The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  “Those who come to me expect confidentiality.”

  “As a doctor, I understand that. But if she won’t tell me, and you won’t tell me, how will I ever find out?”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “She never talks about herself.”

  “And so you gave up on her?”

  “What else can I do?”

  “Have some faith, young man. Don’t you know that a little bit of faith can move a mountain? Have you heard what power there is in a tiny mustard seed? Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the—”

  The telephone rang, sparing Yuri another sermon. Rasputin left to answer the call. When he returned he appeared agitated.

  “Duty calls,” he said. “Mama and Papa have need of me.”

  “Your parents?”

  “The parents of all Russia, our beloved sovereigns. Despite what others say, Mama and Papa need the anointed one of God. They will not listen to the lies of the devil. Even though the Duma itself speaks slander, our rulers know they are the words of the Evil One trying to get rid of the Lord’s anointed.”

  Yuri rose, duly impressed. “Then, I won’t keep you. Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Remember the things I’ve said. And come back to visit me—come with Katichka.”

  As Yuri left, he wondered if that would ever be possible. He doubted she would see him again. Yet Rasputin had said to have faith. Maybe Yuri had given up on Katya too easily. Maybe he should give her another chance. Perhaps he should have asked Rasputin to speak to her on his behalf. Maybe he would call the starets tomorrow and request it. And, surprisingly, Yuri felt lighter at heart than he had all day. With the starets’ words bolstering him, he felt he could truly have hope again.

  Katya stood on the sidewalk outside Father Grigori’s building. Last night she had wanted to see Father Grigori almost as much as she had wanted to see Yuri. She was disappointed when her argument with Yuri had forced her to excuse herself from that meeting. She was so confused, and she needed to talk to the starets. She needed his prayers. It had been some time since she had last seen Rasputin—almost a year. She hoped he didn’t hold that against her, nor the fact that it appeared as if she only sought him out during times of trouble. But he was a man of God; of course he wouldn’t hold anything against her.

  He had been such a help to her a year and a half ago when she had gone through that terrible time. He had embraced her spiritually and emotionally, never once disdaining her for her mistake as others, even churchmen, had. Through him she had fully understood God’s mercy toward sinners. Only because of Father Grigori had she not committed the worst sin of all.

  How close she had come, though! She had even bought the poison. It had seemed the only way. Her shame had been too great to face, and she believed she would never have the strength to face her father. Ending her life seemed the only possible answer. But Father Grigori had gone all the way to Moscow with her to be there for the confrontation with Count Zhenechka and had held her hand the entire time. She didn’t care what anyone said, the man was indeed a saint. And she wondered now why she had been so lazy in maintaining the relationship. But this was her first time back to Petersburg since then. And her life had changed so dramatically that it had all but eclipsed her previous encounter with the priest. Maybe he could help her understand her conflicting feelings about Yuri.

  When she knocked on Father Grigori’s door, uninvited, he greeted her with a grin, greatly allaying her worry that he might be upset with her. “Ah, my little Katichka! I missed you so yesterday.”

  “Forgive me, Father Grigori—”

  “I can forgive with ease, my dear, because I have known great forgiveness. Don’t you remember when Our Lord said of the woman who had anointed his feet with her tears, ‘Her sins which are many are forgiven for she loveth much. But to whom little is forgiven, the same hath little love.’ I love you, my Katichka, dear.” He threw his arms around her. “Now, come, let us be together.”

  His arm still around her, he drew her into his home. They went to the parlor where two other women were already seated. Katya knew them and they exchanged cordial greetings. But she soon sensed a coolness from them as Grigori lavished her with most of his attentions. He sat very close to her and kept his arm around her. She didn’t remember him being this affectionate before. It was almost as if no time at all had elapsed since they last spoke.

  “Lydia,” he said to one of the other women, “go get us some tea.”

