The Lost Season of Love and Snow

by Jennifer Laam

  Later in the evening, once the children were in bed with a nanny in the next room, and I read for an hour or so, the house grew too quiet for my taste. When I remained home alone, I stared wistfully at Alexander’s side of our marriage bed until I broke down and re-read his most recent letter, bristling at every mention of an innkeeper’s daughter or German actress he had met in passing. I kept our children happy while Alexander spent his time squiring hens to whatever traveling puppet show passed for entertainment in the country. If my husband could have fun without me, I could return the favor, and so I spent most nights at balls and public dances.

  I confess that much as I longed for my husband, I found the attention of men a thrill. This was vanity, but Alexander had told me I might coquette while he was away, flirt with other men and even allow them to make small declarations of love, as per the conventions of the day. I chose to share the comments of my admirers with him in letters, hoping the playful tales of my small conquests of the heart might compel him to return home. He responded grumpily, complaining of men chasing after me like dogs, sniffing my arse, and cheekily asking for a list of men I had danced with in alphabetical order. Still, if he could mention other women in his letters, I saw no reason I could not mention other men in mine.

  My efforts were soon rewarded.

  In late November, while I danced a mazurka with a handsome member of the Calvary Guard, a footman tapped me on my shoulder. I turned, prepared to be upset. I hadn’t been out in three nights because Masha was ill with a cold. The guardsman was a particularly skilled partner, lifting me as though I was made but of air, and gliding with me across the shining dance floor with such ease I felt as though we were flying.

  The poor footman must have sensed my displeasure at the interruption for he was practically shaking in his fine blue livery and cowered before me. “I am so sorry, Madame Pushkina, but I was instructed to find you at once.”

  My stomach clenched. Masha had seemed well on her way to recovery this evening, propped up in her little bed in the nursery and ordering her nanny about like a field marshal, but now I wondered if I had left her too soon. “Is everything all right? Am I needed at home?”

  The footman shifted from foot to foot, his youthful features reminding me of a masculine version of my own Liza. “It is … well, it is unusual … I was told to tell you the tsar … he would like to see you.”

  My initial relief reverted back to panic. “Is he in a receiving room?”

  The footman looked at the floor. The music came to a halt and I thought the entire ballroom must have heard him say: “I have been asked to escort you to a carriage.”

  The handsome guardsman managed a quick “Madame Pushkina” before backing away. I swore every eye in the room had turned to me. I remembered Alexander’s comments about his enemies at court. Those who see fit to praise my writing while treating me like I’m beneath their contempt when I dare arrive at a ball. Aunt Katya had told me that as the poet’s wife, I would attract more scrutiny. I tried to still my pounding heart, but no amount of concentration could accomplish this task. I couldn’t be alone with the tsar in a carriage, but how could I diplomatically refuse his request? To say it was improper would impugn his reputation; to agree called mine into question.

  “Let me just get my pelisse…” I walked slowly to the cloak room, the footman at my side. Perhaps I could feign illness. Or mention Masha! That might work. I felt a pang of guilt for using my daughter thusly, but she had been unwell after all, and it was not as though she shied away from intrigue, even at her young age.

  Once I had my pelisse, the footman escorted me out into the cold November night. I hurried now, pulling the thin wrap over my gossamer ball gown, the perspiration on my brow freezing on my skin. I would just show my face in the window and greet the tsar. Then I would mention Masha at once and call for my own horses. As we approached the carriage, I located my spectacles in my reticule and pulled them on, thinking the tsar might be put off.

  Once the world came into focus, I saw the coach before me bore no imperial insignia and the fine horses stomping their hooves in the cold were the ones I chose when we first moved to the city.

  “You have tricked me!” I cried, as the footman set a stool down before me, not that I needed help. The curtains were drawn, but my heart skipped in my chest as I realized whom I would find inside.

  “Have a good night.” The footman closed the door behind me, a whisper of a smile playing on his lips.

  And there was Alexander, now sporting a lush black beard.

  I thought of all I might say to him about how badly I missed him and how much I had needed him at home.

  “I missed you, angel.” His features were contrite, at least so far as I could tell under the thick facial hair, but his eyes aflame. My limbs softened, my insides seeming to melt, just as they did when he pulled my body to his at night. An unseen force drew me to him and now I was the one who forgot all logic and decorum, and took his chin in my hand and pressed his lips to mine. Our kisses were always exquisite, slow and lingering, but this moment was so powerful I gave no thought that we were still in our coach parked before the palace. I knew only that my body was on fire and would have that which it desired. I guided his hands to the gown, helped him pull the thin material up over my hips, needing the intense rapture of his body united with mine. I was no longer human, but some primal creature of nature.

  I had never felt more alive. Never closer to my true self.

  Afterward, the pleasure seemed to float upward and then pop and dissipate, like bubbles in champagne. A delicious sleepiness overcame my senses as I cuddled against my husband’s chest, but Alexander could not remain still and scrambled for the small valise he had stowed under the seat.

  “It is finished!” he said. “I cannot wait for you to read it.”

  I had just dozed off and took a moment to comprehend what he meant. “Read what?”

