Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [317]
There was indeed. For here was European elegance blended with true Russian sumptuousness. There were huge halls of multicoloured marbles, rooms decorated with jasper and agate; there was even, unique in all the world, a room whose walls were entirely made of amber. The magnificent parquet floors used dozens of woods. And everywhere was the gold that Rastrelli loved, set off with alabaster, lapis, deep reds and dazzling blues, in such brilliant profusion that even visitors from the greatest courts in Europe gasped. How should it be otherwise when this was the capital of the vast Eurasian empire, which could take such treasures from lands which stretched from the Baltic shores all the way to the desert and mountains of the fabulous orient?
The Russian Versailles. Yet it was profoundly different from the great French palace. For where the French King had laid out his vast, proud palace and park with a cold classical geometry, this gorgeous Russian palace was essentially simple. It was a long, brightly painted house in the forest. That was all. Despite its magnificence, there was a charming humility about the place, as though to say: Man is still dwarfed, under this sparkling northern sky and this ever-receding horizon, here at the corner of the endless plain. In this, the rococo Catherine Palace was still entirely Russian.
‘State Councillor Bobrov.’ They gave him directions immediately, and Alexander entered boldly. Yet all the same, he could not help feeling a sense of mortification as he made his way through the huge, gilded halls. With every step, a little voice, long smothered, seemed to say: ‘This should have been yours, not his.’
For the man he had come to see was young Platon Zubov – the Empress Catherine’s new lover.
How inscrutable, indeed, was fate. The very position he had once aspired to occupy now belonged to a handsome young man in his early twenties, who was vain, shallow and ambitious. He was so obvious about it all. Nobody liked him. Yet the whole court sensed – perhaps the empress also knew – that in the autumn of her life, this young lover would be her last.
And this was the young man whose favour Alexander had, for some time, been trying to cultivate. It had not been pleasant. But what else do you do, when you’ve got a family, he told himself. A little while ago he had actually been very useful to the young favourite, hoping to build up a debt of gratitude with him in the future. Now, in this present crisis, it seemed time to cash in the debt at once. That was what he was counting on today.
The pavilion rooms in which the young man was holding court had been built onto one end of the palace, together with a long gallery, by Catherine’s Scottish architect Cameron. It was beautifully designed – smaller in scale but in the style of a sumptuous Roman palace, with a Roman bath house underneath. Before the doorway of one of the rooms stood a crowd of people: venerable courtiers, rich landowners, important military men. Three years ago they would not have looked at Zubov: now they waited meekly for admittance to the favourite. It should have been his – Alexander shut out the thought and sent in his name. As the door opened, he heard laughter inside.
He was only kept waiting an hour before they let him in.
The room was splendid, done in Pompeian style, with severe Roman furniture. Young Zubov himself stood in the middle of the crowded room, smiling. For his amusement, he had dressed himself in a Roman toga that day: and, indeed, with his classically perfect face, the vain young man looked very well in this dress. Holding his hand was a monkey.
‘My dear Alexander Prokofievich!’ His large eyes seemed surprised but delighted to see the modest State Councillor. ‘What brings you here?’
This was the moment. Great men easily forget they owe favours, but Bobrov did not give him the slightest chance. ‘Why naturally,’ he replied, ‘I came here to congratulate