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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 3 years ago

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We Were Something, Don’t You Think So? [Chapter 4: Moscow]

You are a Russian Grand Duchess in a time of revolution. Ben Hardy is a British government official tasked with smuggling you across Europe. You (kind of) hate each other.

This is a work of fiction loosely inspired by the events of the Russian Revolution and the downfall of the Romanov family. Many creative liberties were taken. No offense is meant to any actual people. Thank you for reading! :)

Song inspiration: “the 1” by Taylor Swift.

Chapter warnings: Sexual tension, tiramisu, cats, bubble baths, a wild chaotic Italian appears!

Word count: 6.5k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

Taglist: @imtheinvisiblequeen @okilover02 @adrenaline-roulette @youngpastafanmug @m-1234 @tensecondvacation @deacyblues @haileymorelikestupid @rogerfuckintaylor @yourlocalmusicalprostitute @im-an-adult-ish @someforeigntragedy @mo-whore @mellowfellowyellow @peculiareunoia @mischiefmanaged71 @fancybenjamin @anne-white-star

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“Let’s start over.” Ben offers me his hand. We’re standing with our luggage outside the train station and waiting for someone to unload the livestock so we can collect the mule and her cart. The cobblestone streets are hectic, hustling, littered with scraps of newspapers and crushed cigarettes and slops of horse manure and fallen kaleidoscopic leaves. The entire world seems to smell like autumn: smoke and sky and harvest, the seasons of life closing, winter’s gleaming knife drawing nearer with each dusk. Today it’s sunny outside and fairly warm; Ben’s uncovered, messy blond curls are thrashing in the breeze. His hair is very short on the sides and longer on top, and he doesn’t slick it down the way Papa and Alexei always do. It’s an unconventional style in my experience, but it suits him. It suits him a little too well, actually. I’m having trouble not staring at his hair, his face, his cheeks and lips and large, green, intelligent eyes. I stare at his outstretched hand instead. “Hello, I’m Benjamin Hardy. I am often cantankerous and combustible. I will strive to be a good travel companion regardless. Please refrain from keeping secrets that could get us jailed and/or murdered. Thank you in advance.”

I take his hand. It’s a slightly less awkward gesture now, because we’ve done it before. “Hello, I’m the world’s worst typist. Nevertheless, it is important you remember that I am genetically superior to you in every way.”

Ben is laughing but trying to choke it back, his broad shoulders convulsing. This feels like a great victory. It’s the first time I’ve ever made him laugh on purpose.

“I will endeavor to make minimal complaints and measurable contributions,” I continue. “Please take me somewhere that has a bathtub. Thank you in advance.”

“Running water, for sure,” Ben agrees. “I can’t guarantee a bathtub though.”

“Then I might be going for a swim in the Moskva River.”

He points to a stone bridge a few blocks away from where we stand. It arches over the surging water, carrying pedestrians, horse-drawn carriages, street vendors selling meals and trinkets, soldiers on leave. “Go ahead. Dive right in. You can keep on paddling until you get to the Oka, and then the Volga, and then all the way to the Caspian Sea, and then maybe you can find some nice Kazakhstani man to take you to London and I’ll be rid of you forever.”

“But then how would you obtain the requisite funds and journalistic material to start your heavenly new life in America?”

“Ah yes, the only disadvantages of that plan.” He pops one of his hand-rolled cigarettes into his mouth and ignites it with his new lighter, the one he bought off someone on the train, maybe a farmer or a fisherman or a carpenter, someone travelling for work or pleasure or to visit family, or perhaps someone looking for a way out of Russia just like we are. The lighter is small and steel, tarnished in spots, and has a bear carved into the side. It’s standing on its hind legs and roaring silently, brandishing claws as it paws the air. Bears have been used as a symbol of my country for centuries: massive, fierce, resilient, majestic. And yet I have heard of other connotations as well, things that Papa mentions to Mother with an amused little chuckle, as if he can only bring himself to pity, not resent, those who misunderstand Russia as brutal and clumsy and gluttonous, swallowing down the weak and licking their blood from the dirt. Now those criticisms don’t strike me as funny at all.

“Kroshka!” Ben cries, beaming as a railroad employee leads her over by the bridle. The mule is lugging the cart and looks every bit as unpolished and unflappable as I remember. She’s mulling us over with drowsy black eyes and chomping on a mouthful of hay, her long ears twitching. The employee helps us load the luggage then continues on his way. Ben strokes the white stripe on the mule’s forelock, his cigarette dangling precariously between his lips, exhaling puffs of smoke as he murmurs: “Who’s a lovely mule? Who’s the most wonderful mule in the whole wide world? Is it you, huh? Is it? Or is it some other mule? No, it’s you! It’s Kroshka! Yes it is!”

Bizarrely, I find myself feeling a stab of envy for this unattractive, threadbare mule. She has no worries. She has no conflictions. She will never know enough to fear for anyone’s life, let alone her own. She will never have to come to terms with the fact that her own people wouldn’t mind seeing her homeless and destitute and perhaps even dispatched via firing squad. She will never have to learn about wars or revolutions. Also, Ben likes the mule. Likes her enough to touch her every chance he gets. Not that I care who Ben touches, no way, not even the teeniest tiniest bit. Except maybe I do.

I distract myself by scanning the bustling street, shielding my eyes from the sun with one hand. This is the same Moscow I have visited before with my family, and yet at the same time it isn’t: it’s dirtier, and louder, and more chaotic in a way that makes me feel edgy and defenseless. The cobblestones seem coarser when I’m standing on them in my ugly borrowed leather boots rather than gliding across them in carriages, peering down at them through palace windows, being swiftly escorted over them by vigilant servants. The chorus of voices around me is gruffer, their Russian uneducated and unrefined. They use words I’ve never heard before in tones I don’t want to decipher. There are beggars, some of them women and children, and wounded veterans and stray dogs and slinking men with hands in their coat pockets and the dodging eyes of thieves. And there is one man in particular, young and slim and angular-faced, staring at us from beside the cart of a vender selling chebureki. He has his wallet out, but seems to have forgotten the prospect of lunch completely. The scent of fried dough and minced lamb is thick and oily in the air.

I step closer to Ben. The young man observes us fixedly, stuffing his wallet back into his wine-red corduroy pants. Then he begins to approach.

I grip Ben’s sleeve and he whirls to me, brow furrowed, startled, alarmed. He knows I hardly ever touch him. “Ben, there’s someone watching us.”

He pushes me behind him with a rough sweep of his arm, follows my eyeline…and bursts into astonished laughter. “Good god, Joe Mazzello?!”

“Beniamino!” the man shouts ecstatically in reply. He has a disorientingly pronounced Italian accent and makes grand gestures with his lithe, energetic hands. He jogs over to us with a grin displaying pointed canine teeth, his auburn hair flopping everywhere, his small dark eyes squinting under an uncommonly glaring Moscow sun.

“What are you doing here, mate?!” Ben asks as Joe seizes his face and smacks a noisy kiss on each cheek. “I thought the Italian embassy was still in Saint Petersburg.”

“Ah, amico, they are moving us constantly!” Joe rolls his eyes and shakes his head and makes some exaggerated hand motions that are meant to signify…exasperation? Lamentation? Exhaustion? It’s difficult to know for sure. “Reports change every day. If it’s not the communists closing in from the east, it’s the Germans from the west. This country has become a nightmare, no? This world has become a nightmare. Mamma mia!” He glances at the train station. “Are you coming back from an audience with the man who was once the tsar?”

I’m not thrilled with this characterization of my father. It’s too impersonal, too dismissive, too illustrative of a captured chess piece plucked off the board and relegated to irrelevance; but perhaps that’s unavoidable. After all, this Joe person doesn’t really know Papa. No one does, it seems.

“We are, yeah. This is, uh…” Ben waves to me and pauses awkwardly. Oh god. He’s forgotten my fake name. Which is odd, because he’s the one who gave it to me. “Lana Brinkley,” he recovers. “She’s a new typist with Sir Buchanan’s office. She came along to assist me, it’s her first assignment.”

“Ah, well it is a fortunate thing that you already went,” Joe tells Ben in a hushed voice. “I heard they’ve relocated the family again.”

“Really?” Ben says.

“Yes, somewhere more isolated. A place called…ah, what was it…? These Russian names, they’re impossible. An insult to the tongue, no? Yekaterinburg, I think.”

And something crosses Ben’s face, something distant and analytical, like he’s trying to solve math problems in his head; it’s the same look he gets when he’s searching for the perfect word to jot down in his leather-bound notebook, tapping his chin with the end of his pen, eyes cast up at the misty cloud-veiled stars. He catches me watching him and clears his expression like a slate wiped clean. “Hmm,” he manages, unforthcoming and noncommittal, stomping on the remains of his cigarette and dragging the ashes around with the heels of his boots.

