The Lost Season of Love and Snow

by Jennifer Laam

“Will you say a few words in his honor?” Danzas asked.

  Nothing I could say would come close to paying Alexander justice. They were here to see their beloved poet, the man who spoke to their hearts. My presence seemed superfluous. “I haven’t had a chance to tell the children their father is gone.” I looked down at my hands again, forcing the tears back. “That must come first. But you can start letting people inside. There’s no reason to wait.”

  The men nodded and started moving, seemingly grateful for something to do. I looked down the hallway, toward the nursery, dreading the look I would see in Masha’s eyes when I told her Papa was in heaven now.

  * * *

  I wandered around Alexander’s study, trailing my finger over the rows of books on his shelves, the bric-a-brac and yellowing papers and sketches on his desk, sniffing the air for any remnants of his citrus and sandalwood cologne or sweet tobacco. Two weeks had passed since we had laid him to rest, yet I still yearned for him to materialize so I might wake from this nightmare. Danzas and the valet kept asking me if I wanted the sofa moved, if I wanted anything moved, and when I told them to leave everything alone, they exchanged worried looks. A small part of me accepted the horrific reality of my loss, and already considered how best to memorialize Alexander. So many mourners had gathered to view his body; surely there would be readers in the future who would wish to see the rooms where he created the verse they so loved. It was my duty to preserve everything as it had been while he still walked this earth.

  Truth be told, I wasn’t ready to let go, not while a part of me could still fool myself into believing he was still here, somewhere, that I would come home one day to find him hunched over his desk, finally finishing that novel of Abram Gannibal.

  The last two weeks were a blur. I kept my spectacles tucked away, for I had no desire to see the world clearly, only wished to be alone with my memories of Alexander. I struggled to keep myself together and hugged my children close. Mother insisted we should return to Moscow, but that city held too many memories: the first time Alexander and I had met at the dance master’s ball, walking behind Mother to church, our first kiss. Meanwhile, though Azya was wonderful with my children, I often caught her staring at the study, a wounded look on her pale face, stroking a crucifix that one of Alexander’s friends had found buried underneath a cushion of the sofa. Since then, I had taken to either snapping at her over the merest trifle or ignoring her altogether. Azya had done nothing more than gaze worshipfully at my husband, but that alone was enough to vex me.

  As for Ekaterina, she had made all the proper expressions of sorrow, but refused to acknowledge her own husband’s culpability in the matter. Meanwhile, I was told Georges said nothing of me or Alexander, as though we had never known one other at all. He walked away from the duel with nothing more than a graze to his arm, walking the streets freely, still regarded as a man of honor.

  How easily some people can live in denial.

  My aunt was the only adult member of my family who provided me with any real comfort in those first days after Alexander’s death. When she saw me, she offered neither hugs, nor hollow words of pity, which too often felt like a muzzle shoved on my face. Instead, she took action so that my seemingly endless list of tasks and chores might lighten. She procured clothes appropriate for a grieving widow, arranged for the servants to stay longer than usual, and paid long-overdue bills without pawning any more of my jewelry or Alexander’s treasures.

  So when the footman let me know my aunt was waiting for me in the front hall, I put on my spectacles, ready to face the world once more.

  Liza stood in the hallway, hands shaking and legs locked into half a curtsy. Aunt Katya had not come alone. A tall man in a drab overcoat stood next to her. I sensed he meant to travel incognito, but he could not fool me.

  She had brought Tsar Nicholas into my home.

  As I stared up at his smug face, memories raced through my mind: the pain in Alexander’s face when The Bronze Horseman was locked in the brutal censors, how tightly the tsar held me when we danced, and worst of all, his last words to Alexander: Another man has violated your wife’s reputation? The remedy for that is clear.

  He had as good as murdered him. He was as culpable as I. More culpable.

  I wanted to slap our holy tsar right across his arrogant face and order him out of my house. If that meant torture and death I would bear it gladly.

  And then I thought of Masha’s expression when I told her Alexander was gone. She had hit my legs and tried to punch my face, calling me a liar at the top of her little voice, until at last she collapsed weeping into my arms. She couldn’t bear the loss of another parent. None of my children could.

