The Lost Season of Love and Snow

by Jennifer Laam

  Aunt Katya must have caught my wistful gaze, because she inclined her head toward mine, so close I could smell the fresh powder on her face and the rosewater she dabbed behind her ears. “I don’t wish to alarm you, niece, but I spot a gentleman making an advance. I expect you will attend to him with both the dignity and generosity your mother might expect.”

  I opened my mouth and then shut it abruptly, unsure how to respond to my aunt. With as much grace as I could manage, I turned.

  A heavyset man with a mop of thick hair and side whiskers approached. His movements had a clumsy charm about them, like a trained circus bear. He would likely make an enjoyable dance partner, though he was a grown man in his early forties, at least, and I doubted my conversation sufficiently sophisticated to hold his attention. Besides, when I looked at him my heart did not skip a beat, flutter, jump in my chest, nor come to a standstill … all of which were reactions I had read in novels when the heroine met the man she was meant to marry. If this gentleman was somehow destined to be my first romantic suitor, I felt disappointed at my heart’s lack of response.

  “Mademoiselle,” he said with a gallant if inelegantly executed bow. “We haven’t formally met. My name is Fyodor Tolstoy. I have the honor of friendship with your older brothers, Ivan and Dmitry. They said their sisters might attend. Based on your brothers’ description, I am guessing you are ‘little’ Natalya.”

  “Not quite so little anymore, I suppose.” I was nearly as tall as this Tolstoy fellow.

  “May I have the pleasure of this dance?” he asked, offering his hand.

  My heart beat furiously. We would now take our place among the couples already on the dance floor and my aunt would watch our every step for impropriety. I already felt Ekaterina’s contemptuous glare: the audacity of her younger sister, attracting a partner before she did, and an attractive one at that. I anticipated she would spend the rest of the evening complaining.

  No matter what happened next, vexing Ekaterina made the entire night worthwhile.

  I placed my hand on Tolstoy’s shoulder and waited for him to lead.

  Deftly, he steered me around the circle of waltzing dancers. Despite his size, he was light on his feet, easy to follow, and spoke freely as the orchestra played. “I don’t believe I have seen you at a public ball before.” He had switched to French, like any ambitious Russian.

  “This is my first ball, monsieur.” I replied in Russian, not yet comfortable enough with my spoken French to attempt anything beyond the simple monsieur. My mouth felt as though Ekaterina had stuffed it with cotton to make me hush.

  He returned to our native tongue. “I thought not. I would have remembered you.” At that, he gave a wolfish grin, but his words seemed practiced and I sensed it was the sort of compliment he might pay to any young woman. I wasn’t flattered, but remained intrigued. His clear voice had a flat cadence to it, as though he had traveled abroad and picked up some remnant of a foreign tongue.

  Desperate for something to say, I ventured: “I detect a hint of an accent.”

  “Oh you noticed? I spent some time abroad in Russian America.”

  “America!” I knew nothing of America except snippets in poorly written textbooks, which focused on the unruliness of government by the people and vague insinuations another revolution would occur, and that the cocky republicans who had overthrown their king would soon endure their own set of trials. “Is America as wild as one would expect?”

  Tolstoy let out a boisterous laugh, but no one turned to look. Men could laugh as loudly as they pleased, while Mother would flay me alive for such a display. “Oh, I daresay more so. I spent my time there on the Aleutian Islands. Dumped by my fellow sailors after traveling with them all along the western coast, the heartless bastards.” At that, he seemed to remember he was talking to a lady. His back stiffened and the tone of his voice formalized. “Do you know where these islands are located, mademoiselle? The Alaskan Peninsula? Have you heard of this place?”

  “I have,” I informed him, grateful it was the truth. Why did men assume women had nothing better to occupy their thoughts than gowns and balls and future husbands? Of course we considered such matters closely, but only because our futures depended on them. Our interests often extended beyond such practical affairs. “Do you intend to return one day?”

  “I’ve seen enough of the place for one lifetime, thank you very much. I had to find my own way across the sea and then all through Siberia to get home in the end. But make it back, I did. Ever since then my chums have referred to me as the American.”

