He and Sergei had discussed this transitional strategy and after each session he was more impressed with the immensity of their task. It was not just a matter of bribing guards and sneaking down palace hallways. In some fundamental way they were striking a blow at the very soul of Russia, for the Romanov name was sacred, the family had ruled absolutely for three centuries. To overturn such a tradition was no simple snap of the fingers. Peasants, the merchant class, not to mention the nobility – everyone would have to be brought along slowly. There were…nuances, superstitions, traditions which in themselves mean nothing but must be respected and dealt with. Thank God that Sergei was well aware of this aspect of the Plan and had been shown to be sensitive to the deeper ramifications. Gulka didn’t see it at all. If things were left to him everything would be managed with a knife, a bullet, or a knotted handkerchief.
Honestly, Evdaev didn’t like to think about it, it was too complicated. He was a warrior, conditioned to fight, to attack, to win great victories, not to administrate. Administration was a job for beetles in tailcoats, and there was no shortage of them. The city was choked with administrators, clerks, agents, factors and petty officials. All supervised by Andrianov and other men of his ilk, men who enjoyed organizing industrial combines, managing ledgers, bookkeepers and banking houses. None of it was a fit task for a warrior Tsar. He sighed. Only God could truly decide, he thought, driving the troublesome ideas from his mind. Yes, the Hand of God would reach out and direct his steps resolutely towards the throne, therefore wouldn’t the Hand of God guide Lily too?
There was a commotion at the top of the stairs beneath the monstrous columns that fronted the cathedral; cheers and witticisms shouted out towards the pair, just now reaching the top of the stairs. A squad of Michael’s comrades raised their sabres to form a shelter for the happy couple as they descended, the glittering blades unable to block a cascade of flowers. A sudden crashing of gigantic bells filled the air of the boulevard, startling the gulls into wheeling, shrieking flight.
There was a command, a cheer from the crowd and simultaneously the sabres were lowered, presented, and sheathed. A rush of expensive silks and hysterical laughter as a horde of tearful young noblewomen rushed to surround Pippa. A chorus of jeering and handshakes, clapping on the back and then Miki, blushing, broke away from the boys and dived into the carriage door, aiming himself directly towards a cloud of lace and petticoats.
‘Well, that’s it for your young Michael, eh? Before we turn around there will be a lot of little Pippitas to trip over on the stairs, then his hair will go, he’ll get fat, eh?’ It was Ostrov, great friend of Tsar Nicholas since childhood, and his sometime chauffeur and motoring instructor. Ostrov was red-faced with laughter, sweating even in the cool air. Whatever possessed them to decide on an autumn wedding? In their scarlets he and Ostrov looked like different versions from the uniform-maker’s pattern book. One a great pole, the other a puffball.
‘Life happens this way, or so I am told. How is your boy?’ Evdaev asked.
‘Certainly fine and young. He grows, prowls around the river at our dacha, he is entering the Admiralty cadets.’
‘The navy?’
‘He wants to see the world.’
‘Yes, but what a way to see it. And most of what you see is water!’
For a moment they stared at the retreating carriage as it rushed away across the square towards the Liteiny. Inanities were traded, a few moments later Countess Gorchakova made an entrance at the top of the stairs. As the most honoured woman of the day you would have thought she would be happy, but when she did finally produce a grimace, the smile looked garish and unnatural on her face. She loathed young Michael of course, something about the House of Evdaev had never been quite good enough for her, but there was no husband and a dwindling income, old Gorchakov had been dead these many years, the boy claimed to be in love, and so on balance it was hard to say which house, Evdaev or Gorchakov, had come out best in the transaction.
The reception at the Gorchakov Palace developed into a tawdry, drunken affair. No one, it seemed, could properly celebrate the union of these two perfect young people. In the midst of the confusion young Baron Rudolph Nikolsky came up to talk. He was something in the Ministry of War, a man whose closest companions were financiers and manufacturers. One of the modern ones, all dash and short hair. On Nikolsky’s heels the huge Mikhail Rodzianko appeared, President of the Duma but a monarchist still, not at all a bad fellow to converse with, and so obese that he made Ostrov look thin. Sazonov, the Foreign Minister, also joined them and they clustered there, watched over by huge oil portraits, all mythological in nature, since no Gorchakovs had ever participated in slaying dragons, or wrestling Napoleonic demons from the sky.
At first the conversation was casual, everyone talking about their plans to vacate the capital for the sunny south when the weather turned. Within weeks, everyone would be following in the wake of the youngsters, who would begin their honeymoon tonight within his private car, which he had kindly loaned to Miki.
The talk veered to the subject of Rasputin – there were none of his circle of sycophants gathered there under the gigantic paintings – and rumours of how interference by Rasputin was the cause of the probable replacement of Kokovtsov as Prime Minister. Everyone shrugged. The talk swerved again towards the recent negotiations over the war.
Sazonov was doing most of the talking. ‘They entered the first war all brothers – Greece, the Serbs, little Montenegro…the Bulgars, and they all expected to eradicate the Turkish presence, drive out the heathens, and push all the way to Constantinople. Everything was going to be flowers and smiles, divide the pie together…’
‘But it didn’t work out that way,’ Nikolsky put in. A tight little smile.
‘Yes, too much blood, not willing to pay the price, and then when they drew up the treaty, Bulgaria –’
‘Who’d bled the most, lost the most, fought the hardest –’ Evdaev put in. The men smiled.
‘In their minds at least –’
‘Yes, well they see what Serbia gets, and they feel cheated at the negotiations and they want what they think is theirs and so, like fools…’
‘But for Bulgaria to think they can advance their interests by attacking their Slavic brothers, that’s not the way forward,’ Evdaev said.
‘No, it’s not, Nestor. I realize that,’ Sazonov sighed. ‘But the Bulgarians are learning the lesson the hard way.’ Rodzianko nodded wisely and stepped in, proclaiming his faith in Sazonov’s diplomats and their ability to conjure a united, peaceful Europe. The men laughed.
They had been joined by Prince Meshchersky, famous homosexual and publisher of a leading newspaper that catered to the ultra-conservative Black Hundreds, an entertaining character. He and Evdaev had been kammerpages together, best friends. It was only later that he realized Meshchersky’s peculiarities, but for years there had been no sign at all. Now, of course, he was dangerously flamboyant.
Meshchersky prodded Evdaev to continue with his views. ‘It is simple,’ he replied strongly. ‘Eventually we must have Constantinople. It is in the natural order of things, just as birds need air. And we shall have it, but we could have had it all by now. Think of that, eh?’ Eyebrows were raised. The opinion directly challenged Sazonov, who, it was widely reported, had consistently backed away from any confrontation with the Austrians, who were sure to react to any Russian pressure in the Balkans. ‘Go on,’ someone said, but Evdaev politely would say no more.
‘No,’ urged Nikolsky. ‘Continue, please. This is a social occasion and we are among friends,’ the young man said with a meaningful look towards Sazonov, who was smiling politely. Rodzianko gave him an almost invisible nod, and so Evdaev launched