The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

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  Part V: Home to the Country

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  Part VI: A House Divided

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  Part VII: A House United

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  About the Authors

  Fiction by Michael Phillips

  Books by Judith Pella

  A Cast of Characters

  The Burenin Family:

  Yevno Pavlovich Burenin

  Sophia Ilyanovna Burenin

  Anna Yevnovna Burenin (Annushka)

  Paul Yevnovich Burenin (Pavushka)

  Tanya

  Vera

  Ilya

  The Fedorcenko Family:

  Prince Viktor Makhailovich Fedorcenko

  Princess Natalia Vasilyovna Fedorcenko

  Prince Sergei Viktorovich Fedorcenko

  Princess Katrina Viktorovna Fedorcenko Remizov (Katitchka)

  Count Dmitri Gregorovich Remizov—Sergei’s best friend, Katrina’s husband

  Basil Pyotrovich Anickin—revolutionary son of Dr. Anickin

  Lt. Mikhail Igorovich Grigorov (Misha)—Cossack guard, Anna’s friend

  Count Cyril Vlasenko—Chief of Third Section, the Secret Police

  Kazan—Paul’s revolutionary friend

  Other revolutionaries:

  Sophia Perovskaya

  Andrei Zhelyabov

  Alexander Mikhailov

  Fedorcenko Servants:

  Mrs. Remington

  Polya

  Leo Vasilievich Moskalev

  Olga Stephanovna

  Nina Chomsky

  The custom in Russia is to be known by three names—the Christian name, the patronym (“son of . . .” or “daughter of . . .” your father’s name), and the surname. The patronym is formed by adding the appropriate suffix to the individual’s father’s Christian name. The endings are usually vich or ovich for a male, and vna or ovna for a female. These patronyms are often used almost interchangeably with the surname. Nicknames or “little” (diminutive) names are also used in intimate conversation between family and close friends—Pavushka, Annushka, Katitchka, Misha, Sasha, etc.

  1

  MARCH 1878

  The garden was once again still.

  Since her first days at the Fedorcenko estate, Anna had often come to this garden to seek solace. Here she had first met the princess . . . and here the prince had spoken to her his first words of love.

  Then a war had parted them, and throughout the long months she had carried the secret silently within her breast: A prince of Russia, whose father counseled the tsar, was in love with her—a mere peasant girl. The memory of his softly spoken words of love became a quiet treasure Anna would keep forever.

  But the war had changed Prince Sergei Fedorcenko. He had made clear that he still loved Anna and still wanted her to be his wife, but he had changed in his attitude toward himself, toward life.

  “I have to get away,” he said that first day after his return. “I have to think about many things. I have to . . .” He paused, glancing around nervously. “I don’t know, Anna,” he went on. “I just don’t know any longer what is important, what really matters. I feel as if I’m looking down a dark tunnel—at the end, in the only ray of light, I see your face. But the path in between is so dark. I’m not sure I could find my way. And if I did, how could I touch you with so much blood on my hands?”

  His words stopped. She looked into his eyes, eyes that spoke of pain, of confusion, of a sad guilt she could not reach. She longed to soothe his tormented soul, yet she felt powerless.

  In the few days he was home, Sergei contrived to see Anna several times. He spoke to her of the war, of what he felt, of the pain, and of the horror of taking a life. He wept unashamedly before her, as he was too proud to do before his own family and peers. He spoke of his wound, and the infection that had developed, and about his book.

  “I’m almost finished with it, Anna,” he said, his eyes brightening with more enthusiasm than he had shown about anything. “I worked on it the whole time, especially after I was laid up. I wrote to Count Tolstoy, and he has agreed to critique it for me. He even extended an invitation for me to visit Yasnaya Polyana! Can you believe it, Anna?”

  But Prince Sergei’s enthusiasm was short-lived, and he soon relapsed into the morass of dark thoughts and emotions. Anna wondered if the war had destroyed Sergei’s love for life. She wondered if his book was as bleak as his countenance and outlook. If so, his words would not find a ready reception in the ears of Russia’s leaders, for Sergei made no attempt to hide his bitter views of the stupidity of the war effort.

