by E. P. Clark
She went to the first meeting full of dread, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that Princess Glubokostepnaya, whom she had always found irritating to the point of tears, was now no more than a minor annoyance, and even on occasion a source of amusement, as when she began to argue vehemently with Slava over the location of various villages along the Severnovostochnaya road, which she had never visited and which Slava had passed through just this winter. Although part of Slava could not help but see that this was, exactly as she had suspected, nothing more than a desire to pass the time pleasantly by making Slava look foolish, part of her could not summon up the energy to become angry at such stupidity. Sitting there listening to Princess Glubokostepnaya’s fatuous, erroneous, insulting, and deeply, deeply illogical arguments, Slava realized (as she grinned to herself over her own overwrought reaction) that, while she might be trapped amongst such women, she did not have to take them seriously. At least not when they making absurd statements over tea. They were still a scourge to the Princess Council and no doubt spread misery and suffering amongst their families, servants, and peasants, but right now, over tea, Princess Glubokostepnaya and her ilk were doing nothing worse than wasting Slava’s time and making themselves look foolish.
And then when Darya Marinovna spent the entire tea-time exhibiting her own beauty and denigrating Slava’s (although in the most subtle, delicate fashion, of course), Slava first found comfort in the thought that Darya Marinovna might have good looks but that she, Slava, had been the one chosen to bear the gods’ blessed child, and then, as the visit finally drew to a close, she realized that Darya Marinovna was not so beautiful after all, but that she simply wore very fine gowns, did her hair in a very elaborate manner, painted her face, and walked with the air of someone who was very pleased with herself, which for most people was, of course, just the same as beauty. Slava was at first a bit hurt at this discovery, hurt, that is, at the discovery of how foolish and blind people could be, but as she was used to discoveries of that sort, she quickly got over the hurt and ended the visit in high good humor, even as she chastised herself for being so pleased for noticing that Darya Marinovna’s face was too long and thin and her eyes too small and closely-set. Slava knew it was very wrong of her to rejoice at this, but she quieted her conscience by telling herself it was private enjoyment only, and went away with a smile on her face and a spring to her step that she had not exhibited since, she was sure, the age of fifteen.
All the other visits were of a piece with those two. The meanness, narrowness, and folly of so many of the greatest women of Zem’, while it could not fail to raise Slava’s ire on a deeper level, was no longer capable of reducing her to misery and tears on the surface. If she found it too hard to take, she simply made her excuses and left as quickly as was acceptable, but more often than not she was able to sit there and make polite comments while silently laughing to herself. She thought back to how she had once thought of these people as wolves clothing themselves in the remnants of rotting lambskins, and saw that, while it was still true, in her eyes now the lambskins had fallen away completely, leaving behind nothing but what turned out to be fawning dogs. Annoying, yes, and sometimes even dangerous, but most of the time they were not nearly so menacing as they had seemed at first glance. Not only that, but they often responded well to a sharp word from their mistress, or someone who was willing to assume that office, because what they wanted more than anything was for someone to take up the burden of being human for them.
And, what was even more gratifying, in some cases she was able to look past the surface irritants and see that some of the princesses, at least, possessed merits that could not be denied; that those who were foolish could also be gentle and good-hearted, and those who were bossy could be acting out of genuine concern and affection for others, and those who were sharp and unpleasant could be motivated by quickness of thought and firmness of principle. This did not, of course, negate the evils of their outward behavior, but Slava found that she could with remarkable ease look past these trifling annoyances and appreciate the greater merits that stood behind them. She was glad that she did not have to live with any of them, but she found that she could spend an afternoon or evening in their company with tolerable comfort and even enjoyment.
Other than providing entertainment for bored princesses, and overseeing Vladislava’s education, which was proceeding in fits and starts—all her tutors agreed that she was the brightest and most difficult princess they had ever had the privilege of teaching, and every day brought new stories of her rapid progress and her intolerable manners, which made even the most stalwart of nannies and mistresses cringe away from her in mingled fear and rage—Slava also spent some of her time looking for the kremlin’s house-spirit, of which she had been promised a glimpse. She couldn’t help but suspect that that watchful shadow that had awoken her at her sister’s bedside had been it, observing her and gathering its courage to make itself known, but for some reason it had changed its mind, and had remained in hiding ever since. Slava tried to find excuses to wander alone through different parts of the kremlin every day, but ridding herself of her maids and guards proved, as usual, next to impossible, and it was a rare day that she was actually able to accomplish her task. That must be, she told herself, why the house-spirit still refused to reveal itself to her. Although she would have liked to have found it and spoken with it, not finding it meant that she was not disturbed by whatever words it might have for her, and wandering about the kremlin was diversion enough without it, and so all in all Slava was not sorry not to have found it yet.
Sometimes, when it was not too slushy out, Slava went riding. She was delighted during one visit to the stable to discover that Skvorets and Ogonyok had returned from Naberezhnoye, after working their slow way down from there as waystation mounts. They were both much thinner than they had been when Slava had last seen them, which was distressing, but other than that they did not seem to be much worse for the wear, and when Slava took them out, they trotted forward readily enough and seemed glad to explore the sights, scents, and sounds of the woods behind the kremlin. As no one objected, Slava declared them to be her horses, along with Rozochka, and even on days when it was too wet to go outside, she would sometimes slip out of the palace and visit them.
