It was nearly ten o’clock. Johanna de Mey drank a last swallow of cafe au lait and wiped her delicate mouth with a linen napkin. Those damned children! She slipped out of bed and let the nightdress fall to the floor. The full-length mirror on the wall revealed her to herself, firm, pink, and sylphlike. She smiled, her ill humor dwindling. It was time for her to be with someone her own age. And Mathilde, at thirty-one, was exactly two weeks older than she.
After a month in St. Petersburg, Sonia’s mind was filled with conflicting emotions. She loved the city. She thought the Neva splendid, and the drives along the Nevsky Prospect fairylike. And naturally, there was the apartment, which she admired in its every detail, though Anna had told her secretly that when she grew up her own house would be uncluttered with objets d’art, and that she herself intended to design each piece of furniture. But Sonia disagreed. Every inlay, every filament of gold was precious to her. Her Mama fit in here, with her calm grandeur. One day she, Sonia, would wear her thick black hair in a pompadour and sit amid antique furnishings too.
Tania was the single villain in Sonia’s fairy tale. She was continually shocked by her cousin’s lack of manners, and by her presumption. She particularly resented Tania’s fondling of Ossip, who was her own treasured brother, and who politely bore the golden girl’s attentions in quiet desolation. She did not like Tania’s impudence toward Anna, who largely ignored her. But she did admire, with awe, her cousin’s great beauty. How strange then that gloomy Grandfather Horace always asked her, Sonia, to perch on his lap! For the world seemed to grovel before Tania, especially the girl’s own parents. Sonia also did not like her Aunt Rosa. Why was Aunt Rosa forever telling people about things that Tania performed better than Sonia? Whenever her aunt kissed her, Sonia felt ill at ease. She does not like me, and yet I have always been polite to her, Sonia would think.
But her confusion was even greater when she considered Juanita. What a lovely lady she was, so perfectly dressed and coiffed! And she was kind to Mama. Yet Sonia never knew when Juanita’s temper might explode, or how to guard against it. During lessons, if one of the three children misrecited a single word Juanita’s anger flared. A second error brought the textbook hurtling to the floor, and Juanita standing in fury over the head of the small criminal. Sonia sometimes made mistakes, and Anna made them constantly, but Ossip rarely did, for he had apparently learned that by doing exactly what Juanita required, furious tantrums were averted. But Ossip was brilliant. Sonia was not, and so even if she tried as hard as she could, until tears came, mistakes still happened. When they did, Juanita was merciless. “You are dishonoring me,” the governess would say. “I was the best student at the Broun School, and I am doing my best to pound some knowledge into that stubborn brain of yours. You are a sore disappointment to me.”
Poor Anna. She had never been good at lessons, only at drawing. She so disliked to sit at a desk and learn “all this useless nonsense” that she did not try very hard. She and Ossip, though two years apart, were at the same level. But it was almost as though Anna sought Juanita’s anger, as though she were trying not to learn in order to show her active resentment of the governess. This was bewildering to Sonia, who thought that they were all indeed shaming poor Juanita and worthy of her anger and despair. “After all, she is so perfect,” she would wail to her sister, who replied tartly: “Yes, she does tell us so each day, doesn’t she?”
Gently, patiently, Ossip coached his sister, but Anna stalked impatiently away. “I’m going to the kitchen to talk to Cook,” she would say. “He has fascinating things to show me. I don’t care about geography anyway.”
Sonia cried after her, “Don’t go, Annushka! You will only get into trouble if Juanita finds you there! She says it’s not your place to be with servants.”
“Well, I refuse to go to tea with Mama,” Anna declared. “Madame Warshavskaya is such a dreadful hypocrite, like Aunt Rosa, being sweet to me and yet knowing perfectly well that I know she dislikes me, as I dislike her.”
“The secret is not to show it,” Ossip said with a peculiar smile. “Mama hates Aunt Rosa terribly. But Aunt Rosa doesn’t know it.”
“Then Mama is a hypocrite too. There, I’ve said it. I love her and I respect her but I don’t want to be like her. It would kill me.” And Anna ran off, her hair a shambles and her skirt wrinkled.
