“I do not say what I do because you ask, nor even because of my vow to the prince . . . but because I care for you. It would be a great honor for me to serve you, and to love you in this way, and to call you my wife.”
Anna sighed deeply and her eyes filled with tears. Her first thoughts were of Katrina’s brother. She had never so much as thought of loving or giving herself to another man. But perhaps their fairy tale romance had only been that—a fairy tale. Now suddenly so many realities of life had come pressing unexpectedly upon her. How could she raise a child alone? What would she do? Her parents could not care for them forever; they were advanced in years. And how could she prevent certain unwholesome stigmas from being attached to them, especially if she could not reveal the truth about the child’s parentage? For herself she cared nothing, but Katrina’s daughter deserved better.
“You would marry me,” she said at length, “knowing that a piece of my heart would always belong to another man?”
“Do you not think I have weighed all these things in my mind?” answered Misha. “But life is not a storybook tale for young children. It is full of twists and hurts, full of the unexpected. I too have loved before, or thought I had until I met you. And if you have loved, and perhaps still love, I only pray there might be a piece of your heart that would grow to love me, too. Yes, Anna, I would, and I hope you will want to marry me.”
“Have you spoken to my father?”
“Not yet. I wanted to ask you if there was reason for me to talk to him. With your leave, I will speak to him this very day and ask him for your hand.”
“You may speak to him, Misha,” said Anna at last. “But we must decide nothing. Time must pass. We must speak to Count Remizov. It will take time for me to absorb all that has suddenly happened.”
“Of course, Anna. I understand. For now I must return to St. Petersburg with the princess. I must try to find the count. And I must see to my own affairs at the palace.”
“What will you do, Misha?”
“If my life is to be here with you, I will resign my post. But for now I will try to explain to my commander the reasons for my absence as best I am able. I will call it a family crisis or some such. Then I will do my utmost to return to you as quickly as possible with news.”
“Write me a letter as soon as you learn something.”
“I would sooner trust information to my own lips, brought on the back of a horse. You know how Cossacks love to ride!”
“So I have heard,” smiled Anna.
“But be assured I will notify you however I can and as quickly as I am able how things stand in the capital and at the two houses. You will be safe and provided for here, I am sure.”
“My family will no doubt treat me as a princess!”
“And the child?”
“My mother and I will care for her as our own. Now, you and my father must go.”
Misha rose and started back toward the cottage.
“You will hear from me before many days, Anna,” he said. “I pray you will consider my offer.”
“You may be certain I will ponder it deeply.”
When Misha was gone Anna remained at the willow. She wept again, though whether for Katrina, Mariana, or herself, she did not know.
78
Yevno spent the night with Misha in Pskov and returned to Katyk the following morning.
Anna heard nothing for a week and a half. Then arrived, not a horseman, but a letter from the city. Hastily she opened it and read:
ANNA YEVNOVNA:
I had hoped to bring you news in person, but circumstances here prevent me, and there is still much to do. I have duties at the palace to attend to, but am allowed much liberty. Saving the life of the tsar’s father continues to go before me.
I am happy to tell you that I have located and spoken with Count Remizov. I am sorry to report, however, that he is presently in jail. A woman was found dead on Vassily Island, killed by his gun, and with her blood all over the count’s uniform. An investigation is underway, and though he will probably be released, it means that Anickin is still free and is desperate, for the count assures me he was the murderer of the woman. Remizov is despondent over the princess and I do not have great hope in his mental facilities at present. While he is in this state, I have not told him of his daughter. If I succeed in obtaining his release, I will then inform him how things stand, and will bring him to you.
As far as everyone else knows, the princess ordered you to take her out of the city, to escape Anickin. I did not hint at our destination, and have seen to it that the message left in Polya’s care has been destroyed and Polya herself adjured to silence. I pray I am forgiven for lying: I said that the princess’s baby was born in a country inn, that the child was dead, that the local doctor we found to attend the birth saw to the burial of the baby but was unable to save the princess, who had a sharp attack of hemorrhage following the birth. I said I then sent you home in mortal grief to your parents, and I accompanied the body of the princess back to the capital. For the present this has answered nearly all the questions that have arisen.
Mrs. Remington is naturally curious, though in her grieving state has no reason to doubt what I have told her. Prince Fedorcenko knows nothing, although he has been told everything. Mrs. Remington saw to the arrangements. The prince attended his daughter’s funeral, but went away muttering something to the effect of getting it all straightened out when Natalia and Katrina return from the Crimea.
I myself am confident that accompanying the count to Katyk and putting his own daughter into his arms will bring him to himself. Then, I hope, he will be of a more rational mind to decide what is to be done.
There is great sadness here, as I am sure there still is in your heart. I share your grief.
I hope to bring the count, and to see you again soon. Whatever he should decide in the matter of his daughter, my offer to you still stands, and grows daily more full in my heart.
I am,
Your Servant,
LT. MIKHAIL IGOROVICH GRIGOROV
Toward the end of the month of July, two horses rode into Katyk, bearing the Cossack and the count. They went straight to the cottage of Yevno Pavlovich. Misha was the first to dismount, and ran to the door. Dmitri wondered at seeing him embrace his sister’s maid with such familiarity and obvious emotion, but he said nothing. Then Anna approached him.
