by Boris Akunin
As a statesman and exemplary family man, the sovereign could not allow himself to become too obsessed with this magical debutante, and he took the wise step (one must presume, not without regret) of entrusting Madam Snezhnevskaya to the care of the tsarevich, whowas causing his august parent great concern with his excessive piety and a certain lack of polish. Izabella Felitsianovna bore the parting from His Majesty with courage and took her important state mission most responsibly, so that the heir to the throne soon changed for the better and even committed several follies (admittedly rather modest and not scandalous in nature), which finally reassured his father the tsar.
In appreciation of her services, Madam Snezhnevskaya received a marvellous palazzo on Bolshaya Dvoryanskaya Street, her own choice of parts at the Mariinsky Theatre and – most important of all – a special, in fact exclusive, position at court, which was the envy of many, many others. However, despite all this, she conducted herself modestly, did not abuse her influence and – almost unbelievably – did not acquire any serious enemies. It was known from reliable sources that the lovelorn tsarevich had offered to marry the beauty in secret, but she prudently declined, and when a tender friendship sprang up between the heir to the throne and Princess Alice she withdrew into the shadows, and in a touching scene of farewell with ‘dear Nicky’ she gave her blessing to that union. This action subsequently paid dividends, since it was genuinely appreciated by the new tsarina – yet another unprecedented phenomenon – and she began giving her former rival clear signs of favour. Especially when Izabella Felitsianovna, following a decent pause for grieving, entrusted her tender heart to Georgii Alexandrovich. To be quite honest, I think that in many ways Madam Snezhnevskaya gained more than she lost by this change. Georgii Alexandrovich is a distinguished man and a generous soul with a far more pleasant character than his nephew.
Oh, Izabella Felitsianovna was wisdom itself. One could tell her about anything. She understood how important the secrets of the royal family were, for she herself was their custodian. Snezhnevskaya would come up with something special, something that would not occur either to the slippery Colonel Karnovich or the redoubtable Kirill Alexandrovich, or even the artful Mr Fandorin himself.
Madam Snezhnevskaya had taken an entire wing in the Loskutnaya, which in itself was an adequate demonstration of this amazing woman’s status – just then, at the very height of the coronation celebrations, even the most ordinary hotel room cost five times as much as normal, and it was in any case impossible to find one.
There were numerous baskets of flowers standing in the hallway of the deluxe apartment and I heard the muted sounds of a grand piano coming from somewhere in the maze of rooms. I handed the maid a note and the playing stopped almost immediately. A minute later Izabella Felitsianovna herself came out to me. She was wearing a rich-pink dress of light silk that no other blonde could possibly have presumed to wear, but Snezhnevskaya in this attire did not look vulgar, she looked divine – I cannot find any other word for it. Once again I was astounded by her light porcelain beauty, that most precious kind of beauty, encountered so very rarely, which gives a face that should be familiar the power to take one’s breath away and strike one dumb.
‘Afanasii!’ she said with a smile, looking up atmebut managing in some miraculous manner to hold herself as if shewere standing on a pedestal, not on the ground. ‘Hello, my friend. Is it something from Georgie?’
‘No,’ I replied with a low bow. ‘I have secret business of state importance.’
The clever woman did not ask me a single question. She knew that Afanasii Ziukin would not use such a weighty phrase idly. She knitted her brows in concern for an instant and then beckoned me with her little hand.
I followed her through several communicating rooms to the boudoir. Izabella Felitsianovna closed the door, sat down on the bed, gestured for me to take a seat in an armchair and said just two words: ‘Tell me.’
I expounded the gist of the problem to her, without keeping anything back. My story took quite a long time, because so many events had occurred during the previous few days, but even so it was shorter than might have been expected, for Snezhnevskaya did not gasp or clutch at her heart, and she did not interrupt me even once – she only picked faster and faster at her collar with her elegant fingers.
‘Mikhail Georgievich is in mortal danger, and there is a terrible threat hanging over the entire house of Romanov,’ was how I concluded my extensive account, although I could have dispensed with the dramatic style because my listener had understood everything perfectly well anyway.
