done.” He sighed and glanced at Alexandra. “Sunny is so disappointed,” he said in English.
“She is afraid for your son,” Ragoczy agreed in the same language. “As are we all. And I thought it was a reasonable plan, beneficial to us and to them. I still do,” Nikolai declared, and continued in Russian, “It is a pity that my cousins were unwilling to consider my suggestion, but so be it. I can take satisfaction in knowing I made the attempt. I pray we will not all pay the price for their folly.” His face was genial but his eyes were troubled. “Well, however it turns out, I am in your debt, Count.” He picked up the two glasses of tea and went back to where his Czarina waited for him, listening to Countess Amalija tell her what the rest of the program would be.
“That was well-done of him,” Leonid remarked as he came up to Ragoczy, watching the other guests hover in the vicinity of the Czar and Czarina. “I would not have thought he could be so generous.”
“I did not suppose he would have made so public a show of it,” said Ragoczy, wondering why the Czar had chosen so open a place to reestablish his regard for his foreign friend. He had supposed that in a month or two he would have been summoned to the Winter Palace for a reception or other court function and received with a modicum of goodwill. To be given such a gesture of approval as attending this private concert was extraordinary.
“Whatever his reason, it was a fine demonstration. No one will doubt Nikolai s confidence in you now,” said Leonid, at last looking away from the Czar to give his whole attention to Ragoczy. “You must be relieved to have it behind you; all that traveling and clandestine talks.”
“Ah, but it is not behind me, not entirely,” said Ragoczy with a curt nod of his head. “I was recalled from Germany with a cloud over me, and I know it would be idiotic to let it remain any longer than absolutely necessary.” He saw the astonished look in Leonid s eyes. “I will go back, if Nikolai will permit me to,” he admitted.
“Why?” Leonid demanded. “What can suspicions in Germany do to you here in Russia?” He refilled his tea glass. “It s not as if you would have to go to Berlin any time soon.”
“I am an exile,” Ragoczy reminded him. “And as such, I travel. To be restricted in that regard is more than inconvenient. I have businesses in Holland, Switzerland, and Germany that would make any crimes alleged against me detrimental to my ventures. I may have to return to Berlin one of these years, and if this matter has not been resolved, my hands would be tied both literally and figuratively.” He paused and went
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on more crisply. “And in these days of telegraphs and telephones, and international newspapers, rumors may fly farther than ever they did before. What is suspected in Berlin today may be whispered in Moscow tomorrow.”
“Surely it is not so bad as that,” said Leonid, though he was much struck with what Ragoczy had said.
“I hope it is not, but I am far from certain of it,” said Ragoczy, and smiled as Countess Amalija came up to them. “Flushed with success, you snatch victory from the very jaws of defeat,” he said with a mixture of gallantry and amusement, one fine brow lifting as he continued. “Confess it, you are delighted to have the Czar and Czarina here, and not for my sake alone.”
“Yes, indeed. I am quite beside myself, if only you knew. I would probably be capering with glee if I were twenty years younger and we were on a picnic. I can hardly wait for tongues to start wagging. By next week, you will be amazed how many people will have been here. This room will have overflowed, if all of the boasts will be believed.” She was able to laugh quietly enough to keep from any possible disrespect to Nikolai and Alexandra.
“You’re probably right,” said Ragoczy, and looked quizzically at her nephew. “What do you think, Leonid Yureivich?”
“I think that Saint Petersburg would do better to pay attention to more important issues than court functions, if you want my honest opinion,” he said, with an expression of genuine worry on his face. “I am shocked at the number of sensible persons who are paying no attention to what is going on around them. You may dismiss what I tell you, but I have been listening to wh&t the students are saying, and it is very troubling. This is more than the complaints of discontents, or the shouts of a rebellious few. It is not simply a question of what happened six years ago; there is something deeper and more sinister taking place. I don’t say this to frighten you or to make myself a prophet of doom, but because I am convinced we are in real danger. There are firebrands exhorting them to be the forefront of reform and revolution.”
“Surely the Duma will deal with them,” said Countess Amalija. “That is what the Duma is for, Leonid. You know how students are, wanting the world to fall into accord with the favorite theories.”
“Yes, I know that, Aunt,” said Leonid, though the vertical line between his brows did not fade. “But students are not the only ones who are demonstrating.”
“That’s so,” she agreed. “And with good cause, if what I read is ac-
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curate. And in time it will be possible for the Duma to resolve their grievances. It isn’t as if there have been no improvements in the last five years.”
“There has been a taste of reform, and the taste whets the appetite, particularly for those who think they have nothing to lose,” said Ragoczy, recalling what he had seen in France, slightly more than a century before. “The zealots will shout down the moderates if the government does not move quickly.”
“To stop them, you mean?” Leonid asked. “I would think that would make martyrs, and they would become rallying points.”