“Count Remizov,” she said, “I am so sorry about Princess Katrina.”
Dmitri forced a smile. “Thank you, Anna Yevnovna. From what Lieutenant Grigorov tells me, I owe you a great deal on behalf of both my wife and my daughter. You have been faithful beyond most of your station. I am in your debt.”
“Thank you, Count Remizov. Would you like to see your daughter?”
“Yes . . . yes, of course!”
Anna led the way into the cottage, introduced Dmitri to her mother and father, then stooped down to pick up the sleeping baby. Tenderly she placed her in her father’s arms.
“Count Remizov, may I present Mariana Natalia Dmitrievna Remizov—so named by your dear wife just after the child was born.”
Although somewhat awkwardly, Dmitri took her and gazed down into the tiny sleeping face as if trying to find himself in her countenance.
“She is beautiful, is she not?” said Anna after a few moments. Dmitri nodded. He was not a man accustomed to shows of emotion, and did not know how to cope with the rising tides now surging in his breast, his throat, and his eyes. He attempted to say something, but found he could not speak. He handed the child back to Anna, then turned quickly and walked back out the door, hoping to settle himself down in the fresh air.
Anna and Misha glanced at each other with a sigh. Misha then took a few minutes to fill Anna in on events since his letter, which chiefly were only that he had managed to obtain Dmitri’s release, that he had, during the course of their journey together, explained everything to him, and that as yet no one else in St. Petersburg knew of Mariana’s existence. Nothing had been heard of B
asil Anickin since the attack.
After a few minutes, Anna left the cottage in search of the husband of her mistress. She saw him walking away along the pathway leading to the cottage. She hurried after him.
“Count Remizov,” she said, falling in beside him, “what would you have me do?”
“What do you mean, Anna?” he said, still ambling slowly along.
“I was Princess Katrina’s maid. I am yours now, if you want me, in whatever capacity I may serve you.”
“Yes . . . yes . . . I see. Thank you, Anna,” Dmitri replied, although his mind seemed distracted and disoriented. Suddenly he stopped, turned toward Anna, laid his hand on her arm, and spoke in a very different tone.
“But . . . how can you want to serve me?” he said. “Why do you treat me so kindly after what I have done?”
“My mistress loved you, Your Excellency. As I devoted myself to her, I can do no less to you, for you are my master as she was my mistress.”
“But I left you, I deserted you both!”
“You could not have known Basil Anickin would break in.”
“It’s more than that, Anna—surely you realize that. I was an incompetent and foolish husband! I was so filled with apprehension the moment I learned she was going to have a baby that I returned to my old ways. You know how many nights I left Katrina alone, or arrived late or drunk. I have been a miserable excuse of a man, Anna—you of all people see it, you whom Katrina so admired as being innocent and pure and good. How can you now want to serve me?”
He turned away, but nothing could stem the tide that finally burst. Tears of despair and self-reproach coursed down his face.
“And then in her hour of greatest need,” he went on, “I was not even man enough to remain at her side! Like a fool, I went away again, and when Anickin was trying to kill the two of you, where was I but playing faro and drinking vodka! I don’t even deserve to be called a man. I am not worthy of the title!”
“You must not blame yourself—you could not have known,” implored Anna.
“If I had a sensible head, I would have remained with you. But instead, I charged off to find him myself, and did nobody any good. I never deserved Katrina, and I don’t deserve to be the father of her daughter! Anickin is loose, and we will always live in fear of his revenge. No peace will ever come to my house! Katrina knew me well, Anna. She knew she could not depend on me, so she had to leave the city, to try to protect you and herself and the child. And I never saw her again! I wasn’t there when she needed me most! Where was I? In gaol, involved in a terrible murder caused by my own foolhardy recklessness!”
Anna had never seen him so broken, so consumed by his own guilt over the cruel turn of misfortune that had come upon him. His zest for life, all the old arrogance was gone, without even a lingering trace left in his eyes. He was a man who had come face-to-face with his greatest moment of trial and suddenly perceived his enormous failure.
“Dear God . . . do you realize what I have done?”
“To the very end, Katrina felt nothing but love for you,” said Anna, a great new tenderness blossoming in her heart for this man she had always been afraid of. “You must believe me, she blamed you for nothing. She knew you were trying to protect her by going after Basil Anickin.”
“But I didn’t stop him! The monster is still loose, still hungering for my blood. If he learns of the birth of the child, I have no doubt he will make her a target, too. It will only be a matter of time. I couldn’t stop him. I wasn’t strong enough!”
“I’m sure you will find a way to guard against him, once we are back in your home in the city and—”
Anna stopped suddenly. “That is, Your Excellency,” she went on, “if it is your desire to keep me with you, to help with the child or to serve you in some other way.”
“Of course I want your help, Anna,” said Dmitri disconsolately. “Katrina would want nothing more than for you to serve her daughter as you did her.”
“I would be honored, Your Excellency.”