  “This wound in my leg has warranted me an extended leave from my military duties,” Sergei said. “Perhaps I shall visit Tolstoy. I shall finish the book there, then perhaps travel in the provinces. Six months . . . a year. After that I shall return for you, Anna.”

  Anna smiled, but inside she knew how foolish it would be for her to hang on to false hopes. She knew Sergei was not at peace—with himself, with his country, or with the world. There was more to his determination to leave St. Petersburg than merely finishing his book. He was searching for something he had no idea where to find—meaning to life, hope in the midst of the futility he felt, relief from tormenting guilt, an outlet for the anger burning inside him over the unnecessary loss of life.

  “I love you, Anna,” he said. “I will come back for you. Once my book is published, I shall have the prestige to allow me to quit the military, and you and I shall live in the city. I will write, and—”

  Anna quietly silenced him with her finger. “I will still be here when you return” was all she said.

  Their final meeting before his departure had been brief.

  “I will carry your smile with me until I return,” he said, but his own smile as he spoke the words was sad and tired. The time at home had done nothing to assuage his inner turmoil and conflict, and clashes with his father had not helped. “But there is one last request I have to make of you, Anna,” he went on. “Let me depart with the assurance of your love. Let me hear it from your own heart. Please say it, Anna, and may it be the last thing I hear from your sweet lips, until we meet again.”

  “I do love you, Sergei Viktorovich,” said Anna softly.

  Supporting himself with one hand on his cane, he reached out with the other and drew Anna toward him, pulling her tightly to his chest. Without looking up, Anna knew there were tears standing in her young prince’s eyes.

  That was all. He released her, then turned and, still gripping his cane tightly, he limped out of sight.

  Anna’s eyes clouded over with tears as she watched him go. Even though they had both confessed their love, a pang of loneliness stung her heart. She knew she might never see him again.

  By late afternoon he was gone, and a pall of silence hung over the Fedorcenko estate. Father, mother, and sister all knew that Sergei had set his course upon a path that for the present no one else could follow.

  Anna Yevnovna Burenin, peasant girl of Katyk, maid to Princess Katrina Fedorcenko, had matured greatly in the year and a half since she had come to St. Petersburg. No one knew how much Sergei’s love for her had affected that process of maturity. Perhaps no one would ever know.

  2

  As Katrina approached her in the garden, Anna remembered their first meeting, when Princess Natalia’s dog had run away, brin
ging the angry young princess across her path. How greatly the princess had changed since that day!

  Her mistress walked with an uncharacteristically quiet gait. Anna watched as she came closer; Princess Katrina had been crying! Her eyes were red, but her expression was quite different than the pain that had filled her countenance two weeks ago, on the evening of her brother’s and father’s return.

  Katrina’s face was flushed with shock, hurt, and betrayal. “He’s not coming home!” she burst out. Anna could not tell whether the princess meant the words for her, or was only venting her pent-up emotions.

  “Who, Princess?” asked Anna.

  “Dmitri! How could he do this to me!” she half-shouted, seemingly uncertain whether to give grief or anger the upper hand. Her lower lip trembled.

  “But why . . . where is he? Have not all the soldiers been sent home?” asked Anna, her own mind still full of her brief meeting with Sergei a short while earlier.

  “I don’t know! Who cares why? He’s not coming home—what does anything else matter?”

  In her anger, the princess sounded like the old Katrina, the petulant princess Anna had first met in the garden—impulsive, quick to anger, intent on having her own way, and furious when anything stood in her path.

  “But surely, Princess,” Anna said, “there must be some reasonable explanation. Did not Prince Sergei give a reason?”

  “Oh, yes, he gave a reason, and it didn’t help one bit! How dare Dmitri behave so like a barbarous Cossack!”

  “What happened?” asked Anna.

