This family, to whom she had pledged not only her loyalty as a servant but also the love of her heart, once seemed unassailable, as strong as the thick trunk of the mighty elm where it emerged from the ground. Now the family resembled instead the elm’s higher regions, where willowy new sprigs of growth were not able to bear up under the weight of the tragedies falling so rapidly upon them.
Her own mistress, Princess Katrina, was clearly holding up the best. Her faith had become stronger than any of the others in the household in recent years, and yet with half the small family now gone, even the princess was approaching the limits of her deep inner strength.
What would happen if she did reach the end of it, Anna did not know. She had never seen Katrina weak since she had known her. Vulnerable upon occasion, but never weak.
She had been praying for them all, masters and servants alike, so often that her knees ached with the strain. She tried to pray and then lay her anxieties aside, as her papa would tell her to do. But she could not deny that the family’s travail continued to worry her. Considering her own personal grief, she could not help comparing herself with the fragile leaves that seemed so weak, and wondering if she could hold up indefinitely under the cascade of hurtful circumstances.
Such a state of mind had driven her on this dreary day to seek consolation by escaping to her books. Dostoyevsky’s newest, The Brothers Karamazov, had caught her eye on her shelf and she had taken it down and begun reading only a short time ago. She would rather read about the problems of others than think about her own. And somehow the selection seemed a fitting honor to the great writer, who had died only three months before.
A few years ago, at Sergei’s urging, she had read Crime and Punishment, although it had taken her forever. They had a lengthy discussion of the book afterward, which had brought to the surface widely differing opinions on the motives and innocence or culpability of the protagonist. She wondered what a similar discussion would reveal now. They both had changed so much since then. What would Sergei say now to the plight of the fictional student murderer Raskolnikov? She shuddered at the comparison.
Back then Sergei had also urged her to read Memoirs From the House of the Dead. She hadn’t, even though he said it would help her understand Raskolnikov’s plight better. Since Sergei’s arrest she had tried once again to read it, hoping Dostoyevsky’s portrayal of life in Siberian prisons would help her feel closer to Katrina’s brother. But she could only wade through two or three pages before snapping the little volume shut in utter despair. In this case, the truth neither set her free from her fears nor consoled her. It was simply better not to know.
Perhaps that was in part why Prince Fedorcenko had taken Sergei’s exile as such a devastating blow. He had visited the labor camps years ago as an emissary of the tsar. He had seen firsthand all that Dostoyevsky had described in his book. He did know.
The thought of Sergei’s father drew Anna’s attention once more from her reading. The man who had suffered over the sentencing of his son was utterly inconsolable since the death of his wife. Within the span of a few short months, half his family had been cruelly snatched from him—the tsar had been assassinated, and his own career and reputation shattered. The shock to his mental and emotional state had been debilitating. He was a man whose whole life was crumbling into ruins at his feet.
For all her frivolous, even childlike mannerisms, Princess Natalia had lent a peculiar and invisible stability to the family. No one would have acknowledged it, least of all Natalia herself. Yet now, since her death, even stouthearted, feisty Katrina had shown shaky moments of insecurity. In Prince Fedorcenko’s case, he had always derived his reason for being from having someone to protect and care for—and not only his frail wife. In a brotherly sort of way he had considered the tsar at least in part an object of his care as well.
Now suddenly both objects of his patronage were gone. The very underpinnings of his mode of existence were no longer there. Son exiled, daughter married, wife dead, Alexander dead. Nothing was left to him but the cold, empty silence of a huge house that once rang with laughter and activity.
At every turn tragedy seemed his lot. And in combination with his guilt over the plight of his son, the bizarre accumulation of events seemed to be gathering sufficient momentum to push the once mighty prince over the edge of sanity itself.
55
The visit to the Remizov home by Mrs. Remington, while unexpected, was not altogether surprising.
