“You are a good man, my Yevno,” said Sophia at length. “You have but one fault. You are too anxious over your duty.”
“How can a man be too anxious over his family? It is his duty to feed them. He must do it, though his bones ache and his fingers and toes be frozen.”
“If he forgets by whose hand the provision comes,” said Sophia, “then perhaps he is too anxious. Would you not say the same thing if you were telling your own sons of their duty?”
Yevno was silent. His wife had spoken the truth. But his silence was only partially due to the conviction her words brought his soul. There was also the reminder of Paul. What did he think of duty? And would he ever again listen to his father speak words of truth? The thought of their eldest son was not a pleasant one these days. They knew nothing of the depths of his troubling rebellion; and yet in their ignorance, how could they not grieve?
They knew nothing. Therefore they did not speak of him. They only sighed, looked at each other with expressions of shared pain of the kind only loving parents can know, and silently offered up what prayers and petitions were yet left within them.
“No more word from Anna?” said Yevno at length. He knew well enough there had been no letter. It was only a way to offer comment about Paul without saying his name.
“Not since her Christmas greeting.”
“She remains busy in her new home.”
“And with the princess in her way, Anna will have to care for her more and more.”
“Will the child be born before stradnya pora?” asked Yevno.
“Long before.”
“Then perhaps, if I am yet ill—God forbid!—she might again be able to help us.”
“Are you fretting again, Yevno?”
“Only thinking ahead, wife,” smiled Yevno.
“Ah, Yevno,” said Sophia with a knowing and maternal look. “How little you men know of childbirth and the babies that follow it! Anna will not leave the princess’s side for months. No, we will not see her this summer or autumn. She too must attend to her duty.”
“Perhaps her prince . . .” said Yevno, letting his voice trail away.
“Yevno, what are you saying? That a prince of Russia would come to our izba by himself, without Anna—merely to help us?”
Yevno did not answer immediately. He had not told Sophia the substance of the conversation he had with Sergei the night late after the celebration at Ivan Ivanovich’s. He had probably already said too much. He was still not ready to tell his wife that the young Prince Fedorcenko had that night asked for their daughter’s hand in marriage. If it was bold for him to think of the prince lending his muscular frame to the gathering in of another harvest, it was no less preposterous than that same prince considering it an honor to call him his future father-in-law. If the prince had spoken truly from his heart, and was a true man—which Yevno believed he was—then he was certain to come. By then the conflict where he had been sent to fight was sure to be over and his troubles with the tsar resolved.
Yevno sighed deeply, with as much satisfaction as he could feel during the biting chill of winter. He took another long swallow of the tea, now scarcely more than lukewarm. Thoughts of the prince and the memory of his time in Katyk gave Yevno a secure feeling. Yet he was still not ready to divulge to Sophia the reason for the smile that now accompanied her tea to warm his spirits.
“You are right, wife,” he said at length. “It is beyond a doubt a foolhardy notion to have even entered my tired old brain. But I will heed your exhortations, and will fret no more over my duty.”
There was indeed a change of heart that went along with his words, for thoughts of Prince Fedorcenko had reminded Yevno of his own words of faith in God’s provision that he had spoken so confidently that night as they had walked back from the tavern to the cottage. If it was still too soon to speak of the prince returning to Katyk, it was not too soon to speak again the words Yevno had said to him: From inside comes a gratefulness to my Father in heaven for watching over old Yevno with such kindness. Even though almost in the next breath Yevno had confessed to Sergei his constant anxiety over the harvest, perhaps the memory of God’s provision last year through the prince could sustain him to have faith in this year’s provision, from whatever source. He could at least try.
“I am glad to hear it,” replied Sophia. “If I have no anxiety over where the grain will come from to make my bread, then you need have no anxiety over me or the children.”
Yevno nodded, and finished the remainder of his tea.
He laid his head back on his bed, thoughts of Anna and the prince mingling with those of Paul, as he silently asked the God of provision to watch over them all just as carefully as He did the supply of wheat in the wooden bins out in his cold, snow-surrounded barn.
25
The blizzard lasted for hours into the night, not abating until well into the morning. By the time the storm tapered off sometime before noon, huge drifts of fresh whiteness had covered every conceivable nook and alleyway and close in St. Petersburg. Even the slums, for a time, wore a clean look.
As Prince Viktor Fedorcenko rode in his troika across one of the city’s broad avenues, he absently watched workmen, hefting spades and brooms, strenuously clearing the street and walkways, packing the snow into thick walls to be hauled away by great horse-driven lorries.
Viktor was no melancholic. He well knew that the machinery of life moved inexorably forward, paying no heed to the private travails of men’s and women’s hearts. The principle was an ingrained part of his character. It was not something he would have said he believed, but rather an expression of the man he was. Nevertheless, on this particular day it had taken every grain of self-will he possessed to make him leave his house and force himself back into the mainstream of his work. He desperately wanted to cloister himself within the four walls of his home and never have to face another living soul again. He had never experienced such feelings, such self-awareness, such self-preoccupation, in his life.
