The Red Tide

by Christopher Nicole

  Then what of her relations with the man two and a half times her own age who had given her all of this? The figure was suddenly more alarming than ever, in cold terms: if she was about to celebrate her twentieth birthday, Alexei would next year be fifty. Remarkably, that aspect of the situation, which, Grandmama had told her, had most concerned Mom, had never entered her calculations at all, until very recently. Alexei was a most attractive man, and a perfect gentleman. She had never been the least afraid of him, of what he might do, or might wish to do, even to her virginal body. She suspected that, as an American, she had been more prepared for that than the average Russian girl of noble birth. Her brother James Junior had had a succession of girlfriends, many of them friends of hers, and if they had apparently always rebuffed his most ardent advances — it was just as important for a Boston young lady to marry as a virgin as it was for a Russian — they had been equally eager to confide what it was he had wanted. Actually, all James had ever wanted was to get his hand inside a bodice or under a skirt, preferably in a darkened room; Alexei had never shown the slightest interest in that, in a clandestine sense. For the several months she had lived on Bolugayen as a bride-in-waiting he had never been more than a considerate uncle. Thus perhaps her senses had been dulled, her awareness of what would eventually happen to her left in a once-removed world.

  That cocoon had been ripped away on her wedding night. In one way she had been shocked. That her prince would want to possess her was obvious — she had not stopped to think what the word ‘possession’ meant. He had wanted to kiss and suck her toes; she had not been sure whether or not to giggle at that. Then he had wanted to kiss her all over. Lips, nipples, these had seemed more appropriate than toes. Under her arms and between her legs had been an experience she had never imagined possible; it was quite impossible imagining Pa doing that to Mom. Perhaps he never had done. The actual entry, when he had had her on her knees, his groin thumping against her buttocks, had been no doubt the most shocking thing of all, looked at it Bostonian terms — she had felt it was somehow unChristian — but it had been something of a relief after what had gone before.

  Then she had been left with a feeling of guilt that perhaps she had not responded with sufficient enthusiasm. But she had soon learned to do that. So, now she was in every way a Russian princess, all considerations of Anglo-Saxon puritanism banished from her mind. Did she love her husband? She was sure she did. She would not have been human — or a woman — had she not occasionally yearned for the moonlight and roses aspect of love, for something over and above the physical desire Alexei expressed on almost every occasion. But she was prepared to be patient. She had been an usurper — she was in another woman’s bed, and every time Alexei held her naked in his arms he must have had some reflections on the last woman to lie there. She was very young; Alexei could not help but regard her rather as a daughter who had so delightfully strayed into his bed. Obviously he regarded her as too young to be involved in either the management of the estate or discussions on the political situation; she had to glean what she could from dinner table conversations between Alexei and Grandmama and Father Valentin and Tigran Boscowski, the estate manager, an enthusiastic young man who was utterly in awe of her. But these aspects of her situation would pass, she knew. Were already passing. She would soon be a mother; not even Alexei could then suppose she was still a girl.

  They were passing, too, in her acceptance by the children. In many ways this had been the most difficult of her tasks. When she had come here permanently, in the summer of 1912, as a girl of eighteen, Colin had been fourteen. Little Anna, being only four, had been no problem, and had welcomed the appearance of an older sister, as it had seemed. Little Anna had perhaps not really taken in the fact that her mother was gone forever, and having lived her brief life entirely surrounded by nannies and servants with a ceremonial visit to Mummy and Daddy once a day for a hug and a kiss, was unaware that anything had really changed. Colin had been too old to accept at once a sister and a stepmother. Equally he had been too old entirely to accept the fact that his real mother had somehow turned out to be a ‘bad’ woman. He was too well disciplined, too much the Bolugayevski, ever to enquire after Sonia Cohen, but he had been disturbed by the situation, very evidently.

  Fortunately, he had already been a cadet at the military academy in St Petersburg, and spent a good deal of time away from home. When he had come home, in those early days, he had been stiffly polite. But gradually he had warmed to her. She had been very careful at all times to preserve the dignity required of a princess and a mother towards him, however much, in his absence, she enjoyed romping with little Anna. She had felt she was building a relationship, in which he would be able to respect her as a stepmother while acknowledging that they were close enough in ages also to be friends. But then had come the pregnancy. She had clearly conceived during the last Christmas festivities, as she was due in September, but it had not become certain until Easter. Then Colin had been home on holiday, and Alexei had naturally wanted a great celebration. Colin had taken part in that, if in a rather subdued fashion, but had found an opportunity to be alone with her soon afterwards, and had asked, ingenuously, “Will your baby be a boy or a girl, Priscilla?”

  “No one knows, until he actually emerges.”

  “You said he. You would like him to be a boy.”

  “Well, I suppose every mother wishes her first-born to be a boy, because she knows that will please her husband.”

  Colin had stared at her. “If it is a boy, will he be the next Prince of Bolugayen?”

  Priscilla had been so taken aback she had been unable to answer for several seconds. Then she had said, “Of course not. You are the next Prince of Bolugayen.”

