A Discussion on the Life of Peter the Great

In 1698, Peter the Great returned from his first visit to Western Europe intent on modernising Russia. His reforming zeal became apparent almost immediately as officials and boyars gathered to welcome him home were subjected to on the spot shaves. The twenty-first century reader might consider such behaviour inhospitable and eccentric. To seventeenth century Russians, most of whom had inherited the opinion of Ivan the Terrible that "to shave the beard is a sin that the blood of all the martyrs cannot cleanse", it was an inconceivable affront. Unmoved by his boyars' anguish, Peter persisted in his campaign against the hirsute, employing Ivan Turgenev, his court fool, as a barber and, on occasion, tugging off particularly intransigent beards with his own hands. Having exposed the hitherto hidden faces within the Kremlin, Peter imposed a general proscription excepting only peasants and clergy. This ban was eventually relaxed and a Beard Tax introduced with a scale of payment according to means. Merchants paid up to two hundred roubles for the bronze medallion that entitled the bearer to ape the appearance of his ancestors. Anyone flaunting an illicit beard lived in constant dread of discovery. Scofflaws had the unlicensed growth removed without benefit of emollients or even water, a painful and humiliating procedure invariably endured before a jeering mob.

It's easy to dismiss the zeal with which Peter conducted his campaign as evidence of eccentricity or prejudice. In 1682, when he was ten years old, he watched helplessly as the Streltsy (any one of whom might have doubled for St Nicholas) conducted a murderous rampage through the Kremlin. One might argue that the balance of his mind was disturbed by the experience, but it's worth noting that, nearly two hundred years after his death, the architects of Russia's destruction all sported some description of facial growth. A glance through my 'rogues' gallery', provides further evidence that Peter's instincts were sound. Throughout history, villains have attempted to conceal their true intentions behind what Fabrice Dupont referred to as "the mask of Cain". Even putting more serious delinquencies aside, whiskers frequently indicate sloth (determined by discoloration by food stains), vanity or furtiveness. (The presence of a beard, of course, might be attributed to some physical incapacity or harmless affectation, but only the most slap dash investigator will ignore the red flag presented by a naked chin accompanied by a moustache .)

As regular readers of this 'blog' are probably aware, my efforts to engage my niece, Muriel, invariably meet with hostility or indifference. Last Sunday, though, at my sister's regular Sunday gathering, she expressed a genuine interest in the life of Peter the Great. When she was six years old, Muriel watched from her bedroom window as Edwin Watson, an indigent befriended by her parents, danced around a bonfire constructed from a Goodwill Package comprising their own unwanted Christmas gifts. It might seem ludicrous to compare Watson's drunken antics to the depredations of the Streltsy, but, having been menaced by one bearded maniac, Muriel clearly felt a particular affinity to the boy confronted by thousands. Even Spencer, whose complexion betrayed a hangover of unusual toxicity, contributed to the conversation. His suggestion that facial hair be anathematised by a publicly funded advertising campaign met with with Muriel's approval, though I had to demur that civil libertarians would almost certainly object. Only my sister and her new 'friend' Fergus remained aloof from the cut and thrust of debate. Christine attempted to interrupt with various tedious digressions ("So, what about Andy Murray?") while Fergus affected preoccupation with his risotto before abruptly excusing himself to prepare coffee.

"Has it occurred to any of you," asked Christine before any of us could question the presumption with which Fergus assumed control of the kitchen, "that Fergus has a beard?"

I had to confess to surprise that anyone might refer to Fergus's carefully maintained stubble as a 'beard'. "What sort of detective are you? Of course it's a bloody beard ," hissed Christine, an assertion in which she was supported by both Muriel and Spencer, neither of whom seemed even remotely concerned that Fergus might have found the conversation offensive. At this stage, I belatedly identified a slyly goading aspect to Spencer's repeated references to the Yorkshire Ripper and the scornful emphasis Muriel lent the first syllable of the word 'beardie'. "It's not Hamilton's fault that Fergus looks like a paedo," she interjected now, an unexpected defence in which she was, astonishingly, joined by Spencer. "You should listen to what Hamilton's trying to tell you. He's spent his life peering into puddles of piss!" Naturally, I objected that I'd spent my life peering into the abyss and wasn't, in fact, trying to tell Christine anything. I also thought it judicious to caution Muriel against the use of the word 'paedo' to dismiss anyone of slovenly or unusual appearance. "Fergus is not slovenly," objected Christine, apparently oblivious to the fact that I was trying to protect him from the sort of aspersions that might attract the attention of self-righteous arsonists.

By the time Fergus returned with the coffee the mood was irretrievably soured. After five minutes of awkward silence, I thought it sensible to gnaw on the bone of contention. "Do you think you have a beard, Fergus?" I asked causing Christine to deal me a sharp kick to the shin and Spencer to regugitate a mouthful of coffee over the table-cloth. Fergus, compressing his lips into a prissy squiggle, shook his head slowly: I'm not sure if he was denying beard ownership or indicating that he considered the question unworthy of a response. His surly demeanour for the remainder of the afternoon suggests the latter. On reflection, aspects of the conversation probably were tactless but any insults Fergus might have imagined obliquely directed toward him (allusions to child abuse and serial murder aside) were relatively innocuous. Later, as Spencer and I shared a cafetiere, we agreed that a grown man should be better equipped for the rigours of family debate. "You've laughed off much worse," acknowledged Spencer with grudging admiration. As we basked in the evening sun, I dismissed Fergus's gloomy presence from the periphery of my conscience and savoured the moment of camaraderie he'd unwittingly inspired.

 

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