The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  When Anna returned inside, she went immediately to her mistress’s bed. The princess was awake and seemed agitated and restless.

  “Anna, I must speak to you,” she said. Her voice was weak, but not so faint as before. A hint of her inborn spirit of determination showed through even at this hour, and Anna took hope just to hear it.

  “Yes, Princess . . . I am right here beside you.”

  “You must make me a promise, Anna.”

  “You know I will, Princess.”

  “I have given this much thought, Anna,” Katrina went on. “It is possible that . . . Dmitri may not come.”

  “Katrina,” broke in Anna, “I know he will! He loves you too much—”

  “Anna,” interrupted Katrina, and though her voice was soft, it was yet firm in its resolve to speak directly to her purpose. “Anna . . . we do not know what might happen,” she went on. “If it should be . . . if I should not see him again—”

  She stopped, her voice choked with both emotion and weakness as of fading embers struggling to retain the last of their fire.

  “Anna, promise me this,” she continued, summoning a great breath as if to give her strength, “I want you to promise me . . . that you will raise Mariana. I want you to raise her here, in Katyk.”

  “I know the count will come!” said Anna, speaking in a tone of desperation, and weeping freely now.

  “I do not want her exposed to the strife and duplicity of the city. And I do not want her raised by strangers. My father cannot even care for himself now, much less an infant granddaughter. Dmitri’s mother—you cannot let me go thinking the baby might end up with that woman!”

  “Oh, Princess . . . don’t speak so!”

  “You are the only one I would trust with my daughter, Anna . . . the only one I know who would love her with the kind of love . . . the love I will not be able to give her. I know I ask a great deal of you, dear Anna, but you are my best and closest friend, my dearest and most precious sister. . . .”

  “Princess,” said Anna, “I would die for you if I could. What you ask is no more than I would willingly and gladly do for you! But think of what you are asking. We are but poor peasants. Mariana is heiress to fortunes, to palaces—”

  “And to grief, Anna—do not forget that.”

  “Grief comes to places like Katyk, too.”

  “Perhaps . . . but I will know that you will always be there to love her—as you have faithfully loved me. If you would give me peace, Anna, do not deny me this last request of my heart. I must know she is safe with you.”

  Anna could not refuse her mistress. Her heart was too full of love and heart-sickening anguish. But the words which came next from her mouth were not those of a servant but rather of a friend, a sister.

  Anna knelt down at Katrina’s bedside, weeping openly and without shame. “I promise, Katrina,” she said. “I will do as you ask. I will love your daughter and serve her just as I have loved her mother.”

  “Thank you, Anna,” came faintly from the bed.

  The words were barely discernible. Katrina’s strength was clearly spent. But a smile was on her lips.

  She closed her eyes. Suddenly Anna’s heart seized her, and she clutched her chest, fearful for a terrible moment that the end had come. But the next instant a thin breath exhaled through Katrina’s nose, and then a steady—though faint and laboring—breathing from her lungs resumed.

  76

  A short time later the door opened. In walked Misha, looking nearly exhausted himself, followed a few paces behind by the doctor. Yevno arrived three minutes later, breathing heavily. By then the doctor was already at the bedside, and Yevno went straight to his own corner and collapsed on top of the family bed.

  It was immediately clear to all three men the moment they stepped across the threshold that times of eternal import had descended upon the humble Burenin cottage, and none of them spoke. Misha’s eyes caught Anna’s and held them for several long seconds, feeling her anguish and trying to convey his sympathy and understanding.

  It did not take long for the doctor to corroborate Sophia’s bleak diagnosis. He examined the baby, pronounced her a healthy specimen, but said there was nothing he could do for the mother. Even had he been present at the birth, he doubted he could have saved her. Only God could stop a flow of blood like hers.

  He did what he could to make her comfortable, then asked if he might have some sleep. He had been up most of the previous night, but rather than return home, he wanted to remain close by just in case some change merited his presence. Misha immediately took the doctor out to the bed in the barn.

  Another hour slowly passed. Yevno slept, the doctor slept, Katrina slept. The wet nurse sat in the corner with the baby. Anna, Sophia, and Misha sat—waiting, praying, the latter two offering Anna what comfort and sustenance they were able.

  Anna sat with Katrina’s hand in her own. Her heart was heavy. Without her mind thinking about what might lie ahead, the soreness in her heart was yet molding and shaping new regions in her being, getting her ready for what she had to bear.

  A slight movement told her that her mistress was coming to herself. She bent down and kissed the pale face. Katrina’s eyes opened. She smiled.

  “Have I told you I love you, Anna?” she asked wanly.

  “Yes, Katrina . . . yes, you have. I love you too.”

  “How can you love me, Anna. I am so ugly and petty sometimes. You are so good and pure.”

  “Please, Princess, do not say such things,” said Anna, her eyes filling afresh with tears.

  “Do you remember the first day we met . . . in the garden?”

  “Yes, of course. I could never forget it.”

  “We were as different as two people could be, weren’t we, Anna?” said Katrina, her voice strengthened after the sleep.

  Anna nodded.

  “We are not so different now, I think. I hope I have become a little like you, Anna.”

