“Vasily, can you hear me?” Yuri said.
The child’s eyes fluttered. He was barely conscious, but he managed to say, “It . . . hurts . . .”
“I’m going to shine a light in your eyes, Vasily, so I can see what’s going on inside your head.” Yuri had the nurse bring in an electric light, then he pried open each of the boy’s eyelids and flashed the light into them. The pupils hardly responded.
Yuri looked at the nurse. “See if Dr. Botkin is still in the hospital.”
“I know for a fact that he left, Dr. Fedorcenko.”
“Dr. Tevele, then?”
“I’ll look for him.”
After the nurse left, Vasily’s mother asked beseechingly, “Doctor, how is my baby? He . . . seems so still.”
“Vasily!” Yuri called. “Vasily!”
The child was breathing shallowly now and did not respond to his name. Yuri was completely helpless, and he knew no other doctor could help the boy, either. Nevertheless, he desperately wished another physician would come. He didn’t want to stand here alone and watch the child die.
“Just an hour ago he was playing and laughing . . .” wept the mother.
Words of comfort stuck in Yuri’s throat—lame, stupid, worthless words. He had no comfort for this distraught mother. Her child was dying. There was nothing he could do. He suddenly thought of Rasputin and how he was reputed to have been responsible for the tsarevich’s recovery last year from his near-fatal illness. It was completely irrational, but Yuri had a sudden urge to run to the telephone and call the starets. It was said that Rasputin had healed Alexis all the way from Siberia.
Oh, God, help this child. I can do nothing. But Yuri’s prayer sounded as ineffective as his medical power. Maybe a man like Rasputin did have some special connection to God, something a sinner like Yuri sorely lacked.
Yuri noticed the mother’s lips were moving. She, too, was praying. She crossed herself. Yuri did the same, but mostly out of respect for the woman’s faith. He felt suddenly drained of all faith. But he was drained also of scientific prowess, too. No balance. He was walking on a tightrope with a lead weight in one hand.
Desperately needing something to do, he examined the boy’s pupil reaction again. It was worse than a few minutes ago. Where was the nurse?
“We need a priest,” said Vasily’s mother.
“Yes. But I don’t want to leave the child,” said Yuri.
The woman stood motionless. “He’s my baby, you know. I have three grown children. Vasily came late in life. We doted on him so. We . . . loved—love—him so. They say I gave him this disease. Will God ever forgive me for killing my baby?”
“Don’t talk that way,” said Yuri. “You are not to blame.” He wanted to tell her he was more at fault than she for being so helpless. This was the twentieth century. Modern medicine had advanced tremendously in just the last fifty years. Yet at that moment, Yuri felt as archaic as a medieval bloodletter.
Then the child stirred and his lips moved soundlessly, distinctly forming the one word, “Mama.”
“Doctor!” said the mother hopefully.
Yuri took Vasily’s hand. It was cold. But the fingers twitched slightly against his grasp. Yuri glanced at the boy. Maybe there would still be a miracle.
Then the child’s hand went slack. Yuri could not bring himself to look again at the face. The child was dead.
22
Yuri was so distraught that he probably should not have met Katya that night. But by the time he left the hospital after dealing with the bereaved mother and all the other awful details a physician must attend to in the wake of death, he was too drained to think rationally. He walked to Nicholas Station, almost forgetting why he was going there. When he saw Katya, for a moment he thought it was mere chance. Then he remembered the telephone conversation, and his miseries were compounded.
“What’s wrong, Yuri?” she asked when they met in front of the train station. Her concern seemed so real. Yet he could only think that she was a faithless woman, using him for some purposes he didn’t understand.
“I’m fine.” But his voice was empty of all except despair.
“It’s obvious you’re not fine. Please, what is the matter?”
Something snapped in Yuri, and he felt in that moment that Katya was the cause of all his troubles.
“Why should I tell you?” he snarled. “I once tried to open my heart to you—and you ground it into the dirt.”
