The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  “Yuri, you gave a wonderful speech today.” Yuri’s grandfather, Viktor, came up and put an arm proudly around Yuri’s shoulders.

  “Thank you, Grandfather. I’m glad you could come.”

  “Do you think I would miss this proud day?”

  At that moment Andrei passed close to Viktor, who quickly reached out and snagged Andrei’s arm. He then placed his other arm around Andrei. “Ah, my boys! I haven’t seen the two of you together in months. You are the finest young men I know. I’m as proud today as a grandfather can be. And I know your father would be proud of you both also.”

  After a few moments, Viktor’s wife approached. “Do you mind if I steal you away, Viktor? There is a gentleman who would like to meet you.”

  “Will you excuse me, boys? But I will have more to say later, since your mother has asked me to deliver a little speech.”

  When Viktor was gone, Yuri and Andrei remained where they were, quietly and even a bit awkwardly.

  Finally Yuri said, “Thanks for coming, Andrei. I know how you feel about these things.”

  “Are you kidding? I wouldn’t miss the most important day of my brother’s life.”

  “I appreciate the sentiment, but . . . if this turns out to be the most important day of my life, what do I have to look forward to?”

  “There you go, intellectualizing everything! Yuri, you’re going to have a fine life, accomplishing great things. I’ve no doubt about it. You will never disappoint our mother.”

  “And I suppose you think you will?”

  “I already have.”

  “Bosh.”

  “It doesn’t bother me very much. I realize she can’t have two perfect sons—that would take its toll on her humility.”

  “Come on, Andrei—”

  At that moment the front door burst open and in swept Daniel, Mariana, and their two children. Scattered conversations around the room ceased and attention turned toward the new arrivals.

  “Forgive us for being late,” said Daniel. “I had to send a telegram to the States giving approval to some business matters. The international wires were jammed up. It seems Bulgaria has invaded Serbia.”

  “Again?” Andrei looked up. “They just signed a peace treaty less than a month ago.”

  “Those countries are always at each other’s throats,” Dmitri said.

  “Let’s just hope they don’t involve Russia.” Viktor shook his head.

  “I hope they don’t involve anyone,” said Daniel. “There is such a tangled mess of alliances and pacts in Europe now that the whole continent could well be drawn into the fray.”

  “No more politics,” Mariana insisted. “This is Yuri’s party; let’s not spoil it with depressing news.” She turned to her cousin and adopted brother, embraced him, and kissed his cheek. “I am so proud of you, Yuri. Or, should I say, Doctor Fedorcenko?”

  “I do like the sound of that.” Yuri grinned.

  Daniel threw an arm around Yuri. “You’ve earned it!”

  “I couldn’t have done it without you, Daniel.”

  “Nonsense! You are a brilliant man. You would have achieved success even if you’d had to beg on the streets for money.”

  “Well, thank you, anyway.” Yuri started to shake Daniel’s hand, then, suddenly full of emotion, gave Daniel a full and hearty Russian embrace.

  An hour later, when he made his excuses and departed the party, Yuri felt torn. Most of the guests had left already, but the people he cared most about were still there—his mother, his grandparents, Raisa, Talia, and Daniel and Mariana. Andrei had left almost immediately after Daniel’s arrival.

  It would have been different if Yuri, like his brother, didn’t enjoy his family’s company. But he did. His circle of friends were important to him, too, and, unfortunately, the two elements didn’t mix very well. It was understandable that his mother didn’t fit in; she was from an entirely different generation. But the others also seemed to shy away from the social set Yuri associated with. Andrei did more than shy away—he was openly hostile.

  “How can you demean yourself by rubbing shoulders with all that aristocratic riffraff?” Andrei often said.

  Andrei still used the surname Christinin, the name their father had taken while he was a fugitive. As far as the family title went, its use, to Andrei, was akin to a curse word.

  Reaching the street outside his mother’s apartment, Yuri walked for some distance until a cab drove by. He told the driver his destination, then climbed in. It was a ten-minute ride to the fashionable St. Petersburg club called The Bear. He sat back and continued to muse about his brother.

