The Summer Day is Done Read online

  The only thing that was obvious about him was his uncomplicated passion for women. Single-mindedly, unashamedly, he bore down on them like a bull. They were either seduced or ravished, overwhelmed or numbed. Some of them enjoyed it immensely.

  However, he was not in St Petersburg at the moment and the city felt the better for his absence. On a white glittering night, clear and tinglingly sharp, the Imperial Opera House drew into its tiered auditorium patrons who had been privileged to acquire tickets for Tchaikovsky’s ballet Swan Lake. The critics in their tendentious search for the vague and abstract scorned the traditional appeal of Swan Lake. They proclaimed it rubbish, thus following in the footsteps of equally enlightened critics who had declared many of Beethoven’s works to be garbage. The people, in their simple rusticity, took Beethoven to their bosom and, in this later era, adored Swan Lake.

  The Tsar was there that night with his two elder daughters (Alexandra rarely went to the opera or theatre). When he entered the Imperial box, the girls following, every member of the audience rose. The enthusiasm was emotional, the acclamation put a flush on the faces of the Grand Duchesses. The national anthem was sung with roaring Russian fervour, and at the end the Tsar responded with smiling gestures and this evoked more enthusiasm. Not until he sat down did the brilliantly dressed audience subside. He looked handsome, happy and resplendent in his uniform, and Olga and Tatiana were almost tearfully proud.

  They sat one on each side of him, behind them a small, select entourage. Tatiana was eager, alive. In her sixteenth year her elegance was superb. In white gown, long white gloves, her auburn hair up and crowned with a tiara, she responded to looks and stares with unselfconscious smiles and nods. Olga was also gowned in shimmering white, with a tiara in her bright hair. Outwardly she seemed composed but the pink began to tint her cheeks at the attention focused on her. Whereas Tatiana looked around, hugely enjoying the atmosphere, her face expressive of her excitement, Olga took refuge in her programme, and because of her genuine interest in the ballet soon became absorbed in the notes.

  The lights faded, the overture began. And when the curtain rose to admit the audience to the ballet’s magical world, Tatiana became entranced. Olga too lost herself heart and soul in the heaven of Tchaikovsky’s music, and as the story of Odette unfolded her blue eyes dreamed and she was utterly still.

  At the interval the Imperial party retired from their box to the reception room where Nicholas, never free from social trivia on occasions like this, received the manager of the Opera House and various members of the company before enjoying some refreshment. He was in his usual good form, charming everyone and showing not the faintest sign that his Empire, as always, was rocking.

  Returning to their box Tatiana acknowledged a gesture from the box opposite with a little wave of her hand.

  ‘Who is it you’re waving to?’ asked Olga.

  ‘Aleka Petrovna,’ said Tatiana, seating herself, ‘she’s here tonight with friends.’

  The lights were fading as Olga glanced across. Princess Aleka was very much there, her silvery gown worn with risqué abandon off her shoulders. There was another woman and some men, but the lights dimmed to leave the box in semi-darkness as the curtain went up. Olga sought her opera glasses but was too shy to use them until the audience had become absorbed again in the ballet. Indeed, she had never used glasses on an audience, only to magnify a stage view. Within the shadows of the box she raised the glasses to her eyes and picked out the ballerina, a fantasy of spinning pas seul. Olga held the magnified image of light and grace, the brilliance of the fixed stage smile, and then briefly focused the glasses on the opposite box. The profile of Aleka Petrovna emerged from the half shadows, relaxed and engrossed. But during the short seconds of her observation Olga could not distinguish who the men were.

  When the ballet reached its melodic, haunting end, Tatiana emitted an ecstatic sigh. Olga sat in pure, dreamy bliss, and only when the bouquets were being presented to the prima ballerina and the audience was still noisy with rapturous applause did she glance again at the box opposite. There were three men. She did not know any of them.

  Tsarskoe Selo, some fifteen miles south of St Petersburg, was where the Imperial family spent most of the winter season. Removed from the life, opulence and political atmosphere of the capital, they created their own world of parochial detachment in well-guarded seclusion. At Tsarskoe Selo the antics of the Duma, the discontent of the people and the noise of revolutionaries were not intrusive. Here the family lived in united harmony, and the sounds of Olga or Tatiana at the piano created the atmosphere of happy Sundays in a middle-class home. The warmth and the peace within kept at bay the snow and the cold outside.

