Just for fun - Christmas 1916 at the Anglo-Russian Hospital

Nagorny returned a few minutes later with a bottle and glasses.
‘Now we both say, “Na ty!” We clink glasses. We embrace. You say, “Sandor!” I say, “Alexei!” We kiss, drain the glasses, and throw them at the wall.’
‘Very well.’
‘Na ty!’
‘Sandor!’
‘Alexei!’
The Tsarevich’s embrace was unexpectedly firm.

‘Now,’ said the Tsarevich, ‘Papa must take a photograph of us.’

This is just darling - and I love all the little military details that I know you researched carefully. Write more!

Blush!

Next morning the Tsar suggested that Dolgoruky  accompany him on his morning walk, along with the Tsarevich and Pavel Volkonsky.

Some distance away an aircraft was flying.
‘It probably comes from Kronstadt,’ said the Tsarevich. ‘They have a squadron there to protect the fleet from German aircraft. The Germans did try to bomb Kronstadt, but our aircraft chased them away.’
‘Did they shoot any down?’
‘I don’t know. I hope so. Sandor, have you killed any Germans?’
‘Yes.’ It was a question Dolgoruky had been asked a good many times, invariably by civilians, or by young men who had yet to see action.
‘With your sabre?’
‘Not with this one.’ Dolgoruky glanced at the hilt which protruded from the sword slit of his greatcoat. ‘Killing a man with a sabre is not a pleasant business, but it is something a man does for Holy Mother Russia. You do not think about it at the time, because you are trying to kill him before he kills you, or one of your men. But afterwards it is different. You throw up everything that is inside you. You keep seeing his face again, and the wounds you made in his body. And all the blood. There is always a lot of blood. But if God wills, Alexei, the war will be over before you are old enough to learn all this for yourself.’
For a time the Tsarevich was very quiet.

The biplane appeared again, much lower this time, its engine stuttering and firing unevenly. It made a wide circle as the party watched, then the engine stopped.
‘I’ve not seen one like that before. I wonder what it is.’
The aircraft turned into wind, low enough now for the pilot and observer to be clearly visible. Its main wheels had been replaced by skis. There was one machine gun mounted to fire forward through the propeller arc, a second in the observer’s cockpit, now pointing to the rear and upwards at an angle of about forty-five degrees. The observer was facing forwards, his gloved hands gripping the sides of his cockpit.
‘Oh look, Sandor, it’s going to land.’
In this part of the Alexander Park there was a long though somewhat narrow stretch of open ground between two lines of trees, with, Dolgoruky knew from pre-war rides, a drainage ditch about two-thirds of the way up that was now concealed by the snow. The ditch was one of several in different parts of the park, each six feet or so below the ground surface, with steeply sloping sides, perhaps four feet wide, and from time to time unwary hussars and their horses had come to grief in them. The ditches were iced over at this time of year, but the ice would not bear the weight of an aircraft, and there would be three feet or more of water below. He started to run, pulling off his scarlet cap and waving it above his head to attract the pilot’s attention, aware of the Tsarevich following.

The pilot must have seen the ornamental foot bridge that crossed the ditch, realized its significance. But with a dead engine he was committed, passing low over Dolgoruky’s head, skimming just above the white surface for a few yards. Before its speed could begin to slow, the skis found the ditch, visible only as a slight concavity, dropped into the deep snow that filled it.

The tips of the skis broke off, but the biplane went on forwards, its fuselage and tailplane rising up towards the grey sky.  Quite slowly, then it came to rest. The observer, bulky in fur-lined flying kit, was standing up. The pilot was ominously still, head resting against the butt of his machine gun.

Dolgoruky’s hussar boots sank into the deep snow, slithered as he tried to continue forwards. The observer turned the machine gun and its mounting ring through a hundred and eighty degrees. He started to climb out, but instead of dropping into the ditch he began to inch his way slowly up the fuselage. Dolgoruky suddenly realized what he was trying to do.
‘Grab the tailplane as soon as you can reach it!’ he called, forgetting for a moment who his companions were.
Under the observer’s weight the biplane began to pivot. Dolgoruky saw Volkonsky reach out to the tailplane and pull at it.
‘He always unstraps himself for landings,’ the observer called. ‘Dash it, do you chaps speak English?’
‘Yes!’ the Tsar,  his son and Dolgoruky shouted together.
‘Thank God for that!’

