Alexander pulled me up so that I straddled his legs. He kissed me gently while placing his hand underneath my skirt, kneading my thighs and powerfully distracting me, though I remained determined to get one more question out before giving in to raw pleasure.
“So it is all right if I spend some of our income on new furnishings?” I whispered in his ear. “Perhaps a new gown or two as well.”
“Whatever you wish.” His cheeks had darkened and his hand moved up my thigh. He might not have heard what I said, but that was not my concern.
Later, when Alexander had retired to his study, I lingered at his writing table in the parlor. He had taken his portrait of Abram Gannibal and leather-bound ledger with him, insisting he would at last get to work. Several unbound pages were strewn about, the ink still glistening on the thick Goncharov paper. We had not really discussed whether or not I might read Alexander’s drafts, but I managed to convince myself that as his wife, it was both my right and duty to evaluate his work-in-progress. I hoped he might come to value my opinion. Carefully, I gathered the stray pages. They contained random turns of phrase that made no sense and Alexander’s usual jumble of sketches: a sad-eyed horse with no rider, that dandy Onegin under a streetlamp, and furry balls with perky ears, meant to be sleeping cats.
At last, I spotted my own face, hair done up and neck long, my cleavage prominent. On the page opposite my picture, he had composed a new poem. I read eagerly and quickly realized this was no work to be published for profit. The first stanza talked of a passionate lover, a wild woman, while the next stanza spoke of a more subdued, gentle, and even cold woman only doing her duty. By the end, however, the poet had pleased the reluctant woman.
My cheeks burned. He was the one who had instructed me to act coldly during our lovemaking. He was the one who had wished me to hold out until I could not help but give in to passion. He had asked me to play that role for the benefit of his fantasy.
I heard some movement from Alexander’s study and placed the papers back on his writing table before laying back on our chaise longue. I grabbed a bit of embroidery I kept out in the parlor in case I needed something dainty with which to occupy my hands.
Alexander entered the parlor. He looked at the writing table and then at me. In my distress, I had stacked his papers neatly, rather than leaving them in their previous disarray.
“Did you like my latest?”
I threw the embroidery aside. “I lack passion in it!”
“You do not.” He came to me and took my hand in his once more. “Why, your fire burns through in the words.”
“Your passion is the only catalyst for mine.”
“Why should that matter? I am your husband. Of course I’m the one who should open you to passion. You were a virgin. You were innocent.”
“I was, but…” Words failed me. I couldn’t explain, only knew the poem made me feel as though my sensuality, and by some extension my very being, depended on Alexander. This was appropriate for a wife and yet I did not like it and did not know how to explain this without injuring his pride. “It is well done.” To change the subject, I added: “I should like to help you with your transcriptions. I have a fine hand. I might help copy your rough drafts into a readable form. I would like to comment on them as well if I might.”
“Of course.” Alexander made an elegant wave with his wrist and leaned in to kiss me. “That sounds delightful.”
“And the poem … I assume it will remain a private matter between us.”
“It is a private poem. A love note.” He smiled, but he had not truly answered the question. Alexander was not the sort to keep his work to himself. I suspected some of his friends would read the poem. Already my reputation was being fashioned and it seemed I had but limited control over its final shape.
Nine
TSARSKOYE SELO
JULY 1831
The moments of greatest happiness in life are so small you can’t properly appreciate them until later. When I think back on such times, I return to relaxed mornings in the countryside during the first year of our marriage, birds singing from birch trees, and one of the stray cats Alexander had taken to feeding, yowling for milk. I recall the sweet taste of lemonade on my tongue and the fresh scent of newly cut paper from my grandfather’s factory, the ink still wet from Alexander’s scribbled verses and the satisfaction I felt when I dipped my own feathered quill into the inkwell to transcribe the drafts of his work into a legible hand.
We had all one could desire: a loving nest for ourselves, and greater purpose in the world. I wish I’d had the foresight to savor every moment.
Alexander wanted to live as inexpensively as possible, which was impossible in Moscow. Rents were high and carriages a necessity to navigate the sprawling streets. At the same time, my sisters needed to meet eligible bachelors and so I thought it best to stay near a city.
