CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
BUDDING RELATIONSHIP
“Gather ye rosebuds while ye may./ Old time is still a-flying./ And this same flower that smiles today / Tomorrow will be dying.”
—Robert Herrick, Esq., To the Virgin, to Make Much of Time, 1648
Balagansk Penitentiary Officer’s Dining Room, Irkutsk Oblast, Far East Russia, August 3, 1879
Boris was nervous and anxious about having lunch with the Tarasovas. He felt some trepidations that he might be moving too quickly in his desire to begin courting the lovely Alexandra. Even after only a week, he felt pangs of loneliness being away from her. Silly as it might seem, he felt like some of the light of the oblast had been subdued when she left for Vladivostok.
Abram, Irina, and Alexandra, alighted from the family carriage and walked up to the heavy grilled gates of the penitentiary perimeter. They were met by a soldier in his dress uniform and were escorted to the front door. He rapped twice on the heavy wood, and it was opened by a man in a spotless heavy cotton long-sleeve white jacket with two rows of knotted buttons, a baker’s puff cap, and wooden clogs.
“Please come in, honored guests. The general will be down very shortly to greet you himself. He has had to take care of an administrative matter. Please sit here while we wait.”
He directed them to three soft chairs which had been placed there that morning for this occasion. Alexandra was flattered and pleased.
Boris appeared less than a minute later dressed in his regular oviki–frontline troop uniform which fit him as if it had been custom tailored, which it had. In keeping with the tzar’s desire to hold on to Russia’s grand imperial past, the uniform was changed to resemble those worn by the imperial troops who were victorious in Paris in 1814—close-fitting, double-breasted jackets with gold buttons and brightly colored gold trimming on the collar and cuffs for general officers. His britches were almost skin tight, and–like his tunic–was a dark blue with broad grey-white stripes down his legs and sleeves. The shoulders had gold rank epaulets and shoulder board tassels. He wore long black boots that were so carefully polished that they caught the glint of the sunlight as he passed the rows of windows. His sword was held in place by a braided galloon attached to the leather by silver buckles. He cut a dashing figure, and he caused Alexandra’s color to rise and her heart to flutter. She fanned herself, which made her mother chuckle behind her hand.
Boris–followed by the chef–marched directly up to father, Abram.
“It is my pleasure to welcome you to our facility. Surely not up to your usual standards, Sir; but we do hope you will enjoy the surroundings and the fine meal prepared by Chef Ivanovsky.”
“I am sure we will, General. We are honored to be here.”
“Then, without further ado, would you please follow me to the dining room.”
As he turned to lead the entourage, he tipped his officer’s cap to Irina and Alexandra. She was sure his gaze lingered a bit longer on hers; he saluted her two brothers.
The meal was obviously much finer than any prisoner ever saw in the Balagansk Prison. In fact, it had come entirely out of General Yusupov’s personal funds. A small army of servers brought in a seven-course meal. The servants all appeared to be sophisticated about the etiquette required of them, and they moved with the precision and efficiency of long practice. They were a decade or two older than the Tarasovas would have expected. They were all dressed in white from head to toe. They all had on new sandals which seemed not to fit very well on some of the men. First course was hors d’oeuvres–Oysters à la Russe complimented by a white chablis; second was a light Consommé Olga along with strong madeira; third was poached salmon with mousseline sauce complimented by a fine dry moselle; fourth was Chicken Lyonnaise with a red bordeaux; fifth was young white Asparagus salad with champagne-saffron vinaigrette; sixth was the main course: roast sirloin of beef forestière with Château potatoes, minted green pea panettone timbales, and creamed carrots served with a strong red beaujolais; then there was a pause to cleanse the palates with a delicate lemon sorbet; and the seventh course was a colorful dessert of peaches in chartreuse jelly, thin Swiss chocolate mints, and pâté de foie gras with salty crackers imported from Germany. This final course ended with a sweet sauterne dessert wine.
Abram ate as much as a man could before admitting defeat with a self-conscious little burp. Irina made an effort to keep her portions small but largely failed. The two boys were picky eaters and ate only the roast beef and dessert, except for the pâté de foie gras with which they were unfamiliar and therefore did not like. They filled any empty corners of their stomachs with extra helpings of the dessert. Alexandra loved everything and strove not to commit a faux pas like her father by keeping her course portions small. She was full but not overly so, and she could keep her eyes and her smile flirting with Boris at just the right level of nuance.
After the royal feast, Boris chatted amiably with Abram and Irina about local customs, architecture, traditions, politics, and current events. He showed humility by asking for them to give their opinions and to share their knowledge. He showed interest by being able to respond to their answers—showing that he had studied his new posting with care and intelligence. After enough chatting, he suggested,
“Would you like to take a short walk around the facility–taking special care not to call it a prison–with me?”
“We would…” Abram started to say and then felt a sharp little kick on his ankle from his wife.
“If it is all right with you, I think we would prefer just to sit on one of the benches and take in the sun. Maybe you and Alexandra and the boys could move along a little faster if you leave us old folks behind, Prince Boris.”
