David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) (36 page)

“The good times are all in the past, my darling.”

He sighed. “Life passes quickly,” he said, sounding troubled and anxious.

“It’s slow enough now. It’s youth that goes so quickly.” She whispered a few words to him that I couldn’t make out, then shrugged her shoulders. “Really?” she said.

Her words and gesture must have surely had some special meaning for them both in the past, for she started to laugh, but sadly, as if she were implying
Do you remember? I was young then …

And he imitated her tone of voice and said again: “Really? What was that? Really? My darling little one.”

When he laughed, his chin trembled and the expression in his eyes became clear and soft.

Then Courilof’s children came in: Ina and the boy, Ivan, who was fat and weak, just like Courilof, with pale cheeks, big ears, easily short of breath.

Courilof spoke to the boy with deep affection. He hugged him, stroked him, held him to him for a long time while sighing, “Ah! This is my son, my heir.” He gently stroked his hair, his arms.

“Look, Monsieur Legrand, he’s anaemic,” he added.

And I still remember how he would lower the boy’s pale lips and eyelids for me to see.

The girl said nothing, her face was cold and impassive. Nevertheless, she looked like Courilof; she had his mannerisms and voice. She constantly fiddled with a gold necklace she was wearing. Courilof displayed such coldness towards her that he was virtually hostile. He hissed at her when he spoke, looked at her with an expression of annoyance and anger.

The children kissed his hand. He made the sign of the cross on their bowed heads, as well as on the powdered face of his ageing mistress.

Finally, all three of them left.

COURILOF
AND HIS
wife were in the habit of writing to each other from their bedrooms; the servants would carry books or fruit from one end of the house to the other until very late at night, with little notes written in pencil.

I sometimes read them out to him, at his request, for he was proud of his wife; he enjoyed having me see her handwriting and style. She wrote in a rambling fashion, teasing and melancholy, that was actually similar to the way she spoke and was quite charming. She often reminded him to ask me about his medicines, treatments, or diet, along with endearments like: “Good night, my one and only darling! Your old, devoted Marguerite.”

Or: “I cannot wait until tomorrow: a new day is always precious at our age, and tomorrow means I will be able to see you again.”

Once, I read: “My darling, would you please see an elderly woman, for my sake. She’s the widow Aarontchik, who has come a long way from the provinces to seek justice from you. In the past, and long before I had the joy of knowing you, this woman was my lodger in Lodz, and she looked after me devotedly when…”

Then followed a series of initials that I read out to Courilof, without understanding what they meant. He frowned and his face took on that sad, sour look I was beginning to know so well.

He let out a deep sigh. “File it.”

That same night he thought for a moment, then asked me, “Don’t you find that French women have an innately graceful and elegant sense of style?”

He didn’t wait for my reply but continued, “Ah! If only you could have seen Marguerite Eduardovna in
La Perichole,
when I first met her!”

“Was that a long time ago?” I asked.

He always seemed upset and surprised when I asked him a question, like someone who blushes in embarrassment for a rude person. I recall one day, during the Revolution, when I was interrogating one of the grand dukes. Which one was he? I’ve forgotten his name, but he was elderly. He’d been in prison in the Kresty jail for more than a year and was dying of hunger when he was brought to me. But he remained cool and calm, treating his guards with meticulous, ironic politeness, seeming to bear his misfortunes with extraordinary stoicism. Right up until the moment when I came into the room. I hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours, and I sat down opposite him without the customary formalities. This man—whose face had been half smashed by one of the guards—blushed, not out of anger, but rather out of embarrassment, as if I had taken all my clothes off in front of him. Poor Courilof had also picked up certain mannerisms from Alexander III; he too sometimes looked like a dictator.

I waited while he stared at me for a moment with a haughty, anxious look in his pale, wide eyes.

“It’s been fourteen years,” Courilof said at last. He thought for a moment, then added, “I was young then too … A lot of water has gone under the bridge since then.”

