The Summer Day is Done (38 page)

Tatiana interrupted her reading to exclaim, ‘Oh, the beast!’

I’m sending you a photograph. It was taken by the boy who delivers our groceries. That way my Aunt Charlotte, Karita and I could all get in. The river is at the bottom of the lawn. You can see part of the lawn in the photograph but you can’t see the river. It was either the house or the river, but not both, so I decided you’d prefer to see the house, as one river is often just like another. It’s the water, you know. The house is called White Cottage. It could really be called Why White Cottage as there’s not much white about it. Ducks sometimes congregate at the bottom of the lawn. Karita seems to be a duck lover. She doesn’t mind their quacking. I tell her not to give them food as they’ll only quack for more
.

When my Aunt Charlotte saw this photograph she said I looked like our postman off duty. She said it’s regrettably bohemian for a gentleman to be photographed without a collar and tie
.

Karita is splendid. She’s quite at home, but always the busiest of us, always finding something dreadfully urgent to do, so whenever I’m home it’s better for me to keep out of the way if I don’t want to be swept up. I go and sit in a wheelbarrow or something equally chastening. Karita has become quite fond of Aunt Charlotte. She isn’t so sure about England. She says it could be greatly improved if everyone spoke Russian, she is sure nobody can really understand English in the way it’s spoken here. She speaks her own kind of English, which she says must be the proper one as she
learned it from me, so why doesn’t everyone else speak like she does? I’m in a constant state of apology, either for my countrymen’s strange English or for being in the way. Why White Cottage isn’t quite as big as Livadia, as you can see
.

The British army isn’t terribly busy at the moment but there are comings and goings at weekends, when everyone likes to get home for Sunday tea. I work at the War Office in London, although I feel I’m on a shelf there. I’m regularly dusted down. At times I feel rather like a piece of old pottery. Karita says the time to worry will be when I look like it
.

I’m taking her to the races tomorrow. She’s in a dreadful state of suspense, mainly because she can’t make up her mind what kind of hat to wear. Tell Olga how enchanted we’d be if she’d send one of hers, the one she wore when we lunched in Yalta. That was a lovely hat. Tell Anastasia I’ve found no one here who can slave half as well as she can. I’ve only the fondest recollections of her unimaginable servitude, which was so unobtrusive I never really knew when it was happening
.

‘Yes, I was rather invisible,’ said Anastasia proudly at this point.

Tell Marie I’m going to mention her to the Prince of Wales. That is, I will if I ever meet him. I hear he’s looking for someone exceptionally eligible and exceptionally nice. Tell Olga and Tatiana I miss them very much, I miss all of you very much. I think of all of you every day. I am, yours affectionately, Ivan. In English it’s John
.

‘Aleky,’ said Tatiana, ‘what did you think of that?’

‘It’s a nice letter, isn’t it?’ said Alexis.

‘Divine,’ said Marie, ‘he says I’m very exceptional.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you’ll get over that,’ said Anastasia, ‘it’s nothing to worry about, Marie.’ Adopting a pose of humility she went on, ‘I suppose
I
shall always be some good man’s slave, I suppose that’s what I’m best at. It’s very chastening. What’s chastening?’

‘Sitting in a wheelbarrow,’ said Olga, casually borrowing the snapshot from Alexis.

Later, after they had all dispersed and left Alexis in the care of his nurse, Tatiana returned to his room.

‘Alexis,’ she said, ‘shall we let Olga have the letter? She’s very good at being tidy and keeping things properly, while you’ve always so much to catch up with when you’re better.’

‘Oh, yes, let Olga look after it,’ he said in his agreeable way, ‘she’ll be sure not to lose it. When I’m better she can help me write an answer to Ivan.’

‘She’ll love helping you with that,’ smiled Tatiana. She lightly ruffled his hair, then sought out Olga to give her the letter and snapshot. ‘Olga, Alexis said you’re to have it to keep it safe for him.’

Olga was warm with pleasure. She hugged her sister.

‘Tasha, how sweet you are to me. Thank you, darling. I’ll keep it very safe and we can read it again to Alexis whenever he wishes.’

‘It was sent to Alexis,’ said Tatiana, ‘but it was written to you. It belongs to you. Aleky won’t mind.’

