Poznia ought to be able to help in that area. Lately she had been hobnobbing with the two Montenegrin sisters, who were quite devoted to spiritualism and such foolishness. Poznia had attended a seance with them recently. According to his wife, the two princesses were always entertaining holy men, starets. The tsaritsa also was friendly with the Montenegrins and quite interested in all that mystical business. Cyril thought it was a lot of rot, but it would be quite a coup if he could be instrumental in leading the empress to the acquaintance of a monk with miraculous powers. It was said there was a starets from Siberia at the Montenegrins’ last year who had healed the grand duke Nikolasha’s dog of the colic.
Ha! Even pathetic young Karl could probably do that.
Nevertheless, if such things appealed to the impressionable rulers of Russia, then Cyril was certainly not above using such methods to further his own career.
So, he was in an optimistic frame of mind for the upcoming festivities honoring Princess Gudosnikov. He could hardly bear that woman and her liberal views, but she and Poznia were old friends. Cyril often moaned at the company his wife sometimes kept, but he couldn’t deny that her peculiar liaisons often had come in handy for his political and personal schemes. The party tonight was important, if only to give him a chance to evaluate liberal viewpoints.
Everyone would be there; they were all in the city anyway to pay homage to the new heir. How convenient for Marya Gudosnikov that her birthday fell so close to that of the new tsarevich, Cyril mused. If only he had that kind of luck.
“Well, I’ll just have to make my own luck.” He had done it before, and he could certainly do it again.
15
About fifty people gathered at the home of Princess Marya Gudosnikov. Represented among the guests was a wide variety of the St. Petersburg nobility, from important government officials to creative forces like Tchaikovsky and Anton Chekhov. But there was also a sprinkling of insignificant nobles, and those whose stars had once shone brightly but had long since dimmed.
Viktor Fedorcenko well knew he was in the latter category. And it really did not bother him except that he still loved his country and grieved at the injustices so prevalent in Russian society. Once he had been in a key position to do some good, to change Russia for the better; once he’d had the ear of a tsar; once he had economic leverage, if nothing else. Now . . .
He was barely noticed in society. His presence at this function was only by virtue of his long-standing friendship with the princess. Those who remembered him from the old days tended to shy away; they only remembered that Prince Viktor Fedorcenko had lost his mind, had a nervous breakdown, and fallen out of favor with the royal family. It simply wasn’t politically healthy to associate too closely with someone in that position. Viktor probably would have done the same himself in the old days.
Now he was fairly content to stand with his wife, engaging her in conversation. After all, Sarah Remington, now Princess Sarah Fedorcenko, was an intelligent woman whose company had sufficed and sustained him for many years as his housekeeper and protector during those years when he could not be trusted to care for himself. She was far more interesting than most of the blowhards now present in Marya’s parlor.
As if on cue, Cyril Vlasenko and his wife arrived at that very moment. Now, there was the prince of blowhards! Viktor would never forgive the man for his crass opportunism in stealing the Fedorcenko St. Petersburg estate away from Viktor. He still harbored suspicions about Cyril’s convenient takeover of the property. But there was no way for a penniless, powerless noble to investigate the onetime chief of the Third Section. Cyril’s ties to the secret police had given him power that continued to linger years after he had left that position. And now it was rumored that Cyril was being considered by the tsar to become the new Minister of the Interior. Viktor found it inconceivable that a man like Cyril Vlasenko could rise to such a position. Perhaps he ought to be more thankful that he was no longer involved in government—it might only drive him insane again.
“Viktor,” Sarah said, drawing her husband’s attention back to their conversation, “I’m surprised so many have turned out in St. Petersburg in the summer.”
“Marya is well liked, and her parties are renowned,” he replied. He dragged his gaze away from Cyril, but not before Sarah saw where he had been looking.
“I suppose she can’t be too selective in her guest list.”
Viktor smiled. “I am here, am I not? The outcast of St. Petersburg society.”