At night, as I have already mentioned, I slept in his room. He was patient and never complained. He often couldn’t sleep, and I would hear him quietly tossing and turning, moaning as he tried to pick something up from the table.

I remember certain nights in Switzerland, sleepless nights when you listened for every sound, the blood rushing through your veins, the quick pulse at your temples, times when you could smell death oozing from your body, when you were so very weary… and at those times, life seemed so wonderful and the nights so long.

“Can’t you sleep?” I once asked.

I’d been listening to him for nearly an hour, turning his pillow over and over, no doubt unable to find a cool place on the pillowcase. I knew that feeling very well. He seemed unbelievably happy to hear the sound of my voice. I pulled back the screen
that separated the chaise-longue where I slept in the alcove from the rest of the bedroom. He sighed softly.

“Good Lord, I’m in so much pain,” he said, his voice breathless and trembling. “It feels like a razor’s cutting into me.”

“That’s usually what it feels like when you have your attacks,” I said. “It will pass.”

He nodded several times with visible difficulty.

“You’re brave,” I said.

I had already noticed that this man had a pathological, childish need to be praised. He blushed slightly, sat up, leaned against his pillow and pointed to a chair next to his bed where I should sit down.

“I am extremely religious, Monsieur Legrand; I know that young people today lean more towards rationalism. But the courage you are kind enough to recognise in me, and that even my enemies acknowledge as indisputable, comes from my trust in God. Not a single hair falls from anyone’s head without his permission.”

He fell silent and we watched the mosquitoes buzzing around, attracted by the light of the lamp. Even now, in summer, whenever I see mosquitoes flying about and twitching their greedy noses, my thoughts return to those nights in the Iles. I can still hear the metallic, lyrical hum of their delicate wings above the water.

I closed the window, saw he was burning up with fever; he didn’t seem able to sleep. I offered to read to him. He accepted, thanking me. I took a book down from the shelf. After a few pages, he stopped me.

“Monsieur Legrand, aren’t you sleepy? Really?”

I said that I slept badly when the nights were light like this.

“Would you help me?” he said. “I have a lot ofwork to catch up on. I’m very worried about it. Don’t say anything to Langen-berg,” he continued, forcing a smile.

I brought him the stack of letters he pointed out; I passed them to him one at a time, and he scribbled notes in the margins in different coloured pencils that he chose with the utmost care. I furtively glanced at the letters as I handed them to him: they were letters from strangers, for the most part, full of suggestions
about suppressing revolutionary ideas in the secondary schools and universities; and an unbelievable number of denunciations, by teachers of students, students of other students. Secondary school students, university students, head teachers, schoolmasters: it seemed as if everyone in Russia spent their lives spying and denouncing each other.

Then came the reports. One of them described serious disruptions in the university in one of the provincial cities (Kharkov, I think); the minister asked me to take down his reply; it was the text of an order he was planning.

He was sitting up against his pillows; the more he dictated, the more severe and cold his face became. He spoke each word individually, with an air of dignity, punctuating them with the same wave of his hand. He ordered them to cancel the lectures. Then he thought for a while, and a grim smile hovered over his lips and in the corners of his half-closed eyes.

“Write this down, Monsieur Legrand: ‘The time wasted in useless political discussions will be made up during the forthcoming holidays: these will be shortened by the duration of the disruptions. If, in spite of this, the disruptions continue into the autumn, the exam results will be null and void; all the students, whatever their grades may have been, will be required to start their course over again from the beginning.’ “

Once he’d hissed that out, he looked at me smugly.

“That will make them think twice,” he said, sounding threatening and scornful. “The next one, please, Monsieur Legrand.”

For this one he dictated a memo intended for school-teachers: “During Russian Literature and History lessons, you must take advantage of every opportunity to use the facts in order to awaken in the tender souls of your young students a passionate love for HM the Emperor and the Imperial Family, as well as an indissoluble attachment to the sacred traditions and institutions of the Monarchy. In addition, the words and actions of all the teachers will be designed to be an example of Christian humility and true orthodox charity to your students. It goes without saying that any statements, reading, and, in general, any subversive actions you have the opportunity of noting amongst the students
entrusted to your care, must, as always, be punished most severely.”

