The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  “Where are we weakest?”

  “Discipline, weapons, supply. If only we had time to build more railroads!”

  “But the army has been so drastically improved since fifty-six. Surely the Turks cannot stand against us.”

  “Improved from a shambles—our Crimean legacy!” exclaimed Milyutin. “The Turks are a fierce race, and who can tell who they will have with them? No, gentlemen, I fear putting even our greatly ‘improved’ military to the test prematurely.”

  The three men spoke so candidly to one another because long years of association had shown that they were of the same mind in important areas. Now the general turned frankly toward Fedorcenko.

  “Viktor, I can only hope that if we do go to war, you will resume your commission and rejoin your regiment. I shall feel more secure leading the fight with men like you in command.”

  Viktor nodded his head in thankful acknowledgment, but without reply.

  “And I understand your son is also a commissioned officer now?”

  “Yes, Sergei. I am most proud of his accomplishments, although I must admit his career aspirations do not drive him as they did those of us in an earlier generation.”

  “I understand,” nodded the general. “The times are changing, and it seems the young people always lead the way.”

  A brief twinge of pain passed across Viktor’s face as he thought of his son, but just as quickly it was gone.

  “And about your commission . . . ,” the general was saying.

  “I will go where I am needed,” answered Viktor.

  “Believe me, you will be needed in the army. The tsar has already determined his commanders for the several theaters of war—all the Grand Dukes, of course. When, I ask, will he learn to leave war in the hands of professionals and trained military minds—?”

  Milyutin cut himself off short as the doors opened once again.

  Two more men entered—the Minister of Finance Count Reutern, and the tsar’s son and heir, Alexander Alexandrovich. The general had just stopped talking in time, for the tsarevich would of course be one of those amateur commanders-in-chief Milyutin scorned.

  But if nothing else, the heir to the throne at least looked the part of a military giant. Thirty-one and a bear of a man, the young Alexander easily dwarfed his father. Besides his name and lineage, one of his chief claims to fame lay in his physical strength. He made a show at parties and social occasions of bending iron bars in his bare hands. He had never been in any way groomed for the throne, however, and was thus a dull, uninteresting man. The death of his older brother Nicholas ten years earlier had suddenly thrust him into prominence; all at once Russia’s future rested squarely on his bulky shoulders.

  The conversation grew stilted.

  Tsar Alexander’s son took the ardent Pan-Slav view that the mission of Holy Russia must continue to be the protection of all Slavs and the Eastern Orthodox faith, even if it meant an invasion across the Turkish border and an ultimate repeat of the Crimean War against all of Europe. His views were stronger and more reactionary than his father’s. Young Alexander seemed more a son of his grandfather than of the present tsar.

  It was a bit unusual that the tsarevich should find himself now thrust into the midst of the company of men of such differing viewpoints. But the balance was soon to even out in his direction; three or four others arrived and the debate grew heated.

  Among the newcomers was Count Orlov, a man so reactionary that he had been dismissed from the secret police Third Section at the beginning of Alexander’s reign for his excessively repressive tendencies. Out of the public eye, however, the count had managed to remain close to the throne as a significant advisor to the tsar. The two gradually came to see more eye to eye as Alexander grew increasingly conservative himself. Also numbered with the war-posturing reactionaries was Count Dmitri Tolstoy—no relation to the renowned author. This Minister of Education had done more to set Russian education back into the dark ages than anyone. And, of course, rounding out the conservative stance, was the tsarevich’s old tutor and mentor, Pobedonostsev, who believed in the autocracy with almost a spiritual passion.

  These latter three arrivals seemed carryovers from Tsar Nicholas’s reactionary reign, and completely out of place in an administration which had freed the serfs, remade the military, and reformed many judicial and social agencies within the Motherland. Yet now in Alexander’s later years, as had been the case with his uncle and namesake, the tsar surrounded himself with such men, and increasingly found himself in agreement with their policies, to the dismay of moderates such as Fedorcenko and Baklanov.

