David Golder, The Ball, Snow in Autumn & The Courilof Affair (2008) (41 page)

IRENE
VALERIANOVNA’
S
BIRTHDAY
was in June. Towards the middle of the month, they began to prepare for the ball at Courilof’s house. The minister wanted to invite the Emperor and Empress in order to show his enemies that in spite of everything, he was solidly established in his post and loved at court. No one was completely blind to his scheme, but it did, nevertheless, make a good impression.

The Emperor’s coldness had not yet been followed by any hostile acts towards his minister. A large sum of money had silenced the reactionary press a bit; as for the liberal newspapers, they continued moaning, but to Courilof, they were of no consequence.

I thought that Marguerite Eduardovna was going to leave St. Petersburg before the ball. Every day I expected to see her go; but no, she stayed, though not to take care of the arrangements. It was the minister himself who took care of all the preparations. His complexion was pale; he looked at everyone and everything anxiously, with a harsh and defiant expression on his face.

One day I took a chance and again followed Dahl and the Killer Whale into the garden, where they were talking. Dahl looked his most evil self. He watched Courilof in silence, a smirk on his thin, tight lips.

At one point I think they heard me behind them: the gravel was crunching beneath my feet. Courilof seemed impatient. But as soon as they were sitting down, I hid behind the manicured hedges and kept still. They forgot about me.

“My dear Valerian Alexandrovitch,” I heard Dahl say. “Since you do not wish to offend your family and acquaintances by excluding them, and as it would be unacceptable, on the other hand, to expect Their Majesties to mingle with your relatives and friends, why don’t you organise an entertainment in the
Malachite Room, just for the princes, the very high aristocracy, and the ladies?”

“Do you think so?” the Killer Whale said, sounding doubtful.

“Yes I do.”

“Perhaps… Yes, it’s an ingenious solution … Perhaps.”

They fell silent.

“My dear friend,” Courilof began.

Dahl nodded, smiling. “I am completely at your service, my friend.”

“You know that Their Majesties have not come to my house since my first wife died.”

“Since your second marriage, yes, I know, my friend.”

“To invite them, now, I feel… would be rather difficult. I… Who could I send to put out feelers? What do you think? I have a list of women who specialise in this type of mission. On the other hand, I’ve heard that Her Imperial Highness hardly ever goes out at present; it would be very painful, as you can imagine, to suffer a refusal.”

He read the names on his list to Dahl. At each one, Dahl interrupted him with a little snigger, gently touching his arm: “No … no … not her… Her behaviour… His Majesty expressed disapproval of her… That one is divorced, and the suggestion of immorality in her actions, even though she might have been wrongly accused, has upset Her Imperial Highness. You simply would not believe, my friend, the extent to which the court is leaning towards a sense of austerity that borders on puritanism. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

The baron said no more and looked at the Killer Whale with an expression that was both severe and mocking.

“It’s the trend, my friend.” He shrugged his shoulders. Each of his looks seemed to say :
You do see what I mean
; his smile looked as though it meant:
You can guess, I suppose, to whom I am referring, to the fragility of your position.

Carefully lowering their voices, they started talking about Courilof’s daughter as a possible wife for the young Anatole Dahl.

“An alliance between us would be valuable,” said Courilof,
sounding sly and frightened. “I like your son… Of course, they’re still children.”

“Yes,” saidDahl, coldly. “He’s a good boy. But he’s very young and so innocent! He needs some time to experience life, to sow his wild oats.” He said this last bit in French, forcing a little laugh.

“Of course, of course,” murmured Courilof. “Nevertheless …”

His words were measured, full of tact and paternal dignity; but how much fear, how much impatience made him shudder inside. He was, quite simply, offering Dahl his daughter as if she were a sacrifice to the angry gods. I knew that the young woman was extremely wealthy: the first Madame Courilof had left her entire fortune to her children; and the minister too had handed over his own portion to them when he had married Marguerite Eduardovna. I have never known anyone as clumsy in his generosity.

Dahl’s unexpected reservations about a potential marriage confirmed to me that his attitude towards Courilof was firmly entrenched, even more so than Courilof thought. I remember that I was listening attentively when suddenly, I threw my head back and looked out at the peaceful bay, up at the sky. I felt an extraordinary hunger for an insignificant, bourgeois, peaceful life, far from the rest of the world.

