by John Boyne
His Imperial Majesty, Tsar Nicholas II, Emperor and Autocrat of All the Russias, Grand Duke of Finland, King of Poland.
My employer.
‘I apologize if I kept you waiting,’ he said as I stepped into the room, closing the door behind me. ‘As you can imagine, there are many matters of state to be taken care of. And this has been a very, very long day. I had hoped—’ He stopped short as he turned around and stared at me in amazement. ‘What on earth are you doing, boy?’
He was standing to the left of his desk, no doubt surprised to see me kneeling about ten feet away from him, supplicating myself on the floor with my hands outstretched on the rich carpet before me and my forehead touching the ground.
‘Your most Imperial of Majesties,’ I began, my words getting muffled in the purple and red weave in which my nose was buried. ‘May I offer my sincere appreciation for the honour of—’
‘All the saints in heaven, would you stand up, boy, so that I can see and hear you!’
I looked up and there was the hint of a smile flickering across his lips; I must have been an extraordinary sight.
‘I apologize, Your Majesty,’ I said. ‘I was saying that—’
‘And stand up,’ he insisted. ‘You look like some sort of whipped cur stretched out on my carpet like that.’
I stood and adjusted my clothing, attempting to discover some sort of dignity in my pose. I could feel the blood which had run to my head when I was on the ground causing my face to grow red and was aware that I must have seemed embarrassed to be in his presence. ‘I apologize,’ I said once again.
‘You can stop apologizing, for a start,’ he said, stepping behind his desk now and sitting down. ‘All we’ve both done over the last two minutes is apologize to each other. There must be an end to it.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ I said, nodding my head. I dared to look directly at him as he examined me and found myself a little surprised by his appearance. He was not a tall man, no more than five feet and seven or eight inches in height, which meant that I would have stood a good head above him had we been standing side by side. He was quite handsome, though, compact in his frame, trim and apparently athletic, with piercing blue eyes and a finely trimmed beard and moustache, the ends of which were waxed but drooping slightly, perhaps because of the lateness of the evening. I imagined that he tended to it once a day, in the mornings, or if there was a reception at night, then once again in preparation for his guests. It was not so important when receiving a lowly visitor such as I.
Contrary to my expectations, the Tsar was not attired in some outlandish Imperial costume, but in the simple garb of a fellow moujik: a plain, vanilla-coloured shirt, a pair of loose fitting trousers and dark leather boots. Of course, there was no question that these simple items of clothing were produced from the very finest fabrics, but they seemed comfortable and simple and I began to feel a little more at ease in his presence.
‘So you are Jachmenev,’ he said finally, his clear voice betraying neither boredom nor interest; it was as if I was simply another task in his day.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your full name?’
‘Georgy Daniilovich Jachmenev,’ I replied. ‘Of the village of Kashin.’
‘And your father?’ he asked. ‘Who is he?’
‘Daniil Vladyavich Jachmenev,’ I said. ‘Also of Kashin.’
‘I see. And he is still with us?’
I looked at him in surprise. ‘He didn’t accompany me, sir,’ I said. ‘No one said that he should.’
‘He is still alive, Jachmenev,’ he explained with a sigh.
‘Oh. Yes. Yes, he is.’
‘And what is his position in society?’
‘He is a farmer, sir.’
‘He has his own land?’
‘No, sir. He is a labourer.’
‘You said a farmer.’
‘I misspoke, sir. I mean that he farms land. But it is not his land.’
‘Whose is it then?’
‘Yours, Your Majesty.’
He smiled at this and raised an eyebrow for a moment as he considered my reply. ‘It is indeed,’ he said. ‘Although there are those who think that all the land in Russia should be distributed equally between the peasants. My former prime minister, Stolypin, he introduced that particular reform,’ he added, his tone implying that it was not something he had been in favour of. ‘You are familiar with Mr Stolypin?’
‘No, sir,’ I replied, honestly.
