Daniel had a difficult time understanding the story because of the language barrier, but said he’d like to get a scoop on a story like that for the Register.
Mariana was enchanted by the ballet, and found the stunning prima ballerina, Lyubov Roslavleva, mesmerizing in her performance of Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty. She thought she could watch the beautiful dancers all night, and in spite of its happy ending she wept because it was all so splendid.
“If my grandpapa could only see this!” she had exclaimed, “I think even he might agree it was nearly as beautiful as a forest glade in the spring.”
Mariana’s favorite excursion, however, was visiting the various gardens in the city. She liked the Summer Gardens most of all; they went there two or three times a week. Usually they took the steamer, and she loved standing with Daniel on the bow of the ship, letting the wind and the spray from the river blow in her face. One Saturday, when Dmitri had gone to Moscow on business and Mariana had the entire day completely free, they packed a lunch and made a day of it. The lilacs were in bloom and filled the green, tree-lined expanse with a sweet and dreamy fragrance.
They had previously discovered a little nook that was usually deserted, even during the busiest times. Here the lilacs were especially profuse. A grassy mound, nestled near a lovely footbridge that crossed over the Swan Canal, served as a soft seat where they spread out a blanket and watched the swans swim gracefully past. They spent many hours talking and cementing their growing friendship. If Mariana’s goal was to distract herself from missing Stephan, then she could count herself successful. She would have been embarrassed to admit that some days she did not think of him at all.
On that particular Saturday, Daniel seemed especially interested in knowing everything about Katyk. At first his growing interest might have been for the sake of his article, but it wasn’t long before he wanted to know simply because of Mariana herself. He would have hated to admit it, but he was becoming as distracted from his purpose as Mariana.
“It seems I have heard so little good about the peasants,” he said as they picnicked by Swan Canal. “I’ve heard of staggering illiteracy, filth, disease, dishonesty, laziness—but then I see you, raised a peasant, but so very wonderful.”
“I suppose much of what you’ve heard is true,” Mariana replied. “And it would be easy to blame it on the government, as I hear so many do. My papa says the people were crushed down for so many hundreds of years by serfdom that their spirit is broken. When freedom came, they just didn’t know what to do with it. And the promieshik certainly weren’t willing to help them. It was to their advantage to keep the peasantry as much under their thumbs as possible.”
“So, the peasants have no real motivation to better themselves.”
“No—neither within themselves, nor from the outside.”
“But what of your family, Mariana? Why are they so different? One look at you tells me they must be.”
Mariana blushed at this, though she enjoyed the compliment immensely. “As I mentioned once before, my parents were raised among the gentry. But I think it really goes back before them, to my grandpapa, my mama’s father.”
“That would be your adoptive parents?”
“Yes, but they will always be Mama and Papa. My real father, the count, tries—” Mariana faltered a moment, then shrugged away her uncertainty. He did try, in his own way, but she had to admit she had expected more from him. “I suppose he’s not around enough to really be trying, but this is all so new to him. He’s been pretty independent and carefree most of his life. But it’s not helping us to become closer. No, my mama and papa in Katyk will always be my real parents. They taught me all the most important things about life. And my grandparents, too, as I was saying. My grandpapa is such a man of faith.”
“The Russian people are all very religious—much more so, I suspect, than Americans.”
“Ah, but you see, that is the difference. The peasants make much of the Orthodox faith. Their whole lives revolve around it. And perhaps in some measure, it does help them to keep going in an existence that seems so hopeless. But I myself have seen too many men in our village go to Mass on Sunday, then spend every evening during the week getting drunk. They say they drink to forget their poverty. So, Mass must not be enough for them.”
“But there is no drunkenness in your family?”
“I have never seen it. Well, my Uncle Ivan sometimes gets drunk with the other men. But not my papa or grandpapa.”
“Are you saying they find something at church the other men don’t? Do they attend a different church?”
“It’s the same church.” Mariana chewed on the corner of her lip in deep thought. These were rather more weighty matters than she generally was called upon to discuss. In fact, her family’s faith was something that was always there and just naturally accepted. There seldom was a need to describe it or explain it. If anyone in the family got involved in talking of such things, it usually was her papa. But now, here was Daniel leaning forward with such expectant interest, and he was looking to Mariana for answers to his questions!
She went on, gaining confidence as she spoke, and realized that she actually was enjoying this level of communication, “What they have is in their hearts, Daniel. They take it with them to Mass, they take it to the fields, or the barn when they care for the animals. So many of the other men in the village seem to take nothing away from Mass, and so they have no hope and must get drunk. It’s not so with my papa and grandpapa. They have great hope because God is not just a gilded icon to them. My grandpapa often says Christ is his best friend. How can he not have hope with a friend like that? He believes that God will bring good even out of our poverty. He doesn’t have to turn to vodka to forget his troubles. Instead, he anticipates each new day. If there are troubles—and believe me, we have our share!—there is always that Friend to go to for comfort and help.”
“It sounds as if you share this faith.”