Dolgoruky smelt petrol, just as one of his boots went through the broken ice and he felt the intense cold of the water beneath. He grasped  the cockpit side with his right hand, pulled himself clear,  got a foot up onto the wing root as it came nearer the horizontal. He was aware of the Tsarevich beside him, the Tsar making his way round to the starboard side of the cockpit, floundering through the snow. The observer’s legs, in sheepskin thigh boots, were astride the fuselage just ahead of the fin. Volkonsky had pulled himself up to fling his upper body across one side of the tailplane, his boots a couple of feet clear of the ground.
Dolgoruky got his arm around the pilot’s shoulders, looked into the cockpit to reassure himself that his seat harness was unfastened. On the other side the Tsar was doing the same. The smell of petrol was stronger.  There was blood on the pilot’s face, inside his goggles, more coming from his nose. One lens of the goggles was splintered.
‘One, two, three! Heave!’   
The pilot’s weight unbalanced Dolgoruky, and one of his feet went through the wing fabric, but a second later he felt one of  the Tsarevich’s hands pulling on his empty sleeve, the other grasping the half-belt at the back of his greatcoat. ‘Thanks.’
For a small man, the Tsar was surprisingly strong. ‘I’ll take him, Sandor,’ he said as the pilot’s legs began to emerge.
‘Alexei, go round and help your father.’

The Tsarevich jumped down, began to flounder through the snow. Someone else was there before he reached the starboard wing root. Two members of the Okhrana always followed at a discreet distance behind the Tsar on his morning walks. One had now reached the party, the other was standing back. The Okhranik joined the Tsar and the Tsarevich on the wing root, took hold of the pilot’s upper body.

The Tsar and the Okhrana agent laid the pilot out on the snow. He was stirring now, trying to sit up, putting his hand to his face. Very carefully the Tsarevich lifted up the broken goggles. 
‘Has he got glass in his eye, do you think?’
The observer jumped down from the fuselage and  came forward, one glove off, pulling at the chinstrap of his leather helmet.
‘Thanks. Good job you fellows were here – and you speak English. Serge, are you all right?  I said you were going to do that one of these days.’ Then he recognized the bearded face looking up from his knees in front of him, and froze.
‘Jim,’ said the pilot blearily.
‘It’s all right old chap. Just stay where you are,’ the Tsar said soothingly.
The pilot began crossing himself. ‘Oh my God, it cannot be….’

‘Your Imperial Majesty, I’ll go to the Catherine Palace and organize a stretcher party,’ said Volkonsky, breaking the awkward silence.
The Catherine Palace was closer than its counterpart, and housed a military hospital.
‘Why don’t you go with Pavel Nikolaievich, Baby?’
‘Papa, my name is Alexei.’ The Tsarevich ran after Volkonsky.

‘That was fun,’ said the Tsarevich. ‘Just wait until I tell the girls!’ The pilot had been borne off to the Catherine Palace, and members of the Palace Guard were now stationed by the damaged aircraft. Telephone calls had been made to Kronstadt – a party would have to come from there to dismantle the aircraft and take it away by road, as it was too badly damaged to repair in situ. Now Alexei Nikolaievich  was sitting in the ADCs’ room with his father, Dolgoruky, Volkonsky and the British officer, Major James Sinclair, all with their boots off, drinking tea  and toasting their feet around the stove, socks hanging in a row to dry. He was plying Major Sinclair with questions. About flying, about the aircraft – a British-built Sopwith 1½  Strutter.