“How long will you be in Moscow?” Joe asks.

“Only a day,” says Ben. “Then we’re continuing on to Saint Petersburg. We have to set sail while the weather’s still good.”

“A ship, eh?!” Joe’s eyes light up. “A ship going where?”

Ben has become distracted and shared too much; he smirks, almost grimaces, annoyed with himself. “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Bastardo!” Joe teases lightly. “Very well. Being a generous man, I will forgive you. Where are you staying tonight? You and this bella donna?” He takes my right hand and presses his lips to my knuckles, grinning beneath a playful wink. It’s like something straight out of a fairytale, out of a poem, out of all the written fantasies I love to escape into; and it’s perfectly pleasant, but I don’t feel much of anything besides amusement.

“E un piacere conoscerla, signore,” I reply in practically flawless Italian. Meaning: It’s nice to meet you, sir.

“Ah!” Joe gasps, still grinning, still holding my hand. “She’s wonderful, no?”

“I figured we’d just try to find an inn somewhere,” Ben tells Joe. He doesn’t seem bothered at all that Joe is touching me, doesn’t even seem to notice. Maybe he’d care if Joe tried to seduce the mule. “It’s only for a night, we don’t need anything fancy. We’ve slept in plenty of austere settings before. Nothing here will be less accommodating than the Siberian wilderness.”

Joe shakes his head. “No, no, no, I cannot allow this. You will stay with me and the other Italians, capire?”

“We couldn’t possibly impose on you like that—”

“Ah, Beniamino, you are breaking my heart!” Joe exclaims with some more erratic rolls of his eyes. “You must stay with us. I cannot leave a friend out in the cold. Please, I beg you.”

“If you insist,” Ben replies, but he’s smiling.

“Fantastico! Follow me, my friends. The embassy has set up in a bellissimo old townhouse, very nice, very big, has a courtyard out back, a stable for the mule, some rooms with a view of the river. And more cats than you could ever find time to make the acquaintance of, eh?”

“Cats?” I inquire uneasily. Mother has a terrible dislike of cats, I think she was attacked by one as a child. Or maybe she’s just allergic to them. We’ve always had dogs: Anastasia’s Russian Toy, Papa’s huskies and shepherds, straightforward and perhaps even stupid animals that come when they’re called and present themselves unconditionally for whatever new torment their humans have thought up. I’ve rarely been around cats, and have always found them peculiar, almost unnerving, with their unpredictable movements and lofty indifference and changeable moods, as if they spend their whole lives just waiting for excuses to sink their claws into you.

“The Italian ambassador is rather obsessed with cats,” Ben informs me, wearing a smug half-smile, enjoying my discomfort.

Joe is apologetic. “You don’t like cats, signora Lana? Lana bella donna?”

“I’ll be alright. We’re very grateful for your hospitality, I’m sure the house is lovely. I’ve just always found cats to be rather…” I hunt for the right words. “Arrogant. Undomesticated.”

“Yes, you have so much in common,” Ben says. He climbs into the front of the cart and picks up the reins. The mule’s ears swivel as she awaits his commands. “Which way are we headed, Joe?”

Joe follows me into the back of the cart and gives Ben directions: muddled, half-English directions, and he keeps mixing up right and left, but directions nonetheless. He makes polite conversation with me as we bump along over the cobblestones: complimenting my Italian, asking about our journey thus far, guessing which part of Great Britain I hail from.

“It must be somewhere in the north, no?” Joe theorizes, peering at me thoughtfully. “York or Lancaster, maybe? I cannot quite place your accent. You don’t sound the same as Ben, that’s for sure. You are no London girl.” He wags a finger at me.

“Yes, it’s somewhere up north,” I agree, hoping he’ll change the subject.

We pass a number of street vendors selling everything from pierogis to handmade swords, and I watch paper and coins exchange hands with consuming fascination, the way I imagine some people watch bullfighting or card-wielding magicians. I have never bought anything. Once, years ago, Tati and Anastasia and I crept out of the Winter Palace unnoticed and skipped through the streets of Saint Petersburg pretending to be ordinary girls. We gave ourselves new names, wore the plainest dresses we had, giggled at how we were going to do all those mysterious things that normal people did: inhale the powdery sugar of the bakeries, browse through bookstores, haggle for cabbages and beets. But we quickly realized that we had no idea about money: how much things should cost, how to use it, how to get it. We didn’t have a cent between us. And then the Russian Imperial Guards found us and corralled us back to the palace to be interrogated by our decidedly hysterical mother.

“Can we stop?” I ask Ben when I see a tiny, crooked old woman selling handmade scarves. He sighs but—to my surprise—concedes and stops the cart without a struggle. “And, also, could I have some money, please?”

He groans. “Seriously?”

“I’ve never bought anything here.” The here I add for Joe, because it is reasonable that as a new employee in Sir Buchanan’s office I would have never purchased Russian goods on my own before. But Ben knows what I mean: that I have never purchased anything, ever. He roots around in his pockets before presenting me with a handful of coins. “Is that enough?” I ask, skeptical.

“It better be. Those are scarves, not sapphires. And hurry up.”

I hop out of the cart and peruse the old woman’s wares as Ben and Joe chat about embassy business, troop movements, their families, their friends. It occurs to me that Ben probably has a woman he’s courting back home, maybe even a fiancée, maybe even a wife, although he doesn’t wear a ring; it seems impossible that he would not have a woman waiting for him. I shouldn’t care about that, because in all likelihood I have someone waiting on me too, even if he doesn’t know it yet: David Windsor, the Prince of Wales, future ruler of the British Empire, tall and svelte and disciplined and refined and probably the greatest catch of my generation. I envision the prince as I last saw him two years ago at Christmas: charming and silk-smooth, ever-smiling, eloquent and blond. I find myself increasingly preferring blonds.

I sift through scarves until I find the perfect one: deep forest-like green with a bear stitched into it with silver thread. I hand my money to the old woman—nearly bent in half by her crooked back—and when she tries to give me half of the coins back I tell her in Russian to keep them. She needs money more than we do. I can see that in the cavernous lines of her wind-swept face, in the trembling knobs of her fingers that can somehow still yield beautiful things.

“We match,” I tell Ben as I clamber back into the cart, slinging the scarf around my neck, vaulting my eyebrows triumphantly. See? I can learn to do things for myself. I can buy a scarf just like anyone else. I can be someone besides an impractical, impassive royal waiting for the puppet strings of men to drop her onto the stage of their choosing.

