The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  A definite flush rose to Katrina’s cheeks. The reaction came not just from his actual words, but from the way they were spoken. His tone held a fervency that seemed to go far beyond mere sincerity. She had never heard Dmitri utter a single syllable with such depth of wholeheartedness. She knew young Anickin meant what he said. And when he spoke her name, a new kind of thrill coursed through Katrina’s whole body.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she replied, attempting to fill the uncomfortable moment with words. “You . . . flatter me. But now, please come,” she added, regaining her poise, “dance with me. This is one of my favorite numbers.” She took his hand without waiting for a response and tugged him toward the dance floor.

  “But your partner . . . he will be back with—”

  “Never mind him,” laughed Katrina. “I’m sure he can drink my glass of punch and then find another partner!”

  The orchestra had struck up with Strauss’s lovely “Emperor’s Waltz.” Katrina led him into the very middle of the crowded floor, then turned to face him. He took her right hand in his left, then slipped his right hand around her waist, holding her with firm assurance. They began to flow in graceful rhythm to the music, and she found herself surprised at what a good dancer Basil Pyotrovich turned out to be, moving with all the grace his lithe figure promised. Feeling the confidence of his movements as he led her this way and that through the crowd, Katrina suddenly realized how limited her experience with men really was. As she considered it, she thought to herself that she had never before had the attention of a man at all—not a man like this one! Boys and youths swarmed around her in plenty, just as Dmitri once predicted would happen.

  But Basil was no boy. He was likely older even than Dmitri, somewhere in his early twenties, she guessed. Yet more than his age, he carried himself, even if a bit too seriously, with authority and self-assurance, as one who had matured and knew what he was about. Dmitri, on the other hand, had a good-natured frivolity that sometimes made him seem younger than he was. No one would ever accuse Basil of being frivolous! Katrina wondered how the jovial, rotund Doctor Anickin could have a son who was such an antithesis to him.

  But the deepest impression upon Katrina came from how the doctor’s son treated her. His hand resting comfortably in the small of her back seemed alive. From the touch, and the movement of his fingers and palm in response to the music, she felt a kind of raw energy, a possessiveness that sent all her untried youthful emotions into a flutter.

  Now she knew why a woman longed to be held by a man. This was how she was supposed to feel—protected, enveloped in masculine care and vigor. It was how she had dreamed Dmitri would one day hold her!

  Every time Katrina let her eyes stray upward to Basil’s face, he was gazing down upon her. He never took his eyes off her. And the depth of his gaze, its purposefulness and earnest passion, seemed to increase.

  The heady experience gave her almost the same rush of exhilaration as speeding down Nevsky Prospect in a racing troika on an icy winter morning. It was easy to overlook the vague sense of uneasiness she felt.

  They danced several waltzes together, one after the other. When they stopped at last, Katrina was breathless. Basil led her to a secluded corner of the ballroom.

  “Katrina Viktorovna, I thank you for favoring me with your company this evening,” he said with a gallant bow.

  She nodded with a smile of acknowledgment.

  “I must confess,” he went on, “that since seeing you three nights ago at the ballet, I have wanted . . . to meet you.”

  “And why did you not introduce yourself then, Basil Pyotrovich? I would have been pleased.”

  “You are from a great family,” he replied. “I am but the son of a lowly doctor.”

  “Hardly lowly,” objected Katrina.

  “By the standards that govern our country.”

  “But your parents are friends of my parents. They come to our home socially.”

  “Yes, that is true.” Something in the momentary glazed look in his eye indicated that he was agreeing in word only.

  Katrina, however, was so taken at being the object of a man’s distant admiration that she scarcely took note of these conflicting details.

  “Well, I am glad that we finally had opportunity to meet . . . again,” she said.

  “I could not be content forever in merely looking at you from afar. You are very lovely. I only wish . . .”

  He did not finish the sentence. His eyes narrowed slightly and he was silent.

  “You only wish what?”