  It was only fitting, Viktor supposed as he sat there silently studying the notable coterie assembled, that such vastly separated poles of political persuasion should be represented among the vacillating tsar’s advisors. He had been wondering more often of late at which end of the spectrum he fit. The tsar’s movement toward the decided right presented a difficult dilemma for Viktor Fedorcenko.

  He was a moderate, he supposed—considered liberal by some and conservative by others. He believed in the monarchy, but, though he was discreet in voicing it, he also felt that a constitution could work, and one day soon would have to be made to work. Even tsarist Russia could not withstand the flow of world events forever, and it was clear that absolutism went against the tide of the future. He certainly did not share the hard-headed isolationist views of his Pan-Slav colleagues. For survival’s sake, Russia had to become more integrated with its European neighbors. But he was still enough of a proud nationalist himself to see Russia as the dominant force in the European matrix—not dominating as the tsarevich would have it, but dominant.

  Was such a dichotomy impossible? Perhaps the unreality of his “middle ground” position explained why the moderate position was rarely held in a place like Russia, where extremes were a norm, even in her physical and geographic makeup. Perhaps he, Viktor Fedorcenko, had chosen a political course even more hazardous than the most radical revolutionary.

  Before long the entire group had arrived and made the rounds of the liquor and cigars. At last they were ready to proceed to business. The tsarevich addressed the group.

  “My father, His Imperial Majesty, has requested that I inform you all of a telegram received a short time ago,” he said in a monotone voice. “If it were not important I would not have called you away from the festivities.”

  He took a sheet from his pocket as if he needed to refer to its few words as a reminder of what to announce. “It is from Count Ignatiev,” he went on. “He reports that the Constantinople Conference has come to an end. Turkey has rejected the terms of the Six Powers. The tsar would like each of you to be prepared to confer with him tomorrow on this matter, as he decides what course of action to pursue.”

  “Are we at war, Your Highness?” asked Baklanov.

  “War has not been declared,” replied the tsarevich. Viktor thought he denoted a slight disdain in the young Alexander’s tone. “But it is only a matter of time,” he went on. “Turkey cannot stand against the wishes of the tsar.” He carefully folded the paper and replaced it in his pocket. Then, somewhat stiffly thanking the small gathering, he turned and exited.

  As the door shut the men remaining inside immediately launched into enthusiastic conversation, but just as quickly the discussion waned. In such an amalgamation of differing viewpoints, where most of the men present could be considered either within or close to the tsar’s “inner circle,” it was prudent to guard one’s words carefully. One could never tell when a careless statement might be carried back to Alexander by a political adversary. Viktor had learned over the years that discretion was indeed the better part of valor. Perhaps the day would come when he would have to cast aside his caution. But for now it seemed not only in his best interests, but also in the interest of the country to exercise caution in his remarks.

  Gradually the men began to disperse.

  Viktor and his friend Baklanov left the room together to walk back to the ballroom, ta
lking quietly as they went.

  “Did you happen to notice young Alexander’s consternation over his father’s reticence in declaring war?” said Baklanov. “If he were on the throne, he would no doubt already have our troops across the Danube and halfway to Adrianople by now.”

  “I can’t imagine that he expected his father to declare war five minutes after receiving the telegram—though the tsarevich has never been known for his patience or leniency.” Viktor sighed. “He was right in one matter—it is only a matter of time now. I have no doubt that within weeks our sons will indeed be marching to war in the south.”

  “And you, Viktor? Will you answer General Milyutin’s call?”

  “I suppose I have little choice. But it will be difficult for Natalia to have both me and our son away from home,” he sighed, shaking his head.

  35

  The Winter Palace rose only three stories high. But thanks to imperial decree, no new construction was allowed to rival it, and thus it remained the tallest structure in St. Petersburg.

