Джейн Йолен: The Last Tsar's Dragons

Leaning forward, I gazed into the mirror’s eyes so we looked as if we were trading secrets. I whispered, “I may have to finalize that trip I was planning to take to Germany with my wife. A second honeymoon, we will call it. A visit to the baths. An attempt at baby-making. But whatever we call it, a necessary step.” I nodded and my image nodded back, indicating it was indeed a good plan.

What I didn’t say was that I was afraid the tsar’s star, like his mind, was dimming. And his son would not long outlast him, poor child. I had no idea who might be jumped up to tsar. Some minor prince, I supposed. But which one, and when….

I must keep a careful ear out. They will always need someone like me to make the government run smoothly.

I walked toward the door, looked back over my shoulder, nodded at the full image of myself. And of course he nodded back. “ D’accord ,” I mouthed as he did.

But the word “functionary” rose up in my throat like the sick aftermath of a rancid dinner. It is dust in their royal mouths. But without us, there is no government, as many an autocrat has found out to his dismay.

My mirror twin smiled. It was not a pleasant smile. More snake than courtier.

We silently oil the wheels of their progress. And they reward us to do it. But not enough. Never enough.

Hmmm, I think I will try my hand at poetry. The royals profess to love it. On the other hand, by the looks of some of the toughs proclaiming their allegiance to the rebels, I wonder if they would know what to do with a poem other than use it to wipe their bums.

At the desk again, I picked up the papers about Krinsky and shook them as if interrogating the sentences.

If I cannot save my position, this early batch of Krinsky’s notes on the telemobiloscope and drachometer could be my passport to a richer life. Our passport. Ninotchka’s and mine. I understand the Germans can be very liberal with their rewards for scientific invention.

I headed out the door and into the hall, going once more to see the tsar.

Or as I ofttimes call him in the echo chamber of my heart, His Royal Graciousness High Buttinsky, but carefully, of course, and never aloud. I know that I am not irreplaceable.

But all the while, I silently reminded myself: When one works for the tsar, one must always restate the obvious. He has no imagination and a limited grasp of facts. And I know that once in the Presence Room, I’ll certainly have to wait at least an hour to be announced, as the news of the dragons’ success or failure will already have been brought by courier.

This time it took an hour and fifteen minutes by my pocket watch before I was signaled in to speak with the tsar.

By then he was in a foul mood. He had consulted with the generals, and the news he had of the dragons was not good. Deprived of their natural Jewish prey, the black horde had taken once more to raking the provinces with fire.

This time, or so it was announced by one of the generals who spoke to the very small smattering of officials, it had cost the country a really fine opera house, built in the last century and fully gilded, plus a splendid spa with indoor plumbing, two lanes of Caterina-the-Great houses, plus the servants therein. And the roads—as if they had not been already bad enough.

But as the general added, “Thank the good Lord it is winter,” as if this changed everything about the disaster.

All about me the old men, the top princes and administrators, nodded their heads sagely, several even crossing themselves as if this alone would ward off disastrous news.

Only later in my own rooms once more did I understand what he meant was “Thank the good Lord it is winter—all the hoi and most of the polloi are at their homes here in the city and not in their summer dachas where they would have been easy pickings. No, rather they are safe and sound in the city. They will not join any revolt.”

We all knew that the smoke in the provinces—like a bad odor—would hang over those towns for a week or more. A daily, deadly reminder of the folly of dragons. When the people who owned summer houses in the province went to check out their houses, they could not possibly be pleased. And who would they blame? Was I the only one who worried about it? In whispers and insinuations, their wrath would most certainly land on His Royal High Carelessness.

Of course, I pointed out some of this to the tsar at the time, but carefully, as I wanted my head to remain firm on my shoulders. At least until my new wife wore me out.

Bowing lower than protocol demanded, I said, “Do you remember, Gracious One, what I said concerning the Jewish scientists?”

The tsar stroked his beard and shook his head. Then, instead of giving me an answer, he mumbled a few words to the mad magician, Rasputin.

I held Father Grigori’s name unspoken in my mouth, then spit it out. It was not so much a greeting as invective. But that monk, that priest of magics, said nothing in return, his own position secure because he was a favorite of the tsarina and her only son, the tsarevitch, the child with the bleeding sickness.

I waited to see if the tsar would turn to ask to hear my information again. If he would only remember the conversation we had a week ago. I could feel the pages of Krinsky’s invention crackling in my jacket, eager to speak out.

I waited some more, this time eyes closed, in anticipation, in hope. But when I opened them again, it was to see the tsar and his closest advisors—several generals and Rasputin—abruptly leaving. To plan his next war, I supposed. On the Jews? On the Continent? Or on the rebels who like fleas were multiplying as we stood in uncertainty here?

Then I knew for certain: Our little father has become an absent parent. With his catastrophic leadership, his choice of a German wife, his lack of a hardy heir, his waxing and waning attention. This war will no doubt have as little effect as the last.

“But Tsar Nicholas II is always trying.” I realized with a start that I’d said that aloud. But as no one was still standing near, it put me in no danger.

And then I thought privately: The tsar is very trying. I smiled, but kept it very small and contained. One must never laugh openly at the tsar. Even in private it can be dangerous.

I began the long walk back to the Presence Room door, thinking: Of course, I have no ability to effect changes straight on, not like the ruler of a country. I must wait and wheedle to get what I want. But even with all his power, look what the tsar accomplishes. Nothing. He sends troops of loyal Cossacks to harry the Jews on the ground. He sends a murder of dragons by air. Nyet, nothing. So he does it again for more nothing.

Stepping into the now-empty hallway, my thoughts came faster and faster: A man who keeps doing the same thing and expecting different results must be mad. Or at least not overly endowed with brains.

And the honest second thought I had—which quite surprised me—was that I was certain that Rasputin thought the same thing. He was not a man silent about his opinions. But he was a man who could use the church and magic to keep him safe.

I only have my wits.

But then I smiled. Rasputin and I have something else in common. We know that the tsar’s faults do not stop either of us from cashing his chits, living comfortably at court, finding new young wives at every opportunity. I gave my own version of the monk’s wolfish grin: our own wives or other men’s.

Suddenly, my legs gave way and I managed to sit on one of the chairs in the long corridor placed there for the older courtiers for just such an occasion. I sat for a moment, regaining my equanimity. Working for a ruler can be difficult. Some days it is as if I am slogging through the mud. My own personal battlefield, I once confided to Ninotchka—early in our courtship. But, like the Jews in their burrows, I may become dirtied, but I am safe from the fire. So why this sudden weakness?