The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  Although he could enjoy vast power in that position, and it was a tremendous career move, he had not liked the idea of once more being removed from the real hub of power. And the province was one of the smaller and less influential of Russia’s ninety-six provinces. He was not fool enough to protest, however, but rather sought to use his new position to his advantage. Availing himself of the ancient Russian institutions of bribery and taxation, he had comfortably padded his personal coffers.

  But his true moment of opportunity had come during a series of peasant outbursts in the area. Not wanting the disturbances to be credited to their true source, the revolutionaries—for the government preferred to perpetuate the myth that revolutionary activity had abated in Russia—Cyril had pulled off a masterful stroke by turning the wrath of the discontented peasants onto the large Jewish population in the province. A successful pogrom had ensued, forcing the emigration of thousands of Jews while at the same time raising the esteem of the government in the eyes of the anti-Semitic majority in the community. Violence had been averted—at least, violence against orthodox Russians not Jews—and Cyril came out looking quite heroic to the passionately nationalistic central government.

  He was immediately brought back to St. Petersburg to serve as the Director of the Committee for National Indemnification—a grandiose title that simply meant he was to carry out on a national level the kind of effective Russification he had implemented in his province. The position represented nothing short of government sanction of his rabid bigotry and prejudice. And with this advancement, Cyril was directly responsible to the Minister of the Interior. He had never been closer to real power.

  The sudden death of Alexander III had been a blow, for Cyril had little idea where he stood with the new tsar. Alexander had not thought much of his shy, frivolous heir, and thus had done little to prepare him for the duties of rule. In 1894, Alexander assumed he had two or three more decades yet to rule, plenty of time to whip his son into shape. Nicholas meanwhile had enjoyed the role of playboy-heir and had never shown any strong inclination toward taking a greater hand in government. The tsar’s death caught up with both of them.

  Cyril had no reason to believe that Nicholas Alexandrovich did not adhere to his father’s conservatism. But to his delight—and relief—the new tsar made his position clear.

  The young tsar stated unequivocally, “I shall maintain the principle of autocracy just as firmly and unflinchingly as my dear father also strove to preserve it.”

  Many hopeful liberals groaned with despair, but for Cyril it meant a renewal of the life he had come to depend upon. The quiet, demurring new monarch didn’t look like much on the outside, but he was no liberal, and that was all that mattered. Such a diminutive young man might be an asset for the government if those in power could perfect the proper techniques for using him to their best advantage.

  So, Cyril had kept his coveted position. Here he was, riding in a place of honor with men of power. And, if he had a shread of humanity, it could not have prevented him just then from thinking of his cousin and old nemesis, Viktor Fedorcenko. The once-mighty prince had fallen ignominiously while he, the despised country relation, had risen to the heights. The thought brought a grin of immense satisfaction to his pudgy face. The only thing that could possibly dull the swell of pride within him was the fact that Viktor himself was not present to see his cousin’s grand moment. Perhaps, Cyril thought with evil delight, I shall drop a little note to him, expressing my regrets that he could not have been present at the coronation, mentioning—off-handedly, of course—my own elevated role in the festivities. Ah, yes! I shall do so tonight.

  A note would not be as effective as a first-hand witness, but it would have to suffice. Cyril grimaced. Even absent, Viktor managed to rob him of some of his glory.

  Cyril’s smile faded. Why, even now, did Viktor stir such ambivalence in him? His prideful gloating teetered on the edge of anger and a feeling of inferiority. Yes . . . as much as he tried to ignore it, that horrible demon of inferiority always lurked inside Cyril. Maybe it would be there even if he were to become a tsar. Perhaps he would not be able to shake it as long as Viktor Fedorcenko lived.

  2

  Sarah Remington had harbored deep reservations about this trip to Moscow. In deference to the employer-employee relationship, however, she could voice only a small fraction of her objections. If fear for her position were her only consideration, she would have presented herself more boldly. After all, she had been a loyal employee of the Fedorcenko household for twenty-five years and that alone ought to permit her some liberty.

