“But it all looks so splendid and beautiful, like something from the finest storybook.”
“Whitened sepulchers all!”
“But this is the tsar’s home. There must be some good here, some who are honest and sincere.”
“Do you believe like all peasants, Anna, that the tsar is God’s emissary on earth?”
“It is what I have been taught. Though he is only a man, to be a ruler of so many I think he must have God’s blessing.”
“He rules only by chance of birth.”
“Does not God have a hand even in that?”
“Perhaps you are right, Anna. Maybe God does bless him, if only so that the common man might in turn be blessed. But I sincerely think too much power has been invested in the monarchy, whatever hand God might have had in his birth.”
Anna could not help but think of her brother Paul. Surely he would have been a far better participant than she in this conversation about the spiritual implications of the monarchy. Paul spoke to her sometimes about these things, but only when they were alone and there was no fear of being overheard, telling her that the tsar was evil and was doing more to destroy Russia than any plague. If the tsar were God’s representative on earth, he said, then he wanted nothing to do with such a God.
The words had shocked Anna at first. And she had prayed fervently for her younger brother at the next Mass. Now she was hearing similar sentiments, though less passionately spoken, from the son of a nobleman. She was relieved when the conversation drifted to less complicated topics, and she was especially glad when their talk turned to books, which they both loved.
“To tell you the truth,” admitted Sergei with a hint of unaccustomed shyness, “I was hoping I would see you tonight, Anna. I was out roaming the halls just now debating whether to go to the servants’ quarters in search of you.” His words hardly seemed fitting for a young man so much older than Anna, and so handsomely attired in the gold-trimmed uniform of the Guards.
“Why would you do that?” asked Anna, pleased though embarrassed, trying to hide the red that seemed intent on rising into her cheeks. “I am at your home every day.”
“I am rarely there,” replied the prince. “And besides, it would not do for me to be seen in the company of a servant, especially my sister’s. There are those who do not share my views on equality.”
Anna did not reply, and Sergei quickly went on in a lighthearted tone. “But enough of that for now—the reason I was looking for you is that I brought you something.”
He reached into his pocket and took out a folded sheet of paper.
“Do you remember that we talked about Pushkin and Lermontov the other day?”
Anna nodded.
“You said you knew that Pushkin was Lermontov’s mentor, but you were surprised when I told you that it was an Englishman who had a strong influence on Pushkin.”
“Yes,” replied Anna. “Lord Byron, you said.”
“And you had never heard of him. Well, I brought you one of his poems. He wasn’t a very admirable man personally, but was a genius with colorful and sensitive phrases. Anyway, I thought you might like to read it.”
“Oh, I would! But I don’t know a word of English.”
“This is a translation. But you must remember that all literature, especially poetry, loses something in translation.”
He handed Anna the paper. “Read it. See what you think. Maybe the day will come when I can teach you some English and you can compare.”
“I can hardly imagine what it would be like to know another language! Think of all the new books I could discover!”
Sergei laughed heartily. “Then I shall teach you French and German as well!”
“Do you really speak them all?”
“Unfortunately, a good many Russian noblemen speak foreign tongues with greater ease than their own. My father was adamant that we converse mostly in Russian in our household, although I still had to become fluent in the others as well. Go on, read the poem,” he added with an excited grin.
Anna stopped and unfolded the sheet. She read the words silently as Sergei remained motionless, watching her expression as her eyes moved down the page.
“When Friendship or Love our sympathies move,
When Truth in a glance should appear,
The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile,
But the test of affection’s a Tear.
Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite’s wile
To mask detestation of fear;
Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye
Is dimm’d for a time with a Tear.
Mild Charity’s glow, to us mortals below,
Shows the soul from barbarity clear;
Compassion will melt where this virtue is felt,
And its dew is diffused in a Tear.
The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath
In Glory’s romantic career;
But he raises the foe when in battle laid low,
And bathes every wound with a Tear.
If with high-pounding pride he return to his bride,
Renouncing the gore-crimson’d spear,
All his toils are repaid, when embracing the maid,
From her eyelid he kisses a Tear.
When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night,
And my corpse shall recline on its bier,
As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.
May no marble bestow the splendor of woe,
Which the children of vanity rear;
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name,
All I ask—all I wish—is a Tear.
Anna looked up with tears in her eyes at Sergei who still stood silently regarding her. “It’s beautiful,” she said. “These are not the kind of sentiments you expect to hear from a man.”
“My favorite is the stanza about the soldier,” said Sergei lightly.
“Those are the lines I liked least,” replied Anna with deep earnestness.
“That is the way with women, I suppose.”
“No one likes to see men go off to fight.”
“Everyone is saying there will soon be another war,” said Sergei as they began walking again.
“I have heard the talk. Will you have to fight?”
“Of course,” he replied with little enthusiasm. “I must admit, I will never be a military man at heart. But it is my lot, I suppose. I hate the thought of conflict with another man face-to-face. But if I have to fight, I will. What else can I do?”