Next there were requests for appointments. I saw a letter signed by Sarah Aarontchik, begging His Excellency to arrest someone called Mazourtchik, who was guilty of having “corrupted” her sixteen-year-old son by making him read Karl Marx. Valerian Alexandrovitch, who seemed transformed from the minute he was dealing with his correspondence, made a gesture. His eyes were gleaming behind his glasses; his wide, shiny forehead shone bizarrely, lit up by the lamp.

“Wait a moment. Pass me that note from my wife.”

He re-read it closely, placing it in a coloured folder where various other papers were organised. Then he took out fifteen or so documents and requests for appointments and spread them out on the bed.

“This is the batch for tomorrow and the next day,” he said with pride.

I continued passing him the letters I held in my hand. Finally he stopped me, saying he was tired. He lay there, stretched out, his eyes closed, and sighed. A severe, weary expression came over his face, an expression I knew very well. The night when they had brought the bodies for him to see, in the courtyard of the university, he had had the same nervous tension in his lips, the same rigidity of his features.

“Is it true that the army killed six students last month?” I asked suddenly. “What did they do?”

He frowned. “Who told you about that?” he asked quickly, his voice dry and suspicious.

I gave him the vaguest reply I could. He looked straight at me and suddenly spoke most passionately. “Those poor children… just imagine… and from good families. They had chased their history professor out of the lecture hall, thrown stones at him! Nothing important.” He sighed sarcastically. “It was all because of the instigators, professional revolutionaries, a diabolical lot who will end up destroying everything that is good and noble in Russia. I was forced by public outrage and general indignation to clamp down … I ordered the leaders arrested and the lecture rooms emptied and called in the troops
to evacuate the university. Six of these unfortunate fanatics barricaded themselves up inside the empty classrooms. A shot was fired. By whom? I don’t know any more than you do. But a soldier was wounded. In spite of my express orders, the colonel opened fire. Six unfortunate youngsters were killed. Not a single weapon was found on any of them. What can you do! Whose fault was it? The colonel was inconsolable; the soldiers had simply obeyed orders. These youngsters had been rash, presumptuous, I had to clamp down. There are some inexplicable contradictions. Someone said afterwards: ‘The shot was fired by an agent provocateur.’ All this comes under the jurisdiction of my colleague at the Home Office, but he’s denying everything and landing me with all the responsibility. But the people who are truly guilty are those vultures, the revolutionaries,” he said, stressing each and every syllable. “Wherever they go, they bring chaos and death.”

He fell silent. I noticed he’d been mumbling as if he were delirious. I was careful not to interrupt him.

“No one wanted the sinner to die,” he continued, “but misfortunes happen. Nevertheless, when it is one’s duty to lead, one cannot stop at that.
Dura lex, sed lex:
the law is hard, but it is the law. Such things have always happened and will always happen,” he said passionately.

As he talked, I could see his face changing, growing paler, taking on a look of slyness and anguish. I said nothing.

“You see, Monsieur Legrand,” he continued, “the whole country is defended against revolution by an extremely complex system, a Wall of China made of restrictions, prejudices, superstitions, traditions, you might even call them, but they are extremely sturdy, for the pressure of the enemy is much stronger than you could ever imagine. And at the slightest hint ofweakness, the slightest crack, the enemy will make sure that everything comes crashing down. This is what Prince Alexander Alexandrovitch Nelrode, my friend, has said himself, and it is gospel. He is a true statesman, Monsieur Legrand, and a true gentleman.”

He pronounced this word with touching, comical solemnity and the slightly sibilant affected accent of a pure-bred Englishman.
It was nearly morning. I switched off the lamp. He had become greatly agitated as he spoke and was burning with fever; even a few steps away from him, I could feel the heat coming from his body. I changed the hot compresses and gave him something to drink. He was struggling to breathe and the swollen area around his liver was rising and falling like a balloon.