  Her greatest fears, however, were not for herself but for Prince Viktor Fedorcenko. How would he handle this sudden exposure to a life that had been essentially snatched away from him? Wasn’t he just opening himself up for a terrible setback? And how could she, in clear conscience, permit such a risk?

  Those questions had plagued her for the last two weeks since the decision had been made. But how could she voice them to a man who did not, perhaps could not, accept that he had a problem? In the end she had relented, placating her fears by obtaining permission to accompany the prince. At least if something did go wrong there would be a trusted, steadying hand to support him. Perhaps that was the thing she did best; after all, that had been her main function these past fifteen years.

  Ever vigilant of her duty, Mrs. Remington glanced at the prince, who sat next to her in the open carriage. He was taking in the long and ornate coronation parade with rapt attention. Every now and then his brow would furrow slightly, and sometimes Mrs. Remington could connect the faltering lapse in his impassive features directly to the appearance of a former acquaintance in the parade. This was just the kind of encounter she had feared most.

  “Do you know, Viktor,” she said, trying to distract him, “this is the first Russian coronation I have ever seen?”

  “Is it?” It seemed an effort for him to focus on her attempt at conversation. But at least he was trying.

  “Actually,” she went on, rambling but compelled to continue, “this is the first coronation of any kind I have seen. I was not born when Queen Victoria ascended the throne.”

  “The Empress Alexandra is part British, you know,” said Viktor of the new tsaritsa.

  “Yes. Queen Victoria’s own granddaughter. It shall be interesting to see how the two worlds meet, don’t you think?”

  “At least it will cut some of that dratted German blood.”

  “She is still a Hesse-Darmstadt princess and half German,” Mrs. Remington reminded him.

  Viktor made no response. Mrs. Remington glanced his way again and saw that she had lost him once more. His vacant gaze was focused on the procession, his brow more deeply furrowed. Count Cyril Vlasenko was passing among the cortege of nobles. By rights Viktor should have been in that honored company. But all Mrs. Remington could think of was that she hoped no one noticed him in the crowd. It would only make matters worse if one of his old associates sought him out.

  She tried again to engage him in conversation, but he took no notice of her. She wasn’t even certain that he was really seeing the parade on which his intense gaze was focused. He was lost in some inner world she could neither fathom nor penetrate.

  Fifteen years ago he had descended into that world, and except for brief sorties on the fringes of reality, he had remained ensconced in its warmth and safety. Sometimes Sarah wondered if it were not better that way.

  For Viktor, reality was not a pretty encounter. The weight of guilt it imposed upon him for his son’s imprisonment—and especially for his wife’s death—was too much for him to bear. His snubbing by the Tsar Alexander II, and the subsequent eroding of his influence and purpose at court only compounded the tragic sense of futility. Most people who knew Viktor would have thought him strong enough to cope with these losses, but he had apparently masked his deeper sensitivities quite well. Many thought his son, Sergei, had inherited his sensitive nature entirely from his mother, but it now seemed likely
that the strong, well-controlled Prince Viktor had contributed his share of what he had often called a “flaw” in his son’s character.

  If only people had known just how much energy Viktor expended toward covering his own “flaws.” Of course such a revelation would never have been acceptable—even he himself could not accept it! When his world crashed in, he had only two or three choices that would help him cope. Suicide was one option, and although he had never tried it, no one could tell if he had entertained such a possibility in the veiled recesses of his mind. But suicide was an admission of weakness, an act that would never come easily to Viktor. Only acceptance or rejection of reality was left for him. Since acceptance was as impossible as suicide, he was forced to reject that which was tormenting him. Thus were born his fantasies: his children were tending their own families, his wife was away, he was retired from government service.

