The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  In the Fedorcenko household, tradition held that the entire staff attended the service with the family. They all stood together, the glow of candlelight illuminating each face so that the lowest scullery maid appeared as esteemed of God as did the master of the house himself. Thus in their midst was played out that great dichotomy of Russian society, a hypocrisy perpetuated no less by the church than by the totalitarian state whose tool it had always been. Yet no one seemed aware of it. They were all good Russians, and to be a good Russian meant to pretend things on Sunday which did not hold true for the other six days of the week. Yet on this particular night of holy remembrance, perhaps the men and women of that vast empire came closer to being equal as brothers and sisters of God’s creation than at any other moment of the year.

  Anna stood in awe. Never had she seen the likes of such a host! The ceremonies and celebrations in Akulin were pale by comparison, involving but a handful of people, maybe a few hundred on Easter. Here there must have been a thousand . . . two thousand . . . maybe more! She had no way to guess. The candles seemed to stretch on forever, flickering under the dark, silent dome of the cathedral. The pulsing of new emotions and feelings called her toward higher things more than she had ever felt, tugging in deep corners of her being, pulling her out of herself, out of her past, toward . . . toward what? Toward whatever new experiences in life God had for her.

  What did God have for her? So much had changed already; what more could possibly lie around the unseen corners of her life? If things went on exactly as they were forever, she would be happy. What else could she ask for? She was maid to a princess she loved. She had been allowed to study and read and learn. She experienced a life beyond anything she had ever hoped or dreamed!

  In truth, more changes had come into the life of Anna Yevnovna Burenin, onetime peasant girl of Katyk, now maid to a prince’s daughter, than even she imagined. She could not have seen it as she stood there in the flickering candlelight, but out of her eyes gazed a different individual than the girl who had arrived, fearful and timid, in St. Petersburg a few months earlier. She was nearly seventeen, and the woman inside was emerging, in more ways than the lines of maturity in her cheeks and jaw, the curves of her body, and the half-an-inch she had grown since old Yevno had bid his lady-child goodbye.

  Yevno’s snow child, in the very glow of the candle she held, was melting into the past of the disappearing winter. In its place was emerging a tender white-flowering snowdrop, pushing her brave head up through the earth to peek out upon a fresh-dawning world. The delicate flower would not hang its tiny head at the end of its green stalk, but rather would grow tall and stretch out new arms and send strong roots deep into the nourishing black earth from which it had been born.

  Anna’s world was indeed new, and she had begun to take her place in it. No longer was she intimidated by her surroundings, whether in the great city, in the Fedorcenko mansion, or even in the Winter Palace itself. The poise with which she carried herself may have been undetectable to her own eyes, but not to those around her. Nina would never have admitted that Anna was sometimes more like a lady than her mistress. But Mrs. Remington saw it and murmured to herself, “I saw it in her from the day I first laid eyes on her. Somewhere there must be noble stock in the girl’s blood.” The change was most apparent to those who had known Anna briefly in the kitchen. Polya was happy for her friend. Olga Stephanovna resented one of humble station putting on airs, but she would no longer have dared to speak a harsh word to Anna. Not only had Anna become the princess’s favored protege, but something inside Olga sensed that Anna had surpassed her. She was still a maid perhaps, yet a lady in servant’s clothing.

  Anna’s was not a face of striking beauty, yet her surfacing self-confidence when combined with the quiet reticence of her nature could not help but compell the young men inclined to study such a face for a moment to take a second, even perhaps a third look. She was slow to blush, and the pink tones of color on her cheeks never betrayed her feelings as readily as did the fire of Katrina’s. A quiet smile and a downward glance of the eyes might have spoken as deeply of what lay in Anna’s heart as a lightning flash from Katrina’s eyes, followed by the thunderous torrent of her words. Katrina’s was the spectacular beauty of the season’s first brilliant purple crocus or red-edged yellow daffodil, which instantly drew the eyes of a young man toward it. Anna remained the innocent pure-white snowdrop, upon which attentions might not as quickly gather, but whose delicacy would hold the discerning eye entranced, and eager to know more of the mystery.

