The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  And how could she do other than to radiate the surge of passion welling up in her bosom? Dmitri Gregorovich Remizov was every inch as handsome as she remembered. No, he was more handsome in that dashing uniform, the striking red coat trimmed with gold braid!

  But even in a peasant’s blouse, he would have cut a dazzling figure—his wavy black hair, flashing dark eyes, strong jawline chiseled to artist’s perfection, all atop broad, muscular shoulders which towered above a six-foot, athletic, well-proportioned frame. A slavic Adonis, a mighty Russian Zeus, the perfection of—

  Suddenly Katrina came to herself. The Russian god himself stood right before her!

  “Ah, little Katrina,” said Remizov in a voice unmistakably reserved for infants and children, “my, but haven’t you become a pretty one!” He threw a jesting look toward his friend. “In a few years, Sergei, you will have to take great care in bringing her around the barracks, eh?”

  Sergei laughed, walked over, and gave his sister’s cheek a tweak before moving on to greet the other guests and introduce his friend to his father’s visitors.

  Mortified, Katrina slumped in her chair, desperately trying to hide the crimson on her face. She could just die!

  She found herself rescued by the butler’s announcement of dinner, which had been delayed until the arrival of the two young soldiers. The guests paired off to follow the somber, black-clad butler into the adjacent dining room, the gentlemen taking their wives’ arms, and the young Fedorcenko dutifully offering his to the Princess Marya Gudosnikov.

  Dmitri, thus left free, bowed to Katrina with a gallant click of his polished heels.

  “My Lady Princess,” intoned the young count with profuse chivalry, “will you accompany me?” He bowed low, then rose, offering his arm.

  The renewed inrush of blood to Katrina’s cheeks now pulsed with ecstacy. She hardly cared that the excessive gesture was accompanied by a twinkle playing in his eyes. The moment her hand lighted upon his arm, the beating of her heart drowned out all other sensations. She had dreamed of such a moment for a year now! And suddenly, here he was by her side! The feel of him so close sent tingles up and down through her whole body.

  From Katrina’s viewpoint, dinner proved an agonizingly long, tedious affair. She wanted it over so that she might somehow contrive a way to get Dmitri alone. Most of the talk was political, involving only the men—with the exception of the outspoken Princess Marya Gudosnikov. Only occasionally did the conversation wander to more mundane topics.

  During one of these digressions, Vlasenko turned to Katrina’s father. “I say, Viktor,” he asked, “what do you hear from the distant scion of your family, who lived down in Moscow?”

  “Why do you ask?” replied Fedorcenko.

  “Oh, no reason,” replied Cyril breezily. “My father used to keep track of them—cousins of ours, you know—and the family crossed my mind the other day. Just idle curiosity.”

  “To tell you the truth, I haven’t seen any of my cousins on that side for years. Until you mentioned them, I’d practically forgotten they existed.”

  Vlasenko eyed the prince carefully, weighing his tone and every gesture. He wondered if Viktor was lying, and knew more than he was telling.

  “I had caught wind of a rumor that they had become involved in some liberal group at the university there, and wondered if it had anything to do with your political influence.”

  Fedorcenko did not appear to take notice of his cousin’s insinuation, for he brushed aside the question lightly. “No, I haven’t heard anything of the sort myself.”

  The conversation moved on, but now that he was on the scent, Cyril decided to press his opportunity.

  “Viktor,” he said when the dialogue next waned, “what is the employment situation like here in the city?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “How do you find it maintaining a staff? Are your servants reliable, and do they remain with you long?”

  “Oh, you know what it’s like—no doubt it’s the same everywhere. Good servants are hard to find and difficult to keep. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, merely curious whether you find country servants any more reliable than those you get from the city.”

  “It is odd you should bring up such a thing, Cyril dear,” broke in Natalia. She did not understand a thing about politics, but servants she could talk about. “Our daughter Katrina here has a new maid who is from the country.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “I believe she is even from your region, down by Pskov—isn’t she, sweetheart?” she asked, turning toward Katrina.