“I would not think to trouble you at such a time, Princess Katrina,” said the faithful Fedorcenko housekeeper, “if I did not think it to be extremely important.”
“Please, Mrs. Remington,” said Katrina, “think nothing of it. It is good to see you, here in my home. Won’t you come into the parlor and sit down.”
“Oh, Princess, I should not bother you for so long as—”
“Nonsense, come in and visit,” persisted Katrina, heedless of the other’s hesitation. “I will order us tea.”
Although Mrs. Remington had known Katrina from infancy, now that she was married and mistress of a home of her own, the difference between their stations had exerted itself, causing her to defer to the daughter of her master. The little girl had become a nobleman’s wife and an aristocrat in her own right. And she would be a mother herself—almost any day now.
The Englishwoman followed Katrina into the parlor without further argument, and received tea from the hand of one of Katrina’s servants. As Mrs. Remington spoke, the awful realization had dawned on Katrina that she might well soon be the only viable head of the House of Fedorcenko. Unaccustomed feelings of mingled pain and unsought maturity flooded through Katrina’s heart as she listened. Even as new life beat strongly within her, Katrina ached the way only a sensitive child can for an aging parent, wondering if her new son or daughter would ever know as grandfather the man she had loved as father.
“I have come concerning your father, Princess—”
Mrs. Remington hesitated and looked away for a moment. “May I speak frankly?”
Katrina nodded her assent, “Please go on, Mrs. Remington.”
“You know, I am certain, how much difficulty he has had accepting your mother’s death?”
“Of course,” answered Katrina slowly.
“But I had hoped that after the funeral, reality would settle upon him.”
“Yes. It has taken us all some time to adjust,” replied Katrina.
Mrs. Remington grimly shook her head. “It is now some time since the funeral, and I fear the situation is growing worse.”
“How so?” said Katrina.
Mrs. Remington paused again, hesitant to intrude into areas too familial and too personal, yet compelled for the sake of love not to keep silent.
Katrina read her ambivalence. “Please, Mrs. Remington,” she said with almost a hint of impatience, “you said you wanted to speak frankly.”
“Forgive me, Princess. It is difficult to speak so about the prince. I am very fond of my master. He and your mother have been more kind to me than I deserve all these years. I—”
She turned away and hastily brushed a tear from her eye. Katrina pressed no further, and waited for her to continue.
“Often in the night,” Mrs. Remington went on after a moment, “your father is heard roaming the corridors of the house. I hear the sounds of doors opening and closing. And then comes his voice, low and soft, calling for your mother. Oh, Princess, I am so sorry to tell you such things, but his voice sounds so pathetic when he calls, ‘Natalia . . . Natalia, where are you?’ It makes my heart break for him! Over and over he calls her name. More than once I have had to send for the menservants to try to coax him back to his room and bed, but sometimes he becomes violent if they try to come near him.”
The housekeeper stopped, wringing her hands together in obvious distress over the man she had always respected and admired.
“Why have you come only now to tell me of this?” asked Katrina straightforwardly.
“I did not want to troubl
e you. And I hoped it would subside. But an incident only yesterday finally has driven me to come to you.”
“What was it that happened?”
“You know that poor Nina has taken the loss of her mistress as hard as anyone. She devoted her entire life in service to your mother, and loved her deeply.”
“I do know. I truly believe Mother considered Nina her closest friend,” said Katrina, her thoughts flitting momentarily to Anna.
“Yesterday, Princess, your father, the prince, happened upon Nina cleaning Princess Natalia’s rooms. He approached her roughly and yelled at her as if addressing a stranger, ‘What have you done with my wife, you Lithuanian hag?’”
“Poor Nina!” said Katrina.
“Fortunately, one of the men was nearby and heard the uproar. His approach calmed the prince down. I honestly do not know what would have happened otherwise.”
“I must talk with Nina as soon as possible,” replied Katrina. “Hopefully I will be able to set her mind at ease.”
