Another Cold October

Country mouse or city mouse?

Born in the cold Russian October of 1892, Nikolai Ivanov Rostov, son of Count Ivan Antonovich Rostov was raised in the best of both worlds. The wealthy and influential Count Ivan possessed expansive rural estates outside Kolpino, where Little “Koyla” spent his happy childhood. These also had for several generations provided much of the family’s income from farming, berry orchards and the breeding of some of the finest cavalry mounts to be found in the region. As all the actual work was performed by the peasants that had been attached to the land for as long as or longer than the Rostovs, Nikolai had plenty of idle time to learn the rustic arts of hunting, horsemanship and other such manly pursuits.

During Russia’s harsh winters the family would retire to the relatively warmer and decidedly more cosmopolitan graces of nearby St. Petersburg, and their opulent villa at its heart. Here Nikolai was educated at the finest schools and universities, becoming an accomplished rapieriste, and learning the courtly customs of Russian high society, with all the intrigue and romance one might expect from such a glamorous setting.

Nikolai thrived in these environs and this charmed life, which fit him like a tailored glove. He was exceedingly popular among his peers. Men admired him for his athletic prowess and adventurous spirit. Women for his dashing good looks and abundant charm, which were never more evident than at the numerous gala occasions held in the grand ballroom of the Rostov’s Petrograd pied-a-terre, whence the cream of Russian nobility convened in sartorial splendor.

It was at one such fete, in the year 1909, that a 16 year old Koyla had his first eerie encounter with the supernatural. In attendance as guest of honor, was the Tsaritsa Alexandra Fyodorovna, Empress Consort of Nicholas II, last Tsar of the Russian Empire. She of course came accompanied by her retinue, which included the infamous Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin, her mystical aide-de-camp. The party was nearly ruined when, into the midst of a Viennese Waltz, Rasputin, eyes agog and arms akimbo, charged and assailed the young Nikolai with a stream of vulgarities, then fell into a seizure at his feet.

Quick thinking Nikolai and another nearby young man carried the incoherent spiritualist, who was apparently in the grips of some sort of psychic fugue state, to a nearby antechamber and arranged him on a settee. The second man ran to fetch a glass of water and/or vodka while Nikolai kept watch over the Tsaritsa’s freakish pet.

Thus alone, Rasputin began to regain some reason. His gaze penetrated Nikolai, and with weakly whispered words and a gesture he beckoned the young man closer.

“Closer. Come closer. You...you have a great destiny. Your future...the earth...the sky...the sea...and a world...BEYOND!”

As Rasputin had softly spoken his hands had drifted from Nikolai’s shoulders, slowly down, down, so that the shouted “BEYOND!” was punctuated with a salacious squeeze of the teenager’s burgeoning manhood. A shock of freezing cold ran through him, and a glimpse of an unfathomable black void flashed in his mind. Nikolai recoiled in horror and shame as the Mad Monk cackled with maniacal glee. He backed warily from the antechamber, and never spoke of the incident to any living soul.

On the outskirts of St. Petersburg, Russia’s “Gateway to the West”, the Rostovs also owned a produce warehouse and jam cannery, as well as, coincidentally, a glue factory, where the less stellar output of their equine endeavors would sometimes end their days.

Even their most exemplary steeds, however, did not course quite swiftly enough for young Nikolai, and so began his lifelong love with automobiles, and the pursuit of pushing them to the limits of their performance. Since St. Petersburg lacked a proper raceway, he and his friend’s had to make do with its cobblestone streets, and, once banned from those, the back country roads which surrounded it. He also made several trips to the Continent to compete in the European circuit during the early ‘10’s, and though he never won, he’d generally fare much better than most, and always better than bad.

As much as he loved auto racing he still found himself unsatisfied with mere accelerated horizontal movement, and developed a keen interest in the more vertical pursuits of aeronautics, and ballooning in particular. At the country estate he assembled an enormous specimen of gaseous flight for which he envisioned multiple purposes, including military applications. Many scoffed and said it was his head that was filled with expanding gas, and it was a useless endeavor, but this was put to the lie much sooner than anyone could have anticipated.

An idyllic existence then, for our young Rostov, but all good things do come to an end.

And so it was, as WWI turned Europe to a charnel house, and drained Russia’s resources of men, money and food, another cold October came in 1917. While Bolsheviks were storming the Parliament in St. Petersburg, Nikolai pushed his roadster to breakneck speeds, returning his father to the relative safety of their lands near Kolpino. A very few short days later the Revolution began to spread throughout the countryside, and the peasants that once brought bountiful bushels of blackberries to the ancestral home, now converged there with pitchforks and torches. Nikolai loaded his family, along with as many of their valuables as they could safely carry, into the small cabin of his balloon, and so spent his 25^th birthday asky, floating above the fiery burning face of the Red Menace.

A strong Southwesterly wind carried them aloft for the next two days, crossing more than 200 miles, over Lake Peipus, and into Estonia. There they called upon some distant relations, and regrouped with other Noble Rus who had fled. Tragically, Count Ivan contracted a pneumonia on their frigid passage, and languished for some months before expiring. As eldest, Nikolai assumed the hereditary title, even though technically, his “county” no longer existed. At least according to the Bolsheviks, that is.

The young Count participated in the White Army’s attempts to retake their lost ground. He soon found himself more effective as a fundraiser and public figure than a soldier, owing to his natural grace and the harrowing tale of his incredible escape. He even achieved some moderate celebrity, appearing across Europe and eventually the U.S. retelling his adventure to rapt audiences. Sadly it was all for naught. The White’s military campaign failed utterly, and a war-weary world turned away from the East to nurse its own bitter wounds.

The Count to this day still speaks out vehemently against the threat of Communism, unions, and Marxist agitation, but few really listen, and so he consoles himself with racing, champagne, and those starlets and showgirls that cannot help but find themselves charmed in his presence. He lives on their grace, and that of influential friends who may still find him useful from time to time, dreading all the while, another much, much colder October, in the world beyond.