The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  She had passed through the fires of grief and loss and confusion—or at least was steadily passing through them. Into her grieving soul were being poured persons and situations, quandaries and decisions, that would never have come to her had she remained forever under his roof. The fires of suffering were melting into her very being, not breaking, not destroying, not consuming her, but rather strengthening her—adding depths of character that could come by no other means.

  He knew well that it was not always so. Count Remizov displayed the sad example of a man who had let his troubles defeat him—at least for the present. Instead of forging a life for himself and his daughter, he had chosen to face life alone, turning his back rather than confronting the realities before him. They had heard no word from him since his brief visit in July with Lieutenant Grigorov. And as attached as they had all become to the count’s daughter, they grieved that her own father would not desire to pour his life into her.

  But his Anna was allowing the fires of affliction to purify her, even as the blacksmith’s forge strengthened the poorer metals poured into it. Every day she grew with an inward stature toward a loveliness a father could be proud of.

  80

  Anna studied the child in her lap.

  She could not help herself. Every time there was a quiet moment she found her eyes drawn to the contents of the little bundle. She thought by now she would have known every tiny nuance of that cherished face. Yet every time she gazed into it, some new facet of personality and individuality struck her.

  Every day Mariana grew and was transformed into a being a little different than before, and new wonders presented themselves to behold. At this moment Anna found herself noting with particular marvel the vivid hue of the child’s large eyes. They reminded her of Sergei’s, a pale gray that was almost translucent. Mariana’s innocent infant gaze made Anna feel as if indeed the child’s own mother and uncle were looking into her spirit through the eyes of the child.

  As these thoughts passed through her mind unbidden, Anna realized that for the first time she was able to think of Sergei without heartbreaking pain. To see him in tiny Mariana’s eyes gave her a new and quiet joy, almost as if, in some unexplainable way, the child was in part their own.

  There was enough of Katrina in the baby, however, to dispel any doubts as to her parentage. The silky locks of black hair grew thicker and richer every day. The full, expressive mouth, the little chin that, even at three months, jutted out ever so slightly with an expression of determination—both reminded Anna of her mistress. And already it seemed that Katrina’s assertiveness was inbred and was beginning to show itself. Mariana’s lusty cry in the middle of the night often woke the entire household, and the wet nurse testified to the child’s hearty appetite.

  Oddly though, despite the strong familial characteristics Anna observed in Katrina’s daughter, many in the village claimed she looked just like Anna. Their comments could not help but make her swell with inner pleasure. But they were disconcerting at the same time. The thought reminded her that she had not yet answered Misha’s proposal. He was a man of great patience, but the day would come when she would have to resolve the matter someplace deep inside her. It was no easy decision.

  “Little Mariana,” she said softly to the baby, “there is such wisdom in those gray eyes of yours. It is too bad you cannot speak to me.”

  She brushed her hand across the soft head and kissed the child on the forehead.

  “Ah, little one,” she went on in gentle tones, “what must the villagers think about your sudden arrival? They have been kind to me, and I suppose they are each drawing their own conclusions. Perhaps it is best not to disturb what they may think. Your papa—”

  Anna’s tone took a more somber edge momentarily, but then she quickly resumed.

  “I will continue to pray that with the passing of time his wounds will heal, and he will have a change of heart. How much of all this you need to know, little one, I am not certain. Perhaps that same passage of time will enlighten me as well. As my own papa says, that is a bridge to cross when I reach the stream, but not before.

  “I would like to teach you about your family one day, for they are noble people. Not in the social way, nor in the way the revolutionaries think of the nobility. You come from a good family, little Mariana. If only you could know your grandfather—as he was, at least. A man of high principles, and wise. Proud, however, perhaps too much for his own good. In the end that proved part of his own undoing. Maybe someday you may meet him, but not until your father comes for you.

  “Ah, Mariana, we all will heal in time! And God will give His wisdom so we will know what to do. Listen to what I just read.” Anna picked up the book lying at her side and thumbed quickly to the page in Psalms from which she had been reading: “For thou, O God, hast proved us: thou hast tried us, as silver is tried. Thou broughtest us into the net; thou laidest affliction upon our loins. Thou hast caused men to ride over our heads; we went through fire and through water: but thou broughtest us out into a wealthy place.

  “Yes, sweet little one, the rich, green valleys lie ahead of us! And when more trials come, as surely they will, we can be certain of the joyous paths to follow.”

  Anna paused and gently rubbed the soft cheek with the back of her finger.

  “But no matter what comes our way, you will always be loved. I will never replace your mother, but I will love you no less. I love you already, as much as if you were my own daughter!”

  Anna grasped the child close to her breast, then kissed her gently. As her eyes probed the infant’s face again, Mariana cooed contentedly, and the little pink lips twitched into a smile. Anna smiled in return. She didn’t care what any of the old wives in the village might say. She knew this smile was real and was somehow meant just for her.

  Mariana had chosen this moment to grace the world with this first sign of her most lovely expression, for somehow the God who had formed her knew it would be the best sign of all to confirm His eternal hope.