As if to refute Viktor’s statement, the hostess herself swept up to them. “Oh, Viktor, I am so glad you were able to come. It is not every day a woman turns sixty-five, and she wants her dearest friends near her when she does.” She turned toward Sarah. “And her new friends, also, Princess Fedorcenko.”
“Please, if we are to be friends, do call me Sarah. The ‘princess’ part is still a bit hard to take,” said Sarah.
“Of course,” said Marya, “but I just wanted to emphasize that I do accept you fully as the new princess. Viktor’s first wife Natalia and I were dear friends, as you know, and I’m certain she would be pleased with how things have turned out.” Marya took Sarah’s hands in hers and gazed intently into her eyes. “As I am,” she said earnestly. Then more lightly, “Now, you must have some champagne. And do mingle—not all my guests are as stuffy as Count Vlasenko.” She added this last in a mischievous whisper, then said more conversationally, “Tchaikovsky will be here soon, and I will introduce you.”
Marya bustled away to greet more guests. In a moment a waiter appeared with a tray of glasses filled with French champagne. Viktor sipped his thoughtfully, pondering Marya’s words. Would Natalia truly be pleased at how his life had evolved? She would, if nothing else, be shocked that he had married their former housekeeper. Even more surprising than that to Viktor was the depth with which he loved Sarah. He hadn’t even loved Natalia in that way—he simply hadn’t been capable of such intense feelings back then.
His thoughts were interrupted by the approach of a rather large, broad-chested man. He was tall and well dressed, but a certain coarseness about the man made him stand out among so many polished Russian noblemen. Viktor had never met Sergei Witte, but there were not many who wouldn’t recognize the man who had been an important minister to two tsars.
“I don’t think we have met,” said Witte in a strong, confident voice.
“No we haven’t, sir,” Viktor said. “But I know you by reputation, and I am honored to meet you.”
“You know me by reputation and are still honored to meet me?” He laughed.
“Indeed,” said Viktor. “You have made a most positive impact on this country. I am Viktor Fedorcenko, and this is my wife, Sarah.”
“Prince Fedorcenko, is it not?” When Viktor nodded, Witte continued. “When a couple of busybodies this evening informed me of your reputation, I said to myself, ‘I must meet this fellow; he sounds like a man after my own heart.’ However, your reputation was known to me even before this evening. And I must say, if we had more men in government of your ilk, Prince Fedorcenko, we’d all be better off. Ah, but for the whims of our rulers.”
Witte, easily the most brilliant man in Russian government, was no doubt referring to his own unstable tenure in the Imperial Court. He had begun his career in railroading, demonstrating his genius even then. He came to the attention of Alexander III, who saw in Witte a man of vision and administrative talent. By 1893, he had been raised to the highly influential position of Minister of Finance, and his political power continued to grow.
When Nicholas II came to the throne, Witte remained in power even though the new tsar did not especially like Witte and his coarse, arrogant ways. He became the most powerful man next to the tsar. With his power, however, came a full tally of enemies, especially among those ultraconservatives with whom he was constantly butting heads in order to wrench Russia out of its backward slough. He also found himself in frequent opposition to the tsar himself, and eventually that precipitated hi
s downfall. Fearing that the Minister of Finance was becoming too powerful, Nicholas transferred Witte to the figurehead post of Chairman of the Council of Ministers. Witte continued to make matters worse for himself by his outspoken opposition to the war with Japan.
Viktor admired the man, and could empathize with him because of his own similar experiences. It surprised him that Witte appeared to have some knowledge of Viktor’s background, and, he had to admit, he was flattered that a man like Witte bothered with him at all.
“It would be a naive man who believed service to his country would be simple,” Viktor said.
“I have been called cynical among other things, but I must say, I had hoped to have some effect on Russia’s future.”
“And you have, Sergei Witte. Most have already forgotten me, but I doubt the same will happen to you.”
“We’ll have to see in twenty-five years, won’t we? In the meantime I would not mind having a man like you working with me—if I had a job these days! But if I ever do—”
Viktor held up a hand to stop Witte. “I have been in retirement too many years. I would be an anachronism in government today.”