“You just don’t understand, Yuri. There are things—”
“I don’t want to hear it! There’s no excuse for the way you’ve treated me. And I won’t take it anymore. I’m through groveling at your feet. You’re not worth it!”
“If only I could explain.”
“I don’t believe there is any explanation. You are just a frivolous, empty—”
“It’s not true!” Her eyes were glistening with moisture. She looked more than ever like a vulnerable child. His anger began to melt. He wanted to embrace her. Her gaze was steady, filled with that honesty she could wear so expertly. How could he actually believe his awful accusations?
“Then, tell me what is true?” he beseeched.
She looked at him a moment longer, then her gaze fell. “I . . . I can’t. It’s better this way, Yuri.”
“What way?”
“That we don’t see each other again.”
He stared mutely at her, as if her words came totally unexpectedly, as if he hadn’t only a moment before suggested that very thing himself.
Katya took a slip of paper from her pocketbook and handed it to Yuri. “Father Grigori’s place is just three blocks from here; you should have no trouble finding it.”
He took the paper; he didn’t know why.
“How can you do this, Katya? So cool, so calm. Did our time in the Crimea truly mean nothing to you?”
“Walk away, Yuri, while you can. It’s for the best.” She turned and strode to her motorcar, which was parked by the curb.
He watched silently as the driver opened the door for her and she stepped in. He kept on watching as the engine started and the wheels began to roll away from the curb. Then, all at once, he seemed to stir to life.
“Katya!” he called.
But the car turned a corner and disappeared from sight.
Katya wept all the way home—quiet tears that seeped from her eyes in spite of her attempt to hold them back by chewing on her lip. She couldn’t make a scene that the chauffeur might see and report back to her grandmother. But she tasted blood on her lip and still the tears flowed.
Why did Yuri Sergeiovich keep coming back for more? Why couldn’t he see that she was a terrible person, not worthy of him at all? It was his fault that she had to be so cruel. Other men did not press her so, demand so much of her. Why him?
Yet, was the problem with Yuri, or was it only with herself? It had always been fairly easy to brush off other men, at least the few she had allowed into her life. They never minded being kept at arm’s length—enjoyed, played with, then left alone or dropped altogether. Probably the others had only been out for a good time, just like she was. The last thing she wanted was to fall in love. That’s what had nearly destroyed her life before.
For the past two years she had done a marvelous job of avoiding meaningful relationships with men. It hadn’t been difficult. She had a rather low opinion of men anyway, and most in her social circle easily affirmed that opinion. They wanted one thing from a woman, and all their behavior focused on ways to get that thing. The best way to deal with these men was to fight fire with fire. If they were playboys, she made for herself the reputation as a playgirl.
Almost every evening was filled with parties, visits to nightclubs, the theater—any event where the Russian nobility mixed and mingled. She let the rumors spread about her free and easy lifestyle, supported by her daring fashions, her frequent flirtations, her excursions to places where genteel ladies would never be found. She let the rumors fly that her relations with men went beyond
mere flirting. And because of this, she was not the most sought-after marriage candidate. Men were proposing to her all the time, of course—though love was not their motive for doing so. But the parents of these men usually steered their sons away from the wild Countess Katya Zhenechka. They wanted their precious boys to marry ladies of quality and breeding, not a trollop who had obviously inherited her mother’s unstable and unsavory character.
Her behavior and the rumors surrounding her had incurred the constant wrath of her father, but it was a small price to pay for the benefit of remaining single and free.
But from the beginning Yuri had shaken her carefully constructed world. He was new to society, and he didn’t know all the rumors about her. She wondered if he was still ignorant of them. Or did he simply have the uncanny ability of seeing past all that into her soul, her real self, which she had always worked so hard to hide? He loved her—really loved her. It boggled her mind. No one had ever loved her like that before. Should it be any surprise that she had been drawn to him? He made her let down a little part of her solid emotional wall. He had begun to reach a deep need in her that she had always tried so hard to deny. And, in moments of weakness, she found herself succumbing to him. She would then pull back as soon as her good sense returned. But in the process, she hurt him—more than once, too. She hurt him again and again because she just didn’t have the strength of character to cut him off completely.
