The Summer Day is Done Read online

  Of course, it was all still dependent on whether Princess Aleka Petrovna would agree to release her. Kirby was to arrange to call on her in St Petersburg. It was all very exciting and sometimes Karita could hardly sleep at night.

  Kirby advised Alexandra that he must go. She did not attempt to dissuade him, she only said, ‘You don’t mean immediately, I imagine?’

  ‘I thought the day after tomorrow, Your Highness.’

  She nodded. It was difficult to fault him, except in that his presence did divert Olga’s thoughts from the inescapable course her life must take. ‘Well, we ourselves will be leaving soon. Will you tell the children, Ivan? If I tell them they’ll beg me until I’m distracted.’

  He told them, all of them, in the gardens. They did not hide their dismay. Alexis thought his going was something to do with having been drilled too much.

  ‘No, Alexis,’ he said, ‘you’ve drilled me not too much, not too little, but just enough. Now I know my left from my right and my nose from my knees.’

  Alexis thought that splendid but very funny.

  ‘Ivan,’ said Anastasia, ‘it’s not a laughing matter. What will we do? Who will play I Spy with us?’

  ‘Only General Sikorski,’ said Tatiana, ‘and he’ll get it all mixed up with Catch.’

  ‘Catch?’ said Marie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Tatiana. ‘Catch my eyeglass, dear child, it’s falling out again.’

  They shrieked, forgetting their dismay. Only Olga remained apart from the laughter.

  The following morning she searched the gardens for him. She found only Anna Vyrubova.

  ‘Anna,’ she said, ‘where is Mr Kirby? Have you seen him?’

  ‘I think he’s on his way, sweet,’ said Anna.

  ‘But he can’t be,’ said Olga aghast, ‘he hasn’t said goodbye and he wasn’t to leave until tomorrow.’

  ‘He’s only going to Yalta,’ said Anna passively, ‘he’s arranging a carriage now.’

  ‘I must see Mama.’ Olga was urgent. ‘Perhaps she’ll let me go with him, I’ve things to get. Anna, please send someone to tell him to wait while I find Mama.’

  She ran. She found her mother. She smoothed her hair and dress, she explained that she had things to buy in Yalta.

  ‘What things, darling?’

  ‘Oh, a book for you, Mama. Please, may I go with Mr Kirby? It would save two carriages and having to find someone else to go with me.’

  Alexandra could not resist the appeal. Olga could dream a little longer. Mr Kirby would be gone tomorrow. She sent only a footman to accompany the coachman. Yalta was a friendly place. The family often shopped informally there.

  The carriage was waiting when Olga came down the steps. She wore her best walking-out dress of summery white, with a blue-and-white beribboned bonnet, and carried a parasol. Kirby thought she looked young and sweetly lovely. He gave her his hand, assisting her into the open landau.

  ‘It’s not inconvenient for you, Mr Kirby?’ She was as composed as she could be.

  ‘Inconvenient? I’m delighted,’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’ She lowered her eyes demurely. ‘You see,’ she said, as he seated himself beside her, ‘I’ve things to buy and Mama said my French lesson was of no great importance.’

  ‘French lessons never are, except to the French. But are you to have no lady-in-waiting?’

  ‘You are to escort me,’ she said. ‘Oh, will that be a nuisance? You’re going because you have things to do there. I shall be in the way.’

  ‘In the way?’ he said as the carriage moved off with the wheels grinding a little. That, he thought, was typical of her modesty, and her presence typical of the informality of the family when they were at Livadia. ‘Olga Nicolaievna, when you’re in the way the day will be a sad one. You’ll be a great help, in fact. I’m going to buy presents, and you’ll be able to tell me what everyone would like. Well, I am in luck, aren’t I?’

  ‘You’re going to buy presents for the children?’ She had put her parasol up. She looked like summer itself in her soft, warm enchantment.

  ‘For everyone,’ he said. ‘What fun,’ said Olga. She often accompanied her mother to Yalta. It was quite exhilarating to accompany Mr Kirby. They bowled along at a spanking clip-clop, the air dry with heat and as heady as a vineyard. The wild-grape foliage was dusty, the fruit glimmering among the leaves. ‘Buying presents is fun, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘It was going to be a worrying responsibility buying the right ones until you came along,’ he said. ‘You’ll be invaluable. Look, the hawk.’