“So, you have no desire to return?”
Viktor hesitated too long to belie any protests he might try to make. He smiled sheepishly. “I suppose I’m occasionally assailed by such crazy ambitions, but, realistically, I am sixty-seven years old and doubt I have the kind of stamina required for such work.”
“Still, the honor would be mine,” Witte offered as he turned and walked away.
Later that evening, Viktor found himself in a clique of men who were discussing the pending selection of a Minister of the Interior. Unfortunately, Cyril was among them. But Viktor noted that Cyril had become a lot more subtle these days; he almost sounded believable when he responded to a remark about his own candidacy.
“I shall be honored to serve wherever the tsar deems me worthy,” Cyril said. “The good of Russia is always the first consideration.”
Viktor still cringed at the thought of Cyril in such a key government position. Surely Nicholas was not that addlebrained!
Viktor could not help but imagine what he himself would do with such an opportunity. He shook those thoughts from his mind, for they were as insane as when he truly had lived in a fantasy world.
Sarah came up to Viktor from where she had been conversing with a group of women. She slipped her arm around his.
“I could use some air, Viktor.”
He gave her a relieved smile, excused himself from the group, and led her out onto the veranda. “Ah, my dear Sarah, you are indeed a lifesaver.”
“Do you wish to return to our hotel?”
“No, for Marya’s sake we must stay at least until cake is served and a toast is offered to our hostess. I believe I am doing well, all things considered, for my first large social gathering since my . . . ah, illness.”
“You are.”
“Actually, even at my best, I never enjoyed this sort of thing.”
“Viktor,” Sarah gently chided, “in my opinion you are at your best at this very moment!”
“Only because I have the support and encouragement of such a remarkable woman as you.”
Viktor inhaled the sweet fragrances wafting over them from the garden. Was that a hint of roses in the air? Viktor recalled that Marya had magnificent rose gardens which she managed to keep in bloom all through the summer. He wondered if she would mind him coming out tomorrow to make a watercolor of them.
He would ask her when they returned to the party. And oddly, that prospect excited him as much—and perhaps more—than the thought of resuming his once-lofty Imperial position.
16
Tolstoy once told the story of how he was walking along a country road when, in the distance, he noticed a man squatting in the middle of the road, waving and flailing his arms about frantically. Tolstoy decided the fellow was a madman. When he drew near, however, he saw that the man was actually sharpening a knife on a stone.
The activities of Paul Yevnovich Burenin often bore a great similarity to Tolstoy’s story—even on this warm, hazy summer day when Mathilde had insisted they take a break from their work and have a picnic in the country. As he lay on a blanket upon the grass, he watched his wife picking a bouquet of daisies, looking so carefree and relaxed. The idle time seemed only to make Paul’s mind work harder, thinking about things that perhaps were best ignored.
No wonder Tolstoy’s little anecdote came to mind. It not only seemed to mirror his personal life, but that of the revolutionary movement as well. Sometimes it all seemed crazy, disjointed, purposeless. For a hundred different revolutionists there were a hundred different agendas. They debated and argued constantly, falling out over insignificant trifles. And Paul all too often felt caught in the middle, being pulled back and forth, and flailing his own arms desperately about.
Only Vladimir Ilyich Lenin demonstrated uncanny focus. He was sharpening his knife with unfailing precision. And for that reason, Paul had been drawn to Lenin and had remained with him even though, ideologically, they were often worlds apart. Lenin was so single-minded, almost to the point of being obsessed, that it was inconceivable he would fail at anything he set his mind to. Paul recalled Lenin’s wife, Krupskaya, relating how as a young student Lenin had loved to ice-skate; but when he saw it made him too tired to study, he gave up skating. It had been the same with chess—and even Latin, which Lenin loved. He gave them up because they interfered with his all-important studies.
