“Too true, my friend. A man without a country, and all that. But I could stay away from my beloved Russia no longer. Exile nearly broke my heart, I must admit.”
“I am sorry it took so long for you to find your way back,” said Anna.
“Do I detect a note of reproach in your voice, dear Anna?” said Dmitri. “Well, I won’t deny I deserve it. What you must think of me—staying away so long, never writing. But what could I say? I could not burden you, my dear friends—my beloved Katrina’s friend and brother—with my troubles. It has not been an easy road for me, what with war and malaria and poverty. I hope you can find it in your hearts to forgive me.”
Anna clenched her teeth. Sergei found it harder and harder to accept his friend graciously. All those years of bitterness toward Dmitri flooded back into Sergei’s soul. He wanted to cling to that memory he held of their youthful years, of the friend who, though flighty and irresponsible, was full of fun and zest for life. And he could not forget how Dmitri had bolstered him and carried him, almost literally, through those terrible days of the Balkan War.
But it was almost impossible to recall those days in light of the presence of the man who sat before them now, his shallow, self-centered nature all too apparent. He had always been that way; the only difference was that in the old days he hadn’t been so obvious about it, nor so desperate.
Dmitri, perhaps from some inner insecurity, did not give his friends a chance to respond to his comment about forgiveness, but instead hurried on to a new topic. “And what of you, Sergei? The last I heard, you had been exiled to the mines in Siberia. A certain death sentence. Yet here you are! Sitting here before me, alive and well. You must have some tale to tell.”
Sergei gave a brief accounting of himself, emphasizing his time in China and his spiritual renewal. When he finished, Dmitri shook his head, incredulous. “I’ll wager you can write some book now! But of course you’ll want to keep it all quiet, won’t you? Be assured you have nothing to worry about from me. I was discreet in my inquiries in town.”
“Thank you, Dmitri. Keeping my secret is not only necessary, but also preferable. I have never been happier. I am content with my life.”
Dmitri turned an incredulous expression toward him. “You can’t mean that, Sergei! Why, you haven’t even a few kopecks in your pockets. Surely you haven’t given up your old life completely?”
“Completely.”
“The estate . . .? Your inheritance . . .?”
“All of it. Not that there is much left to speak of.”
“Nothing?”
“There was some mismanagement years ago, and the estate fell upon hard times. There are still sizable properties, but most of the income goes into taxes and upkeep. And as long as my father lives, they remain his.”
“So, the old boy is still alive? That is good news.”
“Even when he passes, I doubt I will want any more from it than what we need to survive. I say, again, Dmitri, I am content!”
“You perhaps, but what of your children? What of Mary?”
“Do you mean your daughter, Dmitri?” Anna said tensely. “I’m surprised you finally got around to mentioning her. At least you could have gotten her name right!”
“Anna,” Sergei beseeched.
“I am sorry, Sergei, but I can hold my peace no longer!” All those years learning boldness from Katrina were evident now as Anna’s righteous indignation overtook her quiet meekness. “We have sat here for fifteen minutes, and you haven’t even asked about her, except in regard to a possible inheritance. Why are you here, Dmitri? Why have you so suddenly turned up? Do you think you can finagle some money from us, or from your daughter? Because, I will tell you right now—we have nothing but what you see around you. We are poor peasants, and we are content to remain that way. We are all content, even Mariana—do you hear? And, if you are interested, your daughter’s name is Mariana! We have managed very well without you all these years, and we would just as soon continue to do so.”
“Anna,” said Sergei, “I am certain Dmitri has no intention of disrupting our lives. He has returned to Russia and would like to see his daughter. That is only natural.”
“And that is all?” said Anna, not masking her suspicion.
“What do you take me for?” said Dmitri, genuinely affronted.
“Well, I—”
“I did not mention dear Mariana,” Dmitri continued quickly, “because I was so ashamed. I do not deserve to be a father, or for God to have given me a child. I have longed for her all these years, but when I finally got here, I simply lost all my courage. I don’t know what I would have done if she had actually been here. I have half a mind to leave this instant so that she will continue to remember me as only a dim image in her past.”