“Exactly,” said Ragoczy. “The government would be wise to incorporate as many reforms as possible, as soon as it can, putting emphasis on those things that will improve the lot of the most disenfranchised. Without the reforms, the zealots will gather credibility, and once they find a leader who moves the people, it will be beyond remedy.” He recalled what had happened in Fiorenza when Laurenzo died and Savonarola had moved to fill the gap he left. The devastation of Savonarola’s four years of power to that most humanist of cities had marked the place for two centuries; Danton and Robespierre had left a similar but bloodier mark on Paris. “No country is immune to extremists.”
“But how are they stopped? Would you put them in prison, if you could?” Leonid asked with genuine curiosity.
“Certainly not, unless their offenses were great enough to demand such punishment, and even then, I should take care not to create martyrs,” Ragoczy said at once. “I would expose them for what they are, make their intentions known to those they try to influence, show what the consequences of their demands would be.” He was aware as he said this that he had tried it more than once in the past and had not succeeded in stemming the tide. “To meet force with force gives credibility to their zeal and disguises their greed.”
“Zealots, force: if you must talk about such dire things, I will go attend to my less ferocious guests,” the Countess said, and left them.
“Did that happen in your homeland. Count? Did your people come under the influence of an ambitious charlatan?” Leonid inquired, and added with a self-deprecatory laugh, “I do not mean to offend you, but you speak as if you have seen the trouble you describe, and I could not help but—”
“Oh, yes, I have seen the thing I describe,” said Ragoczy, his dark eyes flinty with memory, “Not in my homeland, though. Our defeat was the case of a larger, better-armed force with powerful allies opposing us.
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Inevitably the larger, better-armed foe won.” Their defeat had been accelerated when his fathers younger brother had thrown in his lot with the enemy, realizing he would salvage himself from the devastation; Ragoczy had seen the same pattern repeated countless times since his family had been defeated four thousand years ago.
“Is that why you were willing to help the Czar try to limit the spread of arms?” He noticed the reserve that came over Ragoczy, an
d explained. “I do not intend to intrude, but there has been much speculation regarding your mission. Of all the suppositions, that was the most credible theory. It was all over the Guard since summer that the Czar was seeking an arms limitation agreement with his cousins. We supposed that was what you were doing for him in Europe. Don’t tell me we were wrong.”
“You will have to ask Czar Nikolai about the particulars, if you want them; I am not at liberty to discuss them. But I will tell you this much: my abhorrence of war did incline me to act on his behalf.” Ragoczy did nothing overt, but a distance seemed to widen between him and Leonid Ohchenov.
Leonid understood he had overstepped himself, although he did not know how, and said, “I did not mean to ask anything compromising, Count; that was not my intention. I ask your pardon if I did.”
“Your Aunt would require me to grant it even if I were not so inclined,” Ragoczy replied, and the gulf disappeared.
“So she would, if I know her,” said Leonid, smiling fondly as he looked across the parlor to Counters Amalija, who was deep in conversation with the Czarina. “A wonderful woman, in spite of all the tragedy in her life. I can’t imagine how we would have grown up without her.”
“Less pleasantly, no doubt,” said Ragoczy, and saw Nikolai signal to him. “If you will excuse me?” He did not wait for Leonid to speak. As he reached the Czar, he bowed once. “Nikolai Alexandreivich, I am at your service.”
“As I am keenly aware,” said the Czar, touching his wife’s arm. “My dear, if you will give me a moment with the Count?”
“Certainly, my dear,” she said, barely glancing in Ragoczy s direction before pointedly returning her attention to Countess Amalija and a discussion of pearls.
“You will have to forgive her; if we were not at so small a function she would not behave so .. . brusquely,” Nikolai said in a lowered voice as he stepped out into the corridor. “Otyets Grigori has unaccountably taken you in dislike, and Sunny follows his lead in all things.”
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“I am sorry to hear it>” said Ragoczy, who had no high opinion of Rasputin. “I have never been aware of offending him.”
“He is a holy man who sees many things,” the Czar said. “He has done so much for our son—”
“And you are grateful,” said Ragoczy when Nikolai broke off.
“Yes. But it is true that Otyets Grigori takes aversions to certain people for reasons that are obscure. You, I regret to say, are one such. He has said that he feels the presence of death when you are near, and the Czarina takes such warnings to heart. And so my wife is wary of you, although I am not.” Nikolai glanced at the door to be certain they were not overheard. “I think she is convinced that you are not as ... as dedicated to preventing war as she would like, and that accounts for the warning Rasputin has given. What else could Rasputin have against you that would make my wife mistrust you beyond that sense?” He took a long breath that was not quite a sigh. “Rasputin has warned us about war, telling us that without peace we will fall. I think the Czarina believes that peace is so sensible that no one would knowingly . . . And if you did not secure peace, Rasputin is right, and death is around
you ” He let his words fade away. “Tell me, Franchot Nemovich,”—
he used the patronymic Ragoczy had assigned to himself more than three hundred years ago, during his stay in the court of Ivan Grosny— “are you truly determined to return to Berlin and deal with Nadeznas murder?” He did not wait for an answer, hurrying on, “I had a note from Countess Amalija Romanovna, expressing her concern that this was your intention, despite the risk such an action would pose.”
