The Lost Season of Love and Snow

by Jennifer Laam

  I found it unbearably hypocritical that this tsar should trumpet family, and calling Catherine and Afansy to mind, I tried to draw on their strength. “I don’t know what you—”

  The tsar raised his hand, still staring at Alexander. “Silence your woman.”

  My heart dropped to my stomach. For all of his affability in polite company, all of his compliments, all his desire, the tsar spoke of me as though I were property rather than an individual being. I had thought myself somehow elevated beyond that. Now my true standing was made clear.

  “It is bad enough she carried on with this foreign fop before…” Though he had specifically asked for me, the tsar spoke again as though I were not present. I could only conclude he wished to publicly humiliate me; he might have flogged me were it possible to do so without shattering the illusion of a civil and modern society. “… now she continues to flirt while he is married to her own sister. Can you not control your own wife? Do you need instruction?”

  Alexander was not nearly as tall as the tsar, but at that moment he appeared every bit as formidable. “The fault lies entirely with the other party. He has insulted my wife’s honor.”

  “Then another man has violated your wife’s reputation? The remedy for that is clear.”

  Alexander released my hand, and shaking, balled his own into fists. Everything we had endured had been for naught, all because Georges could not control his emotions and Alexander would not bear the humiliation.

  I heard murmuring from downstairs. Alexander had not bothered to keep his voice low. He had as good as publicly challenged Georges once more.

  * * *

  The night after this disaster, I sat rocking the baby on my knee. The other children gathered around me in the drawing room in what I thought made a nice domestic tableau. Azya joined us as well, perusing a hymnal and clutching the prayer beads she had taken to carrying about. I wondered why I had ever desired more, why the excitement of the balls and masquerades held appeal when we had such contentment right here. But I knew the answer already. Quiet evenings at home were well and good when balanced with a rich life on the outside. I was already considering a new masquerade costume, an ode to Alexander’s greatest heroine, Tatiana from Evgeny Onegin. I had also determined to wear it only for the pleasure of my husband, sister, and children. It was a small price to pay for our family’s peace of mind.

  My ears perked up at the click of Alexander’s key unlatching the front door and his footsteps in the vestibule. I was afraid he might head straight to his study and so I called his name as merrily as I could manage. He popped his head in, looking haggard. He had not slept the night before and his olive skin had taken on an alarming ashen undertone. I assumed he had been gambling at his club, and prayed he hadn’t been drinking as well. My husband seldom had more than two glasses of champagne at a time, but the smell of liquor on my father’s breath remained a powerful memory from my childhood. I could never overcome the suspicion that under trying circumstances, all men succumbed to the temptations of rough wine or vodka.

  “You’re home!” Masha ran to hug her father’s knees. Good girl. I gave silent thanks for the tenderness I saw in Alexander’s eyes when he looked down at her.

  “A quiet night in?” He sank into an armchair, his features gaunt, as though he already floated between this world and the next. “How unusual.”

  His tone held only sad resignation. “I hope to enjoy many more of these, husband, now that…” I was going to say now that Ekaterina is married off but dared not allow any hint of Georges to enter this room. “… now that I have had a taste of St. Petersburg society. I find I appreciate time at home all the more.”

  “This is a refuge from the world.” Alexander leaned back and closed his eyes.

  “A refuge is exactly what you need.” I reached for a manuscript I had found in our bedroom and moved to the parlor. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of reviewing the latest revisions on the history of your noble ancestor, Abram Gannibal.”

  That brought him to attention. “You have been in my study?”

  “You left it in our bedroom. I thought you meant for me to see it, that perhaps there were scenes of passion you wished me to read.”

  Alexander relaxed and managed a small smile. “Nothing but random thoughts as they came to me. And what is your opinion of my new ideas?”

  It seemed to me he had placed too much emphasis on his ancestor’s jealous nature, but at the moment I only wanted to encourage him to write. “I never thought you should have abandoned it in the first place.” I gestured to my sister. “Azya agrees.”

  “I do!” Azya’s eyes were positively glowing.