We agreed to try our luck in the small village of Tsarskoye Selo, near St. Petersburg where Alexander had fond memories of his student years. The village was the summer home of the tsars and dominated by great palaces. Even so, we were able to secure a rented wooden dacha for a reasonable sum, which made me feel slightly less guilty about the money invested in new clothes, linens, and furniture.
In our country house, Alexander’s study was above the parlor and the wooden floorboards creaked when he set to work. He rearranged his routine, deciding now that he was a “married fellow past the age of thirty,” it was no longer seemly to lie abed all day and write at night. He committed to his so-called “stupid fits” of writing by rising early, taking a bath in a tub chilled with cubes of ice, and then locking himself in his study by nine every morning. He did not leave until he had ten pages of new material, at which time he changed into his red peasant’s shirt and put on a straw hat so he might enjoy a horse ride with me along the trails that ran the length of the gardens and around the lake of the imperial park. I rode a beautiful black mare named Matilda on an English saddle and wore a jaunty English top hat.
It was a wonderful time in our lives.
While Alexander worked upstairs in the morning—and after I had transcribed his pages from the previous day—I returned to my schoolgirl’s history of Russian poetry. How odd to find myself a part of that history now, the wife of the greatest Russian poet to date. During those quiet mornings, I wrote of Alexander’s Little Tragedies, including his tale of Mozart and Salieri, and dabbled once more with a bit of my own verse to celebrate life as a newlywed. Alexander had dedicated a love poem to me; I should return the favor.
I relished the time away from the watchful eyes of my family in Moscow. While Alexander finished his poems in the afternoon, I took long walks in the garden, pleased to have so much time alone with my own mind, although I confess a part of me missed the excitement of the costume balls, just as my aunt had predicted, and I had started to think about the fall social season in St. Petersburg.
On one such afternoon, I grabbed an expensive red shawl Alexander had bought for me and flung it over my shoulders before pausing at a looking glass near the door. Aunt Katya had said I must always inspect myself before I left the house, so that I was well in practice and would never appear again in public with smudges or rips in my gowns. Instead of reaching for my spectacles, I chose a more fashionable lorgnette. I could hardly walk with a lorgnette before my eyes the entire time, but I knew the path well and would content myself with the heat of sunshine on my skin and the colorful blur of flowers. I adjusted my shawl before inspecting my white dress, making a full turn to view it from all angles. I then located one of my new wide-brimmed hats from the rack and perched it on top of my head, tilting it at a stylish angle.
Stretching my arms out wide as I strolled through the gardens, I stroked the silky leaves as I passed, tipping my head back to watch the dappling effects of the sunlight through spindly branches and fluttering green and yellow leaves. When I needed a break from the sun, I dipped into a blue-and-white pavilion along the shores of the lake.
; As I continued down the pathway, past a marble statue of a half-nude Apollo in a plumed helmet, I made out the figures of a couple promenading in the opposite direction. I did not particularly wish to talk to anyone, but at least I had taken care with my appearance today. I didn’t think I would need my lorgnette, so smiled and walked confidently forward until their faces became clear to me.
I held my smile, but my chest constricted and my jaw tensed as I realized I was heading toward Tsar Nicholas and Empress Alexandra. Silently, I chided myself. I had been raised to revere the tsar and yet I could not deny the bristling ripple of fear, an echoing memory of the tsar’s broad, flat hand too near the base of my spine. Alexander would have known how to handle this situation. He would stop and bow low to the tsar and compliment the empress. I was not Alexander, though, and wanted to avoid talking to Tsar Nicholas altogether. I wondered if I might suddenly veer to the right unseen.
While I mentally fussed, the tsar bellowed: “My dear Lady Pushkina!”
The empress, her voice surprisingly low in pitch for a woman, spoke up as well: “If it isn’t Madame Pushkina!”
“Indeed it is.”
