LITMIR.BIZ

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occasions, and then Edward Lacey was shaking my hand. ‘Goodbye for the time being, Miss Gowrie.’

      I watched his tall, erect figure disappear amid the dock-side crowd. I have not found him easy to know, but with his going went my last link with home. Here I was, ensconced in a beautiful motor-car, with my charge. I seemed to have absolutely nothing to say. All I could think was: ‘Already Ariadne speaks excellent English. I shall have little to do on that score.’

      At once she seemed to sense my thought, demonstrating that quick intelligence I was to know so well. ‘I speak English all the time with Mamma. Naturally.’

      ‘Naturally?’

      ‘Here one speaks either French or English, and Mamma says she likes French clothes and English conversation.’ It was a fair introduction to Dolly Denisov and, in its calm, good-humoured presentation of the facts, of Ariadne also.

      While I was talking to her, I was trying to take in all that I could see of St Petersburg as we drove. It was a city of bridges and canals; water was everywhere. I could believe the stories of how the city had risen out of the marshes at the command of Peter the Great. It was early afternoon, and the sun sought out and flashed on gilded domes and spires.

      ‘That is the dome of St Isaac’s Cathedral,’ said my companion helpfully, observing my intent look. She pointed. ‘And that is the spire of the Fortress Cathedral.’

      The streets were wide but crowded with people. Many of the men seemed to be in uniform – uniforms in a tremendous range of styles and colours. I supposed that later I would learn to recognise what each meant, and to appreciate the significance of this green uniform, and that red livery, this astrakhan cap and that peaked one, but at first glimpse the variety was simply picturesque and exciting. Our motor-car wove its way in and out of a great welter of traffic, private conveyances, carts, and oddly-shaped open carriages whose iron wheels rattled across the cobbles. At one junction an electric tram clattered across our track, motor and tram so narrowly missing a collision that I caught my breath. But Ariadne remained calm, as if such near misses were an everyday occurrence. At intervals, a majestic figure wearing a shaggy hat of white sheepskin and a long dark jacket would stride through the traffic, oblivious of all danger, forcing all to give way before him: a Turcoman, living reminder of Oriental Russia.

      Now we had turned along a waterfront, passing a great honey-coloured building and then a dark green, verdant stretch of gardens. There was what looked like a row of government buildings of severe grey stone, succeeded by a row of shops and some private houses. Then a few more minutes of driving and we had arrived at the Molka Quay. The motor-car stopped outside a house of beautiful, pale grey stone with a curving flight of steps leading to an elegant front door.

      As we drove up, the door opened. I suppose someone had been watching. But this was always the way it was in Russia; it never seemed necessary to ring a bell or ask for a service, every want was unobtrusively satisfied before the need for it was even formulated, the servants were so many and so skilful.

      I was taken up to my room by a trio of servants and a laughing Ariadne. With a flourish, the girl showed me round what was to be my domain. Domain it was; I had two lofty rooms with an ante-chamber, and my own servant. I almost said ‘serf’, but of course the serfs had been freed in 1861 by Alexander, the Tsar Liberator. Nevertheless, the servant who bowed low before me was old enough to have been born into servility, and I felt you could see it in his face, where the smile was painted on and guarded by watchful eyes.

      ‘Ivan will stand at your door, and anything you wish, he will do. You have only to say.’

      ‘I shall have to brush up my Russian.’

      ‘Ivan understands a little English, that is why he was chosen. On our estate a few peasants are always taught some English. Also French and German. It is so convenient.’ Ariadne held out her hand and said sweetly: ‘Come down when you are ready. We have English tea at five o’clock.’

      Somewhat to my surprise, and in spite of his Russian name, Ivan was a negro.

      When Ariadne had gone, leaving only Ivan standing by the outer door, I explored my rooms, which were furnished with a mixture of Russian luxury and western comfort. Carpets, tapestries and furniture were expensive and exotic. Great bowls of flowers stood everywhere. The bed in the bedroom was newly imported from Waring and Gillow of London, by the look of it. I unpacked a few things, stood my photographs of the family at Jordansjoy by my bed where I could see them when I went to sleep, and proceeded to tidy myself to go down to the Denisovs’ ‘Five o’clock’. I washed my hands. I found that the rose-scented soap in the china dish was English.

      It may very well be that young Russian noblewomen never go anywhere without a companion, but otherwise it seemed to me that Ariadne Denisov had a good deal of freedom. For that first evening she entertained me on her own, presiding over dinner and then playing the piano to me afterwards. It was pleasant and undemanding, but anticipation and a battery of new experiences had exhausted me, and before long Ariadne realized the condition I was in, and the two of us went up to bed.

      On our way upstairs I saw a small, dark-gowned figure moving along the corridor a short distance ahead of us. Not a servant, obviously, from the sharp dignity with which she observed: ‘Good night, Ariadne,’ disappearing round the corner without waiting for an answer.

      ‘Mademoiselle Laure, the French governess,’ explained Ariadne. ‘The French governess,’ I noticed, not ‘my French governess’. Thus Ariadne dismissed Mademoiselle as a piece of furniture of the house, necessary, no doubt, to its proper equipment, but of no importance. Her attitude contrasted strangely with the welcome given to me.

      Sitting up in bed, plaiting my hair, I thought about the scene again. No doubt I had imagined the flash of malevolence from Mademoiselle Laure’s eyes. Yet she had spoken in English when French would have been more natural to her. No, emotion was there, and I would do well to heed it. I recalled Edward Lacey’s suggestion that Mademoiselle Laure had experienced a certain captiousness in Madame Denisov’s attitude to her protegées. Was she, perhaps, envious of me?

      I considered where I had landed myself. The business of preparing for bed had revealed that the luxury I had first noticed went hand in hand with a curious primitiveness. There were beautiful carpets and fine pictures everywhere, jasper and lapis lazuli had been used to decorate the walls of the salon; but there was absolutely no sign of piped water. No water-closet seemed to exist, and I had an antique-looking commode in my room. Private and convenient, no doubt, but even Jordansjoy did better. And there was dust under the bed.

      But all the same, I liked it here. Magnificence suited me, never mind the dirt. The Denisovs were obviously extremely wealthy. I had been told that only the very rich had their own house, or osobniak, and that even the well-to-do chose to live in flats. But the whole of this great house seemed given over to the Denisovs. And so far I had met only one of them. Besides Madame Denisov there was the ‘Uncle Peter’ Ariadne had spoken of, her father’s younger brother. She had pointed out his photograph to me, showing me the face of a neat-boned, dark-haired young man with a look of Ariadne herself, the features which seemed plain on the girl possessing elegance on him.

      I snuggled down into bed at last, tired but curiously confident – sure I could outlast any caprices of Dolly’s favour for as long as it suited me.

      The next day, somewhat later than I might have expected, I met Dolly Denisov.

      She was sitting curled up on one end of a great sofa, a bright silk bandeau round her head, a pink spot of rouge on each cheek and something dark about her eyes, puffing away at a cigarette and chattering at a great rate to Ariadne in her high-pitched, lilting voice. She leapt to her feet when she saw me and came forward holding out a delicate, jewelled hand.

      I don’t remember her opening words, I was too absorbed in her physical impact; I was swimming in a strange sea, excited and exhilarated. Then we were sitting down, side by side on the sofa, talking as if she was really interested in me.

      ‘And did you sleep? Visitors sometimes find our summer nights trying.’

      ‘I did find

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