Speshnev

By Michael Sandusky

Speshnev is the beginnings of a true story of an American Family whose patriarch was a conspirator in the Petrashevski Circle, a group of revolutionists in Tsarist Russia in the early 1800’s. Their story continues through World War I, the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917, their flight into China in 1922 only to get caught up in the Chinese Civil War. They fled in 1933 to come to America. In this, the first of three books, there are three love stories, suicides, murder, marriage to a dead woman and then we have the history of Russia and the Romanov family themselves.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 9, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669838494

Michael Sandusky

Michael Sandusky is the quintessential story-telling romantic. His fifty years of writing novels, short stories, poetry, self-help books and newspaper columns have been read and enjoyed the world over. He loves deep-sea fishing, traveling to exotic locales, cooking and public speaking relating thrilling, funny and poignant stories about his adventures, narrow escapes and interpersonal relationships. He still believes that the best stories cannot be made up, but come from actual human experience. He can be reached at [e-mail]

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Copyright © 2022 by Michael Sandusky.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

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Rev. date: 08/08/2022

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CONTENTS

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

Chapter Eighty-Six

Chapter Eighty-Seven

Chapter Eighty-Eight

Chapter Eighty-Nine

Chapter Ninety

Chapter Ninety-One

Chapter Ninety-Two

Chapter Ninety-Three

Chapter Ninety-Four

Chapter Ninety-Five

Chapter Ninety-Six

Chapter Ninety-Seven

Chapter Ninety-Eight

Chapter Ninety-Nine

Chapter One Hundred

Chapter One Hundred One

Chapter One Hundred Two

Chapter One Hundred Three

Chapter One Hundred Four

Chapter One Hundred Five

Chapter One Hundred Six

Chapter One Hundred Seven

Chapter One Hundred Eight

Chapter One Hundred Nine

Chapter One Hundred Ten

Chapter One Hundred Eleven

Chapter One Hundred Twelve

Chapter One Hundred Thirteen

Chapter One Hundred Fourteen

Chapter One Hundred Fifteen

Chapter One Hundred Sixteen

Chapter One Hundred Seventeen

Chapter One Hundred Eighteen

Chapter One Hundred Nineteen

Chapter One Hundred Twenty

Chapter One Hundred Twenty-One

The Petrashevski Conspirators

Bibliography

References

For Patsy, Kathy and Vicki

Your Families

My friends by name who live in Russia and the Ukraine

INTRODUCTION

T HIS IS THE story of an American family.

It begins, at least for our interests in 1800 in Russia. The Romanov family has been on the throne for nearly 200 years. Napoleon is soon to lead his soldiers to conquer the world. They nearly succeed in Russia until they come upon nobles and peasants fighting side by side. Napoleon sets his sight upon Moscow, only to find as he enters its gates that the proud Russians have burnt the city to the ground. He is stranded there along with his soldiers having nothing to eat in the cold winter snows.

He has nothing but admiration for the quick thinking and hard hitting of the city’s population.

It is a tale of the largest country on earth. A land that stretches nearly halfway around the globe. A land of richness as well as misery. A land of cold distinction - Siberia. Along with the Motherland of Russia comes her rulers - Ivan the Terrible, Boris Godunov, Peter the Great, Catherine the Great and the rest of her Romanov family. The story is filled with intrigue along with the assassinations of her rulers. Russia is a land seeking her own identity. While the rest of Europe was boasting of its great strides in everything from cooking, literature, art, invention and philosophy…Russia could tout nothing as her own. Why, even China could say that she invented fireworks!

It is the story of Nikolai Speshnev, arguably one of the most handsome men in Europe. A nobleman and owner of estates and serfs. A man who is haunted by the things he has seen among the lives of his own peasants. A man desirous by every woman. A dashing and debonair individual who commanded attention whenever he was in the room. A man inbred with romanticism. A man whose parents gave the world one of its greatest love stories.

It is the story of a man who said that he would lay down his life for the cause.

I have a great admiration for the Russian people and even more so for their story. Their history brims with excitement. For years I wanted to write about their great conflict and legacy. Nearly all of my published works have been Romance-Adventures. I am a dreamer as well as a romantic. I have lived an exciting life. However, there always seemed to be one story to be written yet before giving the country the attention that it so richly deserved. To assuage my appetite for Russian lore I gave it a wink and a nod treatment in Hilary’s Secret.¹

However that book was about present day Siberia. Again, it was the customary Romance-Adventure. It said nothing of the true historical scope of this great land. It was not historical fiction, but just a good, honest sit back and enjoy adventure and mystery with a woman.

I can do that easily.

This book digs deep into the soul of Russia. It brings to light the why and wherefore of the revolutionary tendencies that played upon the minds of some people. It is drenched in vodka, crown jewels, wife beatings, fairy tale romance, bloodshed…and secrets.

To understand and even appreciate the several love stories that are within these pages, it is necessary to try to understand the enigma of Russia. I found it fascinating, but as large as the country is itself, so is its history and its problems.

No, Russia had contributed nothing at least through the time of Napoleon. As you sit back and enjoy this snow-drenched story you will find that there are things now that had been given to the world. Terms like Decembrist wives. You may have heard that phrase before. Sounds enchanting doesn’t it? Do you think that you could be a Decembrist wife? There’s a memorial in Tobolsk and even a poem written by Pushkin, one of Russia’s greatest poets.

"In depth of the Siberian ores

Let you keep both the pride and patience,

Your mournful labor won’t be lost,

As well as your high thoughts in evidence."