Johanna taught the children arithmetic and French grammar, French history, poetry by rote, geography, mythology, Roman history, and natural history. Their father taught them Hebrew, and a plump, intense young woman called Maria Sabatievna Komansky came twice a week to instruct them in Russian language and history. She was a learned person, having studied at the University, and at once she and Anna became friends. After the lesson, Ossip and Sonia would leave the two of them together to chat. This enraged Johanna, who would complain bitterly, “She is not a lady.”
That was precisely why Anna fancied her. That, and the fact that Maria did not treat the eleven-year-old pupil as a child, but earnestly discussed with her the ideas that preoccupied her own University friends. She spoke of the evil of autocracy, of the wretched poverty of the peasants and the workers, of the unfairness of thoughtless, conscienceless wealth controlled by too few, and by the dissolute. Anna nodded in ardent admiration. She was confused by some of Maria’s more exalted phrases, but basically she comprehended, and agreed. For the first time in her life, someone was expressing her own ideas.
“And one day soon, the masses will rule this nation, and the world!” Maria would cry, her eyes glowing. Anna would think of Stepan, and Eusebe, and nod. How much more wisdom such men could bring to the world than the Rosas and the Sashas. A life without frills, but with honesty, she thought hungrily, is all I want.
One afternoon, Johanna intercepted a servant girl carrying a tray of tea and cakes to the room Anna shared with her sister. “What’s this?” she demanded.
“The Baroness said it would be all right for Maria Sabatievna to stay to tea with Anna Davidovna.”
“Then allow me to bring this to them,” Johanna said, taking the tray from the girl. She felt a tremor of excitement, although she did not know why. Her passion of hatred toward Anna bore its roots in a fact over which the girl had no control. Johanna loved beauty, and Anna was not beautiful. Her facial defect repulsed the immaculate Dutchwoman, and Anna’s obvious dislike of her only intensified her constant virulence against the girl. Besides, she felt that Mathilde, in some measure, shared her sentiments, and was guilty about it. Poor Mathilde! She still let the girl have her own way—refusing to be dragged to teas, or inviting her Russian teacher to stay. Mathilde allowed all this in weariness, Johanna knew, for she simply did not wish to expend the necessary energy to compel Anna to change. Therefore Johanna, who certainly never lacked energy, took it upon herself to be Mathilde’s avenging angel. But Anna defied her and this disturbed and irritated the Dutchwoman.
Now she opened Anna’s door, without knocking. Maria Sabatievna was curled in a deep chair, her young pupil half lying on her bed. “Here is your treat, ladies,” Juanita said. Her blue eyes searched the room and landed on a worn copy of a book by Anna’s hand. “And what have we here?” she asked. She picked up the book and studied its title. “The Communist Manifesto, by Karl Marx. You don’t mind if I read it, do you, Anna?”
The girl cried out, “It’s mine, Juanita! Maria gave it to me. You have no right to take it away!”
Johanna regarded her with amusement, one eyebrow raised. “My, my, I’m not ‘taking it away,’ my rude little pussy cat. I merely wish to find out what fascinates you so. Perhaps I, too, wish to be fascinated.” Before Anna could protest, Johanna sailed out of the room, the book in her hand.
Several days later, Johanna came to Mathilde in her boudoir, where she was writing notes to some Parisian friends. The face of the young Baroness brightened. “Johanna! It is nice to see you. I find that I have so little news to relate to my friends—have you any?”
But Johanna de Mey did not smile. She sat
down, her hands folded in her lap. “My dear Mathilde, I have come about a serious matter. One over which I have no control. It concerns Anna.”
“Oh?” Concern furrowed Mathilde’s brow, and she turned in her chair to face Johanna.
Silently, the governess handed her the book she had taken from Anna. Mathilde felt its cover and frowned. “I don’t know about this,” she said doubtfully. “Is it…improper?”
Johanna concealed a half-smile. “It is subversive, my dear Mathilde. Karl Marx preaches revolt and revolution and a world without classes. And our Anna’s mind is being spoiled by him and his followers—of which Maria Sabatievna Komansky is most assuredly an ardent one. The Baron must dismiss her. God only knows what other damage she has already wrought.”