‘You have never heard of him?’ he asked in surprise.
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Well that doesn’t matter, I suppose,’ he said, rubbing carefully at a spot of dirt on his tunic. ‘He’s dead now. He was shot at the Kiev Opera House, while I sat in the Imperial box looking down at him. That’s how close these murderers can get. He was a good man, Stolypin. I treated him unkindly.’ He became silent for a few moments, his tongue pressing into his cheek as he lost himself in memories of the past; I had only been with the Tsar for a few minutes but I already suspected that the past weighed heavily on him. And that the present was hardly any more comforting.
‘Your father,’ he said eventually, looking up at me again. ‘Do you think he should be granted his own land?’
I thought about it, but the concept, my very words, became confused and I shrugged my shoulders to indicate my ignorance. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about such matters, sir,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure that whatever you decide will be for the right, though.’
‘You have confidence in me, then?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But why? You have never met me before.’
‘Because you are the Tsar, sir.’
‘And what does that matter?’
‘What does it matter?’
‘Yes, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he said calmly. ‘What does it matter that I am the Tsar? Simply being the Tsar inspires confidence in you?’
‘Well … yes,’ I said, shrugging again, and he sighed and shook his head.
‘One does not shrug one’s shoulders in the presence of God’s anointed,’ he said firmly. ‘It is impolite.’
‘I apologize, sir,’ I said, feeling my face grow red once again. ‘I meant no disrespect.’
‘You’re apologizing again.’
‘That’s because I’m nervous, sir.’
‘Nervous?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
‘Because you are the Tsar.’
He burst out laughing at this, a long, lingering laugh that went on for almost a minute, leaving me in a state of utter bewilderment. Truthfully, I had not expected to encounter the Emperor that night – if at all – and our meeting had come about with such little preparation or formality that I was still confused by the fact of it. It appeared that he wanted to question me thoroughly for a position I did not yet understand, but he was being deliberate and cautious in his queries, listening to my every answer and following up on it, trying to trap me in a mistake. And now he was laughing as if I had said something amusing, only for the life of me I could not think what that might have been.
‘You look confused, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he said finally, offering me a pleasant smile as his laughter came to an end.
‘I am, a little,’ I said. ‘Was I rude in what I just said?’
‘No, no,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘It’s just the consistency of your answers that amuses me, that’s all. Because I am the Tsar. I am the Tsar, am I not?’
‘Why, yes, sir.’
‘And a curious position it is too,’ he said, picking up a steel diamond-encrusted letter-opener from his desk and balancing it on its tip before him. ‘Perhaps one day I shall explain it to you. For now, I believe I owe you my gratitude.’
‘Your gratitude, sir?’ I asked, surprised that he could possibly owe me anything.
‘My cousin, the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicolaievich. He recommended you to me. He told me how you came to save him after an assassination attempt.’
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‘I’m not sure it was as serious as all that, sir,’ I said, for the very words seemed astonishingly treasonous, even coming from the mouth of the Tsar.
‘Oh no? What would you call it then?’
I considered the matter. ‘The boy in question. Kolek Boryavich. I knew him since we were children. He was … it was a stupid mistake on his part, you see. His father was a man of strong opinions and Kolek liked to impress him.’
‘My father was a man of strong opinions too, Georgy Daniilovich. I don’t try to murder people because of it.’
‘No, sir, but you have an army at your disposal.’
His head snapped up and he stared at me in surprise, his eyes opening wide at my impertinence, and even I felt utterly shocked that I had said such words.
‘I beg your pardon?’ he said after what seemed like an eternity had passed.
‘Sir,’ I said, scrambling to correct myself, ‘I misspoke. I only meant that Kolek was in thrall to his father, that’s all. He was trying to please him.’
‘So it was his father who wanted my cousin murdered? I should send soldiers to arrest him, should I?’
