“‘Was he a coward, after all? Or had reality finally clouded his perception of the so-called glorious purpose that had sent him here in the first place? Had he all along been fighting for a mere illusion? His illusion of Russia had compelled him on this path to a soldier’s glory. For that Russia, the beloved Motherland—Holy Russia!—he could fight and perhaps even kill and die with the zeal of a man possessed.
“‘But now the seasoned young soldier wondered if all this sacrifice was expended for a mere fiction—a country that existed only in his fantasies. Those occupying the positions of power in this Motherland he loved could not force serfs to battle for a land in which they were deprived of their own freedom. Where did justice exist in such a warped equation of rule? Nor could they place in their ill-trained hands inferior and untrustworthy weapons, with commanders and generals who knew nothing but obedience, and little of military tactic.
“‘Yet the young soldier encountered all this, and more. His idealistic eyes were thus forced upon the reality, painful as was its realization, that his beloved homeland was a nation doomed to infamy when future histories of the time were written. The subsequent disillusionment and cowardice he witnessed all about him, and even in the depths of his own soul, should thus not have surprised him.’”
When Vlasenko finished reading, a heavy silence filled the room.
The tsar interlaced his fingers together and rested them against his lips while his brow creased in thought.
Vlasenko waited. To speak now might appear too presumptuous, too eager. As difficult as it was to exercise patience, he knew his best course was to allow the emperor to draw his own conclusions. Vlasenko only prayed Alexander drew the right conclusions. Alexander had, in point of fact, not admired his father Nicholas’s handling of the Crimean War, and technically young Fedorcenko’s complaint was lodged in that direction. However, once the book was circulated throughout St. Petersburg, everyone would know that the fictional format was but a thinly disguised veil over his own bitter wartime experiences recently in Bulgaria. Cyril hoped the tsar didn’t need all the implications spelled out for him.
Finally Alexander spoke. “May I have that book for a while?”
“But of course, Your Highness!” Vlasenko laid the volume back on the imperial desk. “With my compliments, to be sure.”
“Thank you, Vlasenko,” said the tsar. “I will deal with the matter from here.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. And, as always, I am at your service.”
“Yes. Thank you . . .”
Alexander paused, glanced distastefully down at the book, then returned a similar expression upward in the direction of the police chief. “You may be dismissed.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty!”
Cyril bowed his way out of the august imperial presence. He wished he had gotten a more firm denouement from the tsar. But the man was clearly disturbed, that much was apparent. And it would have been most unwise to press the issue further.
3
Anna sat alone in her room. It was quiet. It had been days since she had had any meaningful work to do.
Already she missed her mistress, and she was lonely. She could not keep her mind from drifting southward to her beloved home in the country.
She took out a sheet of paper, opened her bottle of ink, dipped in the pen, and began to write.
My dearest family,
It has been only a week since the wedding, only a week since Princess Katrina and Count Remizov left for Greece on their holiday together. The great house seems so empty and quiet. To think that one person could make such a difference in the life and vitality of a place where there are so many others may sound strange. But that is the kind of person my mistress is. Wherever she goes, gaiety and good cheer follow. I love her so much. I only hope I am able to continue serving her as I have after she returns and sets up her new home. I cannot help being somewhat anxious, however, because I do not know Count Remizov well. But he is Prince Sergei’s friend, and that must say a great deal for him.
I am happy you are feeling better, Papa. The winter is over now, and surely the warmth will give strength to your body and bones. It will soon be time for planting once again. How quickly do the seasons pass! I am so glad you still have much grain left from last harvest. It makes me happy to have helped, and that you now know Prince Sergei as your own friend, too. He asks about you often and sends his kind regards.
I must tell you about Princess Katrina’s wedding! How beautiful she was, and how proud of her I felt. We spoke for a long time the morning of the wedding. The princess was so kind to me and said that it was because of me she felt that she was finally ready for marriage. Can you imagine! Then she kissed me. Oh, Papa and Mama, as much as I miss you at times—and right now is one of them!—I am thankful that you sent me to the city when you did. God has been so good to me!
But I was trying to describe the wedding . . . the princess was covered in white from head to toe, her beautiful satin dress sparkling with diamonds and pearls. I could not keep from crying when I saw her! It was her nineteenth birthday, too. How different she looked than when I first saw her three and a half years ago. She looked so radiantly like a grown woman, mature and wise. I suppose I have changed just as much in those years, but I do not feel different on the inside. But the changes in the princess are so visible that everyone has noticed. Especially Count Remizov! She used to be but a child to him, or so the princess has told me. And now suddenly she has become his wife!
I have not seen Paul again since I saw you. It has been only a few months since my return, and I do not expect—
Anna set down her pen and glanced up. She had not intended even to mention Paul to her parents. Suddenly there was his name on the page. They only knew he was in St. Petersburg, but no more. Actually she did not know more than that either, although she had her suspicions. Those, however, she would keep to herself.
Again she inked her pen and finished the sentence.
. . . I do not expect to see him soon. The weather is very cold still, and people do not go out much yet. I am sure he is busy with the new life he is making for himself.