  Attempting to navigate through the palace, Anna found herself bewildered by the maze of corridors and rooms. Once she had made two or three turns, she realized she had already lost her way. Timidly opening a few doors, she hoped to find a servant who might assist her with further directions, but there were precious few to be found. She approached yet another closed door, and stretched out her hand toward it. At the last moment a maid approached from the far end of the corridor and Anna turned aside and walked toward her. Had she known that in that room the tsarevich himself was in the midst of a momentous announcement to several high officials of his father’s government, she would no doubt have fainted in the middle of the wide hallway.

  Nina had given her sketchy directions, and Anna could barely make sense of them. When she questioned the maid in the corridor, her success was not much better. Not wanting to appear stupid, she did not ask for further specifics, and in another few moments found herself again standing in another corridor with no idea which way to go.

  “I will ask the next person I meet to simply take me to the ballroom,” Anna murmured to herself, “even if it is the tsar himself!”

  Walking farther, she turned still another corner, descended a short flight of stairs, walked down a long hallway, around another right angle only to find another flight of stairs. She had gone up and down so many abbreviated flights of stairs and turned so many corners—she no longer had any idea even which floor she was on. And wherever she was, the place seemed deserted. Everyone was at the ball.

  As she paused at the top of the stairs, wondering whether or not to descend, all at once she heard footsteps, followed by a figure coming into view—a handsome uniformed guard. Startled, Anna gasped and stepped quickly back away from the stairwell. The man studied her carefully as he ascended toward her. His facial expression remained fixed, but a definite amusement danced in his eyes. She had hoped to meet a servant, not a member of the regiment of the emperor’s fiercest guards, and now as she stood there watching the Cossack approach, she looked like a cornered beast.

  In spite of her terror, she was about to make good her resolve and force the request from her mouth. Suddenly several more figures came into view. Two or three more Cossack guards led the way, followed by several older men. She had seen governmental officials come and go from the Fedorcenko household. They were rather intimidating, to be sure, but not enough to make her tremble. But when the last man of the party came into view and began climbing the stairs, Anna’s knees gave way and she clutched at the balustrade to keep from crumpling to the floor, even as her heart seemed to fail her.

  Everyone in Russia knew that face. Anna had seen his likeness in portraits in Katyk and throughout all of St. Petersburg. It was the tsar!

  Shrinking back against the wall, as if hoping she could melt into it and disappear, Anna stared dumbly with wide eyes at the first guard who had now reached the landing and had paused.

  “His Imperial Highness will pass this way in a few seconds, Miss,” he said in a firm but oddly gentle voice. Even in her present plight, the man’s tone—out of keeping with the savage Cossack tradition—put her at ease.

  Anna merely nodded in reply, her wide eyes taking in the progress of the remainder of the party as they started up the stairway toward her. The corner of the Cossack’s mouth twitched in an imperceptible smile.

  “Miss,” he said with immense patience, “you would do well to curtsy.”

  Sent in advance to warn any present of the imperial approach, the man had never dreamed he would have to take such measures with a pale little servant girl who had lost her way. But Anna recovered enough self-possession to move her arms and legs. Immediately she dropped into her deepest curtsy, focusing down on the floor.

  She heard the footsteps approach up the stairs, as first one then another reached the top and continued down the corridor. Suddenly her curiosity got the best of her and she cast a hasty glance upward.

  The movement of her head drew his attention. The face of the tsar turned in Anna’s direction and their eyes met.

  It was but for an instant; the next second Anna quickly again sought the floor with her eyes. The incredible moment came, and with a quick blink was gone. The tsar continued on his way down the hall with his retinue, led by the patient, gentle-spoken Cossack.

  In less than a minute Anna was once more alone in the silent hallway, too stunned to reflect on what she had just seen—the eyes of the tsar himself looking straight into her own! Only when the footsteps of the tsar and his party had passed out of her hearing did she pull herself slowly back to her feet. Later she would no doubt give the incredible experience much thought. But for now, as she uncoiled from her curtsy, the only thing on Anna’s mind was that she still did not know the way to the ballroom, and the princess would be furious if she failed to deliver the note she still held in her hand.