  Her soft translucent voice, especially when the poetry of the French flowed from her lips, reminded her proud instructor Fingal of an icy melting stream, whereas Katrina spoke in the beguiling tones of an expensive wine.

  Some around the palace commented that the best traits of the mistress were being transferred to the maid in their association together. Those who understood such things on more profound levels—Fingal Aonghas and Mrs. Remington, for example—knew that the significant transfer was taking place in the opposite direction. Katrina was taking an interest in her studies, and her tone and carriage seemed to be calming. Even Princess Natalia had commented that her daughter seemed much more “modest and grown-up” of late. She assumed it had something to do with the redecoration of Katrina’s room. But the causes ran far deeper, on planes of spirituality and personality beyond anyone’s ken. The changes in both girls might have been subtle, yet there could be no doubt both were growing rapidly—toward one another to as great an extent as toward their approaching adulthood.

  One other member of the Fedorcenko household noted the changes in Katrina’s maid—noted them not merely with the pride of the mentor or the satisfaction of the mistress, but with sensations deeper and nearer the regions of the heart. He could not deny that in this candlelight she was more beautiful to his eyes than all the gold in St. Isaac’s. Focusing his attentions on the solemn service was impossible; he could not remove his gaze from the snow princess as she stood in the darkness some fifteen feet from him.

  Shortly before midnight, the Bishop and company of priests gathered together and began walking down the middle of the cathedral, forming the vanguard of a giant processional which would symbolically go out in search of the crucified and buried Savior.

  The Bishop and priests left the cathedral, and the congregation filed out behind them, gradually emptying the vast church. Hundreds of lighted candles bobbed up and down, flowing out to the street like a chain of brilliant night-diamonds. Along the street the priests, followed by the throng, walked around the entire perimeter, encircling the church in rich visual and symbolic splendor.

  After the slow walk of ten or twelve minutes, the priests again approached the door of the church, stopped, then entered. Finding themselves looking in on an empty cathedral, a fitting image of the empty tomb where Christ had been laid, they turned back to their hushed followers, and in their most commanding voices, rivaling the cry of the women who discovered the body of Jesus to be gone, shouted:

  “Christ is risen!”

  “He is risen indeed!” came the thunderous response of the congregation as the people massed together in the front of the cathedral, sounding more like a mighty army than a crowd of religious worshipers.

  As the mighty words echoed into the St. Petersburg night, the tones dying away in the distance were replaced by new sounds—a thousand voices erupting into an outpouring of enthusiastic emotion. After solemn worship came the fully expressed joy of that first Easter morning, with laughter, weeping, handclasps, greetings, and hearty embraces between loved ones and acquaintances, as at last the men and women of the congregation mingled freely together.

  This was the moment of unity, where barriers of class and station came down, when all men were brothers and sisters in the shared joy of the resurrection.

  Each of the Fedorcenkos circulated among as many of their servants as they could find in the mayhem of activity, giving to each a clasp of the hand, an affectionate hand on the sho
ulder, and in some cases even a hug. The triumphant words proclaimed by the priests and the response echoed by the people could now be heard repeated a hundredfold: “Christ is risen . . . He is risen indeed!”

  The emotion of the moment penetrated even the most private of hearts. With tears in her eyes, Katrina turned to Anna and for the first time embraced her tightly. “Christ is risen!” she said in an uncharacteristically husky voice.

  “He is risen indeed!” Anna replied with feeling.

  Natalia also embraced Anna, though her touch had the fleeting lightness of a butterfly. Through the crowd, Anna saw Polya trying to approach her. As Katrina’s mother flitted on, Anna pushed forward. As the country maiden and the kitchen servant met, they embraced and held one another.

