And upon nothing was the Countess Turova more constant than her devotion to the chief object of her worship. For if she revered her late husband, to her greatest hero she had erected nothing less than a temple. ‘In this house,’ everything seemed to say, ‘the enlightened worship the great leader.’
Voltaire. His quizzical image was everywhere. There was a bust of him on a pedestal in the huge marble hall, and another at the turn of the great staircase. There was a portrait in the large gallery at the top, and another bust in the corner of the salon. The great philosopher was her icon. His name came into the conversation ceaselessly. If someone made a good point, the countess would say, with finality: ‘So Voltaire himself might have said.’ Or even better, and with warmth: ‘Ah, I see you have read your Voltaire.’ Something which, Bobrov was sure, she had never done herself. It was astonishing how any subject could be suddenly brought back to the great man and his authority invoked. For all I know, she even thinks he regulates the weather, Alexander thought.
In deference to Voltaire, Diderot and the other French philosophers of the Enlightenment, only French was spoken in Turova’s house.
And one had to be careful what one said. It was amazing what the old woman could hear, and what she knew. She loved to catch people out. Indeed, after invoking the blessed name of Voltaire, her favourite phrase was a sharp: ‘Take care, monsieur. For I sleep with my eyes open.’ And it was never clear whether this was a figure of speech, or whether she meant it literally.
Now, however, still beaming, she tapped his arm lightly. ‘Do not go too far, mon cher Alexandre: I have special need of you tonight.’ He wondered what she was up to. ‘For the moment, however, you may go. Indeed, I see someone waiting for you.’
Alexander turned. And smiled.
Countess Turova’s house was a very large building with a heavy, classical portico between two wings. The basement rooms were almost on street level, and though many nobles let such places to fashionable merchants and shopkeepers, the countess did not, preferring to live in the house entirely alone with her servants.
With one exception. She allowed a widowed Frenchwoman, Madame de Ronville, to occupy a suite of rooms in the eastern wing. This suited the countess very well, for though this Frenchwoman was not a paid companion, she was dependent in that her charming quarters were let to her at a very low rent, and it was understood that she would be available when the countess wanted her company. ‘It’s so convenient for her to be near me,’ the countess was often pleased to say.
It was also quite convenient for Alexander Bobrov. For Madame de Ronville was his mistress.
Was there anyone more charming in St Petersburg? As he always did, he now felt that sudden tingle of almost adolescent excitement and joy in her presence, which was accompanied, usually, by a little trembling down his back. They had been lovers for ten years, and he never tired of her. She was almost fifty.
Adelaide de Ronville wore a pink silk dress, a little shorter than the countess’s, tightly gathered at the waist and opening out over a hoop skirt. The bodice was decorated with the appliqué silk flowers which the fashionable French called ‘indiscreet complaints’. Her hair, starched and powdered, was charmingly crowned with two little clusters of diamonds. As she stood quietly at his side, almost, but not quite touching him, he was aware of her slim, pale form concealed beneath. Now, her large blue eyes twinkling with amusement, she explained what was going on. ‘Her two stars for the evening have failed to arrive,’ she whispered. ‘Radishchev and the Princess Dashkova.’ She smiled. ‘She needs you to be the star – and her gladiator. Good luck!’
And now Alexander really had reason to smile. Nothing in the world could have been better. Now, he thought, I can please her so much she’ll want to leave me the lot!
There were probably no more brilliant figures in enlightened St Petersburg than those two. Princess Dashkova was almost a rival personage to Catherine herself, a fearless champion of liberty whom the empress had placed in charge of the Russian Academy. As for Radishchev, Alexander knew him quite welclass="underline" he was already writing brilliant essays. How mortified the countess must be that they had failed to turn up. And what a chance for him.
For, despite all his efforts, Alexander was never quite sure that the old countess took him seriously. He had written articles which were widely praised. He had even, like Radishchev, contributed anonymous articles to journals on such daring subjects as democracy and the abolition of serfdom – subjects which, even in Catherine’s enlightened Russia, were still too radical to be discussed officially. He had shown her these articles and let her into the secret of their authorship; but even then, he did not really know if he had impressed her. Tonight would be his chance.
The role of gladiator, as Countess Turova’s regular guests called it, was always the same. For where other salons encouraged the gentle art of civilized debate, Countess Turova liked to watch a massacre. The victim was always an unsuspecting newcomer of conservative views who was confronted with a man of the Enlightenment – her gladiator – whose job it was to defeat and humiliate his opponent while she and her guests watched.
As Alexander glanced towards the countess now, he could see that a circle was already forming in front of her. On her left he noticed a newcomer, a general – a dapper, grey-haired man, short but erect, with piercing black eyes. So this was the victim. The Countess was beckoning. As he approached, he smiled to hear her reproving one of the young writers for something he had said. ‘Take care, monsieur,’ she was wagging her finger at him. ‘You cannot deceive me. I sleep with my eyes open.’ She did not change.
It was one of the joys of these evenings that Countess Turova never troubled to be subtle. When she was ready to start the argument, she merely picked up one of the fighting cocks, so to speak, and threw it at the other. Now, therefore, she turned abruptly to the unfortunate general. ‘So,’ she said accusingly, ‘I hear you want to close all our theatres.’
The old man stared at her in surprise. ‘Not at all, my dear countess. I just said that one play went too far and should be taken off. It was seditious,’ he added calmly.
‘So you say. And what do you think, Alexander Prokofievich?’
He was on.
Alexander enjoyed these debates. Firstly, he was good at them because he was patient; secondly, though the countess herself might be shallow, the debates in her salon often concerned important matters, touching the very heart of Russia and her future. For this reason, while he was anxious to defeat the general, he hoped also that he would be a worthy opponent.
The countess had set up the subject: freedom of speech. It was a key tenet of the Enlightenment and was supported by the empress. For not only had Catherine allowed private presses to operate legally, she had even written social satire for the stage herself. And so the debate began.