Nevertheless, Dahl and the Killer Whale finally agreed on the name of some woman or other, a friend of the Empress.

“She’s a good woman and is experienced at such missions,” said Dahl.

Courilof sighed. “Do you really think Their Majesties will deign to come?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Dahl promised, wearily and rather regally shaking his head.

“Alas! I do not have the good fortune of being in favour with my venerable Empress.”

“Of course you do, of course you do,” the baron muttered. “Her Majesty is a woman, after all” (he seemed to be apologising, by a slight hesitation in his voice, for attaching such a common word to the sacred name of the Empress); “she is highly strung, with a very Germanic frankness, unable to keep her thoughts to
herself. She has a good heart: too good, perhaps, too noble, for the petty concerns of our times.”

“Of course,” Courilof replied warmly. “No one, if I may say so” (this way of expressing himself seemed to please him), “no one in the world adores and reveres Her Imperial Majesty as I do. Nevertheless, Mathieu Iliitch, I do believe that she does not like me. I must have offended her, without meaning to, I assure you, or perhaps hurt her feelings. Being a queen does not make her less of a woman, as you have so rightly said.”

“Sometimes, it’s even regrettable,” Dahl hissed, his voice full of insinuation.

Then they began to exchange views on various members of the court and the sovereigns. The conversation lasted rather a long time.

“Mathieu Iliitch,” Courilof suddenly said, “you are the one whom Her Majesty has judged worthy of reporting certain of her thoughts to me, regarding the presence of my wife at the ball. Would you please be so kind as to tell her…”

He stopped for a moment and I could hear his voice breaking, a tremor of fear and courage beneath his pompous statements.

“Please could you tell her that Marguerite Eduardovna, that
my wife,
will not be leaving St. Petersburg and that she will not do so until she has paid her respects to her sovereigns?”

Dahl hesitated for a split second. “Absolutely, my dear friend.”

“I’m tired of all this uncertainty. I wish
my wife
” (once again, he stressed the words), “
my wife
to be treated by everyone with the respect that my own name should guarantee her. I have thought about this for a long time, Mathieu Iliitch. If I give in this time, it will start all over again in some other way. I know very well that the persecution from which I am suffering began the day when I insisted on presenting my wife at court. I know that… But I wish the situation to be clear. If the Emperor refuses to come, I will know that it is impossible for me to remain in my post. I would happily resign; I’m ill, I’m tired.”

A long silence followed.

“All right, my dear friend,” Dahl said again.

Then they parted. Dahl left; Courilof remained sitting on the bench, two feet away from me. I could see him perfectly clearly.

It was a hot, hazy day; those small flies you get in summer were buzzing around. Courilof’s face was pale and still. At one point he let out a long, deep sigh that sounded as if it came truly from the very depths of his heart. I watched him for a long time. Finally, he stood up. He walked slowly to the end of the small path, flicking at the gravel in front of him with the end of his cane; he looked weary and pensive. But as soon as he came to the wide, straight road that led to the house, my Courilof stood up tall, stuck out his chest, and continued along with a stiff, pompous stride. It was the posture of a man accustomed to walking through two rows of people as they bowed down.

OVER
THE NEXT
few days, the house began to resemble a buzzing hive. Partitions were knocked down, wall hangings nailed up.

As far as I can remember, the Empress made everyone wait a long time for a response. Courilof became more and more nervous. From morning until night, he paced back and forth through the house, his heavy footsteps resonating against the parquet flooring. He was impatient, behaved harshly towards his secretaries and servants. I especially recall his hostility and indifference when he spoke to his daughter. Sometimes he furtively watched Marguerite Eduardovna. I imagined he was contemplating the importance of his political ambitions, comparing them to his love for her. Each time, he wore a kind of resigned smile, an expression of profound gentleness; then he would turn away and sigh.

