The Lost Season of Love and Snow

by Jennifer Laam

  I dropped into a low curtsy, as did Azya. Thankfully Ekaterina was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she had finally found some dull soldier to squire her about and would leave me in peace.

  “Enchanted!” the tsar declared once we had risen back to our feet. “Delightful tableau. I believe you captured the passion of the moment most vividly.”

  My stomach raged with fear, but I could not lose myself to agitation and miss my chance to speak with the tsar. I only needed to find a means to summon intelligible words.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. You are most kind.” I spoke in French, as the tsar had, while the orchestra played the opening bars of a waltz.

  At the sound of the lilting music, the tsar’s ears perked up and he turned to me. “What grand timing. Might you do me the honor of a dance?” He extended his hand.

  Azya drew in a quick breath and the empress’s eyes pinched as my pulse quickened. I could not pass on an opportunity to command the tsar’s full attention, but I had hoped for a less intimate dance. I had been raised to fear his power, to put this man’s needs and desires, no matter how slight, above all. A demigod had asked me to dance. How does one say no to that?

  Tsar Nicholas led me to the dance floor, resting his hand low on my back and pulling me tighter than necessary, which made it difficult to gather my thoughts.

  “I know you, by reputation at least.” The tsar led me around the floor for the first time and I caught the scent of mint sprigs on his breath. “My wife informs me you’re the same young lady who captured the heart of our Alexander Pushkin at a ball last winter.”

  I tried not to pay mind to the other dancers, even though I was certain the finely dressed men and their ladies were staring at me, wondering who I was that I should be so presumptuous as to dance with the tsar. Perhaps they had even heard Alexander’s name in connection with mine, like the empress, and were laughing behind their fans and snuff pouches at the silly little girl who thought she could win the heart of a poet. Shoulders tensing, I missed a step.

  “Watch yourself,” he said playfully.

  At least now I wouldn’t need to conjure a clever way to broach the subject. I dared not waste this opportunity, so I cast my gaze straight ahead, eye level with a star-shaped medallion attached to his formal uniform coat. “I found his attentions flattering of course, but my first thought now is to ask of his standing with you.”

  “His works are not always to the taste of my censor and yet I find most of them charming. His fairy tales tell of strong-willed Russian men and the ladies who love them. What is not to like in that?”

  I believe the tsar was being lighthearted, so I managed a soft laugh as we made another turn about the floor. “I would never entertain the attentions of a gentleman who was anything other than patriotic.”

  “My Pushkin? Are you implying he isn’t a patriot? I admit some of our poet’s bolder language has troubled me in the past. Of course the fellow’s rhetoric vexed my brother entirely. He would have sent Pushkin to Siberia if he had his way, but some officer or another convinced him a prolonged stay in the south would drive the point home well enough. After all, it’s one thing to travel and have a jolly time and quite another to know you can never return home.”

  I realized I had been holding my breath. My heart pounded so hard I thought it must have been visible under the thin chiffon costume. “You believe the point was driven home then?”

  “Are you questioning my judgment? Do you believe I should sentence our good man to another exile abroad? Perhaps there is validity to that course of action. The man as much as admitted he sympathized with the Decembrist traitors.”

  “No,” I said, louder than I intended, and the corners of the tsar’s mouth twitched while I thought I might collapse, wondering if I should go down on my knees to apologize. I hadn’t yet spent five minutes in the tsar’s company and I’d already sentenced Alexander to banishment. I pictured the moment when the hangman released the ropes and the bodies of the condemned young officers convulsed and shuddered. “I mean … I would never question your judgement.”

  “Once the whole sordid plot was uncovered, I called our poet to my chambers and asked him what would have occurred had he been in the capital at the time his rebel friends took action. He looked me in the eye, as best the fellow could manage being rather slight, and told me: ‘I would have joined the ranks of the rebels.’”