  She followed his pointing finger, eyes tracing the falling descent of the bird. It dropped from the sky, a plummeting black against the blue, and disappeared behind a slope.

  ‘How swiftly a hawk dives,’ she said, ‘almost as if it’s given up life.’

  ‘Instead,’ he said, ‘it’s actually gone to plunder the life of another. You are a very fine Grand Duchess today, Olga. Is it your hat, your dress, your parasol or you?’

  He spoke lightly, with a smile. She looked at him, her eyes dancing.

  ‘I think you’re being nice to me because I’m going to be invaluable when you shop,’ she said.

  He laughed. It evoked a happy response from Olga. They laughed together. Oh, how wonderful it was not to feel shy or constrained, to feel so much at ease with him. She liked it as he sat back in relaxed enjoyment of the ride, his straw boater tipped to shade his eyes from the sun, his blue linen jacket and white trousers cool-looking. The wheels threw up chips as they entered a village whose brightly coloured cottages and houses were built on serrated slopes. A man on a horse loped towards them, the horse black, the man as dark as mahogany. He touched his hat and inclined his head to the Grand Duchess. The Tsar and his family were familiar figures in the area, the carriage with its Imperial crest easily recognizable. Olga gave the man a smile, inclining her own head shyly under her parasol. Kirby loved the way she made the gesture. He felt that here in the Crimea the Tsar, if not Tsarism, was as secure as possible. He was sure that under no circumstances would Olga be allowed to ride through St Petersburg as freely as she was riding to Yalta. Here the Imperial family went around without fuss. It was not like that in certain other places in Russia.

  Before he had met the Imperial family he had been curious about them as autocrats, not as people. Now he was sure there were no people less equipped to be autocrats than they were. They had inherited autocracy, they were imprisoned by their heritage and governed by the edicts of their ancestors.

  On this summer day it did not seem important.

  ‘Mr Kirby …’ She turned to speak to him. He gave her a smile and she knew there was no need to make conversation, no need to think that on such a day he would regard silence as dull. It was enough for him that summer bequeathed its magic and the carriage wheels sang over the dusty road. She was not unused to the attentions of men, mainly the suitable young officers always in the background. They could engage in endless light flirtatiousness. It would be words, words. How nice that Mr Kirby could get along without any words at all at times. Olga felt so free, so relaxed.

  They alighted outside a square house in Yalta. Kirby said that he first had to see a consulate official. Did Olga mind if they did their shopping afterwards?

  ‘It’s whatever you wish,’ she said, ‘I only have to buy a book for Mama.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. He took her in with him and the clerk, with no idea who she was, only that she was deliciously charming, found her a chair. She was quite happy to sit and wait, making no fuss at being left while he went through into Anstruther’s office. Anstruther had not missed a glimpse of the girl. She pleased him very much.

  ‘No one could say your Russian references aren’t of the highest,’ he said.

  ‘Do you mind if we don’t discuss that?’ said Kirby. ‘I’m not on a social visit. I had a letter from you. What is it you want?’

  ‘Do sit down. I won’t keep you long in view of the young lady waiting. But don’t mistake m
e, let me explain my outlook. They say things about the Tsar in England and elsewhere and it’s taught me to be careful about offering opinions on people I don’t know personally. In my position as a very minor civil servant I’ve never been close to the Imperial family, but I know a little about them. I envy you. I wish I had your capacity for making friends, and I don’t necessarily mean influential friends.’

  ‘Don’t be apologetic, it’s making me feel uncomfortable,’ said Kirby, ‘but thanks all the same. Now, what have you brought me here for?’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to be touchy,’ said Anstruther reprovingly. ‘They aren’t going to ask too much of you. You know Kiev well. There’s a man there the Russians want and we’d like to do them a favour. We’d like to tell them where they can pick him up. You have friends and contacts in Kiev. The man’s name is Spirokof. We know he’s in Kiev. We don’t know exactly where. They want you to go there, talk to people and find out.’

  ‘That’s not my branch of the profession,’ said Kirby, ‘I’m an observer, not an informer.’