  After fuming and ranting for another minute or two, Katrina managed to calm herself enough to describe, with barely controlled emotions, the conversation with her brother. The telling, however, did nothing to mitigate Katrina’s turbulent state of mind. If she showed anger now, it was only to mask the bitter painfulness of the truth.

  Knowing it was her last chance to get at the truth about Dmitri, Katrina had asked her brother with frustrated sharpness, “Why do you avoid telling me about Dmitri?”

  “He was wounded at the first attack on Plevna, you know,” Sergei said.

  “Yes, of course, we heard that.”

  “But he recovered fully by the end of summer and joined in the rest of the fighting. He was a real hero!”

  “But after the war—I want to know when he’s coming home! I . . . heard some rumors.”

  “Oh, that.” Sergei shook his head. “Knowing how rumors go, it probably wasn’t as bad as what you heard. But I will have to say, Dmitri will never learn his lesson where women are concerned.”

  “He had trouble with a woman?” Katrina made no attempt to hide her dismay.

  “A sordid episode, Katitchka. You are too young to hear about it.”

  “Tell me!” she all but shrieked, gripping her brother’s arm.

  “Katrina! What is this all about? You are not in love with Dmitri yourself . . .”

  She made an attempt to calm herself, but it was too late. The stern look of concern on Sergei’s face made him look more like his father than ever.

  “Has Dmitri been—?” he began.

  Katrina cut him off, hurrying to Dmitri’s defense. “He has done absolutely nothing to hurt me.”

  “If he has,” continued Sergei, his blood rising, “I’ll break every bone—”

  “Nothing, Sergei,” insisted Katrina, then added almost to herself, “and that is exactly the problem! He’s never given me so much as a nod.”

  Sergei eyed his sister cautiously.

  “I’m not a little girl anymore!” she said defensively. “You said so yourself. I’m old enough to know what I’m doing.”

  A silence followed.

  “I pray you are right, my dear little sister,” said Sergei seriously. “Dmitri is my best friend, but I have never condoned his behavior with women. I fear he would only hurt you, Katrina.”

  “He would never hurt a woman he truly loved.”

  Sergei shrugged. “Perhaps,” he replied. “But I doubt he has ever really loved before. I even wonder if he knows how.”

  “You still have not answered my question—when will I see him again?”

  “That may not be for some time,” he replied, then paused.

  “Tell me, Sergei!” insisted Katrina.

  “All right, if you will have it. He’s probably in Siberia by now.”

  “He’s been banished?” exclaimed Katrina, her faced reddening again.

  “Banished is a bit too strong a word, Katrina. In the army we call it re-assigned.” Sergei made no attempt to hide the rancor in his tone.

  “What happened?”

  Sergei drew in a long breath, seemed to hesitate a moment more wondering whether he should tell his sister the truth, then plunged ahead.

  “I was interned at a military hospital in Bucharest for a while after the armistice. That is where I wrote a great deal about what had taken place. Our commander had also been wounded and was staying there too, and his daughter came down from Moscow to be at his side. It was quite an arduous journey for a woman, but she was an independent sort. She and Dmitri became acquainted on the first day Dmitri came to visit me.”

  He paused, hoping perhaps that Katrina had had enough and would let the rest of the story go unsaid.

  “And . . . ?” she said after a moment.

  Sergei sighed. “Do you really want it all, Katitchka?”

  “Every word,” she replied determinedly.

  “All right, you asked for it,” he said. “Dmitri will never learn his lesson with women—he charms them mercilessly. I don’t think he’s half aware of his effect on them. Not that he doesn’t enjoy it! And most are smart enough not to take him too seriously—at least so far. That is, until the commander’s daughter came along. She was duly charmed by Dmitri’s winning manner, but not so charmed when she came to realize his intentions were not . . . shall I say, serious. Dmitri did nothing blatantly dishonorable; I will say that in his defense. Nevertheless, she interpreted his actions as a proposal of marriage. Dmitri was backed into a corner, for the girl would have no excuses from him.”

