When you are at war and you are not fighting it can be a happy time. When you are an officer in the finest regiment in the empire in an excellent hospital far from the battle it can be a happy time indeed.

The hospital is part of Smolny. The food is of the highest quality. Eggs that are fresh and bread that is white. This is almost as good as the summer 1903. The manila paper from America made me feel as if I was on an adventure in South Africa whenever I put pen to it. I imagined I was running from the Boers or searching for some marvelous obscure treasure. Now what I write are dispatches for barely literate adjutants who will not read them past the third sentence.

Dr. Brizakov says the right leg may heal and strengthen to the point where I could stroll along Fontanka with almost no limp at all. I asked him about dancing. “Let us speak of that at a later date.”

When we were called up I was working on a particularly dark poem—black imagery on every line. Sasha, that is, Lieutenant A.E. Palchikov, who is gone now, came into the barracks and announced, “We will have Wilhelm in St. Helena within the year!” His eyes were so bright when he said that. He grabbed my arm for emphasis, spilling ink across the page. I must not have been paying enough attention to his proclamation. It has been two years now and the Germans and the Austrians are still on our soil. And the kaiser is still in Berlin, the swine.

Most of the nurses here are either students or recent graduates of Smolny. My primary nurse is a darling. Zhennya is well-educated, of course, and . . . sunny in her outlook. Yevgenia Vadimovna (Zhennya) writes a little. Would I take a look sometime? I wonder what flows from her pen. No black roses in champagne. No. She is much too positivist for that. However, I could be wrong. She could be another Akhmatova underneath that smile. The other day, the first words she said to me were:

The horizon is on fire

But I am afraid you will change your form. I was suitably impressed—would not have guessed her a symbolist. “ ‘Unexpected Joy’ sounds better coming out of your mouth than Blok himself.”

“How is my eagle this morning?” Zhennya is a constant source of warmth. It is difficult to meet her gaze. I regarded the breakfast on the tray before me. “My dear, what feast is this? You are truly an emissary from the gods!”

Flustered only for a moment she responded, “Captain Andreev, you are being too familiar!” She very lightly patted my hand and left the room.

I am certain her shoulders would look magnificent bare. She is of the blood. I could have one of my orderlies approach her parents. Is that really necessary these days? I did not even know if they were alive. She does not seem to be taken, but that may be her natural coquetry.

We could go dancing. Ekh, that may never happen. At the very least I could lean against the wall and look elegant in my elk-skin breeches. They are not as tight as they were before the war. Since I am bed-ridden, Zhennya has me at a disadvantage. She always sees me reclining, except when we are doing my standing exercises.

If I could sit a horse again—that would be heaven. Now I will have to train another one. Filka was a fine animal. She could anticipate my moves after only a month. That is how it seems now, looking back.

In my mind I see the poplars lining the avenue from the main gate to the front door of the old house in Kulikovsk. There are so many open fields there to wander across. I always wish there were more trees, more mystery, more darkness—even danger! This is a boy’s dream. That estate and all the peasants around will look to me someday. Grandfather had been a kind master so when Alexander proclaimed their liberty very little changed. This is how my father told me the tale. He, himself, was barely more than an infant at the time of liberation.

So, those peasant souls back home will not be mine in the legal sense in any case. I could sell the land though, and set myself up in a middling apartment overlooking one of the canals in Peter. With the help of Aunt Sonya, I am sure getting my own publishing house off the ground would not be difficult at all. Oh, to have my work and the pieces of some of my closest comrades in print! It would look exactly as I wanted it. Some discreet woodcuts could be commissioned to embellish the words. Vanity, yes, but it would be a gloriously rich piece of work! All would recognize its beauty in an instant.

While I am here I have the chance to converse with both Zhennya and Anyuta. Anyuta is another of the nurses here. She could not be considered literate, but she does occasionally make the cutting observation. She is a dear soul.  Thousands like her at home, thousands.

