The excellent company Sacha kept no doubt influenced the count. He did not ask for the names of the other two boys but simply signed his name, authorizing leave for all four of them.
Another rumble shook the ceiling light.
“What on earth are they doing up there? At fourteen, one should know how to behave! If they keep this up, they’ll make the candles fall and set the place on fire.”
“Sacha is so excited this evening,” Kiselyev said gaily, reassuming the tone that matched his mood, “I suppose he can’t wait to welcome you home.”
A smile played about the count’s lips.
“Unless it’s the prospect of being around all these demoiselles that has them all in such a state of excitement. I have invited a few girls their age. I’ve been told they’re as lovely as can be.”
Now it was Dmitri’s turn to smile. Women, his uncle’s great weakness. He had dreamed of them so and loved them so. Clearly he could imagine the excitement of the five adolescents getting ready upstairs, combing their hair in front of the mirror. The count would probably feel the same way when he dressed for the evening a short while later.
“You can go up and see your little brother in a little while. I told him to stay upstairs with his buddies and not to come down until the girls arrive. We can still enjoy a few hours of peace and quiet. My dear child, I’ve thought of you so much. I wanted to set aside a little time to have you all to myself. You were right, weren’t you? Things aren’t going well down there.”
In the past week since his return, Dmitri had avoided talking about the war, reluctant to bore his entourage with his tales. But the count had appealed to his patriotic feelings in an intimate conversation between officers, and he couldn’t resist the need to confide in him for long.
“Shamil has taken most of the mountain passes between Dagestan and Chechnya. He and his troops circulate freely between the two regions.”
Sitting on the couch behind the card tables that were already set for games, the count pulled on his big cigar. With his legs comfortably crossed, he listened attentively. He knew that Dmitri was thinking of leaving the army, but he thought that would be a mistake. A folly, especially when the young man’s career was just taking off. His courageous actions in the Chechen forests had earned him a promotion to captain, and he was being considered for the Cross of Saint George. Dmitri might criticize his superiors, but they appreciated him. Now he was toying with the idea of resigning from the army and finishing the work he had begun on those long nights of watch duty in his tent in Chechnya: a book on the Caucasus. Well, why not? With time, Dmitri had come to know the region well, both its geography and its customs. After every battle, when every massacre was over, he had recorded what he had seen, continuing with the reflections that he had begun after the siege of Akulgo. But his personal experience was not enough, and with his usual enthusiasm, he had begun to research the subject thoroughly, delving into documentary sources. He dreamed of offering his suggestions to the czar and helping Russia to end this war. His greatest hope was to conclude a lasting peace. Yes, why not?
But there was no point in abandoning the service. Dmitri could just as well write his report—his book, if you will—without leaving the regiment. The count was ready to facilitate his task. His guests this evening had been chosen with precisely this project in mind. He had invited the relatives, the acquaintances, and all the friends who had ties in one way or another to the history of the Caucasus and who could provide Dmitri with information. The grand aristocrats of the Bagration dynasty, who had joined the ranks of the Russian army and fought the Muslims ever since Georgia had been annexed by Czar Alexander forty-five years before, would be coming. The members of the general staff of the new viceroy who had just been posted to Tiflis, Count Mikhaïl Vorontsov, would be there too. And he was expecting the officers of the regiments on the line, who were on leave. There would be plenty of “Caucasian youth” on hand.
The count had extended the evening’s theme to the female guests as well. The princesses of the Georgian royal family, granddaughters of the last king, George XII, would be chaperoned by their mother, Princess Anastasia, who was an old friend. Born Princess Anastasia Grigorïevna Obolenskaïa, the princess had once been a great beauty. Now forty years old, she had thirteen children—eight girls and five boys—a gold mine for adolescent balls. Although her husband, Prince Ilya of Georgia, held the rank of Serene Highness and lived in Moscow, their three eldest daughters attended the Smolny Institute, which was reserved in principle for the daughters of the impecunious aristocracy of Saint Petersburg. Said to be even more breathtaking than her mother had been, Anna, at seventeen the eldest, had just been received at court as a maid of honor to the empress. Of course, all that was of no interest to Dmitri, who had already met his soul mate. But his second brother, the handsome twenty-seven-year-old Nicholas Alexeyevitch Milyutin, preferring a civilian career to the army, had chosen a more difficult path. And Volodia, the third, was at the university, supposedly studying philosophy. Perhaps Nicholas and Volodia would find an advantageous match among this evening’s guests, one that far exceeded their expectations. One could always dream.
Encouraged by the count’s questions, the guest of honor was not mulling over any of these urbane considerations.
“We’re losing ground and retreating everywhere,” Dmitri sighed. “In a single year, Shamil’s bands have taken fifteen fortified towns and twenty-seven cannons.”
“A disaster, I know, I know. And the czar is at the end of his patience. Every Monday, at the council meeting, he explodes, demanding that we have done with it. In this respect, you should note that the czar has taken what you once termed the ‘necessary measures.’ His Majesty dismissed Grabbe. He replaced all the generals and doubled your troops. This time you can’t possibly claim that you lack means.”
“No, I wouldn’t dare. The emperor has also sent money, a great deal of money, to bribe those closest to the imam. We tried to have him assassinated; we even provided the killers with poison. They took the vials and the funds and laid all of it at the feet of their victim.”
“And you seem to find that normal.”
“The only choice we’ve left the Montagnards is to remain faithful to the imam Shamil.”
“Faithful? That close to treason? That kind of loyalty hardly seems commendable.”
“On that point—Russian loyalty, our own loyalty—we have a curious way of treating the indigenes who back us up and serve us. On the one hand, we spare no expense persuading the renegades to join our ranks. But once we have won them over, we pay no more attention to them and turn them over to the vengeance of their own without batting an eye. As a result, we reinforce their conviction that it is preferable to fight us, so we will try to buy them off, than to join us, only to be abandoned to a cruel death at the hands of the murids.”
“The arrival of Count Vorontsov will change all that. He’s been granted full powers. I know him. He’s very intelligent and shrewd. A formidable strategist, one of the great conquerors of Napoleon.”