It seemed I would not avoid company today. I lowered myself into a curtsy and kept my gaze fixed on the ground, on the tsar’s polished black boots and the tips of the empress’s slippers peeping out from her gown.
“Come, come girl. We’re not in court. It is a pleasure to see the beautiful wife of our Pushkin taking fresh air.”
I rose to appraise them properly. When I saw her last, the empress had worn formal court attire with a high kokoshnik ornamented with jewels. For her afternoon stroll, she dressed simply. The tsar’s forehead looked enormous and his unruly mustache drooped, but he still cut a dashing figure in his gleaming scarlet-and-gold frock coat “Dido’s sister!” He seemed proud to have made the connection. “I remember you as such.”
“You are most kind. I was a mere trifle in that affair. My main purpose was to hold a look of horror while fighting a tickle in my throat. How horrifying a cough would have been!”
“It would have extended the length of time to admire you.”
I smiled politely at the empress, and wishing to shift focus away from me, said the first words that came to my mind. “I believe you know one of my aunts. Ekaterina Zagryazhskaya?”
“Oh yes!” Her features relaxed. “I didn’t know she was your aunt.”
“My mother’s half-sister.”
“She must present you formally at court.”
“We would like that very much,” the tsar added. “Perhaps our Pushkin might be persuaded to come to court more often now that he has a beautiful wife at his side.”
Alexander did not come to court because he had no formal title by which he might appear. I thought it best not to mention this fact. “Aunt Katya has been most kind to me over the years.” I remembered our recent conversation and added, “Myself and my two sisters.”
“Are they as charming as you?”
“More so for they are older, but I’m sure I shall soon catch up with them.” That comment came out more coquettish than intended, so I shut my mouth. The tsar’s gaze held mine longer than appropriate, but then who was to say what was appropriate when it came to our holy tsar. After all, I had not thought he would stroll through public gardens like a provincial landowner. Later, thinking back on that afternoon, I’d find it arrogant of this man to believe his people had nothing but love for him and that he was forever safe from harm, that we were all willing serfs, happy with our lots. We were all the tsar’s to command.
“Perhaps I might send another one of my ladies, a girl named Alix Rosset, to visit you,” the empress said, freeing me from the downward spiral of my thoughts. “She is a great admirer of your husband’s work.”
My shoulders stiffened at Alix’s name—she who considered Alexander a great poet and me a woman with an empty head. Still, I could not refuse. “How lovely. Of course.” I resolved to post a letter to Aunt Katya this very afternoon to see what she knew of this Alix Rosset.
“We should be off then.” The empress took the tsar’s arm in her hand. “I am sure we will see each other often now that we are neighbors.”
“We are … neighbors?” I had assumed the tsar was merely visiting for a few days.
“Surely you’ve heard! The cholera epidemic reached St. Petersburg. The entire court is moving to Tsarskoye Selo for the summer.” He still held his wife possessively with one hand, but his eyes had never left mine and I found myself drawing my shawl closer to my chest, covering every bit of flesh. “Surely you would not deny us the pleasure of your company whenever we should so desire it?”
Alexander and I were not fated for a quiet life after all. “We would be honored.”
“We?” The tsar gave an abrupt laugh, but I sensed an undercurrent of annoyance. “Surely you would allow us the honor of a visit even if your husband were indisposed?”
I could not tell if that was a question or a demand. Ultimately, it didn’t matter. “Of course.” I worked myself into one last curtsy.
As they left, the tsar turned back briefly. I couldn’t see his face for they were too far out by then, but I had the distinct impression he had pursed his lips as though to send me a kiss.
Even in the warm sun, with my shawl wrapped tightly around me, I felt frozen to the core. The next time I took a stroll in the gardens, I would keep to a more isolated path. Our days of tranquility had come to an end and I began to long for the bustle of a city once more, where I would be but one of many prizes upon which the tsar set his sights.
* * *
Alix presented herself at our doorstep before I had a chance to contact Aunt Katya. When I read her name and caught the heavy scent of vanilla and cinnamon on the calling card—beguiling and vexing at once—I pressed my lips together and managed a nod to our footman.