Even though I had employed a Russian, remaining friends to this day, and even spent time in the Ukraine, my book on pre-revolution Russia kept being put off for other projects until one day….

I shared my desire to write about pre-revolution Russia with a friend.

She said, My great, great, great grandfather was one of the original revolutionists.

The Bolshevik revolution?

No. Long before that.

On a sleepy Sunday afternoon. She told the story of N.A. Speshnev and her family. I sat there in awe, trying to digest all the intrigue, deception, love, war, tragedy and unbelievable events that one family could experience. How can all of these things happen to one family? I could not write a better story using my own imagination.

This is a true story about an individual of which much has already been written. Numerous books in English and Russian as well as doctoral dissertations have found their way onto the shelves of libraries the world over. However none came from the personal memoirs of the family of Nikolai Speshnev.

This is a novel...a historical novel...a true story about an American family whose roots were in the revolutionary days of Russia. This first volume of three is so exciting that the end will astonish you. Their survival and participation in the Bolshevik revolution of 1917 is harrowing as is their escape into China in 1922. Their survival during the Chinese Civil war and war with Japan left me on the edge of my seat. Their emigration to the United States in 1933 left me breathless.

I knew as I developed this novel that it would entail much research. That is one of the wonderful things about writing books. Russia is a complex country with numerous rulers of the Romanov family and with every other one meeting a horrific death. The issues with the serfs or peasants deserves much scrutiny. The Tsar and his family and all the intrigue that was involved there. Their religious life and customs was fascinating.

So sit back now and enjoy the beginnings of the story of this American family.

5.jpg

Nikolai Speshnev by unknown

(Source: Speshnev Family archives)

Speshnev

The history of the socialist intelligentsia in Russia began with the Petrashevski Circle.

V.I. Lenin

CHAPTER ONE

T HE SMALL CRUMPLED violets showed through the soft carpet of snow that I remember so vividly that day. Those and the Orange-tips that settled on the shivering emerging dandelions. Their color was an early surprise in the snows around Petersburg. Even this morning, after a newly fallen snow, Semenovsky Square was awash with sunlight bursting through the slit of the horizon just below the haze of thick clouds. After that ascension, it would be a dark winter day in 1849.

In the middle of the square, and standing in a foot deep of snow, was a four-sided scaffolding, twenty feet high and draped in black crape. A staircase led up from the ground. Now, in front of the scaffolding stood a group of six men. They were excited to see each other after eight months of incarceration. Their faces were emaciated. They appeared exhausted, pale, and drawn. Their beards were untrimmed and their hair uncut.

I was not the only one to witness the events of the morning. Surrounded by a crowd of people there for the same reason, I found myself standing next to an attractive young woman who was holding up an older woman by keeping her arm around her shoulder and under her arm. We were all silent. A Civil Service official of his Majesty the Tsar Nicholas appeared with a document in hand. The prisoners were lined up according to the order in which he called their names. Behind the official was a priest who carried a cross.

You will hear the just decision of your case today. Follow me. The official led the way to the scaffolding and past several tall poles rising from the new-fallen snow. The men dragged themselves up the staircase, and then hoods were placed upon their heads as they stood in a straight row. Their hands were still tied behind their backs.

There was the metallic sound of soldiers snapping to attention, and then another Civil Service official, in full dress uniform, moved along the line to face each man. The soldier behind each prisoner removed the head covering as the official read the list of imputed crimes and their punishments. Each time the last sentence rang like a funeral dirge: The Field Criminal Court has condemned you to a death sentence before a firing squad, and three days ago His Majesty the Emperor personally wrote: ‘Confirmed.’

When the charges and sentences had been read, each prisoner was given a long white peasant blouse and nightcap. The soldier standing behind each one helped them into these funeral shrouds. The same priest now holding a Bible and a cross appeared before them again. Brothers! Before dying, you should repent! The Savior forgives the sins of those who repent and believe the work of Christ upon the cross. I call on you to confession!

However, the men felt no remorse for the revolutionary, anarchist, and terrorist deeds that led them to the desperate strait in which they now found themselves. No, they would not renounce their moral and social convictions. If anything, they would gladly become martyrs for the thoughts and ideas that ruled their souls.

However, when it came to the confession of their personal sins, they did not show any hostility to the Bible or the cross of the faith in which all of them had been raised. Even the confirmed atheists kissed both when held to their lips.

Petrashevski, Mombelli and Grigoryev were escorted off the scaffolding and then tied to the stakes standing by the scaffolding. The execution squad raised their rifles, took aim, and prepared to pull their triggers. I looked over at the three awaiting the same fate - Durov, Dostoevsky and Speshnev. I had known Speshnev and watched him in his earlier days - some ten years previous when he was easily recognizable in a crowd. He was notably handsome, full of vigor and good health. Always the center of attention in the way he presented himself. A man to be admired, looked up to and followed, especially by the women. Now, as he awaited his fate, all of that had vanished. His face was once round and slightly boyish. Now it was longer, perhaps with dread. His face appeared sickly and yellow with gaunt cheeks. His eyes were sunken with great dark circles underneath. His hair was long, below his shoulders and his beard was largely overgrown.

I had come to admire him, actually. He was a man of principal with a heart for the serf and peasant. However, he was dangerous not only to the Tsar, but to the stability of our great nation of Russia. I explained that several times during those times when I was at the palace in Petersburg. It was all in the dossier that I had compiled over the years of watching and observing him. He had sealed his own crypt by his charismatic ability to attract a following…of which I was one.

