The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  “We will be together forever?”

  “Forever and longer, my love,” he would breathe passionately, bending his handsome face toward hers. Their lips would meet in ecstasy. He would smother her with kisses, and ravage her hair with his strong, wild hands . . .

  Katrina did not hear the door open. Anna looked at the happy smile spread across her mistress’s face and wondered about the report that she was not feeling well.

  Dreamily Katrina’s eyes opened and slowly a form standing before her came into focus. “Oh, Anna—it’s you,” she said at last, her voice still far away. “What do you want?”

  “Your mother sent for me, Princess. She said you were ill.”

  Katrina giggled, coming fully to herself and fairly leaping off the bed. “I have never felt better in my life, Anna!”

  She swung merrily around one of the bedposts. “Today my life begins—I can feel it! How could I possibly be ill?”

  “Would you like me to get you anything, Princess?” asked Anna, not knowing what to say. Katrina had never spoken to her in such a familiar tone before this moment. “Some tea, perhaps?”

  “How could I think of food or drink at a time like this? I am in love, Anna! Do you hear me? In love!”

  Anna stood and said nothing. She did not know if she was expected to reply.

  “Of course, I have been in love with him for a long while. But now—tonight!—I suddenly realize he feels the same love for me!”

  Her wide eyes rested on Anna in expectation, as if awaiting some response to the portentous news.

  “Uh . . . someone you have known for a long time, Princess?” said Anna with a tentative voice.

  “Yes, of course, you ninny . . . Count Remizov—who else?”

  Suddenly, before she quite realized that she was confiding in her maid, Katrina began to pour out the whole story of what had just happened on the dance floor, and what Dmitri’s look into her face as he held her certainly must mean.

  “Come, Anna,” she said excitedly the moment she was finished, “help me get ready to go back to the party.”

  “You are well enough, Mistress?” asked Anna feebly, after Katrina had gone on for some time about how she would dance the rest of the night with Dmitri.

  “I wouldn’t miss it now for anything!”

  Katrina paused thoughtfully. “But now that I think of it,” she mused, a wily expression coming over her face, “I ought to see Dmitri alone, not in the middle of a crowded ballroom. I must go to him—no, no! A message would be better! I will send him a message!”

  She glanced toward Anna with bright eyes, obviously using her maid as an excuse to reason with herself.

  “I know, you are thinking it will appear too brazen. And you are right,” she said, continuing her own inner debate. “Hmm . . . let me see. . . .” Her finger touched her lips as she considered what options she might explore. “I will have to go about it carefully . . . I’ve got it! I will make it appear that I wish to thank him for his assistance when I nearly fell tonight. Yes, that is perfect! I’ll say that I would like to offer my thanks in person, but that I am still a bit too woozy to rejoin the dance.”

  She stopped again, adding the final masterful strokes to the scheme. Quickly she walked to the dressing table, opened one of its drawers, and withdrew a sheet of paper, a bottle of ink, and a pen.

  “Let’s see . . .” she murmured to herself as she wrote, “it wouldn’t do to meet him here. . . . Where else would be suitable? I know . . . !” The pen scratched furiously across the paper. “Perfect . . . the little drawing room at the end of this corridor. It’s quite deserted . . . and if anyone happens in, I’ll tell them I am faint and wish to be alone. . . .”

  With a flourish of the pen she finished the note and signed her name, blew briefly on the ink, folded the paper, and handed it to Anna.

  Anna stared at it dumbly.

  “Well, girl? What are you standing there for?”

  “You want me to deliver it?”

  “Of course. What else?”

  “To the count . . . in the ballroom?” asked Anna, incredulous.

  “Yes, you are the only one I trust. Now shoo! I’ll be in the drawing room at the end of this hall and to the right. Dmitri will know, I have given directions in the note. So be off with you!”

  In a daze, Anna turned and left the room. She had already learned that her mistress was not one to listen to opposing counsel, or even to reason, once her mind was set upon its own course—especially words spoken from one like Anna in a meek whisper. And since it was her position to neither give counsel or reason, but simply to obey, she would do as she had been told.