Ben looks at me, the corners of his lips pulling into a strange smile I can’t quite read, and then urges the mule onwards.

~~~~~~~~~~

The makeshift, ever-in-flux Italian embassy is only a few blocks from the train station. The townhouse is brick and soaring and casts a long shadow over the afternoon street. And as Joe foretold, it is crawling with cats: Persians swishing their tails on the dining room table, Birmans curled up on couches, Himalayans glowering judgmentally from where they perch on staircase banisters, Norwegian Forest Cats stalking pigeons out in the courtyard. The townhouse is also crawling with Italians. They scuttle from room to room carrying stacks of papers and placing telephone calls and making those same amplified, unrelenting hand gestures that Joe has, speaking in those same loud and shameless voices. It must be in their bones. Habits that old are hard to pry out; the Italians have been quarreling with each other and aiming for targets farther than their legs can carry them since Rome had an empire of its own.

Joe has the luggage brought upstairs and shows me and Ben to a bedroom that is slathered in pink everything—paint, pillows, chairs, sheets—before he’s called away by another embassy employee. He makes a hurried apology, complete with hand flailing, and says he’ll see us in the dining room for dinner in an hour. I hope they’ve removed some of the cats by then.

When Joe is gone, I turn to Ben. “I’d like to wash my dress, the one I was wearing the day we left Tobolsk. The one that’s actually mine. I’m very grateful that you had the foresight to obtain clothes for me, truthfully, but with all due respect if I have to wear another pair of trousers or scratchy wool skirt I’m going to drown myself. I want to feel like me again. At least a little bit like me. Can you teach me how to wash a dress? I assume that’s something you know how to do.”

“It is, but we can find someone to do that for you,” Ben replies. “The Italian embassy has servants. Obnoxious, chatty servants, probably, but still servants.”

“I can do it,” I insist. “I can wash my own clothes. I’m not above that.” I do want to prove to Ben that I’m willing to do things for myself, that’s true; but I also can’t let anybody else handle the dress. They might feel the weight and edges of the Romanov jewels hidden inside it. And if Ben lost his mind over a photograph, I can’t imagine what he’d do if he found out about them.

“You’re going to tear your hands up. They’re not used to physical labor.”

“Then they’ll just have to learn to adjust like the rest of us.”

“Alright. Fine. But I don’t want to hear a single complaint out of you about blisters or raw spots or whatever else.”

“You won’t,” I fling back, chin raised haughtily.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, snickering. “You are exactly like a cat.”

He finds a metal wash tub, washboard, and box of powdered soap—or, more accurately, he follows my instructions concerning where to find them after I consult with an employee in Italian—and we go out into the courtyard together. He squats with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped, inspecting every move as I fill the tub with sudsy water, kneel beside it, and scrub the soaked dress against the washboard until my hands and shoulders ache, and then burn, and then go so numb and lifeless they feel like they must belong to someone else entirely. But each time Ben asks if I need help, I adamantly refuse; and if later he tells me to just admit it was a task more arduous than I was prepared for, I’ll refuse that too.

Between exhausted gulps of breath, I huff: “I’d like to go to church tomorrow morning. Somewhere nice, maybe even Saint Basil’s Cathedral. Before our train leaves for Saint Petersburg. I never thought much of church growing up, but now it might be my last chance to go.” Not thinking much of it is a bit of an understatement; I was always feigning coughs or headaches to avoid having to accompany my family to church, and Mother—being as frail as she is and having a particular empathy for the ill—would reliably implore me to hurry back into bed where I would be left to read in peace until mid-afternoon, when I’d miraculously recover; and when I rejoined the family, Tati and Anastasia would cast me viperous scowls of jealousy for being spared as Papa chuckled affectionately, knowingly, never divulging a word to Mother.

“No, no way,” Ben replies with an arrogant toss of his head, an accusatory wag of the cigarette gripped between his fingers. His blond hair flips from one side to the other, which I try not to pay any attention to. “Absolutely not. I’m not going to one of your freakish churches with all the colorful candles and the robes and the long grey beards and the gold everything and the swinging incense balls, all those absurd superstitions and rituals, it’s practically pagan. Priests stalking around like dodgy Santa Clauses. No thank you.”

“What are you, Anglican?”

“Naturally.”

“Well now I know I’ll certainly never see you again after this trip.”

Ben laughs, deep and rumbling. I’m getting better at making him laugh, which feels like an accomplishment. “What, because I’ll be on the wrong side of the afterlife?”

“I don’t make the rules. Just astute observations.”

“Do you really believe in all that? In good people floating up into some weightless, blissful paradise made of clouds and the bad ones going, where? Straight down to swim for eternity in the lake of fire?”

I begin wringing out the dress. Ropes of sudsy water patter down into the tub. I’m sure I’d be able to feel the lace-muffled edges of the jewels cushioned in the fabric if my hands weren’t so traumatized. I keep talking to distract Ben, to be sure he doesn’t notice anything: a snag, a bump, a telltale vestige that I have once again hidden something from him. “To be entirely honest, I’m not sure what I believe yet. I’ll end up joining whatever church my husband belongs to in any case. But if any religion is true, it’s probably the Russian one.”

“That’s rather egocentric of you.” Ben sounds disappointed now, like I’ve suffered a setback.

“Eastern Orthodoxy is far older than Anglicanism,” I point out.

“And? I’m older than you. Does that make me more trustworthy?”

“We didn’t just invent a new religion because our king wanted to get a divorce and impregnate some impertinent commoner.”

“So now you have a problem with impertinent commoners? Even the ones that hold your life in their unsophisticated hands?”

“Your hands aren’t so unsophisticated,” I mumble as I straighten my aching back, shake out the dress, and throw it over a clothesline strung across the courtyard. I’m not really sure what I mean by that, and Ben isn’t either; his pensive green eyes track me as I walk across the brick pathways that crisscross the gardens of autumn crocuses and viola incisa and Siberian fawn lilies, plants that can battle the descending winter’s cold and win, at least for a while. I struggle with the clothespins for a minute or two, but eventually I figure them out and secure the dress to dry overnight. I beam at Ben. See? I am useful. I am practical. I am capable.

Ben stands and rest his hands on his waist, those scarred and sturdy hands. There’s a lull before he speaks, a quiet threaded with brisk golden air and fading afternoon sunlight. “You win,” he says softly, smiling.

The back door of the townhouse squeaks open and Joe Mazzello steps outside to join us, wiping his forehead with the back of one hand and his shoulders slumped, looking flustered and depleted. He flips over an empty flowerpot and plops down on it with a great exhale.

“You alright there, mate?” Ben asks.

“Ah, it is a disastro, Beniamino.” They exchange a glance of two men who have known each other for years, who have invented a wordless language—nods, sighs, twitches of eyebrows—that only they can speak. The silence is long and heavy, and I feel like an intruder. Then Joe perks up and says: “So, you are travelling to Saint Petersburg to catch a ship.”

“Yes,” Ben admits.

“A ship that will take you far, far away from Russia.”

Ben hesitates. “Well…”

“To London?” Joe ventures. “The British ambassador is ailing, I have heard this. His retirement is imminent. Sir Buchanan will not need staff in this country much longer. He is going home soon, if he is not there already. And how fortunate for you, to escape all this ruin!”

Ben shows the palms of his hands, a helpless gesture. I can’t tell you anything about it, that gesture says. His lips are a tight, rueful line.

“Wherever you are going, it does not matter to me,” Joe says. “I do not need to know. But I do have a favor to ask, Beniamino.”

“Anything,” Ben replies. “You’ve been a true friend to me. And I’m not a man who acquires friends easily.”

I frown at him. I don’t like when Ben speaks ill of himself, when he underestimates his charm. Because he does have some, I’ve learned; it could use some sanding down around the serrated edges, sure, but it’s there.

Joe grins craftily. “When you travel to Saint Petersburg, when you board this ship…you will take me with you.”

“But…but…” Ben sputters, not understanding. “Joe, mate…you’ll lose your job. Everything you’ve built here. The Italian ambassador won’t give you permission to leave.”

“I don’t care,” he declares with a flippant wave of his hand. “I don’t need this job. I’m going to America anyway. I’ve made up my mind. Half my family’s already there. I’m through with Europe and all its endless squabbling, I’m through with Italy, and I’m definitely through with Russia. The ambassador can stay here with his cats until these beasts eat him alive.”

“Joe…” Ben looks over at me like he wishes I would disappear. I stare back, impudent, unmovable, too slighted to give him what he wants.

