“I suppose I’m going to lose both Stephan and Daniel. Maybe I have already lost them. But on the other hand, I’m not sure I want to get married—not right away, at least. I think I want to go to school. Mama, can you believe that? But not that Young Ladies School where Princess Marya wants me to go. I know she means well, but I want to do something useful with my life, not just spend it attending parties and wearing pretty gowns. This new person I am discovering inside me is absolutely bored with that life, and I’ve only been at it a year. I can’t imagine doing it my entire life!”
“Have you thought about what you do want to do with your future?” asked Anna when Mariana paused for breath.
“You’ll think this is crazy, Mama. I know Countess Eugenia would have heart failure if I told her. I used to think there were no schools—real schools of higher education—for women in this country. Russian women who wanted such an education have had to go to Europe—Switzerland, mostly. But I met a girl not long ago, an acquaintance of Daniel’s, who is attending a Women’s Medical School right here in St. Petersburg. It opened only a few years ago under reluctant government sanction. Most of the society people, you know, like Countess Eugenia, don’t recognize it. They think it’s a breeding ground for feminists and radicals. Even Stephan thinks so, and you know how radical his ideas are! When I mentioned it to him, he was as shocked as our village priest would have been. He said I shouldn’t spoil my sweet disposition with all that education. Learning is fine for a man, and a little is acceptable for a girl, but I really shouldn’t get carried away, he said. Carried away! Can you imagine him saying that?”
“What do you think of the school?”
“The girl I spoke with was as polite and genteel as you could imagine. I suppose she did have some progressive ideas, but she didn’t want to overthrow the government. She just believes everyone—men and women—ought to have equal opportunities. She didn’t want to be forced to comply with traditions that weren’t necessarily suited to her. There’s no reason why women can’t be doctors and lawyers and professors; they can in other parts of the world, so why not here?”
“I agree with you completely, Mariana,” said Anna. Her response surprised her daughter. “Although I must admit, I’d risk being excommunicated or burned at the stake by many of our neighbors for expressing such viewpoints in Katyk. Your grandpapa was always considered a bit odd for believing his daughter had as much right to an education as his sons.”
“Maybe it’s just in our blood, then?” Mariana forgot that she had no Burenin blood in her.
“Perhaps somewhat, but I think it’s mostly because my papa passed down to us the importance of judging a person by what was inside, not by externals, whether race or religion or even gender.”
“Then you wouldn’t think I was a feminist—” Mariana said the word with a slight quaking in her voice. “If I said I wanted to attend that medical school?”
Anna chuckled. “I think there is more to feminist philosophy than simply desiring to get an education.”
“Well, then, that’s really what I want to do.” She let out a big sigh, glad to have finally voiced an idea that had been forming in her heart for weeks.
“Have you discussed this with—?”
“Mama, don’t even mention asking Countess Eugenia! We both know what her reaction will be. I was hoping you might . . .” She let her statement trail away unfinished, hoping her mother would get the gist without her having to ask.
The irony of Mariana’s request brought a frown to Anna’s brow. She’d have no more influence on Countess Eugenia than a breeze would on a stout oak. “I don’t think either I or your papa would be the right person to approach Eugenia.” She couldn’t reveal to Mariana that she and Sergei no longer had any real authority over her. If Mariana knew of the countess’s blackmail, she’d no doubt explode, causing Eugenia to fulfill her threat against Sergei. This small deception seemed the only way to insure Mariana’s ultimate happiness.
If Eugenia tried to block Mariana’s desire to attend the medical school, there might still be unavoidable fireworks. How that would affect Sergei, Anna did not know. But they had known from the beginning that they would not have complete control over the affair. At some point—hopefully, from the start—they were going to have to trust God. He held the ultimate authority in the end.
Anna said a silent prayer, then crossed herself.
“What’s wrong, Mama?”
“Nothing. I was just asking God for some wisdom on how to approach Eugenia.”
“Maybe she’ll go back to Moscow,” offered Mariana hopefully. “She talks about it all the time.”
