Far Flies the Eagle (25 page)

Then his youngest brother, the Grand Duke Michael; Michael had grown up in the last two years, he too was tall. Only the monstrous Constantine was absent; he had been given command of the new Polish Army and was adding to his reputation for committing atrocities in Warsaw. Alexander received his Ministers and Generals, foremost among them being Araktcheief in a magnificent uniform, so tight and heavy with gold braid that he bowed with difficulty. Everywhere, lines of Courtiers as he passed through the huge reception rooms, bowing, curtsying, watching him with pride. The atmosphere of popularity was so strong he flushed with pleasure. Thank God to be home again! Thank God he was out of Europe. At least his own people loved him and were grateful.

He went to his apartments to rest after the journey, and later joined his family for a State dinner. But he retired early, sent for his sister and gave orders they were not to be disturbed.

“When I heard of this Krudener creature, I couldn't believe it! Do you mean to say you did nothing but pray all the time?”

Alexander frowned. He had done his best to protect that damned woman's reputation and conceal their relationship while they were in Paris, but he had no hope of deceiving Catherine.

“Not all the time,” he answered.

She laughed. “I thought not! Isn't it fortunate I'm a pagan. Or perhaps it isn't, perhaps I miss something.… You know, I've never considered kneeling in a seductive posture; but in her case it was, is that it?”

“I suppose so,” he said. “God knows! My intentions were always good, but she made me feel uplifted, excited.…” He stopped and passed his hands over his eyes.

“I can imagine,” Catherine said dryly. “I wish you were an honest sensualist like me, it's so much simpler. Oh, I can imagine what the Baroness was like! Thank God you didn't bring her here.” She looked at him narrowly. “Keep away from those people, Alexander, they're dangerous. You've always had a weakness for them. You need gaiety, amusement, my brother. You look tired out.”

“I am,” he admitted. “I feel as if I'd lived my whole life in the past three years. And it's not over yet; there are more conferences to be held later on, and I shall have to go to them.”

She glanced at him and then said quickly, “Then you'll be visiting Europe again?”

“Oh, quite often I should think.”

“Then if I were to marry again and live in Europe, we could still see each other.”

His head jerked up and he said sharply, “Marry? Live in Europe? What do you mean?”

She met his angry look without flinching, only her hands tightened on the arms of her chair.

“The King of Würtemburg wishes to marry me,” she said. “He's going to ask your permission and I want you to give it.” He sat rigid with anger and disbelief. Marry, leave Russia … he had never for one moment imagined she would want to leave him. His first impulse was to forbid her to do anything of the kind. How dare she, he thought furiously, how dare she want to marry Würtemburg as soon as I've come home.…

“I have a right to re-marry, Alexander,” she continued. “I'm young and I made my first marriage with the man you chose for me; he's dead and now I wish to choose for myself. I've lived my whole life in your shadow and you would never let me go; now I want to cast a shadow of my own. I want to be Queen of Würtemburg.”

He stared at her coldly. “Do you love him, is that it? Why didn't you tell me?”

“I loved one man once.” Her voice was harsh when she answered him. “And
you
brought me the news of his death. Do you remember? Würtemburg is a King. That's why I want to marry him.”

His anger was fading, giving way to surprise at his own reaction. She was right; he'd forced George of Oldenburg on her, and then told her Bagration had been killed on the night he broke her heart and her spirit to save his throne.

“Don't keep me here against my will,” she said suddenly.

“You know I would never do that,” he retorted. “I was just selfish for a moment. I couldn't help thinking how empty life will be without you here. Is there nothing I can offer you to make you stay with me?”

The clock at her elbow chimed the hour; she turned to watch the little golden figure of Cupid strike the bell with his arrow; it was a French clock, brought back from France by Alexander when he first entered Paris.

Then she looked at him and answered.

“Nothing society would allow. We should never have been born brother and sister, Alexander. But we are, and you had better let me go to Würtemburg.”

