“Maybe he was right, Papa. Maybe it was the best thing. I could not have been raised by a better family. I could not have been happier and more contented.”
Sergei slowly shook his head. “Imagine that! I never thought I’d ever have to admit that Dmitri could be right.”
“Perhaps it is time now for me to give back some of that happiness.”
“Mariana, I do not think it is a good idea for you to do something out of duty or obligation.”
“I don’t think I am—at least not completely.” She paused and they stopped walking as she turned to face him. “Papa, would it hurt you too terribly much if I said I wanted to do this? Oh, believe me, I will never feel toward him as I do toward you. You will always be my ‘papa’! You were there when I needed you most, and I will never forget that. But the count is a part of me, too, even though a few days ago he was a total stranger. I’d like to get to know him, and, it is only right that he have the chance to get to know me. Maybe he truly does want to make up for lost time and past mistakes.”
“How did I ever come to have such a wise daughter?” Sergei smiled through rising tears. “It is your mama’s doing, and I will have to thank her when we get home.”
“You don’t mind my wanting to spend time with the count?”
“Mind . . .? I don’t know what we’ll do without you around here, Mariana. With you gone, this place will be as empty as . . . as this forest is of beautiful green leaves. I will mind your absence very much, but I would mind even more if you did not follow your heart.”
“I won’t go forever, you know.”
“I should hope not!” He paused and grinned. “Your . . . father will be required to bring you home for regular visits.” Would it always be so hard for him to use that term “father” for another?
“I am sure he will, Papa.” She flung her arms around his neck and kissed the small bit of cheek not covered by beard.
“It will be very important to emphasize that fact when we talk to your mama,” he said more solemnly.
“Oh, Mama! This does not get easier, does it?”
“Try to think of all the good things,” he said buoyantly. “Think of all the exciting new things you will discover in the city. St. Petersburg is a beautiful city.” She looked askance at him. “Well, it is,” he replied somewhat defensively, though they both knew what he thought about city life. “There will be opportunities for you there, Mariana, that you’d never have here. And isn’t Stephan Alexandrovich in St. Petersburg now?”
She brightened a bit at this reminder. “Yes, he is.”
“Well, just don’t mention that to your mother, and we will all be happy, eh?”
“Oh, Papa, I love you so much!”
“And I love you, Mariana; I am only just beginning to realize how much!”
33
Dmitri was anxious to be on his way. Perhaps he feared Sergei and Anna would repent their decision in allowing Mariana to return to St. Petersburg with him. But because no one else was as anxious, the departure took days.
There were so many people for Mariana to say goodbye to, so many tears to be shed, well-wishes to be made, and prayers to be offered. Anna wanted the whole family to attend Mass one last time together, and Yevno wanted a farewell party for his granddaughter.
“We did not have a party for you, Anna, when you went to the city,” he said, “and I always wished we had. Not a wake, mind you, but a party! This is a joyous event, watching a fledgling try her wings!”
Sergei agreed, trying to put the best face on his sadness.
Mariana thought it was a marvelous idea. She had never been the brooding type and, although she was sad about leaving her family, once the decision was made she anticipated the adventure with zest. Long walks through the woods were not exactly her style. A party much more suited her temperament—an indication that she was more similar to her blood-father than anyone might have guessed. For that one evening Dmitri set aside his impatience to leave and enjoyed frolicking with the Katyk peasants as much as anyone.
The evening reminded Sergei of the old days in the army when Dmitri had the reputation for being the most rowdy and daring soldier of the entire Imperial Guard. It worried him a bit, and he really did think about withdrawing his permission for Mariana to go with him.
But Anna, who had cried more tears than anyone, convinced him to hold his peace.
“Mariana is a smart girl; we can trust her to use her head.” Anna glanced toward their daughter, who was laughing and dancing with a group of village girls. “Besides, if we forbid her now, I think it will only foster bitterness.”
“I’m going to write to Misha and ask him to look out for her. If anything goes amiss, I will go fetch her myself.”