Left alone, Olga read the letter herself. It absorbed her, entranced her. It had come from England, where Great-Aunt Alix lived, and it had come from the place where her parents had spent their most blissful and carefree days. She put it carefully between the leaves of her Shakespeare, with the photograph.

The Russian Empire was sinking in a morass of its own inertia. In the arts, in music, poetry, literature and ballet, Russia was pre-eminent. In progress she stood still, in system she remained archaic. What had been good enough for the sixteenth-century Boyars was good enough for the twentieth century too.

The Tsar’s wiliest minister, Count Sergius Witte, was out of office. He was sixty-five and had less than two years to live. He would be dead when Nicholas had his greatest need of him. Even now, such was the Tsar’s lack of faith in his own appointments that ministers came and went while still glowing from the honour of initiation. Few of them understood that under all the Tsar’s unfailing charm was his unfailing determination to preserve absolute autocracy. Yet, unable to make any man unhappy in his presence, Nicholas always asked for ministerial resignations by letter.

Kirby was not in Russia when the Imperial family went to Livadia that autumn.

Livadia was as remote as ever. Russians in their millions were more distrustful than ever of ministers, more trusting than ever of their Father Tsar’s intent to put things right. And at Livadia
the Tsar thought about his people, talked about his people, and played tennis.

Alexandra, withdrawing further into cosy seclusion, was content to devote herself to prayer and love. Love of husband, love of family, love of God.

For Olga, the sensitive one, Livadia was not quite the same. She joined with the others in their games, but she did not get as hilarious as they did. She sat often with her volume of Shakespeare, absorbed one minute in the complexities of plots within plots, dreaming the next with her eyes on the horizon.

Anastasia came dancing one day, waving a letter. She made for Alexis, the boy still with a slight limp.

‘It’s for you, Aleky, Mama asked me to bring it to you. It has a French stamp but it’s from Ivan Ivanovich, Mama says it is.’

Olga stiffened in her chair. She closed her Shakespeare, clasped it tightly. Alexis, as importantly as he could, opened the letter. But Tatiana did the reading. It was from Kirby to say he was with a British military mission in France, to tell Alexis he was vaguely busy at last and that the French 75 guns were masterpieces. They had so inspired him that he now knew his left from his right again. He wrote about France. There were some extraordinary creatures there in quite the most enormous hats. He had discovered they were women. Their gowns, he wrote, were enough to sweep the grass from the lawns of Livadia. They had great difficulty in climbing into carriages without hoisting their petticoats like sails.

Tatiana could not go on for laughter. Olga smiled stiffly.

Tatiana said, ‘Oh, the fickle wretch, I believe he’s been flirting with the ladies of Paris.’

‘He had better not,’ said Anastasia.

‘But is he coming to see us?’ said Marie. ‘What does he say about that?’

Kirby wrote that Karita had stayed in Walton with Aunt Charlotte, which was just as well as she would never believe what there was to see and would be confused for the rest of her life. The Parisian modes were incredibly voluminous and there was enough material in a lady’s dress to make a row of tents. One could hardly kiss any lady’s hand without being smothered by her skirts.

‘What a funny letter,’ said Alexis, ‘it’s all about ladies’ clothes.’

‘That’s for our benefit,’ said Tatiana.

Paris was very French, Kirby said.

‘That,’ said Olga, ‘is a most illuminating observation.’

‘Yes, who’d have guessed it?’ said Anastasia.

For his part, however, wrote Kirby, he would rather be at Livadia. One didn’t get smothered there. One might break one’s arm but that was due to carelessness, and one was subsequently looked after like a hero. There were slaves who, when they weren’t doing anything else, brought one cushions.

‘That’s me,’ said Anastasia proudly, ‘but I never brought him any cushions.’

‘It’s to tell you that next time you should,’ said Tatiana.

‘But is he coming here?’ asked Marie, fifteen and with eyes as blue as Olga’s.

Tatiana read swiftly on, murmuring the words to herself until she reached the final paragraph, which she read aloud.

I’m sending this letter to Livadia, assuming you’ll all be there. Had I been able to join you, with Her Imperial Highness’s blessing, how gladly I’d have come. How I envy you all, there is no place Karita and I talk more of than Livadia. I can see all of you there. Alexis, remember me to your sisters and tell Olga I wish her the happiest of birthdays. I love you all, think of you all. Perhaps I’ll see you at Livadia next year, if I may. If so, I’ll bring Karita. You are all as much in her thoughts as mine. God bless you all. Sincerely, Ivan
.

