There were girls who liked me, too, I knew that. Not as many as fell for my friend, that is true, but nevertheless, I was not unpopular.
And through it all, Asya shook her head and said that I should not aspire to be like Kolek, that he would never be the great man that people expected, and that sooner or later the young prince would not bring honour on Kashin, but shame.
It was Borys Alexandrovich who first imparted the news that would change my life.
Kolek and I were standing at the corner of a field near my family’s hut, stripped to the waist on a frosty spring morning, laughing together as we chopped a pile of logs into firewood, while doing all that we could to impress the village girls who walked past us. We were sixteen years old, strong and handsome, and while some ignored us completely, others glanced in our direction and offered teasing smiles, biting their lips as they laughed and watched us swing our axes high in the air before bringing them down into the heart of the timber, cleaving it in half, the splinters spitting out from the wreckage like fireworks. One or two were flirtatious enough to make the kind of indecent comment that encouraged Kolek, but I was not yet confident enough to engage in such banter and found myself feeling self-conscious and turning away.
My father, Daniil, emerged from our
izba
and stared at us for a moment, curling his lip a little in distaste as he shook his head. ‘You bloody fools,’ he said, irritated by our youth and physicality. ‘You’ll catch pneumonia like that, or do you think that young men can’t die?’
‘I’m made of strong stuff, Daniil Vladyavich,’ replied Kolek, winking at him as he lifted his muscular arms once again so his biceps might pulse and flex for all to see. The axe glistened in the air, its clean steel catching the light for a moment and sending a series of black and golden polka-dots dancing before my eyes, so that when I blinked away the obstruction, it seemed as if a magnificent halo had suddenly materialized around my friend. ‘Can’t you see that?’
‘You might be, Kolek Boryavich,’ he said, glaring at me as if he wished that it was Kolek who had been born his son and not I. ‘But Georgy follows your example too much and lacks your strength. Will you take care of him when he’s shivering in his bed, sweating like a horse and crying out for his mother?’
Kolek looked at me and grinned, delighted by the insult, but I said nothing and continued with my work. A group of young children ran past and giggled as they saw us there, delighted by our near indecency, but then looked towards my father, with his deformed head and terrible reputation for anger, and their smiles quickly faded as they hurried on their way.
‘Are you going to stand there and watch us all afternoon or do you have any work of your own to do?’ I asked finally, when Daniil showed no sign of leaving us to our labours and conversation. It was unusual for me to speak to him in this way. Typically I addressed him with some degree of respect, not out of fear, but because I did not wish to involve myself in any arguments. On this occasion, however, my defiant words were designed more to impress Kolek with my fortitude than insult Daniil with my insolence.
‘I’ll take that axe from your hands and slice you in two with it, Pasha, if you don’t keep quiet,’ he answered, stepping towards me and employing the diminutive which he knew could keep me in my place. I held my position for only a moment before retreating a little and hanging my head. He maintained a power over me, one that I did not fully understand, but he could
intimidate me back to my childhood obedience with a simple word.
‘My son is a coward, Kolek Boryavich,’ he announced then, delighted by his triumph. ‘This is what happens when you are reared in a family of women. You become one of them.’
‘But
I
was reared in such a family,’ said Kolek, burying the blade of the axe in the timber before him, the handle stretching upwards into the crease of his folded arms. ‘Do you think me a coward too, Daniil Vladyavich?’
My father opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Kolek’s own father came stomping around a corner towards us, red-faced and angry, his breath transforming into steam in the chill of the morning. He stopped for a moment when he saw the three of us gathered together, shook his head and then threw his arms in the air in disgust in such a dramatic fashion that I found myself having to bite my lip to stop myself from laughing and insulting him.
‘It’s a disgrace,’ he roared, so loudly and aggressively that none of us said anything for a moment, but continued to stare at him, waiting to learn the source of his displeasure. ‘An absolute disgrace,’ he continued. ‘That I have lived to see such a moment! You have heard this news, I take it, Daniil Vladyavich?’
‘What news?’ asked my father. ‘What has happened?’