“Beniamino, this country is done for,” Joe says gravely. “The Provisional Government will not hold. The communists are gaining support, gaining territory, every day their numbers grow. When the wheel turns, it will happen like that.” He snaps his fingers. “Overnight. No warning. I don’t want to be here when that materializes. Revolutions are a hideous thing, no matter what they might accomplish in the end. Bleeding and purging and guillotines in the streets. You learned about France in school, yes? It will be like that here, but worse, because the Russians are beasts and always have been. That fate is not for me. My head is too beautiful to end up on a spike.”

“I didn’t spend much time in school,” Ben mutters, distracted. He shakes his head, rubs his face with his hands. I watch him, questions burning in my eyes. He told me this wouldn’t happen. He told me not to worry. But Ben is too shellshocked to notice me. “I thought we had more time.”

Joe makes some more of his elaborate hand movements. “It could happen in a month, it could happen in a day. Only God could tell you, and I don’t happen to have his phone number or last known address, do you?”

Ben smiles wanly. “No, I don’t.”

“Then you will take me with you, and we will leave this miserable country behind together.”

Ben turns to me. I probably look like I’m offended, like I’m furious at Joe, but I’m not; my thoughts are back in Tobolsk with my family. No, not Tobolsk anymore; somewhere else, somewhere even more remote, more lonely, more powerless. What had Joe called the town? Yekaterinburg. A place I have never heard of before. In my mind, I see trees and stones and gaping wilderness. I see Papa chopping wood in the mist-cloaked early morning. I see Mother gazing vacantly out the window, her eyes rheumy with misfortune, calamity eating weakness into her bones.

Everything will be okay, I tell myself, because Ben can’t, not while Joe’s sitting here thinking I’m just some British typist who has no exceptional affection for the disgraced tsar and his wife and children. Soon we’ll be in Saint Petersburg, and then London, and then I’ll be safe with Uncle George and my family will be rescued within weeks.

“What do you think?” Ben asks me. A hollow courtesy; I’m in no position to say who accompanies us on this expedition.

“I have no objection to Joe as a travel companion. At least I’d have someone to speak Italian with.”

“Fantastico!” Joe rejoices, and rushes over to embrace me. It’s a new experience, brash and unbalanced, but strangely enough I don’t find this informal affection alarming. It’s not so bad, actually. “She’s wonderful, no?” Joe asks Ben for the second time today.

“She’s alright,” Ben replies with a shrug, looking at the ground, and Joe narrows his eyes at him.

We are beckoned inside for dinner, and we sit with all the Italians around a long wooden table laden with pastas and breads and glass bottles of olive oil, platters of cured meats and sharp cheeses, chalices of wine the color of blood. Rosemary and basil are in the air. Cats weave through our legs beneath the tablecloth, their spines arching, meowing for scraps of salami. I follow our hosts’ conversations, but I don’t say much; my thoughts are too preoccupied, my heart pulled towards an anonymous town too far away. I eat too little and drink too much. But I am cognizant that I am grateful to be seated beside Ben, a familiar face, a rare non-stranger in a world that seems so hopelessly strange. Each time he gets up to grab himself another hunk of bread or some salami to toss to the cats, I feel his absence like a fire snuffed out, like a patch of coldness in a drafty room.

Right as dessert is being served—generous slices of tiramisu being laid onto our plates by servants—and I’m good and distracted, Ben reaches out to turn over my left hand and grazes his fingertips across the angry red rawness that scours my palm. I snatch my hand away and glare at him, but Ben doesn’t look self-righteous or taunting. He just looks sorry.

“I told you you’d tear them up,” he murmurs, then digs into his tiramisu.

I may not entirely approve of the Italians’ abundance of cats, but I do approve of the bathroom adjoining my bedroom: it’s clean and roomy and pink and features a freestanding bathtub deep enough to soak in. As I draw the water—hot! steaming! a miracle!—and add soap to make bubbles, Ben appears in the doorway.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asks.

“Taking a bath. Obviously.” My words slur; I stagger when I cross the bathroom to fetch a towel from the closet beside the sink. Oh no. This is why Ben has been restricting my wine consumption.

“You seem a little…” Ben considers me. “Impaired.”

“I’m celebrating having hot running water.”

“Taking a bath right now is probably not a good idea.”

“Au contraire, I think it is an excellent idea. Now leave so I can take my clothes off.”

“What if you fall asleep and slip beneath the water and drown or something?”

“Then I guess you’ll have to start over and rescue Tatiana and write your article about her. She’d make for better material, anyway. So graceful. So feminine. She’ll look lovely in the photographs. She’s the most beautiful Romanov daughter, you know.”

“Beauty is rather subjective.”

“I’m not in the proper condition to discuss philosophy with you.” I turn off the water. The tub is full and waiting. “Now please leave. That’s an order.”

“I’m not your subject, princess.”

“Grand duchess,” I correct, twirling on my bare feet, swishing my towel like the train of a ballgown.

“Dear lord,” Ben grumbles.

“Wait outside the door,” I offer. “I’ll talk to you so you’ll know I’m alright. I won’t be long, but if you don’t let me take this bath I’m going to go mad and probably murder everyone in this house, starting with the cats.”

Ben agrees. He shuts the bathroom door and sits just on the other side; I know how close he is because his cigarette smoke begins to seep under the door and into the bathroom, mingling with the steam, and now the foggy room matches the state of my mind. He asks me trivial things—what was the tastiest dish at dinner, which language is my favorite to speak, which variety of cat do I find the most off-putting—and I dutifully answer as I lather soap down my arms and legs, across my chest and belly, between my thighs, dimly aware of the impropriety of conversing with a man while I’m lying naked just a few meters away. Some might even call it erotic. My cheeks are flushed, and not just from the wine; but any nerves have evaporated. I splash around like a fish, blessedly careless, relishing the thought of Mother’s shock and horror when I tell her about this later.

“What do you think you’d be?” Ben asks through the door. “You know, in another lifetime, if you weren’t…the sort of person that you are.”

This puzzles me. I’ve never seriously considered a non-royal existence. “I’m not really sure. There are only so many options for women. I don’t care for blood and vomit, so I wouldn’t make a very good nurse. I am a terrible seamstress, and perhaps an even worse typist. And I can’t cook anything, not even an egg. I’m not elegant enough to be a ballerina. I’m not pious enough to be a nun. I suppose I could be a translator or something like that. I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to serve my own people in some way…even if they think they don’t want my help.”

“You could work in a settlement house,” Ben suggests.

“What’s that?” I crinkle my nose, even though he can’t see me. I’ve never heard of settlement houses in my life.

“They have them in cities. There’re some in London, and a lot in New York and Chicago. They’re places where immigrants can go to learn English and skills to get jobs. They provide medicine, childcare, meals, hope. You’d be quite the asset, speaking as many languages as you do. Think of all the Russian immigrants you could help.”

“Hm.” I sink deep into the hot water, washing the last of the soap from my skin. And then I can picture it with jarring, unpredictable clarity: leaning over some young mother’s shoulder as she practices her English alphabet, showing her just where to cross her Fs and her Is and her Js, gifting slivers of chocolate to her timid children. It fills me with an odd sensation of fullness, of a door opening. And then I let it float away like steam. My future is not to be surrounded by the fleeing and the impoverished and the lost. My future is castles and crowns, and—above all, the greatest joy of any royal wife—sons. I yank the chain of the bathtub plug and the water recedes with a guttural roar.

Ben takes his own bath as I towel myself off, slip into the nightgown that the Italians left on the bed for me, fluff the pillows, nestle beneath the blankets, inhale the scents of clean cotton and soap and (regrettably) cats. When Ben comes into the bedroom, he’s wearing dark blue pajamas and an aura of apprehension. He wrings his hands and peers around the room nervously.

“I think I should sleep with you,” he says.

“What?”

“In the room with you, I mean,” he amends quickly. “I don’t think anything would happen, but I don’t really know any of these people besides Joe. Someone could pick the lock, and there’s the window as well. I don’t feel right about leaving you alone.”

“That makes sense. I am extremely valuable cargo.”

“Yes,” Ben says, quietly and unsmiling.

“Well then.” I stack up frilly pink pillows to make a barrier between the two sides of the bed, like the Great Wall of China or the zigzag of the Moskva River. “Please, make yourself at home.”

Ben climbs into his side of the bed, his weight shifting the mattress. It’s a comforting feeling; it reminds me of my siblings creeping into my bed on early mornings to share harmless gossip and mischievous plans, of Tati, Anastasia, Olga, Maria, Alexei, my old life, the life I’ll have again when we’re reunited. Ben shuts off the lamp and we lay side by side in silence until I speak.

