The Summer Day is Done (51 page)

‘You should have gone home to your parents, little one, but thank you,’ he said.

‘Ivan Ivanovich … oh, you’re disgraceful, disgraceful … all this time and not a word from you.’ She put her hands to her face and sobbed into them.

‘Now look here,’ he said mildly because of physical lassitude, ‘I haven’t been lying around enjoying balmy Arcadia—’

‘Arcadia? Who is she?’ Karita’s voice, wet with sobs, managed to sound outraged.

‘It’s a kind of rustic heaven. Well, I haven’t been there. Didn’t you get any of the cards they let us write?’

‘I’ve heard nothing, nothing. Oh, it’s easy for you to sound as if everything has been quite ordinary, you knew you weren’t dead, but I didn’t.’ Her voice burst through her tears. ‘It’s the most disgraceful thing I’ve ever heard of. A whole year and I haven’t once known what was to become of me. But you would go off, you wouldn’t listen to me and see what happened.’

‘What did happen?’ He felt he was home again. Karita, like Olga, was always herself.

‘I don’t know,’ she cried indignantly, ‘nobody knew. Oh, those stupid people at headquarters.
It’s no wonder Russia is in such a state when there are so many people like that about.’

‘Didn’t you guess I was in a prisoner-of-war camp?’

Karita, still on her knees, lifted her head. She was so happy that the tears ran sparkling with joy. Her long loneliness was over.

‘There, that’s it,’ she said, ‘you would go. But you were supposed to do away with Turks, not let them put you in some awful camp. Oh, look at you,’ she gasped, ‘you’re so thin, so cold. What have they been doing to you? What have you let them do?’

‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘this is just wear and tear. Still, I suppose it does show I’m pretty inadequate without you.’ His eyes, dark in their hollows, were more alive than the rest of him. They were warm with affection because she was here, because she had waited. Karita was hot with gladness.

‘Why didn’t you say you were coming?’ She began to pull at his boots again. ‘Oh, they’re so stiff, are they frozen to you?’

‘I hope not, otherwise you’ll have both my legs off. I’m not putting you out because I didn’t let you know, am I?’

‘Ivan Ivanovich, doing silly things is bad enough,’ she said, ‘but saying silly things is even worse. There.’ She had loosened the boots. She sat back on her heels for a moment, surveying him with quite possessive pleasure. She pulled the boots off, sat back again and then gasped. She stared in horror. In the flame of the fire, a brightness in the darkening room, the condition of his grey woollen socks was unspeakable. His
heels and toes emerged from mere woollen rags. The dirty rags were indescribable, but for Colonel Kirby to have such disgustingly filthy feet, well! There were simply no Russian words she could think of.

‘They’re stinkingk,’ she said in English.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘Just be grateful that you haven’t had to live with them for as long as I have.’ She surveyed him again. How drawn he was, how tired. But at least his eyes were bright. Karita felt the strangest emotions. Her heart hammered. Her blood rushed. Moistness took renewed possession of her eyes. She got up, her face flaming.

‘Stay there,’ she said breathlessly, ‘I’m going to bring some hot water and then some hot soup. Later you can have a bath. Oh, it’s disgraceful, everything is.’ She rushed out. In the kitchen she stamped a foot at herself because of the stupid tears. She took him a bowl of hot water, put the bowl on the floor at his feet, picked up the woollen rags and threw them disgustedly into the fire. Kirby slid his feet into the bowl.

‘Oh, so this is the unbearable bliss, is it?’ he murmured. ‘Karita, you precious lovely girl.’

Karita stifled a sob and rushed out again. She began to prepare soup. She went back when the pot was on. He was still there, very relaxed, his feet immersed. The water was muddy.

‘Karita.’

She stood beside him. He looked up at her. There was something in his eyes, a reflection of thoughts painful and intense.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Is it true? They’ve taken the Imperial family to a place called Tobolsk?’

‘Yes,’ she said. There was a burning in her brown eyes he had seen before. ‘Yes, that’s what we’ve heard. Ivan Ivanovich, if they harm them I shall still love Russia but I shall despise its people.’

‘Not all of them.’

‘All of them, because there’ll be those who will have done it and the rest will be those who have let them. The Tsar is a good man, a kind man. They’re blaming him for everything, for the stupidity of politicians and the wickedness of others. I know nothing about how to govern Russia, but I know people and I know our Father Tsar. I know his family. If they are harmed, oh, I tell you, Ivan Ivanovich, I’ll do some harming myself. And I’ve something better to use than my tongue.’

