping himself and her to wine and sweetmeats which were placed at his elbow. He had aged and his fine muscular frame was soft and swathed in fat; bouts of gargantuan eating and sensual excesses had weakened his health, so that the Empress’s beloved Grisha was often ill, and consequently very difficult and melancholy.

By contrast Catherine appeared in blooming health; her complexion was clear and ruddy, her shrewd eyes bright with an intelligence that no physical over-indulgence could dim. Rather she seemed to thrive on the mode of life that was sapping her old lover’s strength. Catherine’s lovers died or fell out of favour because their sixty-year-old mistress wore them out, but she remained alert, as avid for both pleasure and power as she had ever been.

“You know what’s being said about my son,” she remarked, and Potemkin nodded, stuffing a sweetmeat into his mouth.

“M—m—m. This woman … Nelidoff, is his mistress. And he’s neglecting the elegiac Marie. I can’t say I blame him. She grows more tedious every year.…”

“I don’t like it, Grisha. The reports are not encouraging. Until the appearance of this girl everything was going according to plan at Gatchina. He made it into a prison … you know, a fortress in the Prussian style, rigid discipline for the troops, who not unnaturally relieved their feelings on the townspeople and tormented them in turn. As for Araktchéief …”

“The military schoolmaster with a bent for cruelty?”

“The same … Grisha, he has made himself so hated, and through him, Paul Petrovitch, that the civilians for a radius of several miles are deserting to other towns and taking refuge where they can. It was all excellent. Another year or two and there would have been a deputation from my subjects begging me to rescue them from my son.… Now this Nelidoff creature worms her way into his bed, upsets Marie, who God knows never interfered and did as she was bidden, and begins nursing Paul out of his mad humours!”

“Her influence is good, then?”

“Damnably good. She intercedes for Araktchéief’s prisoners, stops the public floggings that do Paul so much harm and appears to be flooding Gatchina with gentle sweetness.… She’s an adventuress, of course; probably very clever, for if I remember rightly she’s sallow skinned and plain.”

“What do you suppose she wants, besides the embraces of the Czarevitch?”

“Oh, most likely money, power, favours. In which case it might be possible to buy the little wretch away from him.”

Potemkin swung his legs off the sofa and sat upright.

“You say she’s ugly, Catherine? How ugly?”

“A more just description would be the one I gave you, sallow and insignificant. Why?”

He frowned and bit his nails as he always did when puzzled or concentrating upon some problem.

“From my knowledge of your sex, my dear, I should imagine that if the lady is as unattractive as you say, she may prefer the limelight as mistress of the second personage in Russia to all the bribes that you can offer.”

“Before God, Grisha, you’re probably right! Then what are we to do?”

“I suggest that we come down upon the side of morality and lend our support to the injured wife. Order Paul to take her back and surrender his little favourite into Marie’s service as before. If she can’t be bought, she can be persecuted, or if necessary frightened into retiring from Paul’s household.

“Don’t under-estimate the Grand Duchess, Catherine; she may be a fool and a poseuse, but I’ll swear she will find ways to make Mademoiselle Nelidoff wish she had never been born.…”

The Empress’s wishes were communicated to her son at Gatchina and his first reaction was to consign them to the devil. He stormed into his rooms, livid with anger, his face twitching convulsively, so that his gentle Katya shrank back appalled, hardly recognizing the man she loved. He stood before her, Catherine’s letter crumpled in his fist, his eyes blazing as if he stared at some intolerable inward vision, his oaths and explanations turned into gibberish by the sudden onset of a violent stammer.

“Don’t,” she begged him, terrified by his manner, “don’t upset yourself … whatever it is, it doesn’t matter; only calm yourself.…”

Even as she pleaded, the horrifying impression that he neither saw nor heard her became a certainty, as he brushed past her, and opening the door, shouted an order to the sentry who stood guard outside it.

When he returned she caught his arm, clinging to it despite his attempt to shake her off, rendered desperate by fear for him and by the necessity to deny her own suspicions.…

“Paul … Paul! Listen to me!”

He looked down at her, and his expression altered from anger to confusion, a confusion that melted into recognition and confirmed her dread that until that moment he had been unaware of her presence or identity.

