The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  As far as the situation with Mrs. Barclay went, he had heard that the count had not pressed the suit and departed on amiable terms. Now he was probably in New York to try his luck among a new crowd. East Coast society was a small world, however, and thus the count must still be in good graces to have ended up with the Wolcotts.

  “Ah, what a lovely woman is dear Annette Barclay!” the count was saying. “I could have fallen in love with her, but we were from two different worlds, she and I, and I do not think I could have made her happy.”

  Daniel decided to ignore the melancholy turn to Remizov’s tone—no sense embarrassing the man by probing into his emotional baggage, especially when a news story wasn’t hinging on it. He chose a more pragmatic route instead. “You can’t tell me, Count, that the cultures of our two countries are that different. I realize there are social variances, but . . .”

  The count puffed languidly on his cigarette, then said, “On the surface one might be deceived, to be sure. Most certainly among the privileged classes. Since the time of Peter the Great, we have striven to imitate the West. Most of our nobility speaks French better than Russian. And look at our dress—I would not be caught dead, as you say, in a Russian-made suit.

  “But take a knife and scrape that Western veneer from the surface—better still, do no scraping at all, simply look at our peasantry—and you will find a breed of humanity that is quite . . . different. Beneath our superficial Western civility, you will discover the barbarians you Americans fear.” Remizov paused and smiled, seeing Daniel’s surprise at the count’s forthrightness. “It is true, no?”

  “Well, I—”

  But before Daniel could frame an appropriate answer, the count burst into a lusty peal of laughter.

  “Forgive me, Daniel, for making sport of you,” Remizov said when his laughter had abated. He dabbed the corners of his eyes with a scented handkerchief. “Of all the world’s peoples I have met, I find you Americans to be the most naive. That is one trait not common to Russians—true Russians, I hasten to add. I have heard that our new tsar tends toward naiveté, but his blood is only a fraction Russian, even if that much.”

  “Really?”

  “Due to the nasty tendency of our rulers to intermarry with Danes and Germans, it is true. There is even some slight chance that the true Romanov line might have ended altogether with Catherine the Great, who was not a Russian at all and whose rampant philandering cast some question upon the true parentage of her son, Paul. But do not take me wrongly. Whether German or Russian, the hearts of our rulers have always been Russian, in spite of minor character flaws.”

  “Yet the people continue to revere the emperor and bend an unquestioning knee to him.”

  “He is the ‘Little Father’ whom God himself has set upon the throne. What else should they do? This is another facet of the Russian mentality that you Westerners find difficult to comprehend.”

  Just then Joan returned, and the count paused to flash her a broad welcoming smile.

  “I am amiss!” he said as if he meant it. “Here I am monopolizing the guest of honor with philosophy and history when there is a delightful party passing us by.”

  “I’m sure the fault is mine, Count Remizov,” said Daniel. “I’ve cornered you here like a poor trapped animal with all my questions.”

  “I am glad for the opportunity to speak of my beloved Russia. Ah! The dear, dear Motherland!”

  “Will you ever return?” Daniel asked, then suddenly regretted his curiosity when the count’s finely honed and practiced visage seemed to fail him momentarily. The fleeting look of regret and sadness that crossed the man’s countenance was far removed from his previous demeanor; Daniel felt instinctively that his innocent question had opened a deep wound.

  But the lapse lasted only a moment. Remizov quickly recovered himself and, swinging his cigarette holder in a somewhat overemphasized arc, said with a light laugh, “Perhaps one day, I shall return. What is to keep me away, n’est-ce pas?” He set his cigarette to his lips, then paused before sucking in the smoke. “This tete-a-tete has been delightful. If I may be of further service to you in your preparations for your journey, feel free to call upon me.”

  “The only thing I can use at this stage is an interpreter!” Daniel said half-jokingly.

  “In the circles you will frequent,” said the count, “you will need to know very little Russian.”

  “I don’t plan on cloistering myself among the rich. I would like to experience all of Russia. Besides, my French is only a little better than my Russian. I can read it better than speak it.”

  “Perhaps I could tutor you in the language, then. How much time do you have?”

  “I would never presume—”

  “Ta, ta! It is no presumption. How long?”

  “Less than a week. Of course, I will be several weeks in transit.”

  “You wish me to accompany you, then?”

  “I hadn’t thought—”

  “An interesting proposition . . . most interesting.”

  “But can you return if you are exiled?”

  “It is only a self-exile. I can return anytime. If I wanted . . .”

  “I would not even think of asking—”

  “I have lately been thinking of returning,” said the count. “Perhaps this is but the motivation I needed.”

  “You wouldn’t have to worry about the expense of your passage. That would be the least I could do.”

  “Hmm . . . interesting . . . very interesting. I will give it considerable thought.”

  “Well, great! Really.” Daniel felt rather stunned by the outcome of this encounter. He had certainly never considered taking a Russian expatriate abroad with him. Yet it was a brilliant idea, and he was glad it had occurred to him. But could this flamboyant count be the right man to fill the position? If nothing else, he would add interest to the trip.

