‘No, sir,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I mean yes, Your Majesty.’ I groaned inwardly, trying to make myself sound less ignorant. ‘I mean … I’m interested in what they say.’
The Tsar smiled for a moment, seemed almost about to laugh, but then his face clouded over and he leaned forward.
‘My cousin is very important to me, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he
announced. ‘But more than that, he is of extreme importance to the war effort. The measure of his loss would have been incalculable. You have the gratitude of the Tsar and all the Russian people for your actions.’
I felt it would be unworthy of me to protest any further and simply bowed my head in appreciation, holding it there for a moment before looking back up.
‘You must be tired, boy,’ he said then. ‘Take a seat, why don’t you?’
I looked around and a chair similar to the one in the outside corridor, but not quite as ornate as the one in which he sat himself, was standing behind me, so I sat down and immediately felt a little more relaxed. As I did so, I stole a quick glance around the room, not looking at the books now but observing the paintings on the walls, the tapestries, the objets d’art which sat on every available surface. I had never seen such opulence before. It was quite breathtaking. Behind the Tsar, just over his left shoulder, I saw the most extraordinary piece of ornamental sculpture and, despite my rudeness in staring, my eyes could not help but focus on it. The Tsar, taking note of my interest, turned around to see what had captured my attention.
‘Ah,’ he said, turning back and smiling at me. ‘And now you have noticed one of my treasures.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, trying my best not to shrug. ‘It’s just … I’ve never seen anything quite so beautiful.’
‘Yes, it is rather fine, isn’t it?’ he said, reaching across with both hands for the egg-shaped statue and placing it on the desk between us. ‘Come a little closer, Georgy. You may examine it in more detail if you wish.’
I pulled my seat forward and leaned in. The piece was no more than seven or eight inches in height, and perhaps half that distance in breadth, a gold and white enamelled egg, patterned with tiny portraits, supported by a three-sided eagle standing upon a red, bejewelled base.
‘It is what is known as a Fabergé egg,’ the Tsar told me. ‘The artist has traditionally presented one every Easter to my family, a new design every year with a surprise at its heart. It’s striking, don’t you think?’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ I said, desperate to reach out and touch the exterior but terrified to do so in case I damaged it in some way.
‘This one was given to the Tsaritsa and me two years ago, to celebrate the tercentenary of the Romanov reign. You see, the portraits are of the previous Tsars.’ He spun the egg around a little and began to point out some of his ancestors. ‘Mikhail Fyodorovich, the first of the Romanovs,’ he said, indicating a small, unimposing, wizened man with a peaked hat. ‘And here is Peter the Great, from a century later. And Catherine the Great, another fifty years hence. My grandfather, who I spoke of, Alexander II. And my father,’ he added, indicating a man almost exactly like the one who sat opposite me. ‘Alexander III.’
‘And you, sir,’ I remarked, pointing to the central portrait. ‘Tsar Nicholas II.’
‘Indeed,’ he said, apparently pleased that I had noticed him. ‘My only regret is that he did not add a final portrait to the egg.’
‘Of who, sir?’
‘My son, of course. The Tsarevich Alexei. I think it would have been quite fitting to see his face there. A testament to our hopes for the future.’ He considered this for a moment before speaking again. ‘And if I do this …’ He placed his hand on the top of the egg and carefully lifted the hinged lid, ‘you see the surprise which is contained within.’
I leaned forward again so that I was practically stretched across his desk and gasped when I saw the globe contained inside, the continents encased in gold, the oceans described by molten blue steel.
‘The globe is composed of two northern hemispheres,’ he told me and I could tell by his tone that he was delighted to have an
interested audience. ‘Here we have the territories of the Russias in 1613, when my ancestor Mikhail Fyodorovich acceded to the throne. And here,’ he continued, turning the globe over, ‘are our territories three hundred years later, under my own rule. Somewhat different, as you can see.’