“Katya.…”

He frowned, and encircled her with his arm, one hand pressed to his throbbing cheek, and she stared up at him in mingled tenderness and pain, knowing that he was trying to remember.

“I was so angry,” he said slowly. “Did I shout at you, Katya?”

“No, Paul, no. A message came from your mother … a letter. You still have it.”

He unclosed his fist, still holding her against him, and regarded the ball of tangled paper.

“Did I tell you what was in it?”

She shook her head.

“Let us sit down, my love. And before I begin, you’re not to worry. I shall disregard every word of it.”

She sat in her favourite position on a stool by his feet, resting her head against his knee and was glad that he couldn’t see her face as she listened.

“I am to go on living with my wife and to visit her at Pavlovsk. It seems there are rumours of a crisis in my household and my mother is concerned.… As for you, Katya, you are to return to your duties with the Grand Duchess.…”

“That’s not as harsh as I expected,” she said at last and sat upright for fear that he should feel her trembling.

“Harsh! If you think that I am going to allow you to …”

“Please, Paul … don’t get angry. Listen to me for a moment. I believe it’s a fair solution; don’t you see, the Empress might have banished me, imprisoned me! Instead, she offers us a way to be together without causing a scandal.…”

“Scandal … what is scandal to my mother? To the Messalina of the North! That’s what they are calling her in Europe. Her name is infamous.… There is no vice that is not attributed to her.… Don’t talk to me of scandal, Katya. This is another plot, another trick to deprive me of the slightest happiness. But she shan’t have her way this time; no, by God, she’ll not force me into Marie’s arms and give you up to her to punish.… I sent for Araktchélef a few moments ago. We’ll see how many men will be needed to fortify Gatchina.…”

She knew he meant it and her terror of what such an action would entail far outweighed her fear of the fate decreed for her by Catherine’s order. One hint of rebellion, and all the force of that terrible maternal hatred would descend upon him and, justified before the world, deliver him to death.

“No.… For the love of God, Paul, what are you saying! They’d blow Gatchina and everyone in it to pieces in a few hours.… I beg of you, do as she says. Go back to Marie; we can still meet in secret.…”

“I am not listening to you, Katya,” he retorted. “Araktchéief will be here in a moment; then we shall see what’s to be done.”

“If you do this thing,” she said firmly, “if you do it, I shall leave you. I swear it, Paul Petrovitch. I will go into a convent and never look upon your face again!”

He stared at her, surprised by the vehemence in her voice; and, recognizing the immovable obstinacy peculiar to the weak and pliable when they are roused, he faltered in his purpose.

“You couldn’t do that; you couldn’t forsake me when you know that I can’t do without you. You make wild threats, my gentle love, because I’ve frightened you with all this.…”

“It’s no idle promise!” she told him, and he knew that if it meant her death she would not bend. “You can’t fight the Empress with any hope of winning; no woman is worth the madness that you contemplate, least of all me. Think of your heritage. Think what you would forfeit; your crown, the crown that all Russia knows is yours by right already! You are my Czar, as well as my lover.… No, Paul, you will be reasonable, and patient. If I can bear it, so must you.…”

“I will not have you suffer, Katya.”

“I won’t; nothing can hurt me so long as I can come to you sometimes. Only promise that you won’t desert me, and I can bear anything.”

That thought alone sustained her while she argued, for no one knew better than she what treatment to expect from Marie Feodorovna. It can be endured, she thought desperately. I have had weeks of happiness.…

Often, lying in Paul’s arms, she had thought that death would not be too dear a price to pay for what he gave her, and smiled at her own morbid fancy, uneasy because the shadow of ill omen kept recurring.

By the time a timorous page announced that Araktchéief was waiting to be admitted, Catherine Nelidoff had won. Paul’s capitulation left her exhausted rather than relieved and filled with such an access of terror that for one dreadful moment she almost threw herself into his arms, entreating him to defend her as he wished, to do anything rather than deliver her to the Grand Duchess. But the moment passed and she sat passive, one lifeless hand in his, when the door opened and that dreaded, bloody name sounded in her ears.

“M. Araktchéief, your Imperial Highness.”

