Empress of the Night by Eva Stachniak

Author:Eva Stachniak [Stachniak, Eva]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-385-67949-7
Publisher: Doubleday Canada
Published: 2014-03-24T16:00:00+00:00

The memory that comes is of an afternoon in Tsarskoye Selo, right after the lover’s hour. The Gallery is bathed in dappled sunlight. The black iron chairs are set in a circle; the hot fragrant tea is sweetened with Astrakhan honey, the same the cook has poured on cucumber slices. Platon is sitting beside her, resplendent in his silver-trimmed ensemble, a hint of black stubble on his chin.

Mulling over the memories of her pleasure?

Paul and Maria Fyodorovna have just joined them. On their scrubbed faces she can read the resolution to be agreeable, not to give the slightest offense. Paul declares the most recent renovations a vast improvement. “Less glitter, more elegance,” he says approvingly, seeing Elizabeth’s gilding gone, replaced by discreet Wedgwood braids. So much for the loyalty of a snatched child. The living Empress trumps the dead one.

Her daughter-in-law dutifully admires the statues in the Gallery. Demosthenes and Cicero, so thoughtful and beautifully serene, she exclaims. “No wonder the boys love playing here so much. I just hope they don’t cause any damage.”

The princes of the realm are not truant boys. They are never unsupervised. Ever since they were born, she, their grandmother, made sure of that. No matter how hard it is for her daughter-in-law to accept it, important lessons are best learned through play.

She won’t say it, though. No need to spoil a pleasant afternoon.

The conversation moves on to a painting she has just bought. A bunch of tulips arranged in a crystal vase, their white petals streaked with yellow and pink. One of the petals has fallen off already onto the lace-trimmed tablecloth. A dewdrop glitters on it. A vanitas painting, the dealer called it, portraying the transience of life. In the background, on the same tablecloth, one can discern the shapes of an hourglass and a crumbled piece of bread.

Le Noiraud shifts in his chair. There is a twinkle in his eyes, a promise of mischief to liven up what he considers a boring moment. From his chest pocket he extracts Holberg’s Moral Thoughts. He has taken to opening the book seemingly at random, though Catherine knows he has marked the passages with pieces of ribbon, for different occasions. Red for a warning on some human frailty. Yellow for a clever and cynical twist. Green for a hopeful turn of thought.

You are happy if you imagine yourself happy, he reads aloud.

“Is that what you do?” she asks, smacking him playfully with her fan. “Just imagine yourself happy?”

Philosophy and wit may not be Le Noiraud’s strong suits, but he will manage. He will extricate himself with his usual charm. Some flowery declaration will make her laugh.

She can already see a twinkle in her lover’s eye.

But this is not what happens next, on that dappled afternoon, with the busts of ancient sages looking at them with their marble eyes.

Paul, her pug-nosed son, is flapping his arms, a big marsh bird gathering his strength. “I fully agree with Platon Alexandrovich!” he declares.

Le Noiraud leans back in his chair.

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