So the inauguration of the festivities was over. The participants lined up to enter the chapel. With his protégé, Milyutin ducked into the shadow of the antechamber and let the procession pass.
Nearly a kilometer long, it passed through the interconnecting salons. The visitors never tired of admiring the magnificent furnishings and décor. It took almost two hours for them to reach the chapel.
From afar, a blank sky of snow illuminated the cupola. The sun’s rays pierced the dull daylight through the four fenestrae and were reflected by the candles of the chandelier. The emperor and the empress stood together in a box next to the choir, with their seven children and other family members behind them. Farther down were the faithful, who were separated from the sanctuary by a balustrade. The women, whose jewels now seemed a mere echo of the gilt that dripped from pillar, cornice, and vault, stood on one side, the men on the other.
The crowd was quiet and staid. The stoves from the antechambers made the chapel stiflingly hot, and the service went on interminably. The members of the court were so numerous and the chapel so comparatively small that some of the maids of honor could not stand it. Strapped into their corsets since dawn, having fasted before mass, a few of them collapsed without a sound and remained unconscious until the end. Some vomited discreetly into their handkerchiefs, remaining immobile so as not to disturb the service. The doyenne of the dames de portraits whispered, in French, “Poor little kitten, she’s spurting.” Those who found the steam room stuffiness unbearable backed into the last antechamber. There they fanned themselves, exchanged smelling salts, and loosened each other’s corsets.
Jamal Eddin and Milyutin, among the last to arrive, observed the mass from this room full of half-undressed women. The spectacle was a sharp contrast to the typical modesty of the feminine world, whose qualities of dignity and propriety the child had witnessed a short while ago while observing the empress.
The boy’s face was once again closed and inscrutable, revealing no trace of curiosity.
How to get him out of here? Milyutin searched for a way out of this predicament. He did not dare imagine what a Muslim must think of this display of nudity, these décolletés, these half-bare breasts, this general indecency, unprecedented in his experience. The shock of it all, the shame, must be intolerable. And all of this going on right next to a religious service. Pushing aside a group of maids of honor who were trying to reach the windows, he looked down at the child and realized that his concern was misplaced.
Jamal Eddin was not looking at the sea of uncovered décolletés that surrounded him; he was oblivious to the perfumes, the vinegar, and the smelling salts. Another kind of storm raged beneath his mask of studied indifference. For the third time today, he was overcome with emotion.
He listened.
He listened to the choirs, whose chants made the icons vibrate. There, beneath the cupola, this music was familiar—he recognized the voices of men. They were singing as they did at home, without any instruments accompanying them, since Shamil had forbidden flutes and drums. But at home, when the muezzin called everyone to prayer, it was in a monotone. And when the naïbs prepared for war, they modulated the same sound. There, when the men sang together, they sang the same thing, in rhythmic unison. Here, with the basses providing a steady background, a thousand other melodies combined and contrasted to form an echo that emanated from everywhere.
He listened without daring to move or breathe. It was not just the beauty—the deep, polyphonic harmony—that trans-fixed him. In an undefined, inarticulate, sensual way, he felt what Milyutin had tried so hard to express to him earlier that day: the empire, the hundreds of thousands of voices of the empire. It gave him goose bumps and brought him close to tears. Though he did not understand it, he listened, and the feeling that the music inspired was like a small flame that reverberated into infinity in an endless series of mirrors.
The choir had begun to sing the Te Deum.
The iconostasis opened. The priests, in gleaming tiaras, with their full beards standing out against their long, golden chasubles, paced toward the czar in single file. The monarch descended from his pedestal and walked toward the oldest, the most hunched-over, the weakest of God’s representatives, and bowed deeply and respectfully before the elder, kissing his hand.
Jamal Eddin understood this language, and he instantly comprehended its meaning. The Great White Czar was bowing before a principle more powerful than himself. He bowed before God. With this gesture, he set the example of submission for his subjects. He bowed as all the peoples of the universe should bow before him, the shadow of God on earth.
The child understood the symbolism and rejected the message. The power of the infidels was an illusion. Their god was a false god and the czar a vile giaour.
The service was over. Now the entire entourage would go home in their sleighs to rest for a few hours before returning for dinner, the ball, and supper.
With the exception of Lieutenant Milyutin and the “rebel’s son,” who were to wait here.
“Well,” the czar said, visibly irritated, “is he ready?”
His heart racing with emotion, Milyutin was flustered. He looked at the profile of his master, backlit by the daylight, but could not discern his expression. He recognized only the tall figure, standing there poring over his dossiers, a dozen or so files marked and arranged in a fan on a separate table.
“The son of the Dagestani rebel is awaiting your orders in the antechamber, Your Imperial Majesty.”
The czar turned to look at Milyutin, his gaze gray, neutral, devoid of expression.
“I have a great deal of affection for your uncle, Kiselyev. He’s a good man. And I have great respect as well for the medal you wear; the pacification of an entire people was an impressive work. My only regret—my profound regret, as a matter of fact—is that Shamil escaped us. Your uncle tells me you too share my concern. We’ll see, we’ll see.”
How had Milyutin dared to compare the czar to the imam earlier? With his high forehead, Greek profile, straight nose, oval face framed by a few short curls combed forward at the temples, and two long, brown sideburns, at forty-three, Nicholas seemed the incarnation of classical beauty and absolute power. The incarnation of the emperor.
The nobility of his features, the coldness of his eyes, something stiff and martial in his demeanor all contributed to his incomparable perfection. He sat down with solemnity, as though being seated on his throne.
He had already changed for the ball and was wearing the uniform of the Gardes-à-Cheval, the most sumptuous of all his costumes.
But even more impressive than his natural bearing and the richness of his costume—a gold-trimmed white tunic on which he wore the respective crosses of the Orders of Saint Andrew, Saint Alexander Nevsky, Saint Vladimir, Saint George, and the Order of the Eagle—was the décor of his surroundings. The room held a single couch, three armchairs, and a flat desk upon which a portrait of the empress and seven miniature pastels of their children were displayed. That was all. The only decorations on the walls were a few engravings and a large icon that had accompanied Peter the Great to the Battle of Poltava. For Milyutin, nothing amid all the splendor of the Winter Palace was nearly as touching as the fact that this man who made the earth tremble in his wake, who could give or take away everything—fortune, liberty, honor, even life—had chosen a simple camp bed with a straw-filled mattress and an old plaid blanket. This sobriety inspired the lieutenant’s admiration and love.