Izabella Felitsianovna said nothing for a long time, a very long time. Never had I seen an expression of such agitation on her doll-like face, not even when I took the tsarevich’s letters away from her on Georgii Alexandrovich’s instructions.
Unable to bear such a long pause, I asked: ‘Tell me, is there any solution to this?’
She raised her bright-blue eyes and looked at me sadly and – so I thought – with sympathy. But her voice was firm.
‘There is. Only one. To sacrifice the lesser for the sake of the greater.’
‘“The lesser” – is that His Highness?’ I asked and sobbed in a most shameful fashion.
‘Yes. And I assure you, Afanasii, that such a decision has already been taken, although no one speaks of it out loud. Knick-knacks from the coffret – very well, but no one will give this Doctor Lind the Orlov. Not for anything in the world. This Fandorin of yours is a clever man. The idea of “renting” is brilliant. Stretch things out until the coronation, and after that itwon’t matter any more.’
‘But . . . but that is monstrous!’ I could not help exclaiming.
‘Yes, from the ordinary human point of view, it is monstrous,’ she said and touched me affectionately on the shoulder. ‘Neither you nor I would behave like that with our children. Ah yes, you have no children, I believe?’ Snezhnevskaya sighed and then in her pure ringing voice she expressed an idea that I myself had pondered more than once. ‘To be born into a ruling house is a special destiny. One that brings immense privileges, but also requires the willingness to make immense sacrifices. A disgraceful scandal during the coronation is unacceptable. Under any circumstances whatever. To hand over one of the most important insignia of the empire to criminals is even less acceptable. But to sacrifice the life of one of the eighteen grand dukes is perfectly acceptable. Even Georgie understands that of course. What is a four-year-old boy compared with the fate of an entire dynasty?’
There was a clear hint of bitterness in these last words, but there was also genuine grandeur. The tears that sprang to my eyes did not go on to run down my cheeks. I do not know why, but I felt chastened.
There was a knock at the door, and the English nanny led in a pair of quite delightful twins who looked verymuch like Georgii Alexandrovich – ruddy-cheeked and strong-necked, with lively brown eyes.
‘Good night, Mummy,’ they babbled and ran to fling themselves on Izabella Felitsianovna’s neck.
It seemed to me that she hugged and kissed them rather more passionately than this everyday ritual required.
When the boys had been led away, Snezhnevskaya locked the door and said to me: ‘Afanasii, your eyes are soggy. Stop it immediately or I’ll turn weepy myself. It doesn’t happen to me very often, but once I start it will be a long time before I stop.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ I mumbled, fumbling in my pocket for a handkerchief, but my fingers were not responding very well.
Then she came up to me, took a little lacy handkerchief out of her cuff and dabbed my eyelashes – very cautiously, as if she were afraid of spoiling make-up.
Suddenly there was a knock at the door – loud and insistent.
‘Izabo! Open up, it’s me!’
‘Paulie!’ exclaimed Snezhnevskaya, throwing up her hands. ‘Youmust not meet. Itwould put the boy in an awkward position. In here, quickly!
‘Just a moment!’ she called. ‘I’ll just put my shoes on.’
Mea
nwhile she opened the door of a large mirror-fronted wardrobe and shoved me inside, prodding me with her sharp little fist.
The interior of the dark and rather spacious oak wardrobe smelled of lavender and eau de cologne. I turned round cautiously, made myself as comfortable as possible and tried not to thinkwhat an embarrassing situationwould result ifmypresence were to be discovered. But a moment later I heard something that made me forget all about my embarrassment.
‘I adore you!’ Pavel Georgievich exclaimed. ‘How very lovely you are, Izabo! I think about you every day!’
‘Stop that! Paulie, you are simply insane! I told you, it was a mistake that will never be repeated. And you gavemeyourword.’
Oh Lord! I clutched at my heart, and the movement set the dresses rustling.
‘You swore that we would be like brother and sister!’ Izabella Felitsianovna declared, raising her voice – evidently in order to mask the incongruous noises from the wardrobe. ‘And anyway your father telephoned. He should be here at any minute.’
‘I rather think not!’ Pavel Georgievich declared triumphantly. ‘He has gone to the opera with the Englishmen. No one will bother us. Izabo, what do you want him for? He’s married, but I’m free. He’s twenty years older than you!’
