“Yeah, some good old American know-how couldn’t hurt around here.”
“But America is yet a new country, and the evil of capitalism has yet to make a full impact.”
“With all its problems, America is still the land of opportunity. My father began as a shoeshine boy in the slums with no education. At the age of eight, when his father died, he had to go to work to help feed his family. He’s a multi-millionaire now—”
“Ah-ha! As I said, a capitalist oppressor.”
“A man who earned his way, like anyone else in America can also do.”
Tired of being ignored, Mariana spoke up during the first pause in the vigorous, though mostly amiable, conversation. “Are we going to stand here all day talking? It’s almost lunchtime.”
“Who can think of food with all this going on?” said Daniel. “I really want to get some interviews. Do you know any of those speakers, Stephan?”
“Of course I do.”
“Can you introduce me?”
“With pleasure,” said Stephan. “That is the last speaker now, so if we move forward, we’ll catch them before the crowd disperses.”
Daniel needed no more encouragement. He began shouldering his way through the crowd, and Stephan followed. Mariana stared after them, hurt at being forgotten, angry at being ignored, and confused that neither of the men seemed to mind, or even notice, that she was keeping company with two men at once. She felt even more justified in her decision to approach the situation casually. They didn’t mind, so why should she?
47
Daniel stared at his typewriter, focusing on the number “thirty” he had just typed at the bottom of the sheet in the machine. “From Izba to Palace” was finally finished, and he was feeling decidedly ambivalent about that fact. He looked at the stack of pages next to the typewriter; they represented a remarkable achievement. Since the Register wanted the entire article, all installments, at once, his effort amounted to a small book. No wonder it had taken months to complete! But he didn’t feel as elated as he should.
Count Remizov had been to the office only yesterday, wondering when he’d see his name in print. Well, the piece was ready to mail now, and the first installment would probably appear in New York in a month. Daniel figured that he’d present it to Mariana and her father after that. Mariana would be ecstatic once she actually saw it in print; he’d tell her he hadn’t told her before because he wanted it to be a surprise. Everyone would be happy, and he’d be off the hook . . . he hoped.
He turned his work in to Cranston, then left on another assignment—another reason the “Izba” article had taken so long to complete. Since his successful coverage of that peace conference, Cranston had been keeping him hopping with other work. He was doing a lot of traveling; the Russian office was also responsible for covering news in all of Asia as well as in Eastern Europe. This present assignment, however, was local. He was doing an article on the political climate at the university, assisted by that friend of Mariana’s, Stephan Kaminsky.
He met Kaminsky at a tavern near the university, and from there they went together to a rally near the School of Medicine. It was not nearly as big as the last rally they had attended. There were perhaps about thirty young men present, and instead of speakers, the group mostly just debated back and forth.
Daniel marveled at how the Russians seemed to love political debate. Perhaps years of government repression had given debate an air of intrigue. It certainly couldn’t be because such debates were innately interesting. The students would argue a minor political technicality for hours, until Daniel was not sure, nor did he care, what it was all about. But the people back home wanted to know what was going on in the distant land of the tsars. Sentiment for the Russian revolutionary movement was in vogue in the States, especially when supported by such important people as Mark Twain, who had once passionately declared in reference to Russia, “If such a government cannot be overthrown otherwise than by dynamite, then thank God for dynamite!”
This rally, being in the open air and more open to public scrutiny, was shorter than the meetings Daniel had attended in student apartments. Its purpose, Daniel supposed, was merely to incite interest among the more apathetic students. And it did draw the attention of one particularly unwelcome student.
Daniel recognized the young man from Mariana’s coming-out party. He recalled there had been a great deal of tension between him and Mariana, but she had never gotten around to explaining it all to Daniel. All that Daniel knew was that he was Cyril Vlasenko’s son, disadvantage enough for the unfortunate fellow.
Upon seeing Karl Vlasenko, Stephan reacted in almost the same way as Mariana had.
“What’s he doing here?” Stephan said distastefully.
“Maybe he wants to join the cause,” offered Daniel.
“Ha! Not him, the cur.”
Before Daniel could satisfy his curiosity about this statement, Karl approached them.
“What do you want around here, Vlasenko?” asked Stephan.
“This is a public square, you know,” said Karl.
“What a shame!”
“You better watch your tongue, Kaminsky,” retorted Karl. “I can still cause trouble for you.”
“Not without shaming yourself as you well deserve.”
“Well, you’re just lucky I decided to be merciful toward you—”
Daniel cut in, his rampant curiosity no longer able to be curbed. “What’s this all about?”
“This poor excuse for a man tried to dishonor a friend of mine—actually, a friend of yours, too, Daniel. He tried to violate Mariana.”
Daniel’s ire turned upon Karl, who shrank back from these formidable foes.
“Now, look here,” Karl said lamely, “that’s all in the past. Can’t we let bygones be bygones?”
“After what you tried to do?” said Daniel.
