The Summer Day is Done

by Mary Jane Staples

  Suddenly she said, ‘Tell me more of the ball and the Imperial Palace, monsieur. I can’t hear enough about it all.’

  He discoursed on the ball, describing as best as he could all that was fascinating to her about the women and their gowns. He described how the Emperor and Empress had looked, but he did not mention Grand Duchess Olga.

  So Karita said at last, ‘But the Grand Duchess, monsieur, it was her ball, how did she look?’

  Kirby let the jolting carriage run its course over a section of road in need of repair.

  ‘She looked very sweet, I think,’ he said, ‘and very young.’

  Considering how he always had something telling to say about almost everything, Karita thought this disappointingly inadequate.

  ‘But, monsieur, you danced with her,’ she said, ‘you must have noticed more than that. What was she wearing, how was her hair dressed, what jewels did she have?’

  ‘She wore pink, her hair was up and she had a diamond tiara. She still looked very young.’

  ‘But it was her sixteenth birthday,’ said Karita, ‘she’s grown up. Monsieur, I think you could hardly have seen her at all.’

  ‘I saw her very clearly,’ he said. The pictures came to his mind out of the morning air. There was a girl there, a girl who looked as if she would never grow up. ‘Actually, Karita, she was quite lovely. Look, there’s Livadia.’

  When they were close Karita could not take her eyes off the white, shining Imperial Palace, majestic in the sunshine. It took her breath away, and she was sure that when she stepped from the carriage the weakness in her knees would prevent her legs from carrying her up the wide steps. She surprised herself. Indeed, Kirby thought as she entered the palace that he had never seen the golden-haired Crimean girl look so composed. Magnificently adorned footmen appeared.

  ‘Madame?’ said one, mistaking her status.

  ‘I am the personal servant of my lord duke Ivan Ivanovich Kirby,’ said Karita.

  ‘Heaven be blessed,’ he said and gladly took her in charge before others could, while Kirby was ceremoniously escorted to his room on the first floor. As at Karinshka, it was a suite, but even more spacious. All its windows opened out on to a sunlit balcony. The drawing room was blue-carpeted, its walls hung with paintings and ikons. The chairs were gilt and blue. Karinshka had impressed him, Livadia held him spellbound. The view was of the dancing blue sea, of green velvet lawns and beautifully colourful flower beds. The balcony itself seemed so high, poised far above the sounds of the earth and the murmurs of the sea. He felt in perfect peace.

  Servants were in his suite, attending to the luggage he had brought, and in a remarkably short time Karita, having established herself in the servants’ quarters, arrived in her blue dress and white front. He heard her taking charge, supervising this and that in her efficient way. The servants left and she came out to him on the balcony.

  ‘All is ready, monsieur,’ she said, ‘you are to be served lunch here in your suite, then afterwards you’re to change and meet Countess Borodinsky.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘A lady-in-waiting.’ Karita already seemed as if matters and personages of the Imperial household were little to worry about, but the next moment she went on breathlessly. ‘Oh, it’s all so beautiful but so confusing, I’m sure I’ll lose myself a dozen times a day.’

  ‘I’ll come and look for you and we’ll get lost together,’ he said.

  ‘And who will come and look for us?’ she said gaily.

  He had the lunch that was served in his suite. He was pleasantly surprised at the simplicity of the meal. Then he changed and an hour after lunch Karita took him to meet Countess Borodinsky. She was thirtyish, charming and put him entirely at his ease. Kirby, in white flannels and blue jacket, made his own impression on her. She liked his tall English look, his masculinity without the flamboyance of so many Russians. They exchanged small talk on an easy, pleasant note and then she said, ‘Do you play tennis?’

  ‘A little, Countess.’

  ‘A little will be enough to start with,’ she smiled. It was mid-afternoon and the palace was quiet as she took him up to the Empress, who was writing letters in her boudoir. There, sitting at a table by the window, she received him. Her hair, deeply golden, showing only the minutest tints of grey, was lustrous, and he thought her quiet regality beautiful. Her smile was warmly welcoming.

  ‘Mr Kirby, how nice to see you, how good of you to leave Karinshka and be with us for a while.’

  ‘Imperial Highness,’ he said, ‘you must know that the pleasure is all on my side. You have built a place of wonder here. It’s as beautiful by day as it is by night. I did not think it could be, but it is.’

