That had been a month ago. He had spent the ensuing time in extensive study of the land where he would soon live. He had read everything he could find about Russia, although he found credible material scarce. Having picked up a passing ability to read French at Yale, he had been able to read several works in French that had been quite enlightening. Leroy-Beaulieu’s L’Empire Des Tsars was exceptional—it had, reputedly, influenced the French toward their current alliance with Russia. Most of the English studies were rather biased. Daniel did discover a British work by Donald MacKenzie Wallace that was well done, even though it was published in 1877 and already over twenty years out-of-date. The American journalist, George Kennan’s book, Siberia and the Exile System, was interesting but obviously anti-tsarist. The language barrier prevented him from exploring any of the Slavic works.
His father had engaged a Russian immigrant to tutor him in the language. Unfortunately, after only three weeks of tutoring, the man had married and moved to Chicago. In that time Daniel had learned only enough to hire a cab and perhaps order a meal in a restaurant.
With all this study, however, he still felt as if he were entirely ignorant of this distant land of eternal snow and ice, fur-clad peasants and Tatar warlords.
But he had gleaned enough to know that only half of these conceptions were true. The problem was, which half?
In spite of modern communications and elimination of the traditional isolation of the East, many in the West still looked upon Russians as backward barbarians. Some of the facts did tend to support this premise. Of a population of 125 million, well over seventy-five percent were peasants. Only three percent of the population could be classified as students, compared to ten percent in Western countries. The illiteracy rate was scandalous.
And Russia was one of the few countries in the modern world that still maintained an absolute monarchy. Their tsar still ruled by “divine right.” The people all but worshiped the man whom they considered God’s emissary on earth. It was absolutely archaic. And their last tsar had ruled with as heavy a hand as Henry VIII. But Henry had lived in the sixteenth century—this was the nineteenth, nearly the twentieth! Tyrants and autocrats were as outmoded as messenger pigeons.
When Alexander III had died, all the world had looked with interest toward the land of the tsars, wondering what new manner of leadership his successor would bring. It could not bode well if one were to judge the new tsar by the speech he had delivered to local government officials two months after his ascension. Even Daniel had been shocked when he read a quote from the speech in the Register:
I have heard that several members of some zemstrov assemblies have been carried away by senseless dreams of their participation in the affairs of the internal government. Let it be known that, devoting all my strength to the well-being of the people, I shall preserve the principle of autocracy as firmly and as unflinchingly as did my unforgettable father.
Senseless dreams, indeed! Daniel shuddered to think how the U.S. president, William McKinley, would have fared right after his election had he delivered such a speech before Congress. He would have been impeached even before he was inaugurated!
Daniel had spoken with a friend visiting from England who had seen Tsar Nicholas a few years before while he was still tsarevich. “I really could not believe my eyes, Daniel! He had come to tour Parliament, and was observing a session in the House of Commons. He had a most unpretentious manner about him, even, if you can believe it, hesitant and indecisive. When his gentlemen-in-waiting stood aside, allowing his royal personage to take the lead, he shrank back, giving his companions uncertain glances as if to gain some clue from them as to how to proceed.”
And this was the object of the servile adoration of millions?
Somewhere Daniel had read of an old tsarist proverb that said, “Russia is not a state, but a world.” He had vaguely realized this notion a month ago when he had first learned of his forthcoming assignment. But at the time he attributed the idea to ignorance, and believed that with some study he’d have a more profound understanding of that country. Now, he was more impressed than ever at how true the proverb was. Even with all his cocky self-assurance, Daniel had to admit that the knowledge he had obtained thus far was paltry in view of the vastness of the Russian nation. He had barely scratched the surface and had found that the only certainty about Russia was that it was a contradiction—especially a contradiction of itself.
How could a land of staggering illiteracy produce the genius of Turgenev and Tolstoy and Dostoyevski? How could a land remarkable for government repression and Siberian exile be the only country in the world to have abolished the death penalty for civil crimes? And it was inconceivable that in a place where most labor was still done by hand, the chemist, Mendeleyev, could have formulated his astounding Periodic Law.
Daniel took one final glance at the swirling white blanket of fog below the Brooklyn Bridge and sighed. Could he ever fit into such a place? He was of an entirely different world, separated by a chasm that mere language and custom could only begin to bridge.
But shortly he would set his face toward that enigmatic land—alone and seemingly helpless except for his wit and resourcefulness. Would that be enough?
He smiled to himself at such an unseemly question. His father had informed him that he had no lack of self-confidence; others even went so far as to label him brash and arrogant. There was no reason why he should have any more difficulty adjusting to Russia than anyone else. He did, after all, have a plentiful supply of both wit and resourcefulness.
He turned and retraced his steps back across the bridge, hailing the first cab he saw. He sat back and tried to relax as it took him to Manhattan, to his Park Avenue flat.
When he arrived home half an hour later, he found a message in his mailbox:
Dearest Daniel, please come to a little soiree at my parents’ home in Long Island tomorrow evening. Just a little bon voyage party where you are to be guest of honor. Come at seven in the evening. Love and kisses, Joan Wolcott
The pretty Joan Wolcott. He had been subtly wooing her for months despite the fact that she was from the kind of society family of which his father approved. He didn’t think he was in love with her and adamantly believed he was years away from marriage, but she was a fine girl, a lot of fun. His interest had mostly been in the challenge, for she had shown little romantic interest in him. Anyway, this was no time for him to pursue a romantic involvement. In a few days he’d be thousands of miles away.
He had a million things to do before he embarked on his journey and would rather have declined the invitation. But how could he? Too many people would be disappointed if he didn’t show up for his own party—especially Joan.
Daniel shrugged unenthusiastically and flopped into his favorite chair. He picked up the book lying on the end table. Wallace’s Russia stared back at him, and he chuckled dryly.
“Well, Daniel old boy, if you ain’t got it now, you never will,” he sighed to himself.