The Paleys - An Alternate Romanov Story

Going to War

In all honesty, the military had never been Vladimir's calling, but there hadn't been a choice. His father was a proud military man, who had lost everything after choosing to marry his mother. There was little else Vladimir  could do and he had often felt useless in his Parisian existence, as much as he tried not to show it. Sending Vladimir to a military academy had been his father's way of taking control, of giving his son the purpose he felt he had lost.

Protesting wasn't in Vladimir's nature, but his soul longed for other calls. For as long as he could remember, the simple things had always filled his heart with joy. Walks in the woods, the cold chill rushing through his body when he dipped his feet in the freezing sea water at Biarritz, a good play, a sentimental song, a well-written poem, a painting. All of these things had always stirred something inside him which connected him to some mysterious and elusive force in the world which seemed oblivious to most people. As soon as he could write, he had tried to put those feelings into words. It was all very amateurish at first, but then he could not stop and he would fill pages upon pages with random thoughts, poems, and scribblings.

When words weren't enough, he turned to drawing. He learned to draw as naturally as he had learned how to write. It all came to him so naturally that he almost felt he had been born with those talents. The same happened with music. He could easily learn how to play any instrument which interested him just by watching and listening.

Only one person seemed to notice and encourage his interests and that was his mother. She was his biggest champion and didn't mind when, at first, his interests shifted rapidly from instrument to instrument, then to painting, writing, and then back to music again. They looked at the world in much the same way. She had the same restless soul, the same hunger to see and try everything until she discovered what made her happy.

As it turned out, he was interested in all forms of art. He felt he wasn't capable of choosing only one, so he drifted through each of them, according to his taste at the moment. Perhaps that was the reason why his father never supported that side of him. Maybe he saw it as little more than a hobby, even when everyone around them - artists, writers, and painters - praised his precocious talent, his father always dismissed their flattery.

"A lot of people can write," he would say. "And a lot of people can paint and a lot of people can play. He's just one more. Don't make him think he's a prodigy."

Those words always hurt. Art was everything to him, it was the very essence of his being. If his father couldn't understand it, if he couldn't accept it, then, could he really love him? Or did he just love the idea he had of him?

When he informed Vladimir that the time had come for him to leave and start his military training, he accepted it as a fait-accompli. He didn't want it, but it never crossed his mind to refuse it. In any case, maybe that would be his chance to prove to his father that he was talented at something. If the arts didn't matter to him, then the military would have to do it.

At exactly 4:30, Vladimir heard a knock on the door. When he opened it, he found his father, already dressed in his uniform, and his valet, standing next to him. Before he was able to utter a single word, his father stepped forward and held him in his arms.

"Let me hold you, my dear child," he whispered into his ear, "before your mother wakes up and takes you all to herself."

His father was a kind person, but he was also deeply reserved. Although he always had a word of encouragement and affection for his children, he was rather distant when it came to physical demonstrations, which made the embrace all the more unexpected and touching. Vladimir managed to hold back his feelings, but, as soon as his father let go of him, he could see his eyes shining with tears he tried to conceal. His valet, who was standing just behind him, was not so restrained. He was already taking out his handkerchief to wipe his eyes.