  81

  Anna looked up to see her father approaching her. His presence brought to her mind the perplexity of her present vacillation. Misha had been to Katyk again a week earlier, and though as patient and gracious and loving as ever, it was abundantly clear to Anna as well as to her father that her friend hoped a decision would not be many more weeks in coming.

  Yevno tied Lukiv to one of the tree’s low branches, then sat down beside her. Their eyes met.

  “Oh, Papa,” she said, “what am I going to do!”

  “Do you mean about your baby or your Cossack?”

  “Don’t joke, Papa—I mean about everything! What should I do? Should I marry Misha? If you would only tell me, I would happily do as you say.”

  Yevno nodded seriously. “I know you would, daughter. You are as obedient as the sun which rises every day without fail. And because I know you would do whatever I say, for that very reason I will not say. You are twenty-one, and your heart must tell you, not your papa.”

  “Then tell me what you think, Papa.”

  “I think your Cossack is as fine a man as was your prince. That my little Anna should be loved by two men of such eminence makes an old peasant man such as Yevno Pavlovich very proud. Alas, you can marry but one of them, and only one of them appears left you.”

  “You are saying I should marry Misha?”

  “No, daughter, only that Misha is here and your prince, if he yet lives at all, you may never see again. If you love the lieutenant, then you should marry him.”

  “It would be best for little Mariana for me to have a husband,” said Anna, looking down again at the child in her arms.

  “Ah, but you cannot say when Count Remizov will return for her,” rejoined Yevno. “And perhaps for you both. You must not marry for the sake of the child, but for your own. The likelihood is that you will care for the child but for a season, but that in time the count will get over his troubles, perhaps himself marry again, and in due course take his daughter again into his o
wn home. No, Anna, this is one case when you must follow your own heart rather than your love and loyalty to your former mistress.”

  “I could not wish for a better husband than Misha,” Anna said. “And as he himself once told me, life is no storybook tale.”

  “He speaks the truth,” agreed Yevno.

  “And as long as I do have Mariana to care for, I shudder at Princess Katrina’s daughter being thought of as . . . you know, Papa—as a child born to an unmarried peasant girl.”

  “Are you anxious about what people think of you, Anna?” asked Yevno seriously.

  “No, Papa. I am only anxious for what they think of you and Mama. I do not want your friends and our neighbors thinking ill of you because they harbor unclean suspicions about your wayward daughter.”

  “Anna, you are a daughter your mother and I are proud of and love with all our hearts. And we care nothing for what others may wrongly think.”

  “I know, Papa. I only care what they think of you.”

  “I care as little for that as I would to live in a palace.”

  “But I still must consider what people think of the princess’s daughter. And for all these reasons, it seems my marrying would be best.”

  “Perhaps . . . perhaps, daughter. But you must follow your heart above all else.”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  Anna set Mariana down on the grass for a moment, then leaned forward to hug Yevno. He stretched his thick arms around her and held her close to him. The familiar smell of his body and shirt and beard all blended together, bringing tears of melancholy and nostalgia to her eyes. She lay on his chest for several moments, the little girl inside her wishing she could remain here forever, that she did not have to grow up and face a world too full of cares and decisions.

  At length she drew back, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her dress, and looked into his eyes. “I love you, Papa,” she said.

  A long contented silence followed. At last Yevno spoke. “So, daughter, what does your heart tell you?” he said.

  “That he is a good and gentle man, and that I should probably marry him. But . . . after more time is passed.”

  “You speak wisely. It is never good to rush such things. Our God is never in a hurry.”

  82

  Springtime had arrived, yet the chill of old winter still prowled about the northern regions of the Russian countryside.

  Lt. Mikhail Igorovich Grigorov had been to Katyk as many times throughout the winter as the weather and his duties at the Winter Palace would permit. And now as the sun had begun to thaw the land, hope of a bright future began to stir in the earth. This sojourn to the poor village south of the capital would be unlike any previous trip for the Cossack. He came no more as a stranger, but as a friend, a brother—to join himself with one peasant family as a husband and son.

  Anna awoke early. As nervous as her mother had been with the preparations they had been making for weeks, even she was still asleep. From where she slept in the corner the princess had occupied, Anna heard her father still snoring as well.

  She smiled. How she loved them all! How good it was to be home again. Yet she had known from the very beginning that it would be temporary. Ten-month-old Mariana, sleeping peacefully next to her, insured that her life would never return to the childhood simplicity of the years growing up in her beloved Katyk. And the changes that would come to her on this day would be even greater. What would it be like to be a wife, perhaps a mother—not of the princess’s child, but possibly one day of her own? She had scarcely allowed herself to think of such things, even through the long winter of her betrothal to Misha. There had remained almost a dreamy unreality to it all—a sense within her that she was following her ordained path, that events were simply coming to her and she had only to fall in step with their course. Even as her mother and Aunt Polya had fussed for two weeks over the final adjustments to her dress, she had felt like a spectator.