  “I must go now, Princess,” he replied, ignoring her question. “I would like to see you again.” Though his final words were spoken in the tone of a question, Katrina felt they had not exactly been a request. He would see her again, that much was plain.

  He bowed, took her hand in his, and kissed it lightly. He stepped back, caught her eyes one more time with his intense gaze, then turned and strode quickly away. Katrina expelled a tremulous sigh, hardly noticing that someone had drawn up next to her.

  “Now there’s an odd one,” said a youthful male voice. Katrina turned to see Nicholas Osminkin, the partner she had deserted earlier.

  “Oh, Nicki, there you are!” she said, showing little sign of embarrassment. “I am so sorry about leaving you like that. But I ran into Basil Anickin and had the feeling he didn’t know a soul here. I felt it my duty as a hostess to entertain him for a while. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not, Princess Katrina,” he replied, attempting to conceal his displeasure. “I wouldn’t feel too sorry for the fellow though. In fact, I was surprised he was even invited tonight.”

  “Oh . . . why is that?”

  “Don’t you know anything about him?”

  “I know he is a perfect gentleman.”

  “Well, he has been away from St. Petersburg for some time,” Nicholas went on, eager for the opportunity to enlighten the princess. “He has been attending Moscow University.”

  “Oh, dear me! How absolutely mortifying!” exclaimed Katrina with mock horror, taking no pains to hide how insignificant such gossip was to her.

  “That is not the half of it,” young Osminkin went on. “He was in Moscow because he had been expelled from the University here in St. Petersburg.”

  “Is that all?” said Katrina. “Since Dmitri Tolstoy has been Minister of Education, students are being expelled for looking cross-eyed.”

  “Believe me, your Basil Anickin did more than that!”

  Katrina desperately wanted to ask just what he had done. But she resisted the urge to give way to the gossip, and instead gave an uninterested flip of her hand. “I refuse to talk critically about a guest, Nicki!”

  “Then you wouldn’t like to know what he has been doing since he came back to the capital?”

  “You’ll probably tell me anyway.”

  “Maybe I won’t.”

  “Oh, don’t be difficult, Nicki. What has he been doing?”

  “He is a lawyer now, you know. And he has taken to defending seditionists and revolutionaries!” The triumph in the lad’s tone was unmasked.

  “I don’t believe it,” replied Katrina rather lamely.

  “That is up to you, Princess,” he said. “I’m getting a bit hungry, will you excuse me?”

  Katrina was glad to be rid of him. Just because she had left him to dance with someone else was no reason to go spreading malicious lies about a friend of her family. She would have to make it up to poor Basil when she saw him again.

  Suddenly the young lawyer had become all the more intriguing to her. So what if he defended radicals? Someone had to defend them, didn’t they? It was his job.

  And even if he had radical ideas himself, who cared? Sergei had some peculiar ideas, too, and he managed to be accepted in society. Although lately, she had to admit that she didn’t know what to make of Sergei. He had all but disappeared off the face of the earth. They hardly ever heard from him. What had driven him away? she wondered. Surely nothin
g to do with his ideas. It must have been something else. An argument with Father, no doubt.

  Well, Basil Pyotrovich could not be that much different from her brother, at any rate. And she fully intended to see him again, no matter what Nicki or anyone else thought. As for Dmitri Remizov—for once maybe she didn’t care what he thought, either!

  10

  Anna sat in her room at the desk Katrina had procured for her. A warm beam of sunlight streamed through the high ceiling window, sending a splinter of light across the sheet of paper in front of her.

  It was now early summer. Several weeks had passed since Katrina’s birthday, and the past few days particularly had been reflective ones for Anna Yevnovna. Writing a letter home seemed only to intensify her mood.

  She had been in St. Petersburg for two and a half years. In some respects she could hardly believe it had been so long. Yet in other ways, it seemed as though a lifetime had passed since she had last laid eyes on her beautiful little village of Katyk.