“So…tomorrow are you going to take me to what might be my last-ever chance to practice authentic Eastern Orthodoxy?”

Ben groans very dramatically. “We’ll see.”

And then I know—intrinsically, in my bones, all the way down to the marrow—that in the morning Ben will take me to Saint Basil’s Cathedral, towering and vibrant and busy enough that we can slip in and out invisibly, like ghosts flitting between shadowy rooms. He might complain, he might roll his eyes, he might annoy me, he might spend the whole time whispering jibes about the priests and all their intricate, impractical rites older than anyone can remember. But he’s going to do it.

“Thank you, Ben,” I tell him, meaning it more than I can recall meaning anything.

“Oh shut up,” he snaps, but I can tell he’s smiling. He rolls over and buries his head beneath the blankets until only the unruly tuft of his blond hair is still visible.

I spend a long time staring at the ceiling, and I spend even longer with my eyes closed trying to find unconsciousness like a dark, profound, soundless lake I can dive into. And at last I tumble into sleep imagining Ben’s lips feigning the shapes of ancient chants and candlelight flickering on his cheekbones like wildfire.

#ben hardy x reader #ben hardy fic #borhap cast fic

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lescuriositesdelafoire · 3 years ago

Photo

Leonid Shokin, The Moskva-Volga Canal, c. 1938.

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whatdoesshedotothem · 3 years ago

Text

Friday 28 February 1840

6 ½

11 20/..

washed a little breakfast over now at 7 40/.. – wrote out the accounts of yesterday etc. till now 7 50/.. – fine morning no! snowing and R-5 ½° outside lying on the snow at 8 – off Elmanka [Elshanka] at 8 10/.. – cream last night and this morning – charged ½ S. Rub. – had both our doors shut – the first hour reading Russian grammar – afterwards slumbering – hardly peeped out of my little window – cold wind over the high plain ground but not snowing fast nearly fair on our arriving at 10 50/.. at Kletschewnikovo [Kleshchevka] another government station house but not near so good as before – at this end of the village – A- and I alighted while they changed our horses – from 11 ¾ to 1 18/.. at the Gostinitza Moskva at Saratoff [Saratov] – today the most winterly we have had particularly during this last stage – till the courier put the mat he sat upon against our front window (still unglazed) we were covered with the driving snow – not snow falling for the heavens, but the snow from the ground – a regular chasse-neige by a strong south westerly wind sweeping over this high plain (Steppe?) – cannot see 20 yards before us, the atmosphere so obscured by the driving snow – yet now at 12 ½ the sun would peep out if he could – at 12 40/.. we pass six Drovnas (sledges) of hay, each drawn by a pair of tolerably large oxen, all white or red – the 1st time of seeing oxen draw in Russia – open our 2 doors at 12 50/.. to see the town; and as we descend we get under shelter from the chasse-neige and drove very well – at 1 11/.. pass under the slagbaum black and white and narrow red ribonned barrier into the town Saratoff [Saratov] – gardens and courtyards and low wood buildings form the wide street which gradually improves upon us till at 1 18/.. stop (and did not wait very long) at the Gostinitza Moskva, a book looking 2 story brick lime-plastered white house with its ground floor in shops, and not far from opposite a largeish sort of Gastinoi [Gostiny] Dvor – good long street the best in the town and terminating in the magnificent Volga – impatient to look about us, we just saw our 3 tolerable rooms and left our people to themselves and went out at 1 ½ - market day – a sort of Gastinoi [Gostiny] Dvor near here full of booths, - besides the regular buildings – butchers meat, bread, corn, butter eggs pots and pans, an infinity of wooden pails and basins and spoons and piggins etc. etc. very neat and pretty – a sort of kibitka a fair – sauntered along

8 10/.. to 10 50/.. Elmanka [Elshanka] to Kletschewnikovo [Kleshchevka]

11 ¾ to 1 18/.. K- to Saratoff [Saratov]

SH:7/ML/E/24/00028

in and out always not far from out great street – a series of Gasinoi [Gostiny] Dvor – one after another – the whole town a Gastinoi [Gostiny] Dvor – singular place – it might be (probably it is) the marché of the whole of its government – other less important and handsome streets parallel to our street with streets at right angles communicating with the ville de bois old wooden town spread along the hill side to the west – the Volga on the other side – 3 or 4 good churches – very modern looking – one large brick building about ½ way down on [our] street from the Inn to the river apparently to be a handsome Helsingfors sort of church – a handsome looking convent in one of the cross streets – and the near bottom of our street in an irregular place square (piazza) the oldest looking and most interesting church here – a pointed clocher and a domed square church the rez de chaussée surrounded by buttress-formed arcades, and over these a wide gallery with its roof supported by white columns the whole building painted red with white window frames columns, coins, etc. In returning went into a nice little sort of jewellers’ and mixtum [mixum] gatherum shop – very civil woman – A- bought 2 little [turtle] shell combs 5/. same she would have paid Larne at Moscow – some of the pretty silver gilt steel-wrought table and tea spoons from Moscow – and several pretty things snuff boxes – pins, rings, a pretty bracelet 150/. and a salt and pepper silver gilt box 75/. and pretty turquoise snake brooch like ornament 25/. all from St. Petersburg – came in at 3 55/.. having been out since 1 ½ well amused, too much so for A- to complain of being cold or tired – sided my room – wrote all but the first 2 lines of today (and had given orders to George) till now 5 40/.. – will send the two letters this evening – to Mr. de Stalipine and the general governor – mean to go to bed directly after dinner – think to be off early on Monday morning – we must inquire about the great mountain slip (Goldau-like) that took place near here last summer – and should like to see Mr. de Satlipines’ venerie – he is now mareschal de la noblesse – Mr. de Bachmétieff heard of his appointment after giving me the letter – to congratulate him de la part de Mr. B-

1 letter de la part de Mr. Bachmetieff Monsieur de Stalipine à Saratoff [Saratov] – directed in Russian -

1 letter de la part du général gouverner of Kazan to the général Gouverneur of Saratoff [Saratov] – directed in Russian -

Read a little – dinner at 6 ½ stehee (Russian soup) fish sterlet, and roast turkey, and a bottle of Donkoi – asleep till after 8 – then tea – sent the two letters – the general governor not here – sat over tea – A- had boiled up cranberries with honey – thirty – we ate them all - R14 ½° on my table now at 11 20/.. p.m. snowy morning – high wind from south west – fine afternoon and evening

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sovietpostcards · 5 years ago

Photo

May Day relay across the Boulevard Circle of Moscow to celebrate the opening of Volga-Moskva canal. (Vintage poster, USSR 1937.)

#poster art #vintage ads #moscow #1930s #soviet union #soviet #ussr #russia #history #photography #vintage #retro

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orthodoxydaily · 4 years ago

Text

Saints&Reading: Sat., Sept. 12, 2020

Commemorated on August 30, November 23_Old Julian Calendar

The Holy NobleBorn Prince Alexander Nevsky( 1263)

The Holy NobleBorn Prince Alexander Nevsky (in monastic-schema Alexei) died on the return journey from the Horde at Gorodtsa on the Volga, on 14 November 1263, and on 23 November (under this day is located the account about him) in 1263 he was buried in the Cathedral Church of the Nativity Monastery in the city of Vladimir (there is set up there now a memorial to the holy prince; yet another memorial is set up in the city of Pereslavl'-Zalessk). Veneration of the nobleborn prince started right at his burial, whereof was a remarkable miracle: the saint himself extended his hand for the absolving prayer. Great Prince Ioann Ioannovich (1353-1359) in his spiritual testament written in the year 1356, left to his son Dimitrii (1363-1389), the future victor of the Battle of Kulikovo, "an icon of Saint Alexander". The undecayed relics of the nobleborn prince were opened, on account of a vision, before the Kulikovo Battle – in the year 1380, and then were set forth for local feast-celebration. For the prayers of the holy prince, glorified by defense of the Fatherland, Russian commanders resorted to in all the following times. On 30 August 1721 Peter I, after a lengthy and exhausting war with the Swedes, concluded the Nishtad Peace. This day was decided upon to hallow by the transfer of the relics of the NobleBorn Prince Alexander Nevsky from Vladimir to the new northern capital, Peterburg, arranged on the banks of the Neva. Withdrawn from Vladimir on 11 August 1723, the holy relics were greeted at Shlissel'burg on 20 September of that year and remained there until 1724, when on 30 August they were placed in the Trinity Cathedral of the Alexander Nevsky Lavra (Monastery), where now also they rest. By an edict/ukaz on 2 September 1724 there was established a feastday on 30 August (in 1727 the feast was discontinued by reason of non-church matters, and involved clique-struggles at the imperial court. In 1730 the feast was again re-established). Archimandrite Gavriel Buzhinsky (later Bishop of Riazan, + 27 April 1731) compiled a special service in remembrance of the Nishtad Peace, combining with it a service to Saint Alexander Nevsky. The name of the Defender of the borders of Russia and the Patron of Soldiers is famous far from the regions of our Native Land. The testimony to this: the numerous temples dedicated to Saint Alexander Nevsky. The most famous of them: the Patriarchal Cathedral at Sofia, the Cathedral church in Talinin, and a church in Tbilisi. These churches are a pledge of friendship of the Russian National-Liberator with brother nations.