  ‘Mr Kirby, it was built to grace Holy Russia, it is not meant in any way to add lustre to me.’

  ‘It does, nevertheless,’ he said. ‘I cannot retract, Highness.’

  She smiled and shook her head. There was an air of devout modesty about her, the boudoir itself, with its numerous ikons and religious paintings, her spiritual sanctuary. Alexandra wanted only to serve her family and Russia, and would rather be known as Mother Tsarina than as Empress Alexandra, although as Empress she was conscious of all that her title entailed. She believed, as Nicholas did, in the divine right of Tsarist autocracy. God had called Nicholas to serve his people, to guide them and to administer for them.

  Kirby sat and she talked to him. Her conversation was simple, homely, of her children, of Livadia and of England. Kirby’s impression that she was the kindest of persons deepened. If she was neither brilliant nor devious, neither witty nor calculating, these were things, he thought, that might elevate some Empresses; but Alexandra, first and foremost a wife and mother, would not have been concerned to have been told she lacked them. She placed far greater importance on love and affection, and on Christian humility, only providing the Tsar’s divinity was not called into question.

  Finally she said, ‘You will excuse me now? I have so much correspondence to catch up with and we will be able to talk again while you’re here. Countess Borodinsky will take you down into the gardens and introduce you to our dear Anna Vyrubova. I believe,’ she added with a shy smile not unlike Olga’s, ‘that you and Anna met briefly before.’

  ‘I was clumsy then, I’ve been mortified since,’ he said.

  Anna Vyrubova was in the gardens, seated at a white ornamental table and working with her needle. Behind her, in the distance, the mountains pointed their peaks at the blue sky. Comfortably plump, with pleasant features, she wagged her finger at Kirby as he was introduced to her.

  ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘so you are the man who stepped on me.’

  ‘I’ve tried to think of it as a happy collision,’ he said, ‘and you were very kind about it. I must apologize for damaging your parasol and if my servant Karita – oh, yes.’

  Karita, watching from a position of advantage, moved as Kirby lifted his hand to her. She came hurrying up, petticoats peeping below swinging blue. She gave a long, wrapped package to Kirby, curtseyed and sped away, blushing just a little. Kirby handed the package to Anna, she unwrapped it, opened it up and exclaimed in pleasure at the colourful parasol. Countess Borodinsky excused herself and Kirby sat down. Anna was only too pleased to talk to him, and in conversation she was as pleasant and as uncomplicated as the Empress. She was genuinely devoted to Alexandra.

  Kirby sat in relaxed enjoyment. The green lawns, the flowering shrubs and the profusion of roses, beautiful in the golden sunshine, lent enchantment to majesty and brought visual splendour to tranquillity. There was no noise save the murmur of hot autumn, no voice except Anna’s. There were no children. He wondered about that.

  A hand clapped him on the shoulder. He turned in his chair and saw the Tsar. He rose to his feet.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said Nicholas, his smile infectious, ‘how splendid to see you.’ He wore white and carried two tennis racquets. ‘You are just the man for me. Anna, what do you think, General Sikorski has cried off with a sore back. I s
uspect it’s to do with his reluctance to take a beating. Generals are like that,’ he said to Kirby. ‘I hope you aren’t. Anna, will it do if I borrow our English friend and play a set with him?’

  Anna, teeth biting on a thread, nodded. It all spoke of free and easy informality. Livadia, thought Kirby, induced that. The Tsar put his hand on Kirby’s arm and led him to the tennis court. Nicholas was an enthusiastic and capable player. Kirby had once been of county standard but was rusty. It had been years since he’d played. They knocked up. Kirby was completely out of touch and showed it.

  ‘Don’t worry, my dear man,’ called Nicholas as Kirby apologized for his lack of co-ordination, ‘it takes a little time if one hasn’t played the game for a while.’

  They were quite alone. There were no guards, no obtrusive court officials, nobody at all except themselves. The Tsar was as carefree as a boy. Kirby hit a good forehand at last and Nicholas beamed in delight. He hit more, as well as a competent backhand or two.

  ‘Ah, you’re ready?’ called Nicholas. ‘You serve, my dear chap, I insist.’