  So much had happened to her in such a short time! She remembered so clearly her last day in Katyk, with all its mingled fear and anticipation at the prospect of facing the great unknowns before her. She had then harbored such a sense of high expectation, almost of destiny. Now she had fallen to wondering what had come of it all.

  Surely she could find no reason for disappointment. She was privileged to study under a learned and esteemed tutor who had only recently told her she was fully qualified to study in any of the best universities of the land. She was gratified by his comments and hardly bothered by the fact that it was difficult enough for a peasant boy to gain admission into a university. For a girl, it was nearly impossible. But she had never planned to take her education even as far as it had already gone, and was thus fully content with what God had been gracious to provide her with here in the Fedorcenko home as maid to the prince’s daughter.

  She could speak and write French fluently—better than Katrina, in fact. She possessed an adequate grip on English, thanks in large part to the interest Mrs. Remington, the head housekeeper, had taken in her progress. She read English well enough to tackle Charlotte Bronte and, of course, Byron. She had even attempted some Tennyson and Wordsworth. On her birthday last year Katrina had treated her to a most generous and joyful gift. They drove together to Marskaya Street where the English bookshop Watkins was located.

  There Katrina had said, “Now, Anna, I want you to select any books you want.”

  “Oh, Princess,” said Anna excitedly, “I couldn’t!”

  “It’s my birthday gift to you, Anna. I insist.”

  “Anything?” exclaimed Anna.

  “There is only one stipulation,” Katrina had said. “They must be in English.”

  Anna had chosen four titles, and felt terribly greedy at that. But her mistress had not allowed her to stop before she had at least that many to take home with her. One had been an edition of Byron’s works. Then she had chosen Tennyson’s The Princess, Elizabeth Barret Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese, and Hawthorne’s The House of Seven Gables. She had read from all of them a great deal since, understanding more than ever what Sergei had meant about a piece of literature being best in its native language. Still, Anna would ever remain partial to the French translations by which, from Sergei’s tongue, she had first learned to appreciate the English poets.

  She reached up to the bookshelf above her desk and gently fingered the binding of the copy of The Best of England’s Poets Sergei had given her. A stab of pain gripped her heart and knotted her stomach momentarily, as if he had left St. Petersburg only yesterday. But whether it had been a year, or a hundred years, she doubted time would ever dull the sense of loss she felt. Their love had developed so quickly; how could it have gone so deeply into her very being?

  Yet as quickly as it had come, and as brief as their time together had been, there was no denying that she had been changed forever by Sergei’s love.

  Never in the past had she imagined that she could be happier than the days back in Katyk, when she sat, book open in her lap, under the leafy shelter of the old willow near the stream. But Sergei had added to that memory, giving her life a richness and meaning of equal depth and value. Did she compare him to the willow trunk at her back—strong and secure? Or to the book in her lap—a gateway to enlightenment and happiness? Or to the gentle spring breeze carrying the fragrance of life and purity?

  Since that day a year ago she had often wondered where he was and what he was doing. His parting, so soon after returning home from the war, had been a painful shock for his family, and the princess herself had wept in the telling. He and his father had exchanged angry words. Prince Fedorcenko had, according to what Anna had heard, ranted to his son about duty and responsibility, while poor Sergei sat silently receiving the tongue-lashing. The stoic old soldier had no concept of what the changing times were doing to the young people of the Motherland, nor the nature of the deep and tormenting confusion that would drive a thoughtful and sensitive young man away to the country to try to come to terms with himself and the wartime demons that hounded him. To the controlled soldier from the old school, wedded to his tsar and the ways of the past, it was at best weakness, at worst insanity. He could not respect a son with no more backbone than that! And Sergei did not help his cause with his silence. He made no attempt to explain himself beyond the broad terms of fatigue from the war, and certainly made no mention of Anna.

  There had been scant word from him since then. He had mentioned to Katrina his hope to visit Yasnaya Polyana. She had written him there telling him of her birthday celebration. There had been no reply except a note from Count Tolstoy saying Sergei had been there but had already departed his estate some time ago. He had left no hint as to his next destination.