  Tears rose to Anna’s eyes. “Christ is risen, Polya!” she said, though her voice sounded soft among so many.

  “He is risen indeed!” replied Polya. “Oh, Anna, I am so happy for you! You have grown so! I would think you were one of the ladies of the house, you have become so pretty!”

  “Polya, please!” said Anna, releasing her and stepping back to look into her friend’s face. “It isn’t so, and you know it.”

  “Anna, it is so. You should hear some of the young stable servants talk of you.”

  “Polya!”

  “Do not mistake me. It is with great respect and admiration. But the lines of womanhood on your face have not gone unnoticed.”

  The blush rising on Anna’s cheeks remained invisible in the darkness.

  “Only promise me,” Polya went on, smiling now good-naturedly, “that you will not forget me, one of your first friends in the city, when you are married to an important man someday.”

  “My very first friend!” corrected Anna. “And you speak nonsense, Polya,” she added with a laugh. “I will no more forget you than I will be married to an important man!”

  They were suddenly interrupted by a giant of a man who embraced both women at once, with each of his great arms.

  “Christ is risen!” said Moskalev.

  “He is risen indeed!” echoed both Anna and Polya in unison, as they laughed together in the huge coachman’s grip.

  “And I find myself dismayed to have been so quickly forgotten,” he said, turning his glance now upon Anna, his voice bearing a tone of injury.

  “What do you mean?” asked Anna.

  “All these months I have prided myself that I was your first friend, and that I introduced you to the city!”

  “Oh, Leo!” said Polya, struggling to free herself.

  “I shall not relax my grip until I am given my due as a man of honor.”

  “Then you shall have it, Leo,” said Anna, looking him somberly in the eyes. “I misspoke to Polya. She was my second friend in St. Petersburg, you were my first. I shall forever be in your debt!”

  “Acknowledgment received,” said Leo, letting the women go and giving first Anna and then Polya a quick peck on the cheek.

  He turned away, and Anna’s gaze followed him as he disappeared through the crowd. She felt another hand on her shoulder. She turned, a smile on her face to see Katrina’s brother. Her stomach lurched, and the smile immediately faded.

  “Christ is risen, Anna!” said Sergei, with a soft intensity as his eyes bore deeply into hers. He seemed probing for something other than the words which came weakly from her mouth. Perhaps for the reason her expression had so suddenly lost its luster.

  “Christ is risen indeed,” Anna replied softly through pale lips.

  She had turned to face him, and Sergei placed his arms around her in the traditional embrace. Tentatively she returned his hug. His arms pulled her to his chest firmly, lingering much longer than a mere Easter greeting would justify. When he began to relax after a moment, Anna suddenly realized that her knees had grown weak, and when he let her go to take a step backward, she swayed momentarily.

  Sergei leapt forward and quickly steadied her with his right arm about her waist, a movement which did not help her lightheadedness. She had no idea that the arm holding her trembled as much as did her own knees.

  “Anna,” he said softly, though he hardly needed to whisper in the din of noise and voices, “tonight during the Easter feast, I plan to walk in the garden. Will you join me?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Anna stammered, unable to reply.

  “There will be hordes of people at home. You will not be missed.”

  “Perhaps,” she finally said hesitantly, “if the princess does not need—”

  “I shall wait for you,” he said expectantly, not waiting for her to finish her words.

  Even as the words left his mouth, the crowd surged around them and they were separated. Nina, nearby, gave Anna the traditional greeting, though with stiff formality and without embrace.

  “He is risen indeed,” replied Anna. The words were weak and she was still in danger of swooning.

  “Are you feeling well, Anna?” asked Nina.

  “Yes . . . of course,” faltered Anna.

  “You look pale. Are you ill?”

  “No . . . no, I’m fine. I’m not used to such crowds.”