  She returned to the maid’s room to ask Nina which way she should go. The older woman’s initial reaction was shock at the question. But as Anna explained briefly, a grim smile spread across Nina’s lips, one of the first Anna had seen.

  “So, the young princess is intent on playing the fool,” she said, more to herself than Anna, and clearly enjoying the thought. “Well, the girl could stand a dose of humility.”

  “You think she will be hurt by this Count Remizov?” ventured Anna.

  “What is the worst that could happen? That he would laugh in her face? Believe me, no one would dare laugh at Prince Viktor Fedorcenko’s daughter—not even the bold Count Remizov. Deliver the message, Anna. Princess Katrina’s delicate—” Nina smirked at the unlikely description even as the words left her lips—“sensibilities will be safe enough.”

  Anna left the maid’s room, and began making her way down the tall, wide, imposing corridor in the direction Nina had indicated.

  34

  Under the blazing light of the ballroom’s dozens of crystal chandeliers, the orchestra played numerous Austrian waltzes, interspersed with an occasional French bourree or minuet. Everything was carried out amid the spectacular color and movement and laughter of the year’s most splendid gathering of Russian nobility. Meanwhile, several of the gentlemen present had been summoned to a small, luxuriously appointed anteroom in a distant section of the palace.

  An uncomfortable feeling gnawed at Viktor Fedorcenko’s insides concerning the possible reason for this impromptu gathering. And although he was not one given to rumors and futile speculation, he had to admit a certain feeling of relief when he saw that his friend Alexander Baklanov had also been summoned. They were the first two arrivals. He had not dared to mention the meeting to Alex beforehand; if he had not been included, to do so could have been awkward indeed. In the political intrigues and conspiracies for which St. Petersburg was famous, one never knew from one day to the next who was in favor with whom, and who was not. Viktor hated the whole business, but unfortunately it was the nature of politics in this city. He had to keep certain things from Alex, because he could never be sure where Alex stood, not only with the tsar, but also with people like Ignatiev and Milyutin and Reutern. Viktor’s position with certain of the tsar’s inner circle was precarious enough, and he could jeopardize it by being too free with his tongue, even among his closest friends. After his bitter setbacks with the tsar recently, he needed to be fully apprised of all possibilities and situations. Thus, he was doubly glad to see his friend; for tonight, at least, he could speak freely with him. This whole business of having to watch his tongue for fear of losing his head was going to drive him crazy one day—crazy or to Siberia.

  There were no servants in the room. Decanters of brandy and canisters of fine cigars had been laid out on a sideboard for the gentlemen to help themselves to. Baklanov offered the first comment on the implications of this particular setup.

  “Hmm,” he said, pouring himself a generous snifter of brandy, “no servants. There must be something of great moment about to transpire, would you say, Viktor?”

  “Confidential, one would surmise at least,” replied the prince. He took a cigar for himself, bit off one end, held it for a moment, unconsciously waiting for a hand to light it for him. Then he smiled to himself, thinking he was becoming as pampered as his
wife. If this meeting was about what he feared, he had better change his lazy habits. Difficult times most certainly loomed ahead. Their life of ease and comfort could cease at any moment. The Crimean War had disrupted everything in Russia, killed its tsar, humiliated its army, and greatly taxed the endurance of its people. There was no reason to think the war they now faced would prove any less severe. He lit the cigar.

  “It is fortuitous that we are alone,” Count Baklanov continued. “If the tsar himself makes an appearance at this little conclave, we must present a united front for the voice of moderation.”

  Still wondering silently how his own personal fortunes would be affected by vocally siding with his friend, or whether he ought to be more guarded in what he voiced publicly, Viktor spoke noncommittally.

  “So then, you believe this summons regards the Balkans?”

  “What else can it be?” Baklanov drained his brandy. “The Constantinople Conference has been in session for some time now. It is bound to have reached some conclusion. And if Count Ignatiev has his way, it will most certainly mean war.”