She pulled open the door of a tall corner cupboard in which was displayed china and ornaments. From it she took a polished, shining rifle. It was a British Lee–Enfield.

She showed it to him and the burning in her eyes was reflected in his.

‘As soon as we can, Karita, we’ll go to Tobolsk,’ he said.

Karita put the rifle away. ‘The soup won’t be long,’ she said, ‘but I wish I’d known you were coming, then I’d have had something much better than soup to give you. I wouldn’t have wasted so much time walking with Captain Kalinin.’

‘Walking? In this weather?’ His voice was drowsy. ‘And who is he?’

Karita smiled a little slyly.

‘Oh, someone very nice,’ she said. ‘I’ve been working at the hospital. Captain Kalinin is one of the medical officers, he’s from Georgia. I’m to meet his people when I go there.’

‘Well, at last,’ murmured Kirby.

‘At last? What is that supposed to mean?’

‘Everything, I imagine, if his people approve. I can’t imagine them disapproving of a perfect treasure. When are you going?’ Had he not felt so tired, the wrench of disappointment at the obvious prospect of losing her would have been stronger.

Karita slipped off her coat, she sank to the floor beside his chair. The fire tossed its flames, reached out its light and heat.

‘It hasn’t been very nice without you,’ she said, ‘it’s very nice now. I’m so glad you’re here again. I’m not going to Georgia. Goodness, do you think I’m to marry Captain Kalinin? You’ll be going back to England when the war is all over and what would Aunt Charlotte say if I let you go by yourself? She would ask where I was and make it uncomfortable for you.’

‘There are other things to do first, Karita.’

‘Yes, I know.’ She put her arm on his knee and rested her face there. ‘Captain Kalinin is just very nice and sometimes he gets food for me. Sometimes it isn’t very easy to come by, especially meat or flour. Oh, I forgot, do you know what I have?’

‘Something I like very much, Karita,’ he said. ‘You’re the loveliest kind of person to come home to.’

‘You’re saying that because I’m making hot soup for you. I have some beef.’

‘Beef?’ He stirred out of his drowsiness and sat up. ‘Beef?’

‘Yes.’ Karita sounded as if she were in happy possession of a fatted calf. ‘Boris – Captain Kalinin – gave it to me. He wouldn’t take any money. He never does. Was it proper to let him kiss me instead?’

‘It happens all the time, I suppose. It sounds a fair exchange. Yes, it’s proper enough. But beef?’

‘Yes.’ She jumped to her feet, flitted through shadows and found the paper bag. She extracted a square tin and showed it to him. By the light of the fire he recognized it as a tin of British army bully beef. ‘There, it’s in a tin to keep it fresh,’ she said, ‘and I think you make a hole in the tin, then put it in the stove and bake it.’

‘Ah, mmm, yes, but I shouldn’t do that,’ he said, ‘it’ll probably blow up. I’ll show you what to do with it later. Would you have potatoes and an onion?’

‘Potatoes, yes. But an onion. Oh, I’ll get one, you’ll see. Our neighbours are all very nice. I’ll go and look at the soup.’

She went into the kitchen again. She was singing. He stretched in the chair, his body rapturous in its tiredness and its absorption of warmth. He thought of Olga. The memories came bright and clear. The pain was there, and the longing. But fear too now. Fear of what the Bolsheviks might do. If Karita had received none of the prisoner-of-war cards he’d sent, then
Alexandra had probably not received the two he’d sent her. He closed heavy eyes. Despite the thoughts, the fear, he fell asleep in the chair.

Karita came back, carrying a bowl of steaming soup. She looked down at him. His head was on one side, his hair thick and untidily long. It needed trimming. He was fast asleep. His drawn face was in quiet peace. She tiptoed away to keep the soup simmering. She returned with a blanket and put it over him.

She stooped and kissed his forehead.

Ivan Ivanovich, she thought, it’s about time you took a wife and went home. A fire is not enough to come back to, it’s ridiculous that you have no one but me. Why didn’t you marry the Princess Karinshka? That, I think, was something to do with Prolofski and Oravio. When I next see our Aunt Charlotte I’ll ask her if it’s not too improper for you to marry me. You must have someone.

She sank down in front of the fire. She watched the flames. It was lovely not to feel lonely any more.