It was because of me that he was here today. I turned to go, once again noticing the violets, orange-tips, and dandelions that had made their entrance early this winter.

CHAPTER TWO

P ETRASHEVSKI, MOMBELLI, GRIGORYEV, Durov, Dostoevsky and Speshnev had been convicted of their crimes against Tsar Nicholas and Mother Russia. However, they were not the first to be sent to the gallows. The Romanov family had ruled the Empire of Russia since 1613. This nation which spanned so much of the world’s land mass and housed most of the world’s population was sure to have a few if not many thinkers of radical thought. If the ruling authorities could not control the population, they could at least watch those who were deemed trouble-makers.

The borders of western Russia and as far as Moscow housed nobles and peasants who were all confused. Yes, I was one of them. We were ambivalent not knowing if we were European or Russian. We all lived on the margins of the continent. If anyone wanted to lay blame for this confusion, they would just need to point to France.

Yes. France.

Admittedly, Louis XIV, the Sun King, the builder of Versailles, the developer of schools of fashion, culinary, science, philosophy and art brought France to its peak in absolute rule and culture. He was before my time. However, those in western Russia, wondering about self-identification became enamored with the greatness of France and sought to emulate everything they saw, heard and even tasted. Even my parents fell prey to this. They and their neighbors built their palaces or homes in the French manner, learned to cook in the French way and educated their children in the culture of France. We even began to speak French. After a few years that was the only language that we spoke. The peasants, of course, had no money to get them to Paris, so they went on with their own way of Russian thinking speaking and dressing.

I am embarrassed to say that over the years, the wealthy Russians in the spa and sea resorts of Germany and France became divorced from their native land. The more they read and were educated in the ways of Europe, the more they felt at home in both Paris and St. Petersburg. In essence, while it alienated eastern Russia it also proved to be cosmopolitan enough to produce the later writers, musicians and thinkers that would be hailed as the greatest talents of the Motherland. I was naive to this in my early years, but as I matured and then began work for the Tsar himself, I saw the danger that such people could present to the nation.

I remember reading this book; those of us of noble birth were the only ones who could read for the Tsar had forbidden that the peasants receive any kind of education. It was a book by Karamzin, Letters of a Russian Traveler (1791 - 1801). He traveled throughout Europe and even into France during the revolution and educated the reading public with the greatness of Europe.

As a result, we looked at the Motherland through European eyes. What we saw was a history that was barbarous and dark, a country that fell short of the mythical ideal and one that suffered an inferiority complex of its own. So once again, France needs to be thanked for ruining Russia’s idealization of Europe and shaking it to its core by the French Revolution of 1789. The reign of terror that came upon France undermined Russia’s belief that Europe was a force of progress and enlightenment. Russians fled France amidst murder and destruction. The Tsar broke off relations with revolutionary France. He accused them of inconstancy and godlessness and he did so in French.

I was caught up in the seeds of nationalism that began to emerge. Tender shoots aroused me and sprouted up emphasizing being Russians rather than copies of the French.

It was at this time near the turn of the century and just shortly after my birth, that Alexandr Andreyevich Speshnev was born into the nobility of Russia. He became the father of the one standing with Dostoevsky and the others upon the gallows before me that yet-winter day. While his mother might have considered this the beginning of birth pangs, there was also instability in the nation. My parents related to me about Tsar Paul being assassinated in 1801 The only son of Peter III and Catherine the Great, Paul instituted great reforms which basically offended my parents and others of the nobility. He did away with much that his mother had implemented. He had lessened the regulations upon the serfs and accepted Napoleon’s more conservative stance with France.

From what I heard, drunken officers barged into his bedroom, forced him to a table, and compelled him to sign his abdication. When he resisted he was struck with a sword, strangled and trampled to death. Alexander who was in the palace at the time inherited the throne. Whether this is true or not is of no consequence presently. Alexander is the Tsar now and it is to him that I owe my allegiance. I am ashamed to say that it was not always my intention. I joined the Tsar’s army in early 1812. I did so because the situation here in the motherland had became quite intense. I talked my parents into it. They were hesitant at first, but then succumbed to my determination.

The reason for such upheaval here can once again be laid at the border of France. Things began to get complicated when another man came upon the scene in 1805.

Napoleon Bonaparte.

It was when Napoleon crossed the Neva River in August 1812, invading Russia with 600,000 men that I became highly interested in the world of political affairs. It was not just, because I was carrying a flintlock with a bayonet attached to it.

Napoleon’s plan was to blockade Britain from doing any trade with the rest of Europe. However, Russia along with the European coalition of countries declared war on France. He was met with a nearly equal and sizeable Russian army that was composed of officers of the nobility, peasant soldiers and me. I either showed a lot of promise or could not fight for myself, let alone Mother Russia, that I was assigned as an aide to Prince Sergei Volkonsky.

I was by his side when he, an aide-de-camp, delivered a report to Tsar Alexander. When asked about the morale of the troops, the Prince replied, Your Majesty! From the Supreme Commander to the ordinary soldier every man is prepared to lay down his life in the patriotic cause.

I smiled broadly for I was proud to be in the Tsar’s army and would certainly give my life for my sovereign.

What about the people’s mood?

You should be proud of them for every single peasant is a patriot.

And what about the noblemen and aristocracy, the officers?

The Prince remained silent.

Well?

Your Majesty! I am ashamed to belong to that class. There have been only ‘words.’