When she was riding, or searching, or waiting for princesses who took delight in making the Tsarinovna wait, she sometimes found herself talking to Oleg, as if he were there and he, too, would find all this interesting and diverting. Slava knew that this was a silly thing to do, that he probably wouldn’t find this interesting and diverting, and would probably be offended if he knew what use she was making of him, and that thinking about him as if he were a friend would probably make him even more disappointing if he ever did come to Krasnograd, and that if she wanted an imaginary friend, she should imagine one, instead of using a real person for her own ends, but their imaginary conversations were so pleasant in reality that she couldn’t seem to stop herself. And so, despite having learned on many occasions that imaginary friends were not nearly so satisfactory whenever they manifested themselves as flesh-and-blood people, she allowed herself this indulgence. With so much of Zem’ between them, making it so easy for him to forget her, it seemed very unlikely that she would ever see Oleg again anyway (she would tell herself), and, she couldn’t help but sense, there were unpleasant trials awaiting her, so she should gather her strength from whatever sources she could. Sometimes—well, more often than sometimes—she found herself regretting not having put her foot down and insisting that he come back to Krasnograd with her. The memory of his fearful face and hunched shoulders when she had suggested it had a hard time holding its own against her much more flattering fantasies. Whenever the regret would grow too strong, she would remind herself of that warning twinge that had told her to let him go, and return to her daydreams. At least imaginary Oleg was a rewarding person to talk to, and often gave excellent advice—much better, no doubt, than that of the real Oleg. The real Oleg probably w
ould have have suggested facing any problem with shouting, fisticuffs, and running away, and not necessarily in that order. Slava tried not to smile too much whenever that thought occurred to her. The only thing disturbing these pleasant fantasies were the moments when Boleslav Vlasiyevich suddenly came across her path and did something thoughtful for her, reminding her, albeit unintentionally, that while the father of her child, if she should have the good fortune to be born, had run off, this man seemed determined to stick doggedly by her side. If only, she found herself thinking from time to time, the better qualities of both of them (what those better qualities were, exactly, escaped her, but never mind) could be combined into one person, along with a little bit of wisdom and some morals. Now that would be a man worth having…but even Slava recognized this fantasy as wild overindulgence, and did her best to rein it in, at least when her conscience pricked her particularly hard.
Several weeks passed in this pleasant manner, bringing with them not only Slava’s peace of mind, but also confirmation that the gods had not lied to Slava, and that she was, more than likely, with child. When water ran continuously from the roofs, and the streets became a muddy morass, she became certain enough in her own mind—because she felt so terrible that she decided she must be either with child or dying—to summon a healer to examine her. She called the same woman who had spoken to her so honestly of her sister’s condition, trusting her more than she did any other healer in the kremlin.
“It is still early to be proclaiming it at every street corner, but, Tsarinovna, you are most definitely with child,” the healer told her, after looking her over and asking her many questions. “May I offer my congratulations?”
“You may,” said Slava, who was blushing much more than she would have expected. “Such happy news! I am so glad to have it confirmed!” And she was, even more than she thought she would be. The healer, recognizing her mood, congratulated her heartily and offered many pieces of advice and encouraging stories. She was the first person to be unequivocally glad for Slava and her condition, which was so gratifying that by the time she left, Slava was a little bit afraid she might cry with joy. She had to walk about her rooms for a while, grinning like a fool, before she could trust herself to go out in public.
She had sobered up some by the time she went to join Olga and Dunya and the others, with whom she was dining that evening, but even so, Olga said, “Good news?” as soon as she caught sight of her.
“Yes,” said Slava, blushing and, despite her best efforts not to, grinning like a fool all over again.
“It is certain, then?” asked Olga, giving her a sharp look. “Have you had a healer look you over?”
“This afternoon,” Slava told her. “It’s still early, but for now it’s certain.”
“What…” began Dunya, and then trailed off, also giving her a sharp look.
“It’s still too early to speak of,” said Olga firmly.
“Really?” said Dunya, almost raising her voice in her excitement.
Slava nodded, blushing even harder.
“Well then I won’t…My best wishes! My best wishes! But not a word more.”
“Thank you,” said Slava, trying to compose her face before they joined the men for supper. She succeeded in that, at least at first, but then when the food was brought in she was unable to eat hardly any of it, provoking tremendous concern amongst all the men, and when she tried to assure them that it was nothing to worry about, she did so with such a self-conscious air that they—well, Dima and Grisha; the others were entirely mystified—instantly guessed what was wrong with her, and gave her such looks of mingled concern and approbation that she sank into a state of wordless confusion and was unable to extricate herself from it all evening.
Slava woke up the next morning still with a smile, which only slipped slightly when she found herself unable to swallow even a bite of breakfast. It seemed that the curse of future mothers would not be passing her by. She assumed that she would grow tired of this sickness very soon, but today it was such an encouraging sign that she was even pleased by it.