  The count bid him adieu after receiving Daniel’s card, then flitted away among the other guests, laughing and conversing jauntily with those around him.

  Daniel watched with awe, suddenly realizing that even if he were thrust into a position such as the count’s, he could never pull off such a remarkable performance. In spite of knowing exactly what the Russian stood for, Daniel still liked the man. He was impressed by his savoir-faire, by the superficiality that managed to come off not as shallow, but rather as enchanting and mysterious. No wonder women so easily became slaves to such men. Even Joan was caught in the count’s spell, doting on him the remainder of the evening as if he and not Daniel were the guest of honor. But Daniel wasn’t jealous. He had put thoughts of a relationship with Joan behind him. And Remizov was just too good at what he did for Daniel to begrudge him his success. It was like watching a master artist.

  Visions of voluptuous Russian women draped on his arm while he beguiled them with his particular American charm filled Daniel’s thoughts. And he found himself wondering if in Russia his own foreignness might work for him as it did for Count Dmitri Remizov.

  21

  Count Dmitri Gregorovich Remizov only vaguely realized that he lived in a vacuum. He had existed in this way for so long that the performance Daniel had so admired seemed almost real to him. It was his occupation, his means of survival, completely justified in his eyes.

  As a young man of twenty-four, fleeing his homeland in the face of tragedy he felt inadequate to confront, he had needed a way to cope with his personal losses. His grief was real, his pain was real. But the fact was that Dmitri was simply not equipped to deal with such emotions in any other way but to push them aside and get on with life. Yet with the loss of his wife and child, he had also lost the lifestyle that he had come to depend upon. Scarcity of ready cash only added to his problems.

  He had left Russia with all the money he could get his hands on—which did not amount to much, considering his expensive tastes. For the next two years he lived on his paltry savings and what he could bleed from his mother. Eventually his mother refused to give him more, even if t
he bankrupt estate could have afforded it. Left to his own means, he was lost. The only thing he was fitted for was soldiering, but hiring out as a mercenary for a year in South America proved to be far less glamorous and romantic than it had appeared on the surface. A bout with malaria convinced him to seek another means of survival.

  In London, after returning from Argentina, he first discovered what a profitable commodity he had in simply being a Russian count. He received countless invitations from enamored ladies, and he found he could live quite richly without spending a cent.

  Some men might debate the honor in such a life, but since Dmitri had never been the analytical type and rarely ever expended energy in mental debates, he managed very well.

  But recently some of the shine had begun to wear off the surface of his lifestyle. The change had come, not surprisingly, with the celebration of his forty-first birthday several weeks ago. He could still recall a time in his life when forty had seemed ancient. Now he was past that dreaded stage of life, yet he was still relatively fit for a man of his age. And he cut a rather dashing figure, he had to admit, before the ladies. But he could see the handwriting on the wall.

  Despite his physical fitness, he wasn’t sure how much longer he could maintain his current lifestyle. Too often his checkered reputation lurked only a short step behind him. He had finally been forced to leave Europe altogether because the invitations that made up his livelihood came too infrequently to sustain him. He had run out of people to borrow money from, and even the ladies—some of them, at least—were growing wary.

  America seemed like a whole new hunting ground, one that proved quite abundant. On the ship over he had met Annette Barclay, the wealthy, widowed socialite. He accepted her invitation to Palm Beach, where he had enjoyed quite a revival of his fortunes. Foreign aristocrats were much rarer in America than in Europe, and the demand for his attention was high.

  But when Mrs. Barclay had begun to hint strongly about marriage, Dmitri decided to make a hasty exit. Marrying a wealthy widow might appear to be just the ticket for him. At least he would be set financially for life. But the brief taste of commitment during his marriage to Katrina was as much as his self-centered nature could endure.

  Nevertheless, it was only natural for a man of forty-one—even a shallow one like Dmitri—to take stock of his life. In his personal affairs he was as bankrupt as his depleted bank accounts. He had nothing to show for his forty-one years except the clothes—exquisite ones to be sure—on his back. When his looks went, as they surely would, he would have even less. He saw himself dying a penniless old man in a broken-down almshouse, with no one to know or care about his passing.

  Such morbid thoughts were almost always accompanied by memories of what he had left behind in Russia. His mother was still alive; he would always have a home with her. Even if it made him cringe to think about living there for any length of time, yet he had no doubt that once present and doting upon her as a good and faithful son, he could finagle a livelihood from her somehow. But more than his mother, he thought about his friends; surely they’d be good for something.

  But money was not the only motivation for pondering Russia. He had a daughter there. She’d be seventeen now . . . a lovely, charming girl if she resembled her mother at all. A child, one’s own offspring, represented something far beyond the material. His own child would care for him and care about him, would prevent him from slipping away into oblivion, his life unmarked and forgotten. That sort of connection takes on a renewed importance for a man embarking upon his autumn years. He felt a vague regret that he hadn’t kept better contact with her over the years.

