The Summer Day is Done (11 page)

That proved quite unnecessary. Karita glowed when the princess informed her she was to go to Livadia with Ivan Ivanovich. She accompanied him in a trance of excitement. To be of service to the handsome, good-humoured Englishman
at Livadia, well, that would be an unimaginable pleasure. She must be sure to do nothing wrong. It might not put him out, for he was neither exacting nor fussy, but she herself would be most upset. However, she would worry about that when it happened. Meanwhile, the prospect of seeing the Imperial family, even the Tsar himself, that was quite overwhelming.

Oravio had not been at all pleased at her going. He had looked very disapproving and said that the Englishman should have taken a manservant if he had to take any servant at all.

‘That would not have been very flattering to me,’ said Karita, ‘it would have looked as if he hadn’t found me satisfactory enough.’

‘How satisfactory is that?’ said Oravio darkly. She smacked his face. She was not a girl to stomach an insinuation like that. The smack had left Oravio on glowering terms with her. It surprised her how little she cared.

Of course, everyone at Karinshka knew that the Englishman had been invited to Livadia by the Empress herself. It convinced Karita that he was certainly a man of some importance, despite his denials. The princess had agreed with her.

‘Yes, I’m sure you are right, Karita,’ she had said, ‘and it would be interesting to know what people he meets and talks to while he’s at Livadia. You must keep your eyes and ears open and let me know, without, of course, his being aware of it. It will just be something interesting between you and me.’

Karita thought that a rather uncomfortable commission. It sounded as if she was required to
look through keyholes, to follow the Englishman about. She was going to do neither. What would he think of her if she did?

Kirby commanded her to sit in the carriage with him so that they might talk during the ride to Livadia. Karita said that would simply not look right when they arrived and that she would sit up with Dimitri, the groom.

‘You’re my personal servant,’ said Kirby, ‘and it will look quite right.’

So she sat with him, but maintained the reserve she considered proper. The day was beautiful, the countryside lush and colourful as they drove around hills, through valleys and sometimes close to the sea. Karita sat with straight back, dressed in green skirt, white blouse and bonnet, its ribbons caught under her chin. Her brown eyes reflected her pleasure. Kirby was conversational but not familiarly so. He was not unaware of Karita’s sense of propriety.

Suddenly she said, ‘Tell me more of the ball and the Imperial Palace, monsieur. I can’t hear enough about it all.’

He discoursed on the ball, describing as best as he could all that was fascinating to her about the women and their gowns. He described how the Emperor and Empress had looked, but he did not mention Grand Duchess Olga.

So Karita said at last, ‘But the Grand Duchess, monsieur, it was her ball, how did she look?’

Kirby let the jolting carriage run its course over a section of road in need of repair.

‘She looked very sweet, I think,’ he said, ‘and very young.’

Considering how he always had something telling to say about almost everything, Karita thought this disappointingly inadequate.

‘But, monsieur, you danced with her,’ she said, ‘you must have noticed more than that. What was she wearing, how was her hair dressed, what jewels did she have?’

‘She wore pink, her hair was up and she had a diamond tiara. She still looked very young.’

‘But it was her sixteenth birthday,’ said Karita, ‘she’s grown up. Monsieur, I think you could hardly have seen her at all.’

‘I saw her very clearly,’ he said. The pictures came to his mind out of the morning air. There was a girl there, a girl who looked as if she would never grow up. ‘Actually, Karita, she was quite lovely. Look, there’s Livadia.’

When they were close Karita could not take her eyes off the white, shining Imperial Palace, majestic in the sunshine. It took her breath away, and she was sure that when she stepped from the carriage the weakness in her knees would prevent her legs from carrying her up the wide steps. She surprised herself. Indeed, Kirby thought as she entered the palace that he had never seen the golden-haired Crimean girl look so composed. Magnificently adorned footmen appeared.

‘Madame?’ said one, mistaking her status.

‘I am the personal servant of my lord duke Ivan Ivanovich Kirby,’ said Karita.