The peasant soldiers did the fighting and did it well although finally losing to the little general at Borodino just outside of Moscow. I was alongside of them and frankly was lucky that I was not killed for many of those around me lost their lives. We retreated into the city and then were instructed to burn it to the ground. I did not really understand the logic in this, but I was seriously young as were many of my cohorts, both of the nobility and peasantry. We just followed orders and did not question the authority…much.

Napoleon surveyed Moscow from the Sparrow range of hills. The city’s palaces and golden cupolas sparkled in the sun, but in the distance, a long black column of refugees exited its gates. The rich had packed up their belongings and left for their country houses. The poor walked, carrying their children and their chickens while their cows trailed behind.

Napoleon marched into Moscow and occupied the Kremlin, only to find the city and its surroundings beginning to burn to the ground. Fires had been started in the trading stalls against the eastern wall. Within three days, the entire city was engulfed in flames. He fought his way through a wall of fire amidst the crash of doors and ceilings, falling rafters and melting iron roofs. What I did not know then was that our noblemen officers had discovered that Napoleon’s army did their own foraging to live. With everything burned, there was nothing to eat or animals to kill. Napoleon returned to France through a miserable winter with only 10,000 men able to fight.

We heard that he was outraged, but also admired the Russian sacrifice.

It was at this time, in 1812 that the noblemen and aristocracy came to appreciate the peasant soldiers. They had fought like citizens of their motherland. The peasants went into battle with scythes at times while some of the aristocracy ran off to their estates as the French approached Moscow. Peasants were seen as having moral worth. Many were just as good and rational as any nobleman was. They had not been corrupted by the absurd conventions of society. They were more than human beasts devoid of higher virtues and sensibilities.

Alexandr Andreyevich Speshnev’s father was one of the noblemen officers who recognized the value of the peasants.

He, along with all of us in this war, was thrown into the peasants’ world: We lived in their villages, shared their food and fears and witnessed their medical attention upon the wounded. Actually, our respect for the common people grew and most of us began to take a more humanitarian approach to the men under command. Harsh discipline was done away with and an attempt was made to win their friendship with love and trust.

Schools were set up to teach the serfs, the peasants how to read. They began to discuss the abolition of serfdom and social justice for the peasantry. Papers were drawn up to propose better conditions for the soldiers in the ranks. Proposals for loans from the state bank and communal stores of grain and public schools to improve the lot of the poorer Cossacks were suggested to lessen their dependence on the richer ones.

Some of the nobles returned to their estates with a new sense of commitment to their serfs. They supported orphaned sons and then started schools that disseminated radical ideas of social reform.

While I was not convinced of this approach to the peasantry, my friend Pavel Semenov dedicated his life to the peasants. At the battle of Borodino, a bullet hit the icon, which he had been given by his soldiers and worn around his neck. He turned his palace into a sanctuary for war widows and their families. He died from cholera in 1830 - an illness he contracted from the peasants in his house. I heard about it after I had entered the employ of the Tsar.

Some of my friends took on the identity of common people themselves. They Russified their dress and used Russian words in their speech. They smoked the same tobacco and grew beards. They rejected the order of St. Anne and wore the image of St. Nicholas. I have to admit that Speshnev confirmed his conviction in the personal dignity of every human being. I admired him for that. At the time, I just didn’t know how to handle this kind of thought.

Here was perhaps the beginning of a national liberation and a spiritual rebirth.

Here were events that would culminate with six men being sent to the gallows.

CHAPTER THREE

I N THE RUSSIAN summer along the steppes of the great land, the end of a day takes hours to fade. Everything is kept in a state of infinite vesperal suspense. The tall grasses and flowers, the still water, the trees and even the sun, moon, stars and sky itself hold still for the human eye. Then when the last ray of the sun has been absorbed by the earth’s wheat fields, the nights become soft and star-dusted.

It was the beauty and pleasant weather of Kiev that attracted many to the region. A city yielded to cool breezes during the hot summers that were so malignant in Petersburg. It was here that those who could afford it came for a holiday. It was here that young Alexandr Andreyevich Speshnev came with his friend Alexi one eventful summer.

A rotund driver with a long beard and wearing a vast greatcoat drives the kibitka from St. Petersburg. On his head is a square red and blue velvet cap. He is majestic as he guides his trotting horses. His arms are rounded and his elbows stick out. The reins are as thin as threads, but they are held tightly in his hands. The harness is but a few strips of leather, but they are scarcely visible as the horses run without any visible restraint beneath the douga, the great arched piece of wood above the collar. The three horses trot down the avenue between more humble vehicles for hire that are harnessed to thickset carthorses driven by rough attired peasants, tillers of the soil who have flocked in from the outlying districts to earn a little extra money.

On the sidewalks are crowds of shoppers and pedestrians and those just out for a walk through the bazaars filled with jewelers and those selling the images of saints. In front of a church, a group of penitents pauses in the glow of a light. They cross themselves, piously, and prostrate themselves to the ground before they light their tapers beneath the silver-gilt Madonna that shines forth from the encircling aureole.

Well, it happens, my friend. That is the way women are sometimes. I have had it happen to me and caused it to happen to others. Well, all right I may have caused it most of the time. All right all of the time, but there will be others.

For you, yes, responded Alexi.

No, I mean for you, my friend. There will be other women and one of them will keep you for sure! Look, you are quite in need of a worthy bottle. I need to hear more of this. Driver stop!