  “I would like to hear more of your travels, Monsieur Tolstoy. Or perhaps I should say Mr. Tolstoy, since you are the American.” I smiled, pleased with my sudden burst of wit.

  “I would like to share more of my adventures, but that wouldn’t be fair to my friend.”

  I slanted my head, confused. “Friend?”

  “I confess, I had an ulterior motive for asking you to dance. You see, I am here with a fine fellow quite taken with you at first sight. Truth be told, I have never seen him in such a state. He wanted to approach you himself, but his nerves got the better of him. He called you Venus and Madonna wrapped in one enchanting package.”

  The reality of my presence could not possibly compare favorably to such a majestic fantasy. Still, after such a compliment, I already deemed Tolstoy’s shy friend a clever fellow. “Why will he not speak to me then?”

  “He asked that I seek your acquaintance first and then ask your opinion of him. He fears you will not feel as taken with him as he with you, and that would only break his heart. You see, he has a most tender heart. The soul of a poet, one might say. As his friend, it is my duty to protect his ego.”

  Now this was the sort of romantic game playing that occurred in novels and I intended to make the most of it. “So who is this mysterious and tenderhearted chap?” I cast a furtive glance around the room. “Might I have the pleasure of at least knowing his name? Or is the strategy that you will show him to me first?”

  As the music came to a halt, Tolstoy the American slowed his steps and steered me toward the beautiful tree. Closer now, I saw fruit-shaped marzipans and robins spun from sugar affixed to the branches. I caught a glimpse of black curls, and then spotted the tips of polished boots behind the tree and beneath the lowest bough. This must be Tolstoy’s friend, then. I felt as though I might burst from the agony of anticipation, but had no wish to ruin this moment of revelation. “Your friend is shy. I feel I must slow my steps so I don’t startle him and cause him to take to the sky like a skittish bird.”

  “Oh, ordinarily he’s not shy at all. He adores being the center of attention, but I have never seen him take to a woman as he did when he saw you this evening. He clasped my shoulder, asked me to speak to you immediately, and then ran to hide.” Tolstoy raised his voice. “Why, he’s hidden himself so well he can’t possibly expect you to get a good look at him. I have never seen a fellow behave so foolishly over a woman.”

  I managed a laugh and decided not to mention that in order to see his friend without the aid of my spectacles, I would need to get very close indeed. “He adores attention? In what sense? Does he tell humorous tales at parties?”

  “He enjoys it when someone asks him to read one of his works aloud.”

  “Works?” Intrigued, I thought of my writing table at home and my notebooks. One of them was devoted to Russian poets, a small but talented group. I had felt keenly patriotic when I started this modest history of our poetry. “Is your friend a poet, then?”

  “Actually, yes. It is even possible you have heard of him.”

  At that moment, Tolstoy’s friend stepped out from behind the tree, and I drew in a swift breath. The black curls and side whiskers. The dark face and intense, searching look in his eyes. Thinking of what Azya had said about the men’s legs earlier—how shapely they looked in breeches—I glanced down. His muscular calves were swathed in tight black boots. In my mind, I saw him as he appeared in his author’s portrait:
a loose blouse unbuttoned at the neck and his chin thoughtfully posed in one hand with a quill raised high in the other, as though he were about to be endowed with divine inspiration.

  And then, the world shifted beneath my feet and my heart skipped a beat, just as the novelists promised.

  Tolstoy leaned in close to me. “Perhaps you have heard of Alexander Pushkin?”

  Two

  Everyone had heard of Alexander Pushkin: the author of Evgeny Onegin, the tale of a St. Petersburg dandy, as well as adored poems in our own Russian tongue and many other works. Tolstoy the American gently smirked while I regained my composure, a task complicated by my heart’s brisk pace.

  “May I present my new friend, Natalya Nikolaevna,” Tolstoy continued, addressing the poet. “I know her brothers and she was kind enough to accept an invitation to dance.”

  Alexander Pushkin stared at me and shifted his weight from one foot to the other while his fists tapped his sides in a rhythmic motion. His face appeared much as it did in portraiture. It was not especially handsome, the nose a little too big, and the eyes a shade too pale for his olive complexion. Yet for all he might have lacked in conventional looks, Alexander Pushkin was lavishly gifted with intensity. His gaze focused so attentively on mine that I did not dare turn away.