It was cold, so cold in Tobolsk.

The fuel allowance for the Imperial family permitted only one fire to burn, that in the drawing room.

Sometimes the soldiers were friendly and sometimes, because of political happenings, not so friendly. The Bolsheviks had not swept Russia, after all, they were having to fight for their lives to keep what part of it they did have. Opposition was against all logic. It made them tremble with
fear and frustration, it turned them vicious. One felt it. The soldiers felt it.

On a morning when those guarding the Imperial family were not so friendly, one of them, a hard and cynical veteran of the campaigns in Galicia, placed himself in the path of Grand Duchess Olga as she crossed the hoar-frosted yard to retrieve a small spade belonging to Alexis. The girls had been using it to pile snow and shape it. The frost glittered on the man’s heavy eyebrows, on his fur cap. His gloved hands held his rifle across his body, blocking her.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Olga gently, ‘is it because I’m not permitted to be out here today?’

It was like that sometimes. Such meagre privileges as they had would be suddenly withdrawn and without apparent reason.

‘No,’ the man said gruffly. ‘Is there anyone behind me?’

‘Nobody,’ said Olga. She was heavily wrapped and muffed, her fur coat a welcome warmth about her cold body. She was thinner. Her skin had lost its kiss from the sun and she was pale, as they all were.

‘Then take what you see in my right hand and swear your ignorance of it coming from me,’ he said. He spoke growlingly. It was for the benefit of any suspicious comrades. His right hand covered his rifle butt. She saw a tiny triangle of white showing. She reached, pulled it free and slipped it into her muff. It was a crumpled envelope.

She knew she must not thank him or smile at him. Everyone watched everybody else here. But she could not refrain from showing him eyes
warm with gratitude. It was a letter she clutched inside her muff and how welcome it would be to Mama and Papa. The soldier brusquely turned his back, stamped to strike the cold from his booted feet and Olga went back into the house as if rebuffed. Her heart was beating, thumping. Letters sometimes came for them, but always they were censored first unless they were smuggled in. This one had come furtively. Was it for Papa?

For some reason she did not go into the drawing room but hurried up the stairs as quietly as she could. She wanted to see to whom the letter was addressed before producing it in front of the others. The bedroom was icy. She pulled the envelope out. It was addressed to herself at Tobolsk, Western Siberia. She knew the writing. It was the same as that on the flyleaf of her Shakespeare, the same as that in letters sent to Alexis. She herself kept those letters for her brother. Her eyes swam. She heard Anastasia’s clear voice from below.

‘Where’s Olga? Someone is to tell her we’re all to go outside for exercise. Marie, don’t stand on my foot, you elephant.’

But no one came up the stairs to look for her. Olga sat down on the edge of her bed. She opened the letter. It was difficult to read at first because the ridiculous agitation of her heart seemed to affect her eyes.

Dearest Olga. I don’t know if this letter will ever reach you but I’m told by a certain person that it will. And I pray that it will so you’ll know how much I and others are thinking of all of you. I wrote two cards to the Empress from a prisoner-of-war camp in Turkey,
but fear she may not have received them. I’m back in Russia now and on my way with Karita and others to Tobolsk, and to do all we can when we get there
.

I know that as I write you are in Tobolsk. I know that Russia has gone mad. I can’t think of your present circumstances without anguish. What can I or any man say to comfort you? I could say that a family which deserved love and understanding received none at all, but what comfort is that? I pray that things are not too unbearable for you, although I know it isn’t necessary to tell you or any of your family to have courage
.

Men who found fault in the Emperor but none in themselves have become his judges. I can only remember him as the kindest of men, I can only remember the Empress as the kindest of women. Who can judge them without setting aside their own imperfections? Dearest Olga, if there are such men there are also others, others who still love their Tsar and will have nothing to do with deposing him, or judging him. I’m with many such people now
.

If you’re surrounded by bitterness and hostility that you can’t understand, remember it can’t last, it must come to an end when they begin to know you all. I know you’ll be happy again, I know I’ll see you again. I have a promise to keep
.
The Emperor has not betrayed Russia, only trusted inadequate men too much and been too generous to his allies
.

Karita begs you to accept her love and loyalty. We think of you, of all of you. Remember me to Alexis, to the Grand Duchesses and to your well-loved parents. I cannot forget them, I cannot forget you. You are always in my thoughts, always in Karita’s prayers. You are very dear and very lovely, and I must say so
.