“Tell, me, Count Witte, have you ever engaged my son in a serious conversation?” asked the tsar. “He simply has not the wit or shrewdness for such a responsibility.”
Now Nicholas was tsar, and instead of his father, it was the uncles who lacked faith in him. Maybe with good reason. From the very beginning they had succeeded in overwhelming him. Even at his father’s deathbed the physicians and relatives felt answerable to them, not he, the heir-apparent. He remembered how Alix had tried to urge him to make sure the others—especially the uncles—knew his mind and did not forget who he was.
Oh, dear Alix! How could he have ever survived the ordeal of his ascension without her? He’d had to fight his father for permission to marry the Hesse-Darmstadt princess, just as his grandfather had been forced to fight for his princess more than fifty years earlier. When Alexander III died before the marriage could take place, Nicholas had had to battle his uncles. Nicholas wanted to marry Alix immediately, believing that was the only way he could face the ordeal that lay ahead. The uncles believed he should wait until after the funeral. They won; he married Alexandra immediately after the funeral. It would be the first of many battles lost for the young tsar.
This day, however, was his moment of glory, not to be clouded by the grim realities surrounding him. In more than a year of rule he had begun to gain confidence, at least enough so that he could look toward the future with some hope. To Alix, styled Alexandra Fedorovna, he attributed much of the credit for this. She gave him the courage to face whatever lay ahead. She was his mainstay, his joy, his life!
He knew this sudden rise to prominence was as difficult for her as it was for him. Alix was painfully shy, detesting ostentation and show. Only love could have convinced her to throw her lot in with this role that so cast her against type. Her hands had trembled this morning in their apartment as she practiced fastening and unfastening the royal robes, as she would have to do during the coronation ceremony. She might be frightened at the prospect of facing the throngs of Russians, yet her fear made her no less strong. For once having made her decision to put all her old life behind her and step into this frightening new world where she could not even speak the language, she did so with determination.
As he rode down the avenue, Nicholas did not turn his head, keeping his gaze studiously fixed straight ahead with his right hand in a stiff, unmoving salute. But he was comforted to know that Alix, his “Sunny,” was following behind him in an ornately gilded carriage. Well, she was not directly behind him—that position was occupied by his mother, the Dowager Empress Marie. But if Alix were to remain in the shadow of the lovely, and still very influential Marie, at least nothing could change the fact that Alix, not Marie, would be crowned Empress of Russia. Nothing could change that. Nicholas loved his mother and continued to depend upon her for wisdom and direction, but he needed Alix and wished for none other to stand at his royal side.
They neared the Nikolsky Gate that led into the Kremlin, where tomorrow the coronation would take place. The ride through Moscow, only a few miles, had taken an excruciatingly long time. He would always remember with a full and grateful heart the jubilant adoration of the throngs but, oh, how he longed for the quiet privacy of his own rooms and the nearness of Alix.
4
The following day, the coronation ceremony lasted five hours. Cyril Vlasenko, who could barely tolerate the length of a simple Mass, found himself sagging with exhaustion. But he would not have traded his honored place there with any man in Russia or even the world, for that matter. This was easily the most spectacular experience of his life.
He was not, however, impressed by the solemn spiritual symbolism of the proceedings. He hardly heard the mumblings of the priest who delivered prayers and blessings on the tsar and tsaritsa. Instead, his attention fixed on the two coronation thrones. The tsar’s Diamond Throne, encrusted with 870 diamonds, and over 300 rubies and pearls, had to be worth millions. The tsaritsa’s Ivory Throne, brought to Russia from Byzantium in 1472 by Ivan the Great’s Byzantine bride, was no disgrace, either.
And their crowns—beyond price, though Cyril wished he had the opportunity to see what they would bring on the open market. Sentimentality had never been his strong suit.
That could not be said of the new tsar, however. Cyril had heard that Nicholas had not even wanted to wear the traditional crown fashioned in 1762 for Catherine the Great. Shaped like a bishop’s miter and encrusted with countless priceless gems, it weighed nine pounds, a heavy burden for any head.
