The Summer Day is Done

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘let’s go down to the beach.’ They went.

  They bathed. Aleka loved the water, its warm embrace dispelled her resentment of Andrei’s desertion. Once immersed she was active and sinuous, her cotton costume clinging to her, wetly sheathing her curving body as she swam. Her blue-capped head rose above the water, her eyes mischievous as a child’s as Kirby came close. She jackknifed and dived under him. She glided beneath him, came to the surface, rolled on to her back and kicked water.

  ‘Ivan,’ she called. He swam around her, Aleka a figure of buoyancy, her breasts a convex of wet, glistening blue. ‘Love me,’ she laughed.

  ‘Here? Impossible,’ he said.

  She flirted water into his face.

  ‘Well, kiss me at least,’ she said. He stood, his feet touching bottom, as she floated. He kissed her. As his mouth pressed down on hers she sank. She came up gasping and outraged. ‘Oh, animal!’ she cried.

  ‘What is my wet lady’s wish then? Shall you sink again or swim?’

  Sometimes, she thought, his eyes were damnably devilish, and he was always so good-humoured he was almost complacent. She floated again, looking up at him. His brown beard was wet, his teeth white in the sun.

  ‘I think,’ she murmured, ‘I think I’ll risk being sunk again. But please, Ivan, more gently this time.’

  The water was so caressing. She lay passively upon it. He bent above her, her expression mocking, provoking, her mouth wet from the sea. There was the faintest smile on Kirby’s face. Her lips pursed. He kissed her again, gently, his mouth moving over hers. Her white legs stirred, rippling the water. Her arms reached up, wound around his neck. His mouth was warm, vibrant. It pressed. She sank, unwinding her arms to beat wildly at the enclosing water. She re-emerged in a fountainous flurry.

  She gasped and coughed up salt sea.

  ‘Ivan! You pig! Am I to be drowned by a kiss?’

  He was laughing. She stretched her legs, linked them around his beneath the surface and heaved her body to pull him from his feet. He went backwards amid splashing, tumbling water. They both bobbed upwards. He was still laughing. Aleka burst into laughter of her own.

  ‘Ivan, I love you.’ It was entirely playful. ‘Oh, what fun you are. There’s nothing one can do with Andrei, but you and I can be children again. Who is to care? Kiss me.’

  ‘Is that being children?’ he asked.

  ‘But of course. Children kiss. Haven’t you seen them? If it weren’t for ridiculous and interfering adults, some of them would make love too.’

  They stood together, the water lapping their backs. She pressed close. He put his mouth to hers, their costumes merged wetly, revealingly. Spitefully, shrewishly, her fingers dug into his back and her nails raked his flesh through the cotton. He shuddered from the unexpected pain of it. He stooped, lifted her and flung her from him. She came up breathless, rageful.

  ‘Ivan!’ She trod water furiously. ‘Ivan, you pig of an Englishman!’

  ‘What fun,’ said the pig of an Englishman.

  Aleka laughed until the tears ran. They stayed long in the water, as active as porpoises until Aleka was tingling and exhausted. ‘There, aren’t the real pleasures of life the simplest things?’ she said on the way back to the palace.

  ‘Like drawing blood, you mean?’

  ‘You deserved that,’ she said. ‘All God gave women to defend themselves with were claws. Most women are afraid to use them but I’m not. Ivan, you don’t dislike me, after all, do you?’

  He was quite astonished. He said, ‘Dislike you? Princess, what have I ever said to make you think that?’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you are damnably stiff the way you will call me “Princess”. I am Aleka Petrovna to my friends. Ivan, we are to be friends, aren’t we?’

  On either side of the winding ascent wild roses danced in the sun, nature was a fragrance and Russia seemed at eternal peace.

  ‘That,’ said Kirby, ‘is a lovely thought, Aleka Petrovna.’

  ‘Who is the woman who gave you that ikon?’

  ‘Someone’s mother,’ he said.

