I sat watching them. Liza and I would stage our own abdication, even though I had to use force on her.
Nicholas exclaimed, "A motor vehicle! If things get too hot for us up here we'll grab a lorry and motor south, to the Crimea. We'll take over Igor's villa. All of us. Liza's his heir, it'll be perfect."
He had more to say, but Misha wouldn't let him, dismissing his scheme with a contemptuous flick of his fingers. "You asked what I said. I'll tell you. You'll be a much wiser leader for knowing it. I said, 'If only one could be sure of a bullet. A bayonet coming at my belly—or a pike—I'd be sick.' If that wasn't exactly what I said, it was what I was thinking."
Sixty
Liza didn't awake until midday. I went up to tell her about the Tsar and the letters I'd found in Glebov's room. She asked where Glebov was. I said Kobi was keeping an eye on him.
"He makes me shiver," she said.
"Another reason not to delay."
"But you haven't heard from Chicago."
"Let's get there first and then worry. Sweet Christ, we have to get to Odessa, find a boat to take us to France—that's a life's adventure in itself and even then we're only halfway. To make a start, that's all I'm asking for."
"It's not like biting an apple to have a taste. It's all or nothing you're after."
"That we're after, Lizochka. You and I and wee Danny Doig."
"Don't think you can blackmail me."
"Get on with your argument, then. Reasons why we shouldn't leave tomorrow, numbers one to ten."
"What I want to say is that I can't give you all of me. Every hair, fingernail, mole, limb, you can take these to America. But my heart stays. Today, tomorrow, forever."
"You can grow a new one, an American heart."
"This will always be its home. This is where it eats and sleeps and loves—here—in Russia—in this fabulous beast of a country."
Dear God how I groaned. It made my water boil to hear her speak like that. Obstinate! She made a pig look like one of those rotting liberals in Turgenev who believe in tolerance and clemency.
I said, "What's your price, Mrs. Doig?"
She looked at me shrewdly. "But you don't have any money. And you've said yourself that you'll have nothing to do with borrowing in case you fall into the pit like your father. So how will you pay my price?"
"You'll take a slip. You can't refuse me that. Payable at 180 days—no, make it a twelvemonth."
"So quickly?"
"I'm confident in myself. So what's your fancy? Not many Russian husbands would be so gentlemanly."
"We don't even have the word. Except in eating. Dzbentelmenski nabor. Gentleman's Relish, an English milord paste."
"Well?"
"The price of 'yes'?"
"Yes."
This was a conversation I'd conducted leniently. But now we could fiddle-faddle no more. We were at the gulf.
She took my big hand, pretended to read the lifeline, and kissed the palm. She said, "Exile, that's the only realistic word." She stopped my lips with a finger. "I know you said I could come home when I want. Did you hear that—'home?' You don't really have one, never have. Moscow, London, South America, Burma, Turkestan—the world. So you can never understand what exile would mean."
"Home is what we'd make in America."
"A lesser home. I know that in America they've got all sorts of things that we don't have here—more useful objects, more comfort, better doctors and medicines. It'd be safer for me to have Daniel in America. I agree with everything you can say. But it would be exile for my soul. That's it, Charlie."
"But it's peopled with exiles," I cried. "As Nicholas said, the whole nation is made up of refugees like us."
"It was the idea of America that gave me my fit. My heart heard what my brain was planning and retaliated. It'll happen again and again, bound to . . . I'm just an ordinary weak woman. Exile would kill me, Charlie."
I took her hands. "I'll get the best doctors there are in America . . . My heart, Russia is becoming dangerous for our sort. The grandsons of men who were exchanged for greyhounds want their revenge. The Tsar has gone. The sewage of the past will burst out and sweep across the plains and choke us to death. Maybe not today. Misha said it properly: not until they find their Robespierre. But soon."
She lowered her eyes. I felt I'd weakened her resistance. I said "Alright, the day after tomorrow, then."
"A respite, that's all I want. I never believed he'd leave us. None of those other Romanov men would have. They were all so huge. Tall men never give way. But Nicholas is so much smaller. Petity and trying not to be."
