Smoke rose from the charred remains of the stables. The bricks of the blacksmith’s forge were all that was left—of the building at least. The burned carcasses of four horses lay among the rubble. The stench of charred flesh permeated the air, and there was no wind to disperse it—a fact that had saved other nearby buildings from being destroyed also.
“Curse them!” breathed Cyril. “That nincompoop of a tsar gave away the country with that despicable manifesto of his, and what good has it done? He should have made those ungrateful people face ten thousand Cossack rifles. He’s so afraid of a little blood, but that’s all these dirty peasants understand. And I swear, if they ever try to harm my land again, that’s what I’m going to do.” He turned savagely on his son. “I want you to see to it that our supply of weapons are restocked. I want ten loaded rifles at the ready at all times.”
“And who do you think will use them?”
“I have a few faithful servants left. I’ll put one in your mother’s hands if I have to.” He pointedly didn’t mention his son’s ability to help. He knew Karl wouldn’t have the guts. And Karl didn’t correct the omission. “I’m ready to go back now,” Cyril said as he maneuvered an awkward turn. “It must be lunchtime. I’m starved.”
5
Ironically, many of the revolutionaries thought no better of the tsar’s manifesto than the reactionary Vlasenko. Trotsky, ever the ebullient orator, said, “The tsar has given the people a constitution, but retains the autocracy. Everything is given—and nothing is given. The people still must contend with the police hooligan Trepov and that cunning shark, Witte. All they have now is a whip wrapped up in a fancy constitution.”
Paul Burenin found his own reactions more mixed. A year ago he had severed his official ties with Lenin’s Bolsheviks. He had never been able to buy into the Party doctrine with the single-minded passion that Lenin required. Paul had never wavered, however, on the importance of the complete removal of the monarchy from Russia. So, while he saw the new constitution as a positive thing, he believed it was merely a stepping-stone toward a republic—preferably a democratic one.
That is, if the constitution worked. Paul had little hope it would. The initial euphoria had already begun to dissipate as various factions perceived the reality—that the manifesto gave far too much to please the conservatives, and far too little for the satisfaction of the revolutionaries.
When were the monarchists going to realize the futility of such placating actions?
Paul lifted the page he had just finished writing and reread it. The article reiterated the “too little, too late” theme and called for the workers to continue the struggle. The worst danger of the manifesto was that it would succeed in pacifying the proletariat.
Tapping his pen against his chin, he tried to think of a rousing conclusion, but the ringing of the telephone disturbed his thoughts. He picked up the receiver thinking, not for the first time, that this modern instrument was as cruel a master as the tsar.
“Hello,” he said in a tone revealing his frustration.
On the other end of the line, a voice spoke with urgency. “Paul, you must come to the office immediately.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I can give no details over the phone, but we are expecting an important visitor. I don’t think you will want to miss him.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Paul hung up the phone. Forgetting his article, he jumped up, grabbed his coat, and started for the door. Then he stopped, returned to his desk, and jotted down a hasty note to his wife, who was out visiting friends.
Paul headed for the office of the newspaper Novaya Zhizn. He had begun writing for the radical paper a couple of months ago. It was published by Mariya Andreyevna, the beautiful actress wife of Maxim Gorky. There were Bolsheviks on staff, but there were a number of non-Bolsheviks as well, so Paul felt comfortable in his association with the paper.
He took the tram from his flat on Vassily Island to downtown Petersburg. From the tram stop he had to walk only three blocks to the apartment of the editor, which served as a covert office for the underground paper. When Paul entered, the rooms were crowded and buzzing with activity. The fellow who had telephoned him, Chirikov, met him at the door.
“I’m glad you got here so quickly,” said Chirikov, a small man with an excitable, somewhat nervous bearing. “Lenin will be here any minute.”
Paul had heard Lenin was in Russia. The Bolshevik leader had only arrived a day or so ago, but Paul wasn’t surprised one of his first stops was the newspaper office. Lenin well knew the value of the printed word. But the thought of Lenin’s direct involvement in the paper was not appealing to Paul, who knew intimately how the man operated and how controlling he could be.
