Gradually the guests assembled, while at every vantage point there were crowds of onlookers who had come out from Vilna to see the Emperor arrive. The band of the Imperial Guard played softly, hidden amongst the trees surrounding the lawn; the pale, impermanent evening sky was reflected in the wide reaches of the river, while on the horizon the piled clouds rose up like fantastic mountains, rimmed with fire from the hidden sunset.
The Emperor arrived at last, dressed in the uniform of the Semionovsky Guards; tall, handsome, fair, and charming. The assembled crowds cheered lustily, and he acknowledged them with a graceful wave of the hand before he made the rounds of his assembled guests, with a pleasant word for everyone, tilting his head in that way he had which, though it was only because he was deaf in one ear, made him look so boyish and approachable.
The band struck up for a polonaise, and the Emperor offered his arm to General Bennigsen’s pretty young wife, who was acting as hostess for the evening in the Empress’s absence. When they had made the first circuit, other couples followed them on to the floor, and Nikolai smiled at Anne and said, ‘Shall we?’
‘Gladly,’ Anne said, looping up her train. It was a delightful thing to be dancing with her lover under the open sky, surrounded by sweet-smelling flowers, and the beautiful colours of the gowns and jewels and uniforms. She thought of that other alfresco ball, long ago at Chastnaya; dancing with Seryosha, and Nasha sitting with the musicians and playing the hurdy-gurdy; but she couldn’t be sad, not tonight.
At the end of the first dance, Prince Volkonsky claimed Anne from Nikolai, an honour she would have been happy to dispense with. The Emperor danced with Madame de Tolly, and Nikolai offered his hand to Madame Balashov, wife of the Minister of Police, a dumpy little woman who looked as though she would have felt more comfortable wearing a peasant scarf than the heavy diamond tiara which flashed in her rather coarse hair.
At the end of the second dance, Prince Volkonsky escorted Anne off the floor, bowed, and walked over to the Emperor, presumably to advise him on his choice for the third. Anne saw His Majesty’s eyes come round to her; he murmured something to Volkonsky, and she saw the Prince reply with a brief shake of the head. She turned her face away, her cheeks glowing. Had she been Nikolai’s wife, his status on the Emperor’s staff would have required the Emperor to dance with her next; but he could not dance with an adulteress. The Prince was still talking, but the Emperor, perhaps feeling unhappy himself about the situation, silenced him with a gesture, and walked away to approach, to the surprise of everyone, the young daughter of a local landowner.
But Nikolai was beside Anne, taking her hand with a pressure of sympathy and leading her back to the floor.
‘Don’t mind it, my darling,’ he said. ‘It’s not important.’
‘No, of course not,’ she said; but as they danced he could see the brightness of her eye and the warmth of her cheek. This was not how it should be. As a young girl, she had dreamed as all girls did of her first ball, of falling in love, of her marriage, of the subsequent glories and social triumphs which were her birthright. Her father’s death had robbed her of her girlhood; and love had come too late, and in the wrong guise. What would Papa think of her now? she wondered. Would he disapprove, or understand? Suddenly she remembered his voice, speaking to her after some childhood disappointment, the nature of which she couldn’t now remember: ‘If we can’t do better, we must make the best of it.’ She had a great deal to be thankful for: let her never forget that. She smiled up at Nikolai to show she was happy, and he smiled too, relieved. He had particularly wanted her to enjoy this evening.
After the third dance the Emperor went into the house, and the senior members of the party followed him upstairs to the ballroom where there was an orchestra and more dancing, leaving the younger people to enjoy themselves more unrestrainedly in the open air. Later, supper was served outside on the lawn, and when Anne, on Kirov’s arm, followed the Emperor down into the garden again, she found that the stars had come out, and a sickle moon was rising.
It was not really dark – this was after all, midsummer – except under the shadow of the trees. It was warm, and the air was quite still – not a breath to make the coloured lamps flicker, or to stir the leaves on the orange trees. Nikolai fetched Anne a glass of champagne, and they wandered down the lawn towards the river. There was a scent of stock and jasmine, and the warm smell of bruised grass; the soft voices of the guests conversing and the muted clatter of cutlery was behind them; before them the murmur of the river. Its rapid flow parted round some little islands, dead black like cut-outs against the silvered water; the moonlight rippled like shaken silk, and just before the shadow of a rustic footbridge, there was a line of phosphorescence where the water broke over half-hidden rocks.
‘It’s all so beautiful – so peaceful,’ Anne sighed.
‘Idyllic,’ he suggested, and she heard the glint of laughter in his voice.
‘Laugh at me if you want,’ she said genially. ‘There’s something especially beautiful about tonight. It reminds me–’
‘Yes?’
‘It reminds me of one night at Schwartzenturm, when we stood on the terrace – after the picnic, the first time you took me to the waterfall. I don’t suppose you remember it,’ It wasn’t really a question, and he didn’t answer it as one. She went on, ‘You’d been telling me about the magic of Russia, how it got into everyone’s eyes and tangled their thoughts.’ She smiled reflectively. ‘I felt it, too – but I thought that you made it, especially for me.’
‘Didn’t I?’ he said, pretending to be disappointed. ‘You were impervious to me, then?’
‘Ah, never that! But there is something, isn’t there, about Russia, that isn’t anywhere else? I wasn’t wrong?’
‘No, love, you weren’t wrong,’ he said kindly. A moth blundered past on broad, soft wings, and alighted for a moment on one of the flowers in her hair – a rose, which the heat of the house had opened from a bud to half-blown. He put out a finger to touch it lightly, and it fluttered away, swerving towards the coloured glow of the lamps amongst the trees. ‘It isn’t all illusion,’ he said, almost to himself.
‘And even if – even if Bonaparte does invade, he can’t touch it, can he?’
She looked up at him anxiously, and he put out a hand to cup her cheek, loving her, wanting to preserve for her everything she found good and pleasant.
‘Whatever happens,’ he said, ‘it will still be here. Nothing good is ever truly lost. God sees to that.’
She lifted her face a little more, and he stooped his head to kiss her, let his mouth linger on hers, feeling her lips full and soft and ready, knowing she was his and would be his. Later tonight, when they were alone, at home…
There was a little disturbance nearby, and they broke apart unhurriedly and turned to look. There was a wicket gate into the garden from the road, guarded, in view of the Emperor’s presence, by a private of the Imperial Guard. He had come to attention, and challenged someone who had just ridden up, and a muted conversation was going on between them, as the newcomer apparently demanded admission, which the guard denied.