CHAPTER XXXIII

  FOURU DAYS LATER, DMITRY AND HIS FATHER WERE IN PETERSBURG. Dmitry’s first instinct was to go to the house and let his mother know that they were home, but Aleksei felt that political matters were more pressing. He was afraid to look into his wife’s face, Dmitry suspected – though he had not been hindered by any sense of guilt in the past. Neither man had raised the subject of Aleksei’s infidelity on the journey north.

  Once in the city, they made straight for Prince Obolensky’s house, but he was not there. The butler recognized Aleksei and told them to try Ryleev’s home. There they found Ryleev, Obolensky and a number of others.

  ‘Colonel Danilov,’ said Ryleev enthusiastically as they entered, coming over and shaking him warmly by the hand.

  ‘Kondraty Fyodorovich,’ responded Aleksei. ‘This is my son, Dmitry Alekseevich.’

  ‘We’ve met already,’ said Ryleev, shaking Dmitry’s hand. There was general greeting all round.

  ‘We’ve just today returned from Moscow,’ explained Aleksei.

  ‘What’s the mood like there?’ asked Ryleev.

  Aleksei looked to Dmitry, who realized that – since his father had only been in Moscow for about a week – he was in a better position to explain.

  ‘There’s a great deal of expectation,’ he said. ‘We’ve heard that Mihail Pavlovich has refused to swear allegiance to his brother, and also that Konstantin Pavlovich is still in Warsaw – perhaps a prisoner. Is Nikolai really trying to take command?’

  ‘We’re not sure,’ said Ryleev, ‘but that’s the way we’re going to tell it. Restoration of the rightful order of things will be a lot easier to sell to the masses.’

  ‘The slogan will be “Konstantin and Constitution”,’ added Obolensky.

  ‘And after a little while, we drop the “Konstantin”,’ said the man who had just been introduced to Dmitry as Kakhovsky.

  ‘But what if it turns out that Nikolai isn’t trying to take over?’ asked Aleksei, ever cautious.

  ‘It will be too late by then,’ said Ryleev. ‘If not, no one will blame us for trying to support the rightful tsar, even if it was based on a misunderstanding. Carry on with the news from Moscow, though.’

  ‘All those who are friendly to our cause are ready to rise up,’ continued Dmitry, ‘but they await a signal from you – or an event that will force them to act.’

  ‘The latter is unlikely in Moscow, I think,’ said Ryleev. ‘And what of the ordinary people?’

  ‘They mourn Aleksandr and accept Konstantin.’

  ‘So they suspect nothing of Nikolai’s actions?’

  ‘Not when we left. Many have already sworn allegiance to Konstantin, so they may be on our side when they hear.’

  ‘Good,’ said Ryleev.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ asked Aleksei.

  ‘We wait.’

  ‘More waiting?’ Dmitry was horrified. Aleksei raised a hand, indicating that he should listen.

  ‘Wait until Nikolai declares himself tsar,’ continued Ryleev. ‘It will be a few days, at most.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ asked Aleksei, quite prepared now to speak rather than listen.

  ‘Trust me, we are certain. We already have agitators in the streets and in the barracks. Once the news of Nikolai’s announcement spreads – even if we have to spread it ourselves – then the focal point will be the Winter Palace. We’ll demand the proper reinstatement of Konstantin and a formal constitution to stop such an outrage from ever happening again.’

  ‘But Konstantin will still be days away from Petersburg,’ said Aleksei.

  ‘Exactly,’ replied Ryleev, with not a little pride, ‘and that is why we will suggest the appointment of an interim dictator.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Goodness, no. Prince Troubetzkoy has been elected to the role.’

  ‘Is he happy with that?’ asked Aleksei.

  ‘Sergei Pyetrovich is a moderate,’ said Ryleev. ‘He sees the position as a way of preventing things from getting out of hand.’

  ‘Does Nikolai suspect?’ asked Aleksei.

  ‘We must presume that he does,’ said Ryleev. ‘That may be why he has hesitated to move. But every day he waits, the confusion grows and with it we grow stronger. In the end, he may be able to command more men than we do, but they will not fire upon their fellow soldiers.’

