Andy Drummond - Novgorod the Great

Why two cover pictures?

On the right, the rather elegant cover of the first edition shows a detail from Levitan's Evening Bells (1892).

The book is now available in a new edition. This can be bought on Amazon, where there is also a Kindle edition, for those allergic to paper.

On the left, selected for the second edition, the cover is a detail from a picture entitled Dacha at Dusk (1890) by Isaak Levitan (1860-1900), the great Russian landscape artist.
Click on either of the pictures to view them in more detail.

What's the book about?

Slightly dodgy 1745 map of Novgorod the Great (ACTUAL north is at the south-west point of the pretty compass...) - click to view full-size

Novgorod the Great, ancient city of a thousand saints, August 1833. A young widow and a prosperous merchant encounter each other by chance in an inn kept by a man whose antipathy to all guests is matched only by his violent loathing of poets. But during a night spent in each other's company, filled with dawning hope, revelation, unfortunate accidents and pickled eggs, several remarkable stories unfold.

The story of John Cochrane, pedestrian traveller extraordinaire, and deceased husband of the young widow Ksenia; of his infamous father, who spent his life defrauding governments and upsetting Napoleon; of Ksenia Loginova's perilous 6,000 mile journey across Siberia and the unwelcome attentions of a troubadour; of the merchant Horatio who reflects on love, slavery and arithmetic. Among other matters discussed at length in the small hours of the night are carnivorous Colombian elephants, the questionable motives of travellers, and the impatience of Chernobog, Master of the Infernal Darkness.

Why did I want to write this?

Portrait of Mrs Cochrane - aka Ksenia Loginova - made in London ca. 1824 - click to view full-size

Why indeed?
Three things attracted me to this story: firstly, the incredible pedestrian journey made by Commander John Cochrane, from Dieppe to Kamchatka and back; secondly, the equally breathtaking venture of young Ksenia Loginova ("Mrs Cochrane"); and thirdly, I have always wanted to write a love story. (Yes, really - I'm just that kinda guy.)

What fascinated me most about the story of John Cochrane is his matter-of-factness about the most horrendous disasters he meets on his journey - from the loss of his trousers to the impending loss of his life in a wilderness of icy rivers and plummeting temperatures. A close second as a curiosity is his treatment of his new wife - "Mrs Cochrane" is mentioned a couple of times in passing in the course of several hundred pages, but no mention is made of her given name, nor is there any record of how she reacted to the grim return-journey across Siberia. This bizarre treatment of the poor girl led me to thinking: what did happen to those brave explorers' wives who were left behind - in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, and, almost certainly, beyond? This book is a fictional attempt to answer that question.

It must be noted that I have absolutely no evidence, not even the very slightest suggestion, that Ksenia Loginova behaved in any way improperly during her life. But, if I'd been her...

It is 200 years since John Dundas Cochrane set off from Calais on his lengthy pedestrian journey. Click here to access a celebratory article in the Sunday Herald...

The Chapters

her first husband's peculiarly becoming nakedness
a perpetuity of sloth, ignorance and bigoted superstition
he frequently mistook a laxative for an aphrodisiac
never wear right and left shoes
at the sight of the inn-keeper's daughter, he recovers his appetite
he vacates his marriage-bed for the honoured guest
a couple of restless hours on a bed of moss
she follows the devil through the closing door
an old gentleman bleached by the shadow of death
the endless road and the tyranny of the coach
her sad acquaintance with men
her mother advised her that a woman needs have several husbands
in spite of his teeth, he was still a Frenchman
he speaks of the nocturnal secrets of his harem
no blanket - a great oversight in a Siberian winter
never mind London, he said, help me to piss
he talks blithely of revolution as if it were of no consequence
the passage of large armies of mice
liberty ! - the cry of the Frenchman and the end of all honour
he found the life of a troubadour most desirable
Lord Byron swam the Hellespont, and John Cochrane the Okhota
they pick up a pen and cast down autocracy
frequently, truth is a libel. the greater the truth, the greater the libel
she considers marriage; he considers escape
if one sleeps on a raised bedstead, the alligators will not carry you off
a large snake, whose sting is instant death
the free enjoyment of a passion
I forwarded my wife on, in the charge of a Cossack
this man smells worse than the major's bed-pan
confound the key-hole, he exclaimed
'tis the colour they call black !
her beauty would much expose her
he prepares to talk long and loud of liberty
degeneracy, rhubarb and millions of squirrels
he took the only course open to an honourable man, and fled to Europe
the goat is the beast which most delights the ladies of Scotland
it was with some facility that he defrauded the French government
omelettes
the swaggering jacks in office
with these sentiments, he concluded his narration
the breakfast of Chernobog, master of the infernal darkness
an axe may strike more swiftly than a book
no sooner was the bottle empty than she fell to mourning
Vladimir Ivanovich, she cried, you have lost your mind
it was, unfortunately, a very empty boast
he finished - as all men do - with a great deal of noise
the tomb belched forth smoke and fire
her husband is engaged in the measurement of the Black Sea