‘Of course, sir,’ I said.
He looked at me for a moment as if he was determining on the correct form of words. His stare pierced me so deeply that I was forced to look away and my eye caught a framed photograph on his desk. He followed my glance there.
‘Ah,’ he said, nodding. ‘I suppose that is as good a place to start as any.’ He lifted the photograph and handed it to me. ‘You are familiar, I would assume, with the Imperial Family?’
‘I am aware of them, of course, sir,’ I said. ‘I have not had the honour—’
‘The four young ladies in that picture,’ he continued, ignoring me, ‘they are my daughters, the Grand Duchesses Olga, Tatiana, Marie and Anastasia. They are growing into very fine young women, I might add. I am supremely proud of them. The eldest, Olga, is twenty years of age now. Perhaps we shall marry her soon, that is a possibility. There are many eligible young men among the royal families of Europe. It’s not possible at the moment, of course. Not with this blasted war. But soon, I think. When it is over. The youngest you see here is my own sweetheart, the Grand Duchess Anastasia, who is shortly to turn fifteen.’
I stared at her face in the portrait. She was young, of course, but then I was less than two years her senior. I recognized her immediately. She was the girl I had met at the chestnut stand earlier in the evening; the young lady who had looked up at me and smiled when she stepped from her boat an hour before. The one who had made me turn around in such a state of confusion, bewildered by my sudden rush of passion.
‘There were moments – I think I can confide this in you, Georgy – when I thought I was never to be blessed with a son,’ he continued, taking the frame off me and handing me a different one, in which a single portrait of a striking young boy had been placed. ‘When I thought Russia was never to be blessed with an heir. But happily, my Alexei was born to the Tsaritsa and me some eleven years ago. He’s a fine boy. He will be a great Tsar one day.’
I noted the cheerful countenance of the boy in the picture but was a little surprised by how thin he looked, how dark around the eyes. ‘I have no doubt of that, sir,’ I replied.
‘Naturally, there are many members of the Leib Guard who protect him on a daily basis,’ he said then, and to my mind he seemed to be struggling with his words a little, as if he was unsure how much he wanted to say. ‘And they take good care of him, of course. But I thought… perhaps someone a little closer to his age as a companion. Someone old enough and brave enough to protect him too, should the need arise. How old are you, Georgy?’
‘Sixteen, sir.’
‘Sixteen, that’s good. A boy of eleven will always look up to a lad your age. I think perhaps you might be a good role model for him.’
I exhaled nervously. The Grand Duke had mentioned something of this to me when he had visited my sick bed in Kashin, but I had doubted that such a task could possibly be entrusted to a moujik. It seemed so far beyond my expectations of the world that I was sure that at any moment I might wake up and discover that this had all been a dream, and that the Tsar, the Winter Palace and all the glories contained therein, down to the beautiful Fabergé egg, would dissolve before my eyes and I would find myself on the floor in our Kashin hut once again, being kicked into consciousness by Daniil, demanding his breakfast.
‘I would be honoured, sir,’ I said finally. ‘If you think me worthy of the position.’
‘The Grand Duke certainly thinks you are,’ he said, standing up now, and of course I followed his example and stood too. ‘And I think you seem like a very respectable young man. I think you might perform well in the role.’ We walked towards the door and as we did so, he placed the Imperial hand upon my shoulder, sending a jolt of electricity through my body. The Tsar, the Lord’s own appointed, was touching me. It was the greatest blessing that I had ever received. He gripped the bone tightly and I felt so overawed and honoured that I did not mind the searing pain he was sending through my arm from the bullet wound which he was so casually pressing upon.
‘Now, can I trust you, Georgy Daniilovich?’ he asked, looking me deep in the eyes.
‘Of course, Your Majesty,’ I replied.
‘I hope so,’ he said, and there was a hint of utter desperation and misery in his voice. ‘If you are to undertake this responsibility, there is something… Georgy, what I say to you now must never leave this room.’
‘Sir, whatever it is I will take it to the grave.’
He swallowed and hesitated. The silence between us lasted for more than a minute but I did not feel embarrassed now; I felt instead that I was at the centre of a great secret, something which the Lord of our land was about to entrust unto me. But to my disappointment, he seemed to change his mind for instead of confiding in me, he simply shook his head and looked away, releasing my shoulder and opening the door to the corridor.
‘Perhaps this is not the time,’ he said. ‘Let us see how you develop at your task first. All I ask is that you take the utmost care of our son. He is our great hope, you see. He is the hope of all loyal Russians.’
‘I will do everything in my power to keep him safe,’ I assured him. ‘My life is his in a moment.’
‘Then that is all I need to know,’ he replied, smiling again for a moment before closing the door in my face and leaving me alone once again in the cold and empty corridor, wondering whether anyone was going to collect me and where on earth I should go next.
1970
FOR THE FIRST YEAR after my retirement, I deliberately chose not to go anywhere near the library at the British Museum. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to be there; on the contrary, after spending my entire adult life closeted within the erudite comfort of that peaceful chamber, there was almost nowhere that I felt quite so content. No, the reason I chose to avoid it was because I did not wish to become one of those men who cannot accept that his working life has come to an end and that the daily routine of employment, which provides order and discipline in our lives, has been replaced by the utter confusion – or what Lamb chose to call ‘the deliverance’ – of the superannuated man.
I could recall only too well the Friday evening in 1959 when a small party was thrown in honour of Mr Trevors, who had reached the age of sixty-five and was completing his last week of work at the library. Drinks and food were served, speeches were made, dozens of people showed up to wish him well with whatever was to follow. We offered the usual clichés that the world was now his oyster and felt no shame at our duplicity. The atmosphere was intended to be light and cheerful, but my former employer grew increasingly morose as the night wore on and wondered aloud, to the embarrassment of his guests, how he would fill his days after this.
‘I’m alone in the world,’ he told us with a wretched smile, pools of tears forming in his eyes as we all looked away, hoping that someone else would offer him comfort. ‘What do I have if I don’t have my work? An empty house. No Dorothy, no Mary,’ he added quietly, referring to the family who should have been a consolation to him in his dotage but who had been taken from him. ‘This job was my only reason for getting up in the mornings.’
The following Monday morning, he arrived at the library as usual, precisely on time, shirt and tie in perfect order, and insisted on helping us with the more menial tasks that he had never concerned himself with in the past. None of us knew quite what to do – he still maintained an air of authority in our minds, after all, having been our employer for so long – and so did nothing to impede him. But then, to our discomfort, he came in the day after that too, and the following day. On the Thursday morning, one of the directors of the museum took him aside for a quiet word and told him that he had to remember that the rest of us were there to work, that we were paid to work, and couldn’t engage in conversation all day long. Go home and enjoy your retirement, he was told cheerfully. Put your feet up and do all those things that you could never do when you were stuck in here every day! The poor man did exactly that. He went home and hanged himself that very evening.