  Within half an hour the Fedorcenko carriages were loaded, and family, staff, servants, and friends rumbled and clattered their way back to the prince’s estate. Once home, Anna did her best to attend to the needs of Princess Katrina, though she could not get that moment at the Easter service out of her mind. She wondered if the things she felt were right. What would her papa say? Had she misinterpreted the whole encounter? Had the prince really asked her to walk with him in the garden? Suddenly she couldn’t even be sure, and the words refused to come back into her memory.

  Distractedly Anna helped Katrina into a fresh dress for the feast which was about to begin.

  “You are too quiet, Anna,” said Katrina. “This is a night for celebration!”

  “I’m sorry, Princess.”

  “There is nothing to be sorry about,” Katrina said gaily as she prepared to leave the room. “I only want you to enjoy the evening. I am on my way down to the feast. Now you get yourself ready and get down to the servants’ party as quickly as you can. And have fun, Anna!” added Katrina smiling.

  “Yes, Princess.” Anna returned her smile.

  “That’s more like it! I will see you later tonight.”

  Once Katrina had left, Anna returned to her own room. She fiddled a bit with her dress, then turned also to go. She descended the stairs toward the wing of the house where, in a separate banquet hall, the servants would be enjoying their traditional Easter feast. Anna walked on, slowly, heedless of her steps. Without realizing it she left the house altogether.

  Before she knew it she was standing in front of the entrance to the Promenade Garden.

  Since the change in her position, and especially since the change in Katrina’s disposition toward her, the garden was no longer forbidden to Anna, and the two girls came here often together. But now Anna froze, unable to go forward.

  For several minutes she stood motionless, fear of the unknown restraining her, yet a thrill of anticipation urging her forward. A dozen times she started and then stopped herself, until at last she mustered the courage to continue, past the marble columns and into the depths of the garden. Lanterns had been lit and were spaced along the pathways, and several of the guests had chosen to stroll outside to enjoy the fine spring evening. The fragrance of new life filled the chill air; springtime had come to Russia, but hints of ice and frost still lingered. In the light of a lantern, Anna saw the bright face of an early lily of the valley, overhead the lovely cheremukha tree was beginning to bud.

  Deeper and deeper into the garden she walked, the path sometimes black as night, sometimes shimmering in the soft glow of the moon or one of the distant lanterns. Her way grew quieter. The voices of other guests retreated into the distance. Her steps became tentative in the darkness.

  She was about to turn around when softly through the night air came the voice she had been hoping for, yet fearing to h
ear.

  “Anna!” it called out faintly.

  She turned toward it. “I’m here,” she replied.

  “I was afraid you weren’t coming,” said Sergei, now appearing from out of the night. “Come,” he went on, taking her hand firmly. She consented, and he led her still deeper into the garden. Neither said a word until they had walked briskly for perhaps five minutes. In the midst of a small clearing, atop a rising slope, sat a garden bench. Sergei indicated for Anna to sit down, then he took a seat next to her.

  “This is one of my favorite places to come at night,” he said. “When the moon is just right, as it is now, the way it glistens on the Neva there in the distance is so beautiful. There is so little about this country of ours to inspire poetry—except for war and hunger and poverty and inequality. Pushkin was fortunate to have lived when he did.”

  “All eras have their good times and their bad, Fingal says,” said Anna, speaking for the first time.

  “I know, I know,” sighed Sergei, “yet somehow the bitterness of these times seems worse. But at least when I sit here, I am able to think happy thoughts and convince myself that perhaps life might be a fairy tale after all.”

  Silence engulfed them for a few moments.

  “What do you think, Anna?” he asked.

  “About what, Prince Sergei?”

  “About life. Is it a fairy tale? Or rather, can it be one? Or are we doomed to whatever existence fate maps out for us?”

  “Doomed seems like a harsh word.”

  “You know what I mean, Anna. And is not life harsh? How many peasant girls can do what you do? Are they not doomed to a life without hope? You are living a fairy tale dream, Anna, but how many others are so fortunate?”