‘And I’m seven years older than you. That’s a lot more for a woman than twenty years is for a man,’ Snezhnevskaya replied.
I deduced from the rustling of silk that Pavel Georgievich was trying to put his arms round her and she was resisting his embraces.
‘You are like Thumbelina,’ he said passionately. ‘You will always be my tiny little girl . . .’
She gave a short laugh: ‘Oh yes, a little lapdog – a puppy to the end of its days.’
There was another knock at the door, even more insistent than the previous one.
‘My lady, Georgii Alexandrovich is here!’ the maid’s frightened voice announced.
‘How can that be?’ Pavel Georgievich cried in alarm. ‘What about the opera? Well, that’s it. Now he really will send me to Vladivostok! Oh Lord, what shall I do?’
‘Into the wardrobe,’ Izabella Felitsianovna declared decisively. ‘Quickly! No, not the left door, the right one!’
Somewhere very close to me a door squeaked and I heard agitated breathing about three paces away, beyond the multiple layers of dresses. Thank God my brain was unable to keep up with events, otherwise I should probably have simply fainted away.
‘Well, at last!’ I heard Snezhnevskaya exclaim joyfully. ‘I had already given up hope! Why promise and then make me wait like this?’
There was the sound of a prolonged kiss and beyond the dresses Pavel Georgievich gnashed his teeth.
‘I was supposed to go to the opera, but I escaped. That scoundrel Paulie . . . Give him it in the neck, I will . . . Here, I had to come here . . . I have to . . .’
‘Not straight away, not straight away . . . Let’s have a glass of champagne – it’s already waiting in the drawing room . . .’
‘To hell with champagne. I’m all on fire. Bellochka, it’s been hell being without you. Oh, if you only knew! But later, later . . . Unbutton this damn collar!’
‘No, this is insufferable!’ a voice in the wardrobe said in a breathless whisper.
‘You’re crazy . . . Yourwhole family’s crazy . . . Youwere saying something about Paulie?’
‘The boy’s got completely out of hand! That’s it. I’ve decided to send him to the Pacific. You know, I believe he’s rather taken a fancy to you. The little whippersnapper. I know I can trust you completely, but bear in mind that he picked up a nasty disease on the voyage—’
The wardrobe swayed and a door slammed.
‘He’s lying!’ Pavel Georgievich howled. ‘I’m cured! Ah, the scoundrel!’
‘Wha-a-at!’ Georgii Alexandrovich roared in a terrible voice. ‘How dare you . . . How dare you . . . dare?’
Horrified, I opened my door a crack and saw something I could not possibly have imagined even in the most appalling nightmare: Their Highnesses had grabbed each other’s throats, and Pavel Georgievich was kicking at his father’s ankles, while Georgii Alexandrovich was twisting his son’s ear.
Izabella Felitsianovna tried to come between the two men, but the admiral-general caught the little ballerina a glancing blow with his elbow, and she was sent flying back towards the bed.
‘Afanasii!’ Snezhnevskaya shouted imperiously. ‘They’re killing each other!’
I jumped out of the wardrobe, prepared to accept the blows of both parties, but that proved unnecessary because Their Highnesses senior and junior gaped at me wide-eyed, and the battle came to a natural end.
I caught a quick glimpse of my reflection in a pier glass and shuddered. Tousled hair, dishevelled sideburns, and there was something pink clinging to my shoulder – either a slip or a pair of pantaloons. In my state of abject confusion, I grabbed the shameful item and stuffed it into my pocket.
‘Will . . . er . . . will there be any instructions?’ I babbled.
Their Highnesses exchanged glances, both looking as if a tapestry or bas-relief on the wall had suddenly started talking. But in any case the threat of infanticide or patricide was clearly over, and Iwas astounded yet again by Izabella Felitsianovna’s presence of mind and acuity of wit.
Their Highnesseswere apparently struck by the same thought, because they said almost exactly the same thing simultaneously.
‘Well, Bella, you are a most amazing woman,’ Georgii Alexandrovich boomed.
And Pavel Georgievich chanted in a bewildered tenor: ‘Izabo, I shall never understand you . . .’
