“I’m sorry, Father. But Russia—it’s so far!”
“I believe it will be good for you to distance yourself from your life here, for a while at least. It will be good for you to enter a life that is entirely your own, or what you will make of it, without my shadow or that of your brother to hinder you. Daniel, it is time you made a man of yourself. But I won’t force upon you something to which you strongly object.”
“You mean I could work here on the paper?”
Bill Bradley spoke up. “Look here, Daniel, whatever you may think, your father is handing you a real cherry. I’ve got some seasoned reporters with foreign experience who would cut off their right arms for a chance like this. A beginner like you would no less than die for the job.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Daniel with a new reservation, “maybe I don’t want something handed to me on a platter like this. I wanna make it on my own merit, not because I’m the boss’s son—”
A sharp look from his father stopped him short. Maybe he was carrying this business of pride too far. But he’d rather be a copy boy than elevated to a position he didn’t deserve. He did have pride—in his work, and he wanted it to stand on its own. He eyed Bradley. “Listen, Mr. Bradley, would you consider hiring me if I wasn’t my father’s son?”
“That would depend upon how much you wanted the job,” said Bradley. “I’ve read your work, and you have the skills to handle the job. Moreover, this is a position that requires the energy of a younger man. So, to answer your question, if you had confronted me with your usual persuasiveness, I probably would have hired you, anyway.”
Bradley’s answer satisfied Daniel. He did realize what a chance this was for him, and, being the self-assured, confident young man that he was, he also felt he was as qualified as anyone else. Despite his initial reaction, he couldn’t deny Bradley’s perspective nor could he deny his father’s intent. He was not only being given a job as a foreign correspondent, but a chance to follow his dream of being a news reporter.
Why it had to be in Russia, he didn’t know. But once the initial shock had worn off, Daniel realized that he did not really object. Russia was so far removed not only physically but also culturally from New York that it might as well be on another planet. Yet it very possibly could be a place where Daniel J. Trent would have every opportunity of becoming his own man. He had never much liked living under the shadow of his father’s wealth and power. In a foreign place like Russia, he would finally have the chance to prove what he was made of—not that he ever had any doubt of this, but just in case anyone else did.
19
That had been a month ago. He had spent the ensuing time in extensive study of the land where he would soon live. He had read everything he could find about Russia, although he found credible material scarce. Having picked up a passing ability to read French at Yale, he had been able to read several works in French that had been quite enlightening. Leroy-Beaulieu’s L’Empire Des Tsars was exceptional—it had, reputedly, influenced the French toward their current alliance with Russia. Most of the English studies were rather biased. Daniel did discover a British work by Donald MacKenzie Wallace that was well done, even though it was published in 1877 and already over twenty years out-of-date. The American journalist, George Kennan’s book, Siberia and the Exile System, was interesting but obviously anti-tsarist. The language barrier prevented him from exploring any of the Slavic works.
His father had engaged a Russian immigrant to tutor him in the language. Unfortunately, after only three weeks of tutoring, the man had married and moved to Chicago. In that time Daniel had learned only enough to hire a cab and perhaps order a meal in a restaurant.
With all this study, however, he still felt as if he were entirely ignorant of this distant land of eternal snow and ice, fur-clad peasants and Tatar warlords.
But he had gleaned enough to know that only half of these conceptions were true. The problem was, which half?
In spite of modern communications and elimination of the traditional isolation of the East, many in the West still looked upon Russians as backward barbarians. Some of the facts did tend to support this premise. Of a population of 125 million, well over seventy-five percent were peasants. Only three percent of the population could be classified as students, compared to ten percent in Western countries. The illiteracy rate was scandalous.
And Russia was one of the few countries in the modern world that still maintained an absolute monarchy. Their tsar still ruled by “divine right.” The people all but worshiped the man whom they considered God’s emissary on earth. It was absolutely archaic. And their last tsar had ruled with as heavy a hand as Henry VIII. But Henry had lived in the sixteenth century—this was the nineteenth, nearly the twentieth! Tyrants and autocrats were as outmoded as messenger pigeons.
When Alexander III had died, all the world had looked with interest toward the land of the tsars, wondering what new manner of leadership his successor would bring. It could not bode well if one were to judge the new tsar by the speech he had delivered to local government officials two months after his ascension. Even Daniel had been shocked when he read a quote from the speech in the Register:
I have heard that several members of some zemstrov assemblies have been carried away by senseless dreams of their participation in the affairs of the internal government. Let it be known that, devoting all my strength to the well-being of the people, I shall preserve the principle of autocracy as firmly and as unflinchingly as did my unforgettable father.
Senseless dreams, indeed! Daniel shuddered to think how the U.S. president, William McKinley, would have fared right after his election had he delivered such a speech before Congress. He would have been impeached even before he was inaugurated!
Daniel had spoken with a friend visiting from England who had seen Tsar Nicholas a few years before while he was still tsarevich. “I really could not believe my eyes, Daniel! He had come to tour Parliament, and was observing a session in the House of Commons. He had a most unpretentious manner about him, even, if you can believe it, hesitant and indecisive. When his gentlemen-in-waiting stood aside, allowing his royal personage to take the lead, he shrank back, giving his companions uncertain glances as if to gain some clue from them as to how to proceed.”