But the tsar’s preference only eroded Cyril’s diminishing respect for his emperor. Nicholas chose the Cap of Monomakh, an eight-hundred-year-old simple gold crown, weighing only two pounds, reputed to have been worn by Vladimir Monomakh, the twelfth-century prince of Kievan Russia. Nicholas said it would, in the eyes of the people, more closely associate him with Russia’s glorious past. But Cyril thought the new monarch simply did not have the stamina to wear Catherine’s weighty headpiece. And the figurative significance was not lost on Cyril.
The elder relatives had over-ridden the young tsar in this ill-conceived notion. As the day progressed, however, Catherine the Great’s crown, which he was constrained to wear the entire day, began to slip down over his eyes, and he ended up looking as ridiculous as he would have otherwise.
But Cyril was too caught up with himself to give much thought to the new monarch and his wife—although he did note that the Empress Alexandra appeared rather a stiff, prudish sort. No doubt that Victorian upbringing of hers. Well, she had better change quickly if she wanted to be accepted in the Russian court.
As little as Cyril thought of his new monarch, he would no more indicate these feelings than cut off his bulbous nose. His life was dedicated to currying Imperial favor. His course was set. Nothing could induce him to jeopardize his present position. He had never before rubbed more prominent shoulders!
The gild on his inflated bubble tarnished somewhat later in the evening at the coronation banquet. Cyril was at the pinnacle of his glory, and his peculiar narrow vision failed at first to notice that, although he was walking the halls of power and hobnobbing with the powerful, he was not truly part of that entourage. Only underlings spoke at length with him, while his superiors hardly noticed him except when he approached them, and even then the interchange was brief and stifled. He might as well have been numbered among the roomful of peasants who were present at the banquet by right of their being descendants of people who had saved the life of a tsar.
Cyril was too puffed up with himself to give this a thought until, after dinner while the guests were milling about, he chanced to find himself quite near to Count Sergius Witte, the powerful Minister of Finance. Cyril looked up and went weak in the knees to find the man so near. He was mustering his courage to approach Witte when the count glanced in his direction! Cyril pulled himself up to his most courtly attention and arranged his features into a studied ingratiating smile. Witte drew near, and Cyril stepped forward to meet him.
“Ah, Count Rostov!” said Witte in his vigorous, booming voice.
Count Witte strode right past Cyril. He had not been looking toward Cyril at all. Feeling foolish, praying no one had noticed his ridiculous response, Cyril sank back into obscurity.
“By the grave of St. Peter!” he swore to himself. “They will take notice of me before I am through!”
He would not spend his life doomed to the shadows, always lurking on the fringes, within sight of, but unable to grasp real power. Someday he would be the power! He didn’t care what it took.
He had the intelligence and ingenuity to be an important figure in the government. The fact that he was now fifty-four years old and not yet arrived, he blamed solely on the Fedorcenko branch of the family—and in particular, on cousin Viktor. Except for an accident of birth, he would be the lord and master of the vast Fedorcenko wealth. But his grandfather had to be merely the second son! And his progeny must continually suffer for it, always the provincial off-shoot, always painfully aw
are of inferiority. And Viktor had been more adept than any of throwing Cyril’s low birth in his face.
Suddenly, in the midst of his self-pity, a comforting thought came to Cyril. It was by no means the first time the idea had occurred to him, but it was no less pleasant. Viktor Fedorcenko had no heirs. Cyril’s attempt to discredit Viktor through his son had been more successful than even he could have hoped for. Viktor had lost all Imperial favor, his demise sealed fifteen years ago with the ascension of Alexander III, who despised Viktor. Sergei Fedorcenko’s imprisonment couldn’t have worked out better if Cyril had planned it himself! The death of the daughter had only been icing on the cake.
