Garden of Venus (47 page)

To herself she mutters her bewilderment. Why look back? Why grow old before your time? Before death steals what is possible?

She counts her own years with reluctance. She may have turned forty-eight, but time has been kind to her. Time and her own skill of concealment. Not everything should be revealed. She would not go as far as Princess L who kept her slave hairdresser caged in her St Petersburg palace, but she does have her secrets.

The three years that passed after Felix’s funeral were not good. Yuri lingered in Tulchin for a while, lord of his Ukrainian estates. Not a role that suited him. If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t know the difference between a poplar and a cherry tree. Wouldn’t have the patience to check the accounts, review the leases, answer the petitions and requests. Would never ask himself why his own valet managed to give his two daughters a million
zloty
in dowry each. ‘Two million,’ she has pointed out, ‘is what you get from your estates in a year.’

She so easily could reduce him to tears. He would kneel at her feet, beg for forgiveness, swear he would never place a bet again. He swore by the holy icons, by his love for her, by his own son, while gamblers continued to flock to the Tulchin palace like crows to a carcass rotting in the steppes.

In the end, he too was relieved when his doctor ordered him to go south. Now, he may talk about their imminent marriage to her friends, but in his letters to her he is less courageous. He begs her to drop everything and to come to him, but he no longer believes she will. Mostly he thanks her for repairing what he had spoiled, for since he left his income has doubled. With this money she is paying off his old debts and sends him an allowance each month, which is always enough to cover even the most outrageous expenses his valet submits. She does not question how anyone can possibly need ten dozen new shirts, three months in a row.

From March to the end of August, she lives in the Tulchin palace, but she does not like it much. It is too big, too unruly. As often as she can, she takes the children and her guests to the summer palace in Uman, from where they make daily trips to Sophievka. For the winter they all move to St Petersburg, where she also keeps a house.

Her stepchildren have not given up. They are digging up lies and rumours, hoping to deprive her and her children of their meagre share of the Potockis’ fortune. Throw mud and some of it will stick, they believe. Throw enough and she will drown.

‘They want war,’ she says. ‘They’ll get war.’

A widow, she also says, knows the price of freedom.

Lord Alexander Hamilton Douglas likes to tell her that his forefathers were the Celtic rulers of the British Isles and that
makes him the only legal heir to the Scottish throne. He likes to stand behind her and twist her pearl necklace gently around her throat until she feels the beads begin to choke her. ‘You will kill me,’ he mutters into her ear.

‘In St Petersburg,
mon ami
,’ she tells him, ‘only fools trust fate.’

He no longer announces his presence, but takes his favourite seat in her salon, right by the samovar. He likes the way the water inside hums for it reminds him of the sound of wind on a Scottish moor. The servants no longer ask what he would like but bring him a shot of vodka on a silver tray. He likes it with a slice of black Russian bread and a pickle. ‘Just like the Russians do,’ he says, wiping his mouth. ‘Learn from the masters.’ The maids giggle every time he tries to catch his breath afterwards.

Once she had asked him to put on a mask and walk with her in the street at night. He grabbed her hand, when a woman stopped them. A woman wrapped in rags, with red cheeks, rouged by the cold, her breath smelling of vodka. ‘Great Lord,’ she muttered and grabbed onto the tails of his fur-lined coat. He gave her a rouble.

Monsieur Senator Novosilcov does not like Lord Douglas. ‘Cold like all Englishmen,’ he says. ‘I have to agree with His Majesty’s opinion that he is far too conceited.’

Of her St Petersburg friends Nicolai Nicolaievich Novosilcov is the most influential. He linked his fate with Tsar Alexander when His Majesty was still just the Grand Duke, living in fear of his demented father. Now he is reaping his rewards – he is a senator, a member of the Tsar’s inner council. Nothing is difficult for him, nothing impossible. He has already made her eldest son, Jan, his protégé and placed him in the Tsar’s service. Your boy will go far, he assures her.