Chirikov, also a non-Bolshevik, voiced Paul’s immediate fear. He spoke in a low tone so only Paul could hear. “I’ve already heard rumors that Lenin plans to take over the newspaper. Where do you think that’s going to leave us?”
“I think we better start looking for another job,” said Paul gloomily. “Lenin won’t tolerate any non-Party staff.”
“That’s what I was afraid of—”
Chirikov stopped abruptly as the door opened and Lenin himself swept into the room. He was accompanied by three or four others, including Mariya Andreyevna.
“As you’ll see, we operate on a shoestring,” she was saying.
“And why should you be any different from every other party organization?” Lenin asked.
Paul noted that Lenin had changed little in the months since they had last seen each other. He still looked more like an ordinary shopkeeper than a revolutionary leader. Only the intensity of his small, narrow eyes was remarkable about him. His deeply receding hairline made him look older than his thirty-five years.
“If I had but one jewel on the tsar’s crown,” Mariya said, “what I couldn’t do!”
“Someday we will have all his jewels,” said Lenin.
“But then we’ll be in control and won’t need them.”
“We’ll always need them.”
“Nevertheless, despite our lack of funds we have a fine staff.” Mariya gestured toward the others in the room who had ceased their talk and activity and had riveted their attention upon Lenin.
Lenin gave the group a quick appraisal, pausing as his eyes encountered Paul. His incisive gaze, though not openly hostile, lacked the warmth of two friends meeting after a long separation. Not long after Bloody Sunday, Paul had written to Lenin telling him he was withdrawing from the Party. Lenin had never responded to the letter, but Paul had heard Lenin had been hurt by Paul’s decision.
“Pavlikov,” Lenin said formally.
“Ilyich,” said Paul, using Lenin’s more intimate name. They had been close at one time, and although their politics had taken different paths, Paul still respected, and even admired, Lenin. He didn’t want to see ill feelings between them, yet he knew Lenin’s nature was such that he could never accept as an associate, much less a friend, someone who was not a Bolshevik.
“You look well,” said Lenin stiffly, but with an obvious attempt at cordiality. “Your decision to return to Russia was good for you.”
“Yes, it was. And I am glad to see you back where you belong also.”
“Even if it means I will shake things up around here?”
“I would expect nothing less from you.”
“Well, it is time to get to work,” Lenin said, then with a parting nod at Paul, turned back to Mariya. “Let’s have a look at your next issue.”
“Come this way. Our lead articles are ready to go.”
Paul watched them a moment. What would Lenin say when he saw that one of Paul’s articles was on the front page?
“This will become a Party organ in no time,” came a voice at Paul’s shoulder.
Paul turned and saw the big figure of Stephan Kaminsky. He had changed considerably from the peasant lad who had left Katyk years ago to seek a university education, but instead found a place among R
ussia’s revolutionaries. The yellow-haired boy Paul had met in St. Petersburg years ago had a tougher, more experienced visage now. His crooked nose and intense brown eyes, which had once been in balance with the softness of his chin and hair, now dominated all, giving him a rather intimidating appearance.
“I’ve no doubt about that,” said Paul dryly. Despite the fact that Stephan was from his own village, Paul had never warmed to the fellow. In fact, while they had worked together with Lenin in exile, Paul and Stephan had often clashed. Kaminsky had become a passionate Bolshevik, and, if it were possible, was probably more intolerant than Lenin.
“You may as well start packing,” said Kaminsky.
“That, too, I assumed.”
“Those who never joined the Party are better off than those who turned their back—”
“Please, Kaminsky, I don’t wish to hear you preach. I have work to do.”
“Like gathering your things?”
“Exactly.” Paul turned abruptly and strode away.