‘If I was a younger man,’ he replied, wagging a finger in the air in the manner of a teacher chastising a group of errant schoolboys. ‘I tell you now, if I was a younger man and had all my faculties about me—’
‘Borys,’ said Daniil, interrupting him and looking almost amused by his friend’s fury. ‘You are ready to kill this morning, I think.’
‘Do not joke about it, my friend!’
‘Joke? What joke? I don’t even know what has caused you to feel such anger.’
‘Father,’ said Kolek, walking towards him, his face so filled with
concern that I thought he was near to embracing him. It was a continual source of fascination to me, this obvious affection between father and son. Having never experienced such warmth myself, I was always curious to observe it in others.
‘A merchant I know,’ explained Borys finally, stumbling over his words in his anxiety and anger. ‘A virtuous man, a man who never lies or cheats, has passed through our village this morning and—’
‘I saw him!’ I announced cheerfully, for it was unusual enough to see a stranger passing through Kashin, but an unfamiliar man had walked past our hut wearing a coat of fine goats’ hair only an hour before and I had taken note of him as he had passed and offered him a good morning, which he had ignored. ‘He came by here not an hour since and—’
‘Hold your tongue, boy,’ snapped my father, irritated that I should have some part in this at all. ‘Let your elders speak.’
‘I have known this man for many years,’ continued Borys, ignoring us both, ‘and a more sincere person it would be difficult to find. He was making his way through Kalyazin last night and it seems that one of the monsters intends to journey this way as he travels on to St Petersburg. He is passing through Kashin! Our own village!’ he added, spitting out the words, so deep was the level of insult he felt. ‘And of course he will demand that we all step out of our huts and bow down before him in adoration, as the Jews did when Jesus entered Jerusalem on a colt. A week before they crucified him, of course.’
‘Which monsters?’ asked Daniil, shaking his head in confusion. ‘Who are you referring to?’
‘A Romanov,’ he announced, searching our faces for a reaction. ‘None other than the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicolaievich,’ he added, and for a man who held the Imperial family in such low regard, he rolled the royal name off his tongue as if every syllable was a precious jewel that must be handled with care and consideration, lest its glory be shattered and lost for ever.
‘Nicholas the Tall,’ said Kolek quietly.
‘The very same.’
‘Why
the Tall
?’ I asked, frowning.
‘To distinguish him from his cousin, of course,’ snapped Borys Alexandrovich. ‘Nicholas the Short. Tsar Nicholas II. The tormentor of the Russian people.’
My eyes opened wide in surprise. ‘The cousin of the Tsar is to pass through Kashin?’ I asked. I could not have been more astonished if Daniil had thrown his arms around my shoulders, embraced me and praised me as his son and heir.
‘Don’t look so impressed, Pasha,’ said Borys Alexandrovich, insulting me for not joining him in his anger. ‘Don’t you know who these people are? What have they done for us anyway other than—?’
‘Borys, please,’ said my father with a deep sigh. ‘Not today. Your politics can wait until another time, surely. This is a great honour for our village.’
‘An honour?’ he asked, laughing. ‘An honour, you say! These Romanovs are the ones who keep us in our poverty and you think it a privilege that one of their number chooses to use our streets to stop for a moment to allow his horse to drink our water and take a shit? An honour! You dishonour yourself, Daniil Vladyavich, with such a word. Look! Look around you now!’
We turned our heads in the direction in which he was pointing; most of the villagers were rushing towards their huts. They had no doubt heard the news about our illustrious visitor and were seeking to prepare themselves in whatever way they could. Washing their faces and hands, of course, for they could not present themselves to a prince of the royal blood with streaks of mud stained across their faces. Stringing together a few small flowers to create a garland to throw beneath the feet of the Grand Duke’s horse.
‘This man’s grandfather was one of the worst of all the tsars,’ continued Borys, ranting now, his face growing redder and redder in his rage. ‘Had it not been for Nicholas I, Russians would never
even have heard of the concept of autocracy. It was he who insisted that every man, woman and child in the country believed in his unlimited authority on every subject. He saw himself as our Saviour, but do you feel saved, Daniil Vladyavich? Do you, Georgy Daniilovich? Or do you feel cold and hungry and desirous of your freedom?’