  Sometimes Yuri missed his brother’s company. Their times together as children—he, Andrei, and Talia—were among his fondest memories. But over the years they had drifted further and further apart. It was as much his fault as Andrei’s.

  Then again, maybe it was no one’s fault. They were just two different people—they always had been. But sometimes it seemed as if Andrei was trying to be different, trying to do everything he could to distance himself from Yuri. The better Yuri’s grades in school, the more “fails” Andrei got; the more Yuri associated with his aristocratic friends, the more zealous Andrei’s revolutionary fervor became. Now that Yuri thought about it, Andrei had dropped out of school the same year Yuri had entered the university.

  Was Andrei trying to prove something in his behavior?

  Yuri wanted nothing more than to make his family proud, to return the Fedorcenko name to its former glory. He believed he owed it to his father and his grandfather, a duty that had become even more important, considering the fact that Andrei seemed to be doing all he could to shame the Fedorcenko name. He would not even claim it as his true name. Maybe that was just as well. Sooner or later Andrei was bound to run afoul of the authorities, and in that event it was better only the Christinin name suffered.

  Yuri’s cab pulled up in front of the nightclub. He paid the driver and entered the building. Everyone who was of any importance at all in St. Petersburg at one time or another crossed the threshold of this place. Glancing around, Yuri saw the sons and daughters of Imperial ministers, grand dukes and duchesses, generals and admirals. Yuri made a pointed attempt to conceal his awe. Actually, he seldom came here because his budget hardly allowed for the extravagance of such a place. More than that, if the truth were known, Yuri had not yet achieved the highest level of Russian aristocracy. His friends and associates were of the type that mingled on the fringes of the true upper crust. Some were wealthy but lacking in titles; others, like him, had the titles but not the accompanying amenities and influence.

  Yuri longed to move up the social ladder. In his youth, especially since his father’s death, he had constantly pumped his grandfather for information about the Fedorcenko family. He had learned about the fabulous St. Petersburg estate lost to that conniver Cyril Vlasenko. Viktor told him about the hundreds of servants, one of which had been Yuri’s own mother—a fact Yuri tried to forget; about the rooms full of priceless artwork and antiques; about the parties at which hundreds, including tsars, had been entertained. Viktor had to be pressed sometimes, but he even told about how he and his ancestors walked the corridors of the Winter Palace as men who influenced tsars and national affairs.

  Andrei forever prattled on about how the aristocracy would be torn down with the monarchy, along with the capitalist bourgeois. He said all wealth would be distributed equally among the people, and a man’s worth would be determined by his character, not by some title in front of his name. Yuri believed his brother was naive. Such a utopia was impossible. There would always be rich and poor. Even republics like America had class divisions. Look at the Trents. And they were not even in the highest class because their money wasn’t old enough.

  Yuri believed that if he had the initiative to better himself, then why should he not do so? Wasn’t that what freedom was truly about?

  “There he is!” shouted a voice above the din of the nightclub. “The man of the hour.”


  Yuri turned and saw Count Vladimir Baklanov standing across the crowded room waving. Vladimir, a fourth-year law student at the university, was a friend Yuri had met several years ago at a party. They had liked each other immediately, and it was only later they learned that their grandfathers had once been close friends. Vladimir was a year younger than Yuri, several inches shorter, husky of build and extremely good-natured. His round, florid face sported an enormous handlebar mustache and a constant grin. He was full of laughter and mischief.

  “Come on, Vlad, you’ll embarrass me,” Yuri said as he slid easily into a chair.

  Also at the table was another of Yuri’s close friends, Count Boris Kozin, youngest son of the wealthy banker. He was as close as any of Yuri’s friends to the inner circle of St. Petersburg society, but for the most part his family’s dealings with the highest nobility were centered around business more than pleasure. Occasionally Boris was invited to the best parties, but not often. An economics graduate, Boris fervently hoped to marry up and have the income of a large estate to control. As the youngest of three brothers, he had little hope of getting much from his own family. Thus far, his patrician good looks had attracted many fine girls, but none to suit his high hopes.

  Boris lifted a bottle of champagne from a sterling silver urn filled with ice. He deftly popped the cork and, as a cascade of foam bubbled from the bottle, filled three glasses, passing them around to his companions.