Masha and Manya, on the other hand, were overcome with horror at her refusal to eat. After begging, pleading, and representing to her in the strongest terms they dared use the dangers of not fattening herself up again after the rigors of her journey, they backed out of the room with downcast faces, carrying the untouched tray as if it were a viper.
Slava had hoped that they would leave her in peace, but instead, as it turned out, they went straight to Anna Avdotyevna. While Slava was moved by such evidence of their devotion—only the most desperate need would have caused them to brave the presence of Anna Avdotyevna—she rather wished they had not done it, for Anna Avdotyevna came marching in directly and demanded to know what was ailing the Tsarinovna.
“I’m just not hungry,” Slava said evasively. “I had a large supper last night with Olga Vasilisovna and her party…And there was a lot of drinking…” Which was true, just not in Slava’s case, as the mere sight of beer and vodka had been enough to make her stomach turn.
“You don’t look hungover, Tsarinovna,” said Anna Avdotyevna, peering sharply into her eyes. “You look the picture of health, only too thin. Have a pie.”
“No, thank you,” Slava told her, smiling politely. “I’m really not hungry.”
“In that case, Tsarinovna, how about some porridge,” said Anna Avdotyevna. The tone of her voice made it clear it was not a suggestion. “With plenty of butter.”
“By all the gods, no!” cried Slava, hastily putting her hand to her mouth to prevent herself from heaving the meager contents of her stomach all over Anna Avdotyevna’s fine gown.
“You are ill, Tsarinovna,” said Anna Avdotyevna, giving her a very stern look. “Why will you not admit it?”
“I told you…just the effects of last night…”
“You had a healer come to you yesterday afternoon, did you not, Tsarinovna?”
“A mere trifle…And I wanted to ask her about the Tsarina’s health,” said Slava, regretting that she had not thought of that excuse earlier.
“If you wanted to inquire about the Tsarina’s health, you could ask her yourself, Tsarinovna,” said Anna Avdotyevna, giving her another witheringly stern look.
“No I couldn’t,” said Slava, forgetting herself and her indisposition for a moment, and giving Anna Avdotyevna an equally withering look in reply. She immediately wished she could take it back, but Anna Avdotyevna merely said, with the faintest hint of a smile, “And perhaps you are right, Tsarinovna. But I still don’t believe that is why you called the healer to you.” Her voice changed, taking on a reassuring, confiding tone that Slava had never heard before. “You are suffering from something, Tsarinovna, I can see that plainly enough. If it is something you fear to broadcast about the kremlin, I understand that perfectly well. But you have no need to hide it from me. I promise you, Tsarinovna, that I will keep your confidence, and aid you in whatever way I can. You were right not to let Masha and Manya in on your secrets. They are good-hearted girls, but they are not fit to be the confidantes of a Tsarinovna. I know you have no one else to turn to here in Krasnograd, except possibly Olga Vasilisovna, and she would most likely be of little use to you. Accept me as your advisor, Tsarinovna, and let me in on your secrets. I assure you, you will not regret it.”
Slava vacillated for a moment in indecision, but she could see no dishonesty in Anna Avdotyevna’s face, and in all the years she had known her, she had never witnessed a single instance of Anna Avdotyevna being untrustworthy or underhanded. Anna Avdotyevna was many things, most of them unpleasant, but deceitful was not one of them.
“I have…” Slava began, and had to stop in order to gain control of her blushes. “I have hopes…hopeful expectations…”
“Tsarinovna!” cried Anna Avdotyevna. “Truly?! And what did the healer say?”
“She confirmed my expectations…”
“Tsarinovna!!” cried Anna Avdotyevna again. “Is this true!?”
&nb
sp; “It is early yet, but so far…”
“Tsarinovna!!!” repeated Anna Avdotyevna for a third time. “This is wonderful! The most wonderful news. Oh, Tsarinovna! Does your mother know yet…Oh, but of course not, she would not have had time to receive your letter…But your sister…! Oh, Tsarinovna, the most wonderful, wonderful news…” And she had to stop in order to compose herself. Her face was flushed with tears of joy, a sight Slava had never seen before, nor ever expected to see. “Let me…will you deign to permit me to embrace you…Oh, Tsarinovna!!!!” She threw her arms around Slava and hugged her tightly, before saying, “Oh, but I mustn’t crush you too much…But let me kiss you…” She kissed Slava on each cheek.
“Oh, but Tsarinovna, you’re crying,” she said, letting her go.
“I’m so happy,” said Slava. “I’m so happy that you’re happy for me.”
“Oh, but of course I’m happy for you, of course! Another Zerkalitsa! And high time, too! After we had long given up all of hope of you ever settling down and…But you have! Oh, Tsarinovna!” And she hugged Slava again.
“Your mother!” she suddenly cried, letting Slava go. “Have you written to her yet?”
“Not yet…” said Slava weakly.
“Oh! Tsarinovna! This instant! Sit down this instant and write!”
“It is still so early…” Slava objected feebly. “I wouldn’t want to raise any hopes and then disappoint them…”
“How early, Tsarinovna?” Anna Avdotyevna asked, giving her a sharp look that was much more in character with her usual self. “How many months has it been?”