Cher
Senator does not like Yuri, either, and is very
pleased that young Count Potocki has left for warmer countries. Men take advantage of her, he explains. They avail themselves of her warmth and kindness, her generous spirit, and squander it all in the end. ‘This fool will gamble you away, if you let him,’ he warns her. ‘His Majesty has little patience with him.’

His jealousy touches her. It is so solid, it could be carved like stone.

Tonight I shall tell everyone that I’m indisposed
, she writes to him.
I
shall refuse all invitations. Please come as soon as the children are asleep. The servants will show you to my boudoir
.

‘This is the way I want it,’ she tells him, placing his trembling hand on her breasts. She laughs when he blushes. She laughs when he kneels at her feet and presses his lips on her hand.

St Nicholas, she tells him, has always been her favourite saint.

Nicolai Nicolaievich likes to enlighten Countess Potocka in the ways of the world, dispel her delightful naiveté, and reveal to her the true nature of power. Some corridors of power have to be trodden with caution. Appearances matter, but alliances matter more, the right alliances, well maintained. In the courts of St Petersburg, he tells her, the Tsar’s word is all that counts.

‘You are right about Yuri,
mon cher ami
. His soul is so weak. I tremble at the sight of a letter from him. And about Lord Douglas.’

‘I hear he is being recalled by his King,’ Nicolai Nicolaievich says with a smirk. ‘His mission here has not been too successful, I’m afraid. I wonder if His Majesty should not be told that he should thank
you
for it.’

The art of interpretation, he tells her, is the art of making sense of what may, otherwise, be overlooked. Any
messenger knows that. Countess Potocka has to make sure His Imperial Majesty knows of the vile nature of her stepchildren’s conduct. Their efforts to take away her good name, to declare her marriage
null
, to make her children bastards. To deny her grief over her husband’s death, grief His Majesty should be reminded of.

Making sure cher Senator sees tears in her beautiful eyes, she thanks him for his advice. He is right in everything he says. In this cynical world, sometimes a helpless soul finds its guardian angel.

‘The children adore you, Nicolai Nicolaievich. Yesterday Alexander said he wanted to grow up to be just like you. I asked him why. Because, he said, Nicolai Nicolaievich has a good heart.’

Would infatuation, she thinks, be enough? To know what a man wants is the secret to everything. Really wants, she thinks. Senator Nicolai Nicolaievich Novosilcov is not a rich man. To maintain his position he has to keep a house at a proper level.

She writes to him:

The afternoon did not promise to be anything out of the ordinary. The voices from behind the curtain ceased, and the musicians started with a potpourri for violin with themes from Rossini. The countess, Mademoiselle Romanowicz told them, had liked what they had played the day before, especially the sarabande. She was quieter, too. Other than an occasional groan no sound reached them.

They could always count on Mozart. Or
Komm Hoffnung
.

They could smell her illness. The sour odour of infirmity, the attar of roses, the thick, dust-filled smell of the bedding that had not been aired. Two mattresses had already been burnt for the blood.

‘Perhaps we should try Marais after all,’ the violinist said, even though he had opposed this choice before.

‘We can try,’ the pianist said.

They played one of the
pièces de violes
. Then another one. They had played together for the last six weeks, and the practice had worked its magic. The music that had once started timidly was now strong, their sound more and more generous and vibrant.

The singer was late. Her absence was a relief, and the musicians exchanged gleeful looks every time their eyes wandered to the empty chaise longue where Frau Hellmann liked to recline, awaiting her turn. ‘Making sure we get a good look at her feet,’ the violinist laughed, with a touch of malice.

They were still absorbed in the music when the door opened. At first they expected the singer, but she would have walked in briskly, without hesitation, and whoever it was just stood there.