  “We were ready to have the champagne without you,” said Boris.

  “You know how these family things go,” Yuri said. “It’s easier to escape from the Fortress. But I’m here now, so let’s drink this champagne before it goes flat.”

  “First, a toast,” said Vladimir. He lifted his glass. “To our resident genius! The most decorated graduate of the Petersburg University Medical School, Prince Doctor Yuri Sergeiovich Fedorcenko.”

  “Are you sure it’s ‘Prince Doctor’?” said Boris. “I think it should be ‘Doctor Prince’—”

  “Never mind. Drink up!”

  The three drained their glasses quickly, and Boris refilled them. In no time the bottle was empty and another ordered.

  “Speech, Yuri!”

  “I’ve had it with speeches,” Yuri said. “But I do want to thank you for—well, for everything.”

  “Why thank us?” chuckled Vladimir. “Don’t you know you’re getting the bill?”

  “I don’t care,” said Yuri. “It’s worth it to share this momentous occasion with my two best friends in the world.”

  “Then, perhaps you don’t want the gift we have for you . . . ?”

  “Vlad, you didn’t have to—”

  “See, he doesn’t want it!” taunted Boris.

  “I certainly wouldn’t want to hurt your feelings,” said Yuri.

  “Give it to him, Boris.” Vladimir drained another glass of champagne. “I can’t stand the suspense.”

  Boris rubbed his chin as if he were considering what to do, then slowly he slipped his hand into his inside coat pocket and withdrew an envelope. Handing it to Yuri, he said, “Bonnes Fortunes!”

  Yuri took the envelope with a perplexed brow. Why would his friend wish him luck with the ladies? Surely they hadn’t . . .

  He was relieved when he saw upon opening the envelope that it was an invitation to a party.

  You are cordially invited to

  celebrate the engagement of

  Prince Felix Feliksovich Youssoupov

  to

  Princess Irina Alexandrovna

  at the Moika Palace

  on June twenty-fifth, 1913 . . .

  “I don’t get it,” Yuri said, trying to prevent his jaw from slackening in awe. It was probably just the champagne, but his head was starting to spin.

  “You’ve always wanted to rub shoulders with the crème de la crème, have you not?” said Vladimir.

  “Yes . . .”

  “Well, there you go.”

  “I’m to crash the party of the year?”

  “It’s hardly crashing,” said Boris with mock affront. “That’s a bona fide invitation sent to my father and his family.”

  “I didn’t know even you mingled with such personages,” said Yuri skeptically.

  “I tell you, this is completely on the up-and-up! My father served with the elder Felix in the Chevaliers-Gardes. Granted, they were never close friends, but a month ago Youssoupov and my father cut a business deal at the bank. The invitation was Youssoupov’s way of showing his gratitude.”

  “But—”

  “Yuri, you know what they say about gift horses and looking too closely.”

  “You really expect me to attend? I . . . I couldn’t. Why, the tsar himself might be there!”

  The Youssoupovs were doubtless the richest family in Russia. Some estimates had them even richer than the tsar. Felix Youssoupov, since the death of his elder brother, would be the heir to all that wealth. But that was hardly the half of it. Irina Alexandrovna, his fiancé, was the tsar’s niece, her mother being the tsar’s sister. The idea of Yuri walking into a gathering such as this was as stupendous as when his mother had nearly collided with Tsar Alexander II at the Winter Palace. Yuri liked to allow himself to think that because he was a Fedorcenko he was a man of certain standing. But underneath the air of importance he sometimes attempted to assume, he was aware of his background as the son of a peasant maid who had been raised in a St. Petersburg tenement.

  Yes, he had longed for the society of such as the Youssoupovs. His grandfather had once been on an equal footing with them and their ilk. But what if the working-class peasant boy got the better of Yuri, and he made a complete fool of himself? Perhaps, after all, the imagining and the longing were better than the fulfillment.

  Yuri said to his friends, “This was very kind of you, but—”

  “We won’t hear any excuses, Yuri,” said Boris.