Mathilde felt a vague pang. “But Anna cares about her so much, and you know how few friends she has,” she said softly. But Johanna’s firm, elegant profile remained grave and condemning. Mathilde sighed. Johanna was wise, and Anna but a child. “I shall speak to David,” she said, and took the book.
When Mathilde brought it to her husband, with Johanna’s story, he shook his head. “Marx. I met the man when he was already old and I was still a student, visiting relatives in London. His work is flamboyant, even brilliant, and he does have a following.” Then, considering: “Don’t worry, my sweet, Anna will forget his wild predictions soon enough. And Maria is not an evil influence, as your Johanna says. She may be young, and somewhat misguided, but I am certain that at heart she is a loyal subject of the Tzar, just as we all are. Let us leave her be. Anna, as you say, is uncommonly fond of her, and that, in my eyes, makes her most useful.”
“But Johanna has read the book. If we ignore her suggestion, she may be offended. She will feel useless, as though her word is not important. I cannot have that, David.” Mathilde clasped her hands. “Surely you can hire a new Russian mistress?”
Sudden anger welled up inside him. His blue eyes blazed. “The girl is an excellent instructress. I do not send people away on whims.”
His wife stood still, her beautiful face white as alabaster, her hands clasped, her posture erect. She said nothing. But when he looked at her, he saw the iron determination in her sapphire eyes, and he knew that he was defeated.
“I shall find some excuse,” he said with disgust. His anger vied in his mind with the vision of Mathilde’s closed door, and before this vision he was helpless and frustrated. Mathilde came to his side, and just as he was turning away in self-loathing and despair, she kissed his cheek. “I have work to attend to,” he said harshly. Mathilde had not heard that tone since that time at the train station on their honeymoon.
When Anna learned that her book had been confiscated and that Maria Sabatievna would not be returning the following week, she broke into tears. She went to her bed and buried her face in the pillow, rocking back and forth in agony. It was thus that Titine found her, and it was not until nightfall that the girl ceased her wracking sobs and fell asleep in the arms of the old nurse. Ah, thought Johanna, so she is not made of granite. She can break, after all! And she turned her mind to the Breton nurse, who had rocked the child.
Sonia did not believe that Johanna had planned the firing of Maria, and she defended the governess to her sister. “Annushka, she doesn’t hate you!” she said. “It’s only that she wants you to stop rebelling. If only you’d try to please her, things would be better between you.”
“Wait until she does something to hurt you,” Anna cried out. “Just wait! It’s only Ossip, and the baby, that she’ll let alone. But why?”
Ossip could not have told her. He saw the scheming in their governess, but he did not understand where it led or why. He felt relieved that she seemed to like him, and praised him. He did not guess that she was thinking: Men do not stay tied to their mothers; he will go his way. He had guessed that by being passive, he would prevent irritation from scratching her nerves. And so, carefully, he allowed her to slip over him, not touching him at all. She had not come to be aware of his cynicism, and found him sweet. She also thought him a coward.
Sonia’s admiration clearly pleased Johanna, and when it was discovered how poor Anna was in music, Johanna was delighted. Only Sonia would therefore receive piano lessons. For a while she dallied with Ossip, but the boy was too busy to keep up with the daily routine of practicing. Johanna sat the small girl beside her on the piano bench, taught her how to place her hands on the keyboard, and started her on scales and in the deciphering of notes. Sonia loved music. She had always sat by her Mama’s feet when Mathilde played Beethoven’s Pathétique. But for some reason, since Johanna’s arrival, Mathilde had ceased to play. Sonia did not know that Johanna de Mey’s technical perfection had embarrassed Mathilde, who had always played for pleasure. Sonia wanted to excel, to please the two ladies in her life. But Johanna kept insisting that she could not play for her mother until she was far more experienced. Sonia was filled with sadness.
But in another area, the small girl knew that she was progressing. Her Papa allowed her to come to him each day before the Hebrew lesson to go over her rhymes. She admired Papa for being a great poet, and, all by herself, with no prompting from anyone, she had gone to his study during the summer at Mohilna to ask him to teach her to write poetry. Each morning they discussed a particular rhyme scheme, and he would correct her assignment of the previous day. She felt so unique, basking in Papa’s learning! And to his life she brought joy, and pride, for neither of his elder children had cared much for the poetry that was so essential to his own existence.