They continued on in silence a while, absorbed in private thoughts. In another few moments Sergei announced, “Well, here we are at the ballroom.”
36
Now that she heard the music, Anna realized that the sounds had been gradually filtering into her consciousness for some minutes as they approached down the long, wide hallway.
Walking at the side of Prince Sergei Fedorcenko, she had not even noticed. Nor had she been aware of the many people suddenly about—servants and footmen, guests, even royalty—all mingling and talking and milling about and going in and out of the ballroom. She had been so engrossed in the conversation with Katrina’s brother that she had completely forgotten the intimidation she had felt upon first entering the Winter Palace. All at once it returned to her in full force, and she felt like melting through the floor. What was she, a mere servant, doing here!
“Shall I go inside and fetch the count for you?” asked Sergei with a sympathetic smile.
“Oh yes, please!” answered Anna with visible relief.
“Wait here. I’ll be back in two or three minutes.”
He swung open one of the huge, gilded doors, and as he walked confidently through, Anna caught a momentary glimpse of splendors beyond any she could ever have imagined. The music of violins and cellos poured into the corridor, and with it the sounds of voices and dancing. The sparkling candles from what seemed a hundred crystal chandeliers sent thousands of
bright rays throughout the enormous ballroom.
Before her very eyes stood the most important people in all Russia. Even though the tsar himself had left the ball, there remained grand dukes and duchesses beyond counting, perhaps the tsarevich and his wife—aristocrats and nobles every one!
All this Anna took in with wide eyes in the three or four seconds it took the great door to swing closed. She marvelled at the ease with which Sergei flowed through the crowd, greeting here and there an acquaintance with a smile and a word or two. And then just as suddenly as the grand scene had appeared, it was gone. Anna was left in the corridor, reflecting upon the prince who had accompanied her. For all his talk about equality of station, there could be little doubt that the young Fedorcenko was very much a member in good standing of Russia’s most elite class. That she could feel so comfortable with one who could mix so readily with servants and royalty alike made Anna wonder even more at the character of this young nobleman.
When the door swung open again, Anna could not help feeling relief, accompanied by a thrill of pleasure, as the prince stepped into her sight once more. Only with great effort did she notice the dashing Count Remizov who followed Sergei into the hall. As she took him in, she saw immediately that he was indeed handsome, more so than Prince Sergei. Yet the expression of his face lacked something. He possessed striking good looks, but he seemed to be missing an indescribable depth of character.
Involuntarily Anna’s eyes flitted quickly back and forth between the two young Guards. There could be no mistake. The quality of spirit that ran so deeply within Sergei could be detected nowhere in the smile on the face of Count Remizov. Indeed, its absence in others made it all the more noticeable in Prince Sergei Fedorcenko.
Even as the two approached her, Anna saw at once how the count would appeal to Princess Katrina. She recognized the light flashing out of his eyes; she had seen it in Katrina’s countenance, too. They were, in fact, very much alike.
“So, my little maid,” Count Dmitri said in a light and carefree tone, “my comrade-in-arms tells me you have come bearing a mysterious message for me from his sister.”
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Anna replied. Unlike Sergei, the count did not contradict her use of the term of respect. She handed him the paper Katrina had given her.
As he took it, Dmitri cast a questioning glance in Sergei’s direction. Sergei replied with a shrug. Dmitri unfolded the paper and scanned the finely scripted page.
“Ah,” he said with wide expressiveness, “it seems she wants to thank me personally for aiding her this evening in a little mishap.”
“Mishap?” questioned Sergei.
“Nothing serious, my friend. It has something to do, I think, with the awkwardness of adolescence.”
“What happened?” asked Sergei.
“She stumbled and nearly fell on the dance floor, and I merely chanced to be a convenient pillar of strength against which she regained her balance.”
He paused, sighed nonchalantly, refolded the note, and tucked it into his tunic pocket. “Well,” he said, “I have nothing particularly pressing at the moment. I’ll go directly and pay my respects to your dear sister.”
“My lord Count,” put in Anna in a small but determined voice, “may I ask if I might accompany you? I am afraid I will only lose my way again if I attempt to return alone.”
The two young men glanced over to where Anna stood as if they had completely forgotten she was there. Dmitri gave her a quick appraisal with his witty eyes, then laughed. “My, but you do look like a lost little lamb at that. Of course. Come along, then.”
As he turned to go, his friend’s voice interrupted him.
“Thank you for offering,” interposed Sergei hurriedly, “but Katrina is no doubt fit to be tied, she has already waited so long. Why don’t you hurry on ahead? I shall see Anna back.”
“It will take but an extra minute—” Dmitri began.
Sergei cut him off abruptly. “I will take care of Anna, Dmitri,” he said in the firm, authoritative tone of an officer of the Imperial Guard.