We dickered on about her Russian heart. My saying that in any case half of it was Polish was ill received. (Bobinski went up to his room. We heard him moving around, the floorboards squeaking.)
She started to expose a monstrous argument, that the respite should last until Dan Doig was born. I told her not to talk balls. My temper rose—turned yellow, bilious, like a chemical experiment. I gave her a week to settle up with her heart. After that she'd go over my shoulder and I'd carry her to Chicago as a rug.
Sixty-one
What times we live in!"—I spoke the words reflectively. It was evening, around six o'clock. We were sitting down to eat. Misha had persuaded a contrite Louis to dine with us: he hadn't had a thing all day. He was standing over him, pressing down on Louis's shoulders and forcing him into the chair. From the corner of his mouth he said to Bobinski, "Well, Bobby, you're the scholar among us, aren't these strange times? Is this our Thermidor or isn't it? Will any of us be alive next month?"
Bobinski had been unable to grasp the momentous nature of Nicholas's abdication. He conceived of it solely as an historical fact, to be bracketed with its companion date, that on which Mikhail Fyodorovich Romanov had been elected to the throne of the tsars three hundred years before.
However, it had by no means escaped him that Louis had attempted to flee beneath the cloak of the night and been frightened back to the Pink House by the uncouthness of the crowds surging through Smolensk railway station. All day he'd been alternately cursing him for a traitor and wandering around the house plaintively calling his name. He put a bowl of soup in front of Louis with exaggerated deference.
"Were you in your slippers, Frenchman? Did you still have the curling tongs in your hand? Don't look to Mikhail Lvovich for protection . . . I'm speaking about your great funk. But when you got there—the crowd so boorish, eh! Language too strong, was it? Nasty pushing and shoving, was there, monsieur?"
Misha tried to nudge Bobinski away but the old man wasn't going to be crabbed like that.
"You have to be modern to get along these days, monsieur.
Modern means wearing a European suit and polished black shoes. Never brown in town—I expect that's what went wrong this morning. You've learned your lesson. Now you must drain the cup of repentance. To the last sip—of hemlock, tee he he . . . Back with your old friend Bobby, what a disappointment for you, monsieur! And at your age, when you're just beginning to think, What's left for me, what challenges and discoveries . . . Enough. Here we both are again. Welcome home, friend!"
Louis, struggling to rise, reoccupied Misha's attention. "Sit there and enjoy your food or I'll get angry. It may be our last meal. What do you say, Bobby, Nicholas, Charlie? Will we be like the Drutskoys in '05? Will the peasants rise up now that Nicholas has abdicated?"
The words were balancing on the edge of his lips before springing off. Others were clustered in the air before him, like bees. We were sorting them out, each of us picking words that were interesting—
Clump—clump—clump. Cavalry boots came marching self-importantly up the corridor from the kitchen, stamping and scuffing.
Nicholas went to the door. It opened before he got there. It was the dwarf Glebov.
I looked at the boots that had warned us—drabbled with mud but at least he'd taken his spurs off. I looked at his short, hairy face, which told me nothing.
"I welcome you to our meal, Prokh
or Fyodorovich," said my Lizochka, rising from her seat with such exquisite control and courtliness that he could never have guessed.
She was wearing her long-toed scarlet shoes, a pair of baggy cream cotton pantaloons with a wide scarlet belt au chef de brigands, a cream blouse and a loose silver fox. At her throat was a purple choker on the point of indigo and lying like pigeons' eggs in its folds the full glory of the Rykov pearls. Mrs. Gaudy I'd called her as we came down the stairs. She'd smiled, happy to be within her best colours. Not the entirety of her bottom but sufficient of it could be read from the unconstricted quiverings within those Turkish pantaloons. I yearned to be the chair beneath her and so, I could tell from their glances, did the other men.
She was as tall and slim as a statue. Holding herself perfectly and looking at Glebov like a friend, she said, "Our food is your food. May God's blessings be upon all in this house."