  ‘What can we do?’ asked Dmitry.

  Ryleev looked at Aleksei. ‘Your brigade is the Life Guard Hussars, is it not, Aleksei Ivanovich?’

  Dmitry’s father nodded.

  ‘You are in a minority there – they have been amongst the hardest to persuade to our cause. Do what you can to bring them round, or at least, keep them away if Nikolai calls on them.’

  ‘My regiment’s in Moscow,’ Dmitry told them, fearful of the implication.

  ‘I would not send you back there at a time like this,’ replied Ryleev. ‘We’ll find a role for you.’

  Dmitry was thrilled.

  Nikolai Pavlovich wondered if he didn’t hate his brothers. All except Mihail. Mihail was the only one of them younger than Nikolai, and he was loyal. Konstantin was a wastrel – he didn’t deserve to be tsar, and it was a good thing he wasn’t going to be. But that he should refuse even to come to Petersburg and acknowledge his brother as rightful leader threatened to throw the whole country into chaos. It was typical of him.

  It was Aleksandr who was currently the object of his brother’s greatest wrath. The emotion disgusted him, and he was certain – and prayed for that certainty to transform into reality – that in a few weeks or months he would feel different. He had loved Aleksandr all his life, almost as a replacement for the father who had been taken away from him when he was only four. He had disagreed at times with some of Aleksandr’s earlier liberal attitudes to the modernization of his country, but Aleksandr had seen the error of his ways. Above all, Nikolai could only regard his brother as a hero – a world hero – for his stand against Bonaparte.

  But Aleksandr could not have picked a worse time to die. That was not fair – nor was it ultimately Nikolai’s complaint. Aleksandr could not choose the time and place of his death, but as emperor, he should have been prepared for it to happen at any moment. As it was, he had left his affairs – the nation’s affairs – in a terrible state.

  For a start, there was the shocking vagueness over the succession. The decision that Nikolai should become tsar was clear and sensible, but why had that clarity not been conveyed to the very people he was intended to rule? It was not their place to decide who governed them, but it was a matter of simple practicality that they should be aware of who that person was. On top of that, Nikolai now discovered, there was the fact that Aleksandr had been aware for several years of groups within the army that were plotting against him. Had he not understood that the very idea of ‘plotting against him’ did not mean ‘plotting against Aleksandr’, but ‘plotting against the tsar’, whoever that might be? And now – de facto if not yet de jure – Nikolai was the tsar. The plots had not stopped with Aleksandr’s death; if anything, they were likely to intensify.

  Nikolai had to concede that he had not been completely unaware of what was going on, but he had assumed that his brother had things under control. Now, here in front of him, sat Baron Frederiks, fresh from Taganrog, with news that should have been known in Petersburg long before.

  ‘I cannot but apologize for the delay, Highness. His late Majesty told me to leave with all haste, but upon his death I delayed. Then when Baron Diebich heard of the dispatches I had, he told me to depart immediately.’

  ‘The fault is not entirely yours, Baron,’ replied Nikolai. ‘You were but the final link in a chain of delays.’ It was as close as he could bring himself to criticizing his brother in front of another. He did nothing to correct the way Frederiks addressed him. The announcement of the fact that he was tsar would have to be handled with care.

  ‘What action has been taken against the Southern Society?’ he asked.

  ‘When I departed, nothing,’ said Frederiks, ‘but much was planned. Arrests may have been made already; if not, then in the next few days. Pestel will be detained for sure.’

  ‘And without him, the rebellion in the south will collapse?’

  ‘It will be greatly hindered.’

  Nikolai nodded curtly. Frederiks was wise not to employ hyperbole, however much he might be tempted. There was one document amongst the papers of the greatest interest, made up of just five sheets of paper, with the briefest of notes attached in his brother’s hand.