  “Oh, Princess, you have given me so much! I think I too have changed—for the better . . . in ways that have made me more like you.”

  “My friendship with you is the most special and precious thing I have ever had in my life, Anna. Do you know that? I want you to know it.”

  “Thank you, Katrina. You are the best friend I could have ever hoped for.”

  “You made life worth living for me, Anna.” As she spoke, her face was serene. A perfect and deepening peace shone from her eyes, a peace as of a greater health and larger contentment than anything she had ever known in all the years of her life. Anna could not stop her tears, nor would she had she been able. She sensed the gentle winds of life and birth gradually carrying her mistress toward that faint border between this world and the next. Katrina herself had become like the newborn babe from her own womb. The birth of the one was ushering the other into that greater life, through the back side of the door called death. But on the other side of that door awaited the careful and loving hands of those who had gone before, that they might gently welcome their fellow pilgrim home. Katrina was going to see her own mother again, with a new kind of knowing. And if she had to leave her precious Mariana for a season, it would not be long before they would all—mother and daughter, granddaughter and maid—be sisters together.

  Katrina looked deeply into Anna’s eyes. And in the peace that radiated from her own, she who had been the learner now became childlike enough to be for a few moments the teacher.

  “You mustn’t cry for me, Anna,” she said softly. “See, I do not weep. I think I have never been happier in my life than lying here with you.”

  “Forgive me, Princess. I cannot help being brokenhearted,” said Anna. Indeed, how could she help it? She loved her mistress; they loved each other, and their very beings seemed to have fused into one. She had been her servant and friend, willing and loving and giving as any angel. But because she was not an angel, she could not keep her heart from breaking.

  “You must not forget what you have been teaching me all this time—that
the will of God is everything. You have taught me that, and so many other things about our heavenly Father, Anna, and I love you. I hope I love God too, but I could never separate the love I have for you from loving God. If it hadn’t been for you, Anna, God would have remained as far away as ever. I am so glad He sent you to me!”

  Anna continued to weep. She could not speak.

  A long silence followed. Katrina closed her eyes again and relaxed. Anna thought her mistress slept. Suddenly her eyes opened wide and a flash, as though light from heaven, broke across her countenance.

  “Anna!” she cried softly. “Anna . . . hold my hand.”

  “I have it right here, Princess, in my own.”

  “I . . . I can’t feel it . . . I can’t . . . Anna, where are you?”

  “Beside you, Katrina—I am here.”

  “I can’t see you . . . it is coming . . . the light is so bright . . . Anna, hold me, Anna . . .”

  Anna rose from her chair, sat down on the side of the bed, and gently lifted the frail form. With the princess’s head cradled in her lap, Anna softly stroked Katrina’s hair and cheeks.

  “Thank you . . . you have made me so happy . . . I love you, Anna . . . I—I . . . goodbye, Anna . . . I—”

  “Princess . . . Katrina! I love you, Katrina!”

  Anna felt the body give a little shudder as an expression of contentment came over Katrina’s face. And thus, enfolded in the love of her maid and friend, anointed for her death by the passage of her own life into her infant daughter, baptized for the new life by the tears falling upon her face from the eyes of the one who held her, Katrina died in Anna’s arms.

  77

  The gentle afternoon breeze carried on its wings the warm fragrances of summer—hints of full-blossomed flowers, suggestions of ripening fields of grain, and the moist sweetness of distant green pasture grasses.

  In nearly twenty-four hours, Anna had scarcely been out of the house. But now she stepped outside. It was time to breathe deeply of the fresh country air and to try to restore her spirits.

  In the distance she discerned the echoes of the noisy stream that meandered through the meadow. By its banks grew her favorite willow, where in the past she had often sought solitude. It was good to be reminded again of the world outside, and of the fact that life did indeed exist beyond the smothering sorrow that was engulfing her.

  Anna found her papa gathering eggs in the chicken house. His thick, gnarled hands picked up each delicate egg with uncanny gentleness. Yevno had been given a physical body that contradicted his inner spirit. Big, husky, lumbering peasant man that he was, Yevno yet carried within his bosom the gentleness to mend a butterfly’s wounded wing, or to soothe his daughter’s breaking heart. He could not read, and in all his life had never traveled two hundred versts from his birthplace, yet he grasped more of the ways of the universe than many a learned scholar in the most renowned universities of the land.

  They talked for an hour. Yevno gently comforted his daughter, and offered that greatest of all gifts of sympathy—a heart that understands. Anna cried a great deal, and upon the great chest of her father found solace, refuge, and the first tender, tentative shoots of a reviving hope.

  She told him of her promise to Katrina and asked if she had done the right thing.

  “Only your own heart can answer that question for you, little Annushka,” he replied. “God speaks to your heart as well as to mine. If you listen close, you will know.”

  “How will I know, Papa?”

  “I cannot tell you that, my child. You will have to speak to the baby’s father. Your duty is now likewise to him as well as the child.”

  He smiled and kissed her cheek. “But if some harm has come to him, or until the present danger is past, our home is always big enough for another little one, eh? What joy that would bring to my old heart!”

  Anna’s eyes filled with tears.