  Lydia rose obediently, though his request bore no “please” or “thank you.” When she returned with a tray of tea things, she contrived, after setting the tray on a table, to sit on the divan on the other side of Rasputin. But he continued to all but ignore the other ladies.

  “Tell me about the young man, Katichka, sweet?” he asked.

  “He . . . is an acquaintance.”

  “Is that all?”

  “I . . . I don’t know. He’s a nice man.”

  “Tell me, dear, what troubles you. Have you forgotten how Father Grigori can help?”

  “I know it’s been such a long time . . .”

  “But I don’t hold that against you. Open your heart to me as you did before. Remember what good it did.”

  A sudden knot rose in Katya’s throat and, quite unexpectedly, a sob broke through her lips. “Oh, Father Grigori . . .” Tears seeped from her eyes. “I thought my life was better, but it’s still a mess.” She hated to break down like this in front of the other women. She had to be careful of her secret. Yet she needed so to talk to Grigori.

  He took her chin in his hand, and she hardly noticed the dirt embedded in his fingernails. Without words he somehow made her gaze up into his eyes, and she felt that gaze from those pale, yet brilliant, blue eyes draw her and nearly take her breath away. His eyes seemed to caress her and penetrate to her very soul. It occurred to Katya how, before, she had been able to lose herself in his eyes, forget all her pain and confusion. She remembered how good it had been to feel the tension fall from her body like loosened chains.

  “Oh, Father . . .” she murmured, desperate for peace to wash over her again.

  He jerked his eyes from her for a moment as he spoke to the other ladies. “Leave us.”

  Katya hardly noticed the women exit, for he immediately turned back to her, and she eagerly latched on to his gaze once more. “I so want peace,” she said.

  “And you shall have peace, my dear. The peace that passes all understanding.” He pressed closer to her. “Come, let your papa bear your pain. Hold me.” He put both his arms around her, stroking her hair and kissing her hair and forehead. “There, there,” he cooed.

  And Katya felt like a little girl able to rest in her papa’s arms, as she had never been able to do with her own papa. Maybe she never would have ruined her life if she’d had a papa like Father Grigori. If she’d been held and kissed, shown even the tiniest bit of affection.

  “Open up to me, dear Katichka. Let me help you find your way to God.” His eyes once more sought hers. “My peace I give unto you,” he cooed softly, “not as the world giveth give I unto you.”

  A heaviness crept over Katya’s spirit. Father Grigori wanted to help her find inner peace. It had helped before. But something nagged at her and she couldn’t quite grasp at it, something disquieting. What was it? She felt a greater intensity from the priest than before. Perhaps she was more troubled than she thought.

  Father Grigori’s stroking hand pressed harder on her hair and shoulders. She could feel the heat from his hand. “Do you know how beautiful you are, little one? I have so hoped you would come back to me. I knew there was more for me to give you.”

  Part of her wanted to draw back from his intensity and the foul odor of his nearness. Yet another part of her reasoned that he was a man of God, he must know what was best for her.

  “Oh, God . . .” she breathed.

  “Yes, little one, I am His prophet.”

  She let her shoulders relax, and the priest moved ever clo
ser. The ringing telephone made her start. Rasputin cursed under his breath.

  “One of the ladies will get it,” he whispered.

  “They left, didn’t they?”

  The telephone rang persistently.

  He shuddered and shook himself. “It may be Mama and Papa.” But in spite of the possibility that it might be the Imperial couple, he rose with great reluctance.

  His voice was brusque on the phone, and she knew that it couldn’t have been the tsar he was talking to.

  “You want to come now?” he said, then paused for the caller’s response. “I’m busy now.” Pause. “All right. Come in half an hour.” He replaced the phone not at all gently, then returned to the parlor. “That was a friend of yours, Katya dear.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, that doctor. He wants to see me. I think he wants advice about you.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “Not exactly, but I can tell these things.”

  “He is coming here?”

  “In a little while.” Rasputin sat back on the divan.

  “I should go.”