"Amen," we intoned. I found myself bowing to Glebov, for the ikon was directly behind him. "If you ever have to bow, bow low"—I remembered Mother's advice. But I was bowing to God, who only requires a dip of the head. I crossed myself.
We sat down: Glebov spoke. He'd had to go into Smolensk yesterday on some "light" affair of business—a bill that had fallen due for payment was the suggestion—met a friend and become absorbed in the heady matter of the abdication. This he announced to the company in an unimportant voice. Casually, so to say. He looked round, saw that a place hadn't been laid for him, went through to the pantry and returned with cutlery, glass and a plate. He stuck his finger into the borsch and stirred it around to see what meat rose to the surface. He sucked his finger clean, helped himself and sat down.
We goggled at him in silence.
"Excuse me, Count." He stood up and stretched right over the table to get at the lump salt, which he proceeded to grate over his soup between thumb and forefinger. He crumbled his bread, ate a spoonful of soup and said, "It's a step in the right direction."
"Have you seen Kobi today?" was what I said, also casually.
"He's in the kitchen, drying his clothes."
Nicholas was white round the mouth with anger. "What do you mean, a step in the right direction? Don't you realise what's going to happen now? It's kaput we are, Glebov. All of us and that includes you."
"Apologies, I was referring to the soup," he said smoothly. "There was nothing to be had in Smolensk except bread and turnips. Only the rich can afford meat these days. Anyone with cattle to sell could become a millionaire." He looked at Nicholas and then Misha: pale blue eyes veiled with mockery. "Horses too. Hoarding has turned into a most profitable trade."
"So what is your opinion of the abdication?" Misha said sternly.
"One thing's for sure, he'll have to pay for his train ticket like anyone else."
Nicholas said to the company at large, "But who's going to rule? In 1905 no one could have been in doubt. We were reassured by the weight of his power. Who is there today with that strength?"
"Well-meaning idiots," Misha said. "People of the stamp of Lvov and Kerensky."
"Kerensky's no idiot," Lizochka said. "Read his speeches."
Glebov smiled brilliantly on her. "A woman with a political opinion? One who reads speeches? First class. Our society must encourage women."
"What society is that?" asked Misha.
"I meant our people as a whole."
Nicholas continued, "The terrorists must be smashed. But who's to do it? That's my point."
"Everyone's a terrorist now authority's gone." It was Misha again.
Nicholas said, "Our armies, the naval forces, the railwaymen, the factory workers, they all want some impossible new disposition of authority. Everyone is to be equal. Capital is to be put on the same footing as labour, officers the same as their men. Thank God for our constitutional rights!"
I was getting restless. I couldn't abide the daintiness of Nicholas's approach or the pious shape of his lips. What I wanted was to crush Glebov and get out. No theorising, no wishy-washy stuff about rights. Just crush him. As in pulverise, as in shreds and atoms and an eggcup of dust.
Nicholas was talking—was still talking: "There used to be one spoon in the soup. Today there are fifty and none of them clean. Lvov, Kerensky, Urusov, the deputies—who actually has the power? That's what we need to know."
And now my bride. She was on the top of her form, having smoked a hashish pipe. In complete command, hand on her jutting hip, her silver-foxed elbow grazing the ear of Bobinski, who moved his chair a fraction and smiled fondly up at her.
"Whenever we think of an ideal ruler we use ourselves as the model. Thus we want someone who's sober, hard-working and concerned about our children. He should be afraid of God: this will show up in the humaneness of his policies. He must live decently, be tidy in his dress, have good manners, be affable to all classes of society—and yet be a man that our enemies fear.
Tsar Nicholas did not have that last quality. We need not mourn his going. But as my brother says, who next?"
I was so proud of her! I made a scene, moving about on my seat so that I could gloat at each of the other men in turn.
Nicholas said, "The model for our new leader won't be a factory worker in Petrograd, that's one thing that's certain."
Lizochka looked down like an angel at Glebov, who was on the other side of her. "What's your contribution to the conversation? Who'd be the perfect ruler for you—a factory worker or a Robespierre?"
She glanced over at me, her eyes exultant.
