Shades of the Hermitage Shades of the Hermitage Autumn. I have a part-time job at the Archive, sweeping the street outside the Archive building. Across the road is the famous museum library entrance with its atlantes. To the left, behind high railings of forged iron, can be glimpsed one of the museum's inner courtyards - a long narrow space which is always half dark, its only area of brightness being amongst the glass panels on the far side where the river, not yet settled for winter, sends up a steely gleam. Rain has fallen.
Bright leaves cover the wet tarmac, like gold coins lying on black velvet.
I sweep them, with the natural action of a skilled jeweller, into the tin box of my scoop. Seventeen years ago, I remember, I had a job doing more or less the same thing, only on the other side of the street. I owed my position in the maintenance side of the Hermitage to a handsome young man, Yevgeny, brother of a poet and son of an artist. I had made several visits to my future employers but, in accordance with ritual procedure, had been sent away each time. The correct way to behave was to show particular persistence.