  “We still have time.” He placed his hot hands on her shoulders. “Besides, wouldn’t you like to see him?”

  “No, I don’t think I should.”

  “As you wish. But, Katichka, we have time. You still need my help.”

  “I know, Father Grigori, but—” She rose abruptly. “I really should leave.”

  He rose also and took her hands in his. “Don’t stay away so long again, Katya, dear. Papa will miss you.”

  “I won’t, Father Grigori.”

  Katya hurried away from the priest’s flat. And when she got outside, the air somehow seemed so fresh and clean and sweet. She took a deep breath and felt as if it had been a long time since she had really breathed.

  24

  Talia’s next big performance came when the Maryinsky Ballet opened the fall season with Giselle. True to his promise, Yuri was there. Two weeks had passed since his visit with Rasputin. He had telephoned the starets the following day to request his assistance with Katya, but Rasputin had little to offer but vague and somewhat trite solutions. The man had been drunk, to boot, and had been far more interested in bragging about his association with the Imperial family. Within a few days Katya had left for Moscow, and it seemed Yuri was going to have to allow time to have its way with their relationship. He did not intend to chase after her again.

  The ballet proved an excellent distraction, especially when on that particular evening there was a bit of a scandal. All the facts did not come out until the party after the performance, but, by then, everyone was talking about how the dowager empress had left in the middle of the ballet in apparent outrage. It seemed the dancer Nijinsky had appeared on stage in a costume far too skimpy for the Empress Marie’s Victorian tastes. Rumor had it Nijinsky would be expelled from the ballet.

  “He’s one of the greatest dancers in ballet—perhaps the greatest dancer of all time,” said Talia. “They can’t keep him away long.”

  “Such things wouldn’t happen in a government established for the people,” said Andrei. “Men and women would have free artistic expression.”

  Yuri wasn’t in the mood for his brother’s political rhetoric. Since he hadn’t seen the two all summer, he changed the subject by asking what they had been doing while apart. What followed was a continual flow of chatter between them as they filled each other in on the intervening months. It was almost like old times. Yuri spoke mostly about his hospital work, never mentioning the Crimea or Katya. He did tell about his meeting with Rasputin.

  “I’ve never met anyone quite like him,” Yuri told his friends.

  “Is it true he counsels the tsar and tsaritsa?” asked Talia.

  “They telephoned him once while I was there and requested him to come to the palace.”

  “Leave it to our esteemed tsar,” Andrei muttered, “to seek counsel from a debauched priest.”

  “You’re speaking out of ignorance,” Yuri said.

  “All of St. Petersburg read the stories in the newspaper last year, which all but said Rasputin and the tsaritsa were having an affair—”

  “Rubbish,” Yuri snapped. “Only left-wing malcontents would believe such lies.”

  “And why, then, upon their publication was the so-called starets summarily dismissed from the Capital?”

  “But he is back, isn’t he?”

  “Only proving the tsar is so weak-kneed he can’t even say no to his wife. But what really surprises me, Yuri, is that you, after one meeting, are defending Rasputin. Has he got you under his spell, too?”

  “Never mind!” Yuri sulked. He wasn’t entirely certain what he thought about Rasputin, and he hated being forced into a position in which he had to defend the man.

  “Good heavens! He has!”

  “Shut up, Andrei! You don’t know what you’re talking about—as usual.”

  “He’s just concerned about you, Yuri,” put in Talia. “I’ve heard stories myself about how Rasputin can hypnotize his subjects.”

  “I’m sorry I even brought up the subject.” Yuri shook his head. “Just forget about it.”

  “How can I forget it when I see my own brother seduced by such evil?” Andrei pressed, his voice laced with conviction. “Don’t you see, Rasputin represents all that is most despicable about Russia—the backward barbarism steeped in superstition. And, of course, the tsar supports this creature because he knows these attitudes are the surest way to deaden the force of the class struggle. He as well as the landowners and the bourgeois have used the concept of God only to exploit their own interests. Lenin has rightly called God the opiate of the people—”

  “Oh, Andrei!” Talia interrupted. “Don’t say such things. What would your mother say?”