“Yes, I think I do—” She stopped abruptly when she heard her own words. She hadn’t even had to think about this question very often before but knew immediately that her reply was wrong. “I know I do,” she said with emphasis. “But sometimes I don’t feel as strong as my parents or grandparents. And I’m not as good as they are at talking about it.”
“I hope I haven’t been too forward with my questions. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“No, it’s good for me to talk about it. I’m glad you’ve forced me to think about these matters. It somehow makes it all more real to me.”
“I’d like to meet your family sometime.”
“Oh, Daniel, you would love them, and they you! Next time I go home, you must come.” All at once an ache caught at Mariana’s heart. She turned and glanced toward the canal, its waters shimmering in the sunlight.
“What’s wrong, Mariana?”
“I miss them so. Things here haven’t been exactly as I’d hoped them to be.”
“Can’t you go home?”
“Yes . . .” she said tentatively. “But I hate to give up on my real father so easily. He deserves more of a chance.”
“Some would think he didn’t deserve anything. He did desert you, didn’t he?”
“But if he wants to make it right, he deserves a chance to do that. Forgiveness is part of that faith in God I grew up with. I really believe my father means well.”
“One thing is certain, Mariana—” Daniel reached out and took her hands in his. “He has an incredible daughter! If you were my daughter, I’d spend every moment I possibly could with you.”
She didn’t pull her hands from his, but lifted her eyes to meet his, and the momentary exchange between them was charged with silent passion. For an instant she was flustered at the unexpectedness of it; then she laughed in an attempt to diffuse some of the emotional tension.
“Oh, Daniel!” she said lightly. “I think we do that anyway, and we really ought to be getting back. My father will be returning from Moscow on the evening train.”<
br />
“So soon, Mariana? I could spend hours more with you.”
“I could also.”
Daniel leaned close to her, slipping an arm around her waist and drawing her close. But before he could give her the kiss his racing heart was prompting him to give, Mariana jerked away.
“Daniel, please!”
“I thought—”
“I’m not that kind of girl, Daniel. I’d like us to remain friends for a while.”
Daniel nodded. He didn’t seem entirely resigned to this Platonic status, but he made no more moves toward her.
Nevertheless, they left that place reluctantly. Mariana did not hold Daniel’s hand as they walked to the steamer landing, although she wanted to and felt the obvious presence of his empty hand swinging near her. She jammed her own hands into her coat pockets and made herself think of Stephan. But he seemed so very far away . . . and Daniel was so close.
39
The day had been no less perplexing to Daniel. One moment Mariana was warm and responsive, and the next as cool as a winter afternoon, and as distant . . . as the Statue of Liberty. Well, in truth, only occasionally was she cold and distant, but it was still puzzling.
When he had tried to kiss her that afternoon, he had felt certain that she would be willing from the way she had looked at him. But then she had pulled back and told him she just wanted to be “friends.”
But he was a normal “red-blooded” American male, and it just wasn’t easy to be restrained with a girl as attractive as Mariana. Still, he had forced himself to back off for the rest of the afternoon because he didn’t want to scare her. He couldn’t forget that he was committed to writing that article.
He wondered if her peculiar actions supported what he had come to suspect—that she was hiding something, probably about her adoptive parents. He was intensely curious about what it might be and how it might affect his article. But he wasn’t ready to press that issue yet. He would wait until he had a few installments in print before he took that risk.
In the meantime, he just did not know what to make of this Mariana Remizov, peasant girl turned countess.
One thing he did know—she was wonderful. She had a lively spirit, a warm voice, a manner that was sometimes innocent and naive, sometimes as refined and incisive as the aristocrat she was. With her he felt alive, as if he could conquer the world or hold a fragile butterfly in the palm of his hand. When he wasn’t with her and thoughts of her flitted through his mind, he felt like singing, and a grin would slip unbidden across his face.
Once, at the office, Cranston had commented on the change, and Daniel had actually turned red!
The afternoon after his outing in the park with Mariana, Daniel had returned to the office, and the subject of his frequent absences had come up.
“You are getting that article done, aren’t you?” asked Cranston.
Daniel was working at his typewriter, and in response to Cranston’s question, he pulled out the sheet of paper that he was working on, picked up two more sheets that were lying next to the machine, and handed them to his boss.
“There you go, George! The first three pages of ‘From Izba to Palace: A Russian Story.’”
Cranston scanned the first page. “This is quite good, Daniel.”
Daniel didn’t enjoy Cranston’s compliment as much as he should have. He was still thinking about Mariana, wondering what she would think of it. He felt a small twinge of guilt for not telling her about it before.
He wondered if the peculiar sensations he was experiencing had anything to do with love. He wondered if she felt the same way. Most of the time he thought he was sweeping her right off her pretty little feet. Yet there was something wrong. Daniel couldn’t exactly pin it down, but he knew it had something to do with those moments when Mariana would retreat from him. Perhaps with all the sudden changes that had come recently to her life, she was reluctant to fall into an entangling romantic liaison.