  She crossed herself and whispered a silent prayer for help, then began looking about, wondering whether to follow in the direction of the tsar’s party, or descend the stairs up which they had come.

  After a moment or two she timidly began the descent, reached the bottom, and continued on around the corner. Again she heard footsteps, but before there was time to react another figure came into view.

  “Anna!” came a voice she immediately recognized. It was Prince Sergei Fedorcenko.

  “Your Excellency!” she said, stopping to curtsy, relieved to at last find a friendly face.

  “I thought I told you I didn’t hold with all that formality,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose I could twist your arm to call me Sergei?”

  “You are my superior,” replied Anna timidly as she stood and faced him. “I do not see how I ever could.”

  “Ah, well . . . then perhaps Prince Sergei would be the best compromise. But none of this ‘Excellency’ business. I can’t bear it!”

  “I think I could do that,” she answered. “At least I shall try my best.”

  “So, Anna, what brings you so far from the servant’s quarters?”

  “I am on an errand for Princess Katrina, though I am afraid I have gotten completely lost.” She paused, but then the next instant went on excitedly. “Oh, but you’ll never believe what just happened—I have seen the tsar! He passed not an arm’s length from me. Can you imagine?” As she spoke, Anna hardly paused to reflect on the ease with which she spoke or how relaxed she felt in the presence of the son of such an important prince of Russia. As had been the case that day on the river, Sergei Fedorcenko did not behave toward her as she would have expected.

  “What a grand moment for you, Anna,” he said with a kindly smile. “Someday, if you like, I shall introduce you personally.”

  “Oh, no!” protested Anna. “Just the sight of him was almost all I could bear!”

  Sergei laughed good-naturedly. “Well, I promise to do nothing that will make you faint with fear. But you said you were lost—where were you going? I’ll see if I can help you find yo
ur way.”

  “To the ballroom.”

  “At least you have wandered more or less in the right direction. Come,” he said as he turned around, “I will take you there myself.”

  Anna obeyed and followed the prince down the corridor, continuing in the opposite direction from where she had seen the imperial party.

  “Do you really know the tsar, Prince Sergei?” she asked as they walked.

  “He and my father are good friends and have known each other for years. They play whist and faro together often, and my father is also one of Alexander’s ministers. I have met him personally only on two or three occasions. When I can, I avoid such goings on. I have never cared much for all the court pomp and ceremony—unlike my sister Katrina, who I believe lives for it all.”

  “It is good for me you decided to come tonight. I might have wandered about these halls forever.”

  “I make occasional appearances at such festivities. It gives me a chance to wear my dress uniform, besides rescuing lost girls. And so, Anna, on what sort of mission are you bound for my sister?”

  “I must deliver a message to Count Remizov.”

  “Dmitri . . . in the ballroom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hmm . . .” he mused. “What is my sister up to?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Katrina, Katrina . . .” he said softly, in a tone that revealed he knew exactly what his younger sister was up to, “you will no doubt fit perfectly into the court life when you come of age.” He took a breath, then added to Anna, “You must watch yourself, Anna. Katrina is already beginning to master the art of intrigue. Do not let her draw you into anything against your will.”

  “Intrigue, Prince Sergei?”

  “The palace court—indeed all of St. Petersburg—is rife with it, Anna. Political intrigue, romantic intrigue—everyone skulking about seeking to curry the favor of the tsar or those close to him, behind the backs even of their closest friends. The lies, the deceit, backbiting, gossip, scheming . . . there has never been the likes of it even in the crudest peasant’s grog shop. Do not let yourself be drawn into it, Anna. It infects everyone, from the very rich and important, all the way down to the lowest servants.”