The Russians Collection

by Michael Phillips

  A few men close to the tsar were willing to take the risks involved in helping their master face his weakness and double-minded lack of resolution and focus, although to do so was a perilous undertaking. Viktor was certainly not so foolhardy as to speak his mind without serious forethought. And when he did speak up, he had to choose his words with tact and subtlety. As quickly as that courageous hatter’s apprentice had found himself ennobled and wealthy, an incautious lifelong Imperial advisor could find himself shoveling snow in Siberia.

  On the other hand, thought Prince Fedorcenko as he sat awaiting his summons, he could not condone injustice—or worse, watch his monarch destroy himself. He could only hope his previous indiscretion did not prove too costly and that he would be allowed further opportunities to speak a word of moderation in the tsar’s ear.

  Within moments he was to find out.

  The tsar’s secretary, Totiev, entered the anteroom. Fedorcenko smiled ironically to himself. Now here was a man who had made an art form of imperial groveling! An ex-serf, the mousy little Totiev walked about with short, quick steps; his thinning brown hair and bulging gray eyes matched his rodent-like character. He wore a thin, insincere smile that shouldn’t have been able to fool an imbecile, much less the tsar of all the Russias. It did just that, however, given added credence by the whining flattery accompanying it. Victor supposed Alexander was insecure enough within himself to need someone like Totiev. If these are the sort of men the rulers of the world keep around them, thought Viktor, we might as well all just give it up and let ourselves go crazy!

  “Ah, Prince Fedorcenko!” Totiev clicked his tongue and nodded his head with dismay. “I am sorry to report that the tsar must cancel your interview.”

  Did Viktor detect a hint of smug satisfaction beneath the secretary’s thin veneer of regret?

  “I see,” the prince replied with tight control, masking his profound disappointment. “I hope his Majesty is not unwell.”

  “Alas! That is it precisely—he has contracted a severe headache.”

  Prince Fedorcenko could not question Totiev’s statement, though it raised several questions in his own mind. Was the tsar truly in sufficient pain as to cancel an interview, or was this a none-so-subtle snubbing of an unruly servant? If he were indeed being rebuffed by his emperor, then a more serious question instantly arose: Was this a passing whim, or a severe rejection—of the sort which had grave consequences?

  This was no time to mull through the implications, however; nor could he feel Totiev out on the matter. The prince and the secretary were not on the most congenial of terms, and Viktor could not risk a hint of his apprehension being carried back to the tsar. He held his emotions ruthlessly in check, betraying nothing, not even by the twitch of an eyebrow, to the self-serving lackey.

  “Shall I return later in the day?” asked Fedorcenko.

  “I think not. I will notify you when the tsar is receiving visitors once again.”

  “Thank you,” said the prince. He then turned briskly and exited down the long corridor.

  11

  All the way home Fedorcenko stared at the back of Leo Moskalev’s head, saying not a word, contemplating the problem and running all the options through his mind.

  Was it possible the Alexander he had known so long would turn on him this quickly? The idea was preposterous—unless the reactionaries among the tsar’s counselors had finally poisoned his mind. They were always looking for ways to undermine the influence of the more moderate element. And Alexander, in his typically complex manner, kept a foot so firmly planted in each camp that one might speculate eternally and never discover for certain where the tsar’s present favor lay—if indeed on either side of the fence. Orlov and Valuyev, as conservative as they came, were highly influential with the tsar, and not above court intrigue if it would further their particular causes. But why, if they were behind it, were they trying to discredit Fedorcenko now?

  The question nagged at the prince later that day as he tried to work at home in his study. He attempted to shove the morning’s aborted interview from his mind, but without success. The silence as he sat there waiting, then Totiev’s saurian approach, the half-grin quivering about his lips, and the fateful words of polite rebuke . . . all the images from the morning kept lurking around the edges of his consciousness, finding their way into his thoughts at odd intervals.