‘He isn’t coming,’ said Alexis in disappointment.

Olga’s eyes were dark.

You promised, oh, you promised.

A day or so later she helped Alexis compose a reply. Alexis found among other things that he was to pointedly ask Ivan when he was returning to Russia. He looked up to say that he supposed Ivan would probably be awfully busy with the British army. Olga remarked that as he had said in his previous letter that he wasn’t busy at all and was only spending his time in France watching ladies get into carriages with their sails flying, there was simply nothing she could think of to prevent him arranging a holiday at Livadia. Alexis said, ‘Good Lord,’ and wrote down that as Ivan wasn’t very busy why didn’t he come to Livadia.

Olga laughed when she read the sentence.

‘That is just like giving him a good talking-to, darling,’ she said.

Easter 1914 was hot, the forerunner of an ecstatically beautiful summer that invaded the whole of Europe. But Kirby still did not come to Livadia. Olga’s disappointment was intense. Worse, however, was the torment that came when she heard rumours that there might be a match between her and Edward, Prince of Wales. And what a match that would be, a union of mighty Empires. England was Russia’s new friend. Marriage between Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaievna and the Prince of Wales would make the countries harmonious allies. Edward was handsome, debonair, the most eligible man in Europe and the hope of every royal household with a daughter to spare.

Olga did not approach her parents or harass them in any way. She only waited. For days the rumours flew, growing louder, stronger. But neither Nicholas nor Alexandra spoke a word to her about them. Rumours were for ears that tingled to any social titbit. They were not for discussion. However, in the end Alexandra became aware of Olga’s strained look.

‘What is it, my love?’ asked Alexandra.

‘Mama,’ said Olga at last, ‘am I to be married?’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Alexandra. She put her hands on Olga’s shoulders, looked into the apprehensive blue eyes. ‘Darling, if we had arranged a marriage for you with each name that came with
each rumour, you’d have twenty husbands by now. I know nothing of any marriage and nor, I’m sure, does Papa. We know it will happen eventually but we’re in no hurry to precipitate it. My sweet, you would always be the first to know about such a matter, we would never discuss it without telling you and we would never make any arrangement that displeased you.’

The relief on Olga’s face was only too obvious, but all she said was, ‘Myself, I’m in no hurry at all.’

‘Sometimes,’ said Alexandra gently, ‘a girl thinks she’ll never be in either hurry or desire, that her ideal doesn’t exist. But she can change very quickly, darling. There, whatever happens, never believe that Papa and I would alone arrange a match for you. It would only be with your consent. We should not want you to marry anyone you didn’t love.’

Lenin was building his castles on mountains of ink. Trotsky was considering the likelihood of revolution by 1925, if things went reasonably well. Joseph Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili – so much a mouthful even by Russian standards that he called himself Stalin in the end – was recording assets and liabilities. Among these were a hundred million people, and when he had given them an hour’s thoughtful consideration he recorded seventy-five million as assets and twenty-five million as liabilities.

The Russian nobility, the Grand Dukes and Princes, still refused to make any real concessions. Unwilling to give up what they had in the
way of privilege and power, they were as deaf to the sound of approaching tumbrils as their French counterparts over a hundred years before. They applied the same logic. One either worked the people or beat them, either locked them up or shot them. That was the best solution for any crisis.

It never seemed to occur to Nicholas that this was the summary justice peasants received at the hands of aristocrats and landowners. He approved just deserts for revolutionaries and assassins, but it was unlikely that he believed the ordinary people suffered cruelties. In his gentleness, man’s inhumanity to man was out of his understanding. He could not, in any case, have conceived it existed in his beloved Russia.

It was a lovely day in June when Tsarism, Kaiserism, despotism and pomp reached the beginning of their end. With them were also to disappear magnanimity, graciousness and dreams. A Bosnian student, Gabriel Princip, killed the Archduke Franz Ferdinand of Austria and, with him, over eight million other men. Franz Ferdinand took about fifteen minutes to die. The others were spread over the next four years. The reactions of Germany, Austria, Russia, France and Britain ensured that Princip could look forward to an average of five thousand victims a day. Such figures were beyond the wildest dreams of the most ambitious anarchist. Many others have tried since but Gabriel Princip remains the greatest of the violent ones.