‘Heaven be blessed,’ he said and gladly took her in charge before others could, while Kirby was ceremoniously escorted to his room on the first floor. As at Karinshka, it was a suite, but
even more spacious. All its windows opened out on to a sunlit balcony. The drawing room was blue-carpeted, its walls hung with paintings and ikons. The chairs were gilt and blue. Karinshka had impressed him, Livadia held him spellbound. The view was of the dancing blue sea, of green velvet lawns and beautifully colourful flower beds. The balcony itself seemed so high, poised far above the sounds of the earth and the murmurs of the sea. He felt in perfect peace.

Servants were in his suite, attending to the luggage he had brought, and in a remarkably short time Karita, having established herself in the servants’ quarters, arrived in her blue dress and white front. He heard her taking charge, supervising this and that in her efficient way. The servants left and she came out to him on the balcony.

‘All is ready, monsieur,’ she said, ‘you are to be served lunch here in your suite, then afterwards you’re to change and meet Countess Borodinsky.’

‘Who is she?’

‘A lady-in-waiting.’ Karita already seemed as if matters and personages of the Imperial household were little to worry about, but the next moment she went on breathlessly. ‘Oh, it’s all so beautiful but so confusing, I’m sure I’ll lose myself a dozen times a day.’

‘I’ll come and look for you and we’ll get lost together,’ he said.

‘And who will come and look for us?’ she said gaily.

He had the lunch that was served in his suite. He was pleasantly surprised at the simplicity of the meal. Then he changed and an hour after lunch Karita took him to meet Countess Borodinsky. She was thirtyish, charming and put him entirely at his ease. Kirby, in white flannels and blue jacket, made his own impression on her. She liked his tall English look, his masculinity without the flamboyance of so many Russians. They exchanged small talk on an easy, pleasant note and then she said, ‘Do you play tennis?’

‘A little, Countess.’

‘A little will be enough to start with,’ she smiled. It was mid-afternoon and the palace was quiet as she took him up to the Empress, who was writing letters in her boudoir. There, sitting at a table by the window, she received him. Her hair, deeply golden, showing only the minutest tints of grey, was lustrous, and he thought her quiet regality beautiful. Her smile was warmly welcoming.

‘Mr Kirby, how nice to see you, how good of you to leave Karinshka and be with us for a while.’

‘Imperial Highness,’ he said, ‘you must know that the pleasure is all on my side. You have built a place of wonder here. It’s as beautiful by day as it is by night. I did not think it could be, but it is.’

‘Mr Kirby, it was built to grace Holy Russia, it is not meant in any way to add lustre to me.’

‘It does, nevertheless,’ he said. ‘I cannot retract, Highness.’

She smiled and shook her head. There was an air of devout modesty about her, the boudoir
itself, with its numerous ikons and religious paintings, her spiritual sanctuary. Alexandra wanted only to serve her family and Russia, and would rather be known as Mother Tsarina than as Empress Alexandra, although as Empress she was conscious of all that her title entailed. She believed, as Nicholas did, in the divine right of Tsarist autocracy. God had called Nicholas to serve his people, to guide them and to administer for them.

Kirby sat and she talked to him. Her conversation was simple, homely, of her children, of Livadia and of England. Kirby’s impression that she was the kindest of persons deepened. If she was neither brilliant nor devious, neither witty nor calculating, these were things, he thought, that might elevate some Empresses; but Alexandra, first and foremost a wife and mother, would not have been concerned to have been told she lacked them. She placed far greater importance on love and affection, and on Christian humility, only providing the Tsar’s divinity was not called into question.

Finally she said, ‘You will excuse me now? I have so much correspondence to catch up with and we will be able to talk again while you’re here. Countess Borodinsky will take you down into the gardens and introduce you to our dear Anna Vyrubova. I believe,’ she added with a shy smile not unlike Olga’s, ‘that you and Anna met briefly before.’

‘I was clumsy then, I’ve been mortified since,’ he said.

Anna Vyrubova was in the gardens, seated
at a white ornamental table and working with her needle. Behind her, in the distance, the mountains pointed their peaks at the blue sky. Comfortably plump, with pleasant features, she wagged her finger at Kirby as he was introduced to her.

‘Ah,’ she said, ‘so you are the man who stepped on me.’

‘I’ve tried to think of it as a happy collision,’ he said, ‘and you were very kind about it. I must apologize for damaging your parasol and if my servant Karita – oh, yes.’