Stephan Kaminsky had come far, at least in his own mind, since those forgettable days in sleepy old Katyk. He had always wanted out of that mean and hopeless peasant village, away from the stifling weight of his poverty-stricken family. When a sympathetic barin had seen promise in Stephan and decided to support his way through the university in Petersburg, Stephan had jumped at the chance. The fact that he had been all but engaged to Mariana was hardly an obstacle. He figured she would follow him wherever he went. He hadn’t counted on her fortunes changing so radically.
He had a high enough opinion of himself to think the beautiful girl was unquestionably his. He thought it would make no difference if he ignored her and put his own activities before her. He also saw nothing wrong with flirtations with other women, even though he still wanted Mariana and cared for her. Mostly, though, what he desired in Mariana was a beautiful conquest and even a beautiful wife at his side. She couldn’t expect that a man of the world, such as he was becoming, would not have other romantic trysts. That was simply life.
When he lost Mariana to that American reporter, he hadn’t been happy. It was all right if Stephan misused her, but the idea of her misusing him grated against his ego. But Stephan was a handsome, desirable man, and he soon learned that he could have his pick of beautiful women. Besides, the women in his circle were not as archaic in their morals as Mariana. Stephan could thus have his freedom, to boot.
Still, Stephan harbored no great affection toward the Burenin clan, especially after Paul had become another thorn in his flesh. He hated the fact that, although he and Paul came from the exact same background, Paul had far more natural intellectual gifts. Stephan had to work at understanding all the fine nuances of politics. Although he was a devoted Marxist, he had a hard time grasping the fine precepts of Marx and Engles. Paul, on the other hand, not only understood Marx, he had done a translation of Das Capital into Russian that was used widely among Revolutionary circles.
But these things were only irksome to Stephan in a small way. He had no major reason to envy either Paul or his niece, Mariana. He had succeeded in his own right. He had risen to a prominent place in Lenin’s inner circle. Lenin wanted loyalty more than intellectual acuity. And Stephan was loyal, if nothing else. And because of it, he had been made Lenin’s personal bodyguard. As much as he had at one time desired intellectual pursuits, he now realized that his beefy, muscular frame was no small asset, perhaps even more so than his mind.
If the Bolsheviks succeeded in overthrowing the monarchy and Lenin rose to power, Stephan knew he would reap the spoils of that victory. And a side benefit would definitely be putting the arrogant Paul Burenin and the faithless Mariana Remizov in their place.
6
The year 1905 ended as it had begun—in violence. The national unrest that had continued even after the tsar’s manifesto erupted at the end of December into a violent outbreak in Moscow. Another general strike was called for, but when a group of several thousand demonstrators was surrounded by the police and many arrests made, the people responded by throwing up barricades and breaking out weapons. Street fighting broke out all over the city.
The tsar, this time encouraged by Witte, met the rebellion with a decisive show of strength. He dispatched the ruthless Semyonovsky Guards to Moscow. The outbreak was crushed with a thousand casualties. Then the guards went on to do the same in other parts of the country.
The final closure of the disturbances of 1905 came when the newspapers announced the murder of Father Gapon, the man whose peaceful demonstration on Bloody Sunday had touched off the revolution. Gapon had fled Russia after Bloody Sunday and spent several months in Europe, where he met once with Lenin. The Bolshevik leader was moved by Gapon’s sincerity and zeal but recognized a great deal of naiveté in the man. It was probably that very quality that got him embroiled in several covert plots, finally to be recruited as a police agent. A little over a year after the ill-fated march on the Winter Palace, Gapon was executed by a small group of Social Revolutionaries who believed him to be a traitor to the cause.
Thus, as the winter snows melted, Russia returned to at least a semblance of order. St. Petersburg went back to work, food and goods reappeared in the markets, as did electricity and most of the other modern conveniences.
It seemed to Anna that it was time for life to move on, to enter a new phase. It was time for the mourning clothes to be laid aside and for the future to be attended to.
No one need know that Anna’s heart still ached at the loss of her husband. Even Sergei—especially Sergei!—would have insisted that Anna and his family find joy and happiness in life once more. He would not even have wanted to be mourned for as long as a year. No doubt he would tell Anna to find herself another husband, too. But Anna was far from ready to take that step, if she ever would be.
