‘All the saints in heaven, would you stand up, boy, so that I can see and hear you!’
I looked up and there was the hint of a smile flickering across his lips; I must have been an extraordinary sight.
‘I apologize, Your Majesty,’ I said. ‘I was saying that—’
‘And stand up,’ he insisted. ‘You look like some sort of whipped cur stretched out on my carpet like that.’
I stood and adjusted my clothing, attempting to discover some sort of dignity in my pose. I could feel the blood which had run to my head when I was on the ground causing my face to grow red and was aware that I must have seemed embarrassed to be in his presence. ‘I apologize,’ I said once again.
‘You can stop apologizing, for a start,’ he said, stepping behind his desk now and sitting down. ‘All we’ve both done over the last two minutes is apologize to each other. There must be an end to it.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ I said, nodding my head. I dared to look directly at him as he examined me and found myself a little surprised by his appearance. He was not a tall man, no more than five feet and seven or eight inches in height, which meant that I would have stood a good head above him had we been standing side by side. He was quite handsome, though, compact in his frame, trim and apparently athletic, with piercing blue eyes and a finely trimmed beard and moustache, the ends of which were waxed but drooping slightly, perhaps because of the lateness of the evening. I imagined that he tended to it once a day, in the mornings, or if there was a reception at night, then once again in preparation for his guests. It was not so important when receiving a lowly visitor such as I.
Contrary to my expectations, the Tsar was not attired in some outlandish Imperial costume, but in the simple garb of a fellow moujik: a plain, vanilla-coloured shirt, a pair of loose fitting trousers and dark leather boots. Of course, there was no question that these simple items of clothing were produced from the very finest fabrics, but they seemed comfortable and simple and I began to feel a little more at ease in his presence.
‘So you are Jachmenev,’ he said finally, his clear voice betraying neither boredom nor interest; it was as if I was simply another task in his day.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Your full name?’
‘Georgy Daniilovich Jachmenev,’ I replied. ‘Of the village of Kashin.’
‘And your father?’ he asked. ‘Who is he?’
‘Daniil Vladyavich Jachmenev,’ I said. ‘Also of Kashin.’
‘I see. And he is still with us?’
I looked at him in surprise. ‘He didn’t accompany me, sir,’ I said. ‘No one said that he should.’
‘He is still alive, Jachmenev,’ he explained with a sigh.
‘Oh. Yes. Yes, he is.’
‘And what is his position in society?’
‘He is a farmer, sir.’
‘He has his own land?’
‘No, sir. He is a labourer.’
‘You said a farmer.’
‘I misspoke, sir. I mean that he farms land. But it is not his land.’
‘Whose is it then?’
‘Yours, Your Majesty.’
He smiled at this and raised an eyebrow for a moment as he considered my reply. ‘It is indeed,’ he said. ‘Although there are those who think that all the land in Russia should be distributed equally between the peasants. My former prime minister, Stolypin, he introduced that particular reform,’ he added, his tone implying that it was not something he had been in favour of. ‘You are familiar with Mr Stolypin?’
‘No, sir,’ I replied, honestly.
‘You have never heard of him?’ he asked in surprise.
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Well that doesn’t matter, I suppose,’ he said, rubbing carefully at a spot of dirt on his tunic. ‘He’s dead now. He was shot at the Kiev Opera House, while I sat in the Imperial box looking down at him. That’s how close these murderers can get. He was a good man, Stolypin. I treated him unkindly.’ He became silent for a few moments, his tongue pressing into his cheek as he lost himself in memories of the past; I had only been with the Tsar for a few minutes but I already suspected that the past weighed heavily on him. And that the present was hardly any more comforting.
‘Your father,’ he said eventually, looking up at me again. ‘Do you think he should be granted his own land?’
I thought about it, but the concept, my very words, became confused and I shrugged my shoulders to indicate my ignorance. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about such matters, sir,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure that whatever you decide will be for the right, though.’
‘You have confidence in me, then?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But why? You have never met me before.’
‘Because you are the Tsar, sir.’
‘And what does that matter?’
‘What does it matter?’
‘Yes, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he said calmly. ‘What does it matter that I am the Tsar? Simply being the Tsar inspires confidence in you?’
‘Well… yes,’ I said, shrugging again, and he sighed and shook his head.
‘One does not shrug one’s shoulders in the presence of God’s anointed,’ he said firmly. ‘It is impolite.’
‘I apologize, sir,’ I said, feeling my face grow red once again. ‘I meant no disrespect.’
‘You’re apologizing again.’
‘That’s because I’m nervous, sir.’
‘Nervous?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
‘Because you are the Tsar.’
He burst out laughing at this, a long, lingering laugh that went on for almost a minute, leaving me in a state of utter bewilderment. Truthfully, I had not expected to encounter the Emperor that night – if at all – and our meeting had come about with such little preparation or formality that I was still confused by the fact of it. It appeared that he wanted to question me thoroughly for a position I did not yet understand, but he was being deliberate and cautious in his queries, listening to my every answer and following up on it, trying to trap me in a mistake. And now he was laughing as if I had said something amusing, only for the life of me I could not think what that might have been.
‘You look confused, Georgy Daniilovich,’ he said finally, offering me a pleasant smile as his laughter came to an end.
‘I am, a little,’ I said. ‘Was I rude in what I just said?’
‘No, no,’ he replied, shaking his head. ‘It’s just the consistency of your answers that amuses me, that’s all. Because I am the Tsar. I am the Tsar, am I not?’
‘Why, yes, sir.’
‘And a curious position it is too,’ he said, picking up a steel diamond-encrusted letter-opener from his desk and balancing it on its tip before him. ‘Perhaps one day I shall explain it to you. For now, I believe I owe you my gratitude.’
‘Your gratitude, sir?’ I asked, surprised that he could possibly owe me anything.
‘My cousin, the Grand Duke Nicholas Nicolaievich. He recommended you to me. He told me how you came to save him after an assassination attempt.’
‘I’m not sure it was as serious as all that, sir,’ I said, for the very words seemed astonishingly treasonous, even coming from the mouth of the Tsar.
‘Oh no? What would you call it then?’
I considered the matter. ‘The boy in question. Kolek Boryavich. I knew him since we were children. He was… it was a stupid mistake on his part, you see. His father was a man of strong opinions and Kolek liked to impress him.’
‘My father was a man of strong opinions too, Georgy Daniilovich. I don’t try to murder people because of it.’