Karita, watching from a position of advantage, moved as Kirby lifted his hand to her. She came hurrying up, petticoats peeping below swinging blue. She gave a long, wrapped package to Kirby, curtseyed and sped away, blushing just a little. Kirby handed the package to Anna, she unwrapped it, opened it up and exclaimed in pleasure at the colourful parasol. Countess Borodinsky excused herself and Kirby sat down. Anna was only too pleased to talk to him, and in conversation she was as pleasant and as uncomplicated as the Empress. She was genuinely devoted to Alexandra.

Kirby sat in relaxed enjoyment. The green lawns, the flowering shrubs and the profusion of roses, beautiful in the golden sunshine, lent enchantment to majesty and brought visual splendour to tranquillity. There was no noise save the murmur of hot autumn, no voice except Anna’s. There were no children. He wondered about that.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder. He
turned in his chair and saw the Tsar. He rose to his feet.

‘My dear fellow,’ said Nicholas, his smile infectious, ‘how splendid to see you.’ He wore white and carried two tennis racquets. ‘You are just the man for me. Anna, what do you think, General Sikorski has cried off with a sore back. I suspect it’s to do with his reluctance to take a beating. Generals are like that,’ he said to Kirby. ‘I hope you aren’t. Anna, will it do if I borrow our English friend and play a set with him?’

Anna, teeth biting on a thread, nodded. It all spoke of free and easy informality. Livadia, thought Kirby, induced that. The Tsar put his hand on Kirby’s arm and led him to the tennis court. Nicholas was an enthusiastic and capable player. Kirby had once been of county standard but was rusty. It had been years since he’d played. They knocked up. Kirby was completely out of touch and showed it.

‘Don’t worry, my dear man,’ called Nicholas as Kirby apologized for his lack of co-ordination, ‘it takes a little time if one hasn’t played the game for a while.’

They were quite alone. There were no guards, no obtrusive court officials, nobody at all except themselves. The Tsar was as carefree as a boy. Kirby hit a good forehand at last and Nicholas beamed in delight. He hit more, as well as a competent backhand or two.

‘Ah, you’re ready?’ called Nicholas. ‘You serve, my dear chap, I insist.’

Tennis in 1911 was a pastime rather than a sport. Strokes were made from the back of the
court, and anything like a cunning drop shot or a vindictive volley was considered not quite the thing, unless one was playing for a championship. Volleying indeed was in its suspect infancy. Some men still served underhand. Not so the Tsar or Kirby. They served in a competitive spirit.

‘My dear fellow,’ said the Tsar midway through the set, ‘I think you’re winning. I must make you a general.’

Kirby had been wondering whether it would be wise to win, if he could. If the Tsar had invited him here in order to indulge his Imperial passion for tennis, perhaps he also took an Imperial pleasure in winning. It would be a little ungrateful to beat him, perhaps. It might even be tactless. He decided, however, that the Tsar simply enjoyed playing and, as far as the result was concerned, differed from generals in his outlook. Yet few people, especially the exalted few, lost with the same relish as they won … oh well, he thought, just get on with the game and let it all happen naturally.

He clouted a few forehands out of court. He lost the set 7–5. The Tsar sank into a seat by the side of the court, wiping his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He wore another one around his neck. He was in very good humour.

‘Absolutely first class, Mr Kirby. Splendid. We must play again. You’re improving all the time.’

‘Another set now?’ Kirby was hot himself.

‘We’ll have a drink first.’

It was standard practice. Cool drinks appeared as if the liveried servant was a genie. Kirby let himself cool down. It was undeniably pleasant
here. He was not quite sure how it had all happened, but he had just finished a most enjoyable set of tennis with the Tsar of All the Russias. His name would be in the papers if anyone at home found out. In the local papers.

He breathed in the warm air. A flutter caught his eye, a flutter of white whisking behind a shrub. It disappeared.

‘Ready, my dear man?’ said the Tsar, who liked to play tennis on and off all day.

They played again. Kirby got better. Lithe and active in his white flannels, he had the Tsar stretching to reach his returns. Nicholas muffed a shot, the ball just cleared the net, it seemed to hover and drop dead. Kirby swooped, got his racquet to the ball as it died, but unable to check his diving impetus he plunged head first into the net. The Tsar roared with laughter, echoed by the impulsive laughter of a delighted girl. She had stolen from her tutor to peep at the game.