‘My darling, we are not children,’ smiled Militza.
‘All the ladies skate on the Neva in the morning,’ he said. ‘It’s excellent exercise. And Minny’s in the Crimea!’
So the next day, 1 November 1894, Militza packed the elderly skates she hadn’t used since her days at the Smolny Institute and met Stana, just in front of the house, on the English Embankment.
In contrast to the dull, moribund afternoon before, that day was bright and crisp. The snow was dazzling and the ice crystals that hung in the air sparkled more brightly than the Grand Duchess Vladimir’s latest tiara. And the air was cold, so cold it cut like a knife as Militza inhaled. But it was, at the same time, so delightfully pleasurable. After days spent cooped up in her palace with only her sister and the servants for company, there was something incredibly liberating about filling her lungs with little sharp daggers of cold and feeling her eyes water in the brightness.
‘Glorious, don’t you think?’ she said as she found her sister waiting for her by the river. Sporting a white mink hat with a matching muff, trimmed with little white mink tails, Stana looked particularly beautiful in the surprisingly warm sunshine. ‘Do you have your skates?’ asked Militza shielding her eyes with her black-gloved hands. She too had made an effort with her attire. Dressed in a bitter-chocolate coloured suit, trimmed with sable, with a matching hat and muff, she felt excited and braced for any eventuality.
‘I couldn’t find mine,’ said Stana. ‘I looked through all the pairs we had at home and I couldn’t find any to fit. I shall hire some when we get there.’
‘Perfect. Shall we take a troika to the Winter Palace?’
‘I think I’d rather walk.’
So they walked alongside the river, up English Embankment towards the Admiralty, in the bright sunshine. After days of grey blizzards, the streets were surprisingly busy. The roast-chestnut sellers were out; their smoking stalls sending curls of toasted deliciousness into the air. The postcard painters had taken up their spots, trying to the catch the beauty of the frozen Neva in the glorious winter sunlight. Others were wrapped up against the cold, their heads determinedly looking at the ground as they marched along, focussed on the day’s business. Occasionally a child would pass by, pulled along on a sledge, bundled up tightly against the cold, arms and legs rigid, the only thing exposed to the elements were their bright pink cheeks.
On past the Bronze Horseman, rearing at the river, and the giant golden dome of St Isaac’s Cathedral, they walked towards the Winter Palace, eventually stopping at the two giant bronze lions either side of the Palace Pier.
Below, at the bottom of the granite steps, the Neva was frozen as solid as steel and all the recently fallen snow had been swept aside into large mounds, clearing the way for skating on the smooth, shiny ice underneath. To the left of the steps were simple wooden chairs and tables and rugs thrown across the ice which created what appeared to be the most commodious of salons in the open air. The tables were laid with glasses and a giant silver bowl of punch, while servants in scarlet livery, with black leather gloves and boots, were handing around small shots of fruit-flavoured brandies and vodkas on gleaming silver salvers. To the right was a brass band, complete with accordion, playing the sort of jovial, upbeat, oompah music one might hear at a country fair.
Militza stood next to her sister, clasping her hands under her muff, searching the crowd of spinning skaters for anyone familiar. It was difficult to tell under the fur hats in the bright sunshine, but she thought she saw Zinaida Yusupova in a floor-length sable cloak and next to her was the distinctive figure of the Grand Duchess Vladimir.
‘I see simply tout le monde is here,’ said Militza, watching the two women over the other side of the skaters notice their arrival.
‘Oh really,’ exhaled Stana, following her gaze. ‘I suppose it was too much to ask just to be able to enjoy oneself a little, for once.’
‘Let’s ignore them,’ smiled Militza, looking around the rest of the crowd. ‘Over here,’ she said, indicating a small hut. ‘He looks as though he rents skates.’
They walked over to a small wooden hut erected on the ice. Inside, an elderly man with cheeks the colour of beetroot was leaning on the diminutive counter gazing at the skaters.
‘Excuse me,’ said Militza. ‘We were looking for some skates?’
He turned slowly and looked them both up and down. ‘I do skates for gentlemen,’ he sniffed. ‘Ladies have their own.’
‘Well, this lady has lost hers.’ Militza pointed down at Stana’s feet.
‘Well.’ He wiped his nose on his large black mitten and looked over the counter at Stana’s feet. ‘I’m not sure what I can do about that.’
‘Do you have anything, sir?’ asked Stana, placing her white-tailed muff on the counter.
‘Well…’ He turned and looked under the counter, before grabbing hold of a pair of skates and slamming them down on it. ‘These?’
They all looked at the skates. They were black, old and well-used, the blunt blades in need of grinding. They looked like a pair of workman’s boots with metal rods attached. Stana took a small step back and hesitated. Militza glanced over her shoulder; they had an audience. The Grand Duchess Vladimir and her small entourage of ladies were all watching; their smiles were tight and they could hear the whispering over the noise of the band.
‘Perfect!’ Militza declared loudly. ‘How much are they?’
‘Three kopeks,’ he replied.
It took Stana about fifteen minutes of huffing and pulling to get the skates on and even then they were distinctly too large.
‘They’re enormous,’ she hissed. ‘I can’t possibly skate in these.’
‘Of course you can,’ said Militza, her head high, pretending to take in the view. ‘Everyone’s watching.’
So the band played, the silver salvers circulated and Militza and Stana took to the ice. Within seconds, as they skated side by side, Militza rather more successfully that Stana in her rented skates, the ice began to clear. First some rather indignant ladies left, then a few children were dragged out of their way. By the time the sisters had been around the small circuit five or six times, they more or less had the rink to themselves.
‘What’s happening?’ asked Stana over the slicing sound of her skates, as she glided left and right.
‘It looks as if everyone is having a break,’ replied Militza.
‘Of course,’ said Stana. ‘Nothing to do with our arriving.’
‘Nothing at all,’ said Militza, as they continued to skate around and around the empty rink. ‘If we keep going, they’ll soon get bored.’
‘I’m sure they will,’ agreed Stana. ‘Although I have to say my feet are killing me!’
‘So are mine!’ Militza replied and they both laughed.
Neither of the sisters had ever skated so long and so determinedly in their lives. Their feet were freezing, their breath was landing in small crystals of hoar frost all over their furs, but still they carried on.
‘I am not sure how much longer I can do this,’ muttered Stana, her ankles beginning to burn.
‘I shall skate until the aurora borealis comes dancing up the river,’ declared Militza, clasping her hands a little firmer in her muff.
It was the children who returned to the ice first. Unable to hold them back any longer, reluctant mothers and governesses released them, scrambling and skidding, back onto the ice. They were rapidly followed by the young couples and giggling groups of girls. The day was too beautiful and too rare not to be taken advantage of. In fact, it was only the old guard, sitting on their benches, stiffening in the breeze, who seemed to be able to smell the heady lemon musk at all.