Meanwhile, Fanny waited for me every night at the little gate to the grounds and told me about the harassment in the universities, the disturbances crushed with unbelievable violence, the students who’d been arrested and deported. I remember a strange feeling: her voice shook with hatred while Courilof’s pale face haunted me. There was no difference. The students were right; so was Courilof. Every human insect thought only of himself: of his pathetic, threatened existence, hated and scorned by everyone else. It was legitimate… but I understood them all too well. There were no rules any more. God demands blind faith from his creations.

More time passed and still the Empress did not reply. Nevertheless, there was a continual rush of florists and upholsterers to the house. For some time, they had discussed organising a celebration at night in the gardens.

As I said, the grounds in front of the house led down to the water, a sad little northern bay, surrounded by pine trees and
brambles. Courilof, it seemed, wanted to build a stage and have costumed musicians performing. But all these niceties were completely alien to his nature. His nephew, Hippolyte Courilof, was helping him. Courilof never knew his nephew’s reputation, nor how badly it reflected on him. He did his best to help the boy advance in his career. It was mainly because of him that Courilof was accused of nepotism, to the detriment of the state.

“
He
doesn’t steal,” people said, “but it’s us ordinary people who lose out. He gets posts for all his close relatives, his cousins, his brothers, and
they
all steal!”

The first Madame Courilof had raised the boy, who’d been orphaned very young, and the minister scrupulously continued to carry out all his dead wife’s former wishes. In his first wife’s room, which remained intact, was an enormous portrait of Hippolyte Courilof as a child, his long, pallid face framed by a mass of golden curls. It was part of the minister’s character, this foolish loyalty, his unswerving honesty; such actions eased his conscience, but also led him to commit masses of blunders that caused enormous fiascos.

Every evening, he and the minister would go down to the riverbank together, to measure the land, discuss where the musicians should set up, or the colour of the paper lanterns.

Hippolyte Nicolaevitch ran along the water’s edge, waving his arms, pointing to the bay.

“Just picture it, Uncle, the sea in the distance, lit up in the moonlight, the delicious perfume of the flowers, the music, muted by the water, the women in their beautiful dresses, a true Watteau painting!”

He pronounced the letter “r” deeply, as they do in French, raising his chubby white hands up high. He was a hunchback without the hump; his chest was extremely round and his long, pale face sat low on his neck.

“It will be very expensive, of course,” he added casually. “Leave it to me.”

Dusk was extraordinarily desolate in these sad islands. I remember the falling rain splashing against the calm surface of the bay. The setting sun hovered above the horizon until morning, a circle of dull, smoky red, engulfed in mist.

Courilof listened gloomily and often called out to me: “What do you think, Monsieur Legrand? You don’t say much, but you have good taste. What colour do you think the paper lanterns should be? Green?”

He didn’t listen to what I said, though; he just stood there watching the still water and then walked back, sighing.

Finally, Courilof decided to go and ask for the Emperor’s reply himself and give him the guest list for approval, if he agreed to attend. I accompanied the minister to the Winter Palace that day. When he got into the carriage, he saw all the people who’d come to ask favours waiting in the courtyard. They’d been there since morning; the rain had pushed them back under an awning, like a herd of sheep. When the Killer Whale appeared, they hesitantly took three steps forward. The minister waved his hand wearily. Two servants appeared.

“Out! Get going!”

In a flash, they had pushed the masses ofwaiting people back and closed the gate. Courilof, gloomy and preoccupied, got into the carriage, gesturing for me to follow him. It was rather funny: he too got a bad reception that day… the Emperor was tired; the Empress was ill…

I waited for a long time in front of the palace, in the stifling heat of the enclosed little carriage. Then we retraced our steps back to the Iles.

He huddled in the corner, silently staring into space. Sometimes he would tell the driver to go faster by making a dry little clicking noise, but as soon as the horses began to gallop, he’d get annoyed and swear at the coachman. Then we’d slow down again. It was raining harder and harder. It’s strange how well I understood the Killer Whale’s “feelings.” And still, it was difficult to guess the emotions that ran through him beneath his armour, his stony look. I sensed his emotions in a strange way, one that gave me both a feeling of satisfaction and a kind of contentment that was almost physical. Later on, when I escaped from prison in Siberia, I used to hunt for food along the road; as I stalked my prey, I remember sensing it quiver in the same way.