CHAPTER 7
1893-1894 THE END OF AN ERA
The new estate owner returned home to the Crimea soon afterwards and it was a strange homecoming indeed. Most of his father's oldest retainers had left, with the exception of Manov, the head butler, and Nyanya Olga, who had long since retired. An old lady in her 80s and unwell, she had clung possessively to her favoured position in the household, even although there were no children with whom she could carry out her duties.
When the Count drove up the driveway in a carriage and pair, he was struck at the feeling that it seemed so much smaller than in his childhood days. The house front was sparkling white and the staff were all present in a line to welcome the new owner. Manov stepped forward as the Count alighted, but the welcoming speech froze in his mouth when he recognised his new master. He blurted a surprised "Sir!" before a warning look from the Count made him pull himself together and went he into his welcoming address, then ushered the Count indoors. The old mansion still smelled of unpolished wood and leather. It had not changed.
When he had settled in, the Count summoned Manov. A man in his fifties, he had served the Count's father faithfully for over thirty years.
"Manov, you of course know who I am."
"Yes, sir."
"Are there any others in service who do?"
"No, sir, only Nyanya Olga."
"She's still alive?"
"Yes, sir, but ailing. She may be pleased to see you."
"Maybe." the Count agreed, quietly, hands steepled to his mouth. "I want you to realise, Manov, that I wish to remain incognito. I shall not be taking my father's name. Please bear this in mind - you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very good. Please bring me the accounts, I wish to study them."
Manov bowed respectfully and left, returning soon after with the book-keeping, but Max found he could not concentrate, the figures kept dancing before his eyes. He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes to rest them and he felt himself drifting into sleep.
Suddenly he sat up with a start, unsure what had wakened him. The drawing room was dark, with but a single oil lamp lighting it, and he could hear no other noise in the house. The servants had retired for the night. What, then, had wakened him? He rose and walked into the hallway, then went out of the house and walked in the darkness down the driveway. What was it? What was it? There was a light in one of the servant's hovels and a sound of women weeping. He walked to the light, dipped his head and walked in. There were gasps of surprise and shock from the four women standing round a bed where an old, old woman lay. In two strides he was beside her, the other women melting into the background. His voice, very deep, whispered "Nyanya." The dying woman opened her eyes at the sound of a man's voice. "Nyanya, don't you recognise me?" Her rheumy eyes tried to focus. Only Max could hear the whispered "Leonid?!"
Gently he sat on the bedside, enveloping her small, cold hand in his. He had to stoop, his face near hers, to hear her. "Is it really you?"
"Yes, Nyanya, I have come home."
A troubled expression crossed her lined features. "You were such ... a bad boy, Leonid, but I always hoped you'd return. And then they told me you ... had killed a man and ... they shot you."
"Sh, sh, Nyanya. They didn't shoot me, I am here." He gently rubbed her fevered brow. Suddenly she opened her eyes and said, in a clear, strong voice "A foreign sword will be the death of you!" A cold hand seemed to clutch his heart and he stood up quickly, withdrawing contact. Childlike, he wanted to run, go and hide, be anywhere else but in that house. Then his adult reasoning took over and he controlled his fear, slowly, uncertainly, returning to her bedside. A little while later she said, very softly, "I waited, so long, little Leonid, hoping one day you'd come back. I'm sorry ... I cannot wait ... any longer ..."
He stayed until she breathed no more.
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Despite being in only his late forties and having hitherto had no problems with his health, Tsar Alexander III became ill during 1894. Although he received constant ministrations by the best doctors in the land and moved to the summer palace in Livadia in the Crimea, Tsar Alexander III died on the 1st of November. Still unprepared for Kingship, Nicholas was immediately invested as Tsar Nicholas II and the wedding of Nicholas and Alexandra (formerly Princess Alix of Hesse) took place on 26th November, just one week after Alexander III's funeral. Because of his inexperience, Nicholas became dominated by the older members of the Imperial family, including the now Dowager Empress Marie, who lived with them during that first winter of Nicholas's rule in the Anitchkov Palace. When the twelve-month period of mourning was over and the ice had melted from the River Neva, on 26th of May 1896 the Coronation of Tsar Nicholas II was held in Moscow amidst rigid tradition, pomp and pageantry.
On the following day, however, occurred an ominous presage of the catastrophe to come when, in a field set out for the people of Moscow for a traditional open-air feast to celebrate the coronation, hundreds of people were killed and thousands injured in a stampede caused by a rumour that there was not enough beer to go round everyone. Men, women and children were trampled to death in the mad rush for the beer wagons, and the attending squadron of Cossacks were unable to halt the tragedy. Although Nicholas and Alexandra, deeply shocked at the wholesale slaughter of their people, did all they could financially and spiritually by giving all the dead separate coffins and the bereaved families a thousand roubles each, the people took the occurrence as an ill omen for the reign of the new Tsar, and revolutionary speakers made many converts to their cause by pointing out the fact that, on the evening of the tragedy, the uncaring Tsar did not cancel the Coronation Ball. The seeds of discontent were being sown.
---oo0oo---