“But don’t you see, Anna . . . I can’t take Mariana—or you either—back to the city! Neither of you would be safe. And I am scarcely capable of being a father or running a household.”
“Mariana is your daughter, Count Remizov. She belongs with you.”
“Perhaps . . . of course—certainly you are right, Anna. Eventually. But right now, I . . . I do not think—that is, I would much rather she be with you . . . here . . . away from harm.”
“Your Excellency—”
“Please, Anna, I have made up my mind. It is best. Please . . . do this one last service for your mistress. I will provide for you both. When it is safe, and when I am in condition to be the father for her she needs, a father to make her mother proud of me, I will send for you. But until then, she will be far better off with you.”
Anna was silent. Was this the sign of confirmation that she should trust Katrina’s dying request as the best way? Misha had assured her that he had said nothing of it to the count, or of Anna’s promise.
Yet Anna knew she had to do everything possible to unite Katrina’s precious child with her father, whether he thought himself capable or not.
“Dmitri—” she said, hardly noticing that she had omitted his title and used his given name, “none of this changes the fact that you have a daughter now, who needs your care.”
“My care! Haven’t you been listening, Anna? I am worse than worthless to her, as I always was to Katrina—even before this attack by Anickin. You yourself must know it—even though you would never admit such a thing.
“But your responsibility—”
Dmitri turned away with an exclamation of disgust and shame, then walked several paces from her, his hand held to his head and a groaning coming from his lips. The word had stung him to the core. Anna trembled for what she might have done, and stood silently watching his back and heaving shoulders.
At length he stopped, then slowly turned to face her. A look of guilt and personal torment filled his face, and Anna’s heart was stabbed with sorrow. He looked like a child who had lost his way and didn’t know where to turn. For a few moments, Anna feared for his sanity. But when he at length spoke, his voice was measured and self-controlled, as if the words were being forced out to prevent him from breaking altogether into unreason and madness.
“Responsibility,” he repeated slowly and softly, seemingly pondering its very meaning. “Responsibility was never my strong suit,” he added, then went on, gathering resolve as he spoke. “Katrina knew me better than to depend upon me, and now you must follow her example, Anna. As I told you, my decision is made.”
Anna hesitated to voice any further indecision.
“Little Mariana will be happy and content with you,” Dmitri went on. “Love her as you loved Katrina. I will return to the city. I will make whatever arrangements are required. I will bring word back that confirms Misha’s earlier story that the infant died in the country. I will have a smaller headstone engraved that will stand in St. Petersburg beside Katrina’s, and in time, Basil Anickin and everyone else will forget that there ever was a baby. I will send for you and the child . . . two months, six months . . . perhaps a year. Please, Anna, do this for me . . . and for your mistress.”
Anna sighed and looked deeply into Dmitri’s pleading eyes.
At length she nodded. “Of course,” she said, “I will serve you and your daughter in whatever way you think best, Your Excellency.”
“Thank you, Anna. You are a faithful young woman.”
“But I will serve Mariana for her own sake, Your Excellency,” added Anna, “and for yours. I loved my mistress, and I am certain I will grow to care for those she loved just as deeply.”
79
Yevno shuffled down the road, leading old Lukiv behind him. The aging peasant’s step was more labored these days, and his breathing heavier, yet he would not have dreamed of riding the faithful beast.
“Sitting on the back of a horse is for rich moujiks and the promieshik,
” he murmured in what was apparently an ongoing conversation with his four-legged companion. “You and I, Lukiv, are equals, eh? You walk, I walk, and we both grow weary together.”
He chuckled into his tangled gray beard. The horse gave a whinnying snort of acknowledgment.
Yevno paused a moment for breath and, shielding his eyes against the midday sun, gazed across the surrounding valley. A light, cool breeze rustled the leaves of the birch and elms; the leaves were yellower than they had been only a week before.
Time indeed marched on, if not with the cadence of a military parade, then most certainly with the tenacity of an old man leading his workhorse and friend.
As the short warm summer drifts into the chills of autumn, so are our lives drifting into new paths, thought Yevno, the particular mood of the day casting his mind into a philosophical bent. For all his worldly ignorance, deep inside he was a man whose heart felt the changing and subtle tunes of the universe. And indeed, as sure as the air was turning crisp and the leaves yellow and brown with the new season, so too could Yevno sense the passing of the season of grief that had descended upon his home three months earlier.
Russians might revel in gloom and disaster, with their sonorous ballads in minor keys. But as with everything about the Motherland, on the other side lay the lusty, wild, vibrant grasping for life with all its riotous joy. Drudgery and joy, both went to make up Russia.
Old Yevno could feel the beginnings of change. As he trudged over the old wooden bridge, his sweeping gaze shifted toward the little crook in the stream beside the giant willow, where his eldest daughter sat in a most familiar pose. But instead of a book, a bundle of squirming blankets lay in her lap.
Once, in Pskov, Yevno had struck up a conversation with an ironmonger, as he had watched the burly artisan at his trade. Bent before the fiery cauldrons in which the metals were forged, the man told him that in melting together distinctive metals, he was able to produce a stronger tool in the end than was possible with only one element.
So it was with his own precious Anna.
The Russians Collection Page 111