And this was the object of the servile adoration of millions?
Somewhere Daniel had read of an old tsarist proverb that said, “Russia is not a state, but a world.” He had vaguely realized this notion a month ago when he had first learned of his forthcoming assignment. But at the time he attributed the idea to ignorance, and believed that with some study he’d have a more profound understanding of that country. Now, he was more impressed than ever at how true the proverb was. Even with all his cocky self-assurance, Daniel had to admit that the knowledge he had obtained thus far was paltry in view of the vastness of the Russian nation. He had barely scratched the surface and had found that the only certainty about Russia was that it was a contradiction—especially a contradiction of itself.
How could a land of staggering illiteracy produce the genius of Turgenev and Tolstoy and Dostoyevski? How could a land remarkable for government repression and Siberian exile be the only country in the world to have abolished the death penalty for civil crimes? And it was inconceivable that in a place where most labor was still done by hand, the chemist, Mendeleyev, could have formulated his astounding Periodic Law.
Daniel took one final glance at the swirling white blanket of fog below the Brooklyn Bridge and sighed. Could he ever fit into such a place? He was of an entirely different world, separated by a chasm that mere language and custom could only begin to bridge.
But shortly he would set his face toward that enigmatic land—alone and seemingly helpless except for his wit and resourcefulness. Would that be enough?
He smiled to himself at such an unseemly question. His father had informed him that he had no lack of self-confidence; others even went so far as to label him brash and arrogant. There was no reason why
he should have any more difficulty adjusting to Russia than anyone else. He did, after all, have a plentiful supply of both wit and resourcefulness.
He turned and retraced his steps back across the bridge, hailing the first cab he saw. He sat back and tried to relax as it took him to Manhattan, to his Park Avenue flat.
When he arrived home half an hour later, he found a message in his mailbox:
Dearest Daniel, please come to a little soiree at my parents’ home in Long Island tomorrow evening. Just a little bon voyage party where you are to be guest of honor. Come at seven in the evening. Love and kisses, Joan Wolcott
The pretty Joan Wolcott. He had been subtly wooing her for months despite the fact that she was from the kind of society family of which his father approved. He didn’t think he was in love with her and adamantly believed he was years away from marriage, but she was a fine girl, a lot of fun. His interest had mostly been in the challenge, for she had shown little romantic interest in him. Anyway, this was no time for him to pursue a romantic involvement. In a few days he’d be thousands of miles away.
He had a million things to do before he embarked on his journey and would rather have declined the invitation. But how could he? Too many people would be disappointed if he didn’t show up for his own party—especially Joan.
Daniel shrugged unenthusiastically and flopped into his favorite chair. He picked up the book lying on the end table. Wallace’s Russia stared back at him, and he chuckled dryly.
“Well, Daniel old boy, if you ain’t got it now, you never will,” he sighed to himself.
20
The next day Daniel took the train out to the Wolcott place on Long Island. It was a sprawling estate, surrounded by spacious park land, although now the grass was covered with snow and all the trees were bare of foliage. Wealth and luxury were evident everywhere—old wealth that went back generations, not just forty years as with Daniel’s family.
He fought back an uncomfortable melancholy that threatened to settle over him as he entered the luxurious home. He felt it more at hearing the laughter of his friends and the sounds of loud American music than he had when greeted by Joan Wolcott at the door. It was comforting to know he would not be going to foreign parts pining away for a star-crossed love affair.
“Daniel, how good to see you!” Joan embraced him lightly, as she no doubt had done with all her guests, and pecked him quickly on the cheek.
“As always, I’m thrilled to be here, Joan,” replied Daniel airily, giving no indication of his introspective mood. “Thanks for the invitation.”
“Invitation! Dear me, you are the guest of honor!”
“Gee! I can’t say how honored I am!” He grinned and gave a low, chivalrous bow.
“Oh, Daniel! Can’t you be serious for once? I am going to miss you so much, I don’t know what I’m to do.”
“And now she tells me! Joan, your timing simply stinks.”
“‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder . . . ’ and all that, you know.”
He chuckled, believing that silly sentiment about as much as he believed her statement that she’d miss him. Not that she was deliberately lying, of course. She might think now that she would miss him, but the moment he was out of sight, she’d forget him quickly enough. And the same would probably be true for him. He heard there were enough beautiful women in Russia to dull a man’s memory of the girl he left behind.
Joan slipped her arm around Daniel’s and led him into the parlor where most of the guests were congregating.
“Everybody!” she called in a sweet, laughing voice that made Daniel wonder if there were voices like that in Russia, or if the impossible Russian language would obliterate them. “Here he is, folks, the man of the hour!”
The group of about forty or fifty guests applauded, greeting him with a wide range of comments, from ribald humor to stiff welcomes. All of his close school friends were there, but there were also several casual acquaintances, some whom he only knew vaguely through Joan. None of his friends from either the Register or the Herald were there, for, of course, most of them traveled in an entirely different social circle than that of the Wolcotts. But on the whole it was a congenial group, and he felt immediately at home among them. As much as he balked at the idea of a life in society, he’d had it thrust upon him because of his father’s position. He supposed he felt both comfortable and out-of-place in this world, as well as in the newspaper world. That dichotomy might add to the advantage of starting a new life in Russia.