It was an unsatisfactory ending. But once she had written his name on the paper, she could not very well take it off. Her parents would no doubt see right through her transparent attempt to put the brightest face on their shared doubts about poor Paul.
A wave of melancholy swept over Anna, and a tear rose to her eye. She brushed it away, set her pen down, and stood up. She would not be able to write any more just now. She had to get out, to walk, to breathe the fresh air.
Anna left her room, went down the stairs, exited the huge house, and in a few minutes found herself walking alone in the Promenade Garden.
Multitudes of thoughts flowed through her mind. She was in a position that would have been the envy of any peasant girl in Russia. Her every need was provided for, and she was maid to a princess she loved. Moreover, the young prince of the house loved her, and wanted to marry her one day! She had every reason for joy.
Why, then, had this wave of sadness come over her? Was it thoughts of her brother? Or was it loneliness for her family or the princess?
Anna didn’t know; emotions were not always easy to analyze. She brushed back two or three tears, almost laughing as she did.
“God,” she said aloud, “what is the matter with me? What reason do I have to be downcast?” But no answer came.
She walked along a while in silence, remembering the time in this garden she had first seen the princess, and the times she had walked here beside the prince.
Her thoughts again turned to the wedding. It was such a happy celebration. Yet with it came new thoughts, thoughts of change. What if everything was different when Princess Katrina returned? What if the princess no longer needed her? What if their friendship . . . ?
Suddenly Anna’s mind filled with questions and doubts. She had been growing more anxious every day, wondering what the future held. Telling her parents about the wedding had
brought the fears on all over again. As concerned as she was about Paul, it was not her brother’s future that weighed her down at this moment. It was her own.
What was to become of her?
“God, take care of me!” she blurted out. “Let the princess still want me for her maid and friend. And Prince Sergei, God . . . take care of—”
It was always difficult for Anna to pray for Sergei with words. The moment she tried, it seemed the words faded and prayers of feelings deep in her heart took over instead. But just thinking of the prince immediately lightened the burden of her anxieties.
She smiled and glanced up at the trees, still bare from the winter past, then drew in a deep breath of the frosty air and let it out in a great white puff.
She walked on to the very end of the garden, then turned and started back along another of the many paths. Thinking about Sergei made the day seem bright again. Perhaps she would be able to finish the letter home after all. She would tell them of the prince’s visit to his father two days ago, and how he had contrived to see her alone.
She laughed at the memory! By the time she entered the house again, Anna was skipping along with the delight of springtime.
She returned to her room, sat down at her writing table, and once again took up her pen to write to her beloved family, this time about the young prince she loved.
You will find very humorous what happened just two days ago. Prince Sergei came to visit his father and mother. I knew he was in the house but was afraid to make an appearance for fear my face would betray my feelings. But in the middle of his interview with his father, the prince stood and . . .
Yevno roared with laughter as Vera put down the letter from Anna she had just finished reading.
“That prince is indeed worthy of our Anna!” he exclaimed. “I would so like to know his father, the elder prince. I would like to tell him what manner of son he has!”
“Anna says there is strife between the two,” commented Sophia sadly. “It is not good when a man and his son do not know each other.” She hardly realized what she had said until glancing up to see her husband’s face. The laughter and smile had disappeared.
“Ah, Yevno, I did not mean you!” said Sophia apologetically.
“You speak the truth, wife, whether you meant it or not. It is not good, and I am to blame, just like the prince’s father.”
“No, Yevno. Our Pavushka went his own way and cut himself off from us. Even poor Annushka feels it. I can tell from her words.”
Yevno did not reply. He did not understand what had happened to estrange his son from them. He might never understand. He merely felt the grief only a loving parent can know.
“Sometimes a child goes his way, and there is no guilt for a parent to bear. Surely you do not feel guilty, Yevno. Pavushka was always independent, always full of questions that carried rebellion.”
“Yes, Sophia . . . yes, I know.”
“Anna’s questions came from hunger. She wanted to know things. Paul only wanted to question.”
“Ah yes! And we could answer neither of them,” sighed Yevno. “How did a simple man and woman like you and me bear two who could have been so full of things we know nothing of?”
Sophia shook her head in bewilderment. “I do not know, Yevno,” she replied. “But now they are out there, both in the great city, each discovering the answers to their questions and hungers in their own ways.”
“God, watch over them both!” said Yevno after a brief pause.
“Amen!” whispered Sophia.
A long silence followed. There were many things to think about. The next words, when they came, were a continuation of Yevno’s brief prayer.
“. . . And her prince,” added Sophia.
4
Members of The People’s Will were not of the sort to find themselves running scared from any man. They were, however, moving with more caution these days.
Vlasenko’s successful raid of their printing operation in Grafsky Lane had portended difficult times for the movement. Not that Vlasenko himself was much to be concerned about. But he had been successful in locating the press, and its loss greatly inhibited their ability to circulate what they called “the truth.” Others called it propaganda, and Vlasenko himself called it the venom of their cause.