My mind wanders to another time, near the beginning of the war. One of my fellow officers, Dmitri Alexeiich, put his hand on my shoulder one day. We were temporarily attached to headquarters then. (I saw Nicholas a few times. Once we even exchanged pleasantries—a very courteous man. In my mind I did not feel as if I was talking to an autocrat at all, and yet my heart pounded.)

“Vasili Antonich, be a true friend and lend me 500 rubles!” Dmitri was breathing hard. “I will repay you as soon as my parents send that note of credit. I am weak I know. On my word and by St. Michael I will never ask you for money again.” I could not respond to the desperation in his eyes any other way except to acquiesce to his plea. Our friendship did not live long after. I cannot even recall if he ever did pay me back the 500 rubles.

On the field of battle or honor we officers show remarkable discipline and strength of character. Why do we not also display those virtues off the field? Some old general in my head tells me, “It is war, my boy! Were it not for that, why, why—” here, he splutters through his mustache, “they would be the most excellent fellows in every way.” Well, your honor, there would be some other reason if we were at peace—is it not so?

So many are gone now, I have not seen a single member of my graduating class in six months. God grant them eternal glory if they are among the fallen.

Another officer, Milyutin, was speaking to me just two months ago, before I was wounded, about his plans for the future. It must be said that Milyutin has a questionable background, promoted from the ranks. I believe his father keeps a shop somewhere on the ring in Moscow. He has read a book or two so I gave him half an ear.

“Vasili Antonich, after the war you must come with me to California. There is a large Russian contingent in San Francisco still. They are just Cossacks, I know, but some have developed more gentle habits, I have heard. They must live alongside those other Americans, everyone a citizen of the republic. Any thinking man can see the game is up here.”

He was overreaching himself. Does he expect me to make introductions for him—is that where this is leading? And what he is saying is treasonous; though I must admit I have occasionally thought something similar myself. Milyutin did not sense my true reaction to his line of reasoning and continued.

“We could make a dash for Vladivostok, and from there by boat to San Francisco. It is a beautiful name for a city.”

I kept my tone light. “And, how again, will we make it to Vladivostok? Ask permission for an extended leave ‘back home’ to the Far East? We will slip along the Chinese border unhindered to the Pacific. Excellent plan! So easy, no one will notice that we have gone missing, I am sure.”

Milyutin smiled, “Really, Antonich—“

I cut him off, “To whom have you sworn an oath of fealty?”

“To the tsar, of course, but—”

“Silence! You and I shall not betray our sovereign unless he releases us from that oath. Is that clear? Are we not the tsar’s own guards?”

“Yes, your honor!” Milyutin, under the heat of my interrogation, forgot he was also an officer and addressed me as his superior. Still forgetting our roughly equal status (at least from a strictly military standpoint) he saluted, pivoted smartly, and strode out of my tent.

Why be loyal to a sovereign when the country is falling apart around you—when that loyalty’s cost is certain death? This is not an agreement among gentlemen. This is not some Serbian adventure that amuses the ladies in the salon. There is no honor on either side anymore. It is just butchery. None of us has a sporting chance. My body may heal, but when I look into my soul there is mostly darkness. Thank God for Zhennya.

Perhaps I should volunteer to lead the charge in our next attack. Die a hero. “He wasn’t such a dandy after all!” I can hear them say at my funeral.

I attended a ball at the Winter Palace before the war. Nearly everything is, ‘before the war,’ when I search my memory. This war is destroying my present. At the ball there was a woman, Anna Mikhailovna. At first I was only dimly aware of her function at court. She was, in fact, one of the empress’s personal retainers. Parents were from Kharkov. A Ukrainian! Anna Mikhailovna was higher in station than my own person and yet she consented to dance with me.

One of the things I remember about that evening was the butter amber necklace she wore. This is something the wife of a merchant would wear, truly, but on her it looked inspired. The warm yellow against her pale skin arrested the attention of any male within eyeshot. And then there was the dark of her eyes—infinitely retreating before me. I wanted very much to know what exactly was there. What are you feeling, dark and beautiful eyes? Now I am Chaliapin! When asked why the modest choice of amber rather than the diamonds or rubies that must certainly be available to her she honored me with the smallest of smiles. Now she is probably the mistress of one of the grand dukes or some general. She would be worthy of that role.