  Tennis in 1911 was a pastime rather than a sport. Strokes were made from the back of the court, and anything like a cunning drop shot or a vindictive volley was considered not quite the thing, unless one was playing for a championship. Volleying indeed was in its suspect infancy. Some men still served underhand. Not so the Tsar or Kirby. They served in a competitive spirit.

  ‘My dear fellow,’ said the Tsar midway through the set, ‘I think you’re winning. I must make you a general.’

  Kirby had been wondering whether it would be wise to win, if he could. If the Tsar had invited him here in order to indulge his Imperial passion for tennis, perhaps he also took an Imperial pleasure in winning. It would be a little ungrateful to beat him, perhaps. It might even be tactless. He decided, however, that the Tsar simply enjoyed playing and, as far as the result was concerned, differed from generals in his outlook. Yet few people, especially the exalted few, lost with the same relish as they won … oh well, he thought, just get on with the game and let it all happen naturally.

  He clouted a few forehands out of court. He lost the set 7–5. The Tsar sank into a seat by the side of the court, wiping his forehead with a silk handkerchief. He wore another one around his neck. He was in very good humour.

  ‘Absolutely first class, Mr Kirby. Splendid. We must play again. You’re improving all the time.’

  ‘Another set now?’ Kirby was hot himself.

  ‘We’ll have a drink first.’

  It was standard practice. Cool drinks appeared as if the liveried servant was a genie. Kirby let himself cool down. It was undeniably pleasant here. He was not quite sure how it had all happened, but he had just finished a most enjoyable set of tennis with the Tsar of All the Russias. His name would be in the papers if anyone at home found out. In the local papers.

  He breathed in the warm air. A flutter caught his eye, a flutter of white whisking behind a shrub. It disappeared.

  ‘Ready, my dear man?’ said the Tsar, who liked to play tennis on and off all day.

  They played again. Kirby got better. Lithe and active in his white flannels, he had the Tsar stretching to reach his returns. Nicholas muffed a shot, the ball just cleared the net, it seemed to hover and drop dead. Kirby swooped, got his racquet to the ball as it died, but unable to check his diving impetus he plunged head first into the net. The Tsar roared with laughter, echoed by the impulsive laughter of a delighted girl. She had stolen from her tutor to peep at the game.

  ‘Oh, Mr Kirby! Papa!’ She was in pure merriment. Kirby disentangled himself and sat up. He saw her in a white dress, the waist sashed with wide red ribbon, and her hair was a cascading brightness, flowing to her shoulders. He smiled, not at all discomfited. It was worth ten falls to see the Grand Duchess Olga Nicolaievna in such merriment.

  ‘Hm, that you should have come at so significant a moment for Mr Kirby,’ said Nicholas to his delighted daughter. ‘Who’s going to pick him up?’ He advanced to the net, laughingly extending a helping hand over it. Kirby got to his feet, brushed his flannels. ‘You’re not hurt, I hope, my dear fellow? Good. And there’s no damage to the net. It was a splendid effort and all because of such a bad shot of mine. Did you see my bad shot, Olga?’

  ‘Papa,’ said Olga demurely, ‘I only saw Mr Kirby dive gallantly into the net.’ Kirby regarded her in pretended admonition. She responded with the happiest of smiles. ‘Well, it was so funny, you see,’ she explained.

  ‘Your Highness,’ he said, ‘I don’t do it for every Grand Duchess I meet, only for those celebrating a sixteenth birthday.’

  ‘Oh, that is very gallant,’ she said. Then, ‘Papa, I’ll stay and pick up the balls for you and Mr Kirby, shall I?’

  The Tsar looked at his watch.

  ‘Return to Monsieur Gilliard for a little longer, my love, otherwise he’ll come shaking his head at all of us.’

  ‘Papa, you’re dreadfully hard on me sometimes,’ said Olga, but she went. She stopped, turned round and said to Kirby, ‘Did you bring the parasol?’

  ‘I did, Highness,’ he said.

  ‘Now Anna will think she’s had a birthday too,’ said Grand Duchess Olga.