The kibitka came to a halt at a crossroads. The dust thrown from the horses and wheels caught up to the vehicle settling down in a haze upon everything in sight. Meet me at the Café de Paris at eight o’clock. It is across from St. Andrew’s Church. I will get there first to fix up the table and the wine. Alexandr jumped down and retrieved his leather valise thrown from the top of the vehicle. The dust continued to fall upon his wool coat and sweat-stained white shirt collar.

The host at Café de Paris remembered Alexandr from the previous year, not because of any trouble involving him in that establishment, but his part in the carousing among the local girls. Word moved quickly through this city on the Dnieper River.

Alexandr, now in a cambric shirt with lawn ruffles at his throat and wrists, a waistcoat of striped blue tabby, pants and tails, listened with apt attention to Alexi’s tale of woe, but not before their bottle had been succeeded by an imperial pint of the same exemplary brand. He gave sympathy with tactful brevity. However, their positions in life were not so different. Young men of their status were accustomed to being involved with young women of patrician means. It was true that Alexi’s fiance had been an orphan and raised by her aristocratic aunt and then in her teen years by a governor in the province. Alexandr had not been involved with a foundling, but certainly had been linked with the daughters of landowners, serfdoms, governors and even third cousins of the Tsar.

The aunt liked me, but the old man didn’t. That killed it.

Well, it’s this century. This new century! Alexandr kept his nose to the glass taking in the smell of the rose-induced French drink. Look! Better things are ahead!

Alexi laughed bitterly in his glass and then looked at Alexandr. His friend’s eyes were a starry twinkle of mirth and mischief. There was audacious bedevilment.

No…I’ve seen that look before, Alexi. My father won’t bail me out again.

This time Alexi turned aside the luminous glance from Alexandr’s smiling and eager face. He pushed his chair back and rose to go.

Oh! You mustn’t go Alexi! Not before coffee and liqueur! Look! Stay with me. Should there be trouble…I can get us out. I know a place where you can forget your troubles. Trust me….

The kibitka stopped in front of an inn on the well-to-do outskirts of Kiev. Its customers were an eclectic group of Bohemians dressed in what was known as anti-establishment pants, shorter dresses and nothing that could even get to the front door of the Court. There were also aristocrats dressed in the suitable and approved regalia of the Russian Empire. The men were virile, but the women were there unbeknownst to their parents or guardians.

Alexandr and Alexi found a place in the smoke-filled room and ordered champagne. The air was thick with the smell of pig and apple. The odor was stronger than the alcohol that accompanied the delicacies. Together, such succulent smells was enough to convince anyone to stay the evening and then leave with a full stomach and vacant mind with the exception of remembering that most pleasant smell.

They sipped their glasses and watched as the room began to fill with men and women from all classes of life. When every table and chair was taken, the show began with four men and eight women. The men entered with swarthy faces and eagle-like profiles. They had large deep-set, sad-looking eyes, but possessing dignity as that of dispossessed Asiatic monarchs.

The women wore picturesque Oriental costumes of multi-colored silk. These Bohemian women probably wore cast - off finery of some fashionable Kiev woman or even a visitor from St. Petersburg that had been purchased at a second-hand shop in the city. These pariah girls showed olive oil through the paint on their cheeks and fire in the pupils of their eyes beneath stained lashes.

Alexandr and Alexi scanned the audience, but only one woman excited them. Yes, both of them. She sat all the way over on the other side, fanning herself. She appeared to be of similar age to both of them. Her aristocratic dress was blue velvet with gold embroidery. An attendant or chaperone was with her. Most of the time she would hold the fan to her face to mask her visage, but not before the two men could see her rose-cream skin and deep, dark eyes. Her hair was like a wild black flame accentuating two enormous milky-pearl earrings set in filigree gold.

Alexandr and Alexi expected her to look up, but she never returned their glance, always looking down.

The leader of the band began to tune his balalaika and soon a song began. It was very slow at first, but increased in tempo and soon the men and women were singing, although with bodies and faces motionless. Then eventually it became animated and passionate as though a spirit that caused the rhythm to burst forth in a furious ardor indwelt them. Their words were punctuated with the exaltation, madness, melancholy, and despairs of a savage passion.

Alexandr glanced over to the woman. Her eyes were wide with astonishment. ‘She reminds me of a frail hot-house flower - one who should be content being surrounded by hyacinths and azaleas. Yet, surely she has the appearance of a patrician, but she moves and vibrates with passion as though she is one of the daughters of Bohemia.’

Then he noticed the officers of the guard standing at the door. They were Tsar Alexander’s men, but appeared to be enjoying the show rather than preparing to intervene.

Don’t tell me we’re looking at the same woman! exclaimed Alexi.

Alexandr followed his friend’s eyes to the woman in question and then frowned.

You will just discard her. She will become another trophy. Allow me to have her!

I shall allow you to have her…after I have finished.

There was no arguing the point. Alexandr was handsome with a sharp chiseled beardless face. Silky mustache and long curly locks of dark rebellious hair. He could have any woman he wanted. She could be discovered, enamored and even bought if need be. It was just a matter of waiting. He would break her heart and she would be looking for a new lover. The question now was How long would that take?

Alexandr was not cold-hearted. He sympathized with the situation his friend was enduring now. He ordered another bottle of champagne to help assuage the man’s disappointment.