Early one morning, her papers in hand, Sonia encountered a sleepy Johanna in the corridor. “Where are you going at this hour, so secretive?” the governess asked.
Sonia raised her oval face, her smoky-gray eyes alight with self-importance. “My Papa is going to help me with my rhymes,” she replied, and glowed.
“Let me see.” Johanna took the sheafs of verse from Sonia’s hand and studied them. Then she shook her head. “What utter nonsense!” she said. “Surely, child, there are more useful ways to occupy your brain! Your father is an important and busy man. He cannot spare the time for this. Go back to your room.”
“But Papa is waiting for me,” Sonia insisted. She could picture him, seated at his great desk, ready for her arrival. He would smile at her and perch her on his lap. “I must go to him.”
Impatiently, Johanna shook her head. “What a stubborn little fool you are. Why, your father is only humoring you! He laughs at you behind your back! Such childishness!”
But Sonia refused to budge. “Papa never laughs at anybody. He is proud of me. Please, Juanita, let me go now.” A creeping sensation of despair enveloped her, and she bit her lip.
Neatly, meticulously, Johanna de Mey peered down at the small figure before her and tore each of the papers in half one by one. She watched as the little white face fell apart, as tears began to stream down her cheeks. Sonia bit her lip hard; she refused to cry out as Anna did, bringing down the wrath of this woman upon her time and again. No, she would not. But she was bewildered and heartbroken. Then, Johanna reached into a side pocket and handed the girl a piece of chocolate. “There, there, none of this is worth your tears,” she said calmly. Sonia stared at her beautiful governess, at the sweet, and was speechless with confusion.
“Let’s leave poetry to Lamartine,” Johanna said in a gentle voice. “And if you are truly excellent at your memorizing, I shall permit you to go to your father for help with your own verse, though only rarely. After all, he is more than just your Papa, he is a diplomat and linguist, and others have more pressing need of him.”
Later, when the children entered the study for their Hebrew lesson, David called Sonia to his side. “You did not come for the verse correction,” he chided her softly. “Didn’t you have time to do any?” But his daughter merely gazed into his eyes, and shook her head. Inside, her heart was cracking. He is an important man, and I must not be selfish, she reminded herself. Juanita was right. But still, it was difficult t
o keep from crying in front of dear, self-sacrificing Papa, who had not truly found her gifted and who had merely been kind. Tania was also right, for she was constantly telling Sonia that she had no true talents. What a disaster she was, not good enough to play the piano for Mama, not good enough to learn poetry from Papa.
In her own room, Johanna de Mey was filing her nails, their perfect ovals shining with care. She pictured the Baron in his study, wondering at his daughter’s defection. She imagined his feeling of loss. A radiant smile spread over her lips, and she sat back in her chaise longue, her blue eyes sparkling. She began to hum.
It was infuriating to Sasha that his brother David could enjoy such perfect understanding with their father. He had lived with that secret envy since his childhood, and more particularly since his return from the Uhlans at Lomzha, when he had joined his father’s bank after his brother had set up his own household in St. Petersburg. As a boy, he had covertly admired Mathilde for her beauty, and had despised his studious, less attractive brother for his fatuous adoration of the girl, whom he thought he understood so much better than David. As a young man, elegant and courtly, he had frequently thought that she was bored by David and needed the sensual hungers of a man, a real man, like himself, to awaken her from her lethargy. Women such as Mathilde remained dead unless a man could transport them to the heights of physical passion. In this evaluation, Sasha was wrong. For Mathilde found in David’s gentleness a peace-giving contrast to her lustful father. At least Yuri had known how to be a gentleman, but Mathilde saw Sasha as that feared breed of Russian men who were driven by personal greed and violence; her father might enchant duchesses and charm his way into their beds; Sasha, like the brutal, animalistic father in The Brothers Karamazov, would hardly bother with the amenities.
The Four Winds of Heaven Page 8