‘This is one of our latest aircraft. It can be used as a fighter, because of the forward-firing gun, but we’re using them  as bombers and trainers as well.’ Major Sinclair had taken off his leather flying coat, displaying the Royal Flying Corps ‘maternity jacket’ with pilot’s wings.  ‘We’ve had them in service since the spring. The RNAS have them too. I’d done some of the test flying with Sopwiths before going to 70 Squadron when it formed – that was the first RFC squadron with 1½ Strutters. Then I got appendicitis and was at home just when the Russians asked for two of them for evaluation. So I got sent here instead of going back to France. The other one’s got dual controls, so we’ve converted some of the Russian pilots onto it, including Serge Alexandrov. He wanted to try this one with the observer’s gun fitted and someone in the rear cockpit to see if it handled any differently. Hope he’s all right.’
‘You’ll be able to go and see him later,’ the Tsar said. ‘If my son will let you out of his sight. I will arrange for a car to take you, and then on to Kronstadt.’
‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’ Major Sinclair was by now at ease with the Tsarevich but very much in awe of the Tsar.
The hospital had reported by telephone that Lieutenant Alexandrov was not seriously hurt, but he was clearly concussed, the cut to his head needed stitches, and an ophthalmic surgeon must examine his eyes for splinters.
‘How does the gun fire through the propeller?’ the Tsarevich asked.
‘It’s got a gearing system that makes sure the gun only fires when the propeller blades are out of the way of the bullets. That’s the theory anyway – we’ve had a few teething troubles with it. The Germans had the idea first and shot down a lot of our aircraft with it last year. Especially a fellow named Max Immelmann – he’d still be doing it if he hadn’t been killed.’
‘Can you show me how it works?’
‘Have you got a pencil and paper, your Imperial Highness?’
Volkonsky passed him the pad and propelling pencil that were resting by the telephone. Sinclair scribbled a diagram.
‘There. The pilot’s gun is synchronized with the propeller so that it will only fire when the blades will be out of the way as the bullets reach the propeller arc.’
‘Have you shot down any Germans?’
Major Sinclair smiled. ‘When I was with 70 Squadron we mainly did long range reconnaissance, with a camera in the rear cockpit. The problem we have at the moment is that the German single-seaters have better performance than we do. They go faster and higher, and their performance doesn’t fall off above ten thousand feet like ours does. But she’s the best aircraft we’ve got at the moment, and lovely to fly. Very stable, and if you get the right adjustment on the tail trimmer you can  put your hands in your pockets and let her fly herself.’
‘Major Sinclair, will you teach me to fly?’
Dolgoruky glanced towards the Tsar, who was smiling, but turning his eyes towards heaven at the same time.
‘Well now, your Imperial Highness, you are rather  young at the moment,’ Sinclair said tactfully.
The boy was disappointed. ‘But could you take me up in an aeroplane now?’
Sinclair was cautious. ‘I could if His Imperial Majesty gave permission.’
‘Papa, please!’
The Tsar smiled. ‘You will have to ask your mother.’
‘Uncle Henry learned to fly before the war,’ the Tsarevich pleaded.
‘You will have to ask your mother.’
Papa, you always say that, and Mama always says no.’

Before long the questions started again.
‘Why did you crash today?’
‘Dirty fuel, your Imperial Highness. You have to filter it through layers of chamois leather, or it clogs up the carburettor. Both these aircraft have the 130 horsepower Clerget rotary, which is normally pretty reliable. Big improvement on some of the other engines we use. But it needs to be looked after. We brought our own mechanics out here, and they know the job, but the weather makes it much more difficult. But we wouldn’t have crashed if it wasn’t for that ditch. We land them with the throttle closed anyway, just glide in. We can open up and go round again, but we only do that in training.’
‘Papa, please let me learn to fly!’