The song and dance ended around one o’clock in the morning. Now the audience would linger over a glass-full for at least another hour or retire to their homes. Alexandr prepared to go and ask for a seat at the woman’s table. However, it appeared as though she was leaving for the evening. Fearing that he might not ever see her again, he rushed outside to see her being helped into a hansom-enclosed kibitka.

‘I was right! She is a patrician.’ My lady! My lady!

He was stopped as the door closed. The footman raised his arm and barred

Alexandr from even touching the door. He caught a glimpse of her face, but her eyes stared straight ahead as though she was oblivious to him.

My lady! My lady, I….

The curtain next to the door and by the seat raised just slightly. A delicate hand in a white lace glove protruded through the narrow opening holding a calling card between the fingers. Alexandr retrieved it, and read it as the carriage sped swiftly away.

Anna Sergueyvna Bekleshova

Champs de Mars

St. Petersburg

By Appointment Only

But this is Kiev! How can I find you now? he yelled after the carriage. ‘Christ could come back before I get to St. Petersburg!’

What happened? Alexi was by his side. The smoke from the inn trailed closely behind him.

She lives in St. Petersburg!

Alexi laughed with a snort. Thanks for the extra bottle, friend! It feels even better now!

Alexandr scowled.

Look, whispered Alexi as soft as a bottle of champagne would allow, there are at least four women staring at you. You could have any of them!

Alexandr scowled again. I don’t want any of them I want…

Anna Sergueyvna Bekleshova

CHAPTER FOUR

A S FAR AS Alexandr was concerned, this Anna Sergueyvna Bekleshova was the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen. The women of Petersburg had come and gone, usually at his request and their dismay. He considered Kiev as being unconquered, with the exception of some short dalliances the previous year. Those, however, had been nothing serious - just youthful fun and hopefully no youthful mistakes. There had been one woman, though, who was enough of a problem to get him banned from the city for an entire year. How was he to know that she was the daughter of the city magistrate? She seemed willing enough. Even though she insisted that nothing of consequence had occurred to dishonor her (with a wink), Alexandr was still arrested at the park and incarcerated for two nights. His father arranged for his release and he was escorted past the wall.

If there were to be a youthful mistake, hopefully he would not run into her carrying a child in her arms.

He and Alexi made the rounds of several inns and taverns picking up some companions along the way. Although he said nothing of his position in life, it was obvious to any red-blooded Russian that he was a man of strength and intelligence. It was even more noticeable to any hot or cold-blooded female that he was a man of charm and above all - good looks. Those who trailed along in his shadow were just that - other shadows and he was astute enough to know that nothing serious was going to be found in any tavern. Then, again, this was Kiev in the summer. Everyone who did not reside here came for holiday and fun - nothing serious.

Anna Sergueyvna Bekleshova was serious.

He and Alexi paid a visit to the same inn the next evening. They sat at the same table and ordered the same bottle. They wore the same evening outfit as the previous night.

Maybe she comes here frequently. We’re bound to see her.

We’re going to come here every night?

What are you complaining about? I’m buying!

Perhaps you would buy a drink for me then? A red-haired woman had her arm around Alexandr’s neck and was preparing to position herself upon his lap. Her long earrings touched her bare shoulders. She smelled of lilac perfume that had been dabbed between the cleavage of her breasts. Yet underneath the gruff smell of the lipstick, perfume and rice powder there was an underlying scent desolately amorous like chestnut blooms and datura.

That odor was not enough to cover the other odor of seldom baths. The woman was a gypsy. These traveling vagabonds were not allowed in establishments like this, so the proprietor had probably given in to her suggestions, and granted her use of the facilities. All for a fee and a share of the profits, of course.

Her red open lips close to his mouth and firm breast pushed up against Alexandr would have convinced any man to buckle. Such would have been the case for him before last evening. She did not wear the usual colored head covering that gypsies show as a sign of their familial belonging.

No. My friend here might do something for you, though.

I don’t want him. He resembles an ass. I want you.

Alexandr pushed her off his lap causing her to land on the floor, her multi-colored dress hiked up around her knees. Don’t you call him an ass! He smells better than you!

How dare you! I paid much for this smell!

Are baths so much more expensive?

Now there was enough of a commotion for the two guards of the Tsar to approach the table. Local gendarmes had not the authority that these two uniformed men possessed. A night’s stay in the local jail was entirely different from years in Siberia.

"Is there a problem here?

No, my friends, she just fell off of the chair. Here, let me help you up. Alexandr reached down to help the woman to her feet.

Yes. I accidentally fell. Everything is all right.

Was she bothering you? What is your name?

Speshnev. Alexandr Speshnev. No she was not a bother at all.

Your kind is not allowed here, said the taller of the guards. His black beard was well trimmed and hung almost to his chest. What is your name?

My name is Rowena. I have permission.

Both guards looked over to the owner, standing at attention in the corner. He nodded approval to them.

Maybe so, but you should step outside for a while. Come with us.

The woman did not protest, but walked between the two men and out the door. She was not going to the barren wastes, but might wish that to be the case. After a half hour, the men resumed their place at the door, one at a time. She did not return, nor did Anna Sergueyvna Bekleshova.

The red-haired gypsy was among the patrons the next evening, but steered clear of the table where Alexandr and Alexi were seated. Frola and Semyon had now joined the two and the evening was a little more boisterous, but nothing to cause interference by the Tsar. The newcomers were leeches, but Alexandr was well aware that they hung around either because of his money or the women that seemed to trail him for his charisma.