Cyril now stood in a fine position to step in and claim the Fedorcenko inheritance—that is, upon the death of Viktor. A couple of other cousins might contest his claim, but Cyril felt confident that with his ever-increasing power at court, he would be able to deal with them.
The only thing that could possibly stand in his way was a full Imperial pardon for Viktor’s son, and that was highly unlikely. Sergei had been in exile for fifteen years, essentially forgotten—especially with Viktor having grown senile or insane . . . or worse. The young prince had probably died long ago, for he had never been a hardy sort, more interested in books and such rubbish than in physical prowess.
Cyril glanced at all the splendor surrounding him. Someday . . . yes, someday he would have everything he wanted! Fate was definitely moving in his favor.
5
The third day of the coronation festivities dawned as pleasant a spring day as could be hoped for. This was the day dedicated to the people, when the new tsar and tsaritsa would attend a grand outdoor feast at Khodynka Field, a meadow not far outside the city. Free beer was promised to the peasants, along with specially engraved souvenir cups. The common people flocked to the meadow—not only for free food, beer, and the gift, but also for a glimpse of their new rulers. They had begun thronging to the place the night before, sleeping, if they slept at all, in the open air. By the day of the feast, the crowd had swelled to half a million.
Anna and Sergei were there among the milling thousands. Anna felt suffocated, pressed in among the crowd, stifled by the body odors and noise, along with the rowdy behavior of many who already had had their fill of vodka and kvass before arriving. She wanted nothing more than to escape, to run away from this awful place. She regretted having mentioned how her mama and papa would love one of the commemorative enameled cups. Now Sergei was determined to get her a memento of this once-in-a-lifetime experience. And, as much as she wished to get away, she dared not leave her husband’s side. She felt as if only his presence was keeping her from certain suffocation.
To take her mind off the present unpleasantness, she tried to focus on the events of the preceding days. And she had to admit, they had been memorable. The parade of the royal family and all the nobles through the streets had been splendid. Misha had found them a perfect vantage from which to view the procession, the parlor window of a friend. When the tsar rode by on his white horse, Anna got a clear look at the new ruler of all the Russias. He was slight of build; some said he had not even reached his father’s shoulders. Anna wouldn’t know, for she had never laid eyes on Alexander III. But she would never forget the day, nearly twenty years before, when she had not only seen his father, Alexander II, but had come very near to colliding with him!
A sudden rush of memories pushed the present further from her consciousness. Images of the past tumbled unchecked into her mind—scenes of joy and sorrow, accompanied by beloved faces, some of which she would never see again. She quickly shook these images from her mind. She did not like to dwell on the past, for though there had been much joy, there had also been all too much pain. It was best to live in the present. As her papa was fond of quoting: “Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.”
But the present and the not-too-distant past had not been evil at all for Anna. She had given up her brief interlude among the noble classes, and never did become a princess, but she could not have been more content with her life. She was and always would be a simple peasant girl with simple desires. A successful crop, food on the table, health, peace—these were as much as any woman could desire, and she had them all. And, glancing toward Sergei, she knew she could not want more. His love and his nearness was wealth far beyond even what the tsar himself could possibly know.
Sergei looked her way. “Are you sorry we came out here?” he asked tenderly. Even after fourteen years of marriage he had never ceased being an attentive and loving husband. The years and the hardships of his Siberian exile had aged him beyond his thirty-nine years, but he was still the same sensitive, intuitive man she had fallen in love with almost from the moment they had first spoken on the ice pond on the Neva. The paleness of his hair camouflaged the infusing gray, but it was there, as it was in the full beard he now wore peasant-style. Creases lined his ruddy face, but his pale eyes emanated the depth of the joy he found in life. He still looked forty-five. Vigorous outdoor work in the clean country air had improved his health and stamina, but it had never erased the effects of his years in Siberia. But, he was a whole man in all the ways that it truly mattered. His spirit and his soul were healthier than they had ever been before.
“We are here now and have invested so much time in the outing,” Anna answered.