‘Go inside and prepare yourself,’ said my father, ignoring his friend and pointing a finger in my direction. ‘You will not disgrace me by appearing before such a great man in your nakedness.’
‘Yes, Father,’ I said, bowing quickly to his own autocracy and rushing inside in search of a clean tunic. As I rustled through the small pile of clothes that constituted my entire wardrobe, I heard more raised voices outside the hut, followed by the sound of my friend, Kolek, telling his father that they should go home and prepare themselves too. That shouting on the street was of no use to anyone, loyalist or radical.
‘If I was a younger man,’ I heard Borys Alexandrovich say as he was led away. ‘I tell you, my son, if I was only—’
‘
I
am a younger man,’ came the reply, and I thought nothing of Kolek’s words at the time, nothing at all. It was only later that I remembered them and cursed myself for my stupidity.
It was no more than an hour later when the first advance guards appeared on the horizon and began to make their way towards Kashin. Although common
moujik
s such as we knew only the names of the immediate Imperial family, the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicolaievich, the Tsar’s first cousin, was famous throughout Russia for his military exploits. He was not loved, of course. Men such as he never are. But he was revered and blessed with a fearful reputation. During the revolution of 1905, it was rumoured that he had brandished a revolver in front of the Tsar and threatened to blow his own brains out if his cousin did not permit the creation of a Russian constitution, and for that he was
admired by many. Although those who were more inclined towards radical thought, like Borys Alexandrovich, cared nothing for such bravery; they saw only a title and an oppressor and a person to be despised.
However, the idea that the Grand Duke was close at hand was enough to send a frisson of excitement and fear through my heart. I could not recall when we had last experienced such anticipation in Kashin. As the riders grew ever closer, almost everyone in the village swept the street clean before their
izba
, creating a clear route for the horses of this most illustrious of visitors.
‘Who will he have to accompany him, do you think?’ my sister Asya asked me as we stood by our doorway, a family gathered together, waiting to wave and cheer. Her cheeks were even more rouged than usual and her dress was pulled up towards her knees, displaying her legs beneath. ‘Some of the young princes from St Petersburg, perhaps?’
‘The Grand Duke has no sons for you,’ I replied, smiling at her. ‘You will have to cast your net wider still.’
‘
He
might notice me though,’ she said with a shrug.
‘Asya!’ I cried, appalled but amused by her. ‘He’s an old man. He must be nearly sixty if he is a day. And he is married, too. You can’t believe that—’
‘I’m just teasing you, Georgy,’ she replied, laughing as she slapped my shoulder playfully, although I wasn’t entirely sure that she was. ‘But nevertheless, there are sure to be some available young soldiers among his retinue. If one of them was to take an interest in me … oh, don’t look so scandalized! I’ve told you before that I don’t intend to spend my life in this miserable place. I’m eighteen years old, after all. It’s time I found a husband before I grow too ancient and ugly to marry.’
‘And what of Ilya Goryavich?’ I asked, referring to the young man with whom she spent much of her time. Like my friend Kolek, poor Ilya was madly in love with Asya and she offered him a little affection in return, no doubt encouraging him to believe
that she might give herself to him entirely in time. I pitied him for his stupidity. I knew that he was little more than a plaything for my sister, a marionette whose strings she controlled to stave off her boredom. One day she would cast her doll aside, that much was obvious. A better toy would come along – a toy from St Petersburg, perhaps.
‘Ilya Goryavich is a sweet boy,’ she said with a disinterested shrug. ‘But I think, at twenty-one, he is already everything that he will ever be. And I’m not sure that’s enough.’
I could tell that she was about to make some unnecessarily disparaging comment about that good-hearted oaf, but the soldiers were starting to approach now and we could make out the lead officers, sitting tall on their horses as they paraded slowly along the street, resplendent in their black double-breasted tunics, grey trousers and heavy, dark greatcoats. I stared at the fur
shapka
s on their heads, intrigued by the sharp V cut through the front of them, just above the eyes, and fantasized about how wonderful it would be to be part of their number. They ignored the noisy cheers of the peasants who surrounded them on either side, calling out blessings to the Tsar and throwing garlands before the hooves of the horses. They expected nothing less from us, after all.