‘Your Highnesses,’ I blurted out, realisingwhat a blasphemous misconception the grand dukes were labouring under. ‘It’s not at all . . . I have not . . .’
Without listening to what I was trying to say, Pavel Georgievich turned to Snezhnevskaya and exclaimed in a tone of childish resentment: ‘So he – he – can, and I can’t?’
I was struck completely dumb, with no idea at all of how to resolve this terrible situation.
‘Afanasii,’ Izabella Felitsianovna said firmly, ‘go to the dining room and bring some cognac. And don’t forget to slice a lemon.’
I rushed to carry out this instruction with a feeling of quite inexpressible relief and, to be quite honest, I was in no great hurry to get back. When I finally entered the room, carrying a tray, the picture that met my eyes was quite different: the ballerina was standing, with Their Highnesses sitting on pouffes on each side of her. I was rather inaptly reminded of a performance of Chinizelli’s circus which Mademoiselle and I had attended with Mikhail Georgievich the previous Easter. We had seen roaring lions sitting on low pedestals while a brave slim female lion-tamer strolled around between them, clutching a massive whip in her hand. The similarity was heightened by the fact that the heads of all three of them – Snezhnevskaya standing and the great dukes sitting – were on the same level.
‘. . . I love you both,’ I heard and halted in the doorway, because this was clearly not the moment to come barging in with the cognac. ‘You are both very dear to me – you, Georgie, and you, Paulie. And you love each other too, do you not? Is there anything in the world more precious than loving devotion and affection for one’s kin? We are no vulgar bourgeois. Why hate when you can love? Why quarrel when you can be friends? Paulie is not going off to Vladivostok – we would miss him wretchedly, and he would miss us. And we will arrange everything excellently. Paulie, when are you on duty at the Guards company?’
‘On Tuesdays and Fridays,’ Pavel Georgievich replied, batting his eyelids.
‘And you, Georgie, when are the meetings at the ministry and the State Council?’
Georgii Alexandrovich replied with a rather dull-witted (I beg your pardon, but I cannot find any better definition) expression on his face: ‘On Mondays and Thursdays. Why?’
‘See how convenient it all is!’ Snezhnevskaya exclaimed delightedly. ‘So everything’s arranged! You, Georgie, will come to see me
on Tuesday and Friday. And you, Paulie, will come on Monday and Thursday. And we will all love each other very, very much. And we won’t quarrel at all, because there is nothing to quarrel about.’
‘Doyou love him in the sameway as you love me?’ the admiral-general asked stubbornly.
‘Yes, because he is your son. He is so very much like you.’
‘But . . . what about Afanasii?’ Pavel Georgievich asked, looking round at me in bemusement.
Izabella Felitsianovna’s eyes glinted, and I suddenly sensed that she did not find this terrible, impossible, monstrous scene in the least bit arduous.
‘And Afanasii too.’ On my word of honour, she winked at me. But that is impossible – I must have imagined it – or else it was a nervous tic in the corner of her eye. ‘But not in the same way. He is not a Romanov, after all, and I have a strange destiny. I can only love the men of that family.’
And this last sentence sounded perfectly serious, as if Snezhnevskaya had just that moment made a remarkable and possibly not very happy discovery.
1 Thank God! He has recovered consciousness. You were right.
2 Affair of the heart.
13 May
I found myself caught in a false and distressing position, and I did not know how to escape from it.
On the one hand, the previous day’s clarification at the Loskutnaya had put an end to the tension between the grand dukes, and at breakfast they regarded each other with a sincere goodwill that reminded me more of two good comrades than a father and son, and I could not but be glad of that. On the other hand, when I entered the dining room with the coffee pot, bowed and wished everybody good morning, they both looked at me with an odd expression on their faces, and instead of the usual nod, they also said ‘Good morning,’ which confused me completely. I believe that I even blushed.
I had to rid myself of this monstrous suspicion somehow, but I had absolutely no idea how to raise such a subject with Their Highnesses.
As I was pouring Georgii Alexandrovich’s coffee, he shook his head reproachfully and yet also, I thought, with a certain hint of approval and droned in a low voice: ‘Well, I never . . .’