  I curtsied low, looked down at the floor, and said: “I am unwell and fear I can only visit for a few moments. I am so sorry Your Majesty was troubled to come today.”

  “The tsar wishes to speak to you alone.” Aunt Katya’s tone left no room for argument. “I will give you those few moments and then perhaps you’ll feel better.”

  I had no choice in the matter, never had any choice in the matter when it came to the tsar. Or at least that is what we all have been led to believe. Liza still waited in a corner of the foyer, locked in that damnable curtsy. Aunt Katya took the girl by the ear and steered her out.

  “Please take a seat if you wish,” Tsar Nicholas told me, once they had left. “I know how terrible the past few days have been. We all miss him.”

  I tried to listen, but my ears were ringing and all I could think about was the impudence of this man, entering my home uninvited, scaring my Liza.

  “Natalya Nikolaevna,” he added formally. “You and your children will be provided for under my rule. It’s the least I can do to express my respect for the greatest poet of this land.”

  I should have thanked him. I should have kissed his hand. Instead, my hands bunched in and out of fists, the way Alexander’s once had, anger rising in my chest until my face turned hot. I could not control my next words. “You knew about the duel. You could have stopped it. You could have saved him. Instead, you encouraged him. For all I know you encouraged Georges to pursue me as well, for your own amusement. Maybe you were the one who composed the first dreadful letter to Alexander.”

  I looked back down at my hands, the nails digging into my skin. I had ruined my husband and now my children as well. I only hoped the tsar’s wrath rained down on me alone.

  “I didn’t send any letter.” I peeked up and saw the tsar had gone pale, that in his plain overcoat he looked like nothing more than a paunchy middle-aged shopkeeper, just as I’d always thought. “These matters go beyond the reach of a head of state…”

  “You knew the specifics of the duel then?”

  “I heard of it only through rumor. Dueling is illegal.”

  “Then these matters are within the reach of the state. You will try Georges d’Anthès?”

  For a few days after my husband’s murder, it was thought Georges might be arrested. To calm the people’s anger, someone needed to be held accountable for their great poet’s death. At first, the tsar vacillated on the matter, but ultimately he relented to the opinion of his courtiers—many of whom had been caught at one time or another in their own affairs of honor—and ordered Georges out of the country instead. Georges and Ekaterina were to live in France, free to start their lives anew, while my husband remained deep in the frozen earth.

  The tsar’s voice was steel. “I know you’re upset. I will forgive your impudence if you will at least have the decency to look at me.”

  My chest felt as though it were caving in on itself. I gathered what little remained of my strength and looked at him. The tsar stared back, gaze hard but eyes rimmed in pink. He had been crying. That seemed impossible, yet the evidence was there before me. The tears did not make me hate him any less, but they helped me summon courage.

  “I’m sorry, and yet I still pose the question. Why didn’t you punish Georges?”

  “It is not as simple as that,” the tsa
r said. “Dueling is illegal, yes. Technically, he committed a murder, yes. On the other hand, your husband willingly participated in this affair of honor. Everyone knows Georges had no choice.”

  “Alexander felt he had no choice either.”

  “And had matters gone a different way, I would not pursue a legal case against him. Georges d’Anthès is exiled. He cannot return to Russia. I’m sorry but I suppose this means you will not see your sister Ekaterina again.”

  I almost smiled. I had no desire to see my sister ever again. I wished I could have shared this turn of events with Alexander before he passed to hear his laugh one last time.

  “As for you and your children,” the tsar continued. “You may live wherever you wish, and in whatever manner you wish. Your husband’s debts are forgiven. I will see to them myself. It’s the least I can do for our great poet. You need never worry about money again.”

  Finally, the right words came out of my mouth. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I am humbled by your generosity and wish I had the words to express my gratitude.”

  He took my hands limply in his. I felt something cold on my finger and saw that he had slipped a ring onto it. The ring I had sold to a pawnshop on Nevsky Prospect the afternoon Alexander had been shot.

