Far Flies the Eagle (3 page)

The incident with Countess Golovine faded from Elizabeth's memory; now, years afterwards, she wasn't sure what had really happened, what was the motive in the Countess's mind when she comforted the overwrought young wife, and in her own mind when she let herself be comforted.

But it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered, because Alexander had separated Adam from her, giving him posts abroad until the situation changed through absence and despair.

Now she was alone, alone with only the memories of Adam to sustain her and the daily letter to her mother in Germany to look forward to, a woman married to a man who had never loved or wanted her, a woman whose life was over at the age of twenty-eight. Adam's child had died, poor, pretty child, with its father's dark colouring and her fragility.

And there would never be another, for she was not promiscuous; the cynical sensuality of Alexander's sister was revolting to her, and she was sure that after Adam she would never love again.

Nothing remained but a slow ache of unhappiness, a monotony of pain sometimes disturbed by doubt if it was really tor Adam or still for the strange man she had married.

He was coming back from Tilsit after signing a peace treaty with Napoleon, coming back to a capital seething with plots and discontent, to be welcomed by the sister whose only ambition was to take the throne for herself. How could he be so blind, she wondered, so blinded by that vixen that he didn't see the envy, the falseness behind her laughter and familiarity? Could he believe she loved him.… Or did he see through her, and was this brotherly indulgence a sinister game that he was playing, playing so well that Catherine herself was deceived.… Whatever it is,' she decided, he doesn't need my help. I offended him once, God help me, and I have no excuse for the Golovine, since I don't understand it myself, and he's never forgiven me. But I meant what I said in that letter to Mama. I have loyal feeling for him. Even … affectionate feelings. I pray to God he's warned in time.…'

“He's coming!” the Grand Duchess Catherine said suddenly. “I can see the head of the procession.” She opened the window quickly. “Listen. The people are cheering.”

“He's been issuing ukases saying that Tilsit was a victory for Russia!” the Grand Duke Constantine burst out. “These fools out there think we won the war!”

“But we know better,” Catherine Pavlovna remarked. “I'm not going to welcome him; defeat is bad enough, but an alliance with that monster! Banquets and reviews every day, embracing and kissing each other.…” She laughed harshly. “Can you imagine Alexander kissing that little upstart; he must've had to get down on his knees to reach him.…”

“Catherine, for the love of God, don't say anything to anger your brother,” the Dowager Empress pleaded nervously, and her daughter smiled.

“I've never understood why you're so frightened of him, Mama,” she said. “I'm not. No one could be frightened of Alexander.”

The Empress Marie went on sewing and said nothing. No one could be frightened of Alexander. Unless they remembered his father Paul, and the fate of anyone else who stood between him and what he wanted.

What frightened her most was the complete absence of terrorism in his manner; his unfailing courtesy and mildness, even to servants, was somehow more menacing than the furies of his father, and she knew that everyone close to him felt the same after a time.

His wife, that silent, broken woman who was still paying for a crime of which she was never proved guilty, his brother Constantine, his own mother.… They knew him and they were all afraid. Only Catherine Pavlovna laughed at him, argued with him, and flouted his authority, insisting that he was only her brother after all, and that he loved her.… She was so confident of her hold on him, so sure that when the time came, she'd be able to turn him off his throne, that filial affection wouldn't blind
her
as it did him. The Dowager Empress no longer tried to warn her; she was tired of coping with her savage brood; Constantine was a sadist whose excesses she pretended not to notice; her third son Nicholas seemed quite devoid of sensibility, unfeeling and stupid as a machine; he was still only a boy, and her beautiful wilful daughter Catherine was following the example of her ancestors and trying to engulf them all in family murder.

“He's arrived,” Catherine said. “Outside the Palace, there, he's dismounting!”

The Dowager Empress got up and came to the window. “How does he look?” she asked. “I can't see properly.”

“Like a god, as usual. Listen to that reception.”