More serious than Vlasenko’s modest successes against them was the stiff hand of Loris-Melikov. He was a man to be reckoned with. They had tried to kill him, and failed, and one of Zhelyabov’s key proteges was summarily hanged as a result.
Some of their number were belligerent and called for another attempt without delay. Others found cause to reconsider. Even Paul Yevnovich Burenin, as bold as his words were, took the news soberly. He himself had volunteered for the assignment, though Zhelyabov had turned him down. And whatever he said about being willing to die for the cause of freedom, he now found himself reflecting back on the horrible day he had witnessed Kazan’s execution. When he was honest with himself, he did not at all relish the idea of hanging from the end of a rope—not just yet. He was still young. The blast of a bomb would be a tolerably acceptable way to go, especially if he had fabricated it himself. But not a rope.
He was not afraid, just determined to watch his step. There were no doubts in his mind about the course he had chosen, although he did find himself thinking about Anna more often at such times. To think of Katyk, and his father, was still too painful.
Yet he must try to forget Anna as well, now that she was safe and the fool Anickin behind bars for good. No matter that she was warm and comfortable, and that he was cold and hungry half the time; no matter that she would have tried to help him had he given her half a chance. He had to try to forget. He was dead to the past. His future lay with his new friends.
More and more, Andrei Zhelyabov was taking Paul under his own wing. Paul was learning the business of explosives. It felt good to be a part of the inner workings. If it could not really compare with family, it was the closest thing to it he would ever experience again.
Paul drew the thin, ragged wool coat more tightly to his shivering shoulders and hastened on. He and Zhelyabov had arranged to meet two streets down from Grafsky Lane, at a certain rendezvous point the gendarmes were not yet wise to. From there they would walk across the river to a section of the city not usually frequented by their sort. Some printing equipment was available, they had heard. It would have to be moved, and that could prove difficult. And they would have to find a place to set it up for operation well distanced from either Vlasenko’s or Melikov’s prying eyes—which also would not be easy.
But the equipment was to be had for a song, no questions asked. There were occasional aristocrats sympathetic to their cause, and this fellow was even willing to risk the transfer of an old outdated printing press from a newspaper warehouse. They were to meet the man today to work out the details.
If explosives were necessary for the success of the rebellion, being able to print leaflets and notices was all the more so. They had been severely hampered since Vlasenko’s raid a few months ago. Perhaps they wouldn’t be able to kill the tsar as easily as they might have hoped. All their efforts seemed to fail. But as long as they could continue fomenting dissatisfaction with the printed word, the time for successful revolt was sure to come eventually.
Paul turned the corner around a stone building and met a blast of cold spring wind. He winced slightly. It would do no good to try to wrap himself up any tighter. The wind knifed its way through his coat anyway. He would just have to walk faster.
He quickened his pace. Just as well, he thought. Zhelyabov was probably already waiting for him.
5
Somehow Sergei had always considered himself immune from the harsh realities of imperial disfavor.
He had known that his book contained some sections that would grate hard on official ears. But he was still naive enough to believe that truth would win out, to believe that deep down Russian officialdom really knew the sorry state of affairs in the military and would welc
ome such a forthright look at it, to believe that even the most tradition-minded grand duke or prince—or even tsar!—would be thankful to see an accurate portrayal of things as they really were beneath the ceremonial gloss.
He also believed somewhere in the subconscious parts of his brain, although he would have been loathe to admit it, that the family influence he spurned on the surface would protect him as it always had. As much as he thought himself unencumbered inside by the title he carried, he did not realize how strongly he still depended on his family name and prestige to shield him from the potential unpleasant consequences of what he had done.
All these illusions were suddenly dispelled with a single, swift Imperial edict, delivered to him shortly after the wedding of his sister and best friend.
In silence he read the order, each word smashing into his brain with stunning, numbing force:
Discharged . . . reassigned . . . Central Asian regiment . . . General Skobelev . . . leave St. Petersburg on . . .
The unexpected blow was demoralizing, shocking, deadening. He stumbled out of his barracks, his fingers clutching the ill-fated order, as one in a daze, his eyes unfocused and unaware of his surroundings. He walked on, came to the river, continued along its bank, and without knowing where his steps led him, came two hours later to his barracks again. His mind had gradually begun to function once more; and if the sudden news still seemed like a mockery, at least he had forced himself to take the first few steps in adjusting to it. He must adjust, and quickly, for it was now clear that the publication of his book was destined to change the outlook of his future—perhaps forever.
Wherever the order had originated, it was obviously intended as a direct disciplinary move against one who had dared to raise uncomfortable questions. What better punishment for a dissident who had publicly expressed his disturbance with military ineptitude than to send him off in humiliation to fight in a series of border skirmishes that were among the most representative of Russian military irresponsibility? Nowhere he could have been assigned would have more fittingly rubbed his nose into the very dung his book had hoped to expose! It was the perfect, the most ingenious, the most debasing response possible. The book would be discredited, probably kept from ever reaching the public, and he would never receive another military promotion as long as he lived!
The Russians Collection Page 79