  Earlier in the month, representatives from the six major European powers had gone literally to the very heart of the matter—to discuss the Turkish question in Constantinople itself. Though its death certificate had been on the table for the better part of a century, somehow the ancient Ottoman Empire refused to accept its fate and die a peaceable death. Its demise, and the subsequent disbursement of its territory, had preoccupied Alexander’s father for more than a quarter of a century and had lured him into the fatal catastrophe in the Crimea. Now yet another quarter century had passed, and the thorny problem known as “the Turkish question” still had not been resolved. With Russia now a quarter century stronger, and the German republics now united under the strong and crafty Bismark, the French and Austrians and British were more concerned than ever over the plight and future of the Middle East. It was unthinkable that Russia should be allowed a free hand in the region, given Europe’s ancient ties with Byzantium. At the height of its worldwide power, England had nevertheless not forgotten Catherine the Great’s territorial conquests. And the continued non-existence of Poland—still swallowed in the Russian colossus—was obvious to any observer of a map of Europe. Thus, when Lord Salisbury of England, Bismark of the new united nation of Germany, Andrassy of Austria, and other European leaders went to Constantinople to meet with the Russian Ambassador Count Ignatiev, on all their minds was a limitation of Russia’s feared aggressive proclivities.

  In Fedorcenko’s opinion, Count Ignatiev epitomized the diplomatic intriguer, a master at the art of speaking out of both sides of his mouth at the same time. The tsar’s contradictory character was seen in his choice of a confirmed Pan-Slav, with absolutely no understanding of the European power balance, as Russia’s representative. Count Gorchakov’s moderate presence at Constantinople would mean nothing in the face of Ignatiev’s bold aggressiveness and nearly overpowering charm. Handsome, with a compelling personality, Ignatiev had thoroughly subscribed to the notion that Russia was indeed the mightiest nation on earth. Whatever her ambitions, the Motherland need consult none of Europe’s lesser powers. Russia was mighty and could do as it pleased. And he pleased for the Ottoman Empire to come at last where it had long belonged—under the dominion of the House of Romanov and the Orthodox Church of Mother Russia. In opposition to such moderate voices as Viktor and his friend Baklanov, Ignatiev urged the tsar toward war.

  Baklanov had just spoken of the certainty of conflict.

  “Can there now be any doubt of it, Alex?” said Viktor. “If it were merely a matter of rescuing the Serbs and Bulgarians, then there might be a chance of avoiding war. But I fear it has long since passed that stage. Pride is at stake here, not to mention Ignatiev’s greed for expansion and dominance. He would have done better advising Catherine the Great.”

  “But our Alexander listens to him.”

  “How well I know,” sighed Viktor, remembering his own futility of late to reason with Alexander on matters either of domestic or international importance. “Ignatiev is a charmer. If any of the diplomats went to Constantinople with negative opinions of the count, it would have been Salisbury. And Ignatiev even charmed him!”

  “So you think war is inevitable?”

  “Let me just say that I think our fine nationalists will be satisfied with nothing less than the occupation of Constantinople and the complete dismantling of the Ottoman Empire. That is Ignatiev’s ultimate goal, and toward that end he is goading Alexander. I think it is inevitable that the Pan-Slavs will have their way with Alexander. And I consider it equally inevitable that the Turks will respond to any moves with their usual ferocity. Thus, if we move—yes, war will be the result. What will be the reaction of the Austrians and English, I cannot say.”

  “I cannot believe the tsar would try to take Constantinople.”

  “Our tsars have lusted after that greatest of prizes for five or six centuries, and with increased zeal since Ivan’s time. Why should Alexander be any different than his predecessors? And it would be a fine feather in the cap—or should I say, crown—of a man whose reign has not been altogether notable to accomplish what neither of the Ivans, and neither Peter nor Catherine, could achieve.”

  Viktor took a long puff from his cigar.

  “But, perhaps you are right,” he mused, watching the smoke drift lazily up toward the ceiling. “The last thing Alexander wants is a war with England, and that single fact may keep him in check. I suppose only time will tell, Alex. I honestly do not know what the tsar is thinking these days.”