  I stared at the ring. The tsar couldn’t have been coarse enough to suggest I become his mistress, not now, and yet I couldn’t help but feel some sort of proposal had just been proffered. I couldn’t reject his money, for that wouldn’t have been fair to my children. I did, however, remove the ring from my finger. “It never fit right, but thank you for returning it.”

  “My pleasure.” The tsar’s lip twitched, as though implying something more with the word “pleasure.” “I am your servant. I am the one to help you through this. After all, who knows what wicked rumors might spread regarding your own culpability in this disgusting affair? Under my protection, you need never worry about the damage these gossips might cause. I will never allow them to hurt you or your children, nor your place in society.”

  “Such an honor!” I said, simultaneously impressed and repulsed at my ability to suppress my true feelings, instead replacing them with pandering nonsense.

  “And I hope you will do me the honor of remaining nearby.” He kissed my hand, which had turned so cold I could scarcely feel the press of his lips. “You know a secret? I used to pass by your window at night in the hope of seeing you. How seldom I was granted that gratification, but perhaps now I might hope for something more from you.”

  Have you ever had a moment where it seems as though you just woke from a dream? As if the world’s true nature is suddenly known, and all that was hazy is now crystal clear? As I stared at the tsar, I realized I had not accepted the facts of my life; I was in as much denial as Ekaterina and Georges. Alexander was gone forever and I had no life in St. Petersburg without him, nothing beyond my dubious worth as an object to be pursued and caught, and this I could not bear. I needed to establish a space for myself away from the tsar and his malicious court.

  “I have already spoken to my eldest brother about relocating,” I said. “I feel the place for myself and my children is at my late grandfather’s estate in the country. My eldest brother is in charge of it now.”

  The tsar pressed my hand and I recoiled instantly in fear, remembering how Georges had twisted my wrist. The tsar’s touch was lighter, but far more cunning.

  This was the moment when I took the greatest risk, for though the outpouring of grief and despair at Alexander’s death had shocked the tsar—so much in fact that Alexander’s state funeral was moved for fear of the unruly crowds—he was, after all, still tsar. Would he be so callous as to take the widow of his people’s beloved poet as a mistress? Or did he realize the people did have power in numbers and could, someday, present a threat to his power?

  “It has already been decided,” I said, trying to keep my voice matter-of-fact. “I wish to focus on my children and the preservation of my husband’s great works. What could be more appropriate than that? A simple Russian home in the heartland for a simple Russian woman. What could better honor my husband’s memory and help his readers find peace with his untimely death?”

  The tsar hesitated, then straightened his shoulders and made the pragmatic choice, as I’d hoped he would. “Of course. Only don’t forget your friends here in the city while you’re gone playing the peasant girl.”

  I managed a smile. “I will never forget St. Petersburg. I will never forget everything that happened to me here.”

  * * *

  Even in Kaluga, the slightest sound made my head cock up like a rooster waking at dawn. On those rare occasions when the footman announced a visitor, my heart raced, for always I was afraid the next caller would be the tsar and I would have no way out of his clutches. For the present, I was financially dependent on his good graces.

  He never came; our holy tsar wouldn’t lower himself to travel this far to pursue a mere woman. Gradually, the tension in my shoulders dissipated and my stomach settled. I began to feel like myself again: the true self who had once been a small and carefree child exploring Afansy’s estate.

  The provincial pace of life was slow and our entertainments modest in scope. Still, as I breathed in the clean country air and strolled the old Goncharov factory, I felt at peace. When I stopped to run my hand along a broken waterwheel, I wondered what the grand ladies of St. Petersburg in their luxurious palaces would think. Naught but a sad mess: a broken operation and a silly woman, a vainglorious coquette who drove her brilliant husband to his death. But their imagined opinions meant nothing. I had successfully chased Mother’s judgments from my mind, and I did the same to theirs now. I had no one to answer to but myself.