Nevertheless, their adopted daughter, Mariana, had waited long enough to take that step toward matrimony. She and Daniel Trent had waited almost too patiently to be married. Mariana assured her mama that after Sergei’s death she had no heart for a wedding celebration. A few months after Bloody Sunday, however, Mariana and Daniel had traveled to America to meet his family and friends. Then Mariana first truly understood the wealth of the Trent family. Of course, American wealth was rather dull and colorless compared to Russian wealth, but no one could doubt its presence, despite the lack of superficial display. When Daniel and Mariana set a date for a wedding in April, Daniel’s brother said he would see to it that any of the Trent family who wished to attend would be provided traveling expenses to Russia for the wedding. Imagine! Committing to such an expense with no hesitation at all.
And, it was a good thing the Trents would be present, for there would be few other guests. Only family and a few close friends would attend the simple ceremony in the Remizov St. Petersburg home. It would be a Protestant ceremony, and for that reason Mariana had decided not to include others beyond those close to her and Daniel. It would simply have been too awkward. Even Mariana’s grandmother, Countess Eugenia, had refused to attend the non-Orthodox wedding.
Despite the size of the wedding, Daniel encouraged Mariana to spare no expense.
“I only plan on getting married once,” he said. “So, let’s make the most of it.”
He had already planned a wedding trip that would take them all over Europe. He insisted Mariana go to a fashionable French designer in St. Petersburg who was famous as the dowager empress’s personal designer. Unlike her daughter-in-law, Alexandra, the Empress Marie had always been a social person, loving parties and the gowns and jewels that went with them.
What the Frenchman turned out was a gown simple but elegantly exquisite.
“Like you, my love,” Daniel had said when Mariana attempted to describe the dress using those very words.
“I only hope I have a daughter to pass it on to,” Mariana said. “Then I won’t feel so bad about the expense.”
“I don’t want you to feel bad about anything, Mariana. If any of this makes you truly
feel awkward, then we can dispense with it all—except the marriage, of course!”
“I enjoy all the beautiful things, Daniel. Oh, I couldn’t live this way all the time, but I don’t mind it for an occasion like our wedding. And I think all the preparations are good for Mama. She has been having fun spending the money you’ve given her, ordering flowers, food, new clothes for her, Raisa, Talia, and the boys. I think everyone needs a festive occasion.”
“Yes, it’s been a hard year. Even your father’s wedding wasn’t enough to make up for what we’ve all been through.”
Mariana’s real father, Dmitri, had married Princess Yalena Barsukov on New Year’s Day. Though Count Dmitri Remizov was far beneath Yalena’s social and financial station, and twenty years her senior, almost everyone considered it a good match. Yalena, having lost the love of her life a year before meeting Dmitri, had been on the verge of joining a convent. Her parents welcomed anything and anyone who would distract their daughter from that path. Count Remizov might have had a reputation as a playboy, but since his engagement to Yalena, he had been a model of fidelity and devotion. Maybe age and maturity had left a good mark on Dmitri. And the Barsukov fortune, which was enormous, could easily withstand even the extravagant tastes of the count, especially for Yalena’s happiness. Besides, Yalena seemed to truly care for Dmitri. Perhaps she had finally put her broken heart well into the past.
Their wedding in Moscow had been the social event of the year. Scores of grand dukes and grand duchesses were in attendance, the recent violence in Moscow notwithstanding. The dowager empress had also attended, representing her son, who had been unable to attend because of the unstable political situation in the Capital. There were hundreds of guests, and food and champagne flowed without end. Yalena’s gown cost twenty thousand rubles. Mariana’s gown as maid of honor cost half that, but still more than her own wedding dress. Mariana thought the opulent affair suited Dmitri more than Yalena, whose quiet, simple nature would probably have felt more comfortable with a wedding like Mariana’s.
The Russians Collection Page 194