“I am afraid it is too late,” Mrs. Remington went on. “She resigned her position immediately after the incident. Not in anger, mind you, but because she felt that her presence as one so closely associated with the princess would be too painful for the prince.”
“I suppose there is truth to that.”
“I think, as well, that she was having difficulty coping with her own grief. In the midst of a lifetime of memories, she could not help feeling an emptiness deep inside her soul. She packed her things and was gone by evening.”
“Did . . . did you say anything to her?” asked Katrina, moved by the sad turn of circumstances.
“I took the liberty of sending a favorable recommendation along with her, and I believe she will have no difficulty finding a new position.” Mrs. Remington punctuated her words with a heavy sigh. Her natural British reserve was holding her in good stead, but her control was strained with every word, and the tears which had thus far come only in ones and twos threatened to break into a flood.
Katrina, however, who did not have the benefit of English stoicism, found herself weeping freely. Her tears fell not only for dear Nina having come to such a sad end but also for her father.
“There is more, Princess,” Mrs. Remington went on reluctantly after a pause.
No words would come, but Katrina nodded for her to continue. It was best to get it all out in one painful revelation.
“Later in the day, I went to your father’s study, hoping to perhaps divert his grief by interesting him once more in a few matters concerning the household’s affairs. He bade me enter when I knocked. But what I saw when I walked into the room shocked me so terribly, Princess, that I knew I must come to you at my earliest convenience.”
The fear apparent in the housekeeper’s voice dried Katrina’s tears instantly. “Go on,” she said soberly.
“He sat at his desk staring blankly ahead as if I did not exist. And lying before him on the desk was a pistol, which he was absently stroking with one hand. I am sorry, Princess Katrina, if I have overstepped my bounds in making my own conjectures—”
“Mrs. Remington, you cannot think—”
Katrina could not even verbalize the horrifying thought. It could not be possible. Not her father!
“Princess, I believe he has lost all will to live.”
A stunned silence settled over the room the moment the words left her lips. “I—I cannot imagine he could actually consider such a thing,” said Katrina at length.
“It is difficult for me to believe it also. In God’s name, Princess, I pray I am wrong. But nevertheless I took the precaution of assigning some of the more faithful men to take turns in keeping a watch on him. I hope I did not err too badly in taking such a great liberty.”
“No, Mrs. Remington, it was very wise of you. Whatever my father may think, I at least thank you for your concern.” The practicality of the housekeeper’s action struck a responsive chord in Katrina’s brain.
“I fear your father did not react well. This morning, when it dawned on him what they were doing, he flew into a rage. He attacked the poor servant whose watch it was. ‘Imperial spies!’ he screamed. ‘I knew they were out to get me!’”
Again Katrina’s tentative reserve crumbled. She sent a hand up to cover her trembling lips.
“Oh, Papa!”
The loss of the inexplicable security that Natalia had provided her family was difficult enough. But the impregnability of her father’s unmovable presence had long dominated even that. He had always been the weighty foundation stone, the family’s rock, the rudder giving direction and purpose to the ship called Fedorcenko. Sergei may have chafed under it. Katrina may have wished for deeper fatherly intimacy from him. But the stability and force of his bearing could never have been assailed. He had ruled the home—occasionally with an iron fist, often with a hand of gentleness. But whatever the circumstances, whatever the method by which he displayed it, Viktor’s authority had been unquestioned.
Now suddenly that rock seemed crumbling to powder. Katrina wondered with despair how she could manage life without him.
The same afternoon, after relating these things to Anna, and a good share of cleansing tears, Katrina arrived at the decision to return to her father’s home. Whether her father’s life was truly in danger or not, it was certain that his self-command was nearly at an end, and she desperately hoped that her presence might encourage him out of his despondency. She quickly made arrangements for a message to be sent to Dmitri’s regimental commander.
Then she and Anna packed a few belongings, had the droshky brought around, and departed.