  Membership of the Northern Society – for NPR only

  Nikolai’s attitude momentarily softened as he saw this reminder of his brother, possibly one of the last things he had written. He touched the paper with his thumb, making sure that Frederiks would not discern the action, and felt the whisper of a connection. He sat down and glanced through the list. Many names were unfamiliar to him, some he could easily have guessed, others were horrifying. Troubetzkoy was a shock; Volkonsky a greater one. He checked carefully. It was S. G. Volkonsky – Sergei Grigorovich. It would have been unthinkable to see Pyotr Mihailovich on the list.

  Perhaps more shocking than the names of the élite were those of the high- and middle-ranking officers; men with whom the royal family should have been able to trust their lives. A. I. Danilov, for example. He was a colonel in the Life Guards, wasn’t he? Nikolai couldn’t picture the face, but he remembered Aleksandr specifically commenting on some action he’d carried out. It was horrible for his brother’s trust to be so brutally betrayed, but it was his own fault. He’d been too soft-hearted; too ill disciplined. Well, that wouldn’t happen in the reign of Nikolai I – and this list would make a good start for showing everyone who needed reminding that treachery was the greatest sin of all.

  Dmitry had chosen to stay a while longer at Ryleev’s, but Aleksei thought it was best that he himself returned home. It had been an excuse to visit the leaders of the Society first – he had simply been shying away from the encounter with his wife. The fact that Dmitry now knew about him and Domnikiia didn’t change anything – not with regard to Marfa. Aleksei felt certain Dmitry hadn’t and wouldn’t tell her. He could have asked him about it on their journey home, but he was always a coward when it came to things like that. Even so, he felt confident his son would keep his secret. How would it help to let Marfa know?

  Aleksei’s apprehension about seeing his wife after over two months was not related to his infidelity, but to hers. He had only just discovered the existence of Vasiliy – Vasya – before his departure. Now he had had time to consider it. Many men were hypocrites. They were happy to screw their own mistresses, but appalled at the idea that someone else might be doing the very same thing to their wives. In fact – as with most hypocrisies – there was a logic to it, deep, deep down. Men did not care so much that their wives had lovers as they feared other men might discover the fact. They did not fear the discovery of their own infidelity – most would admire them for it; most men at least.

  Did Aleksei not fear such a discovery? Not greatly – not for himself. He had been so many things in his life – a Jacobin to the French, a Bulgarian to the Turks, a rebel to the revolutionaries – that he had almost completely managed to fortify himself against any consideration of the ill the world in general might think of him. There were four people on the planet whose good opinion he cherished, positioned with an obvious symmetry; two companions, two children: Marfa, Dmitry, Domnikiia, Tamara. There were a few others whose estimation he valued: Yelena Vadimovna, perhaps; Dr Wylie – he was too recent an acquaintance to judge; Tsar Aleksandr – undoubtedly, but the good opinion of the dead was worth little.

  He stopped briefly in the street and uttered a single, abrupt laugh, causing a number of his fellow pedestrians on the Nevsky Prospekt to look. Aleksandr was not dead. He had managed, however momentarily, to fool himself. It was a good sign; if he believed it, how many others might? He smiled. The most important thing was that Iuda and Zmyeevich believed it. He cared little for Zmyeevich, but it dawned on him how much pride he felt to have fooled Iuda – Iuda, who had so often played him for the fool. It was a shame Iuda could never know.

  Aleksei began walking again, through the snow. It was dark now, as it was for the vast majority of the day in Petersburg at this time of year. He was still a few blocks from home, and he returned his thoughts to the matter of his – and Marfa’s – reputation. If he admitted that he desired the high opinion of the dead then the list grew longer. Maks and Vadim were both men whose low esteem of him would have shattered Aleksei. Dmitry Fetyukovich? – No, not in the end. Perhaps it was those early deaths, of two people who had truly mattered to Aleksei, that explained why he was so selective now in whom he gave a damn about. Or perhaps he had simply been thick-skinned since he was a boy, and that was what made him someone who could survive as a liar, a cheat and a spy.

