The Ice King (23 page)

The Emperor's study was a comparatively small room on the garden side of the Palace, next door to the Picture Gallery, so that the music of the resumed concert penetrated in a pleasant, muted fashion. It was furnished in the curious pale, mottled wood of Karelian birch-trees, which grow thick, stunted and tortuously twisted by the permanent ice close below their roots, and which can be cut and polished to a beautiful satin surface. The Emperor sat down in one of the chairs and invited Prince Nikolai to another with a graceful gesture of one white-gloved hand. "Would you care to tell me what it is that troubles you so deeply?" he asked.

“I asked Countess Tanya Kirova to come to the ball tomorrow," Prince Nikolai began reluctantly. He would far rather keep his troubles to himself, but the Emperor's invitation was tantamount to a command. "I also asked her to allow me to present her, and explained the implications. She agreed . . ." He hesitated.

“Then why are you so unhappy?" Alexander asked gently.

“Because I was foolish enough to think that I could go even as far as that without telling her about my son. I realised as soon as I left her that it wouldn't serve, and I wrote her a letter, but now I don't know if she will come or not."

“And in this letter did you tell her the whole story?" Alexander alone, of all the Prince's friends, knew the whole of it.

Prince Nikolai nodded, looking thoroughly wretched.

The Emperor, who had suffered a great many guilt-ridden, sleepless nights over his own relationship with Marie Narishkin and the effect of that relationship on his wife, had some understanding of the Prince's feelings and doubts. "What will you do if she doesn't come?" he asked.

Prince Nikolai shrugged. "Nothing. I said in my letter that I would take that as my congé. I've no wish to distress her by persisting in an unwelcome suit."

“Even the best of women find some things too hard to forgive," Alexander murmured, thinking of his Empress. "Would it help at all if I talked to her, explained the circumstances, perhaps?”

Prince Nikolai sighed. "You are very kind, Sire, but if she won't take me on my own merits, such as they are, I fear that even an Imperial recommendation would hardly serve. I – I wouldn't wish it to appear that I was exerting any influence, or pressure.”

Alexander took the point, knowing that most people took his wishes as orders. "Then there is nothing I can do, except pray for you? I'll do that, with all my heart."

“Thank you, Sire.”

The Emperor nodded kindly. "Try to sleep tonight, my friend," he said, "and leave it to me to pray for a happy ending to your doubts.”

Prince Nikolai bowed himself out with some relief. Grateful as he was for the Emperor's kindness, even the gentlest probing into the soreness of his doubts and fears was painful. He avoided the Picture Gallery by a long detour through the service and drawing-rooms of the Empress's suite, the gallery of the chapel, and thence back along the ground floor of the Palace to the main staircase, then up to his own room, where he read for an hour and then went to bed.

Tuesday arrived at last, and during the afternoon the Emperor and his entourage returned to St. Petersburg. There had been a heavy fall of snow during the morning, and although the sky cleared before they set out, progress was slow through the soft drifts, and when they arrived at the Winter Palace there was barely time to change before dinner.

Pyotr had come back during the morning and had Prince Nikolai's clothes laid out ready for him, but the Prince looked at them in surprise and said, "I'm positive I told you a blue coat, but you've brought green."

“I thought green, Nikolai Ilyich," Pyotr replied with a marked lack of expression. "Shall I go home and get another?"

“There isn't time," the Prince replied. "I suppose it will do. It clashes with my St. Andrei, but it doesn't really matter." His lack-lustre tone made him sound as if nothing mattered any more, and indeed he was now so certain that Tanya would not come that he was almost resigned to it, and the long, empty years ahead of him.

Pyotr shook his head and scowled behind his master's back while he helped him to change his clothes, handing him the garments one by one, easing him into the close-fitting green coat, vigorously brushing away a few imaginary specks of dust, then standing back to run a critical eye over his appearance, and finally giving a little nod of approval before open- ing the door for him to go down to dinner. Prince Nikolai gave the valet his usual quiet word of thanks and Pyotr watched him go down the stairs, muttering a blessing and signing him with the Cross as he passed out of sight.