Constantine fiddled with his cravat; he was suddenly nervous. For weeks he'd been abusing his brother, and swearing vengeance against the French. Now Alexander had returned, received by his people as a conqueror, and Constantine decided that it might be as well to go down and meet him. It was all very well for Catherine to snub him; he gave her a licence denied to anyone else.

He swallowed and his ugly face contorted in a frightened scowl.

“I'm going down,” he announced.

Immediately his mother went to his side. “So am I. I want to welcome my dear son. Elizabeth?” She looked towards her daughter-in-law and the Empress Consort rose obediently.

Catherine Pavlovna looked at them contemptuously.

“I stay here,” she said. “You can associate yourselves with what he's done, but I shall not. If he wants to see me, he can come to me!”

She stayed by the window staring out at the crowds massing round the entrance of the Winter Palace, listening to the cheers, and her envy of her brother rose in her till she felt as if she were swallowing gall. Believing him weak, she despised him; she hated him because he toyed with Liberalism, blinded by prejudice to the fact that all he had ever done was talk. And now he was the ally of Napoleon Bonaparte, after plunging into a war for which he wasn't properly prepared. Catherine, steeped in the doctrine of Autocracy, naturally strong-willed and insanely proud, reminded herself of these things and thought furiously that he was not fit to rule. Neither was Constantine of course, and her other brother and young sister Anne were not to be considered. That left herself, the granddaughter and namesake of Catherine the Great, with more intelligence and will-power than the rest of her family combined. Other people thought as she did, she remembered; since Tilsit, some of the most powerful nobles in Russia had hinted openly that Alexander's actions might have to be checked.…

In the middle of her reflections she heard the door open behind her, and she smiled contemptuously. He'd given way as usual and come to see her.…

But it was not the Emperor; she realized that before she turned round and saw Constantine standing in the room. He stared at her and his little eyes were narrow.

“You should have come down to meet him,” he said. “He asked for you.”

“What did you say?” Catherine asked. There was a curious, unspoken bond between these two; they were in alliance in spite of themselves.

“Mama said you had a headache,” Constantine answered. “He didn't believe it.”

“Mama is a fool.”

“Not as great a fool as you! You can't afford to flout him openly like that. And if he turns on you, don't think I'll stand by you!” he snarled.

Catherine's lips compressed and her black eyes blazed at him.

“I don't. I know what a coward you are, my dear brother.… You hate him as much as I do, but you haven't the will to do anything about it. Well, I have! Now save yourself, go and tell him what I've said!”

The Grand Duke swore at her, and flung himself into a chair.

After a moment Catherine walked over to him.

“We're foolish to quarrel. We can help each other,” she said quietly.

“Where has he gone?”

“To the Naryshkin, of course.”

“Of course,” Catherine smiled unpleasantly. “I hope he greeted our sister-in-law first.”

“He hardly spoke to her,” Constantine said. “She infuriates me—whining bitch! I don't know why he doesn't get rid of her.”

“I've noticed how much you hate her, Constantine. There's something about her that rouses your baser instincts, little brother.…” Catherine laughed. “She asks to be tormented. Even Alexander enjoys being cruel to her. Thank God she'll offer no resistance when the time comes.”

Constantine looked up at her, scowling.

“In God's name, why should I risk my head to put you on the throne?” he muttered.

“Because you hate Alexander, and because you don't want to be Emperor yourself.” She came and sat on the arm of his chair. The mixture of ugliness, naiveté and evil in him fascinated her; she often felt as if her brother were a distortion of herself. She knew too that in a twisted way he loved her and looked up to her.

“Do you know why you hate Alexander?” she asked him.

He grimaced. “Because he murdered Papa,” he said.

“The devil take Papa! That has nothing to do with it. No, Constan, you hate him because he's so handsome, and all these damned women fawn on him. You hate him because he's head and shoulders taller than you, and you feel like a little ape beside him.”

She put her hand on his shoulder and pressed him back in the chair.