  My children began to relax and play again. Their little faces grew less pallid and they greeted the morning with the excitement they once had. They still asked about their father, but I had reinstituted Mother’s practice of evening prayers at home every Saturday. Azya joined us in Kaluga, and together we made sure each of my children said a special prayer for Alexander. Unlike my mother, however, I did not follow prayers with stern admonitions to get straight to bed. Instead, Azya and I popped corn on the stove, poured fresh apple cider into tin mugs, and shared stories of Alexander.

  I still worried about Masha. She had been closest to her father and resembled him most. Her black curls ran wild over her shoulders and though sometimes she allowed me to tame them into ringlets, she preferred to wear her abundant hair loose and free. When we went for a walk, she ran farther than the other children and never wanted to turn back. If we had chicken for dinner, she cried over the loss of an animal she fancied a pet, demanding we live on bread and cheese instead. She alone missed St. Petersburg and frequently asked when we would return. I simply told her I didn’t know, shaking my head until she stomped her foot and flounced off in a temper as I rested my face in my hands, knowing my firstborn could not be kept from the world.

  Just as my family was growing accustomed to this routine, a message was delivered from our old friend Tolstoy the American. I saw the scribble of his handwriting on the note first: Thought this might be of interest should you ever wish to return to the city. It is a copy of a verse addressed to St. Petersburg society by a young writer named Mikhail Lermontov, who is sometimes spoken of as the next Pushkin. It is officially banned now, but copies are in circulation. I enclose one for you. T

  Alexander had mentioned this young fellow Lermontov once or twice, praising his talents. No doubt, the boy had been shaken to the core by my husband’s death. I stared at the letter. Had my peace in this place been so fragile that a mere mention of the past could disturb it? Tolstoy had been a friend to our family, but infrequently in recent years, finding time to see my brothers or Alexander only when he happened to be on his way somewhere else. I wasn’t sure I trusted him, and I dreaded learning Lermontov blamed me for Alexander’s death.

  I could not stay in the dark forever, though. I slit the envelope open with my fingernail and r
ead Lermontov’s first words, the title.

  Death of the Poet

  In his neat and even hand, Lermontov blamed the society of St. Petersburg, the aristocrats of court, for Alexander’s death, claiming they didn’t appreciate Alexander’s talents and hounded him to his grave. In this version of events, the court indeed played a similar role to Salieri in Alexander’s tale of Mozart, while my role was almost nonexistent. I was not the villainess of St. Petersburg, but merely another pawn. I was grateful to this talented fellow Lermontov, who understood the truth of our story. He reinforced my decision to stay in the country. I had no desire to return to the viper’s nest.

  Yet life sometimes takes us in directions we do not expect.

  SIX YEARS LATER

  I tried to convince myself I had returned to St. Petersburg for Masha, and to further the schooling and future careers of my two sons, but deep down I knew the same desire for a life in this world burned inside of me, if perhaps not as brightly as before. I no longer wished to play the hermit in my late grandfather’s shadow.

  As our fine team of Goncharov horses trotted through the city, effortlessly traversing the damp streets, my spirits began to rise. Through the window of our coach, the Neva glistened in the spring sun, and the sleek carriages of the elite sped across the city’s bridges while more humble residents waddled by foot to market and church. I sensed Alexander’s presence, calm at my side whereas his spirit had seemed restless in the provinces. I saw it embodied in Masha. If she remained in the countryside, she would find a way to run away, as her father might have done in her place. So we returned to live in St. Petersburg. But while I enjoyed the public gardens, shops, and the art, I did not plan to make a formal return to society.

  Until Sergey came to visit.

  My brother had finally found his happiness in the army, much to my surprise. And though his face had lost its plumpness and he treated life with a seriousness he once lacked, he still made jokes and teased me and tickled my children. On leave from his regiment, he invited us to a Springtide masquerade at Kikin Hall, a mansion built during the reign of Peter the Great. Over and over, he assured me Masha would be safe: the ball was held early in the evening to suit the schedule of the cavalry units and their families stationed nearby. She was sure to find people her own age milling about. This was precisely what I feared—she would find a pretty boy of her age and who knew what trouble—but at least this way I could keep an eye on her. And truth be told, I wanted to assemble a new costume.