laughter in her voice.
‘The news. It came on the railway telegraph – from Petersburg.’
‘What news?’ Yelena’s voice was more irritated than Tamara’s.
‘He’s dead,’ panted Vadim. ‘His Majesty – he’s dead.’
There was a moment of silence as the three adults looked at the boy’s face, trying to judge whether he was telling the truth and praying that he wasn’t, but they quickly realized it was a thing that no Russian, not even a child, would joke about. Yelena covered her face with her hands and let out a moan.
‘The poor man,’ said Valentin. ‘That poor family.’
Tamara was surprised by her own reaction to the news. Her first thought had been for the political implications; the fact that Aleksandr Nikolayevich looked far less kindly upon the Third Section than had his father. Beyond the obvious personal problems that any weakening or even disbandment of it would cause, she truly believed that it would be to the benefit of the country’s enemies. But then she noticed the moisture in her eyes, and the tightness of her stomach. Valentin Valentinovich was right, about both the man and the family. Nikolai had been so strong, such an appropriate man to lead his nation. He had been only fifty-eight.
Tamara glanced around the room. It was a very Russian scene, one which would be played out across the country as the news spread – in each home a private grief, as though a member of the family had been lost. It was quite insane and quite beautiful. She went over to kneel beside her mother, taking her hand. No one spoke. Her mother forced a smile and stroked her hair. Her father sat very still with his hands resting on his thighs, shaking his head slowly from side to side. Vadim seemed confused, trying to reconcile his excitement at the news with the sorrow that it had brought to everybody.
Suddenly, Tamara was four years old again. She knew the age precisely because it was the time they had heard of the old tsar’s death – Aleksandr I. News travelled more slowly back then, but it had reached them within days. She had been like Vadim was now, too young to understand the grief of others, but she remembered Yelena and Valentin being very much the same as they were now.
For perhaps the first time she appreciated the magnificence of their old age and understood why they were so affected. They were not just grieving for Nikolai, but for their memories of the death of Aleksandr, and of his father Pavel before him – perhaps even the death of Yekaterina. They would have been as young then as she was at Aleksandr’s death. Perhaps they realized too that they would not live to see the end of this new tsar’s reign – or at least hoped it.
And from the distant reaches of that four-year-old mind came another thought – the memory of a hope, but not of its fulfilment. What had affected her most as a child on hearing of the death of the tsar had not been a sense of sorrow, but a realization that the news also meant that her father – her real father – would be coming home.
CHAPTER V
THE IMPERIAL ARMY was taking the news surprisingly well. The death of the tsar made no difference to daily life in the besieged city of Sevastopol. The enemy guns had not fallen silent in deference to the departed emperor, nor had they fired a salute in honour of the succession of the new one. Many were pleased that Tsar Aleksandr had at last relieved the woeful commander-in-chief, Prince Menshikov, and replaced him with Prince Gorchakov, but those who bothered to read the dates on the dispatches soon realized that this had not been the first act of the new tsar, but the last of the old one. Some of the men had shed a tear for their departed emperor, but among the officers it was only those who knew him personally who showed any real emotion at his passing.
Dmitry had never met the late Tsar Nikolai, but had seen him on several occasions, the first being in December 1825 as he sat astride a horse just to the
‘The news. It came on the railway telegraph – from Petersburg.’
‘What news?’ Yelena’s voice was more irritated than Tamara’s.
‘He’s dead,’ panted Vadim. ‘His Majesty – he’s dead.’
There was a moment of silence as the three adults looked at the boy’s face, trying to judge whether he was telling the truth and praying that he wasn’t, but they quickly realized it was a thing that no Russian, not even a child, would joke about. Yelena covered her face with her hands and let out a moan.
‘The poor man,’ said Valentin. ‘That poor family.’
Tamara was surprised by her own reaction to the news. Her first thought had been for the political implications; the fact that Aleksandr Nikolayevich looked far less kindly upon the Third Section than had his father. Beyond the obvious personal problems that any weakening or even disbandment of it would cause, she truly believed that it would be to the benefit of the country’s enemies. But then she noticed the moisture in her eyes, and the tightness of her stomach. Valentin Valentinovich was right, about both the man and the family. Nikolai had been so strong, such an appropriate man to lead his nation. He had been only fifty-eight.
Tamara glanced around the room. It was a very Russian scene, one which would be played out across the country as the news spread – in each home a private grief, as though a member of the family had been lost. It was quite insane and quite beautiful. She went over to kneel beside her mother, taking her hand. No one spoke. Her mother forced a smile and stroked her hair. Her father sat very still with his hands resting on his thighs, shaking his head slowly from side to side. Vadim seemed confused, trying to reconcile his excitement at the news with the sorrow that it had brought to everybody.
Suddenly, Tamara was four years old again. She knew the age precisely because it was the time they had heard of the old tsar’s death – Aleksandr I. News travelled more slowly back then, but it had reached them within days. She had been like Vadim was now, too young to understand the grief of others, but she remembered Yelena and Valentin being very much the same as they were now.
For perhaps the first time she appreciated the magnificence of their old age and understood why they were so affected. They were not just grieving for Nikolai, but for their memories of the death of Aleksandr, and of his father Pavel before him – perhaps even the death of Yekaterina. They would have been as young then as she was at Aleksandr’s death. Perhaps they realized too that they would not live to see the end of this new tsar’s reign – or at least hoped it.
And from the distant reaches of that four-year-old mind came another thought – the memory of a hope, but not of its fulfilment. What had affected her most as a child on hearing of the death of the tsar had not been a sense of sorrow, but a realization that the news also meant that her father – her real father – would be coming home.
CHAPTER V
THE IMPERIAL ARMY was taking the news surprisingly well. The death of the tsar made no difference to daily life in the besieged city of Sevastopol. The enemy guns had not fallen silent in deference to the departed emperor, nor had they fired a salute in honour of the succession of the new one. Many were pleased that Tsar Aleksandr had at last relieved the woeful commander-in-chief, Prince Menshikov, and replaced him with Prince Gorchakov, but those who bothered to read the dates on the dispatches soon realized that this had not been the first act of the new tsar, but the last of the old one. Some of the men had shed a tear for their departed emperor, but among the officers it was only those who knew him personally who showed any real emotion at his passing.
Dmitry had never met the late Tsar Nikolai, but had seen him on several occasions, the first being in December 1825 as he sat astride a horse just to the
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