56
Katrina knew the stalwart Mrs. Remington well enough to be certain she wasn’t one to exaggerate. Yet she was still shocked to observe her father’s condition with her own eyes.
The picture she would always hold in her mind’s eye was her father as a trim scion of military perfection. His uniform jacket, with its neat rows of medals and the blue sash of his Order of St. Andrew, never showed a wrinkle no matter how long he had been wearing it. His broad shoulders and fine military bearing, the gold buttons on his coat and his high leather boots polished to a glossy finish . . . that was her father.
She hardly recognized the figure that greeted her that evening at dinner. Her father looked more like a dissolute street vagrant than a Russian prince. He had discarded his uniform jacket altogether. The white shirt he wore and the uniform trousers were creased and wrinkled and had not been washed in days. His hair was disheveled, and his beard untrimmed and shaggy.
Most remarkably, Katrina noted more gray in his hair and beard than had existed there the last time she had seen him. She had heard that emotional distress caused people to go prematurely—and sometimes quickly—gray. But never had she seen it demonstrated so dramatically. She decided it must be a trick of her imagination.
But one thing was certain. He had aged, either physically or in some deeper, unseen way. No doubt a bath, a shave, and a good night’s sleep would remedy the surface haggard look. But it was clear from his eyes that the change went beyond anything that could so quickly be mitigated. And although she did her best to hide it, Katrina was shocked.
When he came near her he reeked like a distillery. She was thankful at least that he didn’t flare up at the sight of her. She had hoped he would not question her impromptu appearance just before the dinner hour. Perhaps, this once, Mrs. Remington was exaggerating after all.
“Ah, Katrina! What a pleasure to see you!” he said expansively. He took her hands in his, and except for the outward appearance and the smell of alcohol, she might have begun to doubt the housekeeper’s morbid speculations.
“Hello, Papa. I hope you don’t mind a visit just now.”
“Of course not,” he replied. “You are just in time to join us for dinner.”
“Thank you.”
“It is only a pity your mother is away,” Viktor went on. “What a time for her to visit Lividia! But you know how she hates the co
ming of summer here in the capital. I would join her, but duty calls, you know!”
“It’s . . . it’s you I came to see anyway, Papa.”
“How nice . . .”
His words trailed away as if some thought were trying to divert his attention. His eyes seemed to glaze over and momentarily lose their focus. “Uh . . . what . . . what were you saying?” he mumbled at length.
“We were talking about why I had come.”
“Ah yes . . . why have you come?” he said, turning toward her more forcefully. His eyes narrowed and he suddenly became suspicious.
“To see you, Papa.”
“Ha! That’s a good one!” He said the words as though they made perfect sense. Then he turned and walked away toward his chair at the dining table.
“Well,” he said sharply, “you are going to eat?”
“I . . . if you want me to, Papa,” she answered hesitantly, following him.
“You may as well. That’s why you’ve come—that’s all you really want anyway, is it not?”
“I don’t understand, Papa. I just want to see you. I heard you weren’t well and—”
“Ah! So that’s it! My own daughter!” he roared. “I thought I could expect some loyalty from you, at least. But I see this plot is wider than I had imagined. You are no better than Orlov and Baklanov conspiring against me . . . trying to be rid of me once and for all!”
“No, Papa!” Katrina said in a pleading tone, trying with little success to hold back her tears. “I want to help you!”
Almost expecting an explosive outburst from her father, Katrina was surprised at the brief moment of silence that followed. The next words were not those of a madman, but seemed to grope for some reality of relationship from out of the past to latch onto.
“You have known me better than any other human being, Katrina. Don’t you realize yet, daughter of mine, that I am beyond help?” For a single instant he appeared focused and sane.
It lasted but a few seconds. Suddenly he let out a sharp, humorless laugh, then strode toward the door, forgetting altogether about the meal, appearing not even to see the maid approaching with platter in hand.
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