But these were new times. Besides the guilt that gnawed at his soul, he knew well enough what people were thinking: Oh, poor Fedorcenko . . . his son broke down . . . stress of battle . . . shot his commander.
He remembered thinking the same kinds of things about Dr. Anickin and his lunatic of a son. Now it had all come to rest on him, and he could hardly bear to be the object of such pity and questioning criticism himself.
But Viktor was not so trivial a man that this was the full extent of his despondency. True, he could not deny the natural sense of humiliation caused by all that had happened. Yet it cut much deeper than that. The fact was, he could not face his peers. He could not look them in the eye, stand tall, and return their gaze with confidence. Even less could he face himself. His belief in his own stature as a man had been shaken to the core.
Every pitiful glance and well-meaning word of condolence bit deeply, making him painfully aware of the undeniable fact that he, and he alone, was responsible for Sergei’s terrible fate. The book might have been written regardless, but he wished he had found some way to communicate more personally with his son earlier, years ago. Perhaps those turbulent emotions that had prompted the book might have been stemmed, moderated, not felt so caustically when Sergei had joined the Guard Regiment. But even when the book had been written, if only Viktor hadn’t turned Sergei away, the lad might have endured the misery of the Asian assignment without breaking.
But it was too late for such thoughts! He had turned him away, and Sergei had broken under the stress. He had lost control, he had been court-martialed, and now he had been exiled to Siberia!
It was over. There was nothing to do but accept it. He had to heed the advice his own lips had given to the young Burenin girl.
Natalia had urged him to return to work. It would distract him from his sorrow, she said. It was a prescription she could have made good use of herself if she had any “work” to return to. The eyes of the princess were perennially red-rimmed these days, and her pale skin seemed almost
ghostly. She had never been the most zestful and energetic woman. And now the pallor of her skin and lethargy of her movements were almost eerily wraithlike. She had withdrawn completely from the whirlwind round of parties and balls and theater and ballet engagements that marked St. Petersburg’s winter social season during these months. She slept or lounged in her bed most days, rousing occasionally for meals, but more often than not taking them in her room. Her thinning frame indicated that she did not eat enough. She visited her daughter on occasion. But the two Fedorcenko women ignited each other’s sorrow to such a degree that they both began to avoid the frequent visits that had become habitual between them.
The prince and princess also seemed to avoid each other’s company more these days, although that was probably more Viktor’s doing than hers. Natalia’s grieving countenance served as a constant reminder to him that he had doomed her son to life in a freezing hell.
That Natalia rose from her own misery to show concern for him was touching. But it only increased his torment. In the end, however, it did have the effect of forcing him to heed her recommendation. Better to absorb himself in a day’s work than to face the dear wife who so mirrored his own pain day after weary day.
Viktor soon found that the so-called cure for his depression was almost as deadly as the problem itself. He discovered that he himself had little meaningful work to return to. His duties seemed to be evaporating as rapidly as was his Imperial standing.
Not only was there little for him to do, but his colleagues and former friends maintained a chilly distance. Most of the other ministers and officials had received the message clear enough, albeit unofficially. There had been no orders; it was merely “understood” how things stood between Viktor and the tsar. Prince Viktor Fedorcenko was under an unspoken interdictive ban. His peers were obviously uncomfortable in his presence, and he was given only the most inconsequential of tasks.
The childhood friend of the tsar, the man who had such a short time ago been one of Alexander’s most trusted advisors and confidants, was relegated to a status less vital than that of a minor civil servant stationed in some distant and insignificant outpost of the empire.
Three days of this pathetic routine had driven Viktor all but to distraction. If the avoidance of eyes and the subduing of voices when he walked into a room did not combine to drive him insane, surely the tedious monotony of nothing to do would finish the job! He had always thrived on activity. This was a living death—in its own way, perhaps not unlike his son’s.
Why he kept enduring it, facing the humiliation day after day, he did not know. Viktor had never been a quitter. Although everything in his life seemed to have suddenly gone sour, he could not give up easily.
Sometimes, though, he felt but a hairsbreadth away from succumbing to the tormenting call of madness that now hounded him.
26
There was one, however, who did not seem to mind the censure of Viktor Fedorcenko, and who himself paid not much attention to it. Remarkably, that was the most powerful man in Russia other than the tsar himself.
As Viktor was walking through the Winter Palace to his office a week after the blizzard, he ran into Michael Loris-Melikov midway through one of the long corridors. The governor-general of St. Petersburg was in exceptionally high spirits and greeted Viktor as if nothing had happened. They fell into stride together, chatting amiably. Viktor was so shocked by the other’s friendly good cheer that he stumbled with the interchange for a few moments. He had almost forgotten what it was like to carry on a normal political discussion!
He had not seen Melikov since before Sergei’s trouble. It was impossible that the man did not know of the incident. Yet he treated Viktor with the same camaraderie of spirit as before—as a respected peer and confidant. He invited Viktor into his office, which was nearby, and as he handed his guest a brandy, Melikov continued to talk enthusiastically.
