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Chapter Nine The Imperial Circuit at Krasnoe Selo AUGUST 1912 WAS approaching. One could count the few little days until my promotion to officer, and for this reason I was up to my neck in errands: getting fitted out was no laughing matter. Every day after drill I would go to St. Petersburg, where first I would visit the esteemed Nordenström—the famous Petersburg military tailor who dressed the flower of the Guards dandies and also the young “imperial personages .” There I endlessly tried on my officer’s jacket, frock coats, regular uniforms, high-collared jackets, overcoat, Nicholas greatcoat [cavalry greatcoat introduced under Nicholas I], and short and long riding breeches and narrow cavalry trousers with side straps for parade, drawing rooms, and everyday . In Nordenström’s spacious, bright, and respectably furnished atelier on Nevskii Avenue the work of several most experienced craftsmen was in full swing under the keen and tireless observation of the owner himself—a stern, pompous, lame, and obese old man, who was rightly considered the king of Russian military tailors. Old Nordenström charged a pretty penny for his work, but he was a true artist in his field. Certain unprepossessing and clumsy figures, when they donned uniforms and frock coats made by him, suddenly, as if by magic, acquired shapeliness, elegance, and a noble bearing. Uniforms and coats cut by Nordenström bore precisely that stamp of stern elegance and good form that so advantageously distinguished the appearance of Petersburg fops from their provincial colleagues. When I looked in the huge triple pier-glass in Nordenström’s atelier, I was filled with amazing joy and at the same time I felt strange at the very thought that this shapely and most elegant Guards officer in the austere black frock coat with white silk lining who was looking at me from the depths of the mirror was none other than I myself, in my very own persona! From Nordenström’s I rushed to Fokin—the Guards’ favorite store for “officers’ accessories.” Here I would order field and dress ammunition outfits in the form of all sorts of dress sword belts and regular sword belts, gold 262 cuirassier cross-belts, silver cartridge pouches, tricolored scarves, holsters , shoulder straps, epaulettes, gauntlets, gloves, and sword-knots for broadsword and saber. At Fokin’s, too, the most beautiful gilded officer’s helmet with light-blue silk lining was crafted specially for my head, and a golden cuirass was fitted to my skinny figure. It was also there that after a careful process of selection I acquired a broadsword, saber, and sword, with the aim of someday showing off the remarkable ornamented steel of their blades to my connoisseur comrades. But most remarkable of all were the famous Fokin service caps, which were made only to order and were acknowledged in the Guards cavalry to be the quintessence of good form. With a small, fairly soft crown, they were a little bit rumpled in a very particular style, which gave the guardsmen a certain refined foppishness. A huge dark-blue saddlecloth embroidered in gold and with gleaming stars in the corners, placed in a massive oak case, crowned my orders at the famous shop of Fokin. Having finished there, I immediately rushed to the no less famous bootmaker and ordered magnificent dress boots, ordinary line boots, and all kinds of shoes—dress, ballroom, patent leather, and “ordinary,” which were also extraordinary, because they were the creation not so much of a bootmaker as of a true artist. I of course bought my spurs from Saveliev. It’s true, both in the Guards shop in St. Petersburg and at Fokin’s one could find an enormous selection of spurs of all types—large, small, nickel, real silver, nail-on, hussar-style, cuirassier-style, bent upward, straight, with bows, without bows, bulldog spurs [toothed spurs], spurs on straps, on hooks, etc. But no spurs in the world could compare to real Saveliev spurs in the “nobility” of their ring; and the sound of spurs at that long-ago time was extremely eloquent. If you heard behind you on the street a loud, bellicose, and challenging clang, without turning around you could confidently state that behind you was either a policeman or some headquarters pen pusher from the commandant’s office. If you heard a thin, passionate, coquettish, or clamorous ringing—you would know that somewhere nearby was proceeding a “dashing” provincial army man or hussar in red pants...

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