  There were two palaces at Tsarskoe Selo. These were surrounded by the Imperial Park, and around the high iron railings of the park scarlet-clad Cossacks patrolled in mounted vigilance night and day.

  The old structure, the Catherine Palace, was a hugely ornate edifice. It was entirely characteristic of its flamboyant builder, Catherine the Great. The Alexander Palace, the smaller of the two, had been erected by Alexander I on a less pretentious scale, and it was typical of the modest Nicholas to use the smaller and simpler building. Even so, the Alexander Palace had more than one hundred rooms, each one exquisitely furnished. Porcelain stoves heated the rooms, the stoves fed with timber. And throughout the winter Empress Alexandra kept the palace fragrant with a multitude of flowers, many of which were brought by train from her beloved Crimea.

  Beyond the Imperial Park were the houses and mansions of the court nobility, making of Tsarskoe Selo an expansive Tsarist suburb.

  It was warm, it was family in the Alexander Palace.

  ‘Olga, there you are,’ said Tatiana, entering the music room. Olga was sitting at the piano. Her elbows were on depressed keys, her chin cupped in her hands, and there was an open book propped on the music stand. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I am practising Bach,’ said Olga.

  ‘Do you think you’re better at it when you play with your elbows?’

  ‘I couldn’t be worse,’ said Olga.

  ‘But you aren’t playing, you’re reading. Move up.’ Tatiana pushed and made room for herself on the piano stool, achieving a precarious equality for both of them. ‘What is it you’re reading?’ She reached for the book. Olga reacted too late. Sisterly companionship turned into a whirl and scurry as Tatiana fled around the room with the book, Olga in pursuit.

  ‘Tatiana! Give it back!’

  Tatiana hared back to the piano, ducked behind it and feigned to go first one way, then the other. Olga darted. Tatiana emerged, Olga swooped. She caught her sister by the hair. Tatiana yelled, astonished that Olga could be so fierce.

  ‘Olga, no! Oh, here is your old book, then, and could I please have my hair back?’

  ‘There.’ Olga, no longer agitated now that she had retrieved the book, ruffled her sister’s hair. The gesture was forgiving, affectionate.

  ‘Such a fuss,’ said Tatiana, ‘and it’s only that old Shakespeare of yours.’

  ‘It’s my new Shakespeare, if you must know.’

  ‘Is it?’ Tatiana sounded most interested. ‘So it is. Who would have thought Gregor would give you such a worldly book as that?’

  ‘Gregor? Gregor Rasputin?’ Olga knew she was being teased but for once she could not take it lightly. She tolerated Rasputin, she could not like him. Her mother passionately believed in his godliness, looked upon him as saintly and was sure it was by his hand that Alexis had recovered from the critical haemorrhage contracted in Poland during the autumn. Alexandra was Rasputin’s most ardent disciple. And because of his son’s weakness, that only Rasputin seemed to understand, and his wife’s belief, Nicholas accepted him too. A man regarded as a saintly friend by their parents had also of course a right to the friendship of the four Grand Duchesses. And Rasputin could be amusing. But he could also be coarse and familiar. He had often been at Tsarskoe Selo and, taking typically uncouth advantage of his influenc
e with Alexandra, roamed in and out of every room as if he owned not only the palace but the Imperial family as well. He made remarks that shocked Marie, turned Anastasia pink, induced coolness in Tatiana and coldness in Olga. But because of their parents they bore with him. Olga only suffered him. He had once attempted to stroke her arm, she had removed herself immediately.

  For all else that has been said about him, Rasputin was a fool. He made no secret of his belief that he was smarter than anyone else and that he had more foresight than presidents and prime ministers. Yet he could not see that as much as the health of Alexis and the security of Tsarism depended on him, he was even more dependent for his life and fortunes on the prestige and standing of the Emperor and Empress. For all his belief in his own superiority, he was too obtuse to realize that he himself was slowly destroying the reputation and credibility of the Imperial couple. In his stupidity he had even seduced the Grand Duchesses’ nurse. Alexandra refused to believe the woman and Nicholas would not even attempt to weigh the woman’s word against his wife’s convictions. But St Petersburg would and did, and it was Alexandra and Nicholas they found wanting.

