Days stretched into weeks and summer wore on. Still the Turks under Osman occupied the town and controlled every strategic advantage. In the valley below, what had begun as a two or three day pause in the march had turned into a nearly permanent Russian encampment.
In August, well past the thirty-day victory expected at the outset of the war, the Imperial Army remained stalled and motionless on their march to the Shipka Pass. The tsar called up many of Russia’s Guard units and ordered them to the front. All news of the army’s debacle at Plevna had been suppressed in the newspapers of Kiev, Moscow, and St. Petersburg. But with the calling of the various regiments of the Guard, word began to leak out that the vaunted Imperial Army had hit a snag.
The mood of the nation, once so eager for war, began quickly to change. The voices of those who had previously hinted at the incongruity of liberating Serbs and Bulgarians when there remained such hardship, oppression, and inequality back at home in the Motherland now seemed all at once to reverberate like the voices of wisdom. Criticism of the tsar’s command, once limited to whispers behind closed doors, grew increasingly vocal. Already unpopular in many circles, the war further eroded Alexander’s esteem throughout his own land. The fact that the tsar, all his advisers, and most of his supporters in the military were a thousand miles away emboldened both the liberal nobility and the intelligentsia in Moscow and St. Petersburg to speak their minds a bit more freely. And among the commoners and working peasants, the fact that the calling of the Guard came at harvest time, when the men were most needed in the fields, added to the complaints and mutterings against the war.
Little could any of them have known—farmers or critics on the home front, commanders or soldiers in Bulgaria—that the siege of the mountain stronghold was still in its early days, and that the army would not budge from its present position for months to come.
Viktor Fedorcenko saw little of his son in the days and weeks that followed their initial meeting. Viktor tried to convince himself that regimental duties must be extremely heavy for his son, as they were for him. Yet he knew that time could be found if either of them had desired it. Once or twice he resolved to do better by his son, to try to understand his frustrations, yet he made no attempt to seek Sergei out. And he could not ignore an occasional stab of hurt in the knowledge that Sergei seemed perfectly content to maintain a distance between himself and his father.
Viktor sat down to write a long letter home. He was not permitted to impart details of the war, but Natalia would never have been able to comprehend them anyway. He told of Sergei’s forehead wound and Dmitri’s damaged arm, requesting that they inform his family.
As he laid aside his pen he felt a pang of loneliness. He leaned back in his chair and let out a long sigh. When he had answered the call of his country, he had been thinking only of duty. That was his life—duty to country, loyalty to the tsar. But in that brief moment it struck him that perhaps such duty and loyalty were not enough, especially for a man approaching his twilight years. The discord with Sergei caused him to wonder if he had not spent his life pointed in the wrong direction, following values that would in the end turn out to be hollow.
Katrina adored him, of course—Viktor knew that. He had always known them to be of kindred minds. As much as he loved and even admired his precocious daughter, however, she was not a son. Would she think less of him if she knew of the disappointment he sometimes bore in that regard? Somehow he thought she might understand. He hoped so, at least.
Straightening in his chair and pulling out a fresh sheet of paper, he wrote a brief personal letter to Katrina to send with the other. He folded the papers, put them in an envelope, sealed it, and again leaned back in his chair.
In a few minutes the courier came. Viktor sent off his letter in the imperial mail pouch, feeling a new wave of loneliness as he dropped the envelope into the leather bag.
59
Katrina and Anna were taking their lessons in the garden one warm summer day toward the end of August. Fingal had been using the war as an opportunity for providing the girls their daily history lesson, which had gradually come to occupy more of their time.
“Peter and Catherine were the paramount leaders of your nation,” Fingal said. “Neither Tsar Alexander, nor his father, nor his uncle can match the generalship of the great tsar and tsaritsa of the last century.”
“We have always been taught that every ruler is supreme,” said Katrina.
Fingal cracked a smile. “Supreme, perhaps,” he said. “But whether or not they are effective leaders for their time, and considering the world’s circumstances of which they are a part—these are not topics generally considered by the Russians who pass on their history to future generations. You Russians are curiously reluctant to examine your own history for the lessons it might teach you. It takes an outsider to see what is before your very nose.”
“Like you?”
“Precisely, Princess. That is why the Russian history you will gain from a Scotsman will be better history than anything you will be taught by one of your own blood. The Russians are so intent upon bolstering up weak images of their own past that they ignore the practicalities it would teach, and thus go stumbling on into the future to make the same mistakes over and over again.”
He paused briefly. “Now, Anna,” he went on, “what do you think I meant by the word effective?”
“What they accomplish . . . what they do,” replied Anna hesitantly.
“That’s it exactly,” said Fingal. “The tsar may be Russia’s supreme authority, the sovereign over all the land, as the princess has reminded us. However, the question remains whether or not that sovereignty gets anything done.”
“You are saying Peter and Catherine were effective, and the tsars of this century were not?”