  Tolstoy raised his voice a notch once more. “I say this is my new friend, Natalya.”

  “Mademoiselle!” Pushkin snapped to attention, lowered into a graceful bow, and then righted himself and extended a hand. My heart thundered as I realized what I was supposed to do next. Pretending to play the role of cultured princess, I offered my own hand for a kiss. His lips pressed a moment longer than proper and I should have considered it a liberty, except all I could think was that the greatest poet in Russia had asked a friend for an introduction because he was too nervous to approach me.

  Since this was my first opportunity to make a good impression, I was determined to comment intelligently on his work. I had read Evgeny Onegin to myself aloud so that I might bask in the musicality of the words, the flow of the rhyme that made my heart so happy. In the latest chapter recently published in a journal, the useless but pretty coxcomb Onegin killed his friend, Lensky, in a duel. I had thrown the pages against a wall, frustrated I would have to wait to learn what happened afterward. When the next chapter was delayed, rumors spread that Pushkin had no idea what was to occur, the entire project had been a lark, and any reader expecting a satisfying resolution would be sorely disappointed.

  “Is it true you don’t know what is to become of your character, Evgeny Onegin?” The words flew out before I could stop them.

  His broad brow furrowed. I panicked, thinking I had unwittingly insulted him. “I meant, is it true that you don’t yet know? I am sure you will think of something … or have thought of something…”

  Tolstoy had moved behind his friend but remained in the vicinity, perhaps to rescue the poet if needed. He started to titter. Perhaps I simply needed to hush.

  The orchestra struck up the tinkling notes of another waltz and I wondered if the poet would ask me to dance. Perhaps not. Perhaps I had forever ruined the chance of forming a friendship—or more—with Pushkin. Were Mother here, she would claim I had been rude, but then I didn’t think a poet the sort of gentleman she wanted me to spend time with tonight anyway, even a poet as well-known as Alexander Pushkin. Though famous, his income couldn’t have been overly lavish, for his dark blue evening coat and bright red cravat, though rich in color, were shabby. Nevertheless, when he turned his soulful gaze to mine, his attention was like a spark of lightning and I felt as though he could read my every thought.

  “I enjoyed the latest installment,” I added, “and long to read the next.”

  The poet bent closer to my ear, so I could hear him over the music. “I require inspiration to continue Onegin’s saga.”

  His voice was low and like a gentle caress. I held back a little gasp of delight, instinctively understanding that to hold the attention of such a man I couldn’t submit to his charms so easily. I kept my tone steady and formal, with only a hint of playfulness. “Is Tatiana not inspiration enough?” Like many girls, I was quite taken with Onegin’s romantic heroine, who had been brave enough to declare her love plainly.

  “Tatiana is an angel, and yet the best muses are flesh and bone, those you can see and touch, who whisper in your ear and allow you to press your lips against theirs.”

  My first ball and already the creator of Tatiana was trying to claim me as his muse. It began to seem less like a flight of fancy and more natural that this man before me in his frayed coat and loose cravat, with the beguiling olive-toned skin and the wild black curls, should say something so bold.

  Still, I knew well enough what happened to women who allowed such attention to go to their heads. I lowered my face and tried to will a blush to appear on my cheeks, though I was likely already flushed from dancing. In truth, I didn’t feel embarrassed in the slightest. I only wanted Alexander Pushkin to talk more.

  “Natalya is a skilled dance partner,” Tolstoy interjected. “If I’m not mistaken, that is the sound of another waltz.”

  Pushkin offered his hand. “I would be honored.”

  “The honor is mine.” His fingers pressed against my bare wrist and I felt a jolt, as though I had been sleeping for all my sixteen years and only now sensed the full scope of the world.

