What an unusual woman she was. Half-French, half-Polish, she was above average height, rather square in the shoulder, with an alabaster skin. She had been a brunette until she was thirty-five, but now her natural hair colour was iron grey. She had an oval face, almond-brown eyes which were sometimes a little sad, and a broad ironic mouth. Her figure was slim, her breasts rather high; but it was, for some reason, a slight thickening about her thighs that, in their lovemaking, aroused Alexander to heights of passion.
It was remarkable how little she had altered in their ten years together. Only now was she entering her change of life, but that did not matter. Her slim, strong build had kept her trim; she moved with a wonderful, lithe grace and if, with the passing of the years, Alexander had noticed in certain places a boniness and a looseness of the skin that she could not help, he just directed his hands to other caresses, which better produced the illusion that nothing had changed. Indeed, the knowledge that they were cheating time gave him a sense of poignancy unlike any other he knew. It was the beauty of autumn – golden and warm.
Adelaide was grateful for the affair. As an old Frenchwoman had once told her: ‘An older woman improves a young man. But he is also good for her because he accepts her as she is.’ It was true. She savoured, as a little triumph, the fact that she could still drive this rather self-centred man to erotic delight.
In his way, Bobrov loved her. His affairs with younger women had never meant so much to him. He had only to watch one of her perfect little gestures, see the elegant way she moved, to forget all the others. ‘Besides, I can talk to her,’ he would say. They had few secrets. She knew of all his plans, even his desire to desert her for the empress’s bed. As she drily said: ‘It’s a career.’
And now she was firm with him.
‘You must secure this German girl at once.’
‘I don’t really want to, you know.’
‘Be grateful that she loves you, cher ami.’ She smiled wryly. ‘Perhaps it will be good for you.’
‘And for you?’
She gave a little shrug. Even now, he could still be heavy-footed. What did he want – a confession of her despair to wear like a trophy? A dismissal? Forgiveness? ‘One must be practical,’ she said calmly. ‘You will like it. It is good to have a family.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Enfin.’ There was the faintest hint of impatience in her voice. ‘You will not come here.’
‘I certainly shall.’ He would try to be a good husband, but he had no wish to desert Adelaide.
She, however, shook her head. ‘You must spend time with your wife, you know. It is very important.’
He sighed. ‘I know. But you will not forbid me to see you?’
‘Oh… that.’ She shrugged. ‘Who knows? We shall see.’
Would she take another lover? He disliked that idea, although he felt he could not in conscience lay further claim to her.
‘And this girl,’ she said at last. ‘What is she like?’
He considered.
‘She has a round, simple face; blue eyes, fair hair. Her cheeks get a little too red. She’s entirely innocent, though not stupid.’ He paused. ‘I should certainly be grateful, but I suppose my years with you have left me finding all other women inadequate.’
‘How charming he is, this gallant monsieur.’ Her lips twitched with amusement. ‘And do you include the empress amongst these other women, may I ask?’
He laughed. In fact, he had sometimes wondered whether this affair with an older woman would be helpful in coming to terms with the now ageing body of Catherine. He guessed not.
‘I was speaking,’ he smiled, ‘of women, not of the Russian Empire!’
A certain look told him that there was no need to say more. Her bedroom lay up a little staircase and he followed her there.
How lovely, how desirable she still was, as she slowly stretched and then, luxuriously, arched her slim, pale body. He smelt the thick, musk-like scent that was one of the secrets about her he had learned to cherish. He moved his hand softly over her breast.
Did a lover, he wondered, in the great act of passion, gain a glimpse of eternity? Possibly. In his love of Adelaide, this ten-year passion which defied the passing of the years, he did not think he saw eternity, but rather something else which he preferred. Their love, it sometimes seemed to him, was like a drop of amber which has trapped some tiny animal, centuries ago, in its warm embrace – and in doing so, captured the sunlight itself from that distant, long-forgotten day. He liked the analogy. The amber falls to the earth and is buried; yet it is preserved, as long as the earth shall last, he thought. At other times, he felt as if he and Adelaide were together on the vast, endless plain, enjoying their brief, passionate moment before they disappeared. And because their physical love was complete, he felt: This is enough. This is what I am. When it is done, I am content to be no more. And if the great darkness that followed was eternity, then he saw that too. One thing at least was certain. When he encountered Adelaide’s body he knew with certainty that this, and this alone, was his true homecoming and that, for the rest of his life, it would be his years with her against which all things would be compared.
For Adelaide, it was a little different. She did not look for eternity because to her that meant only age, and death. She knew that all sensations are passing. When she was younger, as her mind drifted after lovemaking, she would sometimes feel like a little boat, floating away upon a huge ocean; but nowadays, the images and sensations which came into her thoughts were rather different, and she felt herself more often a spectator watching the progress of her own life: at which times it seemed to her that she and her lover were not in a boat, but rather upon an island, slowly eroding in the middle of a river, and that the river was the passing of the years.
It was past one in the morning when Alexander woke. After making love he had fallen into a sudden, deep sleep; but it had been troubled, for an image had repeatedly come to him – he was not sure how many times – so vivid, so insistent, that it seemed more like a vision than an ordinary dream.
It was the countess. She was very pale as she rose up before him; she had an accusing look on her face and, for no reason he could understand, she was shaking a reproving finger at him and saying, in a voice that seemed to explain the whole universe: ‘Voltaire. Voltaire.’ The fact that this made no particular sense did not make it any less impressive or alarming.
He woke up with a shiver and lay for several minutes collecting his thoughts. It was comforting that Adelaide was dozing beside him: her pale form was not quite covered and after a little while he began to feel better. He looked at her. Could he make love again? He thought so. As he touched her lightly, her eyes slowly opened and she smiled a little drowsily. ‘You want more?’
He was looking down at her; his mouth began to part in a grin.
‘Ah, I see.’ She reached out her arms. ‘Come then.’ Yes, he decided. He certainly could.
Yet it was just as he had gently entered upon this second, late-night communion, that to his surprise, before the pale form of his lover, another paler image seemed to arise before his eyes, interposing itself between them.
It was the old countess again. She did not speak this time; indeed, her white face was so motionless that it seemed she was sleeping – except for one thing: her eyes were wide open and staring. Try as he might to banish the phantasm, she remained obstinately between them, gazing at him stonily, as if to say: ‘You see, I sleep with my eyes open.’
It was absurd. He tried to ignore her, but it was no good. It was as though the phantasm refused to let go of him. Did she sleep with her eyes open? While his body continued to perform, slowly, a little absently, the act of love, his mind could not seem to tear itself away from this proposition. Was she sleeping now, thinking of him perhaps, and all the time like some still, Roman statue, staring out into space? Perhaps it was because of his earlier dream about her, or because of their conversation that evening, but the question seemed to become more important with every moment that passed.