‘Nicky, darling, you must do something about Dolgoruky. He is a bad influence on Baby.’
‘Sandor Dolgoruky?’ The Tsar climbed into bed alongside his wife, carefully arranged the bedclothes over them both.
‘Of course. I could hardly be referring to Valya.’
‘He dealt admirably with that aircraft today, and Valya speaks very highly of him.’
The Empress shuddered. ‘It must have been terrifying for Baby.’
‘On the contrary, Baby found it all wonderfully exciting. And he was very sensible. It would have been much more difficult without him.’
‘But he could have fallen. And there could have been a fire. And, darling,  you put yourself in danger as well.’
‘Darling, there really was no danger. All any of us suffered from was wet feet.’
‘Now Baby wants to go flying, which is frightfully dangerous.’
‘Sandor had nothing to do with that.  And Baby likes him.’
‘Baby talks of nothing else! Sandor says this, Sandor says that. Baby is still a child. We must protect him. Dolgoruky has fought duels. He kept a ballet girl. He is very fast. He is quite unsuitable as a companion to a little boy.’
‘My Precious One, all spirited young officers are somewhat fast. Even I did things in my youth which I now regret. Sandor Dolgoruky is a particularly spirited young officer. But he is about to marry a young lady of excellent character. Surely that must reassure you? He will settle down. And Baby is growing up. He is going to be a ruler.’
‘But what if Dolgoruky does not settle down? We have Baby’s character to think of as well as his health. How long will it be before Dolgoruky is leading him into dissipation? You know how much I worry about what Dimitri has become. And there is Mischa, and all his improper attachments. And as for Boris Vladimirovich.’ The Empress shuddered.
‘Alicky darling, even Mischa now seems to be settled with Natasha.’
‘That woman! Twice divorced, and she bore Mischa’s child out of wedlock! And to think that Boris’s mother  suggested him as a husband for our darling Olga.’
‘Darling, you worry too much. Sandor is not at all like Boris, and Olga is far too sensible to have her head turned by anyone unsuitable. In any case, it will be years before there is any danger of Baby forming improper attachments. He is only twelve.’
 ‘Mashka is sighing after Dolgoruky. I have had to speak to her.’
‘Darling Sunny, Mashka always has her little crushes. Sandor  is a fine fellow and it is hardly surprising that her little head has been turned. But she knows perfectly well that her crushes can lead nowhere, and I am quite sure Sandor will give her no encouragement. After all, he is about to marry and it is quite obvious that he has eyes only for his fiancée.’ Nicholas chuckled. ‘Mashka has been telling me of all the discussions the girls are having about a suitable wedding present for them. She  wants to give them a christening gown as she is sure that  they will have lots of adorable children.  But if you are concerned, I will ask Valya to speak to Sandor.’
‘Before you go back to the Stavka.’
‘Of course, darling, if that is what you wish.’
‘Oh Nicky, you know how I miss you when you go away, and how much I long for you to return.’
The Empress turned towards her husband, put her arms round him.
‘Oh my Beloved Angel, you know how much I adore you.’

How do you make this educational AND a such good read?? Remarkable!

Blushing once more!

What I've been trying to do in the scenes with Alexei is to show him as a boyish boy frustrated with being mollycoddled by his mother. Flying was a big thing at that time, and I'm sure Alexei would have found an aircraft force-landing in the Alexander Park wonderfully exciting (and Nicholas would have been extremely interested too!) Engine failures caused by dirty fuel were all too common in those days, so organising a force-landing wasn't difficult, and I've been to the Alexander Park so know about the drainage ditches. Having got the basic idea, I sought advice from my father, who found an article on the 1 1/2 Strutter in the flying magazine he gets, and all the detail about some of them being exported to Russia with British pilots is authentic. The main danger was getting wrapped up in technical details which would have been fascinating to Alexei but not to the readers!

Ann

I'd love to read some more of the love story between Sandor and english nurse (don't remember her name )

Rachel

Be careful! You could be stuck with a whole lot!

Ann

Here we have Sandor and Kate's first outing together, plus a brief appearance from Felix Yussoupov. In the best romantic tradition, Sandor has fallen for Kate pretty much at first sight, but she is a good deal more cautious.

‘Now, Ekaterina Ivanovna, when do you go off duty today?’
‘Not until six o’clock, Rittmeister Dolgoruky. Why do you ask?’
‘Because I am allowed out today.  I am going to walk in the park and you are coming with me to make sure I stay out of the vodka shops. Have you forgotten what we agreed?’
She looked doubtful, and he prepared himself for disappointment. ‘It’ll be dark long before that, but I have lunch at one, and when I’ve finished eating I like to go to the park for some fresh air.’

At twenty-five minutes past one Dolgoruky was waiting on the steps outside the nurses’ dining room, looking at his watch and scanning every face that went past. There too was Sergei Platonovich, waiting impatiently for Caroline Lumsden.