  ‘Ah,’ she mused, ‘is it the someone or is it the mother you have designs on? She had better be more than a promiscuous peasant. I don’t like to lose my friends to women I don’t approve of. I hate every one of Andrei’s women. Ivan, I forgot!’ She was dramatic in her suddenness. ‘You are to meet the Tsar and Tsarina. Imagine that I didn’t tell you. It is Andrei’s fault. I have an invitation for Andrei and myself, there’s to be a ball at Livadia in honour of Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaievna. It’s her birthday. Although I’m not quite in favour from time to time because of my politics, I’m in favour at the moment. You see, I made myself pleasant to the Empress years ago. I was pleasant because so many others weren’t. She’s German, you know. But she’s the kindest of persons and has always remembered that I was kind to her …’

  ‘Can I interrupt?’ said Kirby. ‘What’s all this to do with me? How am I to meet their Imperial Highnesses?’

  ‘But I’ve told you,’ she said. ‘Andrei has deserted me and I wouldn’t let him escort me even if he were back in time. I telephoned the Empress this morning and explained that as Andrei Mikhailovich is suffering from nervous exhaustion I should like to have you escort me instead. She was very sweet and so you are invited in place of Andrei. It will be very magnificent but criminally sumptuous, considering there are so many people who can’t even get enough bread to eat. But I suppose if the Grand Duchess Olga can’t have a birthday ball things would be sad indeed. What am I saying? They are sad. They are worse than sad. Ivan, we will go to the ball and you can help me convert the Tsar to democracy. Ivan, are you listening?’

  She kicked him.

  She could not tolerate even the suspicion of a deaf ear.

  Chapter Three

  Two nights later they went to Livadia, their carriage one of a multitude drawn up outside the steps of the Imperial Palace. Kirby had thought Karinshka Palace imposing. Livadia was breathtaking. Built of white limestone, it overlooked the Black Sea and was a majestic example of man’s genius for complementing nature. It was the constant joy of Empress Alexandra Fedorovna and she and Nicholas, Emperor of All the Russias, were never happier than when they were there. Tonight, to celebrate the sixteenth birthday of their eldest daughter, Grand Duchess Olga, their Imperial Majesties were giving a full-dress ball.

  Caught up in the queue, it took time for Princess Aleka’s carriage to reach the steps. Kirby spent the waiting period gazing entranced at the palace. It was ablaze with lights, yet with its brilliance softly diffused in the evening light. There were columned balconies, cloistered walks and gardens of colour and magic. The air was heady with the scent of roses.

  ‘Magnificent,’ he said.

  ‘It’s only another palace,’ said Aleka, magnificent herself in a tiara. She sat close to him in the carriage, the warmth of her body an allurement. ‘And it will be full of bores stuffed into uniforms and old harridans stuffed into corsets. Ivan, think of the poor and the starving. Then this will seem what it really is, an unforgivable extravagance.’

  ‘I thought of the poor and the starving when you gave your first dinner party,’ he said.

  ‘You unspeakable cad,’ she said.

  ‘Dear Aleka,’ he said placatingly.

  At last they went in, gowned women and uniformed men preceding them, others following on as each carriage disgorged its occupants. Kirby felt himself caught in an immensity of glittering splendour. He smiled as by his side he heard Aleka humming the waltz from Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty. Her cloak was taken, her pale golden gown bared her shoulders but for once her bosom was not threatening to escape. She knew the Empress well. Alexandra Fedorovna did not approve obtrusive exposure. Kirby, in black tails, was content to be effaced by her brilliance, her jewelled tiara an emblem of her rank, setting her glossy auburn hair on fire.

  Karita had been overwhelmed with pleasure that he was to attend so splendid a ball, and she had seen to it
that he had looked his best. But as for the implications of full dress, he could do no better than wear his tails. There were few men who were not richly ceremonial in their attire. White jackets hung with medals, honours and awards predominated. Well, he could not help that. He had nothing to hang. He hoped he would not look naked.

  They were announced. Princess Aleka was well known. Palely, glitteringly she advanced, coolly enjoying being looked at. Already the state room was alive with people, the light of huge chandeliers reflected by the jewels of the women. With Kirby at her elbow Princess Aleka was received by their Imperial Majesties.

  Nicholas was in uniform, decorations colourful, Imperial star resplendent. Aleka curtseyed, he took her hand, he smiled and spoke to her.