  Schemes, plots, and counter-plots were all too common in the Imperial Court, but Fedorcenko despised them. Slowly he shook his head, realizing that he now had a headache himself.

  “I am probably creating a Siberian blizzard out of a single flake of snow!” he said to himself. “The tsar has a headache, and suddenly I am on the brink of being stripped of my rank and bundled off to Srednekolymsk!”

  With relief he welcomed the interruption when, five minutes later, the housekeeper arrived with a trivial household crisis to report.

  “I wouldn’t bother you with this, sir,” she said, “except that the princess was feeling indisposed and referred the matter to you.”

  Fedorcenko wondered what was ailing his wife this time. Probably only that the party after the opera last night had lasted too late into the night.

  “Well, what is the problem?” asked the prince.

  “We’ve had another loss in the kitchen, sir. That makes three this month, and we were already short of help, as you well know.”

  “Whatever is going on in that kitchen?” Viktor sighed distractedly. In actuality the minor annoyances of maintaining his household staff were almost pleasant compared to the alternatives facing him on this day.

  “I don’t know, sir. The woman left because of a sick relative.”

  “Let us hope that is all it is. I am wasting my time finding new people if they remain with us less than a few weeks.”

  “I fully agree, sir,” replied the housekeeper. “I will most certainly look into the matter thoroughly. In the meantime, we still have the problem of the shortage. Your Christmas Eve party is approaching, and I do not see how we will manage with our present staff.”

  Fedorcenko had nearly forgotten about Christmas, not to mention the annual Fedorcenko soiree. The tsar had been invited and had agreed to make a brief appearance. Viktor wondered how that commitment stood now . . .

  He shook the thought from his mind. Snowflakes and blizzards—that’s all it was!

  “You know of course that there are some new people coming,” said the prince.

  “Yes, sir, from the country.”

  “Better workers,” added the prince, “and far more honest than the rabble in the city.”

  “What shall we do if they do not arrive in time?”

  “I know for a fact that one girl in particular should be here within a day or two. A friend of mine arranged it for us; I checked on it myself only a few days ago. When she comes, put her directly into the kitchen. Three or four others are scheduled to arrive a bit later. If they don’t get here in time, you have my authority to hire temporary help locally.”

  The housekeeper nodded.

  “But I emphasize temporary—be certain you make that quite clear. It will only be through Christmas. They should be grateful for that much. But watch them like a hawk.”

  The housekeeper turned and exited the study. The prince leaned back in his chair and smiled. He was glad he had come home this afternoon. It certainly did help to put everything into perspective. What were threats of war, Imperial rebuff, and palace intrigues compared to a short-handed kitchen!

  12

  The horse-driven sledge clattered along the icy stones of the busy street known as Nevsky Prospect.

  Glancing this way and that upon the heart of Russia’s magnificent capital, Anna’s huge round eyes reflected the awe tingling through her body and brain. Her attention had first been drawn by the post-chaises, landaus, droshkys, troikas, and all the other strange modes of transportation in frantic motion along the wide avenue. Her driver had to pick his way carefully through the glut of traffic; no Russian, it
appeared, would walk when one could ride.

  Then Anna’s gaze began to take in the massive wood and stone buildings lining the great St. Petersburg street. On and on went the traffic, and the buildings stretched into the distance further than her eyes could see. The Nevsky was, in fact, as wide as three ordinary streets, reputed to be the longest avenue in the world. But Anna did not know this at the time. All she knew was that in their immensity and beauty, the buildings they passed were more grand and impressive than even her vivid imagination, steeped in the unexpected, could have dreamed. Nothing she had read could have adequately prepared her for the actual sights of Peter the Great’s “Window on the West”—the city built on a swamp and lined with canals, designed by an Italian architect, and ordained by the powerful tsar two centuries earlier to bring European civilization to the untamed Russian bear.

  To an impressionable, fearful, excited young woman like Anna Yevnovna Burenin, the city seemed indeed to live up to Tsar Peter Romanov’s dreams—and more! Could this place also fulfill the more humble dreams of a young peasant girl from the countryside near Pskov?