  Of course if the child—what was her name? Marina, Mary . . . something like that—was still with that peasant maid, she might not have the financial means to support her poor old father. But that could easily be rectified. With Sergei dead and Viktor elderly, if not dead himself by now, that would leave the girl next to inherit the rich Fedorcenko holdings.

  The money was not, of course, Dmitri’s entire motivation, but a little financial cushion was nothing to scoff at.

  A return to Russia, however, did have its drawbacks. Certain demands would be placed upon him by his loved ones—his mother, certainly, and his daughter almost definitely. Was he willing to make such sacrifices? And willing to give up the free, if somewhat vacuous, life he now lived?

  In the last few weeks, he had pondered these questions as often as his superficial mind could tolerate. At last he decided that it was worth a try. If it didn’t work out, he could always leave. America was still a wide open opportunity for him. And he did have a few good years left to him.

  When he finally began to consider returning to Russia, he actually began to anticipate the prospect. One large obstacle stood in his way—the lack of funds.

  And Daniel Trent was the answer to that problem.

  When Joan Wolcott had mentioned her friend who was soon traveling to Russia, Dmitri lost no time in considering ways he could make use of this young man. He truly believed he was offering Daniel as valuable a service as he would be receiving. He had no qualms of conscience about maneuvering the fellow into the proposition he had finally made. Dmitri had thought it would take a couple of days to come to that point. The fact that his ploy was so successful must indicate that this whole venture was meant to be.

  In a few days he would be on his way to Russia, free of charge. What would come of it, he did not know.

  22

  If it were possible to get a bird’s-eye view of European Russia, the spectator would perceive that the country is composed of two halves widely differing from each other in character. The northern half is a land of forest and morass, plentifully supplied with water in the form of rivers, lakes, and marshes, and broken by numerous patches of cultivation. The southern half is, as it were, the other side of the pattern—an immense expanse of rich, arable land . . .

  Daniel leaned his head wearily back against the padded seat of his first-class railway coach. He was poring through his second reading of Wallace’s book on Russia. In school, his efforts might have been called cramming, and the more he read the more he became convinced of its futility. As his train pulled out of Berlin on the final leg of his journey to St. Petersburg, he realized that if he wasn’t prepared now, he never would be. But why should he panic? Certainly it could be no harder to walk among Russians than it had been to step into the middle of a bunch of longshoremen.

  Anyway, he’d never learn what he truly needed to know from a bunch of books. That’s where Daniel had hoped Count Remizov would come in handy. But even Daniel could see that the count’s viewpoint was terribly narrow, focusing only on the military and the privileged classes. And even those perspectives lacked basic insight. His discussions with the count came seldom enough to help much anyway. Remizov found many excuses to be away, when he bothered to make excuses at all. He did show up every day to impart a nominal Russian lesson, but that was often the extent of their interaction during the long journey.

  Actually, Daniel was not disappointed about the count’s absence. After the initial intriguing impression of Remizov wore off, Daniel found him somewhat boring. The count was shallow rather than mysterious. And if he was able to discern this, Daniel decided, then he himself must not be as shallow as his father might think.

  Daniel looked up from his reading as the compartment door opened. It was Remizov.

  Daniel stretched and, sighing, slipped his pocket watch out. He was surprised to see that it was half-past three in the afternoon. Whatever could Remizov be doing here now? It was not time for a Russian lesson. There were probably no card games at the moment to interest him, or perhaps he was a loser again and had come to request another advance on the salary Daniel had agreed to pay him for his services.

  Daniel was bored enough to attempt a conversation with the count.

  “I suppose we’ll soon have to brace ourselves, Count Remizov, for the experience of traveling on Russian rail lines.”

  “Ah, yes,�
�� Dmitri replied. “I have heard that even in seventeen years they still lack—how shall I say?—efficiency.”

  “Slow as that famous lump of molasses, is the way I’ve heard it.”

  “Russians have never been slaves to their clocks as the author of that book you are holding states.”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. Remizov had actually spent time reading one of Daniel’s books?

  Dmitri caught the expression and chuckled. “I have been known to indulge occasionally in self-enlightenment. At least on long voyages!”

  Daniel flipped back a few pages and read, “‘In Russia time is not money; if it were, nearly all the subjects of the tsar would always have a large stock of ready money on hand, and would often have great difficulty in spending it.’” Daniel closed the book and looked up.

  “Quite apt,” said the count. “There is one Britisher who understands the Russian character.”

  “The railroads illustrate another difference in our societies—at least according to Wallace—that I’ll have to get used to,” Daniel said. “In America, private enterprise dominates the rails—although my father will attest to the fact that the government interferes when it feels it has to. In Russia, projects such as railroads are judged largely on how they will benefit the state. My father said he’s made investments in Russian railroads, but he was welcomed only as a last resort because their treasury was nearly empty. Free enterprise is relatively new in Russia.”

  “Economics have never been my forte, but that must explain the implicit peculiarities of our transit system,” said Dmitri. “My travels abroad have taught me that a private company, with a sure profit in mind, would never have laid out the rail stations miles from towns and villages, as the Russian lines tend to be.”