  Anstruther tried his most fatherly smile.

  ‘Spirokof,’ he said, ‘is a maker and thrower of bombs. He intends to make one for the Tsar. He’s going to Poland in October. So is the Tsar. The Russians will be watching for Spirokof there but it would do us the world of good if we helped them to pick him up in Kiev.’

  ‘Damn it,’ said Kirby.

  ‘Good, you’ll go, then? Good. Then they’d like you to remain in Russia for a while, in St Petersburg. You could do your best work from now on. You get on with Russians, and with the international situation as it is we need people like you. You’ll probably be instructed in St Petersburg to make love to the whole nation. I wish,’ Anstruther concluded drily, ‘I had your ability and your job.’

  ‘You can have my job. You have your own qualifications.’ Kirby made for the door. ‘You’ll excuse my hurry. With the international situation as it is I’d be out of my mind if I kept the Tsar’s eldest daughter waiting any longer.’

  ‘Good luck in Kiev,’ said Anstruther.

  Olga had composed herself to a patient wait and Kirby’s reappearance came as a happy surprise. He did not seem to have been long at all. She rose with a smile.

  ‘Just an extension to my passport,’ said Kirby. The clerk jumped up to open the door. Olga’s smile entranced him. He bowed. It delighted her because she knew he did not know who she was. Therefore the bow was for herself. Out in the street she walked by Kirby’s side, a girl in a flowing white dress and parasol, with a grace that made people look.

  She loved shops. She forgot all her self-consciousness in the pleasure of knowing the Yalta shops better than he did. They looked in windows, they entered cool, shady interiors.

  ‘First,’ he said, ‘something for your mother.’

  ‘Why, a book,’ she said, forgetting that that was what she had said she wanted to buy.

  Kirby did not intend to be ostentatious, to go in search of the expensive. That would impress neither Olga nor her parents. It was the suitable, not the expensive, they would appreciate. He and Olga did not discuss prices at all, they simply looked at everything that was interesting. Finally, on Olga’s earnest recommendation, he bought Alexandra a book of English poetry.

  ‘Mama will love that,’ she said as it was being wrapped, ‘and I shall enjoy it too, so it’s really a present for both of us.’

  ‘Well, one present for two people is as good as two presents for the price of one,’ he said. ‘What a very invaluable start, Olga.’

  ‘Oh, pray don’t mention it,’ she said gravely but with a smile peeping.

  He smiled too and began softly to whistle that tune. He looked very tall under the low ceiling of the bookshop. They went into other shops. He bought a new tennis racquet for the Tsar, again with Olga’s approval.

  ‘That will please Papa immensely,’ she said, ‘he just uses any old racquet that comes to hand, sometimes one with a broken string. He says he can’t afford a new one.’

  For Marie they chose a glass ball which when shaken showed a snowstorm in London. It was colourful and fascinating, and Olga said it would be a gift from England. For Alexis they chose a boy’s peaked blue cap of canvas and linen, for Anastasia a bright headscarf to protect her hair from the dust. For Tatiana a pair of winter gloves made of sealskin.

  Then he said to Olga, who was enjoying it all so much, ‘And what for you, Olga Nicolaievna?’ They were in a shop full of glass cabinets containing Crimean wood carvings and pottery, much of it religious. Olga was absorbed in the contents of one cabinet.

  ‘Oh, but there’s Mama’s book,’ she said, ‘it’s for both of us as we agreed.’

  ‘I didn’t agree.’

  Suddenly she was pink. He turned away, not wanting to embarrass her more. He looked at a wall lined with shelves, each shelf full of beautifully bound books. Some were prayer books. His eyes passed them over. The Imperial family were deeply religious, their observance of evening prayers had not escaped him. It was not uncommon in the evenings to see one or more of the children with a prayer book. He did not think, therefore, that Olga was in need of more religion.

  ‘Olga, do you have a Shakespeare?’ he asked.

  She turned from the cabinet. He was holding a book bound in soft black leather, a volume of Shakespeare’s plays in English. There was a Shakespeare at Tsarskoe Selo. It belonged to the family, not to her. Olga, well-read in the classics, had not yet become serious about Shakespeare. She removed her gloves, took the book from him, opened it and glanced through the preface pages. It was English, it had been printed and bound in England.