  My feet still moved in time to the music, but otherwise I was frozen. I had hoped Alexander had been exaggerating when he related that story to my family, bragging for the sake of my brothers’ entertainment. All my dreams of the future, of dimly lit salons and stolen kisses, collapsed in on themselves. “I see. I couldn’t commit to such a gentleman then.”

  Tsar Nicholas still held me too close, but his voice reverted back to the smooth, honeyed tone he used earlier. “Forgive me, but perhaps you do not see.” Again, his lip twitched and I realized he had been toying with me. My fear was meant for his amusement. “I only wanted to see your reaction. I see by the look on your face that you are concerned for our great poet. I admired his honesty, but had to press the matter. I asked if he might be persuaded to think differently. He thought on it and assured me his attachments to the traitors had been severed, and I believed him when he said he had no foreknowledge of their actions. We may not have started off on the best footing, but I now consider him my Pushkin. Russia’s Pushkin.”

  Despite my irritation at being manipulated, relief surged through me. “That is a great honor.”

  “Indeed. I believe you should soon call him your Pushkin as well.” Tsar Nicholas smiled, his face slightly more appealing now. “Why shouldn’t our great poet pursue the most beautiful woman in Moscow?”

  He squeezed me tighter and I fought the impulse to pull away. I was so close to what I truly wanted. “So you approve of my suitor?”

  “Most decidedly, dear lady … I rather like the ring of that. My dear Lady Pushkina. Might I address you in the English manner? And your Pushkin comes from an ancient family. God knows we’ve all heard him speak of it often enough. Such a title of respect is surely warranted. As far as I’m concerned, you and our dear poet are free to wed.”

  Even as he delivered this good news, a trace of coldness returned to the tsar’s voice. I should have recognized it. At the time, however, I could only count my blessings that the one person in the world who could overrule my mother approved of Alexander.

  * * *

  Word reached me that Alexander had returned to St. Petersburg from his travels in the south, but he did not visit us in Moscow. When two weeks passed and still I did not receive a letter, I began to lose hope. And then one gloomy afternoon in late January, Tolstoy the American paid us a surprise visit.

  He was jovial as ever, his boisterous personality breathing life into the dull spaces of our chilly house, cheering my brothers out of the stupor they had fallen into ever since Mother insisted they hound Aunt Katya for appointments. When it came time for Tolstoy to leave, I endeavored to pass a moment alone with him. Mother’s keen eye appraised my every move while I was in the parlor, but allowed me to escort him out without a chaperone, while my brothers remained behind, hooting and hollering.

  Tolstoy extended his arm in a gentlemanly fashion and I accepted, walking with him past our neglected shrubbery to a team of black horses prancing before his carriage as though they couldn’t wait to get home. Tolstoy’s dark green coat and trousers were embellished with fine gold braiding and epaulettes. I thought to compliment how fine he looked as a means of opening a conversation, but then he might think me a coquette. Instead, I got straight to the point. “I am surprised not to have heard from your chum, Alexander.”

  “Why, that’s not fair. He has friends to visit in St. Petersburg and the post is notoriously slow. I’m sure you will hear from him once—”

  I had lost all patience for half-truths. “I meant that given the amount of time we spent together last spring, I would have expected him to have returned to me and
… well … introduced more pressing issues into our conversation by now.”

  Tolstoy drew in his breath as if scandalized, though I sensed he was mocking me. “Are you trying to tell me he has taken liberties with you?”

  “Only in my own mind.”

  Tolstoy gave me the same wolfish smirk he had flashed the night of the dance master’s ball. I straightened my shoulders, trying to regain my dignity.

  Tolstoy took in the indignant tilt of my chin. “Are you trying to ask why you have not yet received a proposal?”

  Something about his tone made me fear I was about to hear the exact opposite of what I hoped. I looked down at my shoes, the impression they left on the snowy ground, before pressing forward: “I have since learned he already proposed once, but hardly at the most appropriate time. Is he so easily discouraged?”

  “You must understand, Alexander feels he has received no encouragement and the fellow has no shortage of pride.”