A number of guests had been invited for dinner, and they were collected together in a large gallery which looked out on the central courtyard of the Palace. Prince Nikolai acknowledged the greetings of several acquaintances, and was engaged in a one-sided conversation by Lord Cathcart, the British Ambassador, who had a lengthy complaint to unload into any willing ear about the length of time it took for letters to reach him from London, and the even greater length of time his replies took to travel the same journey in reverse. Both he and Prince Nikolai knew that the delay was not caused by bad roads, but by the number of employees of various ministries and influential individuals who opened and read the letters in transit, but it would hardly have been diplomatic to say so. Cathcart knew that his complaint would reach the Emperor, who would see that things improved for a time at least.

The conversation ceased in mid-flow when two of the Emperor's giant Mameluke servants flung open the doors of the gallery and the Emperor came in, wearing tonight the dress uniform of his favourite Semenovsky Regiment of Foot Guards. He passed through the bowing and curtseying guests, who fell in behind him and followed to the State Dining-room, where dinner was served at a number of round tables, each of which had a real orange-tree growing from its centre.

Prince Nikolai forced down a mouthful or so of each dish set before him without tasting anything. He answered the remarks of his neighbours with quiet courtesy, but could not have told afterwards what they had said. He drank a glass or two of wine, and wished he had not, for it gave him a curious feeling of detachment, as if some wretched stranger were occupying his body and he was outside somewhere, watching the poor fellow moving towards his doom.

Everything seemed to move with an agonising slowness. Even the wine took an appreciable length of time to drop from bottle to glass, and every gesture of the people around him seemed to be made in slow motion. When eventually the Emperor's chair was drawn back and he stood up and began to walk towards the door, he did so at far less than his usual brisk pace.

The majority of the guests passed on ahead to join those who were already in the ballroom, and the Emperor stood talking to a group of his attendants for the necessary few minutes, then looked about him and said loudly, "Are we ready, then, gentlemen?" The gentlemen-in-waiting in attendance, including Prince Nikolai and Boris, drew together behind him and went with him along the gallery, through an anteroom to the head of the Jordan staircase, and then into another, larger anteroom, where Alexander paused to make sure that all was in order.

Two Mamelukes stood beside the doors into the ballroom, which were also guarded by two troopers of the Chevalier Guard with drawn sabres. One of the Mamelukes gave an agreed signal by tapping lightly on the panel of one door. The sound of voices and music in the ballroom suddenly ceased. A fanfare of trumpets rang out, and the Mamelukes flung open the doors.

The ballroom was brilliantly lit by more than a thousand candles in the crystal chandeliers, reflecting dazzlingly from the plain white of the walls and ceiling, which were unbroken by even a line of gold. A great throng of brilliantly-dressed people waited in a thick band round the edge of the floor, the central area of which was empty, all their faces turned towards the doors. A herald called out the titles of the Emperor in a powerful voice, and another fanfare sounded as all the company bowed or curtseyed in a susurration of silk dresses, and Alexander advanced into the room.

Prince Nikolai followed with the other attendants, walking a little behind and to the right of the Emperor. He wished desperately that he had not taken wine with his dinner, for it tasted acid in his mouth and he feared he might be sick. He half-closed his eyes against the brightness of the light and looked hopelessly along the rows of faces before him, some smiling, some curious, some bored .. .

Halfway along the room his glance came to rest on a familiar face, and he stared for a second or two, quite unable to believe that he was not imagining it, but there was no doubt. It was quite certainly Tanya, her eyes enormous and shining, her lips parted on the verge of a smile. She appeared to tremble slightly, and the movement made something flash red and green fire on the bodice of her green sarcenet gown. It was the brooch.