  Until this night. She had gone to sleep thinking how good it would be once again to see Mrs. Remington and Polya—yes, and even Olga Stephanovna!—all of whom Misha had arranged to transport to Katyk for the wedding. How to explain Mariana’s presence to the Fedorcenko servants had been a matter of great concern to Anna. None of them, including their master, the prince himself, knew of Katrina’s daughter. But everything was being arranged by friends of her mother’s, friends whose natural curiosity about the child had not caused them to draw erroneous conclusions concerning Anna’s character.

  Everything had been perfectly attended to in order to make this the most memorable wedding ever seen in the small village of Katyk—the perfect blend between the religious customs of peasant simplicity and the royal pomp of St. Petersburg itself. Everything—her dress, food, music, guests from the city and country—all had been seen to, except for one thing.

  Anna awoke in the middle of the night with the sudden realization of what that one thing was. It was herself.

  All this time, since she had informed Misha of her decision, she had considered the matter of her future resolved. But suddenly all the months had evaporated in a moment, and she felt as if she were back in the confusion of the previous autumn. She tried to dismiss it from her mind as she turned onto her side and attempted to go back to sleep. But it would not go away. The questions grew, and deep within her own soul gnawed a doubt as to whether she had indeed done the right thing in finally consenting to marry Misha.

  Carefully Anna stole from the bed so as not to disturb Mariana, quietly dressed, and went outside. The sun would warm the ground later, but for now it was frozen from the night. Instead of her willow, on this occasion she sought the comfort of her father’s barn.

  She walked inside, glad that Misha and the other guests were staying in the inn at Akulin rather than here. She needed to be alone—with her thoughts, with God . . . and with her own deepest soul. How desperately she longed for her father’s wisdom! How comforting it would be to ask him what she should do! But he had told her many months ago that in the matter of her marriage, she had to follow her own heart. This was one valley she could not share with any other. She had to walk through it alone.

  She supposed there were always last-minute, lingering doubts. If no marriage proceeded where the bride or groom was seized by uncertainties and apprehensions the night before the wedding, then scarcely would a man and woman ever be joined! Jitters and doubts were surely normal.

  But something deeper than that was stirring within her. The decision she had made to marry Misha bore all the marks of rational and logical certitude. It all made perfect sense. She had her father and mother’s blessing and approval. Misha was a fine man. There was nothing whatever in him to cause her the least concern. She had been over all the pros and cons dozens of times, and everything her mind conjured up told her she had made the proper and prudent decision.

  But what of her heart?

  Even there, at first glance, there was nothing to cause her concern. She could easily envision spending her life with him, bearing his children, tending his home. He would be good to her, she knew that.

  But the deepest question of all was one she had never forced herself to consider. Before it reached the very core of her being, her thoughts had always drifted toward Misha’s integrity, and how honored she should feel that he would want to make her his wife. But at last the moment had come—within hours of being too late—when she knew she could look the other way no longer. She had to probe that innermost core of her heart. She had to look straight into her own self and ask the question she had not allowed herself to confront before now.

  In the cold, silent predawn hours of her wedding day, alone in her father’s barn, Anna Yevnovna, peasant maid and servant to the aristocracy, asked herself if she really loved the man she was about to marry.

  She cared for him. He was the best of faithful friends. A more devoted and chivalrous squire no young woman could wish for—a man of integrity, stature, and honor. But . . . did she love him?

  The disquieting sense t
hat had awakened her and driven her from bed only grew stronger. Anna may have been an innocent, uncomplicated girl, but she was not naive. She knew that marriage must be founded upon the foundational bedrock of mutual care and commitment and sacrifice rather than fleeting schoolgirl passions. Yet inside she could not deny that her doubts were deeper than that. If the thing were right, she would love Misha. And whatever that love lacked on their wedding day, she would add to as the years went on.

  But the question of whether she loved him only opened her to the larger question: was it the right thing to do? Was her marriage to Misha right in God’s eyes?

  And what of her love for Sergei? In the long year of his absence it had not altered one iota. Yes, Misha was aware of this, but did either of them truly know how this division of heart might weaken the bonds that must be present for a good marriage? And even if a marriage of convenience and one-sided love was acceptable to Misha, was it really acceptable to her? Could she be happy with it? Her papa had indeed spoken wisely when he said she must not marry for the sake of others. In the end it would benefit none.

  Moreover, could she give up so quickly on her prayers for Sergei’s return? Perhaps it was in God’s design that she and Sergei be forever separated. Perhaps he was even now dead. Yet was she ready to embark on a new life now, while doubt remained, and hope still stirred within her heart?

  Marriage was too weighty a matter, too permanent, with too much at stake, to enter into its solemnity double-mindedly. All doubts might not be removed, but there should be none at the core of truthfulness.

  Tears filled Anna’s eyes. She knew what lay before her. She either had to keep these final-hour doubts to herself, silencing the reservations now shouting themselves at her, and go ahead with the day as planned, smiling as though all were well and right within her heart, or she must summon the courage to do what was right.

  It would take more courage than she dreamed possible! The humiliation . . . the mortification! What would everyone say . . . her mother and father . . . Misha himself? After all the preparation and arrangements . . . how could she?