  “My poor Annushka!” Yevno set down his bucket of eggs and wrapped his great arms around her. “So many hard things have come to you. But they make you stronger, Anna. You do not need to be afraid. Your shoulders may seem little to you, but they are strong enough to bear this burden. And remember, you are never alone. Helpers abound—especially the Great Helper above.”

  Anna left the chicken house, lighter in spirit than when she had entered it. She walked to the stream, then sat down with her back to the trunk of the old willow.

  How much time passed, she did not know. She heard the sound of a step behind her. She turned, then rose to her feet.

  “Oh, Misha!” she said, falling into his arms. She clasped him tight as she wept afresh. “I loved her so much!”

  Misha did not speak, only held her tenderly to him, stroking the top of her head gently, allowing her tears to flow without restraint.

  They had not spoken a great deal all day. Misha had been busy with Yevno, making arrangements for the transporting of Princess Katrina’s body back to St. Petersburg.

  “Everything is ready,” he said at length. “Your father and I must be off soon if we are to make Pskov before nightfall.”

  Anna nodded. “I do not like to leave you,” Misha went on. “Not now . . .”

  “I know,” said Anna. “But you must.”

  Gently Misha released her, took her hand, and led her back toward the tree.

  “Sit down, Anna,” he said. “There are some matters we must talk about before I go.”

  She obeyed as if in a dull stupor and tried to focus her mind on the decisions that had to be made.

  “The body will travel anonymously, so that Anickin, if he should ever attempt it, will not be able to trace Katrina’s movements and get to the baby. When I arrive, I will make every effort to locate the count immediately. If I am able, I will commit everything to his discretion. If not, as you suggested last evening, I will go straight to Polya and Mrs. Remington. They will see to affairs at the two houses until I find Count Remizov or we otherwise decide what is to be done.”

  “What about poor Prince Fedorcenko?” said Anna.

  “Yes, I’ve thought of him. The whole affair could look suspicious to everyone—to him, the count, Mrs. Remington. Here we are, a Cossack guard with no connection to the family, and a maid, saying that the princess ordered us to remove her from the city and to keep her child here in a peasant cottage rather than with her own family. Who are we that they should believe us?”

  Anna sighed. “We must pray you find Count Remizov,” she said. “He is the only one who fully knew of the danger. And he is probably the only one who knew Katrina well enough to know that what she did is exactly what she would have done under the circumstances.”

  She paused and sighed again. “I only wish—” Then she stopped herself. “No, I cannot think such thoughts. I cannot even say his name again. He is not here, and so we must pray for God to show us what is best to do.”

  Misha was silent. He knew her heart, and to whom she had given it.

  “You know I will help you however I can,” said Misha at length.

  Anna looked up at him and smiled. “Yes, Misha, I know,” she replied softly. “You have always been there whenever I needed you.”

  Silence fell between them. “Oh, Misha!” Anna exclaimed at length, “I can’t help being fearful. I made a promise to Katrina that I would take care of her daughter if Count Dmitri does not return. But as you said, it all seems so . . . so complex and out of the ordinary. I don’t know how I could do such a thing.”

  “You promised.”

  “Of course! I would do anything for Katrina. I would love her child as though she were my own. But what kind of life could I give her by myself? There are so many questions in my mind. Would I return to the city sometime, or always remain here? I cannot help being confused about what is best.”

  “I cannot answer your questions, Anna. Except that I do know you will give Princess Katrina’s baby a happier life, one more full of love even in poverty than she would ever know without you, even in all the palaces in Russia.�
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  No one spoke for several minutes. Misha seemed to be deep in thought. At length he pulled his gaze from the waving field of wheat in the distance and focused his eyes with probing earnestness directly on Anna’s face.

  “We have known each other several years, have we not, Anna Yevnovna?”

  Anna nodded.

  “Since that day I came upon you so frightened and nervous in the Winter Palace that you did not even have the presence of mind to bow before the tsar,” he added, smiling.

  Anna laughed lightly. It seemed such a pleasant memory now, and it felt good to think of happier times.

  “You have indeed always been there to help me, Misha,” she said.

  “As I wish to be now.”

  “And as you are.”

  Misha pulled his gaze away again for a few moments, then turned back, deep furrows lining his brow.

  “You are not the only one who has a promise to keep, Anna,” he said. “I too made a promise to the House of Fedorcenko. But my promise was to do everything I could to take care of you.”

  Anna looked away.

  “It seems that perhaps the time has come for me to fulfill that obligation, that promise—”

  “I do not want you to feel duty bound to me,” interjected Anna.

  “Please, hear me out,” Misha went on. “Perhaps obligation was not a good choice of word. I feel duty bound, as you say, only by the duty of love. As you fulfill your promise to the princess, I wish to fulfill mine to her brother . . . in a permanent way.”

  “Misha, what are you saying?”

  “That I will tend the land and pay the rent, and do whatever I must to make for you and this child a good life. I wish to marry you, Anna—to care for you and share life with you, so that not the smallest taint could ever come to your reputation on account of the child.”

  “Oh, Misha . . . !” Anna could say no more for some time. Finally she spoke, her words soft. “I could never ask such a thing . . .”