He advanced into the room with measured steps, his shoulders back, his long arms stiffly at his sides, moving with the precision of a soldier on the parade ground. He was tall and deceptively thin, for that sparse frame was sinuous and powerful as a steel spring; for a moment his green eyes rested on her and the beetling black brows contracted with disapproval. He hates me, she thought and shuddered, unable to endure that freezing glance even for an instant. Abruptly he stepped before Paul and bowed low to him; then he inclined towards Catherine Nelidoff, and turned again to his master.

“Sir. You sent for me.”

Paul nodded.

“Yes, but since I issued the summons, Mademoiselle Nelidoff has persuaded me to a different course to the one I contemplated. However, my dear Araktchéief, there are some matters which we may as well discuss.”

He looked at the white-faced woman by his side, and his ugly face softened with tenderness.

“Go to your rooms, my love,” he whispered. “I’ll join you in a little while.”

“You have promised, remember! You’ll do nothing rash?”

“You have my word. Go now,” he said quietly.

When the door closed behind her Paul rose abruptly, his expression hardening, and turned towards the soldier.

“She has a gentle influence,” he muttered, and Araktchéief moved impatiently.

“It’s not for me to discuss the lady with you, Sir.”

“No, Araktchéief; by God, I know you’re no friend to women.… You’re loyal to me, are you not?” he demanded suddenly, swinging round upon the other.

The soldier looked at him and an expression of extraordinary passion flashed across his features. It was as if a sudden light illumined that arctic countenance, as if a creaking robot proved to have a living soul; for a second the man whose unspeakable brutality had made him the most hated of all the savage pedants who surrounded Paul showed himself capable of fanatical devotion, a love so abnormal and so strong that his enmity for Catherine Nelidoff had its roots in bitter jealousy.

“To the last drop of my blood,” he answered.

“It is well, my friend. I need your loyalty. I need all men’s loyalty, for my enemies begin to press their persecution of me.… I would fight them, Araktchéief, I would take up arms and die, rather than suffer any further at their hands.… But the Mademoiselle has entreated me to yield. And I have promised. So I shall not need your troops, my friend, not yet. Instead, give me your report.”

“My men captured two civilians creeping into the town of Gatchina this morning. I believe them to be spies sent here from Petersburg.”

Paul stared at him, and the colour drained out of his face; at the same time his left cheek became convulsed, the spasm tugging at the corner of his eye. Araktchéief, having learnt to recognize the symptoms, gave no sign.

“Spies, you say. Spies. Tongues have been wagging to my mother, Araktchéief … people have told tales.… I would discourage them.”

Suddenly his voice became a roar of rage, his blue eyes blazed, and the blood rushed up into his face.

“Where are they?”

“In the cells under the guard-room, Sir,” the officer replied, and his light eyes had begun to gleam, illumining his face until his expression seemed almost gay with some anticipation.

The Czarevitch was walking up and down, clenching his fists, tearing at his cravat as if he choked, watched by the silent figure of his garrison commander, whose punitive exploits had reached a climax on the day he tore off the ear of an offending soldier with his teeth.

“They shall be punished …” Paul said grimly. “They shall learn that it is dangerous to wrong their Czarevitch.… We’ll make an example of them, Araktchéief, an example that may deter other traitors from spying for my mother.… Araktchéief!”

“Sir!”

“Assemble the garrison and as many of the townspeople as you can muster by to-morrow morning. Then bring out these swine and have them knouted till they die.…

That night Paul went to Catherine Nelidoff, soothing her fears with promises of his protection.

When he slept at last, she lay wide eyed and restless, pinned down by the weight of his head on her breast, tormented by doubt and terror for the future, listening to the sounds of activity that went on inside the palace and within the great courtyard throughout the hours of darkness and which continued long after daybreak.

But fortunately Catherine Nelidoff did not look out on to the scene which Araktchéief had staged so expertly; instead she nursed her lover, who woke moaning with pains in his head, and cried out for darkness, since the light streaming through the window was torture to his eyes.

He lay in his mistress’s arms, fighting the blackness of suffering and despair, while the two innocent citizens of Catherine’s realm were flogged to death in front of the entrance of Gregory Orlov’s old pleasure palace. The watching crowd was silent, mesmerized by fear, and some among them remembered standing in these precincts nearly twenty years before, when the handsome, wealthy Orlov had been in the heyday of his love affair with the new Empress and the ground at their feet had been splashed red with wine flowing from free fountains, instead of growing damp with streams of blood.