I shook my head, lost for words. The egg was composed of such fine detailing, such exquisite design, that I could have sat before it all day and night and not have grown tired of its beauty. That was not to be, however, for after staring at the lands over which he reigned for a few moments longer, he replaced the lid on the egg and returned it to where it had stood on the table behind him.
‘So there we are,’ he said, bringing his hands together and glancing across at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s getting late. Perhaps I should tell you the other reason why I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Of course, sir,’ I said.
He looked at me for a moment as if he was determining on the correct form of words. His stare pierced me so deeply that I was forced to look away and my eye caught a framed photograph on his desk. He followed my glance there.
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding. ‘I suppose that is as good a place to start as any.’ He lifted the photograph and handed it to me. ‘You are familiar, I would assume, with the Imperial Family?’
‘I am aware of them, of course, sir,’ I said. ‘I have not had the honour—’
‘The four young ladies in that picture,’ he continued, ignoring me, ‘they are my daughters, the Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, Marie and Anastasia. They are growing into very fine young women, I might add. I am supremely proud of them. The eldest, Olga, is twenty years of age now. Perhaps we shall marry her soon, that is a possibility. There are many eligible young men among the royal families of Europe. It’s not possible at the moment, of course. Not with this blasted war. But soon, I think. When it is over. The youngest you see here is my own sweetheart, the Grand Duchess Anastasia, who is shortly to turn fifteen.’
I stared at her face in the portrait. She was young, of course, but then I was less than two years her senior. I recognized her immediately. She was the girl I had met at the chestnut stand earlier in the evening; the young lady who had looked up at me and smiled when she stepped from her boat an hour before. The one who had made me turn around in such a state of confusion, bewildered by my sudden rush of passion.
‘There were moments – I think I can confide this in you, Georgy – when I thought I was never to be blessed with a son,’ he continued, taking the frame off me and handing me a different one, in which a single portrait of a striking young boy had been placed. ‘When I thought Russia was never to be blessed with an heir. But happily, my Alexei was born to the Tsaritsa and me some eleven years ago. He’s a fine boy. He will be a great Tsar one day.’
I noted the cheerful countenance of the boy in the picture but was a little surprised by how thin he looked, how dark around the eyes. ‘I have no doubt of that, sir,’ I replied.
‘Naturally, there are many members of the Leib Guard who protect him on a daily basis,’ he said then, and to my mind he seemed to be struggling with his words a little, as if he was unsure how much he wanted to say. ‘And they take good care of him, of course. But I thought … perhaps someone a little closer to his age as a companion. Someone old enough and brave enough to protect him too, should the need arise. How old are you, Georgy?’
‘Sixteen, sir.’
‘Sixteen, that’s good. A boy of eleven will always look up to a lad your age. I think perhaps you might be a good role model for him.’
I exhaled nervously. The Grand Duke had mentioned something of this to me when he had visited my sick bed in Kashin, but I had doubted that such a task could possibly be entrusted to a
moujik
. It seemed so far beyond my expectations of the world that I was sure that at any moment I might wake up and discover that this had all been a dream, and that the Tsar, the Winter Palace
and all the glories contained therein, down to the beautiful Fabergé egg, would dissolve before my eyes and I would find myself on the floor in our Kashin hut once again, being kicked into consciousness by Daniil, demanding his breakfast.
‘I would be honoured, sir,’ I said finally. ‘If you think me worthy of the position.’
‘The Grand Duke certainly thinks you are,’ he said, standing up now, and of course I followed his example and stood too. ‘And I think you seem like a very respectable young man. I think you might perform well in the role.’ We walked towards the door and as we did so, he placed the Imperial hand upon my shoulder, sending a jolt of electricity through my body. The Tsar, the Lord’s own appointed, was touching me. It was the greatest blessing that I had ever received. He gripped the bone tightly and I felt so overawed and honoured that I did not mind the searing pain he was sending through my arm from the bullet wound which he was so casually pressing upon.
‘Now, can I trust you, Georgy Daniilovich?’ he asked, looking me deep in the eyes.
‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ I replied.