“Don't get angry. A lot of other people feel as you do. You envy him for what he is, and I—I envy him for what he's got. And one day I mean to take it from him.”

She bent and kissed her brother lightly on the cheek.

“You know that people say he's in love with me, don't you?” she whispered. Constantine's face turned crimson; he caught her arm and twisted it savagely.

“That's not true,” he said hoarsely. “You're his sister.…”

“No, it's not true,” Catherine said slowly. “You're hurting me, Constantine.… I only told you so that you need never be jealous, however fond we seem to be at times. I have to be fond, Constan, to make him trust me.…”

She slid off the chair and stood looking at him with an extraordinary expression in her slanting black eyes. “Never forget that,” she said quietly. Then she walked quickly out of the room.

As Constantine said, Alexander had gone to Marie Naryshkin. She was waiting for him in his rooms, and she ran into his outstretched arms. He lifted her off her feet and kissed her; for several moments they said nothing. He closed his eyes and held her; her smallness, the scent she used, the soft dark hair that always tangled round the buttons on his sleeve, the taste of her mouth, all the familiar things which he had missed so much during the campaign came back to him, bringing an ache of happiness.

She clasped her hands behind his head and kissed him, wanting to cry because he was with her, and knowing that he wouldn't like it, and wouldn't understand.

She had never loved any man before. She was young, very beautiful, and married to a man years older than herself, a solemn, cultured man who didn't know how to make her happy. She had had lovers like everybody else; many lovers, and been contented in a superficial way, until she tried to capture Alexander out of devilment, and fell in love with him herself. Then, for the first time in her life she was uncertain. He was charming, but she discovered that his charm was not reserved for her, he was gentle and courteous, and a passionate lover, but he remained fundamentally aloof. There was a point she had never been able to reach in their relationship, the point where the Czar became the man.

She was a woman of pronounced passions who understood passion and knew how to cope with it; she had learnt very quickly that the key to a man's character was often his weakness, but in Alexander she could find nothing. He eluded her without effort and in seeming ignorance that he was making her unhappy.

The time came when she was forced to admit that the pattern of her previous love affairs had been reversed; she was desperately in love and he was not.

At last he set her down and looked at her.

“Marie, not tears.… Aren't you pleased to see me?”

“Pleased!” She laughed unsteadily. “It's been like a lifetime without you, Sire.” She came and put her arms round his waist.

“Don't you know that people sometimes cry because they're happy?”

He smiled and stroked her hair. “I've missed you, Marie. My God, I couldn't wait to get back to you. Oh, beloved, I'm so thankful it's all over and we can be together!”

She listened to him and her heart was suddenly beating very fast. She had never heard that note in his voice before. Almost as if he meant what he said.

She moved away from him. “You must be weary, Sire. Come and sit down and tell me everything. First let me get you some wine.”

He watched her as she poured wine into two glasses, and thought how beautiful she was; though much smaller, she reminded him of his sister Catherine. They shared the same dark colouring, the same vitality, but Marie was emotional and gentle where the other reminded him of a prowling panther.… He frowned as he thought of her. Her absence was not only a snub but a gesture for the benefit of his resentful Court, a gesture to show that the Grand Duchess Catherine shared their feelings over the new French alliance. She was clever, he knew that; he had always known that once his father was dead he had only one member of his family to reckon with and that was Catherine. At eighteen she was a woman, already a libertine and an intriguer, openly eyeing the throne. Now she thought she saw her opportunity. He was unpopular; he had lost the war and concluded a dishonourable peace. Many Czars had been deposed for less.

‘Catherine,' he thought bitterly. ‘If I hadn't got one murder on my conscience already I'd know what to do with her. But I can't. I'll have to play the loving brother for the time. I suppose I shall have to go and see her tomorrow.…'

“Thank you, Marie.” He drank some wine and smiled up at her. It was extraordinary how the sight of her standing there eased him; he hadn't realized how much he'd missed her. “Come and sit with me,” he said. She sat on the arm of his chair leaning against his shoulder.