  Sarah Remington had opted not to tell him of his daughter’s tragic death. She feared that would be the proverbial “straw,” that he might be driven to finally do away with himself. His life might well be a sham built on a flimsy foundation indeed, but at least he still had life.

  Sarah’s mother used to tell her that “where there is life, there is hope.” The faithful housekeeper prayed that would prove true in Prince Fedorcenko’s case.

  At least within the confines of his make-believe world, he had found some semblance of peace, if not happiness. Sarah attributed this peace to his decision to move to the family estate in the Crimea.

  That first awful Christmas alone, Prince Viktor had drunk himself nearly to death, and had almost killed himself when, in a drunken stupor, he had fallen down the stairs. The housekeeper conceived the idea of the move while Viktor was recovering from a broken ankle resulting from the fall. He had to get away from the constant barrage of painful memories. Subtly she began presenting him with the idea of a change. Finally he accepted the concept, though, much to Sarah’s chagrin, he agreed because “it was high time they joined Princess Natalia in the Crimea.”

  She almost regretted her suggestion, worrying over the probable consequences all during the preparations. But when they arrived at the Crimean estate, Viktor had found some new way to excuse his wife’s absence.

  Life on the secluded seaside estate was a balm to the prince’s tormented soul. The responsibilities of running the large St. Petersburg estate were behind them. Most of the servants had been dismissed, except for the oldest and most faithful who were moved to the Crimea. The slow idyllic pace, the warm, healthful breezes, and the beautiful countryside acted like a tonic to the beleaguered prince. He turned to alcohol less frequently. On occasion, the housekeeper still came upon him in a drunken stupor. But he was sober most of the time. He continued to cling to his fantasy world, but the terrible dark shadow that lay over him began, by degrees, to lift.

  When, by nothing less than a miracle, the prince’s son appeared at the estate, Sarah had held great hope for the elder prince’s recovery. But Viktor had accepted Sergei’s visit as a matter of course—a son merely visiting his father, not a son returned almost literally from the dead, from an exile the father felt responsible for. Sarah supposed that for Viktor to accept the miracle of his son’s deliverance, he must also accept the reality of the other tragedies in his life. And this, he was still unable to do.

  But during one moment of the reunion, Sarah did see a tiny spark of hope. The two men had embraced and tears had coursed freely down Sergei’s face. Viktor had maintained his usual stoicism, except for one unguarded moment when a trace of moisture invaded his eyes and threatened to seep from the corners. The prince had quickly regained his composure and his protective ramparts, and the moment was lost, but not forever, Sarah hoped.

  One of the greatest boons Prince Viktor experienced on the Black Sea came quite by accident, yet it had proved a lifesaver of sorts. A flood after their second winter had washed out a little bridge that formed part of the main access road to the estate. The workmen required some direction as to design of the new bridge, but at first Viktor waved off the request disinterestedly. The workmen, left to themselves, proceeded to build the bridge with little imagination. Viktor happened to observe the work one day and was most dissatisfied. He tried to tell the men what he wanted, but they did not seem to understand. Finally he made them a sketch. Later, when he showed Sarah the drawing, she was impressed at his skill and told him so.

  “I didn’t know you had such artistic talent, sir,” she said.

  “Neither did I, really. Always thought such pursuits somewhat frivolous.”

  “I don’t believe any talent is frivolous.”

  “Never had time for that kind of silliness before. But with the children busy with their own families and Natalia away, I suppose I could indulge myself a bit.”

  His reasoning might have been somewhat amiss, but the positive effect made up for it. After that he could be found most days wandering about the property, his sketch book constantly in hand. He produced reams of drawings, most of them quite good. And, oddly, his analytical, military mind did not produce purely technical detail. Although his eye for detail was scrupulous, he had an unexpected knack for capturing mood and feeling in his sketches. Sarah especially loved a drawing of a rocky stretch of beach in early morning with one solitary gull winging over a cresting wave. The lonely beauty of the scene made her want to weep and smile at the same time.