“Yes. Peter modernized and westernized the entire country in less than a generation. Russia advanced two hundred years under his strong leadership, and he set the military—especially the navy—on a par with any country’s in Europe. He built this city where we sit, built it by the strength of his iron will and—”
“And we’d all have been better off if he hadn’t!” interrupted Katrina, swatting at a giant fly that had landed on her arm. “Ouch! I hate this place in the summer. If the bugs and heat weren’t enough, the water tastes so foul after having to boil it all the time. I wish we’d have gone south!”
“The cholera would kill thousands, Princess, if the water were not decontaminated by boiling.”
“I know, I know, but still I hate it! In spite of the cold, winter is the only bearable season in St. Petersburg.”
“We must remain near the city for reports from the war, Princess.”
“I know,” sighed Katrina. “I’ll only be glad when the weather turns a little cooler and the dust and flies go away. Go on, Fingal. I’m sorry for interrupting.”
“Well, as I was saying, Peter was an effective tsar. He was a man for the times, in tune with the Europe of the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, in tune with the needs of his nation, and even, despite the grumbling the people did under him, in tune with what the Russians of that era truly wanted—that is, equality with the rest of Europe. So they submitted to the iron fist of his leadership because, down inside, their nationalistic pride wanted the same thing he did.
“Tsaritsa Catherine, as well, was in perfect harmony with her times. Her military leadership proved flawless. She was a general’s tsar, a skilled ruler who wielded the power of her army with precision, expanding Russia’s borders against Poland and against the crumbling Ottoman Empire in the south, in the very land where our men are engaged at this moment. She brought Russia further into the very center of European power, and stood beside the greatest rulers of Austria, England, and Prussia. Perfectly in stride with what the new and changing times of her era demanded of a leader, she, like Peter nearly a century before, earned both her people’s fear and respect.”
“But why do you say Tsar Alexander is not as effective?” a
sked Anna.
“Did I say that?” returned Fingal with a smile. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to criticize our leader.”
“I thought—”
Fingal chuckled. “Don’t worry, Anna. I was indeed hinting at what you suggest. But then we all know it is treason to criticize the tsar, so I must watch my words.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Fingal,” put in Katrina. “Do you think Anna or I would repeat a word of what you are telling us?”
“I sincerely hope not, Princess,” laughed the Scotsman.
“My father trusts you.”
“Perhaps he might find himself compelled to reconsider that trust if he heard my history lessons!”
“Bah! You are not saying anything that isn’t being said all around St. Petersburg. Everyone is wondering about the tsar’s rule, especially with the failure at Plevna.”
“There you may have hit on the very center of the argument!” exclaimed Fingal.
“How is that?” asked a bewildered Katrina.
“The times, Princess. These are different times today than those of Peter and Catherine. And effectiveness in a ruler must be measured in what he accomplishes according to the dictates of his era and its circumstances.
“You see, it’s not necessarily the person himself, but how he wields leadership given the circumstances he finds himself thrust into. If I may be so bold as to say it, Tsar Peter was by today’s standards a barbarian. And Tsaritsa Catherine was shrewd, cunning, and in many ways a cruel and heartless lady. By comparison, Tsar Alexander is a kindhearted and sympathetic man. I genuinely believe he feels a compassion for his people no other tsar in our history has ever felt.”
“My Papa and all the men of our village love him,” said Anna, “for how he has tried to help them.”
“And he has done a great deal for them, has he not?” added Fingal.
Anna nodded.
“Yet there remains a part of Alexander that is out of touch with these times we live in.”
“I don’t understand you exactly, Fingal,” said Anna.
“This century is unlike any other. The world is changing so rapidly. People are thinking about new things. Inventions are changing how everything is done—railroads, telegraph, machines. But the most radical changes are in people themselves. Revolutions have swept through Europe in the last thirty years. Common men want to be involved in what their governments do. They are speaking out, and they want to be heard. A strong iron-fisted rule will not work as it did for Peter or Catherine in these times.”
“What does all this have to do with Tsar Alexander?” asked Katrina.
“He sees the signs of change, he hears the voices calling for reform. He has carried out many reforms himself. He is a good man, trying to be in touch with the times.”
“Isn’t that good?”
“Of course. But he cannot help looking backward too, and trying at the same time to rule with the authority of his father, even though he dislikes such repression. Therefore, he is indecisive. He cannot decide which kind of tsar he wants to be. Sitting on the fence in the middle, he pleases no one.”
“It doesn’t seem fair,” said Katrina.
“Neither politics nor history is fair, dear Princess,” said Fingal with a sad expression. “Our poor tsar is caught in a grip I do not envy. No matter what he does, he will be criticized for it. He is a compassionate man, but one unfortunately not destined for decisive leadership. I cannot help fearing that—”
The tutor was interrupted by the sound of Nina’s voice breaking in upon them in the midst of their discussion.
“Your Highness,” she said, addressing Katrina with her usual somber and stately bearing, “the mail has arrived, containing a letter from your father. Your mother thought that you might like to read it.” She held out the envelope.
“Papa!” cried Katrina, snatching the letter from Nina’s hand. “He is . . . he is all right, Nina?”