But she must.
It was the only way. Yuri was an honorable man, and he’d probably accept her past. He was like the biblical Joseph, accepting the seemingly tainted Mary because it was the right thing to do. Unfortunately, Katya was no Virgin Mary. And it would hurt Yuri in more ways than one to get involved with her. He was a rising star in the medical profession and in the circles of Russian nobility. It was important to him to be successful in these areas. And an association with someone like Katya could only harm his ambitions. Her past could not be kept a secret much longer. Only her father’s force of will had kept Katya’s secret hidden. Yet, there were vague whisperings—mostly in Moscow, but they would trickle up to the Capital sooner or later.
Katya tried to slip into her house unnoticed, but her grandmother was coming down the stairs at the same moment Katya entered.
“There you are,” said the older woman. Countess Elizabeth Zhenechka was tall and regal, described by many as a “handsome woman.” Not beautiful, but with such presence. She was a reserved, somewhat distant woman, much like Katya’s father. Yet her grandmother had a tender heart, a caring heart. Some said Katya’s father had no heart at all.
“Hello, Grandmother.”
“It is not seemly for you to be out so late—and unescorted, too, I suppose.”
“I had an appointment.”
Countess Zhenechka closed her eyes and sighed. “Why can’t you pay more attention to propriety, child?” It was more of an entreaty than a reprimand. The woman came to the bottom of the steps and put an arm around her. “I’m only concerned for your future, Katya, dear. You must be careful of your associations if you hope to make a decent marriage. Heaven knows it’s going to be hard enough as it is.”
“I don’t care about marriage, Grandmother.”
“Whatever became of that young man who visited you in the Crimea? Prince Fedorcenko, wasn’t it? I know the family has fallen considerably from its former status but . . . well, we must be practical, and it may be the best match we can hope for. He is a doctor, and that is respectable, if nothing else.”
“Please, Grandmother, I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Oh, Katya . . .” The woman gave Katya an affectionate pat on the shoulder.
She didn’t need to say more. Katya knew she had not only ruined her own life, but that of her family as well. They would all have to live with her mistake. It wouldn’t go away. But that didn’t mean she had to drag Yuri into it, too. She cared for him too much to do that to him.
23
Rasputin lived in flat number twenty at 64 Gorokhavaya Street. For a counselor and intimate of the emperor and empress of Russia, it was not among the best St. Petersburg locations. But perhaps the starets had a need to maintain some ties, however flimsy, with his common roots.
Yuri climbed up three flights of stairs to the third floor and found number twenty. He still wasn’t certain why he had come. The only reason he had even considered the visit in the first place was because of Katya. Now she was gone, perhaps forever. Yet Yuri needed something to fill the terrible, empty void that had so suddenly replaced his burning love. He wasn’t in the mood for his friends who would want to have fun, perhaps in a nightclub. He certainly couldn’t face his mother—she would see right through him and encourage him to talk about his troubles.
The more he thought about it, a visit with Rasputin was just what he needed. The curious man with his odd idiosyncrasies would be a perfect distraction. Yuri rapped briskly on the door.
The starets received him cordially. He was dressed in the same clothes he had worn the previous night at the Villa Rhode, but the strong odor emanating from him could hardly be due merely to unwashed clothes. But Yuri didn’t hold this against the man. Like many, he had a vague notion that holy men had higher things on their minds than personal hygiene, and thus a lapse in that area was acceptable in them.
“Come in. I’m glad you decided to come,” said Rasputin. “Where is Katya?”
“She . . . some emergency came up and she couldn’t make it. She sends her regrets.”
“That is too bad. She is such a delightful girl. But at least you have come. Would you like tea—? Ah, but you look as if you could use something stronger.”