  Baklanov chuckled quietly, with a great gurgling sound as if a well were about to spring from his expansive barrel chest. He was working on his second brandy, and no doubt had already consumed several others at the ball.

  “I heard an amusing story of a meeting between Ignatiev and Salisbury,” he said, the chuckle escaping in little bursts of laughter between words. “Salisbury had requested documents on the Turkish constitution, no doubt thinking to find a wedge to drive into our religious justification of Russian oversight of the Ottoman church. Ignatiev made the papers available to him, and then said, ‘But, Lord Salisbury, you must make up your mind whether you are a good Christian or a good Turk. If you have decided to be a good Christian then I will take your program for the region as my own and support you loyally throughout the negotiations. But if you are for Turkish tyranny, then I will embrace the Russian program, and will press it with all my force. And you see, my lord, that will certainly make it much worse for the Turks. For they could never withstand an attack.’ Ha! ha! The man is a pure scoundrel, but you must admire his cheek. He has nerve all right. He just might be able to talk the English out of the area and win the Balkan states for his tsar—you can never tell.”

  Fedorcenko sighed. Maybe he would have a brandy after all.

  He had heard similar stories about the Russian diplomat. Even when he had been caught outright trying to cheat Salisbury, Ignatiev had managed to wriggle his way out of the jam, even coaxing the Englishman to laugh with him over the incident afterward. He was not just a shrewd negotiator and a skilled politician, he was a liar who would use any tactics he thought he could get away with to achieve his ends.

  But though he might laugh upon occasion, or lift a glass in toast with his enemy around the conference table, Lord Salisbury was no fool. If Britain guaranteed its neutrality in the event of hostilities in the Balkans, it would only be under the condition that the Suez Canal must be kept open, that Constantinople remain in Turkish hands, that the navigation of the Bosporus and Dardanelles continue in its present state, and that the war would not spread beyond the Balkans—if, indeed, it did come to war. Such terms Ignatiev might have some difficulty swallowing. And if Constantinople was in fact the goal, as Viktor had suggested, then all bets were off with the English. They would feel perfectly justified in coming immediately to the aid of the Turks against the Russian aggressors.

  At that moment the door opened a
nd General Count Dmitri Milyutin strode into the room.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked brusquely. “I thought this meeting was to begin immediately.”

  “Apparently not,” replied Fedorcenko. “Brandy and cigars have been provided for us, but unfortunately, we two are the only ones yet present.”

  “We can socialize out there.” The general jerked his head toward the door through which he had just come. “I was under the impression there was urgent business to attend to.”

  Over the years Viktor had developed nothing but respect for the little general, especially for the forthrightness of character which he now displayed. One could not tell by the man’s appearance that he was the Minister of War who had almost single-handedly brought about hundreds of desperately needed reforms in Russia’s army, butting his sturdy head constantly against aristocratic opposition. With his mousy appearance and diminutive stature, he hardly looked the seasoned veteran of nearly thirty years of military service and the Crimean War. By sheer brilliance and the force of his achievements—for he was no aristocrat—he had risen far in the ranks of government. Direct and unpretentious, he despised intriguers and flatterers and social climbers. One could hardly imagine such a man could have pushed through the Universal Conscription Act three years previously. To place sons of nobles and aristocrats, princes and counts on a level with peasants was unthinkable! Yet he had done it, with the tsar’s support, making all Russian young men at age twenty liable for military duty no matter what their background. True, Viktor’s own son had been caught in the net last year, but then Sergei had been groomed nearly since childhood for the military and Victor hoped he intended to make a career of it.

  “Well, General,” Baklanov began when Milyutin had seated himself in a straight chair, brandy in hand, “are we ready for war?”

  “Not in the next year,” replied the general succinctly. “And especially not if England decides to stand behind Turkey and commit her troops against us. But I have apprised the tsar of this state of affairs—I must abide by his decision.”