Sergei Platonovich was nineteen.  From the undamaged side of his face he had been a good-looking youth, rather short, but fair-haired, regular in his features, and with a particularly attractive smile. He had been at the Front six weeks when a shell burst took one eye out and left ruin in its place.
‘Now which of the ladies is it that you are waiting for, Alexander Alexandrovich? Lady Ottoline is perhaps a little old.’ Lady Ottoline Carey-Evans was a widow in her forties ‘Surely it  cannot be Natalya Filaretovna? Ah, could it be Ekaterina Ivanovna? Though she is a little severe.’ But then Sergei Platonovich forgot all speculation about the object of Dolgoruky’s affections. ‘Here she is!’

There was Caroline Lumsden. Instantly Sergei Platonovich seized her arm and hurried her away down the stairs, loudly telling her how much he had been missing her. Dolgoruky carried on waiting. Why was Kate Brazier taking so long. Was she lingering over coffee so as not to have time for a walk in the park with him?
Twenty minutes to two. There she was at last.
‘Natalya Filaretovna insisted on talking to me.’
Outside he offered her his arm. She took it, but almost immediately they met a passing soldier, and then Sergei Platonovich with Caroline Lumsden, and each time he had to disengage in order to return the salutes. Sergei Platonovich was grinning, much amused by the accuracy of his speculation.
‘You need to be careful with this young man, Miss Lumsden. That one eye is a roving one.’
‘I’m just here to make sure that Sergei doesn’t bump into things.’ She did, however, go rather pink.

It was a beautiful day, with a bright cold typical of the time of year. Snow had fallen overnight and scrunched beneath their feet.
‘How long is it before you have to go back?’
‘Ten minutes.’
‘A pity you didn’t eat your lunch a little faster.’
‘It was Natalya Filaretovna. I couldn’t stop her talking without being very rude.’
‘Why didn’t you tell her you were going for a walk with me?’
‘Natalya Filaretovna disapproves of us going for walks with patients.’
‘But all you are doing is stopping me from going into vodka shops, just as all Caroline Georgievna is doing is stopping Sergei Platonovich from bumping into things.’
‘She has found an interesting way of doing that.’
Some distance away, Sergei Platonovich and Caroline Lumsden were locked in an embrace.
‘Perhaps as his superior officer I should remind Ensign Dimitriev that it is beneath the dignity of a Russian officer to kiss in a public place, particularly in front of other ranks.’ Two more private soldiers were passing on the other side of the railings which bounded the park.
‘Oh please don’t.’
‘I was only joking.’

‘I must be getting back,’ she said, far too soon for him.
‘Tomorrow? You must avoid all conversation with Natalya Filaretovna over lunch.’
‘I’ll try. But she can be very persistent.’
‘Or when you come off duty? I could take you for dinner.’
She became a nurse again. ‘You must be careful not to overdo things, Alexander Alexandrovich.’ That, at least, was progress,
‘An early dinner, as soon as you come off duty. And no vodka, or even brandy.’
‘I must go.’

Dolgoruky walked back to the hospital entrance with Kate Brazier, but on such a fine day he was in no hurry to go inside. Back in the park he met Felix Yussupov in the uniform of the Corps des Pages.

Prince Felix Yussupov was another of the Grand Duke Dimitri’s friends, and though he was rather older than those from the Glorious School  he would join them  at the Sergeievsky Palace from time to time. He was small and pale-faced, and, most unusually for one of his rank, had not attended cadet school, the Alexander Lyceum or the Imperial School of Jurisprudence. He used to relate with glee that when he was eleven he had taken great care to fail the entrance exams of the Corps des Pages.  To Dolgoruky that was probably wise - such a pampered little mother’s darling would have been easy meat for the rest. He did not serve in the army, the navy, the diplomatic corps, the civil service or even devote himself to managing his estates. In St Petersburg had become notorious while still an adolescent for his habit of dressing in women’s clothes and going out in fashionable society thus garbed. To the younkers   he provided a rich vein for mockery (‘oh darling, such exquisite Louis Quinze furnishings’).

One afternoon Yussupov sat beside Dolgoruky on one of the sofas, looked at him in a particular way, and put his hand on his thigh.
‘Do that again and I’ll call you out.’
Yussupov turned whiter than ever, began stammering apologies. Dolgoruky had forgotten that only a year or so earlier his elder brother had been killed in a duel. Soon after his continued notoriety caused his father (an old friend of Dolgoruky’s aunt) to order him to leave Russia. Felix Felixovich went to England and spent a couple of years studying at Oxford before returning, and, to the great surprise of those who knew him, getting married. Inevitably, his bride was beautiful and among the highest in the land, Princess Irina Alexandrovna, daughter of the Tsar’s sister Grand Duchess Xenia and a cousin, the Grand Duke Alexander Mikhailovich.