“I’ve had a difficult day.”
“Come . . . we will talk. What better use of a man of God, eh? Someone for the distressed to unburden themselves to.”
He led Yuri from the large anteroom to a dining room. Rasputin’s flat was furnished simply but solidly, more middle-class in appearance than aristocratic. In contrast to the simplicity, however, was the profusion of icons throughout the place. It was very much what Yuri might have expected from the man. The dining room was furnished with massive oak. On a sideboard, a samovar was heating; and the table was laid with crockery and dishes of various cakes and other delicacies, along with a large bowl of flowers. It seemed the priest had gone to some trouble for his guest.
Rasputin opened a door in the sideboard and withdrew a bottle and two crystal wine glasses.
“While we wait for the tea water to heat, eh?” Rasputin filled the glasses from the bottle. Handing a glass to Yuri, he said, “This is good Russian Madeira, not that puny stuff they pass off elsewhere.”
After finding a seat on one of the high-backed chairs, Yuri gulped the wine. It was indeed strong. He tried to think of something to say, but he had never been talented at small talk and found in his present mood he was less adept than ever. He was spared for the moment when the telephone rang and Rasputin excused himself. The phone rang almost constantly during the visit. There were also several other visitors who came and went, some of whom Rasputin received in another room. From the sounds of their voices, Yuri deduced they were all women. Catching a glimpse of a couple of them through an open door, Yuri saw they appeared to be respectable society ladies, despite the fact that ten o’clock at night was hardly the hour when such ladies usually paid calls.
Nevertheless, except to answer the door and telephone, Rasputin spent his time with Yuri, leaving the other visitors alone in other rooms to entertain themselves. This made Yuri distinctly uncomfortable.
“I don’t wish to keep you from your other visitors,” he said.
“Don’t give it a thought. They will keep, won’t they?” The starets smiled and Yuri noticed his yellow teeth. His beard, too, was matted and sprinkled with what appeared to be crumbs of food.
“Grigori Efimovich,” said Yuri, “I don’t understand why you wanted me to come. Surely it wasn’t entirely for a social visit.”
“I’ve never ha
d much fondness for doctors, you can understand, can’t you? What with the general skepticism of the medical profession toward the miraculous. But I realize mine is not a very Christian attitude. Isn’t the very foundation of Christianity brotherly love? Did not God call His people to love and mercy? ‘He that loveth not knoweth not God. For God is love.’ And isn’t it so that if God loved us, should we not love one another? For only then shall we see God. If we love our brothers, then truly God dwells in us.”
Rasputin went on for another ten minutes in this vein, sermonizing on the merits of love. Yuri had a hard time following it all because the starets would easily get off track onto some other subject such as giving or sacrifice. Yuri soon learned that Rasputin loved to preach and often launched into a sermon whether it had anything to do with the topic at hand or not.
Finally Rasputin said, “With you, I could redeem myself, Yuri Sergeiovich. Your heart was troubled, and no human hand could touch the pain I saw in you.”
“What pain?”
“I feel it now stronger than before. Share your pain with me, Yuri Sergeiovich. I can help you.”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“What about Countess Zhenechka? Does she spurn your love?”
“How could you know that?”
“They say I can read into people’s hearts. It is a gift of God.”
“Then you ought to know what a fool I am. You ought to know how I’ve sold my heart to a faithless woman.”
“Is that truly what you think of little Katya?”
“What else can I think?”
“Do you really know her, Yuri Sergeiovich?”
“Do you, Grigori Efimovich?”
“Of course I do, but it has been many months since I last saw her. Ours was a brief, but meaningful encounter. It is possible she has changed in that time, but I doubt it’s been such a dramatic change. She is young and innocent and perhaps confused about life.”
“I knew there was something I couldn’t see, that I couldn’t love her if she was really as shallow and insensitive as she tries to appear. Tell me about her.”
The Russians Collection Page 205