"What makes you choose his name?" he said, blinking.
"A revolution is happening. Sixty years ago slavery was abolished in the Russian Empire. Now the Romanovs have abolished themselves. Everywhere the cry is 'Down with Autocracy!' or 'To Every Peasant His Vote!' Isn't that a revolution? There's always a Robespierre around at times like these, snatching at the hanks of power that have come loose. Don't you want to be him?"
She walked over to my side of the table—stood at an angle to me—looked back at Glebov in her severest intellectual manner. So strong! So beautiful! That nose! And her eyes so obviously brainy that I forgot for the moment that this was the woman who couldn't decide about America.
She went on: "But I'd say you must hurry if you want the job. May there already be a Robespierre at work? Count Potocki was assassinated on the orders of someone. My maid was executed for it—but she was no Robespierre. Somewhere at the centre there is a dominant man."
Bobinski said. "I call that an excellent question. Answer her, Glebov. Every soldier has a bit of Robespierre within him—the desire to eliminate opposition. What's soldiering if not that?"
"If Glebov is a soldier," I said.
"More than you, Mister Stay-at-home," he said confidently. "Your papers are worthless now he's gone. I could conscript you tomorrow."
"So where were you soldiering last night?"
"It's a revolution, madamochka said so herself. A man's duty is no longer to the Tsar. It was for the State of Russia that I was working last night."
"Humping for the common good," squealed Bobinski with delight. "Oh, the duties of a soldier, one after another."
Glebov looked the tutor over scornfully. "What's your purpose in life, old fellow? Amuse me. I've had a hard two days of it."
"My purpose? You mean God's purpose as transmitted through me?"
"Don't be clever. Tell me what good you've done for the world."
Bobinski rubbed his hands, blew on his fingertips. He beamed upon Glebov with ancient eyes and a mouth containing a few small teeth the colour of Sauternes.
Louis, speaking for the first time, "Give him the short answer, Bobby."
"I've taught three generations of Rykovs everything they know. I've emptied myself for them and on the strength of that the Rykovs have dealt charitably and honourably with the people of Popovka. That's the good I've done, and no more of your insolence, young man."
Nicholas broke in: "All I've ever sought from life is an honourable reputation. That's the highest rung
on the ladder as far as I'm concerned."
"A man who works and fights in his shirt. Count Rykov, a good honest farmer and that's all. Well, well." Glebov tipped his chair back.
Bobinski wagged his finger at him. "I said no more insolence. It's not fetching in a guest."
"You trivialise humanity, old fellow. What of industry? What of the advancement of the sciences, of medicine, of engineering? Improve these and you improve conditions for everyone. Living becomes a pleasure. But charity and honour, if that's all that's come out of your teaching—pah! You're nothing more than a stupid old man. Is nothing political worth teaching?"
"Nothing."
"Democracy—universal suffrage—nothing?"
"The trouble with democracy," Misha said pontifically, "is that it creates a vulgar middle class and contaminates the peasantry. All the proven balances in society are upset. Look around you. Read the better newspapers."
"That's a typical attitude in your class," Glebov said. "It's liberals like you that are suffocating the country. You scoff at all forms of voting and of popular government."
"The most votes are rarely the best votes," Misha replied.
"Attention everyone! Merit in voting! Give every man's vote a mark between one and ten and add them all up at the end. That's the truest form of government, for then the wishes of the most intelligent citizens must prevail. Must—must—must." Bobinski leaned towards Liza. "Do you remember how often we discussed the system?"
"After the age of sixty, marks were to be deducted for senility," she said with a smile at her old tutor.
He slapped his brow. "Indeed they were. Dear me, dear me . . ."
And the dwarf, who'd all this time been covertly studying my bride and lapping up every detail of her scarlet shoes and her stole and the pearls and the slopes so easily imaginable beneath the cream pantaloons, said to her, "So you've come awake, madame. I feared that the morality of politics was boring you."
She said icily, "Had you called me 'madamochka' a second time I'd have slapped your face and had you leave this house. Why should I be treated as your inferior?"
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