Ragoczy did his best to keep his response level. “Yes, Czar, it is what I want to do.”
Nikolai shook his head. “My protection cannot be extended a second time. Cousin Willy will not tolerate it. If you go back, it will be without any support from me beyond my personal concern. Do you comprehend this?”
“Of course I do,” said Ragoczy, and softened this blunt admission by adding, “I am grateful for your concern, Czar, and I know the gravity of my situation; I do not underestimate the hazards I face. But if it were you, would you be willing to have such a crime laid at your door when you knew that the true criminal had escaped the consequences of his act and left you to carry his burden?”
“I would not want such a thing to happen, no,” Czar Nikolai allowed. “But you must be aware that the Germans are far more ready to suspect foreigners than they are Germans, and by your very alienness, you are in danger.”
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“I have some grasp of this, yes; nor are the Germans the only people to distrust foreigners,” Ragoczy told him, as his millennia-long memories jostled in his mind. “I mean no discourtesy when I say this: we will not settle this tonight, Czar, and I have more music to play before this salon is at an end.” He nodded to the half-open door. “And I suppose you would rather be more private in our discussions than we can be here.”
Nikolai nodded and held up his hands in resignation. “In two days I have time in the evening, after ten. If you will come, we will discuss this more fully.”
Ragoczy bowed. “As you wish,” he said, knowing he would not change his mind.
“I will anticipate your visit with pleasure.” With the skill of long experience, Nikolai assumed a more genial tone as he went back into the salon, saying, “Knowing what a busy man you are. Count, I wonder that you have time to practice your music. Yet obviously, you do.”
“I do not sleep a great deal,” Ragoczy said candidly. “I have two or three hours most nights when I play.”
“How fortunate your servants are, to have so expert a serenade,” the Czar remarked, and smiled enough to show this was a joke.
Taking the same bantering tone, Ragoczy said, “I regret to tell you that I have never inquired of them what they think. I have supposed they would rather sleep undisturbed.”
“Then they are not deserving of such a master,” said Nikolai, dismissing the matter with a shrug.
Ragoczy bowed again, and prepared to return to the keyboard. As he passed Leonid, Amalijas nephew whispered, “Restored to grace.”
“In a manner of speaking,” Ragoczy replied softly, then resumed his place at the piano, announcing his next selections as the room fell quiet.
When the music was over, the Czar and Czarina did not linger; they gave minimal ceremony to their departure, all the while heaping polite, appreciative phrases on Ragoczy and Countess Amalija. Leaving, they discovered a gloomy evening, with heavy clouds drifting overhead; the last of the winter sunlight had faded two hours before, and the streets were marked by the piles of snow along them. Inside all the stoves and fireplaces were pressed into use to keep off the pervasive cold. The other guests were effusive in their thanks for the whole occasion, one woman going to far as to tell Countess Amalija that she would rather spend the afternoon at this salon than in her box at the ballet.
“And you know that is not true. Rather be here than at the ballet in-
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deed,” said the Countess after most of her guests had departed and she was reveling in her triumph with Leonid and Konstantine; Ragoczy listened without interrupting her recitation. “She makes it a point of honor to be in her box whenever she can, and not just so all society will talk about what jewels she was wearing.”
“She wants to be included in your next salon,” said Konstantine, feeling very sophisticated for recognizing this.
“Of course she does,” said Leonid. “Marina Gavrileivna is just the sort of woman who finds her greatest enjoyment in reporting on what she has done and with whom instead of in the event itself.”
“Think of the frantic life she is forced to lead in order to have new conquests to preen about; there is no end to the demands of being at the forefront of the season,” said Countess Amalija, and then put her hand to her cheek. “That was beyond the line, even for me.” She was chagrined. “I di
d not think I could be so catty. I am ashamed of myself.”
“No reason to be,” said Leonid. “It is what anyone with any sense would think, having seen her here.” He grinned impulsively, and wagged his finger in gentle admonition at his Aunt. “You tell me you did not speak accurately, and I will cry shame with you.” He was finishing the last of the caviar, spreading it on small rounds of toast and squeezing lemon juice on top of it.
“Well, accurately perhaps, but not charitably,” said the Countess, glancing at Ragoczy and then looking away. “I heard her whisper something to Duchess Olga Petrovna about you and it. . . offended me.”
“Ah,” said Ragoczy. “And what did she say?”
“She . . . she was not surprised that I should be taken in by such a charming imposter as you.” Her voice dropped lower and lower with each word so at the end she was barely whispering.
To the Countess’ astonishment, Ragoczy laughed aloud. “What perspicacity! I wonder what she would say if she knew as much about me as you do, Amalija Romanovna?”
To Leonids bafflement, his Aunt joined in the laughter. “My word,” he said, looking from one to the other. “Konstantine, what has come over them?”
His youngest brother shook his head, knowing when to stay out of adult matters. He drank down his tea and went to get the last dark, stewed liquid out of the samovar, removing himself from the perplexing turn their conversation had taken.
While Konstantine was on the far side of the parlor, Countess Amalija stopped laughing and confided, “You know, I worry about him, being
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