  “Yes, Andrei,” Yuri challenged, “do you deny God, then?”

  “I deny anything that would oppress and deceive the very people it purports to help. I deny the tsarist presentation of God. Perhaps Mama worships a different God.”

  “There is only one God,” Talia murmured.

  “Then, something is wrong somewhere.” Andrei was clearly attempting to moderate his zeal, but Yuri knew the attempt was for Talia’s sake, not Yuri’s.

  “You could never completely throw aside your faith, Andrei,” said Yuri.

  “I’m not taking issue with the existence of God,” Andrei countered, “as I admit many Bolsheviks do. Rather, I repudiate a certain concept of God. A concept based on superstition, repression, and ignorance. And it is in the name of that God, that concept of God, that the tsar practically worships that holy fool of his and places the fate not only of his family but also of the nation in the hands of that lewd, insane charlatan. How can any rational man do this?”

  “You know only the propaganda those radical papers declare—half of which are completely biased, if not outright lies.”

  “I’ll have you know I contribute to those papers! Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Enough of this!” Talia interjected sharply. “You two be civil to one another or I shall leave.”

  Both brothers quieted and made an effort to calm their previous heat. Finally Andrei tossed a couple of rubles on the table.

  “That should cover my tea,” he said, rising.

  “You’re not leaving?” Talia’s large eyes lifted beseechingly toward Andrei.

  “It’s better than ruining your party.”

  “It’s as good as ruined anyway, if you leave.”

  “No it isn’t.” Andrei glanced back and forth between Talia and his brother. “You won’t miss me at all. See you later.”

  Talia watched Andrei walk away with an odd sadness, almost a sense of loss, weighing her. She fleetingly wondered what would happen if one day Yuri actually returned her love and they—wonder of wonders!—actually married. Would she then lose Andrei’s friendship? The two brothers seemed to grow more antagonistic toward each other as each day passed. If she did ever marry Yuri, there
was a strong possibility that Andrei would stay away.

  The prospect of that was more agonizing to Talia than even she could rightly explain. But Andrei was her dearest friend, perhaps even more so than Yuri was. Even with their busy schedules, she and Andrei managed to see each other at least once a week. They talked about practically everything, encouraging each other, and comforting each other when it was necessary.

  Yuri was her friend, too, but they hadn’t seen each other all summer. When Talia needed to talk to a friend, it was Andrei, not Yuri, whom she sought out. What did that mean? Did her love for Yuri—that romantic love—place their relationship on a different level? Or was his rejection of her a wedge between them? Was the relationship of marriage different, then, from that of friends? She had been too young when her father died to remember her mother’s marriage to her father, but she still had a very vivid memory of Anna and Sergei’s marriage. And it seemed to Talia that their relationship encompassed many different facets and levels. Friends, lovers, confidants, playmates.

  Talia thought she’d have to marry both Yuri and Andrei to have all that! She smiled at the idea.

  “What’s the joke?” asked Yuri.

  Talia reddened. She could never reveal what she had been thinking. Maybe to Andrei, but never to Yuri. Or could she?

  “Oh, nothing. Just thinking about the future, I guess.”

  “It seems to be a bright and happy future you contemplate.”

  “I hope so.”

  “It’ll only happen if you don’t fall in love, Talia.”

  “It makes me sad to see you so cynical, Yuri.”

  “That’s what love does to a person. It grinds a man’s heart into the dirt, then brutally kicks it. I’ll never love again.”

  “Just because one love doesn’t work out doesn’t mean you should give up completely. What if that person wasn’t meant for you—and the right person is out there somewhere waiting?”

  “You always were a romantic optimist, Talia. I suppose I used to be a bit of a romantic, too. That’s probably why this has happened to me. And maybe that’s also why I believe very strongly Katya is the person for me—the right person.”