  None of Rasputin’s faults contributed more to the tragic turn of events than his stupidity.

  And none of Tatiana’s teasing made Olga more unresponsive than that which touched on Rasputin.

  ‘You’re having one of your silly days,’ she said quietly.

  Tatiana always knew when Olga was hurt. She felt the pangs of immediate contrition.

  ‘Olga – oh, you’re so sensitive, you know I didn’t mean it, you mustn’t get cross. You know I know Gregor wouldn’t give you any kind of book, he’s never read one himself in his life, he wouldn’t know the difference between a book and a candle. He’s just as likely to light the book and read the candle.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Olga.

  Tatiana felt she would like to cry a little. Olga was growing up so, on her dignity so, trying to be old while she was still young. It was ridiculous. Sometimes when the sunshine was on the snow and they could all romp and frolic in its frosty softness, Olga would shake and brush the snow from her coat and say something about being too old for that sort of thing. It took all the enthusiasm of the others to make her rejoin the fun.

  Tatiana knew why Olga desperately wanted to be a woman. But Olga herself should know one couldn’t hurry the process, and one shouldn’t try to when it was for an illusion. It would only make it worse, not better.

  ‘Olga,’ said Tatiana tenderly, ‘let me see.’ She put out a hand. Olga hesitated, then gave her the book. Tatiana opened it up and saw the inscribed flyleaf.

  To Olga Nicolaievna, in gratitude for so much sunshine – J. Kirby, Livadia 1912.

  ‘You know,’ said Tatiana, ‘I think Ivan Ivanovich is so very much nicer than Gregor, but don’t tell—’

  ‘No, don’t tell Mama you said so,’ smiled Olga, and Tatiana smiled too. ‘Marie and Stasha are out with the sledge, shall we go too?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Tatiana, ‘and, Olga, please please don’t grow up without me.’

  ‘You’ll grow up before any of us,’ said Olga. ‘Go on, darling, I’ll follow you out in a moment.’

  Tatiana went, happy to join her sisters in the crisp February sunshine, happy that Olga would follow. Olga tidied up the sheets of music on the piano. It was nearly March, Easter wasn’t so far away, and at Easter they always went to Livadia. She did not think it would be quite so lovely this time.

  Leaving the music room she walked through polished, shining rooms and then came out into a corridor. Advancing towards her was all the panoply of what was certainly an official presentation. There were braided court dignitaries, Russian officers in full dress and British officers too. The panoply was martial, boots gleaming, sword scabbards clinking, and the khaki uniforms of the British were adorned with red shoulder tabs, their caps red-banded, tucked under their arms. As they approached the Grand Duchess the Russian officers acknowledged her. Olga’s response was a shy smile.

  There was a smile too from one of the British officers. She caught it, she looked. She stopped, they all passed her. She gazed after them, at the officer who had smiled. He was taller than his colleagues. Her eyes were incredulous. But disbelief was in almost immediate conflict with delight, and disbelief lost. She hitched the skirt of her dress, the corridor was empty and Olga ran. It did not take her long to find out from the court chamberlain’s office what she wanted to know.

  A British military mission was to be presented to the Tsar.

  The Tsar received them in formal but friendly splendour, in uniform himself. With his own officers at his back he shook hands with each member of the British team. One of them was tall, bearded, and with deep grey eyes. Nicholas recognized him immediately. He beamed, he clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ he said, then shook Kirby’s hand heartily. ‘My dear fellow, I couldn’t be more pleased. This is excellent.’

  ‘It’s excellent to see you, sir,’ said Kirby.

