‘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 moujiks 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.