They were silent for a moment. Finally, as if all Anna needed was to still her mind and be receptive, a thought came to her. “Mariana, I think you should approach your father about this—Dmitri, mind you, not Sergei. Have all your facts together, everything he might wish to know about the school and what you need for admission. Present to him a logical case; show him you have really thought this through and truly desire it.”
Mariana nodded, but with a slight frown. “What if that doesn’t work?”
“I suppose it might not hurt if you shed a few tears.” Anna smiled.
Mariana burst out laughing and threw her arms around her mother. “I love you, Mama! I am so glad you have come to St. Petersburg.”
Then Mariana turned pensive again. “I have one more problem, Mama.”
“Why else have I come all this way but to solve your problems, my dear? But when you become a famous doctor, you will have to solve them by yourself.” Anna gave her daughter a loving squeeze. “Go on, what is it?”
“I still don’t know what to do about Stephan and Daniel. It may be years before I am ready to marry.”
“I can only say what parents have been telling their children forever, but it is no less sensible even if it is rather worn. Real love, the kind of committed love that is necessary for marriage, will weather waiting.”
Mariana leaned back against the bench, as relaxed as if her mother had removed a physical burden from her shoulders. “I feel so much better now, Mama. I feel like . . . I don’t know, like my life is just beginning. Just like those little toy boats would feel if the strings were dropped and they were able to sail away through the water on their own. I think the ride of my life is waiting for me.”
Then, as if she suddenly realized she was mature enough to act like a child, she jumped up, excused herself, and joined her papa and brothers at the edge of the pond.
60
The hunting had been good in the woods about Livadia in the Crimea. In one day, Nicholas, tsar of Russia, had bagged a fine four-point buck and five hares. He attributed his headache that evening to overexposure to sun and activity. When he awoke in the middle of the night with chills, fever, and aches, he was somewhat alarmed. But only after Alix had pleaded with him did he permit her to call a doctor. It was three in the morning and he did not wish to disturb the man for nothing.
By the time the doctor arrived, the tsar was feeling decidedly worse. Nicholas could not help but think of his dear father, who had died in this very place almost six years ago. Alexander’s illness had come on suddenly also, and before anyone knew what was transpiring, he was dead. Would that also be the fate of his son?
The doctor diagnosed typhus, and indeed, it looked as if once again those unkind fates were preparing to attack the tsar.
All the ministers were immediately summoned from the capital and made themselves at home in a luxurious hotel in Yalta. Count Witte made a daily appearance at the Livadia Palace. Count Vlasenko was not so privileged, having come as an assistant to the Minister of the Interior, Dmitri Sipiagin. In many respects, this was the worst possible time for him to have to leave the city. His plans regarding Viktor were at a critical point. The banker, Kozin, had been keeping Cyril constantly apprised and had recently reported that Viktor was falling behind in his mortgage payments. All Kozin was waiting for now was Cyril’s go-ahead to foreclose on the prop
erty.
But he had to put all that out of his mind for the present. This was a critical moment for the Imperial government as well, and he must be completely attuned to every nuance from the palace.
Six years of Nicholas Alexandrovich was quite enough for Cyril, although he would never admit this publicly. He sensed, however, that he was not entirely alone in this opinion. Why else were they all hovering over the royal sickbed, looking every bit like vultures circling their prey?
In the privacy of a hotel suite, Vlasenko, with his superior, Sipiagin, considered the rather sticky question of Imperial succession.
“Typhus is no picnic,” said Vlasenko, accepting a glass of brandy from the Minister of the Interior.
“I’ve known many who have died from it,” offered the other.
“The doctor confirms that the tsar is gravely ill.”
“We must always keep before us the fate of our dear Motherland.”
“It is an onerous burden,” said Vlasenko, “but one we cannot, must not, shrink from. We must accept the fact that if the tsar dies—God forbid!—the throne must pass to his youngest brother, Michael.”