  “At times I miss our little house in Tsarskoye Selo,” I told him. “Do you remember? The peaceful walks. The days you spent in your study.”

  “Until Tsar Nicholas took up residence.”

  “He isn’t there now. I think we would enjoy it even more the second time around. Do you miss those days as well?”

  “The happiest times of my life. My school days. The first months of our marriage.”

  “I think it might be worth looking into at the least.” I turned to Azya, whom I had already enlisted for help. She had paled, perhaps at his reference to love. “What do you think?”

  “It is a wonderful idea,” my sister enthused, trembling slightly.

  “Don’t you wish to stay here?” Alexander’s voice turned bitter. “To have your go at the marriage market?”

  “It is more important that you are somewhere conducive to writing,” Azya said. “I will be all right. We could leave at once if you so approved.”

  Alexander rose from his chair and kissed the top of Sasha’s red head. He saw through our ploy, but was too gallant to call us out on it. “Thank you, Azya. Say a prayer for our children, sweet wife. Before they get to bed tonight. Say blessings for all of our children. You know I have always admired your soul even more than I desire your beautiful self.”

  “You could join us, husband,” I said, attempting to control my quavering speech. “You could say the blessing over us all.”

  “It would mean little coming from me and so much coming from you. I want to give our children every possible chance to find favor with the Lord.”

  “They have the favor of our Lord, as you do, even if you don’t know it yet.”

  I saw a hint of the old twinkle return to his eyes, but his next words stunned me. “I suppose we shall find out soon enough.”

  “I pray we do not,” I said firmly. “I ask you as your own dear wife. Do not take any actions that would hasten your death. We could not bear it.”

  Alexander glanced at Masha, but the light in his eyes had gone out and the creases on his face deepened. It seemed even his children could not draw him out of his depression. “I’m not capable of defending myself should matters come to a head?”

  Alexander was more than capable, but affairs of honor were messy and Georges a trained shot. I attempted to clarify, for the last thing I wanted was to fight over his skills with a pistol. He might take his out and fire bullets into the wall and my nerves couldn’t handle it. “I do not wish you to take unnecessary risks over foolish words.”

  “Words are never foolish, Tasha.” He stared straight ahead, his gaze fixed on some demon only he could see, and then shook his head as sorrow roughened his voice. “Words are the most important things on earth. I thought you of all people would understand that.”

  Nineteen

  ST. PETERSBURG

  JANUARY 1837 (OLD-STYLE RUSSIAN CALENDAR)

  It seemed an ordinary day.

  That afternoon, I sipped the hot cocoa and coffee concoction I’d had the cook prepare after luncheon and wandered our flat, mentally composing a letter I planned to write not to Dmitry, but Sergey—since I trusted him most—asking him to make discreet inquiries into rental properties in Tsarskoye Selo. I did not want it known I was looking to leave the city. I feared it might provoke Georges and force a duel I still hoped to a
void.

  Alexander had been up early, huddled in his study all morning. He left right after lunch, bundled in his thickest overcoat, giving me a peck on the cheek and cheerfully declaring he would likely stop for pastries and perhaps he could bring some home.

  I came to a halt before the enormous bureau in our bedroom, drawn as usual to the costumes I stored inside. I pulled the knob and looked over the outfits I had assembled for masquerade balls, prominent among them the gown I had worn as “priestess of the sun.” I remembered the tsar’s praise, which I had once been foolish enough to consider a high compliment. I shuddered, remembering how low his hand had rested on my back when we first danced, the lascivious inflection when he asked me if I wanted another acquaintance, the humiliation of being scolded at the top of the staircase of the Shuvalov mansion like a serf.

  My eyes narrowed. I no longer desired to play at being someone else, no longer wished to summon my power from others. Rather, I wanted to wipe the slate clean and find peace with myself. I glanced toward the nursery. The children were supposed to sleep another hour at least. Azya was still huddled over a book in her room, but she usually played with them for some time after they woke. I wouldn’t wait a moment longer.