Anna calmed as she listened to Dmitri’s contrite speech. He seemed so sincere, his eyes brimming with tears. And Anna could never be accused of having a hard heart, no matter how angry she might become. Anna sighed, and Sergei knew that both he and Anna must accept Dmitri’s repentance. To do otherwise was inhumane and unchristian. Dmitri was self-absorbed and superficial, as he always had been. But he also had a core of sincerity—enough at least, so that Sergei had loved him once, and his sister had fallen in love with him. The hardships of the years might have buried that core, but it must still exist somewhere. Perhaps if they appealed to it, they could help it come to light. Sergei gave Anna an encouraging smile, which she returned. In that silent interchange, they seemed to understand each other. Anna’s ire faded.
“You will go nowhere, Dmitri,” said Anna gently. “You must forgive me for my harsh judgments.”
“Of course, I forgive you, dear Anna!” he said, making no further mention of his own previous plea for forgiveness.
“Do you wish, then, to see your daughter?”
Dmitri closed his eyes, tears glistening at the corners. “By the names of all the saints, I do!”
31
Mariana had never pined over the loss of her real parents. She wondered about them occasionally, especially about her mother, of whom Anna always spoke with such love and admiration. But she had never known either of them, never even seen them. They were like names from a history book—to be respected and revered like St. Vladimir or Alexander Nevesky or Peter the Great. But they were not real. Her mama and papa, Anna and Sergei, were real, and they were the objects of her love and devotion.
She did not know what to think or say or do, then, when her mama introduced this strange man as her father, Count Dmitri Remizov. She stood before him silently, licking her lips once or twice and trying to encourage some response from her paralyzed vocal chords. Then the count gave her such a warm and affectionate look that she forgot her surprise and embarrassment and returned his smile.
“Oh, dear!” said Dmitri, clasping his hands to his heart, tears of sorrow and joy brimming his eyes. “My lovely Katrina has come back to me! I do not deserve such a blessing.”
Dmitri threw his arms around her in a tearful embrace, kissing both of her cheeks effusively. Mariana was a little ashamed that she had not thought to embrace him herself.
When he released her, she finally found her voice. “I am so glad to meet you at last . . . Count Remizov.” She did not know what else to call him, although he winced slightly at her formality. But what else could she do? Anna and Sergei were her mama and papa.
Over the next few days, Mariana had ample opportunity to get to know him. Dmitri stayed at the tavern in Katyk in a guest room. Sergei could not bring himself to offer his rustic barn to the count. Such a humble bed was fine for Misha when he visited, but it was clearly inappropriate for a man of Dmitri’s tastes.
The short distance from the village proper to the Christinin izba, however, did not prevent Dmitri from visiting his daughter every day. Some days Mariana went to the village to visit him. Once he even took her to Pskov in a coach borrowed from Count Gorskov. He bought her a beautiful dress of soft fine linen—a blue and white flowered design—with a wh
ite silk hat and gloves to match. He must have spent a fortune on it, but did not even wink at the price.
Mariana had never really thought much about wealth and riches. She had always believed, like her adoptive father, that the simple life was the best. As a child, she vaguely recalled, she once visited a fine estate in the south, and there met another stranger she was told was her grandfather. But the love and security of her adoptive family were much more real to her.
Now she had to admit—what girl wouldn’t?—that she was impressed by Count Remizov’s luxurious lifestyle. She whirled around with pleasure in the splendid dress and tried to catch a glimpse of her reflection in every window they passed in the city. And the food they ate in a restaurant was beyond description. She had never in her life eaten any food other than that prepared by her mama or grandmama or a relative or friend. And never in such a place! It looked more like a cathedral than a dining room. Even her best manners were woefully inadequate.
“Don’t give it a thought my dear, you will learn,” Dmitri said.
