Konrad and Alexandra (pdf) - Rolf Gross

"Well, he is still around," Konrad exclaimed staring at Vladimir’s first volume of poetry.
Alexandra called Vladimir to congratulate him—the Sisakians had installed a telephone.
The Nomikoff’s grouchy old majordomo answered and called for the young master. Vladimir
showed himself surprised but was delighted to hear her voice.
He seemed much less harassed and paranoid than a year ago and took her good
wishes in stride. His father was back in public life. However, his mother had died. The
excitement and apprehension of her husband’s imprisonment had aggravated her tuberculosis
and ended her life prematurely a few months ago. Alexandra expressed her condolence and
invited him for the evening. Konrad was fully aware of what had happened between them. If he,
Vladimir, could feel at ease with that knowledge, both of them would welcome him most
cordially. After a moment of hesitation Vladimir accepted.
He arrived on foot with a bouquet of flowers for Alexandra and a copy of his poems.
Apart from the flowers, an extravagant present at this time of year, he was relaxed and
unaffected.
Without a word he bowed to Konrad who offered him his hand and then poured a
cognac for everyone. The two men retired to the salon while Alexandra prepared supper.
Vladimir let himself fall into an easychair. "You have escaped a lot of excitement during
your absence."
Konrad indicated an imaginary horizon with his flat hand. "It was like summer lightening
on the horizon, potentially frightening but far away. If we had not known St. Petersburg and
Russia, we could have dismissed the events as barbaric but of no concern to us. I walked
through town today. It appears that St. Petersburg has for practical purposes forgotten the
bloodbath. The glittering life continues more hectic and more extravagant than before. Private
automobiles and elegant ladies on Nevsky Prospect, an unprecedented display of foreign
goods in the stores."
Vladimir shrugged and gestured with his hands. "Yes, yes, the Carnival of Vanities. His
Majesty, the Imperial Hamlet, has forgotten the lesson he should have learned. More arrogant
than ever—galvanized by his ultra-right advisors, his hysterical wife, and the mystic starets, her
father confessor—he has barricaded himself behind the idée fixe of his God-ordained mission.
He believes that he alone is bearing God’s heavy hand, but also that nothing could happen to
him. He is a sad production."
Konrad laughed. "Forgive my sarcasm, despite the seriousness of the situation I am
reminded of a friend in Munich, who maintained that all ‘revolutions’ were part of carnival:
bearded men, fantastic costumes, a lot of posturing, religious processions. You see, Bloody
Sunday happened to fall into the middle of the annual Fasching, the month-long celebration of
orgiastic lunacy in Catholic Munich."
Vladimir knitted his brows. "Close up it was less orgiastic than dangerous madness.
Bullets were buzzing around your head. Nicholas has lost his last credibility among the
intelligentsia, the bourgeoisie, the peasants and the workers. Even among the ultra-right
aristocrats, who, behind Witte’s back, are moving to fill the power vacuum created by the
continuing indecision of the Tsar. They will try to influence Nicholas to give in to their
reactionary blandishments to dismiss Witte and to reverse the small gains we have made
towards a constitutional monarchy." He shook his head.
"I thought Witte had forced Nicholas to sign a constitutional manifest which limits his
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