  Inspired, I set my coffee down on the nearest end table and rushed to the back of our apartments, locating a large cedar trunk in the storeroom. Gathering all of my strength, I dragged the trunk to our bedroom and began to stuff costume gowns, robes, bangles, headpieces, and other trinkets that had once accessorized them into the trunk. I didn’t know whether such items would hold value, but I knew I felt better doing something other than pacing and worrying over money. Even a small sum would help toward the ultimate goal of taking my family away from St. Petersburg to start anew.

  I called for Liza so that I might quickly dress, and asked her to make sure the horses were ready as well. I was determined to arrive at Nevsky Prospect before the pawnbrokers closed. Alexander’s valet and a footman assisted with lifting my trunk into the waiting carriage. If my wares were of no interest at the first shop, I would continue from venue to venue until I found someone willing to take these items off my hands.

  A sharp gust battered the windowpanes, kicking snow about like dust in the dazzling winter sunshine. Drawing my velvet cloak tightly around my shoulders and chest, I gave instructions for the cook to prepare supper at home. When I stepped outside, the freezing wind penetrated the cloak, seeming to reach through my skin to chill my bones. I merely pulled it tighter. I had much to accomplish and didn’t care to delay even one more day.

  As we moved through the city, a sense of peace settled over me and I put on my spectacles so I might see more than a bright blue blur from the window of my coach. I raised my hand, shielding my eyes. Though it was bitter cold, the churches and palaces and frozen Neva River sparkled in the winter sun and the snow was so deep it reached the knees of grown men. The streets were crowded with families taking advantage of the clear weather to go tobogganing on the hills outside the city. Even to my weak eyes the city seemed made for fairy tales, as if the beautiful snow maiden herself might appear out of nowhere to wander the streets. I would miss this magical city, but Alexander and I could only find our happiness elsewhere.

  My driver swore at a carriage that rushed by too close, and our horses hit a buckling cobblestone in the road. I was jostled in my seat, my spectacles dislodged. Perhaps it was for the best. If I could not see the graceful lines of our imperial city, I would not be tempted by its beauty. I could concentrate on my marriage, my family, my intellect, and my spirituality—all I truly valued in my life.

  With my spectacles off, I barely made out the form of the sleigh crossing the other side of the embankment. The clomping of hooves and the slight neigh of my own horses in recognition met my ears, but in the haziness of my compromised vision, I could not place the carriage nor the team. Besides, I was intent on the mission at hand.

  And so I did not see the bulky fur-lined coat, nor the chapeau Bolívar, nor the silver-tipped cane, nor the box holding the dueling pistols. I did not have the opportunity to beg Alexander to turn around and avoid his ultimate destiny.

  * * *

  As it turned out, the pawnshops accepted only a few random baubles and a ring that had been a gift from my grandfather long ago. I couldn’t count the trip a success. Exhausted and admitting defeat, I instructed my driver to return home. I hoped Alexander was done with his errands for the day and we could spend a quiet night at home with the children. Perhaps I would even work up the courage to tell him what I had been doing, emphasizing my commitment to our relationship. I felt sure he would see the sense of my plan to leave the city and think of a way to gather the money quickly.

  When we returned to our apartments on the banks of the Moyka, Alexander’s sleigh and horses remained haltered and out in the cold, the animals huffing and prancing in the freezing air. The queer feeling that so often upset my stomach assailed me now, a new premonition I had no wish to acknowledge. I alighted from my carriage, shouting at the driver to see to Alexander’s horses as well as mine, and flew up the eight steps that led to our front door. I burst into our flat calling out my husband’s name.

  It was quiet inside, the table set in the dining room with our everyday china and flatware for supper, but no aromas of roasting meat or simmering soup drifted in from the kitchen. Usually, I came home to find the children running about and knocking things over, begging for a treat while servants chased them away telling them they shouldn’t spoil their appetites. But now I was greeted only by a tomblike silence and a strange metallic scent clinging to the air. The door of Alexander’s study was shut tight. Farther back in the flat, from Azya’s bedroom, I heard quiet sobbing.

