Personally, he felt no antipathy for her. Impatience, yes, irritation and annoyance as well. But she was so solicitous of his well-being, considering herself his guide and mentor, that, in the end, he found the indefatigably warm and energetic old lady quite touching.
As for those Muslims who committed the supreme act of betrayal—daring to justify their crimes against God as a mere façade—they earned his profound contempt. They were only kissing her hand because they could not cut it off, the Gostilitsy converts told him confidentially, just like the peace seekers of Ghimri long ago. They were traitors who deserved death and weren’t even worth the rope it would take to hang them.
He condemned them irrevocably.
Then he compared them to the czar.
Yes, the czar was mistaken. He prayed to idols and false deities. But this absolute master that his enemies called a tyrant allowed the faithful to worship the true God. They were free to pray to the true God, free to believe in the truth, free to accept that there was no god but Allah and that Mohammed was his prophet.
Freedom for the Caucasian Muslims—wasn’t that what the imam Shamil was fighting for? Freedom to obey the laws of Sharia.
Sensing his father’s judgment, Jamal Eddin admitted that it was hard to fulfill his religious duties in imperial society. Harder, in any case, than it had been in the Cadet Corps, with his Cherkess roommates. Here, in the summer, there was no mullah to teach him. He could still perform his ablutions at the fountains in the garden and isolate himself for a few minutes at dawn, at dusk, and in the evening to say his prayers. As long as he attracted no attention and his disappearance did not interrupt the activities, no one cared. Better still, everyone pretended not to notice. As for his dietary restrictions, he had managed to stick to his regimen by declining certain dishes. It didn’t come up often, as the czar’s chefs rarely served pork, and only his guests were served wine.
Jamal Eddin was making a spirited effort to convince his father that he should meet this particular infidel.
His friends, accustomed to his habitual reserve, would have been surprised at his eloquence and determination. He readily confronted every possible argument to convince Shamil that if he spoke with the czar, he would understand and respect him. Then their peoples could live in peace, perhaps even in unity.
He was obsessed with this certainty that Russia and the Caucasus could be united, a dream that applied to his love life as well. But he never told Shamil of his dreams of that kind of union.
That morning, as the sovereigns started off on their walk through the forest of Peterhof, they noticed the sun’s waning warmth on the cottage. Summer was almost over.
“The plums should be picked tomorrow,” the empress murmured. “It’s time. I’ll go have a look at the trees later on.”
At almost fifty, Czarina Alexandra Feodorovna’s taste had scarcely changed since her youth. She still preferred white gowns to colored ones and voile, silk, organdy, and chiffon to heavy velvet. Tall and slim, she was still elegant and stylish, and her passion for music and dance hadn’t faded at all. It was said that her step was so light that she seemed to glide, and her melodious voice still enchanted all whom she met.
However, upon closer observation, one could detect a nervous tic that made her nod her head at emotional moments, and her graying hair, her thinness, and a fleeting look of uncertainty in her eyes betrayed a profound fatigue.
The czar towered at her side as they walked toward a grove of trees. He wore the uniform of the Chevaliers-Gardes, as was his custom, and his erect posture added to his perfection. The years were taking their toll, though. A toupée hid his baldness, and his budding paunch was restrained by a corset.
Before them, the garden sloped gently down to the sea. The maritime breeze carried the scent of the gillyflowers from the empress’s mixed-border flower beds up to the cottage. With its gray gables, broad bay windows, and a combination of gothic and Victorian architecture, the house resembled a great English country home. The cottage had been lovingly built by Mouffy and Nicks—Empress Alexandra’s and Czar Nicholas’s nicknames for each other—with comfort in mind, as they envisioned a life of peace and harmony together. Like a well-matched bourgeois couple, they looked forward to years of conjugal happiness, surrounded by their children and their grandchildren.
This extraordinary setting was as amazing as the splendor of the court, as exotic as a ball at the Winter Palace. The hostess of the manor always offered the same description to the wives of those diplomats who had applied the necessary energy and determination to be granted the rare privilege of a visit.
“This domain is named after me because it was my wedding present, the wonderful gift of our late and beloved Czar Alexander to his little sister-in-law. I had just arrived from Prussia, and I was feeling a bit lost. But when I discovered the sparkling sea, these ancient trees so close to the water, this magnificent view of the Gulf of Finland, Petersburg, and Kronstadt, I was filled with joy. Everything here was conceived with one thing in mind: happiness.
“And so my husband commissioned an English architect to build us a little cottage, just big enough for the two of us and the children we would have, and I’ve never been happier than I have been in this house. Its simplicity is a respite from all the gilt décor. Really,” she insisted, “I find the magnificent palace at Peterhof, with its grand fountains and thousands of statues and acres gold leaf, tiring to look at. Whereas here—come see my apartments. You’ll see that my bedroom is on the ground floor and looks out over the lawn.”
The visitors, charmed by such intimacy, returned to London or Paris to gush over the exquisite taste of every detail, the walls decorated with personal memorabilia, the portraits of the girls, the busts of the children, and the charming pastels and aquarelles.
“And do you know what all my sons tell me now?” the czarina continued. “Do you know what Constantine told me the other day as he prepared to leave Russia for several months?
“‘If I find a single place abroad as beautiful as our cottage, dearest Mama, I will consider my trip worthwhile.’”
She was scarcely exaggerating when she described the house as a “little cottage.” She had merely neglected to mention that her close friends stayed at pavilions scattered over the fifteen hectares of surrounding parkland and that an army of cooks and servants occupied cabins deep in the woods. And that she could receive prestigious guests and the emperor’s counselors at the immense Peterhof Palace, less than a verst from her domain. She had forgotten as well that her flamboyant gothic chapel towered like a cathedral amid the greenery of the garden. And that in addition to the cavalry house, the stables and kennels of her four boys, an annex had been built next to the cottage for her three daughters. Here, at what the clan modestly called “The Farm,” they could learn cooking and housekeeping. Having served first as a playroom, then as a classroom, The Farm was now the private residence of twenty-eight-year-old Czarevitch Alexander, who was married and had a family of his own.
Who would have guessed that this was the Romanovs’ nest? The bicephalous eagle—the emperor’s emblem—was absent from the gates. A poet had designed a second crest for Nicholas and Alexandra’s familial village, a saber encircled by a crown of flowers, an allegory for power wrapped in softness, the arms of courtly love. Graven on an escutcheon over the porch, carved on the medieval-styled furniture and chests, painted on the china and the bibelots, the saber and roses were visible everywhere. Even the spidery woodwork of the high-backed chairs and the filigree of the voile curtains at the bow windows were marked with variations on this symbol of imperial tenderness.