NobleBorn Prince Daniel of Moscow (1652)

Holy Nobleborn Prince Daniel (Daniil) of Moscow was born at Vladimir in the year 1261. He was the fourth son of Saint Alexander Nevsky (Comm. 30 August and 23 November) and Righteous Vassa. Two years after birth he lost his father. The date of his mother's repose is not indicated in the chronicles; it is known only, that she was buried in the church in honour of the Nativity of Christ at the Vladimir Uspenie monastery (the Princess monastery), and the people in the surroundings venerated her as "Righteous" ("Pravedna"). In 1272 holy Prince Daniel received as his allotted portion the city of Moscow with its adjacent lands. The holy prince built on the banks of the River Moskva (Moscow) a church (and alongside it a monastery) in honour of his same-name patron saint, the Monk Daniel the Pillar-Dweller (Comm. 11 December). The Moscow principality was during this period small and unobtrusive. While growing up, holy Prince Daniel strengthened and expanded it, not in manners unjust or coercive, but instead benevolent and peace-loving. In Rus' it was a time of unrest. Fratricidal strife amongst the appanage princes was rife. And often, thanks to holy Prince Daniel, and his incessant striving for unity and peace in the Russian Land, bloodshed was averted. In 1293 his brother, the Great-prince Alexander Alexandrovich, together with Tatars summoned from the Horde and headed by Diuden ("the Diudenev Host"), laid waste to Russian cities: Murom, Suzdal', Kolomna, Dmitrov, Mozhaisk, Tver'. Prince Daniel decided to adjoin them to Moscow, to save their people from perishing. There was not the strength for resistance. Together with his people, the prince braced himself for terrible destruction and pillaging. Standing up for his rights, Saint Daniel was compelled to come out against his brother near a place, called Yur'evo Tolchische ("Yur'evo Threshing-Mill"), but here also the yearning for peace won out in him, and bloodshed was averted. In 1300, when the Ryazan prince Konstantin Romanovich, having summoned Tatars to his aid, was occupied in secret preparations for a sudden assault on the lands of the Moscow principality, Prince Daniel went with an army to Ryazan, and beating the enemy, he took captive Konstantin and destroyed a multitude of Tatars. This was a first victory over the Tatars, though not a tremendous victory, but it was noteworthy nonetheless – as a first push towards freedom. Having beaten the Ryazan prince and scattered his confederates the Tatars, holy Prince Daniel did not take advantage of his victory to seize foreign lands or take booty, as was the accepted custom during these times, but rather he displayed an example of true non-covetousness, love and fraternity. The holy prince never resorted to arms to seize the lands of others, nor did he ever snatch away the property of other princes either by force or by treachery. And for this the Lord saw fit to expand the boundaries of his princely realm. Ioann Dimitrievich, prince of Pereslavl'-Zalessk, a nephew of Daniel, was gentle and pious and benevolent towards the poor, and he esteemed and loved his uncle; dying childless in 1302, he bequeathed his principality to Saint Daniel. The Pereslavlsk lands together with Dmitrov were, after Rostov, foremost in number of inhabitants, with corresponding fortification befitting a major city. Pereslavl'-Zalessk was well protected on all sides. But the holy prince remained faithful to Moscow and did not transfer the capital of his princedom to the stronger and more significant seat of the Pereslavl' of this period. This annexation moved Moscow up to be numbered as the most significant principality. And here was set in place the principle of the unification of the Russian Land into a single powerful realm. How wondrous over the expanse of ages was clearly manifest the Providential Will of God concerning the Russian Land and its destiny! Grateful in remembrance of the constant Blessing of the Hodegetria ("Way-Guide Mother of God) both in his personal life, and also in the life of the Russian realm, Saint Daniel's father – Saint Alexander Nevsky, had expressed it in the words: "God is not in might, but in right!". In 1303 Saint Daniel fell seriously ill. He assumed the monastic great-schema and commanded that he be buried at the Danilov monastery. Through deep humility he wanted to be buried not within the church, but in the common monastery cemetery. The holy prince died on 4 March. Within the passage of less than 30 years after the repose of holy Prince Daniel, the Danilov monastery founded by him was transformed into the Moscow Kremlin, the church was transformed into a parish church, and the cemetery became non-monastic. During the time of Great-prince Ivan III (1462-1505), the Monk-prince Daniel gave reminders of himself to his forgetful descendents. As a stranger he appeared to a youth attendant on the great-prince and said: "Be not afraid of me – I was a Christian and the master of this place, my name is Daniel Prince of Moscow, and by the will of God I am here. Tell about me to Great-prince Ioann (Ivan) saying: thou delightest thyself while yet having forgotten me, but God hath not forgotten me". And after this it was that the great-prince established the singing of cathedral panikhidas for his ancestral princes. During the time tsar Ivan the Terrible, at the grave of Saint Daniel was healed the dying son of a barge merchant. The tsar, struck by the miracle, renovated the ancient Danilov monastery and established a yearly church procession, made by the metropolitan to the place of burial of the holy prince, serving there a panikhida. In 1652 holy Monk-prince Daniel was glorified with the uncovering of his incorrupt relics, which on 30 August were transferred to the church in honour of the Holy Fathers of the Seventh OEcumenical Council. The holy relics were placed in a reliquary "to the glorifying of the Holy Trinity and for the healing of the infirm". The Moscow metropolitan Platon (+ 1812), in the Vita of the holy prince compiled by him, writes: "This original founder laid the foundation of present-day majestic Moscow, going about this with quiet steps upon a small foot-path. And thus as with any edifice, built not with extreme haste but the rather instead with great artifice and skill, doth receive a particular solidity and doth stand indestructible for a long time; and just as a tall tree growing for many a century, and having started first of all with a small sprout, and thickeneth little by little, with its branches spreading about far around, so also was it needful for this city to grow from the small, but solid root, in order that its first glimmer not beshadow the eyes of the envious, and that initially it not be disturbed or felled early on, but rather grow up to its true height. Thus did this founder prepare the great city given him; though small, but shining uninterrupted by any wafting of the wind, he did bequeathe the great glory of its rise to his son Great-prince Ioann (Ivan) Danilovich, called Kalita".

Matthew 23:1-12

1Then Jesus spoke to the multitudes and to His disciples,2saying: "The scribes and the Pharisees sit in Moses' seat.3Therefore whatever they tell you to observe, that observe and do, but do not do according to their works; for they say, and do not do.4For they bind heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on men's shoulders; but they themselves will not move them with one of their fingers.5But all their works they do to be seen by men. They make their phylacteries broad and enlarge the borders of their garments.6They love the best places at feasts, the best seats in the synagogues,7greetings in the marketplaces, and to be called by men, 'Rabbi, Rabbi.'8But you, do not be called 'Rabbi'; for One is your Teacher, the Christ, and you are all brethren.9Do not call anyone on earth your father; for One is your Father, He who is in heaven.10And do not be called teachers; for One is your Teacher, the Christ.11But he who is greatest among you shall be your servant.12And whoever exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted.

Galatians 5:22-6:2 (St. Alexander Nevsky)

22But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, longsuffering, kindness, goodness, faithfulness,23gentleness, self-control. Against such there is no law.24And those who are Christ's have crucified the flesh with its passions and desires.25If we live in the Spirit, let us also walk in the Spirit.26Let us not become conceited, provoking one another, envying one another.

1Brethren, if a man is overtaken in any trespass, you who are spiritual restore such a one in a spirit of gentleness, considering yourself lest you also be tempted.2Bear one another's burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ.

#orthodoxy #orthodoxchristian #ancientfaith #firstchristian #spirituality #holyscripture #gospel

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anne-lister-adventures · 4 years ago

Text

Friday, 28 February 1840

6 1/2

11 20/’’

Washed a little breakfast over now at 7 40/’’ – Wrote out the accounts of yesterday &c. till now 7 50/’’ – Fine morning No! Snowing and Reaumur -5 1/2º outside lying on the snow at 8 – Off Elmanka at 8 10/’’ – Cream last night and this morning – Charged 1/2 S.[Silver] Ruble – Had both our doors shut –