  “He didn’t marry her?”

  “It might have come to that, if the girl’s father had had his way. How Dmitri could have been foolish enough to toy with our commander’s daughter, I will never know! Too long at war, I suppose. The long and the short of it is that the colonel offered Dmitri a very clear-cut choice: marry his daughter, or find himself reassigned to a company in Siberia. When Dmitri chose the reassignment, the man became so incensed he had the orders drawn up, effective immediately, without even the benefit of a leave home. Dmitri was trundled off on the first train. I expect by now the trains and carriages have run out, and that he is aboard a dogsled someplace on his way east.”

  “That’s awful,” said Katrina, sinking into a chair, her face now pale.

  “Poor Dmitri. No matter what his indiscretions, it was a tough break. To have no visit home after fighting a war—it’s a cruel turn. Though perhaps no more cruel than much of the rest of what happened,” he added bitterly. Suddenly his mind was once more occupied with the futility of life as he had seen it in recent months.

  “But how long will it last?” asked Katrina after a moment.

  “Knowing Dmitri, he will find some way to connive his way back to civilization soon enough. But not before he has more than his fill of snow and ice and wilderness. Sometimes such assignments last for years.”

  Neither brother nor sister had said anything further, each lost in their own dismal thoughts. Katrina rose, and after a distracted farewell to her brother had fled to the garden, where she knew she’d find Anna.

  Now they were together, the heart of each girl quietly and painfully filled with private thoughts of the soldiers each had lost.

  Katrina’s eyes were red but her face stoic. Anna’s tears over Sergei’s departure had since dried, and she carried the mingled pain from his parting and joy of his words of love deep in her heart where not even her mistress could see them.r />
  Anna made room on the bench, and Katrina joined her. Neither spoke a word. Anna opened her arms, and by common consent the princess and the peasant maid embraced, clinging to each other for comfort.

  3

  1878–1881

  Unfortunately, the tender scene of affection between princess and peasant girl, the coming together of two diverse elements within the spectrum of Russian society, was not to be played out widely within the borders of the Holy Motherland. Instead, contrast and dissension, strife and hardship became its enduring hallmark. Russia was becoming a house divided.

  In the 1870s, few Russians had ever heard of Karl Marx. But during this critical time of change, the passionate spirit of the words that would make the German philosopher and socialist immortal began to take root in that huge land:

  Let the ruling classes tremble at a communist revolution. The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win!

  Immediately following the Russo-Turkish War, Russia became a powder keg of revolutionary activity. Russia’s war efforts had drained the country of both manpower and finances, and the nation was ripe for revolution.

  The Decembrist Revolt of Russia’s military in 1825 came within a decade of the closing of the Napoleonic Wars. The Crimean War of the l850s saw only simmering unrest within Russia’s huge borders, but a major revolt was forestalled as Tsar Alexander II opened his reign in the final days of the war, giving his people hope for the future. In his first declaration he said: “It will be better for our nation if we work to abolish serfdom from above than to wait until the serfs themselves attempt liberation from below.”

  And abolish serfdom he did, as well as attempt many other areas of reform. But the changes proved insufficient to satisfy the radicals of his society, for all of Europe was in the throes of massive modernization and change, and the free thinkers and students and revolutionaries of Russia expected their nation to keep pace.

  The terrorism and rebellion following the Turkish War of 1877 and 1878 proved a preliminary testing ground for the major revolutions to come. In the half decade after 1877, young revolutionaries throughout Russia experimented and became proficient in the use of the seditious printed word, terrorism, even assassination. In that short five-year period, they succeeded in putting the nation of Tsar Alexander II on the run. They had no Lenin—who was but seven years old at the time—to guide their efforts and harness their passions. Trotsky, Kerensky, and Stalin had not even been born yet. But the roots of the movement they would one day lead were burrowing deep into the soil of discontent in Russia, and in a short time a world would be turned upside-down as a result.