  Between the Tsar and Tsarina stood a girl, a girl with the bluest of eyes, and with chestnut-gold hair dressed high and lightly caressed by a sparkling tiara. Her gown was a flowing enchantment of coral pink. She was looking not at Aleka Petrovna but at the princess’s escort, a tall man with a gold-flecked beard and wide, deeply grey eyes, a man who, in Western-styled evening tails, was so different from all the other men there. She came to as Aleka smiled at her, curtseyed to her and congratulated her.

  Kirby bowed to the Tsar. Nicholas was not a tall man, but he was handsome, his beard giving him a similarity to his cousin, King George V of England. He had a simple, easy dignity and as he smiled he seemed to radiate genuine welcome and pleasure.

  ‘It is good to see you, Mr Kirby,’ he said in English, ‘for we have only the warmest memories of your country. If you don’t enjoy the evening I don’t know what my daughter will say. Will you give her your kindest wishes?’

  ‘Willingly, your Imperial Highness, and thank you for the privilege of being able to do so.’

  He moved on and there she was, the Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaievna, sixteen and unbelievably sweet. He could not for the moment check the shock of surprise. Their little secret was in her eyes. She was the eldest daughter of the Tsar, yet for all that was breathlessly shy. She gave him her hand, he saw the bright ring worn over the gloved finger and he put his lips to it.

  ‘Highness, I did not know it was you I saw,’ he said in Russian, ‘but now that I do, forgive me and let me wish you the happiest of birthdays.’

  ‘Forgive you?’ Her voice was soft and warm. ‘Oh no, it wasn’t like that.’

  The Tsarina, who had received Aleka, glanced at her daughter and saw the flush on her face. There were other guests waiting and there was little time to give any of them more than a few brief words. Kirby moved to bow to Alexandra and to take the hand she extended.

  Alexandra was a slender, beautiful woman, but she did not have it in her to dazzle her court, to establish herself as a lively and evocative Empress. She was fervently religious, and had a mystique that made people think her remote and unapproachable.

  Kirby, however, received no such impression now. He was conscious only of the kindest of smiles, even of warm responsiveness to his words of thanks.

  ‘Why, Mr Kirby,’ she said, speaking in English as Nicholas had, ‘we are delighted to meet you. If Russia has my love, England has more than a small part of my heart.’

  It was in England that she and Nicholas had spent their most idyllic days just before they were married.

  ‘Mama,’ broke in Olga, ‘he is English? I did not really catch his name.’

  ‘He is an English Ivan,’ said Princess Aleka, ‘and is the most terrible of men, dearest Olga. Have nothing whatever to do with him.’

  Blue eyes sought his, earnestly curious to discover whether signs of formidable failings were visible. He shook his head, smiling. In return she gave him her own shy smile to let him know she was sure he was not as terrible as that. He would have moved away with Aleka then but the Empress detained him. He had yet to discover that if Olga was endearingly shy, Alexandra was painfully so. It was something that made all state occasions, even this one, an ordeal. But she put her question.

  ‘Mr Kirby, where is your home in England?’

  ‘By the river, your Highness. A place called Walton-on-Thames.’

  Alexandra shed her restraint, or rather, it slipped away to leave her in glowing pleasure.

  ‘But that is where the Emperor and I— Mr Kirby, I must find time to talk to you, perhaps.’

  ‘I should like that very much,’ he said simply.

  She nodded, her eyes warm, and he withdrew to take the arm of the highly intrigued Aleka.

  It did not help Alexandra to know that most eyes were on her and not on her daughter. It was always the same. Shyness not being a characteristic of the Russians, there were few who understood how Alexandra suffered. Her inability to relax was construed as a Germanic restraint towards them. But nothing could have been farther from the truth. Alexandra had a great love for her adopted country and little love at all for Prussian Germany – she considered herself more English than German. Her mother had been Princess Alice, daughter of Queen Victoria, her language was English and England itself was her land of romance. She loved her husband passionately and adored her five children. Fundamentally she was honest and sincere, but it was a pity she was not the cleverest of Empresses instead of the most devout. Religion was her strength and her weakness.

  With her spiritual fortitude and a courage that was the hallmark of the Hesse family, she fought her public nervousness and every cruel turn of fortune’s wheel. She did not consider herself the granddaughter of Queen Victoria for nothing. She faced up to the realization that her only son, Alexis, was a haemophiliac, and on his behalf she put her trust in God and in that strange ‘holy man’, Rasputin.