The first hour reading Russian Grammar – Afterwards slumbering – Hardly peeped out of my little window – Cold wind over the high plain ground but not snowing fast nearly fair on our arriving at 10 50/’’ at Kletschewnikovo another Government Station House but not near so good as before – At this end of the village – A-[Ann] and I alighted while they changed our horses –

From 11 3/4 to 1 18/’’ at the Gostinitza Moskva at Saratoff – Today the most winterly we have had particularly during this last stage – Till the Courier put the mat he sat upon against our front window (still unglazed) we were covered with the driving snow – Not snow falling from the heavens, but the snow from the ground – A regular chasse-neige by a strong South westerly wind sweeping over this high plain (Steppe?) – Cannot see 20 yards before us, the atmosphere so obscured by the driving snow – Yet now at 12 1/2 the sun would peep out if he could –

At 12 40/’’ we pass six Drovnas (sledges) of hay, each drawn by a pair of tolerably large oxen, all white or red – the 1st time of seeing oxen draw in Russia – Open our 2 doors at 12 50/’’ to see the town; and as we descend we get under shelter from the chasse neige and do very well – At 1 11/’’ pass under the slag baum black and white and narrow red ribonned barrier into the Town Saratoff –

Gardens and courtyards and low wood buildings form the wide street which gradually improves upon us till at 1 18/’’ stop (and did not wait very long) at the Gostinitza Moskva, a good looking 2 story brick lime-plastered white house with it ground floor in shops, and not far from opposite a largeish sort of Gastinoi Dvor – Good long street the best in the Town and terminating in the magnificent Volga –

Impatient to look about us, we just saw our 3 tolerable rooms and left our people to themselves and went out at 1 1/2 – Market day – A sort of Gastinoi Dvor near here full of booths – Besides the regular buildings – Butchers meat, bread, corn, butter eggs pots and pans, an infinity of wooden pails and basins and spoons and piggins &c. &c. very neat and pretty – A sort of Kibitka fair – Sauntered along in and out always not far from our great street – A series of Gastinoi Dovrs – One after another – The whole town a Gastinoi Dvor – Singular place – It might be (probably it is) the Marché of the whole of its Governent – Other less important and handsome streets parallel to our street with streets at right angles communicating with the ville de bois old wooden town spread along the hill side to the West – The Volga on the other side –

3 or 4 good churches – Very modern looking – One large brick building about 1/2 way down on street from the Inn to the river apparently to be a handsome Helsingfors sort of church – A handsome looking Convent in one of the cross streets – And near the bottom of our street in an irregular place square (piazza) the oldest looking and most interesting church here – A pointed clocher and a domed square church the rez de chaussée surrounded by buttress-formed arcades, and over these a wide gallery with its roof supported by white columns the whole building painted red with white window frames columns, coins, &c.

The old cathedral and Gastinoi Dvor of Saratov (c. 1880s or 1890s).

In returning went into a nice little sort of jeweller’s and mixtum gatherum shop – Very civil woman – A-[Ann] bought 2 little tortoiseshell combs 5/- same she would have paid Larne at Moscow – Some of the pretty silver gilt steel-wrought table and tea spoons from Moscow – And several pretty things snuff boxes – Pins, rings, a pretty bracelet 150/- and a salt and pepper silver gilt box 75/- and pretty turquoise snake brooch like ornament 25/- all from St. Petersburg –

Came in at 3 55/’’ having been out since 1 1/2 well amused, too much so for A-[Ann] to complain of being cold or tired – Sided my room – Wrote all, but the first 2 lines of today (and had given orders to George) till now 5 40/’’ – Will send the two letters this evening – To Mr. de Stalipine and the General Governor – Mean to go bed directly after dinner – Think to be off early on Monday morning –

We must inquire about the great mountain slip (Goldau-like) that took place near here last summer – And should like to see Mr. de Stalipine’s verrerie – He is now Mareschal de la Noblesse – Mr. de Bachmétieff heard of his appointment after giving me the letter – To congratulate him de la part de Mr. B-[Bachmétieff] –

1 letter de la part de Mr. Bachmetieff to Monsieur de Stalipine à Saratoff – directed in Russian Столыпину

1 letter de la part du General Gouverneur of Kazan to the General Gouverneur of Saratoff – directed in Russian – Власову, Vlasoff?

Read a little – Dinner at 6 1/2 Stehee (Russian soup) fish Sterlet, and roast turkey and, a bottle of Donskoi – Asleep till after 8 – Then tea – Sent the two letters – The General Governor not here – Sat over tea – A-[Ann] had boiled up cranberries with honey – Thirsty – We ate them all – Reaumur 14 1/2º on my table now at 11 20/’’ p.m. snowy morning – High wind from Southwest – Fine afternoon and evening

Stops from Yelshanka (aka Elmanka) to Saratov (aka Saratoff).

[in the left margin of page:] 8 10/’’ to 10 50/’’ Elmanka to Kletschewnikowo

[in the left margin of page:] 11 3/4 to 1 18/’’ K-[Kletschewnikowo] to Saratoff

[in the left margin of page:] Saratoff

Page References: SH:7/ML/E/24/0027 and SH:7/ML/E/24/0028

#anne lister code breaker #anne lister #ann walker #moscow to baku 1840

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architectnews · 3 years ago

Text

The Chagall Business Lounge, Moscow Airport

The Chagall Business Lounge, Moscow Contemporary Airport Building Design, Russian Architecture Images

The Chagall Business Lounge in Moscow

22 Feb 2022

Design: M+R interior architecture

Location: Sheremetyevo International Airport, Moscow, Russian Federation

Photos by Herman de Winter

The Chagall Lounge, Russia

M+R interior architecture won the assignment for the lounge design after an international competition. The Chagall Business Lounge is about 1.900 square meters and has a capacity of 385 seats and is located in the new extension of the terminal C on Sheremetyevo International Airport Moscow.

For the design of the business lounge, we are inspired by the wave movements in the life of Chagall residences between Russia; France the USA and his art movements as a theme; using the Volga river as metaphor.

The flowing movement of the river basin has defined the islands with seating areas in the lounge and the walls are built up in geological layers created by the wear of the water that flows through the river, started by source, the water fountain in the entrance. The islands are raised floors so that the seating areas give visitors a good overview in the lounge, ‘the visitor is on stage’.

The walls are randomly shaped and wave through the space, each layer has its own color and structure. The layers are accentuated with indirect light lines for a dramatic effect. The architectural columns show images of paintings by Chagall, executed in glass mosaic. The lounge is visually divided with three accent colors from paintings by Chagall and also translated into the upholstery of the furniture. Behind the reception is a big stained-glass wall indirect lit based upon the works of Chagall wall with adjustable glass parts.

The sustainable lighting concept is with different layers of special durable board and acoustic ceilings with indirect led lighting that changes during daytime. The floorcovering is made of sustainable cradle to cradle materials. The walls are specially shaped panels with vinyl wall papers in different textures. The columns and also the restrooms are parts of paintings from Chagall.

The specially shaped sofas with high backrests made of quilted fabric ensure intimacy and acoustic quality. A green plant wall and the water fountain provide a natural ambiance. The lounge has a serene appearance with restrained lighting and colors that contribute to the feeling of peace and relaxation, with highlights like the impressive glass mosaic walls in the restrooms and showers. The reception desk and water fountain are made from solid surface white marble and brass detailing.

M+R has won the A’ design bronze award 2020 with the design of the Chagall Lounge

The Chagall Business Lounge in Moscow, Russia – Building Information

Architect’ Firm: M+R interior architecture – https://www.mplusr.nl/nl

Project size: 1 m2 Completion date: 2020 Building levels: 1

Photo credits: Herman de Winter

The Chagall Business Lounge, Moscow Airport information / images received 180222

Location: Sheremetyevo International Airport, Moscow, Russia

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vietsense · 4 years ago

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Review Hành Trình Khám Phá Nước Nga Tour Volga Cruise (phần 4- Kizhi)

Những ngày cuối ở nước Nga, trên hành trình xuôi dòng Volga từ Moskva đến với St. Petersburg, đoàn du khách Việt Nam đã có cơ hội ghé thăm hòn đảo Kizhi, nơi được Unesco công nhận là Di sản văn hóa thế giới từ năm 1990.

https://todata.vn/review-hanh-trinh-kham-pha-nuoc-nga-tour-volga-cruise-phan-4-kizhi-pn.html

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hapephotographix · 4 years ago

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Moskva-Volga Canal | MOSCOW

#643mos #643rus #baumaschine #canalmoscúvolga #europa #europe #fujixt3 #fahrzeug #kran #moscow #moscú

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ruspeach · 7 years ago