  Love was no easy thing to bear silently in one’s heart. How much better were the old traditions back in her village at home! The matchmaker never considered love in her thoughts of putting a man and a woman together. And her matches were always successful.

  Well, there had been one case where it had not turned out so well. . . . Matvie Turovec’s wife had nearly driven him crazy with her constant nagging and complaining. He finally had all he could take and disappeared one day, never to be seen again. But such an outcome was rare. And even if a husband and wife happened not to get along perfectly, at least they were spared the pain caused by love before marriage.

  She knew Katrina would disagree vehemently with her if she said such a thing, although she had been one of love’s most pathetic victims. How many years had she wasted pining over Count Remizov? How many more years to come?

  Of course, for the moment she seemed quite taken with this Basil Anickin. But Anna knew her mistress well enough to suspect that this sudden interest, as gratifying as it probably was to her young feminine ego, was intended primarily to impress Dmitri, his engagement notwithstanding.

  Whether or not Katrina was aware of her deeper motives, she had seen the doctor’s son frequently since the party. And if Katrina’s regard was less than authentic, Anna knew Basil’s wasn’t. He gazed upon Katrina with such rapture, such possessive affection, such a brooding look of total preoccupation. Perhaps Anna should have been glad that at last someone had come along to distract her mistress from the ill-fated and doomed liaison with the count.

  But oddly, whenever she watched Katrina and Basil together, Anna felt disturbed. They seemed so different, the innocent young princess and the grim barrister; the one so full of smiles, the other full of such sobriety. But Anna could pinpoint nothing but a vague sense of disquiet to support her uneasiness.

  Anna glanced down once again at the blank sheet before her.

  Her mind had wandered far afield—none of her thoughts of the last fifteen minutes would be appropriate to share with her family. She had not written for some time. With Paul away at the Gymnasium in Pskov, she knew it would be difficult for them to have her letters read anyway. Tanya and Vera should have known how to read well enough by now to m
anage. But as soon as Anna had left home, their interest in studying had flagged considerably. When Anna heard this news, she was deeply saddened.

  Anna’s thoughts turned to Paul, as they often did. It had been nearly eight months since she had heard from him. The last word to come was that he was doing extremely well with his studies. He said his marks were the highest in his class, and he hoped he might be able to complete the course of study well in advance of the others.

  She was so proud of her brother! She would never be able to go to the university, but she was confident that he would. She had even discussed his future with Katrina, who had in turn mentioned Paul to her father. By this time Anna was perceived as such a part of the family that Prince Fedorcenko offered to recommend him for the university and support him financially as well.

  Anna had said nothing yet. When he graduated, she planned to tell him this wonderful news, as a present—her gift to him for his hard work at the Gymnasium.

  She remembered how he used to express skepticism at her faith in “fairy stories.” But some good magic seemed to be working for Paul now, too. She knew magic was a poor word for it. Papa would, instead, marvel at the wondrous and mysterious hand of God at work in the lives of all His people, rich and poor, nobles and peasants.

  And Papa was right. In His mysterious way, God seemed to be caring for the simple Burenin clan from Katyk. Perhaps God was giving a special blessing to her own dear papa, whose prayers and simple faith were unwavering.

  Inspired with thoughts of Paul and her papa, the accomplishments of the one and the faith of the other, Anna at last set pen to paper. The letter, it turned out an hour later, proved a rather sentimental one, expressing more of her feelings than the events of her life. But it suited her mood on this day to pour out her grateful heart to the family she cared for so deeply.

  She was still in tears when Katrina burst into her little room in an excited flush.

  “My goodness, Anna!” she exclaimed, not noticing her maid’s reddened eyes. “I completely forgot! Mother and I are supposed to be at the Winter Palace today for tea with the Grand Duchess Marie. I have less than an hour to get ready!”