‘I hope so,’ he said, and there was a hint of utter desperation and misery in his voice. ‘If you are to undertake this responsibility, there is something … Georgy, what I say to you now must never leave this room.’
‘Sir, whatever it is I will take it to the grave.’
He swallowed and hesitated. The silence between us lasted for more than a minute but I did not feel embarrassed now; I felt instead that I was at the centre of a great secret, something which the Lord of our land was about to entrust unto me. But to my disappointment, he seemed to change his mind for instead of confiding in me, he simply shook his head and looked away, releasing my shoulder and opening the door to the corridor.
‘Perhaps this is not the time,’ he said. ‘Let us see how you develop at your task first. All I ask is that you take the utmost care
of our son. He is our great hope, you see. He is the hope of all loyal Russians.’
‘I will do everything in my power to keep him safe,’ I assured him. ‘My life is his in a moment.’
‘Then that is all I need to know,’ he replied, smiling again for a moment before closing the door in my face and leaving me alone once again in the cold and empty corridor, wondering whether anyone was going to collect me and where on earth I should go next.
1970
F
OR THE FIRST YEAR
after my retirement, I deliberately chose not to go anywhere near the library at the British Museum. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to be there; on the contrary, after spending my entire adult life closeted within the erudite comfort of that peaceful chamber, there was almost nowhere that I felt quite so content. No, the reason I chose to avoid it was because I did not wish to become one of those men who cannot accept that his working life has come to an end and that the daily routine of employment, which provides order and discipline in our lives, has been replaced by the utter confusion – or what Lamb chose to call ‘the deliverance’ – of the superannuated man.
I could recall only too well the Friday evening in 1959 when a small party was thrown in honour of Mr Trevors, who had reached the age of sixty-five and was completing his last week of work at the library. Drinks and food were served, speeches were made, dozens of people showed up to wish him well with whatever was to follow. We offered the usual clichés that the world was now his oyster and felt no shame at our duplicity. The atmosphere was intended to be light and cheerful, but my former employer grew increasingly morose as the night wore on and wondered aloud, to the embarrassment of his guests, how he would fill his days after this.
‘I’m alone in the world,’ he told us with a wretched smile, pools of tears forming in his eyes as we all looked away, hoping that someone else would offer him comfort. ‘What do I have if I don’t have my work? An empty house. No Dorothy, no Mary,’ he added quietly, referring to the family who should
have been a consolation to him in his dotage but who had been taken from him. ‘This job was my only reason for getting up in the mornings.’
The following Monday morning, he arrived at the library as usual, precisely on time, shirt and tie in perfect order, and insisted on helping us with the more menial tasks that he had never concerned himself with in the past. None of us knew quite what to do – he still maintained an air of authority in our minds, after all, having been our employer for so long – and so did nothing to impede him. But then, to our discomfort, he came in the day after that too, and the following day. On the Thursday morning, one of the directors of the museum took him aside for a quiet word and told him that he had to remember that the rest of us were there to work, that we were
paid
to work, and couldn’t engage in conversation all day long. Go home and enjoy your retirement, he was told cheerfully. Put your feet up and do all those things that you could never do when you were stuck in here every day! The poor man did exactly that. He went home and hanged himself that very evening.
Of course, as I considered my own retirement I had no intention of allowing anything like that to happen to me. For one thing, Zoya and I were lucky enough to be in good health. We had each other, as well as our nine-year-old grandson Michael to keep us young. There was certainly no question of me succumbing to depression or a feeling of uselessness. But nevertheless, a year after my retirement began, I started to feel a longing, not to go back to my old employment but to revisit the atmosphere of scholarship which I so missed. To read more. To learn about those subjects of which I remained ignorant. After all, throughout my working life I had been surrounded by books but had rarely had the opportunity to study any of them. And so I decided to return to the tranquillity of the library for a few hours every afternoon, making sure not to cause any trouble for my former colleagues, usually hiding away from their view, in fact, so that they would
feel no obligation to talk to me. And I felt content with this arrangement, happy to spend whatever years I had left engaged upon the act of self-education.