‘Yet how,’ as Nikita afterwards moaned to himself, ‘could I have been so stupid?’
For the Tolstoys, though only of the minor aristocracy themselves, had married into the family of the mighty Miloslavskys.
Nikita continued to serve, and to hope. He made friends in high places. He even came to know the great prince Basil Golitsyn – a powerful westernized noble whom he hoped to secure as a patron. From Tolstoy, he heard nothing, and he put the incident at Kolomenskoye out of his mind. A few years more, a little luck, and he still might secure that governorship.
He was away, visiting a distant estate, when in the early summer of 1682 news reached him of the unexpected cataclysm in Moscow; and the whole business was so quick that, though he hurried back, it was all over before he reached the capital.
Poor Tsar Fedor had died. He had produced no children and so there were two possible heirs – the unfortunate Ivan, last son of Alexis by his Miloslavsky wife; and the handsome young Peter, still only nine years old, son of the Naryshkin girl. A half-blind, simpleton cripple or a young boy; the mighty Miloslavsky clan or the upstart Naryshkins.
But there was one other factor which Nikita had never considered: poor Ivan had a sister.
Princess Sophia was not a beauty. She was fat; she had an oversize head; her face was rather hairy and, as time went on, carbuncles appeared on her legs. As a princess, she was also expected to live in seclusion in the royal palace. But Sophia was both intelligent and ambitious. She had no intention of staying in seclusion, or of allowing the Naryshkins to push out her Miloslavsky relations.
In an astonishing series of events, and taking advantage of a sudden revolt of the powerful Moscow regiments of streltsy, Sophia had the Naryshkins hacked to pieces in the Kremlin Palace itself. It was an appalling and terrifying affair, taking place before the very eyes of young Peter and his mother – a terrible reminder that this was old Muscovy still, as dark, as morbid as in the days of Ivan the Terrible.
Then she had both Peter and the unfortunate Ivan declared joint Tsars – and herself made Regent.
The strange coronation took place in late June. Nikita Bobrov, having returned, was present. The two boys, robed in vestments glinting with gold, and heavy with pearls – one youth blind and half-dumb, the other only a child – were each crowned, in solemn state, with the so-called Cap of Monomakh. But behind them was Sophia. For the first time in Russian history, a woman held the reins of power.
And as he watched, Nikita thought of something else, which made him very afraid. For when Sophia began her bid for power, two men had ridden into the streltsy quarter to whip them up. One was Alexander Miloslavsky. And the other was Peter Tolstoy.
‘My dear Nikita Mikhailovich, my dear friend. We must have a talk.’
There was no more urbane man in all Russia than Sophia’s new chief minister, Prince Basil Golitsyn. Some whispered that he was also her lover. Could it really be so? Nikita was not in a position to know. But Golitsyn was certainly powerful and, Nikita believed, looked upon him with favour.
When he had been summoned to attend upon the prince in the Kremlin, therefore, he had dared to hope it might be good news. And now, seeing the great man advancing towards him, with these friendly words, he scarcely even noticed all the other people in the room, or the expressions on their faces. He saw only Golitsyn, and the fact that he was smiling.
For even to a man of some importance, like Bobrov, the prince was dazzling. He was, in truth, the first of the great, cosmopolitan Russian aristocrats who were to impress even the grandees of Europe for the next two centuries. Had it been anyone else, Nikita might even have been shocked by Golitsyn. It was not just that he spoke Latin; nor even that he drank only moderately and that his palatial house contained western pictures, furniture, even Gobelin tapestries; but he would welcome foreigners to his house, including even – Nikita had heard with horror – the dreaded Jesuits. Yet no one could deny that Golitsyn was a true Russian. No family was nobler or more ancient. And besides all this, as he now came towards Nikita, the more modest noble was aware of the wonderful quality which God had given to nearly all members of the grandee’s family: an extraordinary charm.
Instead of a kaftan, Golitsyn wore a close-fitting Polish coat, with buttons down the front. His beard, instead of flowing broadly over his chest, was trimmed to a neat point. His calm, slightly Turkish face suggested a subtle, perhaps veiled, intelligence.
Gently he took Nikita by the arm and walked with him to one side of the large room. ‘You know, my dear friend, I had hoped to see you a provincial governor,’ he said quietly. Nikita’s heart missed a beat. What did he mean? Some other promotion? But seeing his agitation, Golitsyn only sighed. ‘I want you, my friend, for both our sakes, to be very calm,’ he murmured. ‘As I say, I had hoped. But, alas, it will not be possible. You see, our local administration in Russia is, as you know, less than perfect.’
Even in his nervousness, Nikita could not help a smile at this delicious understatement. The local administration was a bribe-ridden shambles.
‘Consequently,’ the prince went on, ‘we must place huge reliance on the governors. They’re all we have. And unfortunately, even the slightest shadow upon a candidate, in certain circles, makes an appointment impossible.’ He paused. ‘You’ll also know that one of the most urgent tasks at present is for each governor to help the Church stamp out these heretics, these Raskolniki. The Regent Sophia is adamant…’ He waited a moment to give Nikita time to reflect.
‘There are rumours – whether or not they are unfounded, I hardly need to tell you, my dear friend, is perfectly irrelevant – there are rumours in certain high quarters which suggest that,’ he let the words fall gently, ‘were you to prosecute the Raskolniki, you might possibly find yourself embarrassed. I’m sure you understand.’ He paused again, then gave Nikita a smile. ‘Do not despair, Nikita Mikhailovich, you may rise again tomorrow. And I myself might fall. But today, I can’t help you.’
Nikita swallowed. His throat felt very dry.
‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing.’
‘I shall always be ready to serve,’ Nikita said with what dignity he could muster.
Golitsyn was silent.
‘You may of course prefer to reside in Moscow,’ he said after a few seconds, ‘but you should feel free to visit your estates if you wish.’
So it was truly over. They didn’t want him in Moscow. For a second – he could not help it – he felt tears in his eyes; but he managed to blink them back.
‘Come, my dear fellow, let me escort you to the door,’ Golitsyn said kindly.
Only as they went back across the room did Nikita look up and realize that about thirty people were watching; at the same moment, he noticed that in one corner, with calm, expressionless faces, two of the Miloslavskys were also quietly watching. And beside them stood Peter Tolstoy.
Then he understood that it had been a public execution.
So it was that the distinguished ancestor of Russia’s great novelist dealt with Nikita Bobrov.
It was only human nature that, in the days which followed, it was not his known enemy but kindly Golitsyn whom Nikita came to resent. So he executed me to please Tolstoy and the Miloslavskys, he brooded. But then, that man would do anything for power. And in his mind he conjured up, in some detail, what he supposed might be the relations between Golitsyn and the Regent Sophia, dwelling in particular upon her known imperfections, and some others he imagined for himself.