‘Ah, Felix Felixovich, even you could not stay out of uniform for ever.’
Yussupov had always laid great emphasis on his loathing of any form of violence, his detestation of war. But eventually even he had been unable to resist the pressure of patriotism, though Dolgoruky was sure that his high connections would be utilised to keep him well away from the Front, even if his enormous wealth was not expended in bribes.
‘Sandor! I heard you were in Petrograd.’ As usual, he was surrounded by a strong scent of lavender.
‘But the disciplinary standards of the Corps des Pages have declined since I left them.’ Yussupov realised, somewhat belatedly, that a Rittmeister should be saluted. ‘Which Grand Duchess’s train do you bear?’
Members of the senior class of the Corps des Pages were appointed personal pages to members of the Imperial Family and so formed the exclusive coterie of kammer pages.
‘You must come round to the Moika one evening. Irina is in the Crimea – she has been ill - and Dimitri will be back again any day, so we can have some fun. Just like old times.’

An earlier stage. Sandor begins to recover after the amputation, and starts to take serious notice of Kate.

The next morning he turned his head to have a look as the dressings were changed.  Previously he had turned away and sunk his teeth into the pillow to stop himself from crying out. The dressings trolley creaked in a particular way, and he had learned to dread the noise as it approached each morning and evening, moving along the corridor, through the door and down the ward, stopping for a time and replaced by groaning and cries as another sufferer was attended to, then becoming closer. 

Volunteer Brazier took more trouble than most of the others in soaking everything off with hot water, instead of simply ripping away the layers of bandage and gauze which had stuck to the raw surfaces over the last twelve hours. Volunteer Brazier and a Russian.
‘I want to see it.’
‘The stump? Just a moment.’
Volunteer Brazier fiddled with pillows to prop him up. He found himself a little dizzy, after lying with his head down for so long. Until then he had not been able to articulate the word stump, even inside his head. There was the thing – the stump – raw and inflamed-looking, and a pile of stained bandage linen in the dish that Madame Nikolaieva was holding.  It tapered a little, instead of bulging outwards as a biceps did, then ended about six inches below the armpit, two thick rubber tubes protruding, into which, he knew well, they squirted Lysol every two hours, more times when pain came crashing through the haze.
‘That’s looking better. Not so much seepage this morning. We used to stitch everything up completely,’ Volunteer Brazier said conversationally. ‘Very nice and tidy. But there would be problems inside, and we’d have to open it up again. Now Major Finch puts tubes in for them to drain. Messy at first, but better in the long run. When it’s finished draining, he’ll  take the tubes out and close everything up properly.’

There was a question Dolgoruky had, suddenly very important. ‘What did you do with my arm?’
‘We put it in the boiler along with the rest. It’s the only way we can keep this vast place heated.’
It wasn’t a good joke, but for some reason he found it funny.
‘Captain Dolgoruky, I think you’re going to pull through after all.’
Volunteer Brazier’s Russian was good, but she had used the infantry Kapitan.
‘Rittmeister Dolgoruky.’
‘Oh yes, Rittmeister Dolgoruky, you are definitely going to pull through.’ Did she blush a little?  ‘Now, do you think you could manage some chicken soup?’
He was conscious of his beard stubble. ‘But first a shave.’
‘Soup first. Then I’ll ask the barber to come round.’
Madame Nikolaieva broke in. ‘Ekaterina Ivanovna, it’s time we were moving on.’
She was brisk again. ‘Yes, of course.’

Ekaterina Ivanovna. Katharine or Catherine in English, and her father’s name was John. Ekaterina Ivanovna. The name rolled around his tongue. Ekaterina Ivanovna.

A little later he heard her voice again, as his aunt arrived.
‘Much better this morning, Princess. In a couple of days he’ll be saying that he’s bored with being in bed and demanding to get up.’

