Chapter Thirteen
In May 1808, the Countess Irina set out with her two children and their governess on the long journey south to her family home, the Kiriakov estate on the warm, dry, sunny northern slopes of the Caucasian mountains. It had been a sickly winter. Everyone had had colds and aches and pains, and Irina had suffered a particularly bad attack of influenza, which had left her thin and pale and with a troublesome cough; and when a letter came from her sister Ekaterina, recently widowed and returned to the family home, Nyanka suggested that it would do her mistress good to do the same. The climate would benefit her health, and the companionship of her brothers and sisters would raise her spirits, which had been very low since the news of the defeat at Friedland had taken the Count away from home again.
The day of the Graduation Ball was burned on their memories. The ball had been cancelled, of course: no one could have danced with the cadet’s words still ringing in their ears. The Count and Sergei had gone straight to headquarters and had remained there all night, returning the following morning only to pack for their immediate departure to Olita to join the Tsar’s retinue – the Count as diplomatic advisor, Sergei as a subaltern in the prestigious Preobrazhensky Guard. The latter appointment was made as a favour to the Count, and it was a sign of his high standing with the senior military officials that they could think of it at a time like that.
Shoora and Vsevka had invited Irina and the children to return with them to Tula, but she had wanted only to go back to Schwartzenturm, in which Anne had whole-heartedly agreed with her. To be away from home at such a time was unbearable. If he were to be gone, the only comfort could come from familiar surroundings. Lolya had begged to be allowed to go with Aunt Shoora, however, and Irina had admitted her plea. There she had remained ever since, while Anne and the Countess had taken Natasha back to Schwartzenturm. Since then, Anne had been able to distract herself for much of the time with her duties to the children; but Irina had nothing to do to stop her thinking about her husband and missing him, and her spirits had never been lower or more in need of a visit to her loved and distant home.
The thousand-mile journey was not undertaken lightly, and it was almost a caravan which eventually started out from Schwartzenturm. The Countess took along her maid Marie; Nyanka and Tanya to take care of the children; Kerim the cook, and one of his assistants; two footmen; Morkin the coachman; six grooms; and eight other servants. There was also one of the estate carpenters, who was also a skilled wheelwright, and Marlinski, the farrier-blacksmith, who, besides being able to shoe horses and repair broken carriage-frames, could doctor almost any living creature who did not object to it.
There was a mountain of luggage, too, which included bed linen, cooking pots, spare harness, tools, medical supplies, soap, a large number of firearms, and emergency rations in the form of dried meat, dried peas, and a kind of hard bread like ship’s biscuits, which though as unappetising as wood had the virtue of remaining edible for long periods.
Anne, used to travelling in England, and even with the experience of her journey from Paris behind her, rather stared at all these preparations; and wondered, too, that the Countess should choose to travel in a peasant kibitka rather than her own comfortable berlin. She also wondered at the small chest of gold, which was stowed under the driving-seat of the first cart, to be guarded by a groom with a horse pistol. Anne, the Countess, and the two children travelled in the first cart, and behind it came four others. At the rear of the procession rode Stefan, leading Iskra and Quassy.
The journey was a slow one. As soon as they were away from the immediate environs of Petersburg, the roads worsened rapidly, for in the winter ice and snow, driven by the wind across the tracks, formed deep waves, like the sea, which, after the spring thaw, turned the roads into broad morasses of mud, over whose vast ruts and troughs the horses dragged the carts with great difficulty. This kind of going was hard on both horses and vehicles, and wheelwright and blacksmith between them had repairs to do at the end of most days. The sturdy peasant kibitkas and telegas were best suited to the job: a smart European berlin or barouche would have been jolted to pieces within days.
The lurching of the vehicles was sometimes hardly to be bom by the passengers. The children retched with travel-sickness while the adults were flung violently against the sides of the kibitka and cracked their heads on the roof. At the end of the day, Anne would undress cautiously to find herself black and blue, despite the bulky clothing Irina had advised her to wear. They dressed each other’s bruises with arnica each evening in the most friendly way: the shadow of coolness that had come between them over Quassy had been driven away by subsequent events.
The necessity for the box of gold was explained by what Nyanka described as ‘galloping consumption’ in the pockets of postmasters, innkeepers, and local constables, all of whom had to be sweetened by large sums of money in order for the travellers to proceed, to obtain passes or beds for the night and fodder for the horses. Iskra and Quassy had to be guarded at night by a groom, who sat up with them in whatever shelter had been obtained for them, watching over them with a lamp and a shotgun. Imperial couriers and other officials of the Empire took precedence on the roads in all matters, and sometimes, despite the bribes, the party was turned out of a posting-inn to make room for them, and had to make do with some rough peasant hut, or even sleep in the carts. But the servants showed the proverbial adaptability of the Russian peasant, and managed to make everyone reasonably comfortable.
Things were better when they reached the Steppes, for here the tracks were wide and level, and the horses were able to make better speed. The children’s spirits improved: they began to take notice of things, and enjoyed riding sometimes in one cart and sometimes in another, while Anne and Irina took the opportunity to refresh themselves by riding for a spell, galloping over broad grasslands as smooth as bowling-greens, sewn with an incredible carpet of wild flowers. The vast grasslands rolled away, level and featureless to the horizon in every direction. In the distance they saw herds of horses and cattle, being driven by mounted herdsmen on small, swift ponies, which they rode bareback, and turned with a dig of the knees, leaving their hands free for their whips and weapons. It was all as new to Anne as to the children, but Irina answered their endless questions patiently.
Beyond the Steppes the country changed again. It was as if the flat grasslands had been crumpled up like bedclothes into a series of gentle rolling foothills. The tracks were dusty, the blue sky windless, and the heat at noon was oppressive, and made the horses sweat, so that at the end of the day their coats were matted and pale with dust. There began to be trees again, oaks and maples, and the strange feathery grasses of the drylands, giant thistles and poppies, bellflowers and yellow mullein, and sometimes patches of marsh sewn with reeds. The cicadas sang all day long; there were vultures with hideous bare necks perched unnervingly near the track; and sometimes a pelican flew over from the Sea of Azov. Anne never quite got used to the sight of these extraordinary birds, but Nyanka said even the sight of them was lucky, and crossed herself fervently every time one flapped slowly by.
One day, when they were a short way from Stavropol, and Irina was telling Anne and the children an anecdote about her childhood at Chastnaya – the name of the family estate – Morkin suddenly reached for his shotgun, and said tersely, ‘Horsemen, Barina.’
The effect on Irina surprised Anne: she broke off in midsentence, her whole body grew rigid, and her hands gripped together in her lap. ‘Tcherkess?’ she asked abruptly.