  He met all the children later, all five of them. Alexis, the Tsarevich, was an extraordinarily attractive boy of seven, his grey-blue eyes always eager, it seemed, to discover new entertainments. It was as if he sensed his life would be short and that he must enjoy all that he could while he could. Anastasia, gifted and tomboyish, was ten and still chubby with puppy fat. Marie was twelve, apple-cheeked, blue-eyed, pretty and already desperately romantic. Tatiana was fourteen, slender and vivacious, with impish grey eyes and beautiful auburn hair. Such was her zest for life, such the irresistible nature of her personality, that even at fourteen she was inclined to outshine and dominate Olga, her closest and dearest sister. Olga, the eldest, was to outsiders the quietest and shyest of the Grand Duchesses, but within her family and to her friends she had all the most endearing qualities: wit, charm, compassion and the same infinite capacity for loving as her mother.

  They were all intensely interested in the tall Englishman. Alexis, always boyishly interested in military matters, asked him if he would have time to do some drilling.

  ‘I’m quite good at all the commands, you know,’ he said.

  ‘Well, I should think I could spare some time,’ said Kirby. He sat in a white garden chair, the children sat on the lawn around him, all except Olga who, having recently grown up, had decided it was more decorous to repose in a chair of her own. She had said she did not want to look part of the hooligan element. At which her sisters had threatened to plop her into a pool. It did not ruffle Olga. She was happy. She was always happy at Livadia. She was a reflection of its tranquillity. ‘Yes,’ Kirby continued, ‘I ought to do some drill, I’ve never done any at all. It should do me the world of good as long as I can sit down in between.’

  ‘Oh, that’s jolly decent of you,’ said Alexis, elated at the prospect.

  ‘Not at all,’ said Kirby.

  ‘Well, you’ve asked for it now,’ said Marie, ‘Alexis is simply dreadful when he’s got someone he can drill, he simply never never stops.’

  ‘General Sikorski says he’s insatiable,’ said Tatiana, ‘he orders his victims about night and day. You’ll never get time to sit down at all.’

  ‘Oh, pooh,’ said Alexis, ‘they’re just girls and they’re awful at drill, they just fall about.’

  ‘I’ve a shocking feeling,’ said Kirby, ‘that as I’m new to it I’ll probably fall about myself.’

  Alexis rocked with laughter, Marie giggled. Anastasia got up and very solemnly said, ‘Here is Ivan Ivanovich being drilled by Alexis and falling about.’ She began to stagger and reel around, and Anna Vyrubova came to see what all the hysterics were about.

  ‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s only Stasha being herself,’ said Olga.

  ‘Stasha, love, get up,’ said A
nna. Anastasia was rolling on the grass. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m doing Ivan Ivanovich falling about.’ They were already using his Russian names.

  ‘Actually,’ said Tatiana, ‘I think you’re doing him falling down.’

  They wandered with him through the gardens and along cloistered avenues where the grapevines wound and curled. They were delighted with him, at his interest in everything, at his interest in them, at his responsiveness to their chatter. Alexis said he was going to make Ivan Ivanovich one of his very best friends.

  ‘Olga,’ whispered Tatiana, taking her elder sister by the arm while the others showed Kirby the fish in a sunlit pool, ‘you are shockingly close, you didn’t say a word about what he was like, only that you danced with him and that Mama and Papa were very taken with him. And he’s the handsomest man.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Olga was offhand. ‘I hadn’t really noticed – well, yes, he’s quite nice, I suppose.’

  Tatiana looked in curiosity at her sister. There was something new about Olga. She was not herself, she was apart from the rest of them. Her long, shining hair had been recently brushed and she held herself more carefully than usual. That was it, she was not romping with them as she normally did, she was sixteen and simulating the behaviour of a young woman, not a girl. Tatiana’s eyes danced.

  ‘Of course,’ she said seriously, ‘he’s rather old—’

  ‘He is not!’ Olga’s whispered denial was too quick, too impulsive. She knew it, she coloured up.

  ‘Why, Olga, you’re blushing,’ Tatiana teased, but she relented quickly and added, ‘Anyway, who cares how old he is? He is rather delicious, I think, don’t you?’

  ‘Tasha, he’ll hear you,’ said Olga a little desperately. She glanced at Kirby. He was down on one knee at the edge of the pool, his hand on the shoulder of Alexis, who was pointing out the fish. Marie and Anastasia were both talking to him at once. He seemed completely at ease.

  ‘When tea is served I shall make eyes at him over the bread and butter,’ said Tatiana, ‘I’ll be the first one ever to make bread and butter romantic.’