It all looked as little like a hospital as was possible. In fact, Anne thought painfully, it was a prison. Here Rose was imprisoned in the cage of her illness, and the staff who had too little to do to attend her few wants were her gentle gaolers.
Mile Parmoutier, forewarned in some way of her approach, met Anne at the door of the day-nursery, the large, handsome apartment in which Rose spent most of her time. It was from this room that glass doors led on to the balcony, from which one could look across the English lawns to the plantation which divided Byeloskoye from the park of the next-door palace. It was all so verdant, you would hardly know you were in the city at all.
There were wheels fixed to the legs of Rose’s bed, so that she could be moved from room to room without having to lift and carry her – a process which caused her some pain. Grubernik, the doctor in charge of the case, had advised that she should be given as much stimulation as possible, by changing her position, placing different objects within her field of vision, talking, even reading to her. Only by means of continuous stimulation to her mind, and massage and forcible exercise to her limbs, could she be helped towards normality.
So in the mornings her bed was wheeled from the night-nursery to the day-nursery, and moved from one part of the room to another during the day. Parmoutier had carte blanche to ask for anything she needed – books, toys, clothes, furniture, food – to help her in taking care of Rose. She was a dedicated woman, and spent almost every waking moment with her charge. Anne was aware in the back of her mind how ironic it was that she, who had dedicated years of her life to the upbringing of another person’s daughters, should employ someone else to do the same thing for her own child. She thought perhaps Parmoutier also considered it ironic and regarded her employer oddly from time to time; but Anne knew really that this was just morbid imagination. Women in her position in society did not look after their own children – any more than Irina had, or why had Anne been brought to Russia at all?
‘Madame,’ Parmoutier said now, coming forward eagerly.
‘How is she?’ Anne asked abruptly. It was a question that was hardly ever answered directly: Rose’s condition did not vary from day to day.
‘I was just going to read to her,’ Parmoutier said. ‘Perhaps you would like to do it instead, Madame?’
Anne looked past her into the room. The floorboards were painted amber, and when the sun shone on them, they glowed like honey. The walls were papered with a gold and white stripe, and the furniture was French mahogany, the seats upholstered in straw-coloured silk. On the far side, by the open glass doors, was the only jarring note – the narrow, wheeled bed with the embroidered Chinese silk counterpane on which lay what looked like a badly-made little wooden effigy.
Anne’s heart contracted with love and pity, as it always did, at the sight of her child. Rose, she cried inwardly, how could God have done this to you? The child had been dressed that day, by her nurse or by her governess, Anne didn’t know which, in a loose-fitting robe of the fashionable bleu d’extase – a choice which might have been a horrible and spiteful jest, but in fact had been generated by uncritical love. Suddenly Anne could not bear the presence of the governess, or of anyone of Rose’s court. The quality of their pity tore through her defences like claws.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I’ll read to her. Give me the book and go away. I want to be alone with her.’
She crossed the room to the bedside, and drew up the chair which had been placed ready, and sat looking at her child. She remembered Sashka at that age; and Nasha, just a little older, when she had first seen her, a little bright-eyed tangle-head in a nightshirt. Rose was lying on her back, propped from the shoulders upwards by a heap of pillows, her head turned towards the window. Her pinched face was white, with the almost transparent pallor of the invalid; in her broad, high forehead the blue veins were visible under the thin skin. Her eyelids were blue, too, as if touched by a delicate brush, and her eyelashes were long and tipped with gold. Her left eye was a pale, bright blue, the pupil seeming unusually large and black; her right eye was mostly white, turned so far away that the iris was almost hidden.
She lay motionless as no child ever should, her large head and brittle limbs giving her the look of an unfledged bird, the sort one finds on the ground in early summer, fallen from the nest before life has fairly begun. Her hair, the colour of cooked barley, lay thin and soft against her skull, brushed to a shine by some loving hand, tied back from her face with a bit of blue ribbon to match her gown.
Anne’s throat tightened painfully. A little girl with a ribbon in her hair: it was such a universal thing! But this little girl would never prance in front of a mirror to admire herself, try on her mother’s shoes and pretend to be a lady. She might die; Anne had wished often enough that she would; but now, today, after what had happened, she found she could not want that any more. Her child, her only child, grown and nurtured within her body, part of her; whatever there was of life, Rose should have her share. Life was strong, determined. Against all expectations, today it had nourished her, woken her from sleep – who could say it would not happen also for the child?
‘I love you, Rose,’ she said. The sound of her own voice startled her. You shall live, she went on, but inwardly. Forgive me, my darling girl – I haven’t known how to give you anything. The thought stopped her, made her examine it, original in its truth. Here was unpalatable fact. She had felt rejected by her daughter’s immobility, lack of response, by the impossibility of doing anything for her. But now, today, it was different. She was richer; something was unlocked, something healed. Today – being with Nikolai – had helped. Loving and being loved had shown her how to do it. Whatever happened afterwards, today had been important: she had learned a little of how to give.
So much of giving, she thought, was a selfishness; a desire for recognition. When we say I love you, it is not a statement but a question: Do you love me? She took Rose’s hand, and the little cold bird-claw lay unresponsive in hers, neither accepting nor rejecting. I love you, Rose, she said inwardly. I love you enough not to need a response. I love you enough to give, even if the gift will never be acknowledged. Live, and grow into a lady, with ribbon in your hair, and the kiss of the sun against your skin.
My love, little bird. She kissed Rose’s cheek, hung over her, smiled and talked to her, watching for any sign of reaction. Rose lay mute, unmoving; but perhaps, Anne thought, in some way, the poor parched soul trapped within, or hovering near, might hear and know, and grow a little fuller, and feel a little peace.
She did not hear the dressing-bell, and since Mile Parmoutier didn’t like to disturb her, Pauline had to come upstairs and fetch her. As a consequence, Basil was ready before her, and waiting in the drawing-room with a glass of wine in his hand by the time Anne appeared.
She began to apologise, but Basil, seeming unusually genial, said, ‘There’s no need. I understand you were visiting the nursery. That duty must come before everything.’
She eyed him cautiously, wondering why he looked so pleased with himself. Was there a trap here?
‘Have you had an agreeable day?’ she asked.
‘Most agreeable,’ he said with a private smile of satisfaction. ‘Vanya Golitsin took me along to the Grand Théatre to watch the rehearsal of the play, and afterwards we entertained the entire cast at the Muscovy Club.’