Anna smiled, relieved. “That’s an excellent idea! We can rest easy with Misha on hand.”
But even Anna was not entirely content to leave it at that. She still remembered vividly the day she had left Katyk to go to the city for the first time. She remembered that her papa had not sent her off helpless or empty-handed.
When the last guest finally trudged home in the early hours of the morning and Sergei’s snores filled the air, Anna found that she could not sleep. She tossed and turned for a while, then was about to get out of bed when a soft voice interrupted her.
“Mama, is that you?” It was Mariana. “Can’t you sleep either?”
“No, I guess not. I have been awake since dawn, and it’s almost a new dawn outside.”
“I can’t remember when I’ve been this excited, Mama.”
“Why don’t we get up and have some tea and talk?”
They wiggled out of the big bed and padded quietly to the little kitchen area across the room where their voices would not disturb the others.
The water in the samovar was still hot. Anna scooped tea into a pot and filled it with water. Then she put some leftover cakes from the party on a plate while Mariana brought glasses to the table.
“This is almost a proper tea party like your mother and I used to have,” said Anna, smiling at the memory. “Of course, your mother had a pure silver tea service and china cups, and pastries from the finest bakery in St. Petersburg.”
“They were very rich?”
Anna nodded. “Perhaps we should have told you everything, but your papa had forsaken that life and felt that you were better off without it.”
“So Papa was very rich, too?”
“He once was Prince Sergei Fedorcenko, but he found little happiness in that society. They lived in a palace and had a hundred servants. I was one of them, as you know.”
“Will I have to . . . live that way, Mama? It would be a little frightening.”
“The Remizov family was never as well off as the Fedorcenkos, but I think the count—that is, your father—lives in as rich a style as he can. No matter what, it will be very different from what you are used to. But, Mariana, I have no doubt that you will adjust and do wonderfully.”
“You should have seen me in that restaurant in Pskov!” Mariana’s words indicated some anxiety, but her eyes danced with amusement and excitement. She would never be as timid and fearful as Anna had been at that age, embarking on a new challenge. “I had to keep looking out of the corner of my eye at others to make sure I was not making too much of a fool of myself.”
“See! You were smart enough to do that,” said Anna encouragingly. “But don’t worry too much about appearing foolish. My papa once told me that if people laughed at me, I should just laugh with them.” Anna rose from her chair, went to a cupboard, and took a small package from a shelf. “That reminds me,” she went on as she settled back in her chair, “this is as good a time as any to give you the little gift I have for you.”
She handed her daughter a small leather pouch, well-sewn and sturdy, with a simple cross tooled upon the flap closure. She lifted the flap and carefully withdrew a very old book.
“Oh, Mama! Your special Bible! I can’t take it—it’s so old and fragile.”
“Yo
ur papa made the pouch to protect it,” said Anna. “Perhaps it is too old to take out for everyday reading, but for special occasions it would be fine. If nothing else, it would be a reminder that we, your family, are always close to you in our hearts and in prayer. It helped me through many a lonely day when I went away to the city.” Anna leaned across the table and opened the Bible to the book of Proverbs. “I think I am in the process of making a family tradition, Mariana. The day before I left for the city, my papa had me read from this book. Your own papa has had you read this passage many times also. Would you like to read it now?”
Mariana smiled. She knew just where to find it, in the second chapter of Proverbs. In her lovely, vibrant voice, deep and rich like a mountain pool, but light as a summer evening, she read as she had been taught:
“‘My [daughter], if thou wilt receive my words, and hide my commandments with thee; so that thou incline thine ear unto wisdom, and apply thine heart to understanding; yea, if thou criest after knowledge, and liftest up thy voice for understanding; if thou seekest her as silver, and searchest for her as for hid treasures; then shalt thou understand the fear of the Lord, and find the knowledge of God. For the Lord giveth wisdom: out of his mouth cometh knowledge and understanding. He layeth up sound wisdom for the righteous: he is a buckler to them that walk uprightly. He keepeth the paths of judgment, and preserveth the way of his saints. Then shalt thou understand righteousness, and judgment, and equity; yea, every good path. When wisdom entereth into thine heart, and knowledge is pleasant unto thy soul; discretion shall preserve thee, understanding shall keep thee.’”