“Well, it was all a mistake. I didn’t really mean to . . . that is, it was my father’s fault; he forced me into it. He’s had it in for her family for years. I—I didn’t want to—”
Disgusted and angered all over again, Stephan took a menacing step toward Karl.
“Please!” begged Karl. “Let me make it up to you.”
“It’s Mariana you ought to apologize to,” said Daniel.
“I already did that, but it’s not Mariana who is threatening me with bodily harm.” Karl swallowed nervously. “I can help you out of some serious trouble if you’ll let me.”
“Help us?” Stephan was clearly skeptical.
“The police are about to arrive to break up this rally. They have instructions to make arrests,” said Karl.
“And you just happened to know about all this, and just happened to find us here?”
“I did just happen to hear about this.” Karl saw no reason at this point to mention that, in actual fact, he had informed the police of the rally. “And it is mere coincidence that I ran into you here.” That, at least, was the truth.
“And I suppose you came to save us all from arrest?”
“Well . . . not exactly. I—I thought I’d just come by to see what happened. B-but I can’t stand by and watch people I know get in trouble.”
“What a saint you are!” sneered Stephan.
“I think he’s telling the truth,” said Daniel.
“That would be a first.”
“Well, I think we ought to act on it, just in case. No sense tempting fate,” said Daniel.
Stephan hesitated another moment, then made his decision. “Everyone!” he shouted over the din of the many debaters. “We’ve been informed upon—”
But before he could finish, the sound of police whistles pierced the air. Mostly seasoned student radicals, the small crowd reacted immediately. They scattered in all directions. Stephan and Daniel and Karl took off also.
But Daniel dropped his note pad, and when he turned to retrieve it, he collided with a gendarme. The man grabbed Daniel by the collar and held him firmly.
“I’m an American!”
Daniel protested.
The officer did not understand English, which Daniel had used in his panic. He tried again in Russian.
“I’m an American reporter, not a revolutionary! You can’t arrest me.”
But they did, along with half a dozen students. Stephan and Karl had escaped.
Daniel languished in jail overnight before the authorities finally acknowledged his passport and released him with a severe warning to stay away from radical gatherings in the future. The filth and squalor and desperation he encountered in the jail was far worse than anything he had ever seen in America.
He went home and wrote one of his best articles ever. The time in jail had given him a real opportunity for some extended interaction with Russian radicals—not just debates and speeches, but down-to-earth conversation. He met several who had been in jail for months without trial or even formal charges made against them, and who were at the point of despair.
One student arrested at the rally with Daniel particularly impressed him. His name was Alexander Kerensky, and he was especially gregarious. He and Daniel were up half that long, dismal night talking about Russia and the many facets of its politics and culture.
Kerensky’s father was an influential government employee, the Director of Education in the Province of Turkestan. Kerensky had always been a loyal subject, and even now was only marginally involved with the radical movement, mostly because as a university student it was impossible not to be. Recently a friend of his had committed suicide after being conscripted into the army because of his revolutionary activity. Kerensky had been deeply affected by this incident.
He presented to Daniel the picture of the truly ambivalent radical, torn between love of country and tsar, and keen awareness of the terrible injustices all around him. Unlike many of the radicals Daniel had met, Kerensky hoped his nation’s woes could be solved through the existing government. He wanted to become part of the Zemstvos, the quasi-Russian parliament. Daniel appreciated his sincerity, even though it bordered on idealism. Daniel thought Kerensky had a great deal to offer his country if only more men would listen to him.
Kerensky was released a few hours before Daniel—probably, he said somewhat apologetically, because of his father’s influence.
In addition to interviews such as those with Kerensky, Daniel was able to address the terrible injustices in Russia from a personal perspective. A night in jail gave a man an entirely new perspective. Cranston clapped him on the back and broadly compared him to George Kennan, the American journalist who wrote the exposé of the Siberian exile system. Daniel was certainly not one to argue with such praise.
48
After that day when Mariana had encountered Stephan at the university rally, it seemed that Daniel and Stephan saw more of each other than she saw of either of them. When she was with Daniel, which didn’t happen very often anymore, he would go on and on about the political woes of the nation, about Marx and the Social Democrats, and about his adventures with Stephan going to more rallies and political meetings. He had even been invited to attend a secret gathering, to meet with leaders and view their hidden press where they produced anti-government pamphlets and leaflets—a singular honor for an outsider.
In fact, her only contact with Stephan at all was during those two or three times she saw Daniel and heard about Stephan from him. Stephan was too wrapped up in end-of-term examinations to take time for her, although somehow he did find time for politics.
But she had a life of her own now, she told herself, and it didn’t really matter. To an extent that was true; still the vain side of her nature didn’t like being ignored. By the time exams were over and Stephan made an attempt to see her, she was so perturbed with him that she replied to his messages that she was busy and would contact him as soon as she could see him.