The violinist turned back first and saw that someone was pushing a young man forward. The man stood in the
open doorway, flushed, uncertain what to do next. A black silk scarf was tied around his eyes. A strikingly handsome man, the violinist would always remember, in the uniform of the Berlin guard. He had a classical jaw, a narrow nose, a wave of thick, blond hair over his forehead and the body of a Greek hero.

They stopped playing. The young man removed his blindfold and tucked it inside his guard’s jacket, opening it at the top. The candlelight made him blink, but he was already smiling in anticipation. Obviously the divine guard was no stranger to such sweet mysteries.

‘Come here,’ a voice commanded from behind the curtain.

The man gave the musicians a quick look of victory and took a few steps forward. The curtain opened, held by an invisible hand. The musicians could see the empire bed covered by a golden throw. The countess was lying down, propped on several pillows. Her face, in its deathly pallor, seemed of another world.

The young man turned his head toward them, as if wanting to check what they thought of it all. His blue eyes narrowed, and he smiled with consternation. Obviously he was expecting someone else to greet him.

‘Come here,’ the countess said, motioning him closer. The violinist would swear afterwards that the dying countess was devouring the man with her eyes.

The young man took a few steps toward her and, before the curtain closed behind him, the violinist saw that the man was transfixed by the sight, more like a statue than a man of flesh and blood.

‘
Merci
…’ the violinist heard the countess whisper, before they began another piece.

Later, when he told this story in Berlin taverns, the violinist would add what the whole of Berlin was whispering about. The young man he had seen was Polish. Captain
Mycielski, the most handsome of the Berlin guards. All the French doctor ever told him was that someone, a beautiful lady, wanted to see him. A lady who did not wish to be known. This is why he was taken for a long, mysterious journey through Berlin, in a closed carriage. He was blindfolded all that time, left to wonder what manner of sweet surprises awaited him. He wondered which one of his mistresses had come up with this delightful plot, toying with his desire. Hiding from a jealous husband, perhaps, as she summoned him to a place of love.

The carriage stopped and he was led upstairs. He was still blindfolded and didn’t know where he was until a hand pushed him through the half-open door. He saw he was in a magnificent salon, divided by a burgundy velvet curtain with golden tassels. It was then that he was asked to enter.

A beautiful Polish countess – Berlin gossips repeated with gasps of disbelief, sending the story off on its rounds as far away as St Petersburg – a few steps away from eternity, wanted to lay her eyes on a handsome man one more time in her life.

She can hear the music, coming from the garden. The musicians are cleverly hidden in the bushes, behind the table set for tea. Sweet, soothing music, rises and falls like waves in the sea.

The afternoon in Sophievka, speckled with sunlight. They have all come here from the summer palace in Uman, to see her garden. The meadow has been freshly mowed, if she bends she can see the cropped blades. Smell too the sweet aroma of drying grass and clover. From the distance she can hear the sound of scythes being sharpened on whetstones.

They are all there, waiting for her: the children with their governesses, l’abbé Chalenton and the guests. Count Kapodistrias who keeps asking her to help him get a position at the Russian court. ‘Russia will always be at war with the Turks,’ he assures her passionately, kissing her hand every time she promises to do all she can, whisper a word into His Majesty’s ear. Isn’t He showing her His benevolence in her troubles? Isn’t He helping her defend her inheritance when her stepsons challenged Count Yuri’s last will? Surely the influence she has over His Imperial Majesty cannot be discounted. ‘We, the Greeks, have to remember where our hopes are. Our fatherland needs us.’

‘You overestimate my abilities, my dear friend,’ she tells him. ‘I merely amuse and intrigue, and His Imperial Majesty likes to be flattered. A few words against me could turn him away from me.’

‘I do not believe it.’

‘You do not wish to believe it. You wish to be deceived.’

What a tedious lover he has become. Where is that gaiety that captivated her once, the days when he amused her with the gossip, her surprise at seeing him climb up the wall to her bedroom window? The Greek songs he sang for her and the children.