It was said at last; the hints and scandals which had followed them for so many years were acknowledged in those few words.… ‘We should never have been born brother and sister.…'

Was that it? Was that the explanation for their hatred and duelling for power in the beginning, for the queer alliance which had grown up between them after Bagration's death?… The letters he had written in the days when he feared her, letters more fitting for a mistress than a sister.… Did he say he adored her and thought her the most fascinating creature alive because it placated her or because he meant it in some terrible twisted way?… God knew!

He thought in horror: ‘We played at this thing, she and I, for our own purposes, for reasons of deceit and power-lust, but though the world accused us, it's not true, it was never true! Of all the sins on my conscience, murder, concupiscence, treachery, infamy is not among them!'

She knelt beside his chair, looking up at him, and the flames from the fire shone on her face, highlighting the jutting cheekbones and the brilliant Kalmuck eyes. There was an expression in them that he had never seen before.

“You don't want me to go, do you?” she whispered. He was trembling; drops of sweat ran down his temples, he clung to the arms of his chair; he thought suddenly that his sister Catherine looked a little mad as she stared at him, her face a few inches from his own.

“You must let me go, Alexander …” her voice murmured. Something inside his head said clearly: this is damnation. Keep very still.

“I only want you to be happy,” he said hoarsely. “You have my permission.”

He sprang out of his chair and rushed from the room without looking back.

Catherine had left Russia when he went to see Marie Naryshkin. Marie had attended Court as usual, and at the State Ball given in his honour, he had asked her to waltz with him. He had noticed immediately her simple white dress, the clusters of flowers she wore in her hair and knew she had dressed to please him; he had always hated elaborate clothes. The implication touched and saddened him at the same time.

One afternoon he drove over to Dmitri Naryshkin's mansion to visit her. The lackey who admitted him, gaped, and then mumbled that the Princess was in the nursery, but if His Imperial Majesty would wait for one moment in the Gold Salon. The household was in a panic at the news of the Czar's arrival; the Naryshkin's Comptroller hurried forward, bowing and stammering apologies. “His Majesty was not expected … there had been no one to receive him properly … the Princess would be furious.…”

Alexander calmed him with a few words. It was a private visit, he insisted, and he wanted to be taken straight to the nursery; he would see the Princess there.

He was shown into a large sunny room, and kissed Marie's hand as she curtsied to him. A gaping nursemaid held a little girl on her knee; the child was wriggling and staring at the strange man with her mother.

“This is a great honour, Sire,” Marie said. She had flushed and instinctively one hand flew to her hair; it was fluffed up and untidy, she wore a loose pink wrapper and house slippers.

“I had no idea you were coming or I would have been ready to receive you properly; you must forgive me. Won't you come downstairs, Sire?”

He smiled at her, but his eyes were on the child.

“In a moment, Madame; I find this domesticity quite charming. I believe you've forgotten to present Mademoiselle Naryshkin to me.”

Marie signed to the nursemaid, who let her charge get down; she was frowning slightly. Alexander had never shown the slightest interest in her children till that moment.

“Sophie, come here!”

The little girl walked slowly towards them and her mother turned her to face Alexander.

“Curtsy to His Majesty,” she ordered.

The child bobbed down, her face tilted up, her blue eyes open wide with curiosity. Gravely he took her hand and held it when she stood in front of him. Sophie. This was his daughter. He hadn't seen her since she was a tiny child, and there were two more reputed to be his; but there was no doubt about this child's paternity. For a moment they stood considering each other, and then Alexander smiled down at her.

“Good day, Mademoiselle.”

Slowly the solemn face softened in an answering smile, the image of his own, and the small hand curled round his fingers.

“Good day, Monsieur.”

“Sire!” corrected Marie.

“Sire,” Sophie amended, and then laughed up at her father. He knelt and touched her cheek with his finger.

“How old are you, Sophie?”

“Nine, nearly ten, Monsieur.” She paused and then asked sweetly, “How old are you?”

Alexander laughed and silenced Marie's reproof with a quick gesture.

“A great deal older than that, I'm afraid. What were you doing when I came in?”

“Playing with Mama,” she said. “I have a new doll, Monsieur, would you like to see it?”