  A fellow servant of the prince had met Anna at the Nicholas station. Among the hundreds of travelers milling about the station, Anna could not imagine how she was to be found. The fellow had no doubt been told to look for the most bewildered, woebegone young girl to alight from the green third-class train from the south. Whatever his instructions, they had apparently been sufficient, for he had walked abruptly up to her without hesitation.

  Her escort, a coachman, introduced himself as Leo Vassilievitch Moskalev. The imposing man had a beak of a nose and dark, squinting eyes. Clad in black from head to foot, he resembled the legendary Russian bear. His loose-fitting, heavy coat reached almost to the ground and was tied about the waist with an embroidered sash. A wool scarf wrapped tightly around him hid his neck and extended halfway up his face and cheeks. Anna could see nothing of his hair, for the top of his head and ears were covered with a black fur hat. Moskalev appeared to be in his mid-forties, but his stern, impassive face contained hardly a wrinkle. Underneath the scarf protruded the edges of a beard which, Anna discovered later, was neatly trimmed and bore no trace of gray, although some had crept into his temples.

  Riding along at his side, Anna wished for the courage to ask Leo Vassilievitch Moskalev about her new employers. Beyond the fact that she was to be a servant in Prince Fedorcenko’s home, she knew little else, except that the prince was married, had two children, and was very wealthy.

  Anna stole a glance at the coachman; he noted the movement and twisted his head slightly to meet it. Immediately a hot blush rushed to Anna’s cheeks, and her face stung in the frigid air.

  “You need not be afraid,” said Moskalev, his voice unexpectedly sincere despite its gruff timbre. His words came out of his mouth in white puffs, reminding Anna of the hissing steam of the train in the station they had just left. “I have not bitten the head off a single servant girl this week.” If his statement were intended as a jest, he did not indicate it further by any lightening of his stiff demeanor.

  Anna did not know whether to laugh, or even smile. She could not help being afraid of the man, whatever he said.

  “All this is new to me,” she ventured at length.

  “That much is obvious.”

  “How far is the Fedorcenko home?” she asked timidly.

  “Home,” he mused. “Hmmm . . . that is a novel way of putting it.” He snapped the whip lightly on the backside of the horse. “How did Prince Fedorcenko ever find you?”

  “I live in the country near a Baron Gorskov, who spoke to my father about—”

  “Oh yes, that would figure. The prince constantly extols the simple agrarian life, though I cannot imagine him actually spending any time in the country himself. He has relatives down there as well, I believe.”

  “Do you know him well?”

  “Know him—do I know him? Ha, ha!” Somehow Moskalev managed to laugh without the involvement of his eyes or mouth. “It seems there is much you will learn, Anna-from-the-country.”

  At that point Anna recalled her father’s words. For just such a moment had her father given his advice, and she let herself smile at the coachman’s jibing.

  “Good, good!” said Moskalev. “Perhaps there is hope for you after all. It does not pay to be too serious.”

  Coming as it did from the dour coachman, his comment brought all the more merriment into Anna’s expression. Perhaps there was more to this man underneath his heavy exterior than at first appeared. But Anna dared not giggle, for fear he might ask the cause.

  She sucked in a sharp breath and forced her countenance back to granite. She hardly dared glance in the direction of Moskalev, but from the corner of her eye she could sense that he was looking steadily at her. Without turning her head, she began to sense a faint twinkle in his stony gray eyes. Had it been there all along but she had been too self-absorbed to notice? Or had it just appeared?

  She would not have the chance to find out this day, for almost the instant the question formed, he threw his glance forward again, then called out, “We have arrived!”

  The carriage immediately pulled off the snow-covered street onto a tree-lined path, then a moment or two later stopped at an ornate black iron gate stretching across the road. Moskalev and the gateman exchanged a few words, then the gate swung wide and the carriage proceeded along the drive.