  But she hadn’t felt he was convinced, and had taken the matter up with Alexei. It was the first time she had ever seen her husband disconcerted. “It is something to be considered,” he had said.

  “But...Colin is your eldest son.”

  “He is also half-Jewish, my dearest girl.”

  Priscilla had stared at him with her mouth open. “Is it that important?”

  “I’m afraid it is, here in Russia. Don’t worry. Colin will never want for anything.” She had wanted to say, that’s not quite the same thing as being virtually disinherited, but hadn’t. Because she did not want to argue with Alexei, on a subject of which she really knew very little? Or because, however guilty it made her feel, deep down inside the thought of her son being Prince Bolugayevski was too heady to be resisted? She had reflected that it would probably be a girl in any event. Colin had left soon after to return to school, and she had not seen him since. But he would be home in a few days. She must be especially kind to him.

  Meanwhile, there were Sophie and Janine. They were at the top of the stairs, now, beaming at her. “Your Highness,” Janine said, “you look positively obscene. Have you twins in there?”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Prince Alexei Bolugayevski said, standing and raising his glass. “I give you the Princess Bolugayevska. You too, Gleb. And Madame Xenia.” The housekeeper looked thoroughly embarrassed, as she did not as a rule attend dinner. But she took her glass from Gleb’s tray and raised it, like everyone else beaming at Priscilla, who remained seated at the head of the table.

  It was strictly a family party. The Countesses Anna and Sophie and Janine, Tigran Boscowski, Father Valentin, Count Colin, even Anna in a party frock, looking half asleep, Prince Alexei, and of course, Princess Priscilla. The toast was drunk and the glasses hurled at the fireplace, while Gleb hastily served fresh ones. “Speech!” Janine called.

  Priscilla stood up, as they sat. “I thank you, and am deeply grateful, for your sentiments,” she said. “I will offer you a toast in return.” She raised her own glass. “I give you the name of Bolugayevski. May it never diminish!”

  Priscilla awoke to find Alexei standing beside her bed. She blinked at him, uncertainly. Since she had begun to show, they had used separate apartments. She sat up. “Is there some
thing the matter?”

  “Not really. But I must leave, this morning. I am required in St Petersburg.”

  “But...why?”

  “Nothing of great importance. But it is gratifying, is it not, that at a moment of crisis the Tsar should wish to see me?”

  She grasped his hand. “What crisis?”

  “Oh, some Austrian archduke has got himself shot and killed, together with his wife, and there is a possibility that the Balkan business may start up again, with Austria this time one of the players. Well, obviously we cannot permit that.”

  She was aghast. “You mean we will fight Austria?”

  He leaned over and kissed her. “There is almost no chance of that. We will threaten to mobilise. We may even do so. And as Austria cannot match us for strength, she will climb down. I shall not be away long.”

  Part Two - The Swirling Clouds

  ‘Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide visit’st the bottom of the monstrous world.’

  Milton: Lycidas

  Chapter Six - War

  Priscilla stared at the telegram in consternation. This was about the best summer anyone could recall. The sun shone every day, the wheat was already high, people smiled as they went about their work, even the sheep seemed happy. Only the absence of the Prince in any way impinged upon the general feeling of contentment, and everyone expected the Prince to return, momentarily. Now...? Priscilla clutched her stomach.

  “Not bad news, I hope?” Anna enquired.

  “We are at war with Germany. And Austria.”

  Anna leaned forward and took the telegram from her granddaughter’s fingers, scanned the words. “This is madness,” she remarked.

  “Madness! My God!”

  “I meant it is madness on the part of that imbecile Kaiser. Both imbecile Kaisers. How can they hope to fight Russia? Especially if Alexei is right in assuming France will fight with us.”

  “Does that matter?” Priscilla asked. “If there is to be a war then Alexei could be killed!”

  Anna had never seen her so upset; she had not supposed Priscilla could be so upset. “You are concerning yourself needlessly. Alexei is a general. Look what he says: he has been given a place on General Samsanov’s staff. Officers on the staff of the commanding general do not get killed.”

  Priscilla supposed she was right. But at the very least they were going to be separated for a very long time. Alexei would not be here for the birth of their child. And there were other aspects of the situation to be considered. Colin was running up the stairs, followed by his sister. “Is it true what the postman says, Priscilla? Grandmother?” He looked from face to face.

  “That there is to be a war?” Anna asked.

  “Yes. It is true.” Six-year-old Anna clapped her hands in excitement.

  “Then I must leave immediately,” Colin declared.

  “You?” Priscilla demanded. “You cannot fight in a war.”

  “I am a soldier!”

  “You are a cadet and you are fourteen years old. Besides, you have not been called up.”

  “Grandmother!” Colin appealed to Anna. The children always addressed her as their grandmother although she was actually their great-aunt.

  “We shall have to see,” Anna decided. “We will send into Poltava and ask the Governor.” Colin pouted, but he was not going to argue with his great-aunt; nobody ever did.

  When he and Anna had left the verandah, Priscilla sat beside the old lady. “Will it really be all right?” she asked.

  “Of course. Nobody is really going to fight over Serbia. All we have to do is show the Austrians, and the Germans, that we are not going to be pushed about, and they will negotiate a settlement.” Anna stroked the girl’s head. “You’ve never seen a war, have you?”