Paul had followed Lenin into European exile. He worked with him on Iskra, the radical newspaper he published and smuggled into Russia. Paul and Mathilde had been with him in London for several months. Their attempts at learning English together made Paul laugh. None of them had ever heard English spoken before, though all except Mathilde had taught themselves to read the language. How comical they had sounded trying to form the awkward foreign words! They had spent hours visiting Hyde Park and listening to the soapbox speakers, until they could finally render the language with some ability. But Lenin, in his way, was obsessed with learning everything he could about the English.
Paul wondered what his papa Yevno would have thought of the socialist church they had attended in London. The preacher sermonized about how the Exodus of the Jews from Egypt was symbolic of the deliverance of the proletariat from the kingdom of capitalism to the kingdom of socialism. They sang a hymn that intoned: “Almighty God, put an end to all kings and all rich men.”
In London they met Lev Bronstein, also known as Trotsky. Fresh from Siberian exile, the twenty-three-year-old Jewish revolutionary with his vivid blue eyes and thick shock of black hair had made an immediate impression. He had been called a young eagle, and Paul, one of the elders of the group, saw that the appellation fit Trotsky well. His writing talents were put to work on Iskra, which had become the prominent voice of the Social Democratic Party.
Last spring they had returned to Geneva from London in preparation for the Second Congress of the Social Democratic Party. Lenin had opposed the move, probably in part because he wished to operate Iskra away from the interference of the venerable Plekhanov, who was considered by many to be the leader of the party. Lenin had had many disagreements with Plekhanov over the years. Even in London there had been conflict, of course—clashes with others over such fundamental issues as whether change and reform could happen in Russia without a revolution. Lenin’s all-or-nothing attitude was bound to ignite controversy anywhere.
The stress of all the controversy, however, took its toll on Lenin. He ended up with a horrible case of shingles and spent the first two weeks in Geneva in bed. Yet as he recovered he became optimistic and enthusiastic about the upcoming congress that would be held in Brussels.
The congress got off to a fine start in the summer of 1903. Plekhanov was elected chairman and Lenin was one of the vice-chairmen. There were about sixty in attendance, quite a large number compared to the First Congress with only eight. But when some delegates to t
he Second Congress were expelled from Belgium by the police, it was feared there might be danger to others, so the congress was moved to London. When the meetings resumed a week later, they were plagued by tensions and conflict.
If only Lenin had been able to bend a little, to compromise on something. But that simply was not his nature. Martov, Lenin’s chief adversary, wanted a party of a broad scope with more appeal to the masses, one that entailed more participation with the Russian people themselves. Lenin insisted on a party controlled by a “Central Committee,” a very small, elite group of leaders.
Trotsky had commented to Lenin during one of the breaks, “What you are promoting sounds a lot like a dictatorship.”
“That is the only way,” Lenin had replied.
After much maneuvering and some of the opposition withdrawing, Martov’s faction, the Mensheviks, or minority, found itself with slightly less support than Lenin’s opposing group, the Bolsheviks, or majority. It helped that Plekhanov, in spite of their many conflicts, stood with Lenin.
“I am reminded of Napoleon,” Plekhanov said, “who had a penchant for insisting that his marshalls divorce their wives. Some of them actually did, regardless of the fact that they loved their wives. Well, I will not divorce Lenin, and I hope he has no intention of divorcing me.”
Laughing, Lenin had assured Plekhanov of his fidelity with a shake of the head.
Paul recalled that little interchange vividly, because he had at the time been deeply struck by his own sense of infidelity. He had voted for Lenin, but his heart was divided. He knew Lenin planned on being a dictator in the government of the new Russia—of course there was little question in his mind that Lenin would be the leader of Russia after the revolution. But Paul had probably read too much Jefferson and Paine to be completely comfortable with the dictatorial style of government. He did have to admit to himself, however, that Russia—with its millions of illiterate, grossly poor peasants—might not be capable of the kind of democracy found in America. At least not by the time the revolution occurred. In that case, wasn’t a man like Lenin best equipped for leadership? Only a man of such vision, drive, and charisma could direct the sweeping—yes, radical—changes that must occur in Russia.
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