  Blushing and hoping Dmitri hadn’t noticed the word, Katrina merely answered, “I don’t know, Mother.”

  Cyril’s eyes, however, widened.

  “Yes,” continued Natalia. “A peasant family Baron Gorskov put us in touch with.”

  “Hmm . . . that is most interesting. What did you say the family’s name is? Perhaps I know them.”

  “Please, please,” interrupted Viktor, “enough of the talk about servants. You two can discuss this later. I want to ask our soldiers here what the mood of the army is in regard to the south.”

  Cyril said nothing more. His wife could probe Natalia for more details later. But for now he had picked up a most useful tidbit of information. Perhaps the perfect girl was already in place! All he had to do was find out who she was and then get his clutches on her family!

  As the men resumed their political dialogue, the women occasionally busied themselves with quiet talk off to the side. Vlasenko attempted to listen to both conversations. Katrina, sitting beside her mother, was bored senseless. Her ears immediately perked up amid the dull exchange of opinions, however, when she heard Dmitri being drawn into the repartee.

  “You are not long from the Balkans, Remizov,” said Prince Fedorcenko. “What is your view of the situation there?”

  “Oh, Your Highness,” replied Dmitri airily, “the women are fat and the vodka is atrocious!” A laconic grin revealed glistening white teeth.

  Only Dmitri Remizov, his son’s best friend, had the nerve to speak so glibly to Prince Fedorcenko. In Katrina’s eyes, his bold bravado only heightened the aura surrounding his person and character.

  “Though perhaps,” Dmitri added somewhat more seriously, “you were meaning my view of the military situation?”

  “You know perfectly well what I meant,” laughed the prince.

  “But, father,” Sergei put in with jocularity, “Dmitri and I are merely soldiers. We are the last you should ask such a question of!”

  Fedorcenko’s brow clouded. The humor he had chuckled at from Dmitri annoyed him when it now came out of the mouth of his son.

  “Ha, ha!” laughed Dr. Anickin. “The wit of young people!”

  “Wit, Doctor?” said the prince dryly, still eying his son skeptically. “Or merely the consumption of too much vodka at the officer’s club?”

  “Whatever the case,” resumed the exuberant Anickin, “I find it pleasant. You know my son, do you not, Sergei Viktorovich?”

  Sergei nodded. “I’ve scarcely seen him in years.”

  “He’s become so moody and sober since taking up with his university friends. I do wish he could fall in with some more lively companions—such as you and Count Remizov.”

  “Tell him to join the army, Doctor,” suggested Sergei, still not smiling under the cloud of his father’s displeasure. “He will find lively enough companions there.”

  “And drunken ones, more likely,” added Prince Fedorcenko sarcastically.

  “No, no, Your Highness,” said Dmitri too cheerfully to be convincing, “we are quite sober—or very nearly so! I can attest that your son had but one small glass of stout ale, hardly enough to infect his reason or his judgment. For myself, it was but four very small jiggers of vodka. And to prove that it remained in my stomach and did not go to my brain, I shall answer your question. The outlook in the Balkans is not pleasant. Of course winter has dulled the Bulgarian and Serbian enthusi
asm, but no more so than the Turkish reprisals against them had already done. The stories I heard—well, such are hardly fit for dinner conversation . . . and with ladies present.”

  “Did you go as a volunteer, Count?” asked Princess Marya, ever on the lookout for a way to enter any discussion.

  “No, Princess. My mother has family in Belgrade. She was concerned about them, and my commanding officer gave me leave on this ground. He did request, in addition, that I make a firsthand report for him of the situation down there. As of yet, there has been no official release of a military force—”

  “And there doubtless won’t be,” finished Count Durnovo for him. “Our tsar is dragging his feet there just as he does against the radicals at our universities. Even the empress has outstripped him, with her tireless work to raise funds and encourage volunteers to aid the rebels.”