Not long after that, she received the good news that Countess Elizavita’s Institute would accept her as a fifth-year student. She would have only two years to complete the course. But school would not begin until fall, and she had all summer to herself. She did have an invitation from Princess Gudosnikov to come to the Crimea—as long as she didn’t bring Countess Eugenia along.
But all these prospects for the immediate future seemed to leave her cold. The life of the society countess, once all the novelty of the parties had worn off, was rather vacant for Mariana. She loved a good time, but even she could take only so many festivities.
This discontent, combined with her confusion and dismay over her romantic life, made her a far more introspective young woman than she had ever been before. Her mama might have said that this was the good to come out of a distressing situation, but at the moment it was difficult for Mariana to see her life that objectively.
When Daniel introduced Mariana to a young woman he was interviewing, a student at the new Women’s Medical School, Mariana was fascinated. Here was an intelligent woman, regardless of her radical tendencies, who was doing something important with her life, a woman who would one day make a difference in a world that desperately needed such people. It made Mariana’s life seem even emptier.
But Mariana was soon distracted from these profound new considerations.
Around the middle of June, Madam Durocq invited Mariana to the boardinghouse for tea with her and Helen Westchester. It had been months since she had last seen them, and she was glad to have their friendship revived.
During the course of conversation, Miss Westchester mentioned a recent correspondence she had received from a friend in America, to whom Miss Westchester had mentioned that there was an American reporter living in her boardinghouse. The friend, a resident of New York City and a subscriber to the Register, wondered if the English woman was acquainted with the fascinating family mentioned in Mr. Trent’s serial. She had been thoughtful enough to send Helen a copy of one of the articles.
“My dear!” exclaimed Helen, “You never told us you were famous. Of international repute, no less.”
“Well, I . . . I don’t know what you are talking about,” said Mariana, truly bewildered.
“Surely Daniel showed you the articles?” Helen explained about the recent letter from her friend.
“I know absolutely nothing about such a thing.”
The two older women exchanged somewhat dismayed looks, and Helen began to realize she might have innocently blundered into a touchy situation.
“You said you had a copy of the article?” asked Mariana.
“I . . . ah . . .”
“Come, Miss Westchester, I think I have a right to know what people have been saying about me without my knowledge.”
“She is right,” said Madam Durocq.
“But, I can’t believe Daniel would do such a thing without your consent,” said Miss Westchester. She realized Daniel could be a bit brash and pushy at times, but she liked him and wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“May I see the article?” asked Mariana.
Helen Westchester could hardly refuse.
Mariana read each line carefully, thankful she had been studying her English. Had she been an objective critic, she would have admitted that the article was well done, interesting, and informative. But she could be far from objective when she saw her personal life spread out in print for all the world to see—things she had told Daniel in confidence. Here were her hopes, her dreams, her disappointments, her fears echoing back at her, and she could only feel betrayed and outraged.
“Is he here?” she asked through clenched teeth.
“No, my dear,” said Madame Durocq. “But that is for the best. You should calm down before you see him, don’t you think?”
“When will he be back?”
“Who can say—”
“I’m sorry for our tea to end like this,” said Mariana, “but I really must go now. Thank you so much and . . . and we must get together again soon.”
“Mariana,” said Helen, “I will tell Daniel what has happened, and I am certain he will come to see you with a logical explanation.”
/> “Thank you, Miss Westchester, but that won’t be necessary.”
Mariana didn’t mention to the ladies that she planned on seeing Daniel long before that. As soon as she left the boardinghouse, she caught a drosky and asked to be taken across town to the offices of the New York Register.
Daniel glanced out the window just as she stepped out of the cab. Seeing her in front of his office was an unusual event; she had visited there only twice before, as his guest, never on her own initiative. But the taut, cold look on her face convinced him something was amiss. Had he even begun to guess what it was, he probably would have made a hasty exit out the back door. But he had only a few days ago received his copy of the Register with part one of the “Izba” article. He had been waiting for a good time to present it to Mariana—well, perhaps he was stalling just a little, too. He would never have dreamed that someone else in Russia might have received the article.
“Why, Mariana, what a pleasant surprise!” he exclaimed as he opened the door for her. “Come in!”
When she did not respond to his effusive greetings, he immediately thought some tragedy must have befallen her, and he became sincerely concerned. “Mariana, what is it? Has something terrible happened?”
Mariana had taken Helen Westchester’s article with her, gripping it tightly in her hand during the ride to the office. Now, she waved it in Daniel’s face.
“Yes! Something terrible has happened,” she retorted. “This has happened.”
Daniel paled when the printed words on the waving paper caught his attention: “From Izba to Palace: A Russian Story.”
“Oh, that,” he said, trying to sound calm and self-assured.
“That is all you have to say? It doesn’t even matter to you that you have deceived me—betrayed me! You are more insensitive and self-absorbed than I thought. You rogue! You . . . you—”
“Now, wait a minute, Mariana.” Daniel was genuinely shocked at her reaction to the matter. “Aren’t you even going to give me a chance to defend myself? I thought we were friends.”
The Russians Collection Page 140