“The Princess mentioned that he was well.”
“Thank you, Nina,” added Katrina, who began immediately to read.
Nina caught Anna’s eye and gave an approving nod while Katrina’s attention was diverted. Those two particular words of gratitude had become a more common part of Katrina’s vocabulary lately, and Nina, as much as she still disapproved of the informality between the young princess and her maid, realized that this as well as other positive changes were due in large part to Anna’s influence.
“If that is all, Your Highness,” said Nina with more than her usual measure of respect, “I will take my leave?”
“Yes, of course. Oh, and please tell my mother I shall come up to see her after luncheon.”
The moment Nina was gone Katrina continued with the letter, while Fingal and Anna stood patiently by. As she read through the first page she gave out occasional commentary: “He is well and safe. He spends most of his time at the headquarters, so he is away from the front most of the time. . . . He says Sergei has seen his first battle and is safe and sound . . .”
Suddenly she stopped with an abrupt gasp.
“Dmitri!” she cried. “Oh, Anna, Dmitri has been wounded.” Katrina’s color faded and a feeling of terror seized her. She continued through the letter.
“ . . . Shot through the arm . . . the temporary field hospital . . . recuperating at the rear of the regimental encampment . . .”
“I am sorry, Princess Katrina,” said Anna. “He is . . . recovering?”
“Yes.” She read on a few lines. “Father says he will be fine, but—”
A look of dismay crossed her face. “I was so proud when they marched off to war, Anna. The men were all so handsome in their uniforms with their polished sabres at their sides. All this time I have pictured Dmitri in that uniform—so brave, so heroic. I never once thought . . . it just never occurred to me that he might be hurt, wounded, that he could be—I cannot even say the awful words! Suddenly I feel sick and helpless.”
“I felt like that when I saw them leave, Princess. Sick at heart, and afraid.”
“See how selfish I am,” said Katrina. “I never thought to ask if you have anyone at the war.”
Anna’s thoughts turned immediately to Sergei, as they had daily since that night in the garden. But she remained silent. How could she say the things that had been on her heart since that fateful Easter evening?
“Do you have anyone at the war, Anna?” repeated Fingal, noting her sudden introspective mood.
“My father is too old to fight, and my brothers are still young. There are probably some young men from my village there, but I do not know.”
“And that is all?”
Anna hesitated again. Still she could not speak the name struggling to rise to her lips. “I met a guard at the palace,” she said. “He was a Cossack and told me he would have to go to the war.”
“A guard at the palace, Anna?” repeated Katrina, forgetting her dismay for the moment.
“I just met him passing through the halls. Does your father . . . does he say any more of . . . how your brother is?” asked Anna timidly.
“No, just that he spoke with him after the first battle but has seen little of him since. Oh, the whole thing’s awful!” she exclaimed, thinking of Dmitri once more. “At first I almost envied the men getting to march off to glorious adventure. Now I am ashamed of those thoughts.”
“There is no cause for shame, Princess,” said Fingal seriously. “You had no way to know better. Now you do. Perhaps we will all be somewhat more sober in our judgment of what war truly means. You can only be thankful that God has protected those both of you love.”
The girls were silent a few moments.
“Will He really protect them?” asked Katrina after a moment. “According to Papa’s letter there are still many months of fighting ahead, and they must still break through and get out of the mountains before they can continue south.”
“My papa always tells me that God’s protection is something we can be assured of,” said Anna, as if thinking aloud. “He
says we must never stop asking for it, even when we might not see evidence of it.”
“Your father must be a wise man,” said Fingal.
“He is not educated, if that is what you mean.”
Fingal smiled. “No, that is not what I mean, dear Anna. Education and wisdom are unrelated. I love education and learning and knowledge, but give me a man with wisdom any time.”
“You would like my papa,” smiled Anna. “And I know he would like you.”
“I wish I had more faith,” sighed Katrina, “but I’m afraid that is an aspect of my education I haven’t put much work into.”
“Faith does not come by education, Princess, any more than wisdom does,” said Fingal.
“What do you mean?”
“Faith is something you practice, something you live—not a subject you learn about, like mathematics.”
“But how do you do it, if you don’t know anything about it?”
“Everyone knows enough to begin,” said Fingal with a tender smile. “It is part of our makeup, our nature.”
“I do not feel anything like that in my nature, even when I go to church.”
“It is there, Princess. You just do not yet know how to recognize it.”
The tutor paused with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Tell me,” he went on in a moment, “what were you feeling a moment ago?”
“You mean about the war?”
Fingal nodded.
“Grief, worry . . . fear for my father and brother, I suppose,” Katrina answered.
“And concern over your brother’s friend.”
“Yes, of course.”
“There, you see! That is exactly what I was saying. Faith is stirring in your heart but you do not know it.”
“What does my anxiety have to do with it? Besides, you said it was something you do.”
“The faith that is in you, that is part of your nature, is stirring up your anxiety, Princess. It is telling you to pray for those men you love—that’s what it is telling you to do.”
The Russians Collection Page 37