“NIKOLAI ?" the Emperor murmured urgently, just loud enough to catch his attention. Prince Nikolai jerked his eyes away from Tanya and replied, "Yes, she's here!"

“Bring her, then!" Alexander's lips hardly seemed to move.

Still in a dreamlike state of incredulity, Prince Nikolai moved across to Tanya, held out his hand, and realised that the hand which clasped it was not only real but shaking slightly, and that Tanya was very nervous. He gave her a reassuring smile, and led her forward to the Emperor, barely conscious of the murmur of interest which ran round the room as he said in a clear, calm voice, "Sire, may I present Countess Tanya Ivanovna Kirova?”

Tanya sank into a deep curtsey, and Alexander gave Prince Nikolai a smiling look of approval, or congratulation, or perhaps simply of pleasure, and took Tanya's hand from him, raised her and said, "I am very happy to make your acquaintance, Countess. Will you honour me by opening the ball with me?”

Tanya looked horrified for a moment, but recovered quickly as the orchestra struck up a waltz and Alexander put his hand on her waist. They began to circle the floor, quite slowly and a fraction out of time with the music. Prince Nikolai stood watching, oblivious still of the interested glances directed at him and the whispering all round the room. The Emperor made a circuit of the floor with Tanya, and then brought her back to the Prince.

“Charming, my dear fellow!" he pronounced. "I shall hold the crown for you myself, if you will allow me." He slapped the Prince heartily on the shoulder, and then said quietly, "And now I must go and make my peace with the partner with whom I was meant to open the ball!" He gave them both his gentle, benevolent smile, and walked away.

Tanya looked up at Prince Nikolai, and said anxiously, "Are you not well? You looked dreadful when you came in. I thought you were going to faint."

“I'd almost given up hope of seeing you here," he admitted. "I've hardly slept or eaten since I last saw you."

“But I said I would come." She sounded puzzled.

Prince Nikolai was seized with a horrible doubt and glanced at the ruby and emerald brooch on her corsage. He said hesitantly, "But you ... you must have had my letter ..."

“Yes." She looked down at her hands and coloured slightly. "It was a wonderful letter!" Her voice was low and tremulous.

Prince Nikolai stared at her incredulously, wondering if he had lost his reason, or at least misheard her, for they seemed to be talking about two totally different letters. A dancing couple brushed past them, and he glanced round, suddenly conscious that they were standing amid a large number of people and were in fact in the way of the dancers.

“Would you care to see the new gallery?" he asked abruptly. "The 1812 one, which I mentioned to you when you were here before?"

“Yes, please!" she replied with a warm smile, taking his proffered arm. He took her back the way he had come with the Emperor. There was no one in the small anteroom beyond the Jordan staircase, so he stopped there and turned to face her.

“How could you call it 'wonderful'?" he demanded.

Tanya looked at his anxious face with a little puzzled frown. "Because you said . . . you said that you love me!" she explained breathlessly. "I didn't know before.”

Prince Nikolai ran an agitated hand over his hair. "But why the devil . . . why on earth did you think I wanted to marry you, then?”

Tanya gave a wry little smile. "Well, I realised a very long time ago that no man would ever want me for my beauty or my fortune, for I've neither, and you hadn't said anything about loving me before. So I thought perhaps it was because you were lonely, and we do seem to share a great many interests . . . and then you concerned about the grim prospects for my future . . ." She realised as she spoke that she had gone to somewhat perverse and ridiculous lengths in trying not to take too rosy a view of his feelings. "It all sounds quite silly now," she finished apologetically.

“I hadn't realised," he began. "I mean, it seemed to me that it was patently obvious to everyone, for the past month at least! I felt that it couldn't have been more apparent if I'd had it painted on the ice in scarlet letters six feet high, right down the middle of the Neva — Nikolai Ilyich loves Tanya Ivanovna!" He gave a rueful grin, and then sobered suddenly. "The rest of my letter wasn't wonderful, though! I was afraid you would not be able to forgive me . . ."