“Ah, Viktor, we have them on the run now!” he said, eagerly rubbing his hands together and speaking as if Viktor were privy to an ongoing conversation that had preceded their meeting in the hall and the small talk that had followed.
“Them . . . ?” asked Viktor distractedly. Fortunately Melikov was too caught up in his good news to notice.
“Those cursed terrorists! I’ve made major arrests, Viktor! I’m on my way now to report the good news to Alexander—”
The mere mention of the tsar’s name sent a brief chill through Viktor’s spine—a chill of mingled pleasure to be so close again to the center of power, and terror lest he misspeak himself with one who had the tsar’s ear.
“I’ve got leaders this time—the real core of the foul bloody movement!” Melikov had gone on.
“Can you be certain?” said Viktor. The question seemed a safe one he could not do wrong in asking.
“Without a doubt. I’ve finally laid my hands on the brute Andrei Zhelyabov.”
“I have heard of him.”
“One of the top men. The slippery miscreant has given me a merry chase for some time, but I have him now.”
“You mean you’ve located where he is hiding—”
“No—got him, I tell you, Viktor! In custody—right in the fortress.”
“Has he talked?”
“No, and to tell you the truth, I doubt he will. The man is a fanatic. Just like them all—no value for his own life.”
“Will his arrest be of any lasting impact, then?”
“With the radicals leaderless, the rest of them won’t last for long. Zhelyabov was the catalyst, the brains, the voice. Without him, they will disband—I am sure of it. Whichever ones don’t run away in fear, we will catch eventually because of their stupidity.”
“It is good news,” said Viktor. At any other time he would have meant the words enthusiastically. Today, however, even the conflict between the Crown and the radicals had little power to touch him deeply. “I am sure this report will be welcome by the tsar,” he went on methodically. “Perhaps he will be able once again to walk the streets in safety.”
“That scum Zhelyabov continues to rant and rave that the tsar is a doomed man. He insists his own arrest means little. Bah—I don’t believe him!”
“What does he say?”
“He wants us to believe they have created an organism that will survive without its head.”
“Could it be true?” asked Viktor, showing a hint of concern.
“He is a liar if he is anything. He will say whatever seems expedient at the moment.”
“Perhaps caution is still advised in any case.”
“That, of course, is up to the tsar. But I hope, Viktor, that he has more confidence in my judgment than you appear to have.”
Viktor winced. It would not do to offend anyone these days. He had only loosened his guard for an instant. He had to watch himself.
“Fortunately my opinion is of little import,” he said dryly, “so you hardly need worry what I think.”
Melikov grunted. “Wretched shame that is too, Viktor. And I want you to know I am on your side.”
In spite of himself, a glimmer of hope shot through Viktor. If someone like Melikov would speak for him to the tsar! But the vain hope was dashed as quickly as it had arisen as Melikov continued.
“If things were not so touchy right now, Viktor,” he said, “I want you to know I would tell Alexander what a mistake he is making in snubbing you. How responsible can a man be for the actions of his son, anyway? A man has to be judged on his own merits, if you ask me.”
Viktor nodded slightly, vouchsafing no smile but at least acknowledging the other’s words of support.
“But I find myself in a rather precarious balancing act at the moment myself,” he went on. “Life around Alexander—given the climate and turmoil in the capital during this past year—is a cloudy and turbulent affair. What with the Dolgoruky woman and her brood, the tsarevich and his reactionary friends opposing me at every turn with the constitution. Then there is Pobedonostev, and Orlov and his bunch. And on top of it all th
at plebeian boor Vlasenko lurking in the wings waiting none too patiently for it all to cave in on me—”
Another involuntary shudder ran through Viktor’s being. That would be all he’d need—for Melikov to discover that Cyril Vlasenko had obtained his appointment through Viktor because of his wife’s bloodline. He’d be joining Sergei in Siberia if he wasn’t careful!
“And with the constitution in the balance,” Melikov continued, “I tell you, Viktor, these are perilous times for us all. I simply cannot risk my own standing.”
“I would not dream of your speaking on my behalf, Michael,” said Viktor. “We all must bear our own political burdens like the men we claim to be.” More than a hint of Viktor’s stoic pride accompanied his words.
“It is a sorry pass, Viktor, when good men are left standing in the corridors, while fools and nincompoops are invited through the hallowed doors to sup at the king’s table.”
He paused as if to allow the sage wisdom of his words to sink in. Then he continued in a different vein.
“I could certainly use your experience and input now more than ever, Viktor,” he said. “The tsar has set a task before me that I fear even I will be hard pressed to conquer.” He paused and gave a coy smile, but made no attempt to modestly downplay his boast.
Viktor did not fault him his immodesty, for Melikov was one of the few men in the capital he truly admired. Yes, he could be pompous at times. And he was an adept conniver. But he was highly intelligent, and not without a good deal of common sense—a commodity in far too short supply in the Winter Palace.
The Russians Collection Page 91