Tears rose in Mariana’s eyes, and her voice choked up so that she could read no more. She handed the book across the table to her mama, but Anna was in no better emotional condition. She was filled with too many memories, both happy and sad, of her own early years. But she took the book and, skipping down to the passage she loved best—and her papa’s favorite—she continued the reading, even though she had to stop occasionally to sniff back tears:
“‘My [daughter], forget not my law; but let thine heart keep my commandments: for length of days, and long life, and peace, shall they add to thee. Let not mercy and truth forsake thee: bind them about thy neck; write them upon the table of thine heart: so shalt thou find favor and good understanding in the sight of God and man. Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.’”
Mariana scrambled up from her chair and flung her arms around Anna. They held each other and wept for several moments. Then, with the cuff of her nightgown, Anna dried hers and Mariana’s eyes and said, “Now, no more tears.” She smiled as resolutely as she could. “When I went away as a girl, we were so poor that my family could not be certain that we would ever see each other again. It is different for us, Mariana. We have resources your grandpapa did not have, and if we have to we can call upon them. There will be regular visits between us. We can come to the city, and you can come here. And if you do not like your life in the city, you can come home for good. Nothing in this situation has to be permanent.”
Mariana sniffed and nodded. “Hearing that makes it so much better, Mama. Not long ago I didn’t think I’d ever wish to leave Katyk, but now that the time has come, I am in a way looking forward to it. I’m not ready for marriage, and there is no other life for me in Katyk. But who knows what new and exciting challenges await me in the city? I am ready to find out.”
Who knows . . .? thought Anna wistfully.
Mariana was young and so innocent, yet she was as ready as she would ever be to step out on her own. At least she would be treading upon the solid foundation of her dear mama’s prayers. No doubt that was why, nearly eighteen years before, Katrina Viktorovna had been so certain about her decision to leave her child in the care of her faithful maid.
34
The end of May brought a breath of warm, fresh air to Shushenkoye. The snow and the cold were gone for a season, and the waters of the Yenisey river were flowing freely again. It would take weeks, however, before the river would be warm enough for the days of swimming that Paul and Mathilde would enjoy later in the summer.
But on these pleasant days Paul was more apt to be gazing wistfully toward the western horizon than thinking about swimming. He had never felt better. The healthful air of Shushenkoye had worked its benefits upon him. Physically and intellectually he felt primed, honed to precision. He was equipped, able, ready, and willing, but it seemed as if circumstances were not yet ready for him, and thus he continued to languish in idleness.
Paul’s impatience was made worse by his acquaintance with an exile who had arrived in Shushenkoye two years ago, a man who was imbuing him with a new sense of purpose. Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov hardly seemed the type to rouse anyone to zeal and excitement. He looked like a plain, unassuming minor clerk. He was short and stout; he was only twenty-nine years old, but already he had a large bald spot at the front of his head. He envied Paul’s thick crop of hair, he said, but not the streaks of gray. His intense, small eyes perpetually squinted, and his thick chin and wide mouth were obscured by a reddish-brown beard and mustache, trimmed short. He dressed as if he did not care about his appearance, for, though he had the means for better, his clothes were cheap and ill-fitting.
Yet he was an extraordinary man, and Paul sensed he would achieve great things one day. Born into an affluent family in Simbrisk, Ulyanov had begun his life with a promising future before him. But when he was seventeen years old, after having distinguished himself in school, his older brother was arrested and later hanged for conspiring in a plot to assassinate Tsar Alexander III. Whether this incident worked to catapult him upon the revolutionary path, or if other factors assisted, Paul was never quite certain. But in any case Ulyanov directed his vast energies and impressive talents toward revolution.