  ‘Well?’ whispered Aleka, her paleness tinted by an excitement she would have disowned if questioned.

  ‘They could not have been kinder,’ said Kirby.

  ‘That’s not exactly an inspired comment. Can’t you do better than that?’

  ‘I’m reserving judgement. What do you feel about them, Aleka? They belong more to you than to me.’

  ‘I feel I can’t be sentimental,’ she murmured, ‘that’s too expensive a luxury in Russia today.’

  The state dining hall was a kaleidoscope of moving colour when the reception at last finished. Huge glass doors were opened and any guests who wished were free to wander in the gardens or view the majesty of Livadia from balconies. They could watch the sun setting in crimson glory over the Black Sea, or later the rise of the autumn moon in silver radiance. There was a cotillion supper to enable guests to be served any time during the dancing.

  The dancing would go on until the small hours. Princess Aleka, now that she was here, had obviously decided not to let her principles interfere with her capacity for enjoying herself. This included exercises in the art of tormenting stuffed bores. They came her way soon enough, surrounding her, flattering her and eyeing her cleavage. They requested the privilege of her ball card. Aleka flirted with them, mocked them, denied them. Presented to her, wives or female companions returned her malicious smiles with chilling sweetness. Aleka refused to be chilled.

  Kirby, quiet in dress and manner, was introduced by Aleka. The women, deep-bosomed, glittering with diamonds or sapphires or rubies, were not uninterested. The men, impeccably correct, were courteous but brief. They were single-minded in their pursuit of Aleka. She shrugged and made her ball card available. With her fan she tapped restrainingly at the hand of every man wishful to sign for more than one dance.

  ‘I can’t show favouritism, dear man,’ she said to a monocled officer, ‘or I myself will feel responsible when the others take you out and shoot you.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘the sublimity of such a death in such a cause.’

  ‘The man’s a perfect fool,’ said Aleka, watching him return to his fuming wife. Her foot began to tap as the state orchestra began the opening bars of the first dance, ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Ivan, don’t act as if this is the first time you’ve been in a menagerie. You look like the man who is seeing his first elephant. Are you going to b
e dull all night? You let all those dressed-up apes breathe all over me and sign my card. Are you not going to dance with me yourself?’

  He had been watching Grand Duchess Olga opening her ball in the arms of a young officer from the Tsar’s suite. Graceful in her pink, regal in her tiara, there was still the shyness of a girl knowing a thousand eyes were on her.

  ‘Princess, may I?’ he said and took her card.

  ‘I’ve left three dances for you,’ she said, pointing with her fan.

  ‘That’s favouritism, isn’t it?’

  ‘They won’t shoot you. They can’t have a diplomatic incident in front of the Tsar himself. Ivan, will you please wake up? You’ve signed for the first dance. I’m here. Don’t you want the extravagant bliss of holding me?’

  ‘I rather fancy that kind of sublimity. Princess, my arm.’

  They danced. Her dark eyes glowed, drawing his. Her smile was caressing, if a little sly. He enjoyed it all. All her facets were intriguing. Yet his sense of pleasure was not only because of Aleka. For the Tsar’s daughter had caught his glance. She smiled. He felt the strangest and most sudden of emotions. It was as if his heart had turned over.

  ‘Ivan?’

  ‘Princess?’

  ‘There you go again. Ivan, if you are looking at some other woman—’

  ‘I’m immersed in extravagant bliss, dear one.’

  ‘Liar.’ But she laughed softly, circling, one hand on her lifted gown, the other on his shoulder. ‘Do you know, you’re considerably good-looking tonight. And you’re not in uniform, thank God. You need not stand about while I’m dancing with other men. You may present yourself to any of the women I’ve introduced you to. They’ll be delighted to dance with you. Ivan, is there one you already have your eyes on? You are indecently far away.’

  ‘I’m not far away, I’m dancing with you,’ he murmured. ‘You’re the most beautiful woman here. I shall almost certainly be shot.’

  ‘Darling,’ she breathed, ‘a compliment at last. Not an echo of Andrei. It would be delicious if you could pant a little over me. People are wondering who you are and if I’m in love with you. Who could think we were just good friends? That’s not a bit exciting.’