  I suppose some of Alexander’s passion had rubbed off on me by then and I took care to pause and modulate my voice so as not to upset poor Tolstoy. “I have been most hospitable.”

  “Hospitable is hardly the same as encouraging, mademoiselle.”

  I couldn’t help but sigh in frustration. What did men expect of us? If we were too forward, it was considered unfeminine. If we held back, we were cold and discouraging and no doubt also unfeminine. It was all so exhausting.

  “He has extended his time away from Moscow because he heard rumors you are interested in Prince Meshchersky,” Tolstoy told me. “He has heard you might even marry this chap. His heart is breaking at the thought.”

  “What could have given him such an idea?” I thought back to the prince’s attentions, our vapid conversations. He was handsome enough, but had taken up archiving his family records as a hobby, and I quickly tired of hearing him boast of his family’s marriages into the royal families of Europe. Still, I had touched his arm. Apparently such a liberty was grand enough to agitate the rumormongers. I remembered Ekaterina grinning at me while the prince rambled on about his cousin’s latest match and wondered if she had been responsible. “I thought Alexander understood his visits were most welcome and enjoyable.”

  Tolstoy gave a loud laugh. “Enjoyable, is he? The fellow will be happy to hear that.”

  “You know what I mean. I initiated this conversation with the intention that you should communicate my feelings clearly to Alexander.”

  “Since you’re so forthright with me, I must return the favor. There is one other person who stands in Alexander’s path: your mother.”

  I should have known. Mother had never been convinced of Alexander’s financial solvency, even if she did want me out of the house. Perhaps she still aspired to find a wealthier match. I imagined myself as a fragile vase she held gently in her hands, eyeing the crowd at the auction house for a higher bid. The idea that Mother might stand in the way of my happiness made me resent her even more than I resented my absent father, and over the years I had come to loathe that man completely for the pain he had caused our family.

  “His friends call her ‘Mamma Kars.’” Tolstoy withdrew a linen handkerchief from the pocket of his overcoat and used it to wipe his nose, which had grown red from the cold. “You are familiar with this phrase?”

  Kars was a Turkish fortress, rumored to be all but impossible to penetrate. “I suppose it could be worse. He could have made that his nickname for me.”

  Tolstoy coughed abruptly. I then realized that if “Mamma Kars” was my mother then I was “Kars.” My cheeks burned.

  “I don’t know why I should be expected to have control over my mother’s personality. I hope Alexander will judge me on my own merits and that his actions are guided by the strength of his feeling for me.”

  “Can I take this as a sign of encouragement then? Alexander would have good reason to approach your mother should the spirit move him?”

  “I would hope the spirit does move him,” I said, feeling bold. “Why I even spoke to the tsar of Alexander and he approved. Mother can’t possibly object!”

  “Alexander will be happy to hear it. Perhaps I can find a way to get the two of you alone together once he returns to Moscow.”

  The very idea of being alone with Alexander thrilled me, but Aunt Katya had taught me to maintain my composure. “It is kind of you to help. You’re a good friend.”

  Tolstoy gave his nose one last wipe before stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket. “We are best of chums. Now. Who would have thought it?”

  I tilted my head. “What do you mean? Were you not friends before?”

  “Not in the slightest,” Tolstoy declared, too merrily considering the subject. “Why we almost came to blows in the past. Apparently, Alexander got word I’d said some drunken nonsense about him when he wasn’t present. Buffoonery, I assure you. And yet he challenged me to a duel over it! Threatened to put a bullet in my brain. One of us might have ended up like Lensky and the other Onegin. Can you imagine?”

  I could imagine it only too well, but I tried to put the thought out of my mind.

  * * *

  When Tolstoy next appeared at our door, Azya was ill with a head cold, but he asked Ekaterina and me to accompany him to a charity concert to raise funds for Moscow’s Eye Hospital. I did not believe Tolstoy’s sudden appearance a coincidence, but rather destiny. This was exactly the sort of event that would attract Alexander if he had returned to Moscow.