Well, I can be patient, if that’s all it is, he told himself with confidence, returning his attention to his typewriter. He had a lot of work to do, and he couldn’t be mooning about like a lovesick schoolboy. Not only did he have to finish ‘From Izba to Palace,’ but he had other assignments to write. He had been neglecting his work, and George wasn’t the kind of man to give favors to the boss’s son—in fact, Daniel had insisted he not be treated differently because of his father.
“Your Remizov and his daughter should be pleased when they see this,” Cranston went on, still reading the article.
“I suppose so,” said Daniel unenthusiastically.
“Are you kidding? They’ll turn somersaults. I’ll have the Register send a bunch of extra copies for them to give to friends. Who knows, we might even be able to syndicate this in some Russian papers!”
“That might not be a good idea, George.”
Cranston eyed his reporter. It was most unusual for Daniel Trent to be so subdued about the prospect of fame and acclaim. “What’s going on, Daniel? We do have Remizov’s permission for this, don’t we?”
“Yeah. I even got it in writing.”
“So, what’s wrong?”
“I never told his daughter about it, that’s all.”
“That shouldn’t pose any legal problems as long as the old man—” Cranston stopped suddenly and grinned. “But it’s not legal problems you’re worried about, is it? This is going to cause you some woman problems, isn’t it? Some big woman problems!”
“I don’t see why it should,” said Daniel defensively. “Anybody would love this kind of attention.”
“You don’t know much about women, do you?”
“Aw! There’s no reason she would ever see this, anyway. The Register’s circulation is thousands of miles away. We can just forget about syndication.”
“And what about the old man? He’s going to want to see it. Why, he’s always coming around here, nagging you about the story.”
“And that’s just why I never told the girl—I didn’t want her to start acting like that.”
“Hey, I can see your point. But it isn’t going to help you in the romance department.”
“Who cares!” retorted Daniel as if he were arguing with Cranston. “I’m getting a story, and a doggone good one. That’s what matters.”
“You get no argument from me on that.”
“If there was ever any real news happening around here, I wouldn’t have to write this drivel.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Daniel. You’re doing a good job here. Your only mistake was in getting personally involved.” Cranston tapped Daniel’s article thoughtfully against his chin. “As a matter of fact, I have another assignment for you.”
“What about the ‘Izba’ article?”
“I’m still going to want enough for five installments, but it’s not exactly breaking news, so it can go on the back burner for a while.”
“Say no more, George! I’m ready.”
“Okay, here it is: the tsar has called a peace conference in The Hague. I’d like you to go along with the Russian delegation to cover it for the Register.”
Daniel could have jumped up and kissed Cranston. Instead, he just let out a loud whoop.
“Yeah, well just call me your fairy godmother,” said Cranston wryly. “Maybe it’ll help you in the romance department, too . . . give you a chance to iron things out with the Remizov girl before anything appears in print.”
That was a possibility. But in the flurry of his excitement and preparations for his trip to the Netherlands, Daniel all but forgot his worries about Mariana and his slightly seared conscience. No sense shaking things up prematurely. It would be months now before that article would appear in print.
40
It was not unusual for the boardinghouse residents to gather in the parlor before dinner for aperitifs, so that evening when Daniel was coming down for dinner he heard voices and paused at the door.
There were nine people in the room, all but one familiar to him. Besides Monsieur a
nd Madame Durocq, there was Helen Westchester, a forty-five-year-old maiden English schoolteacher. Seated next to her and in rather animated conversation with her was the law student Emil Zorav; on his left, the elderly Alla Gittelmacher was sitting quietly, her hands occupied with a seemingly endless crochet project. Standing by the mantel, a pipe in his mouth and a rather patronizing look on his face was Dr. Aleksei Petrovskij, and across the room from him was Count Remizov, standing behind the settee where his daughter sat with the one stranger in the room. She was an older woman, perhaps sixty. Even seated, she was obviously tall, and she was attractive, with smooth skin that hardly showed her years. But there was a hard aspect to her features that undid whatever impression her lineless skin made of her age. Her iron-gray hair knotted at the top of her head added not only to her height but also to the general severity of her appearance. She had a peculiar way of never looking anyone in the eye but still managing to effect an attitude of superiority, looking down her Romanesque nose.
When Daniel entered the room and Madame Durocq made introductions, he was shocked to learn that this woman was the Countess Eugenia Remizov, Dmitri’s mother and Mariana’s grandmother. She held out a limp hand to Daniel and did not return his smile. He wondered at first if somehow rumor of his and Mariana’s friendship had reached the old lady and she did not approve. Then he realized that this was her usual manner toward everyone she met.
“Countess Eugenia—” Madame Durocq began, then stopped and turned to Daniel. “Daniel, we have already decided that in order to prevent confusion, our Mariana will be Countess Mariana, and her grandmother shall be Countess Eugenia. Now, Countess,” she continued in Eugenia’s direction, “you must tell us the news from Moscow.”
“What can I say? The ‘season’ is long over and society is quiet,” she said in a bored tone. “However the weather is pleasant as it always is in Moscow, not as it is in Peter’s dreadful city. I don’t know why I allowed my son to drag me away at this time of year.”
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