The older of the two was Count Pavel Dmitrievitch Kiselyev. Nearly fifty, he had a receding hairline and his once-abundant locks were turning gray. But the hairstyle made popular by the czar, with short curls combed forward at forehead and temples, neatly trimmed sideburns, and a full, waxed moustache, emphasized the oval shape of his face in a becoming fashion. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a neat waist, Count Kiselyev was still considered one of the handsomest men in Russia. Hero of the Napoleonic wars, veteran of the Congress of Vienna, former governor of the provinces of the Danube, Wallachia, and Moldavia, today he was a member of the Council of State. Among Nicholas I’s favorites, he was the incarnation of the court’s ideal of intelligence, integrity, and power. An exception. A miracle. For beneath the arrogant exterior was a vivacious personality, full of warmth.
The other man was somewhat less imbued with the honor of his class. He lacked neither distinction nor looks, but the worn traits that marked his otherwise youthful face betrayed his extreme fatigue. Pale and thin from a long journey, on this January afternoon he had the look of an adolescent who had grown up too quickly. Nothing about him was gauche or careless, but it was evident that he had dressed hastily, shaved and combed his hair in a hurry. His hair, parted on the side, fell in unruly ash-blond waves to the nape of his neck. The sideburns that framed his weary face were bushy and undisciplined; he could not remember when they had last been trimmed. His listless exhaustion had emptied his heart of emotion and his head of thoughts. Normally energetic, he found his inability to overcome this malaise distressing and humiliating. His name was Dmitri Alexeyevitch Milyutin, and he was the count’s nephew.
Both of them were career officers in the military, officers by chance or necessity rather than vocation. The army was the czar’s great passion. He was mistrustful of civilians, people who did not know the meaning of the word “obedience.” His capital of Saint Petersburg was like an immense barracks, a garrison town, inhabited solely by uniforms. A military career was the sole possibility, the only future for a self-respecting Russian from a good family. But from that to requesting a transfer to Dagestan and Chechnya, as Dmitri Alexeyevitch had done last spring—whatever could have possessed him to behave so uncharacteristically and so impulsively?
Was it a reaction to his immense sorrow at his mother’s death last February? Boredom with his studies at the military academy? A youthful desire for risk? Or glory? Whatever it was, it was an absurd gesture for a young man who had nothing to atone for. The Caucasus was known as a land of exile, a place where one was sent as punishment, “our sweet Siberia,” as the emperor called it. It was there that he sent the undesirables, the agitators, and Pushkin and Lermontoff, the poets in disgrace.
The “wars of pacification” gave demoted lieutenants and disgraced generals a chance to redeem themselves. They could win back their stripes and return as heroes. If others observed them closely, the eyes of those who were lucky enough to come back betrayed something both wild and somber. It was the shadow of “the mark of the mountains,” a nostalgia for the grandeur of nature, for their adventures among the rebels, and for the freedom from the empire that they had enjoyed even within the empire. They became arrogant and contentious and adopted the affectation of wearing only the cherkeska, the papakha, and the sacrosanct kinjal when in civilian dress.
These veterans were known as “the Caucasians.”
Though his nephew appeared to be immune to this kind of behavior, the count was nonetheless surprised to find him remote and sullen, their reunion scarcely up to his expectations. After all, the uncle had taken the trouble to go fetch him personally, south of Petersburg, at the very place where he was to report for his mission, this much-talked-of mission that had required Lieutenant Dmitri Alexeyevitch Milyutin’s return to Russia.
Once through the initial greetings, Dmitri barely thanked him. His mind seemed to be elsewhere; he spoke little and asked no questions, not even regarding the honor he was about to receive. It was an honor of some magnitude: on this December afternoon, the count would escort his nephew to the Winter Palace. He had succeeded in having his nephew invited to dinner with the imperial family in their private apartments. This was no ordinary feat, since only the czar’s most intimate friends were invited to the legendary four o’clock dinner. Of course, Dmitri had already been presented to the czar, along with hundreds of other officers, during official ceremonies at court, but never as part of a select group at a small get-together. The count had high expectations for this meeting.
As luck would have it, the invitation was for the very evening of the day the boy arrived, after an extensive campaign and a journey of several thousand versts across the country. And so? This was such a rare privilege, such a precious favor, that no one would even have considered postponing.
The uncle shot a puzzled look at his protégé. His own disappointment so annoyed him that he could find no adequate way to break the silence.
He had no children of his own. His sister had married beneath her station, her spouse a local squire from the Moscow area. They hadn’t the means to give their children an adequate education, so he had seen to the progress of the boys, the third one of whom was not yet ten. He made sure they were admitted to the best lycées and introduced to the higher circles of society. His affection for the eldest, Dmitri Alexeyevitch, now went far beyond any family obligation toward a poor relative. Despite the boy’s uncompromising character, he saw in him a reflection of his own character, a patience, a level-headedness and cleverness that excluded neither tenacity nor passion. And he knew that Dmitri admired him and returned his affection.
Dmitri had been wounded twice during the siege of Akulgo. Perhaps the scars were deeper than the young man cared to admit.
A diplomat by nature and a courtier by trade, the count tried other means, short of blatant flattery, to lighten the atmosphere and rescue the conversation.
“Akulgo,” he repeated. “Now that was some baptism by fire! You never do things halfway, do you? Typical of you, my boy, and quite a feat of arms. I’m proud of you. General Grabbe wrote to tell me that your conduct was impeccable.”
The shadow of a smile played about the lieutenant’s lips.
“General Grabbe gives me too much credit,” he replied.
It was impossible to tell whether his tone expressed modesty or bitterness. But at least he had responded.
“You’ve begun your career under the orders of a great general, and you’ve lived through a historic moment,” the count insisted.
“Nonetheless, the siege cost us three thousand men.”
The uncle sensed, if not criticism, then at least a certain reticence. He deftly changed sides.
“Three thousand, as many as that?”
“Three thousand Russians in two months. Dead or mutilated.”
“What a slaughter for a pile of rocks!”
“And the carnage isn’t over down there.”
Kiselyev began to smile beneath his moustache. Fine, the conversation had taken off again. All he had to do was let it ramble on.
“What? Not over?” he exclaimed. “The Caucasus has been pacified; it’s a complete success.”
Dmitri restrained himself from showing his impatience. “Who says so?”
“Grabbe himself, in his report to the emperor. He wiped them off the map, you wiped them off the map, all the rebels!”
“With all due respect for General Grabbe, I think he is mistaken. And if His Majesty does not take necessary measures, very rapidly—”
This time it was the count’s turn to frown.