He was not slow to take a hint, and he sensed that he was developing an ally in Alexandra’s mother. She smiled, and he was convinced.
“Well, maybe we could have a little fun.”
Abram said, “Just try and keep the two rascals out of trouble if you can, Prince.”
“It seems rather stiff to call me ‘prince’ or ‘general’. I feel like a friend of the family, Mr. Tarasova. Would you feel comfortable in calling me by my name—Boris?”
“Not at all, and we are Abram and Irina…Boris.”
Boris and the family walked out of the building, and Alexandra’s parents found a small bench in the sunlight but facing away from its direct glare. Boris, Alexandra, Veniamin, and Valéry, walked into the town.
“Have you been here before, Miss Tarasova? To the town, I mean?” He asked Alexandra.
“Please be Boris; so, I can be Alexandra. And more please, don’t call these naughty boys mister. It will give them ideas.”
“All right Alexandra it is.”
That bit of ice having been broken, the four of them inspected the drab and ramshackle little town. Were it not for the penitentiary, it would be barely a hamlet. Boris began to describe Balagansk and the four walked along, quickly exhausting the attention span of the two overly active boys. They disappeared down a narrow, crowded alleyway and inspected each person and thing they encountered—rats, filthy urchins, beggars, disapproving women, and standoffish men.
“They’ll be back,” Alexandra said, glad that they had left without having her give them obvious hints.
The town was small, except for the expanses of farmland. Alexandra and Boris could have walked the perimeter in two or three hours. The population was also small and disturbingly poor.
Boris pointed out a log structure with two gables where a group of ragged men with surprisingly intelligent faces sat with two or three books and engaged in lively discussions.
“They seem rather out of place, don’t they, Alexandra? Try and picture them in clean suits sitting in banks or business offices or in schools having serious and educated discussions.”
“I can almost do that because of their faces. They don’t look like peasants or serfs except for their clothes and all the dirt on their hands and faces.”
“That is perceptive of
you, Alexandra. Why do you think they are here?”
“I think I know why. They were transported from the west because of being branded as criminals or misfits. Maybe criminals,” she added as an afterthought.
“What do the people in Vladivostok think of them?”
“We know that most of them are exiles removed from their homes and former lives. There is a ghetto on the outskirts of the town where the tzar sent the Jews, just because they are Jews. They will never be able to leave. There are people called dissidents or ethnic groups like gypsies who have been sent here. Some of the aristocracy are here. I couldn’t help but notice that the men who served at our lunch were refined and appeared to be intelligent, maybe even well-read.”
“Alexandra, you are wise for one so young. Yes, many of those men and some of the women you didn’t see are true aristocrats who one way or another got into the bad graces of the tzar or the Okhrana.”
He paused for a long pregnant moment, apparently gathering his courage.
“Alexandra, can I consider you a friend?”
“Absolutely,” she said, her face thoughtful and serious.
“Can you keep a confidence, a real secret. One about me?”
“Certainly, Boris. I would be honored to share with you, and I swear that I will not tell anything to anyone about what you want to tell me.”
He took a long breath, then said, “Alexandra, I am an aristocrat and an exile, almost like those poor wretches in the prison. My “crime” if you could call it that, is that I had a brief time when some free-thinkers boarded with me. They became part of an underground network which I had nothing to do with or even knowledge about. They attempted to assassinate the tzar, and the Okhrana learned of my minor relationship with them. One of them–a girl I knew–was hanged. Because of my good military history and my parents’ high station and great wealth, they were able to ship me off to the Far East and to get me assigned as an officer in the prison. You see, I have been trying to keep up appearances, but it is difficult.”
“Oh, Boris, it could have been worse, much worse. You could have been exiled to one of the work camps in northern Siberia and never seen again.”
“General Loris Melikof threatened my father that if he ever saw me or heard of me again, he would have me transferred to a far northern Katorga penal colony and placed in leg shackles for the rest of my life. He warned Father that even a family as close to the tzar as the Yusupovs would be sentenced to a camp for criminals. Before they left their homes in Moscow and Saint Petersburg, they would be crippled by being knuted, bastinadoed, branded, or by having an arm or leg amputated.”
She shuddered at the horrific vision—which she could not even fathom—or how awful it would be to be scourged with a knotted rope or to have her tender feet flogged. She worked to remain stoical.
Boris was caught up in his emotional narrative, “He threatened Father that my delicate well-bred mother would have to work in the gold or salt mines. If she did not work hard enough, she would be flogged to death or have a heavy wooden beam attached to her leg shackles and have to work in the mines until her sentence was considered to have been fulfilled. Then the shackles would be removed; and she could go to work in the freezing cold until there was nothing left of her, and she died and was dumped into a pit with bodies of the other nameless slaves.
“My father promised on his own life that I would never be seen or heard of again by the Okhrana or the tzar. He promised that no one in the family would ever communicate with me again. He made me promise on my family’s lives that I would never try and communicate in any way with my family. It was like I was dead.”
He regretted having emptied his soul to a girl he hardly knew and feared that he might have made a fatal mistake. He was so emotionally overwrought that he could not fight back against the tears welling up in his eyes.