Nicholas’s next eldest brother, George, perhaps the most qualified to succeed, had died of tuberculosis a year ago. Who would have thought then that tragedy would bring Michael, the baby of the Romanov dynasty, so close to wearing the crown? “Floppy,” as his doting sister liked to call him, was almost as frivolous and inane as his big brother, the tsar—if that were possible. He had been quite content with his role as playboy grand duke, basking in the pleasure of his automobiles and the inevitable cortege of pretty women who flocked to him. When George died, he had shuddered at the news that he was now Heir Apparent.
“Well,” said Sipiagin, speaking freely in the company of his underling, “let’s consider the bright side of this. I am reminded of the ancient Russian legend which predicts that when Michael II sits on the throne, a true golden age will be ushered in for Russia, in which our most dear and precious goal, that of finally possessing Constantinople, will be realized. There has been no Michael since that very first tsar almost three hundred years ago.”
“An interesting thought,” said Vlasenko. “However, if the empress has her way, it would be her eldest daughter, Olga, seated upon the throne.”
“That’s what comes of Russians hobnobbing with the English. They have had a female monarch for too long, if you ask me.”
“Thank God our law forbids a woman from ascending the throne.” Vlasenko sipped his brandy, almost as if his words had constituted a toast.
“One must ask, though, if a Michael II is better than a Victoria, or for that matter, an Olga the First?”
“I have heard that the empress is with child,” said Vlasenko.
Sipiagin shrugged. “Again, we are bound by the law that says whoever is heir at the time of the tsar’s death will be ruler.”
“It would be ironic, then, if the empress gave birth to a boy.”
“More than ironic—tragic!”
Both men nodded and finished their brandy. Maybe a change in leadership at this juncture would not be such a good thing after all. Nicholas might just be the best of all the present options.
Alix nursed her husband herself. She sat by his bed day and night, slept on the sofa and took her meals there, when she had the appetite for food.
The empress thought a great deal of those “vultures” sitting in Yalta waiting for her husband to die. But she was determined to cheat them out of their political spoils. Mostly, however, she thought about her unborn child. It was not yet old enough to stir in her womb, but the doctors had confirmed her condition. This was not a false pregnancy like the one she had experienced last year. And the Frenchman, Phillipe, had assured her it would be a boy.
Oh, how desperately she wanted to produce an heir!
Nicky, of course, loved their three daughters and doted upon them in the most endearing way. But Alix knew it would be terrible for him to pass away—God forbid!—without an heir of his own for the monarchy to succeed in a direct line. It was a duty that had been schooled into him all his life, and now that she was his wife, it was her duty also.
For that reason she had consulted with the Frenchman, despite the fact that the French authorities had seemed somewhat dubious of the man, especially of his medical credentials. But her two cousins, Anastasia and Militsa, recommended him highly. He was known to have performed many miracles in France.
To her initial skepticism they offered assurances. “He is not a sorcerer, Alix,” said one.
“Heavens, no!” supported the other. “He is a Christian man, a man of God. He goes to church and makes the sign of the cross. Would the devil’s henchman do that?”
It did not take much convincing for Alix, anxious for a son, to believe in the man. Once she decided to align herself with this Frenchman, she did so wholeheartedly. It was simply her nature to exhibit that kind of loyalty once committed. She had espoused the Orthodox faith in the same way; at first she had been reluctant to change her religion for marriage, but once she had done so, she became quite passionate about it. Now, some of her Russian associates criticized her for being too carried away with the Church. It was those same fools that criticized her loyalty to the Frenchman.
At least Nicky understood. He had even stood up to his mother when she had practically insisted that Phillipe be removed from the Imperial Court. Nicky had been understanding about that fiasco with the false pregnancy, and was willing to give the Frenchman another chance.
Phillipe remained, prayed for Alix and this new pregnancy, and assured her this child would be a boy. And in this she found hope. She must also hope that Nicky would survive this terrible illness to see his son born and be comforted in the security of having a direct heir. But that was not the only motivation for her tireless service to her husband. Nicky was her life, her love, her reason for being.
