History

Pavel Pavlovich. Twice the same. Had I not been the firstborn, I could have come into the world without such a heavy legacy and found my own path, being something that begins and ends with me. But I am but one in a series, probably a middle number in it, if we are being honest. My whole life has been defined by the past, by what came before me. Before I was born, my mother was a countess. Before I was born, she had a bright future ahead of her. Before Pavel, she lived in one of the most beautiful houses in Saint Petersburg. Before I was born, there was some hope for her future.

I was the first, but I never felt like it. I was either the only parental figure, for both of my parents had other things to worry about, or the last of a long line of diplomats, bureaucrats, middle-ranking clerks with some blood on their side, some measure of intelligence, and hopes about as big as they could have been in this context.

As a child, it wasn’t lonely, nor did I ever wish for it to be. I was mostly witnessing the comic of all my brothers and sisters, whose future could still be defined by their own hopes and dreams, rather than the legacy… whatever that is.

I have four, by the way. My father likes to think about each of them as fundamentally flawed legs. There’s always something missing in them. Somehow, he seems to be under the impression that whatever it is that’s missing in them was originally present in me, as if I took all the gifts my parents have to offer and locked them away from anybody else who could enjoy them. I have been accused of acting as if I were better than them multiple times. The truth is, I am probably the worst of them all. I am but the last of a long line of mediocre people, and I believe all the success I’ve had so far is pure luck. And that’s why I am embracing it. Perhaps that’s exactly what they’re missing: one element of mediocrity that would make their gifts and their flaws apparent to everybody.

However, whatever I might have had over them stopped being enough the day I lost my leg, the day I lost my future.

Like every well-born son of Russia, I was supposed to join the army. A successful officer receives a good income, honour and respect. However, when I was 14, I lost part of my leg in an accident I don’t care to talk about. What’s important is that my dear brother lived to grow into an adult. Also, if you must know, that is the reason why I am not fond of horses.

The amputation rendered me unable to march or ride the way I was supposed to, so my options became limited. This turned out to be a blessing in disguise, for, in many ways, I found my calling: thanks to the recommendation of a former colleague of my father, I joined the Institute of Transport Engineers, where I managed to become a mechanical engineer.

I would never bring the sort of prestige to my family that all the Pavels before me had dreamt of, but at least, I thought, I would do something meaningful for myself.

The truth was that never really happened because by then, my path had already been established: my ageing grandparent could not care well for their children, my father was getting more and more distracted by his own darkness, to the point of being dismissed, and none of the servants had the interest, or even the ability perhaps, of taking over running such a large household. Someone had to save us all. Only I could be that someone.

I became the one supposed to love and guide my siblings. The way mother and father should. I had no choice.

And a carer with so many responsibilities can hardly embark on the sort of ambitious projects I dreamt of. Worse: he cannot study as in-depth as he might wish.

I thought I would have to do it all alone, but by the time I had fully grown into a man, I found an unexpected companion offering a helping hand. Busy as I had been taking care of them, I had never really had the time to think about my romantic future, but my domestic present very much demanded the presence of a second person, someone who would help me be the stability my family needed.

Praskovja Fedorovna was a few years older. She had already been married and had been unlucky with her first husband, who had left her a widow much too young. She didn't want to go back to her family, who were too rural for her anyway, and her father-in-law, my direct superior, did not wish her to keep her in his home. She was, in many ways, like me, caught between two worlds, in mourning of a future she would never have and lonely in her unusual condition.

We could understand each other. We could help each other. We were, I think, both so starved for connection that it ended up not really mattering how volatile what we had was.

What mostly mattered to the both of us was having a way out: she would be free, and I would have help.

And initially, it wonders for both of us.

I received a promotion. As a thank you.

Praskovja was capable of securing a match for the older of my sisters and providing the support my brother Vitja needed, while she also could attend whatever sort of cultural event she preferred. I never much questioned her when she went to the theatre, never demanded she offer me more than what my household needed. As for me, I was entirely busy with my new first love: trains. As one of the members of the engineering team tasked with connecting Russia's two capitals, I could lose my evenings dreaming of modernity as she spent her time with others.

I did my duty as expected, never finding particular pleasure in it, which I attributed to the lack of privacy and the large number of responsibilities. This might have turned out to be a problem earlier if our union hadn't produced fruits early on.

Having a child certainly did not ease our burden, but we were happy to have someone who didn't need saving but fostering. Being parents finally didn't feel like a destiny imposed on us, but rather a career we were both choosing. Things were truly looking up.

We didn't call him Pavel, but him Sergey. He would not be another copy.

I had hoped the chain was broken. Things were looking up.

But no further promotion ever came. My siblings, one by one, left our home, most of them with the intention of breaking off their relationship to us too, and my grandparents passed.

So eventually, as we were still young, it ended up being just me and Praskovja, raising Sergey. And that was when we found that, beyond our family, my wife and I had little to tell each other.

I made a last-ditch effort to connect to her by taking up an interest in the theatre, like her, but while this new love lasted, ours was doomed, especially because by then, I was finally realising that women were hardly of interest to me when it came to romance.

I think, more than anything, Praskovja never forgave me for not talking to her about that.

I'll spare you the details of how my marriage, which had been my rock for such a long time, sank as soon as it could finally take up some space.

I'll tell you, instead, of how I managed to let it drag down what was left of my career, my respectability and everything else I had built up to that point.

An Englishman by the name of Calum Archer came into my life. A young baritone who first arrived in our home, believe it or not, through my wife. One look at him and I was lost. Two looks, and he knew. Three, and it was clear to the both of us that he would change my life.

I wish I could take back the things I have done for him, but the truth is, I would do them again. All of them. Including following him to England, where he has abandoned me and where I am now, practically, an exile.