He smiled at her evasive answer. “You should have waited back at Tanya’s. I could have gotten a cup by myself. They should begin the proceedings soon, though, and then we can be gone.”
“I practically dragged you out here today, and even if I am now regretting it, I suppose down deep I did not want to miss anything of the festivities. Even if there is another coronation in my lifetime, it is doubtful we’d be able to attend.”
“Let’s blame it on Misha,” Sergei chuckled. “It was his contagious excitement that convinced us to come to Moscow in the first place.”
Anna nodded and smiled with affection for their old friend. He had come to Katyk two months ago filled with excitement over the news that his regiment would be among the Cossacks to attend the tsar at the coronation.
“Why don’t you two come?” he had said. “It will be an unforgettable experience.” Anna supposed that he had forgotten for a moment that Sergei had been raised among such pomp, and that Anna, too, had been amply exposed to it in her services to Katrina.
But they caught his enthusiasm, bolstered by Yevno’s encouragement.
“If I were a young man, I would go, Misha,” said Yevno. “In these hard times it is easy to lose sight of what it means to be a Russian, and such a reminder would be a good thing.”
But those hard times were one thing that made a trip to Moscow seem impossible, not to mention frivolous. The terrible famine of 1891, the worst disaster of its kind in Russia for over fifty years, had nearly wiped them out. Crop failures in twenty-two provinces were made more devastating by the fact that many peasants had no reserves of grain to carry them through. There had been rumors that some had resorted to cannibalism in order to stay alive.
Katyk had not been spared. Several old people and a child had died of starvation, while others came very close to death. The Burenin household suffered greatly. Sergei had nearly exposed his identity to get funds from the Fedorcenko estate, and in the process learned that the family fortune was sagging from poor management and, he suspected, some dishonesty on the part of Viktor’s business manager. In the end, Mrs. Remington had given him some cash from her own savings, and that had carried the family through the worst of the famine.
Now, five years later, they were on their feet again, but a trip to Moscow still seemed out of the question. When Mrs. Remington wrote telling them that Viktor was planning to go to Moscow, they were finally convinced to go, especially when she had tucked enough rubles in with the letter to cover expenses. If Moscow was a long distance on their tight budget, then the Crimea was another world. Thus, contact with Viktor was limited, and an opportunity such as this could not be passed over. Be
sides, Anna’s youngest sister, Tanya, now lived in Moscow with her husband, and it had been several years since they had last seen her.
They had seen little of Misha during their stay, his duties consuming his time. Their visit with Viktor had been oppressive and sad, especially when he started berating his thoughtless daughter Katrina for not visiting him more often. At least he listened with more interest than usual to Sergei’s sharing of his relationship with God, but the hopeful conversation had ended with Viktor saying, “Natalia ought to hear this. It’s really more her forte than mine.”
Anna had hoped the celebration in Khodynka Field would be a pleasant diversion, a merry picnic with peasant dancing and music like the celebrations in Katyk. But it, too, was turning into a disappointment.
Anna’s thoughts were suddenly jarred back to the present as she heard a familiar voice shout her name over the din of the crowd.
6
Misha rode along the fringes of the crowd on his black mare. He was an imposing man in his own right, but with the addition of his stunning Cossack uniform, he cut an easy path through the throng until he reached Anna and Sergei. No one was about to stand in the way of such a man.
He swung down off his horse and gave Anna and Sergei a hearty Russian embrace.
“It is nothing less than a miracle that I found you in all this mass of people,” said Misha. “Whatever are you doing here, anyway?”
“I wanted a memento of the coronation,” said Anna.
“I can get you as many cups as you wish. You surely don’t have to put up with this.”
“We never expected a crowd this large,” said Sergei.
“You can be forgiven that, but I am not so sure about the governor and the other fools in charge.” Misha shook his head with disgust. “Do you know they have assigned only one squadron of Cossacks to keep order over this mob?”
The Russians Collection Page 118