As the kibitka covered the last four versts of the Nevsky Prospect, the beginning and the end of all journeys for those who served the empire, Count Pavel Dmitrievitch Kiselyev was still contemplating what he had just heard. As he drove under the triumphal arch, past the Alexandrine column, across the square, and along the side of the massive red Winter Palace, and all the way up to the main entrance, the images turned over and over again in his mind.
Could a massacre of such proportions have consequences in the future?
And, contrary to what he had thought earlier, should he let Dmitri tell this story? This opportunity would not present itself again. But should he seize the moment? He knew his nephew well enough to be certain that he would not step beyond the limits of propriety. But, in speaking freely, the young man would be taking a huge risk. Should he hold him back or encourage him to do so? He had asked himself these questions all his life. Intervene in affairs of state or let things take their course? How to act—and when to act—for the honor of Russia?
He had thought about this at length in 1837, when he had presented Czar Nicholas with his proposal for reform, which included the emancipation of the serfs. It was the only proposal to date that had dared to suggest such a thing. True, His Majesty himself had commissioned the report on the condition of the peasants. But the uproar in the aristocracy that had ensued had made him fear for the fall of all the Kiselyevs. The emperor, relieved at the reaction of the nobility, had immediately dismissed the report—and understandably so. The emperor hated change and disorder. He hated reforms and constitutions. And ever since the revolt of the Decembrists had nearly cost him the throne, he particularly hated liberals. How the count had managed to remain in favor all these years was a mystery. Far from banishing him after the scandalous report, Czar Nicholas had appointed him minister of domains. He, Pavel Dmitrievitch Kiselyev, who had granted constitutions to the two provinces under his administration, who was considered at court to be a worthless democrat!
“Strange weaknesses of the tyrants who govern us,” the count sighed to himself.
His thoughts implied no reproach, no criticism of his master, only a sort of self-mockery. His loyalty to the czar was total, his admiration sincere. He loved him. As for His Majesty, he considered Kiselyev a charming idealist, an old courtier who knew how to choose his moment and sugarcoat his message.
But regarding Akulgo, should he speak up or not?
The count patted the gloved hand of his protégé and whispered in his ear, not without irony, “Insha’Allah!”
The moment his polished boot crossed the step to the landing, Kiselyev’s doubts evaporated.
“Ah, Milyutin, there you are!”
Cigar clenched in his teeth, an immense greyhound at his heels, the bulky figure of Grand Duke Mikhaïl Pavlovitch, the czar’s youngest brother, was already bounding up the stairs.
“I’m just going up to see my niece for a second,” he shouted, “and I’ll be right with you. Wait for me in the little office.”
His Imperial Highness the Grand Duke Mikhaïl Pavlovitch always reserved a warm welcome for his soldiers. At forty-one, he behaved with officers, especially the young ones who had distinguished themselves in combat, like a paternal generalissimo. It fit with his stentorian voice and his penchant for regimental camaraderie. Even so, the count’s casual greeting to an officer of minor nobility—“Ah, Milyutin, there you are!”—without addressing him by his full patronymic or his rank was highly unusual. In this case, it simply indicated that His Highness knew him well and was fond of him.
Count Kiselyev had been misleading himself in thinking that his nephew’s invitation to the Winter Palace was a prize won through his tireless efforts. Dmitri Alexeyevitch was expected there. Naturally. And that was why the young man had not commented on the honor his visit implied. He was a member of General Grabbe’s staff. He had just returned from a mission in the Caucasus. This was not so much a privilege as a duty: he had been summoned to give a report.
The count discerned the extent of his misperception. He immediately sensed that there was a strange atmosphere of agitation in the White Hall, a brouhaha marked by murmurs of dismay. He looked at the courtiers—not a sign of black, not a tailcoat in sight. The men were in uniform, according to the czar’s orders, the women in national dress and kokoshnik, the ancient Russian headdress in the form of a diadem. Tradition, autocracy, orthodoxy.
But the groups that normally remained stationed in their appointed positions at the palace were scattered all over the place. The silver-helmeted Chevaliers-Gardes, the maids of honor with their azure trains gathered in the crooks of their arms, the chamber gentlemen outfitted in green and gold, the pages in purple, and the small black boys in yellow glided to and fro between the rooms, the rainbow of their costumes reflected in the huge mirrors that reached all the way to the balconies of the galleries. This ballet was a far cry from the palace’s habitual staid processions.
The arrival of the master of ceremonies and two chamberlains striding over the polished parquet created even further disorder, as everyone rushed toward them, hoping to catch any snippet of news that might be distilled in hushed voices.
The trio walked directly toward Kiselyev.
“Ah, Count, there you are. We’ve been looking everywhere for you, to warn you—at your home, at the circle, at your dacha—but you were nowhere to be found. Her Majesty the Empress cannot receive you. The four o’clock dinner has been canceled. Their Majesties are at the bedside of Grand Duchess Maria.”
“My God! Nothing serious, I hope.”
“The grand duchess had a malaise in the chapel, an indisposition that may presage a happy event. The czar joins the empress in begging you to please excuse them. They hope this complication has not inconvenienced you too much.”
The count bowed.
“I recognize the habit of exquisite courtesy on the part of Their Majesties, the great generosity that is characteristic of them both. They always have a thought for the well-being of their subjects, even though they themselves must be very worried.”
He stepped back slightly to take his leave; the master of ceremonies accompanied him politely to the landing.
“Good evening, Count, take care of yourself, we look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Cover yourself well.”
He turned to the lieutenant who stood stock still, cocked hat in hand.
“Lieutenant Milyutin, if you will be so good as to follow me to the little office.”
The “little office,” an annex to Grand Duke Mikhaïl Pavlovitch’s residence, was little in name only. In contrast to the czar’s two offices of spartan simplicity, the room was comparable in opulence and scale to the interconnecting salons. It was nonetheless a distinctly male space, with no plants, flowers, or mirrors. The velvet drapes, the leather chairs, the marble floor, and the jasper on the colonnades were all bottle green. Gilded copper insignias—imperial eagles and sheaves of arms, lances, battle-axes, and standards—shone on the green earthenware stoves, the candelabra, the wall lamps, the arms and the feet of the chairs. The thick cashmere carpet of green and gold repeated the motif of bicephalous eagles and sheaves of arms. Three great chandeliers holding hundreds of candles were lowered over tables scattered with maps, quills, and papers. The grand duke was fond of comfort.
On the walls, the portraits of his two brothers, the late Czar Alexander, who had defeated Napoleon, and Czar Nicholas, shared a striking family resemblance. Both tall and robust in stature, with well-formed round heads, short hair, moustaches, and sideburns, they shared a certain martial appeal. In contrast, Mikhaïl Pavlovitch seemed redder, rounder, stockier, and totally lacking in his older brothers’ grace. In short, he was more of a caricature.