  ‘Have you come to see how my generals play the game of war?’ Nicholas laughed. The other British officers looked on in great curiosity. No one had said that this new fellow, Colonel Kirby, was on speaking terms with the Russian Emperor. ‘That reminds me,’ Nicholas went on, ‘I always felt you would make a general yourself, but I didn’t see how I could arrange it. There would have been such jealousy, my dear chap. However, I now see that His Majesty has recognized your talents, although he’s been more cautious than I’d have been. So, you’re a colonel now. Ah, you’re an intriguing fellow, we had no idea we’d see you in the British army. A capital step, capital.’

  The senior British officer, Brigadier Rollinson, muttered to his aide-de-camp, ‘Well, I’m damned.’ Major Gerard, the aide-de-camp, knew that could have meant anything and was best responded to by a sound from the back of the throat. Still, it was a rum go with this Kirby chap. He had popped up out of the blue. No one had ever heard of him before. Odds on he was somebody’s precious relative. Or somebody’s embarrassment. He might have been shoved off on this Russian beano in order to keep him out of the way for a while. But where the fellow was all wrong was in having a beard. It showed he was out of the blue all right, he must have upset an admiral’s daughter and been transferred from the Navy. Never been known before. Already Brigadier Rollinson had looked at his beard with a cold eye. It would have to come off sooner or later.

  It did not offend Nicholas, of course. He clapped Kirby on the shoulder again and said, ‘Delighted to have met you again, we must play some more tennis, eh? But not in this weather.’

  He was affable to all the British officers. Any of them who had preconceived ideas about autocrats were forced to revise them. Nicholas radiated good humour and kindness. The reception became one of easy informality, Russian officers mixing with the British and Nicholas moving around to talk to everyone. After the reception the Russians took charge of the British, having arranged to entertain them during the evening. They withdrew at the prescribed time, leaving the state room to pass through an anteroom.

  There was a girl standing by one of the windows overlooking the white carpet of the snow-covered park. She wore a cream linen dress. The sun, slanting in through the window, etched her within its winter framework of sharp light. She turned as the officers came from the state room. Kirby saw her at once. He hesitated, then murmured an excuse to Brigadier Rollinson and broke away. As he came towards her Olga thought him taller than ever in his tailored uniform, but he was no different really. The smile was the same, his air of easy assurance the same.

  And if she was a little taller herself and a little shapelier, she still had shyness and diffidence, there was still a shy desire that he speak first.

  ‘Your Highness, how lovely.’ He took her extended hand, bent and put his lips to her ring. ‘You are more the Grand Duchess than ever.’

  ‘Mr Kirby, I was in such surprise to see you.’ Her voice had its inimitable touch of breathlessness, her face
its inevitable touch of pink. ‘And in uniform – I didn’t know you were in the British army.’

  ‘It was a surprise to me too when it happened,’ he smiled, ‘but one must be of service to one’s country sometimes. Am I not very agreeable in uniform?’

  Impulsively she said, ‘Oh, you look—’ She checked herself. ‘You look very correct.’

  ‘I don’t think our senior officer quite agrees with that, he’s given me the oddest looks.’ He glanced out of the window and saw three winter-clad girls pulling a sledge over the snow. ‘That looks like your sisters, I wish I had the time to join them.’

  ‘They’d love it if you could.’ But she knew he couldn’t stay long.

  ‘I was so sorry to hear about Alexis,’ he said. ‘Is he better now?’

  ‘He’s better but not quite himself yet,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell him I saw you. Mr Kirby – oh, I suppose that isn’t right now –’

  ‘Colonel, then,’ he said. It was difficult to smile into her eyes without giving something of his feelings away.

  ‘Colonel Kirby,’ she said with an effort, ‘it will be Easter soon.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it will.’

  Her shyness was so intense that she sounded breathless as she whispered, ‘Oh, come to Livadia … come to Livadia …’

  ‘Is it just as beautiful at Easter?’ His longing was as intense as her shyness. And the hopelessness of it all was a pain.

  ‘Oh, more so,’ she breathed, ‘but for us, for all of us, it’s so much nicer when you’re there, and it would cheer Alexis so.’

  Didn’t she realize that it was her mother who must ask him? He doubted if Alexandra would. However well disposed she was towards him, she was not likely to encourage any further association with Olga.

  ‘Highness—’