  “You continue to amaze me with your outspoken criticism of our leader, Count Durnovo,” said Baklanov, who had said nothing for a long while. “What do you think, Viktor?” he added, throwing Fedorcenko a glance meant to be half-humorous, half-serious. “Is it about time we boil up a batch of oil for our friend here?”

  “He is entitled to his opinion,” replied Fedorcenko evenly.

  “And my opinion is that Russia cannot allow other Slavic peoples of the world to be treated in such a fashion as these heathen Turks have used our brothers in the Balkans.”

  “As I understand it,” said Dmitri, appearing to show no ill effects from the four jiggers of vodka, “a good part of the problem in Serbia was the inability of brother Russians and brother Serbs to cooperate on the battlefield.”

  Katrina basked in the sound of Dmitri’s voice while relishing the sudden discomposure of Count Durnovo.

  Sergei chuckled at his friend’s quick parry. But Princess Marya, thoroughly enjoying the lively exchange, and still not the least interested in the quiet discussion of the women at the far end of the table, spoke up before the awkward moment went any further.

  “I daresay the tsar’s decision in this matter must be ruled by motives other than pure pan-Slavism,” she said. “Isn’t that so, Viktor?”

  “Indeed, Princess,” Fedorcenko replied. “Any tampering with the Turks will surely incur the disfavor of Disraeli and the British.”

  Gradually the conversation around the table continued to disintegrate, in Katrina’s opinion, into more and more uninteresting international topics. Since Dmitri made no further significant contributions, Katrina spent the remainder of the meal covertly studying the young officer.

  The moment dinner was over, to Katrina’s chagrin, the men rose and retired toward her father’s study for brandy over a game or two of faro. As they went, Princess Gudosnikov caught Dmitri by the arm.

  “I hear that since your return to St. Petersburg you have spent a great deal of time at my dear friend’s, the Grand Duchess Helen’s?”

  “There are no secrets in this city,” returned Dmitri jovially.

  “So it is true!”

  “The Grand Duchess is well known for her wonderful cultural soirees. And I find myself lately taking a fancy to the music of Tchaikovsky, who is quite a favorite of hers.”

  “I understand that is not all you have taken a fancy to.” She patted Dmitri on the arm and gave him a wink.

  “I can’t possibly imagine what you mean,” replied Dmitri, winking slyly.

  “Come now; Helen’s niece Marie is also present there a good deal of the time. Can it be that you both merely fancy Tchaikovsky?”

  “I admit to nothing, Princess!” laughed Dmitri merrily.

  Hanging upon every word, this was hardly the denial Katrina had desperately hoped for. What could Dmitri possibly see in the Grand Duchess Helen’s niece? There was probably nothing to it. Dmitri was a playful rogue at heart. His brief repartee with the princess was probably only his way of baiting the St. Petersburg gossips with tidbits of social nothingness.

  He couldn’t be in love with Princess Marie! She was easily the ugliest girl in St. Petersburg. She was far too tall, had protruding front teeth, and walked like a horse. Katrina couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t believe it!

  In fact, union with a woman of such high standing would give a low-level aristocrat like Dmitri the prestige of marrying, however distantly, into the royal family. But that did not once occur to Katrina. She was satisfied to think that her Adonis would want a woman only for love, and with beauty to match his own stunning looks. At her young age, there was little room for life’s unpleasant practicalities.

  In another sense, however, Katrina could bring the utmost practicality to bear upon any situation. She was one of those rare ones who could act, and act decisively and quickly. She was not of a nature to let something she wanted slip away without a fight.

  Katrina sidled up to her brother. “The ice is thick on the river, Sergei,” she said. “You will come and go skating with me tomorrow, won’t you? I have no fun anymore since you went off to the army!”

  “Ah, little one,” he replied with a smile. “The older you grow and the more beautiful you become, the more feminine wiles you spin on me! What is it you really want?”

  “Only some company to skate with,” she answered, casting her eyes down toward the floor in mock hurt. Notwithstanding the pretended pout, she was able to see Dmitri saunter up to his friend’s side. “I tell you, I haven’t been skating once since you went away, and I miss my favorite brother.”