  As he led me to the floor, I took in his scent: sandalwood and citrus cologne, sweet tobacco, oil and horses, and a tantalizing saltiness. Coming from a home with three boys, I knew masculine aromas well enough, but there was something newly seductive about this particular combination. Pushkin placed his hand on my back and pulled me closer, the velvety fabric of his coat against my naked arms. I glanced over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Aunt Katya, flanked by my sisters on either side, staring at me as I danced. When we glided past them, I saw Azya’s expression—placid but for a dreamy, faraway look in her pale brown eyes—and I knew she was happy for me. Meanwhile, Ekaterina glowered and Aunt Katya raised her fine black eyebrows. I had heard Mother mutter often enough about the licentiousness of the waltz, the inappropriate close position between the partners, but I believed my aunt sophisticated enough to understand the honor of waltzing with Alexander Pushkin.

  I tried not to make too much of this moment, but then his whiskers skimmed my cheek, and a thrilling wave of panic descended. I wondered what might happen should we find ourselves isolated. Would he move his lips to mine? Or would he tease me first, tucking curls behind my ear as the tips of his fingers brushed the sensitive skin of my neck?

  “Do you not care for attention?”

  I realized I hadn’t been looking at the poet, but straight past him, that the thought of being alone with him had simultaneously made my insides melt and my shoulders tense. “I am not accustomed to it.”

  “You must learn to adore the spotlight! How will you avoid it? Every man in this room noticed you. I’m sure they are all madly in love.”

  “You flatter me, Monsieur Pushkin.”

  “Please, call me Alexander, at the very least. Sasha if you are so inclined.”

  “Perhaps Alexander for now.”

  “Will your chaperone be scandalized if we disappear?”

  Scandalized. He let the word linger on his tongue, imparting it with delicious drama, like the hiss of a snake. My cheeks burned and I looked down for a moment to keep time with his nimble steps. “I believe my Aunt Katya would be concerned, monsieur … Alexander. She serves in the court of the tsar and her sense of propriety is impeccable.”

  “A shame.” He skillfully guided me around the circle of dancers once more. “I have my own connections to our good tsar. He claims to enjoy my work, though he keeps a close eye on it for words of sedition.” Alexander clicked his tongue as though scolding himself. “Nevertheless, Mademoiselle Natalie, I believe young women are allowed some freedom of movement … might I call you Natalie? I feel it suits you.”

  “You m
ake me sound as though I belong in Paris or some other city of the west.”

  “Perhaps you do. Who knows where life might take you. An enchanting face can motivate great adventures. You’ve heard of Helen of Troy, have you not?”

  “I doubt my face will launch a thousand ships.”

  Alexander beamed with pleasure, and I wondered if he’d posed the reference to Helen as a way of testing my knowledge of antiquity. That struck me as not quite fair, and yet if this were a test, I wished to pass with high marks.

  “Please know I would do nothing to tarnish your reputation. It would be a crime to do anything to prevent you from attending future balls. You were born to be admired.”

  I glanced again at Aunt Katya, whose eyebrow now seemed perpetually cocked, and then at the poet before me, who curled the fingers of his right hand and pressed them lightly against his mouth, trying to contain the grin now brightening his face. As though allowing himself the unadulterated happiness of a smile would only lead to disappointment.

  It was a habit I would grow to know well, and worry over more and more in the years to come. At that time, however, that happy Christmas when I first came to know him, it only seemed one of Alexander Pushkin’s many charms.

  “Perhaps a few moments outside in the courtyard for fresh air,” I told him. “What’s the harm in that?”

  * * *

  I remember everything about that night, about my first moments alone with Alexander. The glow of the crescent moon scarcely penetrated the clouds and birch branches drooped under the silvery weight of new snowfall. In the center of the mansion’s courtyard, a marble fountain, dry for the winter, housed a statue of a voluptuous nymph in a toga with outstretched hands. Two gentlemen stood near the fountain, bundled deep into overcoats and leering at the nymph.

  “Your patience with my dancing is much appreciated, mademoiselle.” Alexander tightened his own coat against the sharp wind and tapped his fashionable walking stick against the ice-flecked cobblestones of the mansion’s square courtyard, keeping time to the quick tempo of a mazurka playing inside the mansion’s ballroom. Upon closer inspection, I saw his stick was topped by a charming figurine of a bear cub ascending a tree stump. “I never did develop a talent for it. I fear dancing lessons were a trial in my youth.”