Expelled from the University of Kazan shortly after his arrival, Ulyanov tried to manage his mother’s country estate, but his heart was never in it. Finally, in response to his mother’s ceaseless petitions to the government, he was allowed to study law again, this time in St. Petersburg. He completed the four-year course in a year and passed his examinations with top marks.
But his political activities were bound to catch up with him. He went to Geneva and fell under the discipleship of the revolutionary leaders Plekhanov, Zasulich, and Axelrod. They were, for the most part, duly impressed with this zealous young man, even if he did tend toward stubborn tenacity in some areas. When Ulyanov returned to Russia he was arrested. He spent a year and a half in prison before he was exiled to Shushenkoye for a further three years. His sweetheart from Russia, Nadezhda Krupskaya, was exiled shortly afterward and received special permission to join him. They were married in Shushenkoye.
As with Paul and others like him, prison and exile were used to Ulyanov’s best benefit. The asperity and denial of life in prison toughened him, and the vast amounts of idle time gave him opportunity to expand his knowledge and plan and organize his philosophy.
Ulyanov was a fierce proponent of Marxism. He had inhaled Das Kapital and firmly believed that the urban proletariat, or the working class, would be the vital core of the revolution. Anything but a workingman’s revolution would be impossible. Ulyanov and his wife and Paul and Mathilde, along with a few other exiles in the area, spent many long evenings arguing philosophy.
Paul could see some of the logic in Marxism, but he usually held forth on the side of the Narodniki, or People’s Party. He may have disavowed their more violent program of the eighties, but he still could not deny his ties to the peasantry, the heart and soul of Russia. Marxism was completely foreign, too logical and too orderly for ambiguous, extreme, and passionate Russians.
“The peasant is not ready to go directly from serfdom to socialism,” Ulyanov would argue.
“But you cannot discount seventy-five percent of the population of Russia,” countered Paul.
“The peasantry will follow wh
ere they are led.”
“The proletariat is Russia’s future!” Krupskaya was as passionate as her new husband.
“But is even the workingman any better prepared for self-government?” said Mathilde. “Marx himself had doubts about Russia’s preparedness. I heard once that he said he thought the United States had a better chance of achieving socialism sooner.”
“You sound like a fatalist!” Ulyanov peered at Mathilde as if to discern a core of weakness he had not noticed before. “The class struggle in Russia must and will culminate in a revolution. And I believe we in this room will see it happen. Yes, the masses are ignorant and slow, like little children, and thus, they must be coaxed gently but firmly along, nurtured with the appropriate propaganda and disciplined when necessary. The Key is a highly centralized leadership comprised of a core of educated and intelligent men, a central committee to wield the burden of power.”
“Not unlike what already exists in Russia!” said Paul dryly.
“Bah! If you think that, then you do not understand Marx at all.”
“Perhaps the economics would be different,” agreed Paul, “but the danger of totalitarianism would still hang over the masses, proletariat and peasant alike.”
“Still the proponent of democracy, Paul?” Ulyanov shook his head with pity. “The Russian temperament is simply not suited to that philosophy.”
Such discussions would often go on until the small hours of the morning, Ulyanov holding forth so powerfully, with such unwavering certainty, that the others usually ended up listening instead of debating.
Paul’s father-in-law, Gennadii, said privately to Paul and Mathilde that he had a difficult time accepting a man who was so fiercely sure of himself. Paul agreed, but he instinctively believed that it would be men like Ulyanov who in the end would propel Russia toward revolution. He had enough self-awareness to realize that he himself was not such a leader. But should power and charisma supersede all else as long as it produced a revolution? Paul was no longer a boy to be swept along by the sheer appeal of men like Kazan and Zhelyabov. Fifteen years of study had put meat on the bones of Paul’s zeal. He understood Marx, but he also had an understanding of Payne and Jefferson and Voltaire. A revolution needed more than a powerful man with a purpose at its helm.
The Russians Collection Page 132