Dmitri raised an eyebrow, clearly taken aback by the uncustomary sharpness in his friend’s voice. Then the corner of his mouth curved up in a knowing grin. “Of course, of course, my friend!” He turned again and quickly walked away.
“I hope you don’t mind,” said Sergei to Anna as Dmitri retreated from sight.
“No, Prince Sergei,” replied Anna, “but you didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to,” interrupted Sergei. “It will give us more time to talk about Byron.”
“You are missing the party and the great ball.”
Sergei laughed. “I’d sooner spend the evening in a Siberian labor camp than in there. I’d much rather talk of Byron and Pushkin . . . with someone who really understands. There’s just no other way to say it.”
“I . . . I don’t know . . .” replied Anna, flustered.
“You never know, Anna. So I must know for you.”
“But if the Princess needs me . . .”
“Leave my sister to me. Come.”
He took her hand and hustled her away from the ballroom door, receiving several astonished looks from nearby guests as he did so.
Within five minutes he had fetched his overcoat and they were outside. He placed the coat around Anna’s shoulders and led her into the palace courtyard, now completely deserted. Though it was far too cold for a nighttime walk, Anna felt much more at home in the quiet beauty of the out-of-doors than inside. No other soul was in sight; they could not see the fires burning in the cauldrons for the servants, nor hear voices of revelry—either within or without the great palace.
“This is perhaps uncomfortable for you, Anna,” Sergei began. “I am sorry.”
“I am your servant,” replied Anna softly. “It is only difficult for me to understand why you do not want to attend the ball, when I am nothing but a young peasant servant who—”
“Oh, but Anna,” said Sergei in frustrated excitement, “you have no idea how dull most of those people up there can be! Scarcely one of my friends has even heard of Lord Byron. Or if they have, they wouldn’t know how to read him.”
“I had never heard of him either, before tonight,” said Anna.
“But I knew that once I showed you something of his, you would understand it, you would know how to read it! Don’t you see the difference? If I had shown that poem to Dmitri, although he is my best friend, he would have laughed in my face—or at least have tossed the paper aside with some casual remark about tears being for women and babies. But you, Anna—I knew you would understand the poet’s heart, as I think I do. At least sometimes! That’s why I wanted to share it with you.”
They walked on a few moments in silence. Deep inside Anna did understand. She had felt similar longings to share her thoughts and ideas and things she had read with someone who would know what she was feeling. Her father Yevno and her brother Paul were the closest she had to such friends. But Yevno was a simple man who could not even read, and she and Paul seemed to be drifting apart lately. So the notion that a prince of Russia, four years her elder, who knew the tsar—that he would want to share ideas with her was almost beyond comprehension!
The next hour passed as if it were only a few minutes. Oblivious to the frigid temperature, the son of a prince and the daughter of a peasant spoke openly and freely, as if no barriers existed between them. Anna told of her family, and even about Paul, although she feared her brother’s radical ideas might put off the prince. Sergei, however, listened attentively and sympathetically.
“Your father sounds like a wonderful man,” he said when Anna paused. “I would love to meet him.”
“He would be so honored,” replied Anna, smiling at the thought of the two shaking hands, or even embracing.
“I am embarrassed to say it, but I have never even been to a peasant village like your Katyk,” Sergei added. “After listening to the love in your voice as you describe it, I am now determined to see these things for myself
. Perhaps I shall see your father one day.”
They walked on through the cold night, and Sergei began to speak openly about himself as well, revealing dreams and future plans he had never told anyone.
“What I want to be more than anything,” he said, “—but you must promise not to think me vain for saying it!”
“I promise,” laughed Anna.
“What I want to be is a writer! Can you imagine anything more wonderful than to actually create ideas on paper for others to read?”
“You are right—I can think of nothing. Have you written anything, Prince Sergei?”
Sergei hesitated. “Yes, actually I have,” he answered after a moment. “I was so excited that I foolishly gave the manuscript to Count Tolstoy—”
“Leo Tolstoy? The Tolstoy?” said Anna incredulously.
“Yes, he’s a family friend, and I gave it to him to read. Now I wish I hadn’t! I have not heard a word from him since, and he must hate it, or he would have said something or returned it to me. But there hasn’t been so much as a word!”
“I cannot believe it! Not just that you know Count Tolstoy, and the tsar, but that I am acquainted with a real writer of books.”
Sergei laughed. “A hopeful writer, Anna,” he corrected, “not a real one! And one who fears his first attempt may also be his last!”
“My papa always tells me to think the best, and never to lose hope. You must do that concerning your manuscript.”
“Your father is a wise man. But I’m afraid I still fear Count Tolstoy hates my verses and the story I let him read! But I will try, as you say, to keep my hope alive.”
The two continued to walk beneath the enchanting display of the aurora borealis, luminous streamers of light and color breaking through the high clouds. All class distinctions forgotten, inside Anna felt festive, merry, happy, and content. Tomorrow there would be realities to face. But for the moment nothing could disturb the mood of the blissful evening stroll.
The Russians Collection Page 23