  The door of Alexander’s study flung open and three men rushed out. Alexander’s friend, Danzas, followed by Alexander’s stooped valet, and a stranger clutching a black bag in his large hands. A doctor. The pain in my stomach worsened and my heart pounded so loudly I felt sure it would explode.

  Danzas approached me, eyes wet with tears. I have never seen men cry before and have no desire to see it again. His soft features tightened and when he opened his mouth, no words issued forth. He raised his hands as though he might try to place them on my shoulders.

  “Alexander?” My voice was a strangled echo in our vestibule.

  The doctor turned to Alexander’s valet. “This is the wife?”

  “I am.” Though on the edge of hysteria, I tried to maintain some measure of dignity.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Liza peeking out from the kitchen, pale as the moon, rubbing her hands in her apron. The doctor eyed the men again, his expression glum.

  “He was shot in the abdomen. I can’t dislodge the bullet. All we can do now is try to make him comfortable.”

  Danzas and the valet began to speak at once, competing with the doctor, their voices seeming at first loud and then barely audible. The devastating images taking shape in my mind were made more vivid by the phrases swirling around me as they tried to explain what had happened on the field of honor.

  His opponent took the first shot.

  At first he hesitated and we thought he would not take aim, but Pushkin insisted.

  Even crumpled on the ground he managed to get his own shot off and fired at d’Anthès, the scoundrel. Pushkin played it like a gentleman to the end.

  There is still a chance he may regain his strength.

  I think d’Anthès might have fired early, the foreign swine.

  No, it was a fair fight. Pushkin charged and d’Anthès had to take his shot. And then he stood his ground after Pushkin fell, when it was his turn to fire.

  I still say the swine chose his outfit with care. Why the buttons on the foreigner’s coat were like shields. Pushkin’s aim was perfect, but the bullet deflected off the brass.

  Their voices grew more agitated. The room spun around me and my legs failed. They took me by the shoulders and hoisted me upright. I refused to believe it. Matters could n
ot have progressed this far. Alexander wouldn’t risk leaving me a widow and his children orphans. He loved us too much. These men were lying. They had to be. “I must see him.”

  “He asked us to keep you in another room,” Danzas murmured in my ear, his gentle hand finally resting on my shoulder. “Perhaps you might stay with the children. We’ve seen to it they remain in the nursery. Alexander has no wish to upset you.”

  “Do I not seem upset already?”

  “He will recover,” Alexander’s valet said in a shaky voice. “There is no need to worry.”

  “Did he ask you to tell me that?”

  The poor old man fell silent.

  “If Alexander will be fine, then surely I can see him. Let me see him!”

  Danzas still had his hand on my shoulder, but when he hesitated, I broke free from his grip and ran to Alexander’s study.

  The next part of my tale might sound familiar. It has been told already a thousand times in our land and beyond: the great poet, fatally wounded and yet lingering in this life. The guilt-ridden wife vacillating between denial and grief and wild proclamations, begging for forgiveness, promising God and anyone else who would listen that she would do anything if only her brilliant husband might survive this ordeal.

  Now I will tell you the whole truth of the matter and what my family endured.

  When I first saw Alexander, I wanted to thrust a knife in my chest and be done with the world. I had never seen him look so ghastly yellow in pallor, as though the blood had already drained from his body. He sprawled on the sofa in his study holding a cloth towel filled with ice cubes to his abdomen. Wet with perspiration, his black mass of curls stuck to the sides of his face. Though I saw the shallow rise and fall of his chest, the smell in the air made it seem death himself was already a presence in the room.

  I screamed and ran to his side.

  My children were still hidden away in the nursery, and for their sake, I gathered my senses. I stifled my wails and tried to remember happier times we had spent on this sofa, my legs curled around Alexander’s waist, his lips on mine, my face nuzzled in his chest. Why had I not counted those seconds as precious? Why had I not done everything in my power to make the world stand still, so that I might remember and savor every one of those moments? The tears returned, with a small scream. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t think about the better times, not now. I could not think of anything except letting him know how much I loved him.