The party was well under way when Joan, who had wandered away from Daniel’s side to greet other guests, returned to him.
“Daniel, I have a surprise for you,” she said.
“Really, Joan! You didn’t have to, but I won’t insult you by refusing it.” He smiled wryly.
“Well, it’s too late, anyway, he’s already here.” She winked mysteriously.
“He?”
“In your honor, Daniel, I have invited a real Russian count tonight. He’s just arrived. Do you want to meet him?”
“Of course! How absolutely splendid of you!”
Joan flitted away and in a moment returned, this time on the arm of a man none could dispute was Russian, or at least foreign. His French-cut suit was meticulously tailored and obviously expensive. But more than that, an aura about his entire being contrasted with the overwhelming American atmosphere in the Wolcott parlor. He was a handsome man, tall, broad-shouldered, cutting a striking figure for a man who had to be at least forty—rather ancient from Daniel’s perspective. But this man’s age showed only in smatterings of gray around his temples. His hair, otherwise, was quite dark, almost black. He wore a pencil mustache and a neatly trimmed goatee. He smoked a cigarette from a six-inch holder, which he tended to wave about airily as he spoke. When he came to Daniel, he clicked his heels together smartly, further establishing the foreign image, and he spoke with a thick accent.
Joan bubbled over with excitement. Daniel knew how society ladies valued having foreign aristocrats attending their functions. It was extremely chic, and foreign guests were put on display as one might the family jewels. Daniel had seen some foreigners squirm under the attention, but this one seemed to be enjoying himself.
“Daniel,” Joan said, “I’d like to present to you Count Dmitri Remizov!” She practically giggled with excitement.
“I am quite honored, Count Remizov,” said Daniel in the textbook Russian he had been struggling to learn.
Count Remizov laughed, apparently delighted at hearing his mother tongue regardless of how badly Daniel had butchered it.
“I see you are prepared for your travels, Mr. Trent,” said Count Remizov in Russian.
“In some ways, but the language isn’t one of them.” Daniel paused, then continued in English. “So, if we’re going to have any conversation at all, it had better be in English, for I’ve nearly exhausted my Russian.”
Remizov replied in English. “I am most happy to comply, for as you can tell, my English is in a frightful state and can always use practice.”
“It’s really very good. But how long have you been in New York?”
“A month or so, only. I come and go, you know. That is, I travel around. I am never long, it seems, in one place. A month here, a month in England, then to France and the Riviera, or sometimes even to Berlin—though not often, for I find the Germans terribly tiresome. Here and there, you see. What a life!” He gave a long-suffering sigh, although the glint in his eyes indicated he wouldn’t trade that life for very much.
“Your business forces you to travel?”
“Business?” The count laughed effusively at the word, then answered evasively, “This and that, you know how it is, eh? The business of survival. The most arduous work I have ever done.” He took an extravagant puff from his cigarette. “Yes, I have traveled much in the last seventeen years, never to return to my dear homeland.”
“You are an exile then, Count?” Daniel’s natural curiosity was piqued.
“I am an
exile of sorts, yes. But you do not want to hear my tedious story.” He gestured with the cigarette holder as if to brush aside further personal questions. “But tell me, Mr. Trent—”
“Please, call me Daniel. We don’t stand much on formality in this crowd.”
“Well, then, Daniel it is! And I believe I met your father not long ago, in Palm Beach while I was visiting Annette Barclay.”
“Oh, you’re the count he met!”
So, this was the count that had wooed Mrs. Barclay, Daniel thought, taking a keener appraisal of the man. The name hadn’t rung a bell, probably because he had heard of him through his father who had had little good to say of the Russian and tended to forego the man’s name, replacing it with some unkind appellation such as “that Russian barbarian.” Mrs. Barclay was a close family friend, and though Archibald Trent said he had no romantic aspirations toward her, he had always felt a certain responsibility toward her because her late husband had been an old friend. Daniel’s father sized up the count immediately as an opportunist, a charlatan, a gold-digger. He said the count was bankrupt himself and, in lieu of finding steady legitimate employment, supported himself by being a professional “house guest.” Daniel had heard of the type. Expatriated aristocrats, frequently Russian or Slavic, who spent their lives flitting from one friendly foreign estate to another, using to their advantage the peculiar infatuation of society ladies toward foreigners. They managed to live like kings without expending a cent.
Daniel now understood why Remizov had seemed so strikingly foreign. Being foreign was his stock in trade, as it were. No wonder his accent was still so thick, even after being away from his country for so long. Nevertheless, Daniel found the man extremely personable—another “stock in trade,” of course, but he couldn’t hold it against him. As much as Daniel balked at his father’s wealth, Daniel had grown rather accustomed to some of the comforts that wealth provided, and if he suddenly lost all that and was forced from his home, he might well have to resort to the same methods to maintain that lifestyle. The business of survival . . . an apt phrase.
The Russians Collection Page 125