  “The tale of the horseman … the flood … Peter … here!”

  I recognized his heavy notebook, the brown leather binding our elegant Goncharov paper and the lappet and old brass buckle protecting the contents. I knew he had written the verse quickly, for he had not had time yet to transcribe it in a legible hand and in some spots I could still detect the scent of the ink. Of course, I was well familiar with his writing and could decipher the words quickly enough, especially as it seemed he had revised this work little, writing cleanly from the start.

  No doubt you’re familiar with the great work that would come to be known as The Bronze Horseman, but permit me to describe what it felt like to read this verse for the first time. The impulse to sleep, so powerful mere moments before, waned. The carriage fell away; my husband fell away. Reality meant nothing. I was no longer Natalya Pushkina, but Alexander’s lovelorn narrator, trapped in his insanity as the waters of the great Neva rose to flood, and the massive statue of Peter and his horse roared to life, chasing the tormented man through the once beautiful streets of our city. The same rhythm to his language that enchanted me when I read Onegin swept over me now, making me feel life was beautiful, and the possibilities endless.

  By the time I finished, I was in tears. All of Alexander’s time away had been worth it. I had already known he was the greatest poet our land had known. This only confirmed it.

  “You enjoyed this trifle?” he said shyly.

  I slapped his arm playfully, my fingers lingering on his bicep. “Do not pretend modesty.”

  He bobbed his head and tugged at the new beard, too excited to remain still. “It’s good, then? I’m right?”

  “I see so few corrections—”

  “It came to me quickly in one of my stupid fits,” he said, “as though inspired from above. I tell you, I feel a new man.” He tilted his head. “But assure me this is not mere flattery. You’re not simply hoping to get on my good side, are you? It is good, is it not?”

  “Flattery is easy enough when you present me with such magnificent verse.”

  He grinned,
but his fist tapped the inside of the coach. “From the tone of your letters, I know you’ve had much practice at flirtation while I was away.”

  So that’s what this was all about. “Are you saying you’re jealous, husband? Wish to have me all to yourself when you were the one who suggested I enjoy society? Surely you must realize you own my heart and my body. Did I not prove that a few moments ago? I only wish for you to remain close and not leave again.”

  He leaned back once more and I returned to snuggling against his chest, taking in the sweet scent of tobacco clinging to his neck. He stroked my hair as we rode home, but looked out the window the entire time. I would not say his mood had soured, but it certainly had turned more contemplative. I wished he would share the true thoughts racing through his mind, but I had not the courage to compel him to do so.

  * * *

  “Look at your pretty mamma.” As I sat in the sewing room, continuing work on my Minoan priestess costume, Alexander popped in, rocking Sasha in his arms. He took in the headpiece and gown and jewelry while Sasha gurgled happily and scrunched some of Alexander’s black curls in his blotchy little fists. “Look at what your pretty mamma made.”

  “Let him know he has a ‘clever’ mamma.” I held up one of the gold bangles, meant to resemble a snake with imitation emeralds for eyes and a forked tongue.

  “Look at your clever mamma.” Alexander examined the costume once more and smiled at me slyly. “She is dressing as a priestess of the sun.”

  “Not a priestess of the sun, but a priestess of the bulls.”

  “I like the ring of ‘sun’ better. How many men do you suppose will fall in love?”

  “No one will fall in love with me.”

  “You either underestimate your own charms or overestimate the ability of men to leave well enough alone. Even the tsar will follow the priestess into her sacred temple. Likely he will lead the way.”

  I stuck my tongue out and he chuckled and wandered off with Sasha. The thought of Tsar Nicholas still made my stomach tighten, but at least I was a matron now, not a fresh young wife.

  Besides, my costume looked spectacular. I modeled it for Alexander later that night in the privacy of our bedroom, and he actually dropped to his knees. “I’m the first to fall,” he told me, lifting the hem of the gown and kissing the inside of my thighs while I moaned with delight. “I am the first to worship the priestess of the sun.”

  His good mood was not destined to last.

  By the night of the costume ball, I had confirmed I was two months pregnant with my next child. As we passed the enormous white Grecian columns and ascended the scarlet floor runner on the front staircase of Anichkov Palace, I was glad I had decided on the priestess costume, as its flowing shape was comfortable and easy to move in. Alexander had chosen not to wear a costume, but looked elegant in his evening frock coat with Dutch lace ruffles at his wrists and collar. We made a fine-looking pair.

  “My Lady Pushkina!” Once we reached the top of the staircase, the tsar brushed past his courtiers and toward me without as much as a glance at my husband. “Welcome to my palace. How ravishing. What is this affair?”

  His gaze seemed to drink me in, but I suppressed a shudder and kept my tone light. “It was intended to represent a priestess in the cult of the bull in Ancient Crete, Your Majesty. But my husband…” I tugged on Alexander’s arm to ensure he was included in this conversation. “… has renamed me the priestess of the sun.”

  “Clever fellow,” he said, though his eyes had not left me. “Why don’t you turn around then so we can appreciate the full effect?”