  But the fact that he did not care for his own reputation did not mean he had no concern for that of his wife, or his son. The revelation of Marfa’s infidelity would do infinitely more harm to her standing in Petersburg than it would to Aleksei’s. Even Dmitry risked becoming a laughing stock if his comrades discovered such a story about his mother. But that was not a reason to chastise Marfa for her behaviour – simply one to help her keep it secret.

  Ultimately, Aleksei felt relieved. He and Marfa were on an equal level once again. He could not object to her having a lover when he had one – even if she had been unaware of the symmetry. Now at last, they could again be the friends they had once been. The passion – mostly – was long past, but now Aleksei did not need to feel guilty about it. She had her own recourse for passion, as did he. There was no need for Marfa and him to discuss it, but nevertheless his attitude could change. She did not know his secret, and never needed to be aware that he knew hers. And yet he was afraid that the moment she saw him, she would read the whole thing on his face.

  He had arrived at their home. He let himself in and went up to the salon. There was no one there. There was no light in any of the rooms. He climbed the stairs to the second floor. There he could see a light emerging under her dressing-room door. It was not yet seven o’clock, so she would not be preparing for bed. More likely she was getting ready to go out – or to receive a guest.

  He knocked softly on the door, but there was no reply. He turned the handle and went in. The dressing room was empty. On the other side, the door to their bedroom was ajar. He walked over to it. Through the gap, he glimpsed the mirror, and in it, the image of pink, amorphous flesh, writhing in shared pleasure.

  Aleksei took a rapid step back and pressed himself against the wall. He couldn’t help but grin. He’d come to terms with his wife’s infidelity, but it was a cruel God who immediately presented him with the fact of it in all its wanton glory.

  He listened – he would only stay for a moment, or two. Even though Marfa articulated no specific words, her tone was unmistakable in her halting, voiced breaths and short, eager sighs. Her partner was quieter. Aleksei heard the low murmur of a male voice, to which the instant response came, ‘Da, Vasya! Da!’

  So there was no doubt – as if there could have been in the mind of any husband with enough respect for his wife to assume she would limit herself to a single lover – that the man who currently occupied the Danilovs’ marital bed was Vasiliy. He heard Vasiliy’s laugh. He knew he should have been outraged, but he was not. There was even a certain excitement in listening to his wife being fucked by this stranger – one more reason he should leave soon. It was enthralling to know that Marfa could respond in such a way, could so enjoy it. Their marriage had started out something like that, or so Aleksei hoped, but the passion had quickly faded. He thought she had been uninterested, but now he realized that perhaps it had been him – or both of them together. It was thrilling to hear his wife so enjoying the act of sex, even if it was not and never would be the case that she enjoyed it so intently with Aleksei himself. It was simply a pleasant surprise to know she had within her depths of carnal desire not often revealed in a woman, desires which put her on a level with – well, to be honest – Domnikiia.

  The voices of Vasiliy and Marfa began to merge into a succession of rhythmic, guttural grunts, and Aleksei realized it was time to leave. He would come back later tonight, or even tomorrow, having worked out some way to announce his presence well in advance so that no embarrassment need be felt by either of them. Even so – disguise it though he would try – in future he would look at Marfa in a slightly different way. He would look at her with a certain feeling of – God help him – pride.

  As he departed, he glanced around the dressing room. The signs that there had been a man there were all too obvious now that he looked for them. Marfa’s own clothes were strewn about in a way that was quite out of character for her, but mixed in with them, Aleksei could easily spot the coat, the boots, the breeches of a man. There was even a leather bag on the chaise longue, which he knew was not his own. On top of it was what he took to be a cardboard box – a shirt box or something like that. He felt mildly peeved at the idea that Vasiliy might be taking advantage of the account Aleksei held at his tailor’s – a minor insult in the circumstances.

  But as Aleksei moved closer, he realized that what he had seen was not a box, but a book – a book that was not properly bound, but which had a cover made simply of cardboard. There was no writing on the front of it. Aleksei flipped it open and examined the first page. The text was remarkably familiar for something written in an unfamiliar language. Then he looked at the inside of the cover. What he saw there told him everything; absolutely everything.

  Richard L. Cain F.R S.