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SOUND: https://www.ruspeach.com/en/news/9179/ Иваньковское водохранилище, также известное как Московское море, — это первое водохранилище в верхнем течении реки Волги. Ширина водохранилища составляет 2-5 км, длина около 120 км. Оно удерживается дамбой высотой 14 метров. В 1937 году была затоплена водой территория, которую занимали 106 населённых пунктов, обширные луга и болота, большие площади спиленных лесов. Под водой оказалась площадь 32 000 га. Из Иваньковского водохранилища берет начало канал имени Москвы, поставляющий пресную воду в Москву и обводняющий Москву-реку. На стоке водохранилища работает Иваньковская ГЭС. В Московском море можно купаться и ловить рыбу. В акватории водохранилища находится около 300 островов. Здесь можно ходить на парусной яхте и заниматься многими другими водными видами спорта и отдыха. The Ivankovskoye Reservoir also known as the Moscow sea — this first reservoir in Volga River headwaters. Width of a reservoir makes 2-5 km, length about 120 km. It is kept by a dam 14 meters high. In 1937 it was flooded with water the territory which was occupied by 106 settlements, extensive meadows and bogs, big areas of cut woods was flooded. Under water there was an area of 32 000 hectares. The Ivankovskoye Reservoir Moscow Canal delivers fresh water to Moscow and flood the Moskva River. The Ivankovsky hydroelectric power station works at a drain of a reservoir. It is possible to bathe and catch fish In the Moscow sea. There are about 300 islands in the water area of a reservoir. It is possible to go on the sailing yacht and to do many other water sports and rest here. ходить [khadìt'] - to walk, to go также [takzhe] - also, too спорт [sport] - sport отдых [òtdykh] - rest остров [òstraf] - island можно [mozhno] - one can, one may купать [kupàt'] - to bathe здесь [sdès'] - here заниматься [zanimat`sya] - to take up, to learn, to study отдыхать [atdykhàt'] - to rest море [mòr’eh] - sea www.ruspeach.com

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covjek-casopis · 5 years ago

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esej: SVETICA MOLI ZA GOLOVE

Kao što se ne može odgonetnuti zašto grčki bogovi nisu marili konjsko meso kao žrtvu, tako se ne može lako odgonetnuti ni zašto se u slavenskim zemljama sportska društva mnogo češće no u neslavenskim imenuju po rijekama. Među njima je najviše fudbalskih klubova: Vardar, Wisla, Odra, Sutjeska, Drava, Dnipro, Moskva, Volga, Marica, Bregalnica, Morava, Drina, Krivaja, Bosna, da, i Rijeka. Stvar skoro cijela slavenska, a najviše jugoslavenska. U germanskim zemljama kao da je nema, u romanskim jedva, u Italiji nikako, u Francuskoj teško, u Portugalu, osim Rio Ave, isto. U Španiji je primjer Betis iz Sevilje, od latinskog Baetis, današnje arabofono Guadalquivir (Wadi Al-Kabīr, velika rijeka). U Urugvaju ima veliki klub, prva liga, po imenu Danubio, osnovali su ga emigranti iz bugarskog Podunavlja.

A u Brazilu, zemlji s najviše riječne vode na svijetu, jedva da ima klubova da se po kojoj rijeci imenuju. U drugoj ligi Amazonije ima klub Rio Negro iz Manausa, nazvan po najvećoj lijevoj pritoci Amazone. Klubova da nose ime po najvećoj na svijetu rijeci nisam uspio naći da ima. Ali u Brazilu ima najmanje deset nogometnih klubova s imenom jednog potoka: Ipiranga, pisana i Ypiranga. Riječ je iz indioskog jezika tupi, i znači crvena rijeka.

Ipiranga je potok (ili rječica), ukupne dužine devet kilometara, izvire u São Paulu, i odande ne teče prema Atlantiku, već prema tzv. unutrašnjosti. Uliva se u rijeku Tamandueteí, ova u Tietê, a Tietê se u veliku uliva rijeku Paraná. A ova u Atlantik dolje kod Buenos Airesa. Ne znam kad ću imati drugu priliku, pa se hvalim sada: vidio sam strašnu rijeku Paraná, u Brazilu, kod mjesta Mondo Novo.

Klubovi Ipiranga ili Ypiranga se ne zovu po onome potoku samo zato što je on potok ili rječica, već zato što je taj potok važan politički i patriotski: kraj njega je 7. septembra 1822. Dom Pedro proglasio nezavisnost Brazila od Portugala, pa potok ima mjesto i u prvom stihu brazilske himne (Ouviram do Ipiranga as margens plácidas). Od klubova imenjaka toga potoka posebno je zanimljiv onaj čije je sjedište hiljadu i po kilometara sjevernije od njegova toka, u Salvadoru, glavnom gradu savezne države Bahia. Esporte clube Ypiranga osnovan je 1906., prvak države Bahia bio je deset puta, sada je drugoligaš u prvenstvu iste države. Zlatne godine kluba su bile dvadesete i tridesete prošloga stoljeća. Tada je u klubu igrao slavan igrač po imenu Popó, za kojega se govori i piše da je bio klasa kao Pelé i kao Friedenreich. Popó je bio crnac, te je njegovo igranje bilo, danas bi se reklo, važan prilog za emancipaciju crnaca u brazilskoj republici. Poslije Ypirange crnce će u svoje igrače najprije uzimati klub Vasco da Gama iz Rija, a nakon toga će najvažniji put za integraciju crnaca u brazilsku kulturu biti onaj preko igranja fudbala.

Mnogi klubovi imaju za svoje zaštitnike svece, kao Flamengo što ima svetoga Judu Tadeja, u čije svetište mnogi navijači hodočaste i ostavljaju votivne predmete, najčešće majice i zastave klubova. Navijačka populacija je svu religijsku raznovrsnost Brazila unijela i u svoju vezanost za klubove. Tako je najpoznatija verzija brazilske afroreligioznosti candomblé dala izraz i sadržaj različitim ritualima navijačkog vjerja i sujevjerja. I u ritualima navijačkih zajednica zajedničko je vjerovanje u Orixása, neku vrstu panteona, koji ima moć nad tijelima kad u ritualu dostignu stanje transa. Bogomolje su terreiros, a nije rijedak slučaj da je u njima liturgijski jezik yoruba, čije je porijeklo u Nigeriji i na Beninu. Ovo posebno važi za Bahiju i Salvador.

Ali je religijski ritual najdarežljiviji bio prema jednoj navijačici izvan vjerske zajednice candomblé. Ona je katolkinja, rođena u Salvadoru, 26. maja 1914. kao Maria Rita de Souza Brito Lopes Pontes. Otac joj je bio zubar i univerzitetski profesor Augusto Lopes Pontes a majka Dulce Maria de Souza. Majka će umrijeti s dvadeset i šest godina, a prije no što će kćer navršiti sedam. Još od djetinjstva Maria Rita opsjednuta je idejom da pomaže sirotinji kakve je u Bahiji uvijek bilo na svakom koraku. U trinaestoj godini odlučuje da se posveti vjeri. U devetnaestoj odlazi u São Cristóvão, staru prestonicu države Sergipe i ulazi u kongregaciju sestara misionarki Bezgrešnog začeća Majke Božje. Ondje će primiti zavjet i dobiti ime Sestra Dulce (Irmã Dulce) po umrloj majci. Dvije godine kasnije biva postavljena za nastavnicu historije i geografije u ženskom zavodu, a 1936. osniva Radničku uniju države Bahia, udruženje koje će prerasti u Radnički klub 'Sveti Frane', prvo radničko udruženje te države. U četrdesetim i pedesetim godinama razvija veliku mrežu socijalne pomoći sirotinji, a 1959. osniva Socijalne ustanove Irmã Dulce i bolnicu Santo António sa 400 kreveta. Spisak i opis dobrih djela te dobre žene dug je, a mogu se naći u knjigama, npr. onoj s naslovom 'Irmã Dulce' koju je napisao Gaetano Passarelli.

Za svoju bezmjernu posvećenost siromašnima i bolesnima bila je kandidirana za Nobelovu nagradu 1988., ali je nije dobila. Papa Wojtyła (u mladim godinama golman!) posjetio ju je dvaput. Umrla je 13. marta 1992. u samostanu Santo Antônio, u Salvadoru, gdje je beatificirana 22. maja 2011.

Cijeloga života je bila odana navijačica Ypirange. To je naglašavala u mnogim javnim razgovorima. I to i da je u djetinjstvu igrala nogomet s dječacima na ulici, a da su joj najdraža uspomena bile nedjeljne utakmice Ypirange na Campo da Graça, prvom stadionu države Bahia s prostorom za navijače, za njih sedam hiljada. Onamo je najprije išla s ocem, a kasnije s dva brata i dvije sestre.

Prije Isusa, najveći idol male Marije Rite bio je spomenuti nogometaš Apolinário Santana, poznat kao Popó. Još su ga zvali 'Popó slavni' i 'Popó strašni'. Rođen 1902., taj je igrač dvadesetih i tridesetih godina bio najveća zvijezda bajanskoga fudbala. A mala zubareva kći je bila neka vrsta maskote kluba uz koji odavno ide epitet 'najvoljeniji' (o mais querido). Godine 1988., u razgovoru za TV Globo, Irmã Dulce će reći da joj je pri odlasku iz Bahije u Sergipe najbolnije bilo što su u Salvadoru ostali Ypiranga i veliki Popó. I pod starost je znala opisivati dva gola koje je njen idol dao Botafogu iz Salvadora za veliku pobjedu Ypirange.

Veliki Popó je život završio u siromaštvu. Ima svjedočenja da je viđan na stadionu kako prosi. Nisam uspio saznati kako mu je Irmã Dulce pomagala, a saznao sam da mu pomagala jeste. Umro je 1955., u 53. godini. U Salvadoru ima ulica s njegovim imenom: Rua de Apolinário Santana. Jedno drugo veliko ime, pisac Jorge Amado, i on veliki navijač Ypirange, napisao je u čudesnoj knjizi 'Bahia de Todos os Santos': 'U Bahiji nema nijedan klub čija se tradicija može mjeriti s Ypirangom, klubom u kojem je igrao Popó.'

Nakon proglašenja Sestre Dulce blaženom, igrači Ypirange su nekoliko puta prije svojih utakmica držali transparente na kojima zahvaljuju slavnoj navijačici za odanost i podršku, te tražili od Vatikana da je odmah proglasi svetom. Mnogi navijači su optužili Vatikan da je, odgađanjem proglašenja blažene za svetu, spriječio da se Ypiranga vrati u prvu ligu.

Kad jednoga dana blažena Irmã Dulce bude proglašena sveticom, nogometni klub Ypiranga iz 'crnog Rima' Salvadora neće tražiti svoga zaštitnika po spiskovima biblijskih svetaca i svetica, no će, i zvanično, a sve s vatikanskom potvrdom, svoga imati iz redova vlastitih navijača. A među ovima će valjda biti i još živih, koji su sa sveticom pili cafezinho bahiano i pričali o Ypirangi, kad je bila veliki klub.

SINAN GUDŽEVIĆ (1953, Grab, "na Goliji, između Novog Pazara, Sjenice i Ivanjice"), iz knjige eseja "MAKSIMIR I MIROGOJ" /Zvijezde nad brazilom, knjiga prva/, 2018.

#Sinan Gudžević #Maksimir i Mirogoj #esej

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