Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [244]
It was an extraordinary collection of buildings. For generations a summer residence of the Tsars, Alexis had added to its stone churches and bell towers a large, sprawling set of wooden houses and halls as exotic and striking to the eye as the twisted cupolas of St Basil’s Cathedral in Red Square. Great bulbous domes, high tent roofs with windows peeping out, huge onion-shaped gables and massive exterior staircases – the place was a riot of Russian forms taken to extremes. Like much of the church architecture of Alexis’s reign, it was exuberant and ornamental. It was as though, seeing their own architecture for the first time with partly westernized eyes, some of the builders in Russia had decided to take their traditional forms and play with them, twisting them, piling one next to another, until the final result was a tremendous, exotic stage-set, a gigantic Muscovite honeycomb imbued with an impressive, rich heaviness.
And it was on a sunny summer’s day, walking in the gardens before Kolomenskoye Palace, some years into Tsar Fedor’s reign, that Nikita encountered Peter Tolstoy.
Why was it that he disliked the fellow so much? Tolstoy was a strong man – no doubt about it – with heavy black eyebrows and piercing blue eyes. He was intelligent. Perhaps too intelligent, perhaps cunning. He was about ten years younger than Nikita, but he knew more – and both of them were aware of it. His family’s no better than mine, Nikita thought irritably; yet something about Tolstoy told Nikita that he was going to the top.
When, therefore, young Tolstoy started to walk along beside him, Nikita experienced a wave of irritation. As far as he could, without being rude, he tried to ignore him. He only vaguely listened to what was being said. And so three or four minutes passed before, to his surprise, he suddenly realized that the damned fellow was talking about Eudokia, his own wife.
He started to listen. What was Tolstoy saying? Schismatics? Danger? Now he really began to pay attention, and what he heard made him tremble.
For it seemed that Eudokia had been talking. Behind closed doors, to other women, thank God, but she had been talking all the same: arguing, in her usual way, in favour of the Raskolniki.
And very quietly, like the smooth courtier and diplomat he was, Tolstoy was warning him about it. Women’s talk of course, but things were being said. If such things came to the wrong ears … ‘We men are always the last to know,’ Tolstoy remarked with a smile. But it seemed all Moscow knew. And as Nikita looked across at the other’s calm, impassive face, he was filled with a sudden fury. Why was Tolstoy saying all this – as an act of kindness? Or was it a threat – a piece of information he could use at a future date? Was the fellow trying to establish a hold over him for some reason? It wasn’t clear.
Worst of all, he was being made to look a fool. He had little doubt that Tolstoy was speaking the truth. Eudokia was disobeying him, and this young man was quietly telling him that he couldn’t control his own wife. Yet even then, he might have kept his temper, had it not been for one tiny thing.
The two men had paused in their walk. Nikita, full of resentment, had been staring at the ground when, feeling the other man watching him, he looked up into his face. And met Tolstoy’s eyes.
Nothing in the world is more unwise than to give an expressive look to a person one does not know very well. For it is sure to be misinterpreted, usually because the other sees therein the reflection of his own thoughts. So it was with Nikita and Tolstoy. By the look of worldly cynicism Tolstoy then gave Nikita, he had meant to convey: ‘Ah, my dear fellow, there’s no accounting for women’s chatter.’ But what Nikita saw was: ‘My God what a fool you are, and we both know it.’ It was the last straw. He exploded.
‘You vile young rascal,’ he abruptly burst out. ‘Do you think I haven’t always known you for what you are? If you want to spread gossip about my wife, you’ll find it rebounds