Anna glanced down at the letter in her lap, a frown etched across her brow. It wasn’t so much what Mariana had written that concerned Anna, but rather what she had left unwritten. There were the oblique comments about Countess Eugenia like, “I am certain she wants only what is best for me.” Or, “She has a way that is a bit difficult to get used to.” Anna knew Eugenia Remizov’s “way” very well; the woman had stayed with Dmitri and Katrina shortly after their marriage. Eugenia was self-centered and arrogant with absolutely no sense of the worth of others.
Mariana was a bit more forthright regarding her dilemma about whether to accept Princess Gudosnikov’s offer of admission to the school. She listed some excellent reasons supporting the idea, and some opposing it. But then she ended by saying, “Maybe it would be best for all concerned if I went to the school. Perhaps it would allow me time to take stock of where my life is going.”
She added a brief comment about seeing Stephan. “I saw Stephan the other day—a rare occurrence because he is so busy at the university. I suppose he would get along fine without me if I were away at school.”
Interspersed throughout the letter were frequent comments about how she missed her family and Katyk, which she mentioned far more often than in previous letters.
Sighing, Anna looked up at Sergei, who had been milking the cow while Anna read Mariana’s most recent letter aloud.
“Sergei, I can’t stand picturing her so unhappy.”
“Do you really think it’s all that bad?”
“She is miserable,” Anna replied without hesitation. “I began noticing something amiss in her last two letters. They did not seem to flow easily, as if she was afraid of saying too much; and because of her caution, she could find little else to tell us. Look at how brief this letter is—only two pages. Her first letters were five or six pages long.”
“Perhaps now that everything is not so new—”
“It’s not that, I’m sure. She is having a difficult time but doesn’t want us to worry.”
“Well, her scheme has not been successful then, has it? Not with such a perceptive and loving mama!” Sergei stopped his work, wiped his hands on his tunic, and joined Anna where she sat on the soft hay scattered on the barn’s dirt floor. “So, Anna, how would you like to help our Mariana?”
“Some things are difficult to put in a letter.”
“Like a motherly hug?”
Anna smiled and nodded.
“I wish we could see her, too,” said Sergei. “But Dmitri has been none too generous with their visits. Only three in nearly a year. And I suppose Mariana feels reluctant to ask him.”
“She doesn’t want to hurt Dmitri’s feelings by being overly homesick.”
“The scoundrel hardly deserves her loyalty.”
“I have a feeling there is more to it than that.” Anna did not like to think of the possibility that had lately been troubling her, but she knew it must be faced. “Countess Eugenia would not be anxious to allow Mariana to return to her peasant life. The woman is too vain to want to be reminded that such ties exist.”
“Anna, you are not suggesting that you believe Mariana is being held there against her will!”
“I wouldn’t go that far, Sergei, but I don’t think they will make it easy for her to return. Mariana’s reticence, along with her emotional ties to her father, would make it difficult for her to insist. She is young and innocent and unable to perceive deceitful motives in others.”
“She does not yet have the cynicism that comes with age?”
“I suppose that’s it. Cynicism or wisdom.”
“And what would you have us do about all this, Anna?” Sergei asked the question as if he hadn’t already guessed what she was thinking.
“I think it’s time I visited St. Petersburg,” said Anna with resolution. “I know with the crop failures three years ago, our finances have been extremely tight, but I think we can manage it now.”
Sergei had pondered this prospect especially a couple of months ago when they had heard from Misha that he was to be posted in Moscow for a while.
Sergei took his wife’s hands in his. “You have my blessing, Anna.” He paused, then met her eyes with frank affection. “I have felt all along that I didn’t like for our family to be separated like this. I said nothing before because I thought as long as you were able to accept it, I would hold my peace.”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Sergei.”
“I suppose from the beginning I had a feeling deep down that we all ought to go to St. Petersburg with Mariana. It is different with her than it was when you went away at age sixteen. Even if your parents had had the means, the concept of leaving Katyk, where they were tied by generations, would never have occurred to them. We have no ties to this place but our family, and if part of our family must leave us . . . well, we have more choices than your parents had. I have often thought of returning to the city. But it goes beyond that, Anna. In my prayers lately, I have sensed—how shall I put it?—a strong call in that direction. I’ve sensed that I have more left to give, that something—I don’t know what—is waiting for me. That’s as well as I can explain it, Anna. I am content here in Katyk . . . perhaps too content.”
“But, Sergei, how could you return? You hate the city. More important, you cannot ignore the risks to you that may be involved in going back to a place where you were so well known.”
“As far as my dislike for the city goes, that is a petty consideration where the needs of my family are concerned.” This he stated unequivocally, but his next words hinted at some inner irresolution. “As for my anonymity, at that point I must put myself in the hands of God. The welfare of my children must come before my own comfort.” He had no hesitation in referring to Mariana as his child. “Let’s continue to pray about this, Anna. But I believe God is bringing the situation with Mariana to this point for a reason.”
“I must admit, Sergei, that I would be relieved to have you and the children with me. And if we must deal with Dmitri and his mother, I think you are best suited to that task.”
The next day, Anna and Sergei went to Akulin to St. Gregory’s Church. They both knew they could have prayed just as effectively in the “beautiful corner” in their little cottage—or any corner, for that matter. But they agreed that there was something in the self-sacrifice of going to church—it was a six-versta walk—that might draw them even closer to their Lord.
Anna loved their little church. She loved the icon of the Sabaoth God, and of St. Gregory, their patron; she loved the fragrance of candle wax mingled with the pervading scent of incense still lingering from the Holy Day Mass. And, though she enjoyed St. Gregory’s when it was filled with villagers, she especially loved it as it was this day, hushed and empty, filled only with quiet reverence. Here the still, small voice of God could best be heard, away from the activity and distractions of home.
Crossing themselves, Anna and Sergei approached the altar in the vacant church. Not even a priest was present to greet them. Sergei dropped a coin in the box, then took a candle for him and his wife, and a lighter for each of them. There were only two candles burning on the bank today and Sergei placed theirs next to them. They set their lighters to the existing flame, then together touched the wick of their candle. It was a ritual they always performed when they lit a candle together. Separate lighters, one candle . . . a symbol of the oneness they knew not only in their marriage but also in their shared faith.
Sergei remembered how he had once stood outside the living faith Anna had cherished, and how that had separated them. He never ceased to marvel at how God had taken him, stubborn, confused man that he was, and quickened that faith in his own heart, bringing him into fellowship with Christ and at the same time with his dear Anna. He looked at her over the rising flame of their candle and smiled with love and devotion. Then, hand in hand, they knelt at the altar and prayed.