  As soon as we arrived, Tolstoy spirited Ekaterina straight inside the auditorium while I lingered in the gilt-encrusted foyer, feigning a dizzy spell. The lobby was crowded with people. Whenever a finely dressed lady walked past, jealousy flickered as I imagined her commanding Alexander’s attention. A group of women in loose gowns with low necklines set up a little entertainment near one of the tall picture windows looking out to the snow-covered square. The women wore long lengths of chains and necklaces, and bold gold hoops glittered in their ears. While they rattled tambourines and sang, I kept a desperate eye on the Corinthian columns at the theater’s entrance, hoping to see Alexander coming in from the cold, tossing his walking stick from one hand to another, his eyes sparking when he saw me.

  As though a spell had been cast, he appeared, tired around the eyes but still Alexander. At once, he spotted me, his intense gaze fixing on my face alone. My heart soared, dreams at last reality. Tolstoy must have known Alexander planned to attend this evening. It was meant to be a surprise and I felt marvelously emboldened.

  He tipped his top hat and then removed it as he stepped inside. Doubt crept into my soul. What if he passed me by? While Alexander greeted friends, I could not still my fidgeting feet, nor keep from working the lace on my handkerchief through my fingers. I wanted to leap forward and claim him before another woman could steal his heart. I wanted to throw all sense of propriety to the wind and make him take me away from the theater, away from Moscow, far away from Mother, so that we might start a life of our own.

  Alexander marched past the other women, toward me. “Mademoiselle Natalie! I hoped I might find you here…” He gestured toward a woman with long black hair and tiny bells strung along gold chains on her ankles, who was strumming a three-stringed balalaika in a high-pitched melody. “I always wished to take you to hear such music!”

  My lips trembled as I smiled. “Now is as good a time as any.”

  He took my hand in his, leading me to a space in an alcove, near enough to enjoy the music but with some measure of privacy. My skin felt delightfully aflame.

  “I wish for more of Onegin’s saga. Were you able to write while away?”

  “Not as much as I’d hoped. I did hear a most intriguing tale from an Austrian soldier of fortune. He claims a rumor has taken hold in Europe that the genius composer Mozart died not of natural causes but by murder at the hand of a jealous rival named Salieri. I should like to turn this into a tale of my own.”

  “I suppose you identify with Mozart?” I teased.

  Alexander s
ulked, though I could tell he was playacting. “Why should I not want to take on the role of genius in my own life’s story?”

  “Who is your Salieri then? Which rival is so jealous that God gifted talents to you rather than themselves? Who might be driven to murder you?”

  “No shortage of fellows at court could play that role well.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Not enough talent between them to fill a schoolgirl’s notebook.”

  I blushed. I hadn’t yet been brave enough to let Alexander know I kept my own schoolgirl notebooks at home, and though I was no Mozart, I hoped he would never view me as a talentless Salieri either. “And what of your other escapades?”

  “My Natalie, do you wish to travel someday?” He gathered my hand in his once more and I envisioned a life of travel and reading and writing for us. My Natalie. “You make me think such adventures are within my grasp.”

  “Anything you wish for in this life may be yours.”

  Before I could think of anything further to say, he leaned in close, and my thoughts grew disordered. His soft lips pressed against mine and though I knew I should pull away, I relaxed into the kiss and let my lips linger on his. At first, I was too nervous to focus, and then he put his hand on the small of my back, and I forgot my worries and lost myself, limbs softening as he held me in his arms.

  “I’m sorry.” He drew back, but it didn’t sound as though he truly regretted the kiss. “I was taken with your beauty. I won’t let it happen again.”

  I wouldn’t have minded if it happened again. I didn’t even care if Ekaterina saw and chastised me afterward. She would say Alexander should marry me and that was exactly what I wanted. I was so tired of caring what other people thought, and wished now to follow my own desires. “I did not mind. I did not mind at all. Kiss me again if you wish.”