This evening another woman sat on one of the curtained couches across the way. She had an attendant at her side. The crowd of people between her and Alexandr and his friends were all sweating, laughing, yelling, jostling and dancing to such an extent that she was obliterated from view most of the time. They were like flies on a lump of sugar. Even with Alexandr’s obstructed view, he could tell by her apparel that she was an aristocrat, but could see little of her face.

Perhaps she knows of this Anna Sergueyvna Bekleshova. I am going to go over and make ‘friends.’

What kind of ‘friends?’

Not those kinds of ‘friends,’ replied Alexandr.

He made his way over to the partitioned area as the show was beginning.

May I sit?

The woman said nothing, hiding her face behind her painted fan. The blues and golds spread across the fan’s folds were the work of well-known Russian artist Ivan Argunov. She motioned for him to sit.

She was neat as a mouse in a white dress. There was a faint ruddiness of sunburn on her legs, taking the place of stockings.

I couldn’t help, but notice you when you entered. I said to myself, ‘Alexandr,’ that is my name, Alexandr. ‘Alexandr, you need to go over and introduce yourself to that lovely woman. Why, all of the inn will be noticing her and you should be first to make her acquaintance!’

He could see that the attendant was gazing at him with dreamy eyes, but those behind the fan seemed to lack any expression. Perhaps, he was not making a suitable impression.

I am from Petersburg and seldom does the moon shine in such glory as what I sensed when you made your presence known here tonight. The angels must be jealous of you!

Her attendant’s eyes opened wide. ‘I’m getting across to the wrong woman,’ thought Alexandr. Why, just the other evening there was another woman who sat here…uh…Beklashova was her name I think….

The woman behind the fan laughed.

‘I’m getting somewhere.’ Why, she turned other’s heads, but not like you have done so, this evening, my love.

Yes, I know of this ‘Beklashova.’ Our families are friends, but you flatter me…my love. I will entertain a drink with you since you are buying and have brought the moon with you.

She lowered her fan and even though the music was filling the air of the inn, Alexandr could distinguish the laughter of his friends amongst the chords and notes of the song. The sight of her face was that of a mule - including the ears. It was long and needed to be hidden by a fan; much like an attached oat bag covers the face of the breed. She was not young. She was more than old. Paint and powder covered the circles under her eyes, but little could be done to fill in the wrinkles in the lower part of her face and around her mouth. The blush on her cheeks was applied heavily and yes, Alexandr had seen more expression in the marbles that he had played with as a boy, than in the eyes of this patrician woman.

This was going to be an expensive drink.

I see that you are wise, compared to most of the gullible men who frequent this place, she said with a smile. She, at least, had decent teeth. He smiled back trying not to compare himself with his father, whom he had seen open the mouths of horses and mules to examine their teeth. Such a procedure always indicated the health of the animal.

"They always fall for someone like that. Then when they learn that she is only here for the summer and is the daughter of Serguei Andreyevich Beklashov, the Governor-General of all of this province and also the niece of Alexandr Andreyevich

Beklashov, the Attorney-General of all of Russia, they run away with their tail between their legs. What are we drinking tonight, my love?"

CHAPTER FIVE

A LEXANDR WAS NOT one to run from the scene with his tail between his legs. However, he was wise enough to exit gracefully after one quick drink. His escapade of a year earlier had not been without worth. Others might consider it a curse to be plagued with the misfortune of being good-looking. However, the virtue of honesty would be forced to admit to jealousy. A child does not choose his parents, his appearance or even his lot in life. Many, there have been who resented being born into royalty. Alexandr was of no royal blood, but he did have noble parents. Tsar Paul had given estates to Alexandr’s father for his meritorious service.

The handling of the serfs on those estates made a dramatic impression on a boy growing up in the household. Alexandr watched the dealings of the managers that his father trusted to keep order and to maintain profitability. He witnessed the strong, firm hand of his father that was necessary at times when the managers were pushed beyond their abilities. When a moment such as this arrived, it took a courageous man, a fearless man to provide direction and to maintain order. It is no wonder that a son could absorb such strength and fortitude when the daily routine, even with its emergencies, was always thrust before him.

You’re going to what?

Alexi, I am going to just go up and announce myself!

You know what happened to us the last time we were here…and that was a local matter. This man is the governor of this whole province!

This is the one! I know it!

Why can’t you choose some other girl? Some girl who doesn’t have any dealings with the government?

Alexandr stared at him. And you would just suggest that if the girls of the ballet stand on their tiptoes, why not just hire taller women? You don’t have to be involved in this!

I’m not!

Well…good. I can do this. She will see me. She gave me her card.

Did she look at you?

Well, no.

If she had looked at you in the coach or even in the room, I could understand. A card is not the same as a backward glance.

Alexi, don’t you see? When she gave me her card, it was a sign! A sign from God that we are to be together!

You’ve never even met her!

I’ve met her in my dreams!

Well, you need to wake up!

Driver! Stop here!

You’re actually going to do this?

Alexandr said nothing as he exited the coach. Alexi kept his eye on him, but also perused the property looking for guards.

"Good afternoon, sir. I have Miss Beklashova’s calling card…here. Uh…I am here to see her this afternoon."

Your name?

Alexandr…Alexandr Speshnev.

I will announce your arrival.

Alexandr turned to signal success to Alexi. Moments later, the doorman returned.

Miss Beklashova is not taking visitors today. He closed the door.

Wait, wait, can you just tell her that I’m the one….

When he turned around, Alexi could see a look of rejection on his face. ‘Oh, Lord, what’s he done now?’