  Sergei threw his head back and laughed. “You are a beguiling one!” he said. “But how can I resist such charms? I too have not skated since leaving home.”

  Slowly Katrina raised her head and let her glistening eyes rest innocently on the face of her brother’s friend. “And you will come along too, won’t you, Dmitri?” she said. “We all used to have such fun when we were younger.”

  “Yes, of course,” answered Dmitri. “It will be a pleasant diversion from the dull routine of army life.”

  Saying no more, the two retreated into the study with the other men. Katrina returned to her own room wearing a smile of anticipated victory.

  26

  The mighty Neva River sliced silently through the northern expanse of St. Petersburg, bisecting the city. The icy surface was broken only by tall quays and ice-bound islands, and most impressively by the imposing home of the infamous Fortress of Peter and Paul.

  Through most of the winter the frozen surface appeared a dull blue or a slate gray or an ominous black, depending on the reflections from sun and sky. On this particular crisp afternoon, however, with bright streaks of sunlight just breaking through an otherwise white sky, the ice-ribbon was covered with a powdery, level expanse of new-fallen snow, which had only ceased falling moments before the merry party had departed the Fedorcenko mansion.

  Neither the cold nor the snowfall discouraged the aristocracy of St. Petersburg. While peasants struggled to find warmth, and laborers in the city’s factories and shipyards tried to do their work without losing toes to frostbite, traffic upon the frozen river was busy with pleasure-seekers. These winter sportsmen and women did not fret about the cold, for they were all clad from head to foot in the warmest attire money could buy. The plight of the hungry, the freezing, the destitute, the ill, and the homeless did not concern them. They had been born to privilege. It was their duty to enjoy life, not to lament its hardships!

  The two Fedorcenko sleighs crossed the wide, snow-covered grounds of the estate, then drove some distance up the river before coming to a small tributary of the Neva devoted solely to recreation. Most of the snow had been cleared away, and dozens of skaters sped around in a large circular pattern upon the ice. Others watched from the bank. Servants and attendants huddled in sleighs or attended to their masters and mistresses, while children scurried about tossing snowballs and attempting to build snow-figures on the ground. As a final touch to the carnival atmosphere, a hurdy-gurdy man propped himself on a makeshift bench, resting the corner of his instrument on one knee, and made music for the merrym
akers.

  Forgetting all her strenuous efforts to appear grown-up, Katrina bounded out of the sleigh the moment it came to a halt. The mink of her hat and collar framed her rosy cheeks; her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

  “Isn’t it just a grand day!” she exclaimed. “Simply everyone’s here! Look! There’s Elizabeth Cerni . . . oh, and Michael and Tanya Uspenskij—”

  She waved vigorously, receiving many greetings in return.

  “Oh, do let’s hurry! Anna . . .” She called back toward the second carriage where her maid had ridden with two footmen. “Where are my skates?”

  Anna had Katrina’s skates in hand and was already out of the sleigh and making her way forward to assist her mistress. The two footmen followed with the young mens’ skates.

  Anna knelt in the snow in front of her mistress, who sat down on a bench and offered her foot. Katrina wiggled about impatiently, turning and glancing this way and that, waving and chatting to everyone who passed by. Eventually Anna managed to get the skates on. Katrina jumped to her feet with expert balance. She hardly needed the steadying hand offered by Dmitri, but she contrived a sudden case of wobbly knees, and grabbed for his arm.

  “Oh, thank you, Dmitri,” she said. “I was about to fall flat. Sergei,” she called, “where are your skates?” As she spoke she continued to clutch at Dmitri for support, hardly caring whether her brother was ready or not. She already had all she had hoped for right at her side.

  “I think I shall observe for a bit,” said Sergei. “I never could keep to my feet as well as you, Katrina. You two go on ahead. I’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  “Do you mind putting up with a clumsy fellow like me?” asked Dmitri, smiling down at Katrina.

  “Certainly not.”

  “I’m afraid your talents will far surpass mine. As I remember, you got about the ice rather well.”