“Oh, you are as charming as I remember!” Alix exclaimed when she saw me. Her dark hair was parted straight in the center and she wore a day gown with billowing sleeves. I gathered we were supposed to kiss on both cheeks then, in the French manner. I detested the idea but could not avoid it. When I leaned in close, I once more took in the scent of vanilla and knew she had not added it to her décolletage for my benefit.
Alexander’s boots clomped down our wooden stairs. It was not yet noon, but apparently he was willing to make an exception to his strict writing regimen for this visitor. “Alix! How good to see you!” They kissed on both cheeks with no hesitation and I caught the flutter of lashes over her wide-spaced brown eyes.
It was nearing time for our luncheon, so I invited Alix to dine with us and tried to make chitchat over borscht and egg salad. She seemed less interested in conversation than in casting a keen eye over our furnishings, which were still modest as we had not been long in Tsarskoye Selo. “This is delightful.” Alix popped a pickled herring into her pert, pink mouth. “Still, surely you need greater sustenance to keep your creative juices flowing.”
Alexander laughed. “I manage.”
A tempest of jealousy stirred in my chest. This woman addressed my husband freely without bothering to string more than five words together for me. And not that it was any of her concern, but our meal was light as we had plans to attend a charitable musical event in the evening. By the time dessert was served—gooseberry jam with imported Devonshire cream—I thought it appropriate for Alix to make her way back to the empress.
Alix slathered a bit of jam onto a bread roll twisted into a little bow. “I would love to hear some of your new verse.”
Alexander’s lips lengthened into a broad smile. My husband couldn’t resist the sound of his voice reading his own words, and Alix would no doubt provide an enraptured audience. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”
I wiped my lips with one of our new linen napkins, ready to keep a watchful eye on Alix, but as she and Alexander rose to their feet, I realized I had not been asked to join them. In fact, they were already heading up the stairs. Alix’s little
fingers trailed along the oak banister of our staircase and she glanced over her creamy shoulder with a look of supreme satisfaction. Alix might not have cared to steal my husband, but she wanted me to know she could if she so chose.
I would not become an object of pity in my own home and bypassed the stairs as though this had been my intention all along. “Enjoy yourselves,” I called gaily, taking a seat in my favorite armchair where I could pretend to sew while listening in on them.
“I’m sure we will,” Alix said.
“Alexander! I shall be ready at seven in a new gown. I chose it to beguile you.”
He stopped and turned his head, tilting it curiously, while Alix sneered. I gave a playful shrug and commenced to rummage through a wicker basket I kept filled with embroidery thread.
Soon enough, Alexander’s voice was raised in a dramatic baritone as he read a few lines. I was confident nothing more would happen between them upstairs.
After a few minutes, something else began to bother me, something worse even than the presence of a girl who fancied my husband alone in a room with him, though that was vexing enough. Alix had specifically requested to hear new verse, yet Alexander was reading from his historical play Boris Godunov, which he had finished long ago. Perhaps Alexander had nothing new to read and did not ask me to accompany them upstairs for this reason. Perhaps he did not realize how easily his voice carried in this little house, through the thin walls and floorboards, nor think I would recognize the lines.
I thought of the gowns and furnishings I had purchased over the past few months, confident we’d soon enjoy a fresh infusion of income. I still transcribed verses for Alexander in the morning, but how long had it been since I’d seen more than a stanza or two? Why had he not yet spoken of when these verses might be sold?
It took only moments for vague suspicion to evolve into full-blown panic. If Alexander had nothing new to offer for sale, what had he been doing up there all day? Drawing pictures? More erotic verses about me, or worse yet, other women? It was only a matter of time until a baby was on the way and we had no money to spare. Rather, we owed creditors. I tossed the embroidery thread back in the basket. I had always been hopeless with stitching anyway and the design on the pillowcase had taken the shape of a malformed bird. It had only been meant to serve as linen for guests, but I didn’t want to scare anyone, especially not if we would soon depend on the charity of our friends for income. No, don’t think that way.
The Lost Season of Love and Snow Page 12