Although my family goes back to Rurik, the tsarina did not approve of our connection. At least I found out that I could fly that high, however briefly. And now there is Zhennya. As I said earlier, she is of the blood, so, no barrier there. Capable of intelligent discourse, that is another plus. Must think about this more.

It is the morning of another day. White light pours through the window to the right of my bed. The light blends into the pale blue walls of my room to create a sense of being borne upon a cloud. I even forget the injured leg for a moment or two. Angels attend to my every need. It is truly of another world, this middle existence. Zhennya has declared her love to me. I believe it was real and I did not dream it, but now as I stare into the white and the blue I am not so sure.

It started out quite prosaically. It was late morning. “My dear captain, let me cut the veal for you. It is your leg that needs to be stronger, not your arms!” Something was strange in the tone of her voice when she said “your arms.” It went up more than half an octave. Zhennya had never offered to cut my meat before.

She walked over to the side of my bed. I looked at her as she came closer. She did not look down, but met my astonished gaze. She turned towards me, rather than the still hot veal before me on the tray. She was only inches from my face.

“I love you, Vasili Antonovich. Ti . . . odnoi!” ( You . . . alone!) Then as she ran from the room, she made an odd bird-like noise in the back of her throat. For a moment I looked toward the window, thinking that a dove was there. Unfortunately I could not run after her, my body still too weak. Come now, Vasili, be a gentleman, declare your love in turn! My heart was telling me to cry it out to her, but she was already 20 steps down the hall. Must not let the other nurses think I am in pain.

Why do we not bring that grand duke back who was exiled to Central Asia? Nicholas Constantinovich, no one talks about him above a whisper. He gave money to those students who assassinated his uncle. None of the Romanovs would accept him. His perspective on the autocracy would be unique. He did well on the field of battle and is considered something of a scientist. Well-loved by the “broad mass of the people.” The other Romanovs? Hmm, they would reject him out of hand. Perhaps we need a new ruling house. He could be the man to keep the Duma in order and quiescent. I would listen to him. How was he to know those students were going to finally kill the tsar? What was it, the eighth attempt?

There is not much to do in a hospital when you cannot walk more than half of a step. A decent pen and good paper help alleviate the situation, of course. I do not want to be a burden to either Zhennya or Anyuta, even though I am their charge. When will this leg heal? Both the devil and God know, I do not. When was the last time I prayed or attended holy services? Months. It is difficult to pray. My mind will not let my supplications rise upward. The witless peasants under my command go forward to die. What can I do? Send them home to their villages? It would not go unnoticed. The poor fools would be shot for desertion. Then they would come for me.

This would be another “betrayal” of my bloodline. Father would lose his temper in a most disagreeable manner—if he were alive today and could read my thoughts. He is lucky to have gone to heaven and not seen what has become of the motherland. Although he is not here I can hear him responding to my treasonous musings. “Are you crazy? Do you want another 1789?”

We will eventually have a constitutional monarchy, but first there will be much shouting. Remove the fetters from the Duma and it will rise to the occasion. You can have either tyranny or mob rule. The periods of mob rule are brief because the people want stability and order. God, let us find a middle path. Let the Duma be a bulwark against both the mass of the people and another Alexander III. I must believe it will happen.

I will ride a horse again. Another tsar will be on the throne—one more worthy. Why did Paul decree that no woman could sit there? Elizabeth was the best of them all. I believe there was not a single execution in her reign. And yet even were she to rise from the grave she could not produce more bullets from her fingers. She couldn’t move them to the front faster. She would not have the heart to retire the incompetent generals. Perhaps she would send the very worst ones back to their estates and promote a few of the best officers, such as myself. . . .

Who will die today? Zakhar? Matvei? Yermolai? They are all good men. Each time one of them dies something in me goes with them. Yes, I am worth 10 of them as far as value to the motherland, but they are Christian souls everyone, nonetheless. Without the smile and encouragement of Zhennya there would be little reason to go on. Her warmth restores me.