  “Do you plan on giving up your place to attend, Boris? I would never ask you to make such a sacrifice.”

  “Would I be so magnanimous?” Boris smiled slyly. “Look at the envelope. Who is it addressed to?”

  Yuri turned the envelope over. “To the family of Alexsie Vladimirovich Kozin. So am I your country cousin?”

  Boris nodded. “Visiting from . . . hmm . . . Kiev, and of course, they wouldn’t expect us to leave you at home.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “You’ll be there, Yuri. A legion of demons couldn’t keep you away.”

  14

  On Saturday the twenty-fifth, Yuri prepared himself to attend the Youssoupov party. He had only one formal suit with white tie and tails. It was a bit out of fashion and snug around the shoulders and waist, where he’d filled out slightly over the years. But it didn’t look bad, and he had worn it only two other times, so it still was new-looking. Vladimir loaned him a new top hat which was a little too big, but if Yuri wore it back on his head it worked well enough. In fact, the effect gave him a somewhat rakish appearance. Boris added a walking stick and gloves.

  “I truly look like your country cousin, Boris,” said Yuri as he examined himself in the mirror. They were in Boris’s bedroom, where they had gathered to dress for the party.

  Vladimir gave Yuri a critical appraisal. “Tilt the hat to the right.” Yuri obeyed. “Not so much,” said Vladimir. “There, that’s perfect.”

  “I suppose I’ll pass, if I can only remember not to eat anything.”

  “Yes, please!” Boris chuckled. “I couldn’t bear the embarrassment of you splitting your seams.”

  “I’ll try not to embarrass you.” Yuri grew pensive. “Can I really pull this off?”

  “I only wish I could see you there,” said Vladimir. He had to remain behind—it would have been pushing too far indeed for Boris to bring two country cousins. “Just remember, Yuri, you are Prince Fedorcenko; your grandfather did walk with tsars. This is where you belong.”

  “I wish I felt as certain of that as you, Vlad.”

  “Come on,” sai
d Boris. “I’ve got a carriage waiting. Let’s go.”

  The Youssoupov palace was situated on the Moika Canal not far from the Maryinsky Theater near to the center of St. Petersburg. It had been a gift to the family from Catherine the Great. It was one of four Youssoupov palaces in Petersburg—there were another three in the Moscow area, several in the Crimea, and thirty other estates scattered throughout the rest of Russia. While in Petersburg, the family resided in the Moika Palace, which was a vast labyrinth of rooms—galleries, ballrooms, parlors, reception areas, dining rooms, and even a theater. Of an eighteenth-century Empire style, it was as much a museum as a home, filled with priceless works of art, including an original Rembrandt.

  A butler opened the door for them, and there was a short, tense moment as the man studied the invitation. Both Yuri and Boris let out barely audible sighs of relief when the butler let them pass and a footman appeared to escort them to the ballroom.

  As Yuri entered the foyer, resplendent with gilt and finery, he thought about the Fedorcenko St. Petersburg Palace. He had never been inside, but he had walked by it two or three times. From what he had heard it once had been every bit as fine as the Youssoupov palace, though perhaps not quite as large. He felt a sudden longing for the “olden days” of which he’d heard so much. He used to fantasize about convincing Daniel to buy the palace back from that scoundrel Vlasenko. But what then?

  Did Yuri really wish to live like the Youssoupovs, even if he could? He disdained much of Andrei’s politics, yet he did see the unfairness of the enormous gap between the rich and poor in Russia. There was very little in between. Of over a hundred and twenty-five million citizens, less than five percent could even aspire to a secondary education. The noble class who controlled the majority of the wealth and power in the country comprised only a fraction of a percent of the total.

  Yet it was said that Felix Youssoupov gave freely of his time and fortune to help the needy. Even he must realize that in this new era, when revolution and anarchy lurked around every corner, the opulent lifestyles of the rich must be placed into better balance with the surrounding poverty. That’s what Yuri hoped to do with his medical career—give of himself to those in need. But that didn’t mean he and his future progeny had to be reduced to the same level of poverty. There must be a way to make all this work in proper balance. Perhaps he’d have a chance to talk to Youssoupov himself about these things.