The days would have been splendid for walks in the woods, but the count was not enthusiastic about the idea. Most of the time they spent in old Katyk, visiting together in the tavern or in Anna and Sergei’s cottage or driving around the country roads, now in the full flower of springtime, in the borrowed carriage. Dmitri kept up a lively stream of conversation, telling about his youth in Russia, his life in the army, and his life with Katrina—a highly glorified version, even if it glorified Katrina as much as himself. He spoke of his travels in Europe and America, never mentioning his means of support.
Once the subject of their relationship came up when Mariana hesitated over what to call Dmitri.
“I suppose,” he said sadly, “that I do not deserve to be called father. I have been too derelict in my paternal duties.”
“If you wish . . .”
“Well, to tell the truth, it rather makes me seem like a wrinkled old banker, especially coming from such a lovely young lady as you.” He paused. “But Count Remizov is so very . . . inadequate, isn’t it?”
“There is batiushka,” said Mariana.
“Oh, that makes me seem a wrinkled old farmer.” He ran his finger thoughtfully along the thin line of his mustache. “But then it all makes a man seem rather old, doesn’t it?”
“You are not old at all,” said Mariana with quick encouragement. “Why, you look far too young to have a daughter of my age.”
He smiled benevolently at her. “What a sweet child!”
“How about père?” Mariana said in her best French.
“I did not realize you had such an education.”
“My mama taught me. I can speak and read French, and a little English, too.”
“That is marvelous, simply marvelous. Very convenient, too.”
“In what way?”
“Père,” said Dmitri, adroitly ignoring her question. “Yes, I like it. It is perfect, my dear, and I would be so honored for you to call me by such a term.”
“I would be glad to do so . . . Père.”
Dmitri leaned back against the seat of the coach and gave a dreamy sigh. “It’s almost as if . . . well, as if we were a real father and daughter.”
“But we are.”
“I mean, as if we could be together always. You don’t realize the loneliness I have suffered over the years; never a soul really caring about me, no one to love or to be loved by.”
“Surely you have friends.”
“None to speak of, I am afraid. Oh, there have been countless acquaintances, but I suppose I have never been the sort to make deep friendships. Your Uncle Sergei—I mean your papa—was the only true friend I ever had. I see I have had such an empty life. But now I suddenly have you—oh! I cannot tell you how full it makes my heart. I can hardly bear to think that it must soon end.”
“But why, Père?”
“I have responsibilities and duties back at the city. I must soon return. You did not think I could stay here forever.”
“I . . . I guess I didn’t know what to think.” Mariana looked at him closer, as if seeing him for the first time—a sad, lonely man, hungry for love and companionship. Her heart went out to him. He was her father, after all.
“Do not give it a thought, my child. I will manage somehow; I always have.” He gave another long, sorrowful sigh.
But Mariana could not keep from thinking of this conversation, especially since Dmitri seemed to mention his loneliness, his breaking heart, and his empty life every chance he got when they were alone. It never occurred to her to hate this man for abandoning her. Anna and Sergei had always emphasized the fact that Dmitri had been forced by circumstances to leave Russia, and that he had left her behind for her own safety.
Over the next two or three days, Mariana became thoroughly indoctrinated. So, when Dmitri casually mentioned the possibility of her returning to St. Petersburg with him, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to consider. She hated the idea of leaving her dear family and village, yet her mama and papa had not raised a selfish child. If she could bring some joy to this poor man’s empty life, was it not her duty to do so?
“He needs me,” she said to Anna and Sergei when she broached the matter with them.
Her papa could hardly speak, and Anna burst into tears. The subject was closed, although it was bound to be confronted again, and very soon.
32
When Dmitri came the next morning, Sergei accosted him the moment he dismounted.
“How dare you speak to Mariana of living with you without even talking to Anna and me first!”
“I only—”
“I knew you could be a manipulator, Dmitri, but not that you could be so underhanded as to toy with a young girl’s innocence and confusion. And you wish to be her father! It would have been better for her had you never—”
“Now, see here, Sergei, you can’t speak to me that way.”