  In a few moments the Fedorcenko residence came into view, and as the sprawling, colorful, magnificent edifice spread out before Anna’s gaze, she understood Moskalev’s reaction to her simple reference to it as a home. If ever the word palace could rightly be used for description, this was such a time. With a gasp, Anna stretched her neck to the right, then the left, attempting to take in the entire panorama before her. She must indeed have stepped into a fairy tale! No towered and turreted high-mountain castle met her gaze, but a stately mansion, like a sudden breath of unexpected springtime color amid the barren surroundings of winter. The palace was made of daffodil-yellow stucco with colorfully decorated windows and eaves, a green roof, and a series of white Grecian columns stretching across the front. As she exhaled in wonder, with her mouth hanging open and her eyes wide in astonishment, Moskelev let out a deep chuckle.

  “Not a bad place to call home, would you say, country girl?” he asked with a sidelong glance. Then he reigned the horses sharply to the left, and the sleigh proceeded around toward the rear of the mansion.

  The house was surrounded on all sides by vast grounds. It would have been easy to think that the estate stood hundreds of miles from any town, deep in the heart of a great forest, rather than two miles from the center of the capital of all of mighty Russia. It must be very lovely in spring, Anna thought to herself. She now remembered the driver mentioning that the Fedorcenko estate was noted throughout the city for its spectacular gardens. Would she ever be able to walk about on the grounds?

  Her brain whirled with questions and first impressions, but most of all with simple wonder. She did not even notice when the sleigh pulled to a stop. All at once Moskalev stood on the ground, a hand reaching up to help her down. Suddenly the reality of her arrival dawned on her! She pushed aside the fur wrapper and scrambled out of the carriage. Her feet landed lightly on the packed snow with a soft scrunch.

  The back entrance where they stopped presented a plainer face than the imposing front Anna had first seen. However, her mind’s eye could not help conjuring up a mental picture of the homey little cottage back in Katyk which she had left early that same morning while the sky was still black.

  A dreadful panic seized her. The coachman had pulled down the battered old straw valise, borrowed from her aunt, and was motioning her to follow him. But she could not take a step.

  “Now what’s troubling you, Anna Yevnovna?” he asked impatiently. His voice softened a little as he added, “Afraid, are you?”

  Anna swallowed hard, then nodded sheepishly.

  “It’s not such a terr
ible place,” he continued. “You could have fallen into worse, believe me. Some of the servants in this city, though they supposedly are paid for their work, are little better than serfs. It is not so here. But you will do well to be wary of Olga Stephanovna, the head cook. Other than her, you should have little to worry about.”

  In themselves, Moskalev’s words may not have inspired comfort in the heart of the timid girl. But the mere fact that this bear of a coachman had made the effort to console her was enough to melt away some of Anna’s last-minute misgivings.

  She found her feet again, and set them in motion toward the new life that awaited her behind the big green door.

  13

  The coachman led Anna through the door and down a darkened, musty passageway that curved once or twice. At last the hallway opened into a huge, high-vaulted room full of great activity.

  From the sights, the smell of food, and the humid warmth, it was immediately clear they had arrived at the kitchen—a room larger than the entire cottage where Anna had left her family, possibly even larger than the church in Akulin she had always thought so grand. The warmth emanating throughout the whole place came from three massive brick ovens. Anna’s first thought was to get next to one and remove her heavy winter coat. But she made no move to leave the side of her attendant.

  A dozen or more servants bustled about, busily preparing the evening meal for masters and household staff. As they walked into the room, it seemed that no one took the least notice of the two. One woman though, standing at a nearby chopping block deftly slicing vegetables, lifted large melancholy eyes to briefly scan the newcomers. The knife in her hand did not slacken its steady whacking motion.

  “Polya,” said the coachman, addressing the young woman, “where is Olga Stephanovna? I have her new girl in tow.”

  “In the scullery, fretting about weevils,” answered the woman in a deep, resonant voice no less melancholy than her eyes.