  “Well...I remember a lot of shouting and flag-waving and ballyhoo when we went to war with Spain. But I was only four years old.”

  “This will be my fifth war,” Anna said. “I was a girl during the Crimean War, which we lost. I went to America in the middle of the Civil War, which your grandfather’s side won. I was in Port Arthur for the Sino-Japanese War, which China lost, and we were supposed to be on China’s side, and I was again in Port Arthur for the Russo-Japanese war, which we lost. So you see, Priscilla, I have lost more wars than I have won. And do you know, I am still here, Bolugayen is still here, Russia is still here. I would not be too afraid of wars, if I were you, Your Highness.” It was essential, at a time like this, that the child remembered who she was. Priscilla shuddered.

  *

  The city was filled with the ringing of bells. “One would suppose it was Christmas,” Sonia remarked to Antonina.

  The street outside, even in this normally quiet suburb, was constantly crowded, with parading soldiers, groups of young men hurrying to volunteer for the colours, and of course their female admirers. “May we go down to see the troops being blessed by the Tsar, madam?” Antonina asked.

  “Yes, I think we should do that.” Sonia wondered if Alexei would be there? And Korsakov? She hadn’t seen her lover for some days, since the crisis had blown up. Her lover, she thought. Paul knew nothing of Leon. But at least Leon was safe in Vienna. Safe! According to the newspapers, that was precisely where the Russian armies intended to march, taking Berlin on the way, to be sure. But Leon, with his capacity for survival, would surely move on long before the Russians could get there.

  They went out and joined the throng, flocking towards the Nevski Prospect. There they found a huge area cordoned off by police. Within the area, which was in front of the Winter Palace, were a large number of soldiers. They wore the new Russian military uniform, created for modern warfare. Gone were the reds and greens and whites and blues that had made warfare such a romantic business only a few years before. The Russians had learned from the Japanese machine guns in Manchuria, much as the British had learned from the Boer sharpshooters in South Africa. Now everyone wore a drab khaki, copied from the British, a colour named after the Hindustani word for dust, meant to tone in with the background against which they would be exposed. Even the general officers, even the Tsar, wore khaki, although there were still a lot of red tabs and medals flashing in the midday sun.

  Sonia had brought her opera glasses, and she used these as the soldiers knelt before their Tsar, who stood on a dais with the Patriarch and Tsarevich beside him, their attendants holding aloft the religious ikons and the battle flags; this was the first time Sonia had seen the Tsarevich. The boy — he was just ten years old — wore a uniform like his father and stood rigidly to attention. He looked perfectly well, if a little pale, and it was difficult to believe the rumours that swirled about him, that he was too chronically ill ever to rule.

  Most of the watching crowd knelt, as did Sonia and Antonina, but Sonia kept looking through her glasses. She could indeed make out Alexei, in the midst of a group of staff officers, standing behind Generals Samsanov and Rennenkampf, commanders of the Second and First Russian armies, and General Jilinski, the commander-in-chief, charged with overseeing the Russian advance firstly into East Prussia and thence into Germany proper. With them was the Minister of War, General Sukhomlinov, also wearing uniform, as elegantly groomed and, no doubt, perfumed, as usual. They had taken off their caps and stood with heads bowed, not looking at each other, although they shared the command; all St Petersburg knew that the four men loathed each other. Sonia swept her glasses over the ranks of junior officers, but could not make out Korsakov; there were too many of them. But she was glad she could not make him out. She really only wanted to look at Alexei. Riding off to battle, looking as noble as ever. Well, he had done that once before, against the Japanese, and returned alive and well. To marry her. This time he would be returning to the arms of another woman. But she still loved him.

  “Isn’t it exciting?”

  Sonia turned to look at Nathalie, accompanied as always by Dagmar, who had grown into a quite beautiful if overly-voluptuous sixteen-year-old, her mother’s somewhat coarse looks being tempered
by the finely-chiselled features of the Bolugayevskis. Only her mouth and eyes, which regarded the world with a kind of slack laziness, indicated that she was not all she should be. Nathalie herself was looking amazingly well although she was larger than ever. And she certainly found it exciting; her cheeks were pink and her eyes gleamed — although, Sonia reflected, that might have been caused by either vodka or champagne. “I saw you looking at Alexei,” Nathalie said. “Are you still carrying a torch? Or hoping he will get his head blown off?”

  “I would not like anyone’s head to be blown off,” Sonia said.

  “Ha! Well, quite a few of these are going to be, that is for certain. Why have you been avoiding me?”

  They were all standing again now, the blessing having been completed, and the troops were forming up before marching off, while the bands struck up to obliterate all other sounds. Thus Sonia merely raised her eyebrows. Avoiding you? she wanted to ask. I loathe and abhor you, you obscene creature, for ruining my marriage and losing my children to me. But it seemed pointless to go on hating now; in any event, she was not a woman who could sustain hatred. The crowd was also starting to dissolve, people moving along the prospect. The four women were insensibly carried with them. “You have never called,” Nathalie shouted.