  Once one of the servants had gone into town and purchased a small set of oils for the prince’s birthday. Viktor had tried them and, out of politeness, had made several paintings—all excellent. But in private he told Sarah that he really was not fond of oil painting.

  “All the colors detract from the scene,” he said. “I prefer the simple expression of black and white.”

  Even if the world was black and white for him, at least he was surviving. And in it he was finding some small meaning and purpose, though it might be no more than capturing the lonely beauty of a single sea gull.

  The idea of the trip to Moscow for the coronation seemed to spring up out of nowhere. For years he had remained almost totally insulated from the political world, in spite of the fact that Tsar Alexander III spent a great deal of his time at Livadia, not far from the Fedorcenko Crimean estate. Alexander had, in fact, died at Livadia. Viktor had stayed completely aloof—not that any overtures were ever made toward him. It was as if tsar and government no longer existed. But when the tsar died only a few miles away, it was impossible to keep the news from penetrating the Fedorcenko household. It seemed to set off a restiveness in Viktor. He began to drink more, and that dark cloud again settled over him. Finally he announced that he would go to Moscow for the coronation.

  “I am Russian,” he said. “It is my duty.”

  Of course, Sarah could not tell him that she feared the exposure would upset his delicate mental balance. Nor could she use his physical health as an excuse because, except for a slight limp from that broken ankle, he was in outstanding condition for a man of sixty-one. She could do nothing but relent. He was, after all, still master. And she was, whatever else her heart suggested, his servant.

  But she was able to convince him to take her along, ostensibly because she had never witnessed a Russian coronation and greatly desired to do so. And she had thus far been able to shield him from upsetting situations. They were staying in a small out-of-the-way hotel in modest quarters to keep from attracting attention, and for the present had been able to maintain complete anonymity. And so far Viktor had been satisfied to remain merely a spectator. He truly seemed interested only in doing his patriotic duty by supporting his new tsar. Only occasional flickers of bitterness or depression arose over what had been denied him.

  “There he comes,” said Viktor as the new tsar came into view. His voice prompted Sarah’s wandering thoughts back to the momentous event at hand. Allowing himself a momentary lapse of reminiscing, Viktor went on. “He was only thirteen years old when I last saw him at his grandfather’s funeral. He was a polite lad.
He shook my hand when I offered my condolences and he made me feel as if he were truly grateful. I could see that the horrifying tragedy of his grandfather’s murder had impressed him deeply.”

  Viktor sighed, and Sarah Remington could only hope that no other thoughts of that tragic year would undermine Prince Viktor’s flimsy foundation. With effort they both focused once more on the scene in the street.

  3

  Mounted on a white stallion, Nicholas II looked splendid, if not regal or impressive. Dressed in a plain army tunic, he was a pale shadow compared to the dazzling, jeweled nobles who had preceded him. But he sat erect and proud, as befitted the heir to the House of Romanov.

  He knew well enough what people thought of him. Not, of course, the tens of thousands of simple folk and cheering peasants who lined the streets—they adored him, or at least adored what he stood for. But he lacked the esteem of the men close to him—the ministers, the court, the relatives, the “uncles”—especially the uncles, his father’s brothers, Vladimir, Serge, and Alexis specifically. Not only did they tower over him in size, but they were strong-willed, domineering sorts.

  They had boxed his ears and scolded him as a child, so when he suddenly became their monarch and the patriarch of the Romanov family, the transition was not an easy one. Besides, they no doubt felt his ears could still use a good boxing. They would always view him as the weakling lad who disappointed even his own father.

  Alexander had always been reluctant to bestow any official duties on his retiring son. The few insignificant posts he did hold, he worked hard at, but with little enthusiasm. He was never more relieved than when a particular committee failed to meet. Count Witte tried to convince Alexander to give his son more responsibility by appointing him president of the Trans-Siberian Railroad. Nicholas had been in his early twenties then, but his father still considered him a child.