  Hearing the tsar’s request, several fawning courtiers joined our circle, drinking champagne as the orchestra struck up a merry waltz. I felt Alexander’s temper seething—like a monster trapped beside me—and wished the tsar had shown more attention to him before throwing the weight of his flattery on me. Though wary, I twirled as requested. The ladies in gowns and costumes and the men in their fine uniforms swirled into a fuzzy but pleasant blur around me.

  “It would be jolly if you assumed a pose the priestess might take,” the tsar said. “I still remember how charming you were as Dido’s sister. Would you be willing?”

  In that moment, my fear of the tsar dissipated as this new opportunity presented itself. You might think me a foolish and vain woman in this moment, but you must understand I had found my true passion in masquerade. This was my art, my version of the poetry Alexander crafted, and I wanted nothing more than to transform into the priestess, powerful and feared, more so even than our tsar. Inspired, I slipped the bangles shaped like snakes from my arms and held one in each hand. Then I raised my arms like the woman in the picture, snakes aloft over each shoulder. I could not see my own face, but I was certain I had the same wild look in my eyes as the woman. I held the pose. I was no mere wife to a poet and subject to an all-powerful tsar. I was the priestess.

  The courtiers clapped as though I had given a command performance of one of Mr. Shakespeare’s plays on the London stage. The spell snapped. I smiled and curtsied.

  “Smashing!” the tsar said. “I declare you queen of the ball.”

  “Most kind of you.” I placed the bangles back on my wrists and up on my arms.

  “It is only the truth, Lady Pushkina.”

  I heard a derisive snort beside me and realized it came from my husband. I am ashamed to say I had forgotten him. “You still address my wife in the English manner then?”

  The tsar gave a careless shrug and smiled affably. Of course, Mother’s tabby was playful with a mouse too before delivering the final bite that snapped its neck. “Seems appropriate for the beauty.”

  “And yet she is a good Russian woman,” Alexander said. “My Natasha has many admirers here. I’m sure she will want to greet every one and honor them with her favor. It’s not fair for one man to monopolize her, even if that man is her sovereign.”

  “Have you not monopolized the company of other men’s wives?”

  Alexander’s hands bunched into fists while a cold prickling sensation ran down the length of my back. Alexander had deliberately contrasted the informal version of my name with the tsar’s westernized affectation, and then insulted him on top of it. The tsar was lashing back and openly taunting him.

  “But I see your point,” the tsar added quickly. “Bad manners to monopolize the queen.”

  I wanted to say something to smooth things over, but Alexander pulled me away before I had the chance to gather my thoughts.

  “You must mind your words,” I whispered fiercely, once we were out of earshot.

  “Is it not true?” Alexander’s tone calmed as mine grew more heated, but his cheeks still flushed a dark, purplish color and his scent had grown heavy with the stress of the moment. “Have you not many admirers?”

  “Every woman in this city has admirers. I have only one husband. You know this.”

  “A husband who looks a fool.”

  “You do not look a fool except when you snap at the tsar. Do you really wish to make this man an enemy? See our children raised in a prison camp?”

  “It might do us good. I could write and you could learn modesty.”

  I shook free from his grip and turned, catching a flash of fear in his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, rubbing his hands now. “Please. Just listen.”

  Reluctantly, I allowed him to take my arm. Alexander steered me through the foyer, into a private alcove, under the watchful eyes of sculpted marble cherubim with pursed lips. He kept his voice low. “The tsar wishes to make a fool of me and not just in the way he drools over you. I should call him to the field of honor for his impudence.”

  The casual reference to a field of honor made me stiffen, but surely even Alexander wasn’t so hot tempered as to challenge Tsar Nicholas to a duel. “I hear him flatter many men’s wives because he can. There is nothing more to it than his desire to hold us all under thumb.”

  I gasped, realizing now what I had said, and glanced around to ma
ke sure no one heard. Alexander only chuckled and reached into an inner pocket of his evening coat to hand me a note. “Speaking of … I suppose I should share this. A summons from the tsar was delivered this very morning.”

  I held the thick paper in my hand, noting the imperial seal and extravagant handwriting. The tsar had presented Alexander with a loan for several thousand rubles and offered him the post of a junior gentleman of the chamber at court. I bit my lip, determined I would write again to Dmitry to ask for more money, and silently considered goods I might sell to a pawn shop: a pearl necklace and perhaps one of my better shawls. Anything to keep us from slipping deeper into the tsar’s debt. For now, however, I chose to emphasize the second part of the missive. “This is an honor, not an insult.”

  Alexander snatched the letter from my hands and stuffed it back into his pocket. “If I were ten or twelve years younger perhaps, but for a man of my age it is an insult. I have no doubt the tsar is laughing at me behind my back. His silly coterie as well. I can hear them now: a junior posting for a junior-sized fellow.”

  “You’re only being clever for the sake of being clever. It’s a lower rank because you’re new to court.”

  “I have an alternate theory,” Alexander said. “And I doubt I’m the only one with suspicions as to the tsar’s motivations in awarding me such a position.”

  I crossed my arms in front of my chest, the gold bangles jangling. “What might that be?”