Now Dolgoruky was off the danger list various relations and family friends  began to visit, and send packages of books and comforts. There were also packages brought by the Grand Duke Dimitri’s footmen. Half a dozen pairs of silk pyjamas. Several  bottles of excellent brandy.
My leave is up and I am off back to the Stavka this evening. They still won’t let me see you, but here is some stuff to be going on with. I shall be back before long.

Dolgoruky and Dimitri Pavlovich had known one another in a vague way all their lives, but only become friends while at the Glorious School. Since then they had gone into different regiments and seen one another less often. But there were things which drew them together. Both were motherless from infancy - Dimitri’s mother died at his birth, Dolgoruky’s in a stillbirth just before his third birthday – and both their fathers were abroad. The Grand Duke Paul Alexandrovich was banished by his nephew the Tsar when his affair with the wife of an aide-de-camp became a public scandal. Dolgoruky’s father loudly proclaimed that his grief would not permit him to remain a day longer in Russia amid the places where he had spent his happiest days, and, leaving the boy in the care of Aunt Maria, his widowed sister, he departed for the Riviera.

Dolgoruky was sufficiently friendly with the young Grand Duke to be among those he invited home during weekend leaves. It was a considerable novelty for a younker to have a house and servants of his own, but Dimitri’s murdered uncle, the Grand Duke Sergei, had left him the Sergeievsky Palace and all its contents. Younkers were barred from all the fashionable restaurants and clubs, and forbidden to visit the gypsies on the islands. But it was not difficult for Dimitri to persuade gypsy singers, dancers and musicians to entertain him and his friends at home.

But it was not for some weeks that Dolgoruky saw Dimitri again. Instead there was Anastasia, another cousin, who had developed a crush on him in the last summer before the war, decided that she was going to marry him and spend the rest of her life in a continuous round of balls and evenings gracing a box at the theatre and the opera house, where the whole of St Petersburg society would admire her beauty, elegance and sparkling conversation. She was seven years’ Dolgoruky’s junior and his feelings toward her were strictly cousinly, even if the Orthodox Church had not forbidden marriage between first cousins.   

That Saturday afternoon was perhaps not the best occasion for a cloistered young girl from the Smolny Institute to pay a visit. The ward, which had in peacetime been a pleasant small drawing room, was for recent arrivals from the Front, all by definition serious cases. In the next bed to Dolgoruky a Captain of Engineers was groaning after an operation on a stomach wound; in the far corner a twenty-year-old Cornet of the Empress’s Uhlans was dying behind screens from tetanus. The fourth occupant was blind.

Anastasia bounced in, wearing a dress belonging to one of her elder sisters, so as to evade the watchful governesses of the Smolny, whose eyes, even more than those of the Okhrana, were everywhere. A little basket was over her arm. She must have been home, Dolgoruky thought, had lunch with her parents and then managed to slip out unnoticed.
‘Hello Sandor! I said I was your fiancée, so they let me in.’

Someone indicated the screens, made signs to keep quiet. Anastasia stopped, her eyes on the pyjama sleeve that someone had neatly rolled up to elbow height. The wounded officers who took tea with society ladies tended to have arms in slings and legs in splints, or the occasional dashingly bandaged head. ‘Oh Sandor.’ She took a deep breath and sat down on the chair beside him. ‘I’ve brought you some cakes.’ She was still looking at the sleeve, then looking away, then back to it. Dolgoruky thought that somehow no one had told her the nature of his injury. ‘Oh Sandor, what are you going to do?’
‘I only need one hand for riding,’ he told her with false heartiness, thinking at the same time that although he only needed one hand to manage a horse, there were the sabre and pistol to be considered as well. ‘I’ll go back to the Front once I’m out of here. And, Anastasia Nikolaievna, it’s about time you found another beau.’

He meant to be kind but her eyes filled with tears. Then there was a sudden weeping from behind the screens and a loud cry of, ‘Sacha, Sacha!’
‘Oh Sandor, it’s too too dreadful.’
The Cornet’s parents emerged from behind the screen, leaving their son’s body, not the father supporting the mother but each supporting the other, a nurse following. Anastasia gave another wail. There, thankfully, was Volunteer Brazier. ‘Come on, I’ll get you a cup of tea.’