“I can and I will!” stormed Sergei, finally venting his past frustrations. “I should have done so when I first saw you, but I let loyalty guide me—a word, I might add, that you know nothing of. I should have let Anna have her way with you, by all the Saints!”
“Say what you wish,” retorted Dmitri, “but I do have certain rights, you know. I am the girl’s father!”
“Don’t even speak to me about being a father! Were you there to wipe away her tears when she scraped her elbow, or to watch her take her first step, or to rejoice with her when she made her first loaf of bread, or to worry over her when she was sick? You don’t know the first thing about being a father. If you did you would not have abandoned her in the first place.”
“Papa?”
At the sound of the new voice, soft and uncertain, Sergei swung around and saw Mariana standing in the open doorway. Anna stood right behind her.
“Mariana . . . I am sorry,” he said. Tears of love and fear filled his eyes.
She ran into his arms, weeping. “Oh, Papa, it is I who am sorry!”
“No, dear one, you are just fine.”
“I’m so confused, Papa. I need to talk to you.”
“We can talk now, Mariana, if you’d like.”
She nodded her head vigorously.
Sergei glanced at Anna and she gave him an encouraging nod. He then turned to Dmitri. “Do you mind if we talk by ourselves a bit?” he said in a much more civil tone.
“Go on,” Dmitri said. Then, as Sergei was about to leave, he laid a hand on Sergei’s arm. “Sergei, I know I have never amounted to much in the past, and I can’t promise anything for the future; but I can promise one thing—I would never hurt Mariana.” His tone contained an element of frayed uncertainty, but there was a depth of sincerity in his eyes that Sergei could not deny.
The morning was gloomy and overcast with a hint of rain in the air. A stiff breeze wafted over the landscape, but it was tolerable enough for a short walk, at least for hardy peasants who were accustomed to the cold.
Sergei and Mariana walked down a pat
h behind the house that led to a wooded area. The little stream was a rushing torrent now, swollen with winter run-off. Last week the woods had been mostly bare branches, but now new green shoots were evident everywhere, and the ground, though quite muddy in places, was becoming green instead of white. Hand in hand father and daughter walked, blossoming branches overhead, soft earth under their feet. This was no new experience for them; they had walked this way many times, especially in spring and summer. She would ply him with concerns and questions about growing up, or studies, or other things that affect a young girl’s life. Occasionally he would test out a new poem on her, for she had a good ear for rhythm. Sometimes he would teach her about nature, truths that he had only begun to learn since coming to live in the country. Often they would share spiritual truths, discussing something said by the priest during church, or a verse from the Bible or ideas in a book they were reading.
In this way, Mariana received a rich and invaluable education, and Sergei learned to love his sister’s child as his own daughter.
No wonder he panicked and exploded at the mention of her leaving. Dmitri did not understand what it meant to be a father, and Sergei himself was only just beginning to fathom what it meant to him. The prospect of losing that special relationship stirred up his appreciation for his position as Mariana’s father.
And, now, distanced from the heat of the confrontation, he had to ask himself objectively if he had a right to deny that relationship to Dmitri.
“What do you think of all this, Mariana?” he asked.
“He needs me, Papa,” she replied simply. “I know he has many fine things—clothes and money and food, and all—but he is without the most important thing.”
“Yes, I suppose even Dmitri needs love. But you are a young girl with your whole life before you, and it is wrong of him to expect you to make sacrifices for him. Especially after what he has done.”
“It is true that he abandoned me?”
“We wanted to spare you, Mariana, to protect you from bitterness and resentments, so we did not tell you everything. He was never able to deal well with responsibility. He loved your mother, I am certain, but he simply did not have the capacity to give himself fully. In Dmitri’s defense, I believe he thought he was doing the best thing for you by leaving. He was afraid of being a father and afraid of hurting you in the way he had hurt your mother.”
The Russians Collection Page 131