“I would indeed.” He looked up at Marie and said, “Send the nursemaid away. I want to talk to you and Sophie alone.”

The maid slipped out, walking backwards and curtsying; she fled to the servants' quarters with the news. The Czar himself, just like an angel out of Heaven, talking away to little Sophie! Oh, she would never forget that day as long as she lived!

When they were alone Alexander sat down and took his daughter on his knees; she showed him her doll and he admired it; when he kissed the top of her curly head she slipped one arm round his neck and squeezed him affectionately.

“Why have I never seen her?” he demanded of Marie, and she flushed.

“I see you so seldom myself, Sire, and I could hardly bring Sophie to Court!”

He was too absorbed with the child to notice her tone.

“Does she know who she is?”

“No,” Marie answered. “I saw no reason to tell her yet. She wouldn't have remembered you and it would only have confused her. Why didn't you let me know you were coming; I could have made proper arrangements to receive you.”

“I wanted to surprise you,” he said. “And I'm very glad I did. I've made Mademoiselle Sophie's acquaintance, and that's very important.”

“She'll be impossible after this,” Marie said shortly. “God knows she's spoilt enough!”

He looked at her in surprise, and suddenly realized that she was jealous; he had found her carelessly dressed, playing in the nursery like any little
bourgeoise,
and he had given his whole attention to the child. No setting could be less romantic for a reunion between lovers.… He remembered the plain Court dress, the forget-me-nots in her hair; years before she had worn an identical costume during a State visit by the King and Queen of Prussia, and he had told her afterwards she was the most beautiful woman in the whole gathering. Poor Marie. And suddenly dear Marie, because she had given him this enchanting child.

“Let's go to your apartments,” he suggested gently. “I should like some tea and we can talk.”

He set Sophie down and she lifted her face to be kissed.

“Will you come and see me again, Monsieur?” she asked, and he promised that next time she should come and see him.

Then he took Marie downstairs and told her very kindly that he hoped she was happy and would allow him to be her friend. He also hoped he might see his daughter as often as he wished. She cried as he spoke of the happiness they'd known together in the past, and the necessity to keep it in a new relationship.

Friendship was a precious thing, he said, and kissed her lips like a brother, and she was not to weep, because he was still devoted to her. Only his mode of life had changed, not his affection or his gratitude, especially for the gift of Sophie. She reminded him he had another daughter and a ton, but he dismissed the mention of them.

“My father had a son,” he said blankly. “A son can betray, he can covet.… I'm not concerned with my son. But take care of Sophie for me. You are both precious to me now.”

CHAPTER TEN

Five years had passed since Waterloo, and the man Europe had entitled the Agamemon of Kings was sitting with Araktcheief in the Count's study at Gruzino.

Gruzino was the most efficiently run country estate in Russia, and the Czar had become a constant guest. It was peaceful and orderly; it gave him a feeling of secular calm that was the counterpart of the solace he found in monasteries. When he wasn't on a pilgrimage he often left St. Petersburg and stayed with the most powerful administrator in his kingdom, for that was what Araktcheief had become.

Alexander trusted the Count and admired him deeply; he confided everything to him, especially his urge to reform the Russian peasants' way of life. They were dirty and ignorant and hopelessly unmethodical; something should be done about it. He brooded on the memory of the clean Prussian towns and villages whose uniformity pleased him so much, and out of his talks with Araktcheief the horrible idea of the military colonies was born.

It was the answer! Alexander said excitedly; the answer to two pressing needs, the need to discipline the Russian and teach him the value of order, and the need to keep a large standing army ready for any emergency. The war with Napoleon had taught him that lesson. The plan was worked out and Araktcheief undertook to put it into effect.

All over Russia colonies were built where troops and peasants were forcibly confined, all living and training under the harsh army discipline, their lives ruled down to the most intimate details of marriage and childbearing. The settlements were all identical, clean and inhuman; their wretched inhabitants combined the duties of labour and soldiering under ruthless supervision. Every contingency was covered by the rules, and when he read them Alexander couldn't imagine how their application could fail to make everyone under them happy.