‘Only if a man can be arrested for the thoughts that are in his head and not the actions that he commits,’ I said, for if I was responsible for the death of my oldest friend, I was damned if I was going to have his father’s blood on my hands too.
‘Indeed,’ he said, considering this. ‘And no, my young friend, we do not arrest men for such things. Unless their thoughts lead to plans, that is. Assassination is a terrible thing. It is a most cowardly form of protest.’
I said nothing to this; I could think of nothing to say.
‘I was only thirteen years old when my own grandfather was assassinated, you know. Alexander II. The Tsar-Liberator, he was called at one time. The man who freed the serfs, and then they murdered him for his generosity. A coward threw a bomb at his carriage while he travelled through streets not far from here and he escaped unhurt. When he stepped outside, another ran at him and exploded a second. He was brought here, to this very palace. Our family gathered while the Tsar died. I watched as the life seeped out of him. I recall it as if it was yesterday. One of his legs had been blown off. The other was mostly missing. His stomach was exposed and he was gasping for breath. It was obvious that he had only a few minutes left to live. And yet he made sure to speak to each of us in turn, to offer us his final benediction, such was his strength even at a time like that. He consecrated my father. He held my hand. And then he died. Such agony he must have felt. So you see, I know the consequences of this kind of violence and am determined that no member of my family will ever suffer assassination again.’
I nodded and felt moved by his story. My eyes drifted to the rows of books which lined the wall to my right and I glanced at them, narrowing my eyes to make out the titles.
‘You do not turn your head away from me,’ said the Tsar, although his voice contained more curiosity than anger. ‘It is I who turn away from you.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, looking at him again. ‘I didn’t know.’
‘More apologies,’ he replied with a sigh. ‘I can see that it will take some time for you to learn our ways here. They may seem … curious to you, I imagine. You are interested in books?’ he asked then, nodding towards the shelves.
‘No, sir,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘I mean yes, Your Majesty.’ I groaned inwardly, trying to make myself sound less ignorant. ‘I mean … I’m interested in what they say.’
The Tsar smiled for a moment, seemed almost about to laugh, but then his face clouded over and he leaned forward.
‘My cousin is very important to me, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he announced. ‘But more than that, he is of extreme importance to the war effort. The measure of his loss would have been incalculable. You have the gratitude of the Tsar and all the Russian people for your actions.’
I felt it would be unworthy of me to protest any further and simply bowed my head in appreciation, holding it there for a moment before looking back up.
‘You must be tired, boy,’ he said then. ‘Take a seat, why don’t you?’
I looked around and a chair similar to the one in the outside corridor, but not quite as ornate as the one in which he sat himself, was standing behind me, so I sat down and immediately felt a little more relaxed. As I did so, I stole a quick glance around the room, not looking at the books now but observing the paintings on the walls, the tapestries, the objets d’art which sat on every available surface. I had never seen such opulence before. It was quite breathtaking. Behind the Tsar, just over his left shoulder, I saw the most extraordinary piece of ornamental sculpture and, despite my rudeness in staring, my eyes could not help but focus on it. The Tsar, taking note of my interest, turned around to see what had captured my attention.
‘Ah,’ he said, turning back and smiling at me. ‘And now you have noticed one of my treasures.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ I said, trying my best not to shrug. ‘It’s just … I’ve never seen anything quite so beautiful.’
‘Yes, it is rather fine, isn’t it?’ he said, reaching across with both hands for the egg-shaped statue and placing it on the desk between us. ‘Come a little closer, Georgy. You may examine it in more detail if you wish.’
I pulled my seat forward and leaned in. The piece was no more than seven or eight inches in height, and perhaps half that distance in breadth, a gold and white enamelled egg, patterned with tiny portraits, supported by a three-sided eagle standing upon a red, bejewelled base.
‘It is what is known as a Fabergé egg,’ the Tsar told me. ‘The artist has traditionally presented one every Easter to my family, a new design every year with a surprise at its heart. It’s striking, don’t you think?’
‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ I said, desperate to reach out and touch the exterior but terrified to do so in case I damaged it in some way.
‘This one was given to the Tsaritsa and me two years ago, to celebrate the tercentenary of the Romanov reign. You see, the portraits are of the previous Tsars.’ He spun the egg around a little and began to point out some of his ancestors. ‘Mikhail Fyodorovich, the first of the Romanovs,’ he said, indicating a small, unimposing, wizened man with a peaked hat. ‘And here is Peter the Great, from a century later. And Catherine the Great, another fifty years hence. My grandfather, who I spoke of, Alexander II. And my father,’ he added, indicating a man almost exactly like the one who sat opposite me. ‘Alexander III.’
‘And you, sir,’ I remarked, pointing to the central portrait. ‘Tsar Nicholas II.’
‘Indeed,’ he said, apparently pleased that I had noticed him. ‘My only regret is that he did not add a final portrait to the egg.’
‘Of who, sir?’
‘My son, of course. The Tsarevich Alexei. I think it would have been quite fitting to see his face there. A testament to our hopes for the future.’ He considered this for a moment before speaking again. ‘And if I do this …’ He placed his hand on the top of the egg and carefully lifted the hinged lid, ‘you see the surprise which is contained within.’
I leaned forward again so that I was practically stretched across his desk and gasped when I saw the globe contained inside, the continents encased in gold, the oceans described by molten blue steel.
‘The globe is composed of two northern hemispheres,’ he told me and I could tell by his tone that he was delighted to have an interested audience. ‘Here we have the territories of the Russias in 1613, when my ancestor Mikhail Fyodorovich acceded to the throne. And here,’ he continued, turning the globe over, ‘are our territories three hundred years later, under my own rule. Somewhat different, as you can see.’
I shook my head, lost for words. The egg was composed of such fine detailing, such exquisite design, that I could have sat before it all day and night and not have grown tired of its beauty. That was not to be, however, for after staring at the lands over which he reigned for a few moments longer, he replaced the lid on the
egg and returned it to where it had stood on the table behind him.
‘So there we are,’ he said, bringing his hands together and glancing across at the clock on the wall. ‘It’s getting late. Perhaps I should tell you the other reason why I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Of course, sir,’ I said.
He looked at me for a moment as if he was determining on the correct form of words. His stare pierced me so deeply that I was forced to look away and my eye caught a framed photograph on his desk. He followed my glance there.
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding. ‘I suppose that is as good a place to start as any.’ He lifted the photograph and handed it to me. ‘You are familiar, I would assume, with the Imperial Family?’
‘I am aware of them, of course, sir,’ I said. ‘I have not had the honour—’
‘The four young ladies in that picture,’ he continued, ignoring me, ‘they are my daughters, the Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, Marie and Anastasia. They are growing into very fine young women, I might add. I am supremely proud of them. The eldest, Olga, is twenty years of age now. Perhaps we shall marry her soon, that is a possibility. There are many eligible young men among the royal families of Europe. It’s not possible at the moment, of course. Not with this blasted war. But soon, I think. When it is over. The youngest you see here is my own sweetheart, the Grand Duchess Anastasia, who is shortly to turn fifteen.’
I stared at her face in the portrait. She was young, of course, but then I was less than two years her senior. I recognized her immediately. She was the girl I had met at the chestnut stand earlier in the evening; the young lady who had looked up at me and smiled when she stepped from her boat an hour before. The one who had made me turn around in such a state of confusion, bewildered by my sudden rush of passion.
‘There were moments – I think I can confide this in you, Georgy – when I thought I was never to be blessed with a son,’ he continued, taking the frame off me and handing me a different one, in which a single portrait of a striking young boy had been placed. ‘When I thought Russia was never to be blessed with an heir. But happily, my Alexei was born to the Tsaritsa and me some eleven years ago. He’s a fine boy. He will be a great Tsar one day.’