“Sunny,” came a weak voice from the bed.
“I’m here, Nicky.” Alix bent over and kissed his cheek. It was burning hot.
“I’m so thirsty.”
She set a glass of water to his lips and he sipped some, then fell back exhausted against his silken pillow. She wiped a cool, damp cloth over his flaming forehead and face.
“You are so good to me, my dearest Sunny,” he said. “You are my joy, my strength, my reason for living.”
She smiled. It was not the first time they were caught thinking alike. They were truly one—mind, body and spirit.
“I know, my dear Nicky. But you must also live for Russia. Your country needs you.”
And, as if upon command, Nicholas did survive this mortal illness, leaving his subjects, critics and supporters alike, to wonder what might have been.
Alix was delighted at her husband’s recovery, but his close encounter with death made her more obsessed than ever with the desire to bear a son—especially when, six months later, she gave birth to their fourth daughter, Anastasia. From then on the court was bombarded with a steady stream of holy men, faith healers, prophets and the like. She was an open receptacle, a woman with an abundance of belief and devotion, needing only an object upon which to shower it.
61
It was a particularly blustery day in September when Sergei finally accepted the fact that the job at the textile mill was killing him.
He had been grateful when Oleg had gotten him the position. Thousands of unemployed men in the city would have done anything short of murder for such an opportunity. Not that Sergei wasn’t as desperate as any of them. He wanted more than anything to get Anna and the children out of that flat in the Haymarket. It was a miracle they hadn’t contracted cholera during the summer. Anna had never used a drop of water without boiling it first. But with winter coming on, if disease didn’t kill them, the cold certainly would.
Each day he increasingly dreaded the prospect of going to the factory where the fetid air was laden with dust and textile lint. He underplayed the rigors of his work to Anna, telling her it r
eally wasn’t so bad.
But it was killing him.
And he could only blame that demon of pride within him for not telling her. Yet, did he truly have any other choice?
He had swallowed some of his pride to write to Mrs. Remington requesting a small loan. Her reply had been disturbing and disheartening. The estate was closer to bankruptcy today than it had been several years ago after the embezzlement. A tax audit had revealed some back payments that had never been made. Their present accountant, Woyinsky, insisted he had made them, but since his receipts were missing, he had no proof. The government wanted its due—twenty-two thousand rubles!1 The loyal housekeeper had written:
I have enclosed what little cash we could spare. I fear your father is now truly one of the growing number of bankrupt aristocracy, with many of the external accouterments of wealth but no cash. To meet this crisis we have dismissed all the servants except Peter, who insisted on staying without pay until the crisis passes. I pray to God it will pass. We have already sold off all of the valuable art. Your father jokingly threatened to sell his own creations; and to tell the truth, I believe that may not be a bad idea. He refuses to even consider selling or renting the St. Petersburg estate, even though we have fallen behind on the mortgage payments. Ironically, then, while we starve (not literally, of course), that fine house sits empty and worthless.
Thus, I am sorry we cannot do more for you, but be assured that the moment we are able we will.
Sergei often wondered if things would have turned out better for his father—financially, at least—if he, Sergei, had stepped in and somehow found a way to take control. He might have done so anonymously, but then, there had never been such a glaring need as there was now. It all had happened suddenly, as if there was some plot against them. Yet Sergei’s faith told him that there was also a grand design in everything, and that if these setbacks were happening to his father, there would be some greater good to come from them.
In his own situation, he truly felt he had done and was doing the best he could. But he did give more and more thought to returning to Katyk. They would be poor there, too, but at least they wouldn’t have to share a tiny living space with twenty-five other people. The old Fedorcenko house had sounded inviting to him also, but it was too risky. If they tried to occupy it openly, there would be tedious questions, and if they tried to sneak in, they would be caught. His only choices, then, appeared to be returning to Katyk or remaining in the city.
The Russians Collection Page 146