She said nothing for a while but looked at him with profound caring and sympathy wondering what to say that would not make her seem like a spoiled brat, or an uncaring snob, or, worse, a vapid and silly girl.
He spoke first, “I am sorry, Alexandra, I had no right to burden you with my story. I am sure that you would never want to have anything more to do with a criminal like me, whose family even has rejected him.”
He hung his head and could not look her in the eyes.
“Oh, Boris, I am thankful that you trusted me enough to share such a terrible crime that has been done to you. I have known for a long time that many of the poor souls in the penitentiary were guilty of little more than to have spoken to the wrong person, or had the wrong opinion, or had fallen out of grace with the tzar’s family. I feel that you and I have made a deep bond even though we have only just met a couple of times. Please come and see me often. I know a great secret that I will only will share with you at a certain time. All right?”
Then, she did something that astonished both of them. She embraced the much taller man, pulled his face down to hers, and kissed him passionately.
He was flummoxed. She was embarrassed to her core. They handled it in a spontaneous mutual way: they started to laugh—a whole face, whole body shaking cathartic outburst. Their future was sealed in that moment.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
GROWING TOGETHER
“O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,/ That’s newly sprung in June./ O, my Luve’s like the melodie/ That’s sweetly played in tune./ As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,/ So deep in luve am I;/ And I will luve thee still, my dear,/ Till a’ the seas gang dry.”
—Robert Burns, A Red, Red Rose, 1794
Tarasova House, No. 71 Svetlanskaya Street, Vladivostok, Far East Russia, August 10, 1879
Alexandra’s father, Abram, requested that Prince Boris visit him at his home and asked that he set aside an entire day to tour the business warehouse and the Tarasova ships. Abram hinted at a possible business arrangement. What he did not hint at was that his intention was for his daughter, Alexandra, was to be a part of any purely business arrangement whatever the two young people might have in mind about their social future-very hopefully, for a dynastic marriage. Boris responded with alacrity that he would be only too happy to come to Vladivostok.
In order to keep the early morning appointment, Boris rode Kryzhu at a fast trot all the way from Balagansk to Vladivostok and was satisfied that his fine war horse was still up to hard riding. He settled Kryzhu in the Tarasova stables near the house and walked to the front door. He gave himself a last-minute inspection to ensure that his uniform was in proper order, then rapped on the large doors. It was a hot day; so, he was sweating. He took a quick swipe of his brow with his handkerchief as the liveried Chinese major domo opened the doors and invited him in.
“The master is expecting you. Please to follow me.”
Abram stood up from behind his beautifully carved and freshly polished mahogany winged griffin partners desk and walked towards Boris. He paused to take out a packet of papers from the Victorian mahogany carved drop front desk—a work of art with brass lion pulls, carved sides, drawers and lid, ball-and-claw feet and a full sail Tarasova ship carved on the lid.
“Please be seated, Boris,” Abram directed; and he and Boris sat facing each other on comfortable soft matching early 19th Century Russian Biedermeier sofas made of white birch wood and padded with heavy maroon velvet. The neck and head rest area was made of rich gold tapestry material.
“I know you and Alexandra have some social activities planned, but I wanted to be able to talk some business with you and to show you our operations before you got caught in her web.”
Boris laughed, “I’m afraid you are a little too late in that regard.”
Abram returned a self-satisfied smile.
“Let us take a short ride over to the fur trading building. I would like to show you around.”
“My pleasure.”
The two men rode the half mile to the large warehouse in the Tarasova phaeton pulled by the three powerful white horses.
“Welcome to my humble workshop
,” Abram said as they entered the sturdy log structure which was easily as large as the main floor of the Winter Palace, in Boris’s mind.
Two thirds of the floor space of the two-story building were occupied by bales of fur of all kinds, quality, and value–martens, beavers, northern spotted fur seals, wolves, foxes, squirrels, hares, Arctic fox, lynx, sable, sea otter, and ermine. Boris was staggered at the financial implications of such a wholesale treasure trove. About half of that area contained finished coats, parkas, mukluks, and fur lined winter pants.
In the other third of the floor space there was a wide assortment of retail consumer goods, accumulated by commercial expeditions largely headed by Alexandra to areas south of Vladivostok. Buyers–men, women, and children–milled about in crowds holding up dresses, coats, shoes, formal finery, toys, and a large assortment of liniments, ointments, creams, salves, cosmetics, cure-alls, canned vegetables and fruits, and an entire section devoted to expensive caviars. Buryat boys and girls hurried about the floor to assist shoppers to carry out their purchases. The retail portion of the fur emporium was the busiest in the shop and obviously the most efficient and friendly to the customers. Whole families–sometimes even whole villages–purchased the fitted fur garments from Tarasova’s which they no longer had the time or the funds to make on their own. Abram had learned several years ago that the crafts were dying out and that there was both a nostalgic and a practical need for the furs. He saw the fur trade giving way to haberdashery goods brought in from China and Europe. When he offered fur articles hand crafted by his loyal Buryat employees, he soon realized that he had had a stroke of genius.
The Mysterious Alexandra Tarasova-Yusupov Page 17