Well?

Uh, she’s not feeling well today. Perhaps tomorrow.

The next day she had not recovered from her illness. Miss Beklashova is not taking visitors today.

On the third day, Alexandr was determined to succeed. Please tell Miss Beklashova that I am the man that she met a few nights ago and to whom she slipped her card. I would very much appreciate just speaking to her for a few minutes. He pushed his boot across the threshold to prevent the door from closing.

I see that you have made entry. Come into the foyer while I announce your arrival….

That will not be necessary Petra. Alexandr turned to his left to see a man approaching from the drawing room. He had a dark complexion and was taller than Alexandr. His heavy thick eyebrows accentuated large brown eyes. He was serious and attractive, but when he spoke to Alexandr the tone of his voice was anything but attractive. He spoke firmly and distinctly.

Who are you and what do you want?

My name is Alexandr Speshnev and I am here to visit Miss Beklashova. He handed the man his calling card.

Miss Beklashova is not receiving visitors. If you are a suitor, you should know that she is promised to someone else. Please do not return or I shall take action to have you removed…far away.

Alexandr was sure that it would not be the local jail. He responded as he had seen his father on several occasions, just turn and walk away from a heated discussion. He bowed, turned around and walked out the door.

Do something with this card, Ivan, and if he returns, let me know. Under no circumstances is he to see Miss Beklashova.

Yes, Sir Beklashov.

She’s still sick? exclaimed Alexi. Christ rose from the grave in three days! How long does it take to get well?

Alexandr was silent for a moment. He had failed, at least for the time being, but he did not want Alexi to know that.

I met Sir Beklashov. I believe it was him.

Alexi put his palm to his forehead and covered his eyes.

"I’m not to see her until…er…until she is well. Driver…take us back to the inn."

The coach sped away as the hand of the goddess on the second floor pulled the green lace curtain away from the edge of the window for another glance.

CHAPTER SIX

A LEXANDR MAY HAVE thought that the woman behind the fan had not looked at him, but Anna had glanced his way when he was not looking. That fleeting look, yet hidden, was not the reason that she was losing sleep during these soft, firefly studded August evenings.

It was her calling card.

What possessed her to slip her calling card under the crack in the coach curtain to that man?

‘What kind of a question is that? Why do I play these games with myself?’ She turned over onto her right side and looked out the window to an enormous bloodorange moon whose colored light flooded the balcony. ’He was handsome, that is why! What kind of sway does he have over those women that were looking at him? That card will be the undoing of me!’ She turned over onto her stomach, wrapping her nightgown in a twist as she turned. ‘If father finds out…Oh, the horror of it! Surely, Mary did not see me do such a brazen thing. God, make me go to sleep. I will not think of anything. That is it. That will not work. I’m just thinking about trying not to think of anything!’

What’s the matter with you? smirked Catherine, her two years younger sister, at the breakfast table the next morning. Mornings were spent on the terrace overlooking the vineyards - bunches of green grapes hung down from the dense thatch of vine leaves and twined stems. Beyond was a meadow to the east behind the house. "You look like you got caught under the wheels of the kibitka."

I look that bad? I mean…I have not had my toilette yet today.

You never have it this early in the morning!

Mr. Sokolov will be visiting today. Her father joined the two at the table. My goodness child! You look like you have stumbled into a bunch of doors in the night! Have you been sleepwalking?

Anna grimaced and shook her head. No, the crickets and frogs are unusually loud and….

I don’t hear them. They don’t bother me, interrupted Catherine.

Anna scowled. I am sensitive to their…excessive…chirping.

Well, I hope that you can better your appearance. Are you going to play the piano for him?

Yes, father.

Serguei Beklashov finished his breakfast quickly and then left for Kiev.

Well, when he comes, I’m leaving. I am tired of hearing him talk about his longing for immortality. He does not even know what to do on a Sunday afternoon. If father has chosen someone like him for me…I will die! I will just absolutely die! Can I have that peach?

Maxim’s not so bad. Even with that wrinkling of his nose….

Every five seconds.

I can get used to the bad breath.

You don’t even like to go out to the barn! Why can’t father have chosen someone who tells stories and funny jokes and doesn’t wear so much of that perfume?

Well…it does kill all the flies within five feet. Anna glanced at the yellow and black Monarch butterflies flitting over the lantana. ‘I’ve got to quit thinking about that man. I wish I had never seen him. I am determined to be a good wife for Maxim.

Catherine disappeared when Maxim arrived. She was not alone in judging him stuffy, pompous and scientifically challenging. He would say, I broke my record for longevity today. If Catherine were around she would respond, Yes, each day seems like a hundred years when you are here. To which he would return a smile.

I do hope you will improve your appearance after we are married, my dear. It is important to my family and to me. Have you been ailing? There are dark circles under your eyes. I must insist that you not embarrass me. I will make it hard on you if you do.

I will try….

I won’t settle for you ‘trying.’ It is not a matter of ‘trying.’ You will do it.

Miss Beklashova, there is someone here to see you. Ivan stood at the entrance to the parlor

‘Who could that be? I have no appointments today except for Mr. Sokolov.’

Will you excuse me, please?

Yes, but don’t tarry. I do not like to be kept waiting. My time is of importance to me.

Anna followed the doorman, but then paused to look out the window of the drawing room adjacent to the porch. When she caught full view of the visitor, she jumped back behind the curtain.

‘Oh no! It is he! What is he doing here? How did he know where I live? Oh, Glory! Oh