  She lifted shining blue eyes to his. The pink was there, a warm blissful pink.

  ‘Oh, I’d like something from England,’ she said, ‘especially this. I would cherish it, truly I would.’

  ‘Then have it, won’t you?’

  She nodded, not knowing what else to say in her delight. There were people who said the Imperial family had the wealth of Croesus. He wondered what they would say to see Olga in such glowing pleasure over this gift of a book. He paid for it. Olga did not want it wrapped, she would take it as it was, except that she drew Kirby aside and shyly whispered, ‘Please, will you write in it for me?’

  He took a fountain pen from his inside pocket, laid the book on top of a cabinet and opened it up. On the blank flyleaf he wrote, ‘To Olga Nicolaievna, in gratitude for so much sunshine – J. Kirby, Livadia 1912.’ She read it. He had not put Ivan Ivanovich. He had put himself. He understood, he was not Ivan Ivanovich to her because he was not Russian. She did not ask for him to be Russian or to behave other than as an Englishman.

  She wanted to thank him very much but the right words eluded her. Her dark lashes blinked away her sentiment as they emerged from the shade of the shop into the bright day. She stopped and he took the book from her to let her put up her parasol. Her parasol up, she happily took the book back from him. ‘Mr Kirby, I— oh, you are so kind.’ Then suddenly the right words came. She smiled up at him from beneath the parasol. ‘It isn’t at all surprising that Tatiana is so passionately devoted to you.’

  ‘Great Scott,’ he said, ‘hasn’t that all blown over yet?’

  ‘Oh, she’s quite incurable at the moment,’ said Olga. Her eyes sparkled and they walked together down the street to pick up their carriage, to return to Livadia, he with the other gifts swinging from fingers hooked inside strings. Then she said, ‘Oh, how forgetful I am, I came to buy Mama a book and you have bought it instead. Never mind, I’ll buy her an embroidery cover. Do you have some money I might borrow? I forgot that too. I’ll pay you back, I promise.’

  ‘Olga Nicolaievna,’ he said, ‘just how forgetful are you?’

  ‘Well, if I do forget to pay you back,’ said Olga, ‘I suppose you could say I was shockingly remiss.’

  He loved her for that. He loved everything about her. He went with her to make her purchase. Olga was quick. She selected a pattern of primroses and forget-me-nots.
He laughed at the forget-me-nots. So did Olga.

  They talked easily on the drive back. Occasionally Olga pointed out a white gleaming house or palace and told him who owned it. He took in, as he had many times before, the warm lushness of grass, the wild, untouched slopes, the scent of the ever-present roses and the purity of the air that mingled with the dancing wind from the sea. And he took in too the enchantment of a girl unspoiled and precious.

  Lunch awaited them at the Imperial Palace. They were late but no one minded. They were crowded by the children, their meal interrupted, and Kirby gave them their presents. They were overwhelmed.

  They played their last games with their friend Ivan Ivanovich that afternoon, but in the spiritedly resilient way of the young they did not let their regret at his imminent departure mitigate their enthusiasms of the moment. The Empress and Anna were there, needlework on their laps. Alexandra’s eyes turned oftenest on Alexis. He had the energy of two normal boys. Few people knew of the Tsarevich’s inherited weakness. It was something Alexandra did not want people to know.

  She had been delighted with the book of poetry, requesting Kirby to inscribe the flyleaf with his name and the date. The Tsar had beamed at the acquisition of a new racquet.

  ‘Absolutely capital, my dear fellow,’ he said, ‘and be sure that although I’m plagued with reports today, I’ll find time for a set or two later. You are the most generous chap.’

  Olga stood near, sharing her father’s pleasure. She was closer to Nicholas than any of his other children.

  The white palace was touched by a pink glow as that bright day turned into evening and the sun reddened. The long afternoon was over, the lawns, the gardens, the cloistered walks and the courtyards became silent. The laughter, the play, the high voices and deep voices, the fluttering dresses, the young and the adult, all had retreated, vanished. The white chairs were empty, the garden tables brushed clean, and only lengthening shadows came to invade the green grass that had known so many dancing feet.