The Lost Season of Love and Snow

by Jennifer Laam

  Using pieces I had once worn to dress as Queen Esther, I fashioned an ensemble after an old painting of the biblical Rebecca by Benjamin West: loose silvery gown, blue scarf tied around my waist, orange cloak, and my hair done full up front and then down one side of my shoulders in a long braid. I lost hours and then days to sewing and fittings and giggling with Liza over the low-cut bodice, always the fashion of court, it seemed. Not that I would be the center of attention. Masha dressed as Little Bo Peep from the English story in white pantaloons, short blue dress, and matching poke bonnet, with a shepherd’s staff to accessorize. She looked adorable.

  The horses came to a halt now before a three-sided, gabled entrance to the hall. After we made our way inside, I let Masha roam as she wished as long as she checked in with me every hour. She agreed, patted my arm, and bolted out of my sight.

  I hesitated. The way she touched my arm and tapped her shepherd’s staff to the floor. Even the lively mazurka melody, the chatter of conversation, the scent of savory pastries heaped on side tables, mingling with men’s cologne and candlewax. Everything reminded me of Alexander. I spotted a large fern in a pot and half-fancied I would see my husband step out from behind it, a sherbet or some other iced treat in hand, calling my name and steering me to a secluded spot so that he might steal a kiss or share a ribald joke.

  So many years had passed and still his image remained fresh and alive in my mind, though I clung to no delusions. I was here and Alexander was gone. Only his spirit, the sense of him about, remained with me and I had learned to be satisfied with that, even at my loneliest.

  I found Sergey and greeted him with a warm hug. My brother stood next to a tall, slender, clean-shaven gentleman. From the gray at his temples and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, I guessed the man was past forty. Even so, he had an impish, almost boyish look I found appealing, and his laugh was so jolly I had heard it even from across the room.

  When Sergey formally introduced me to his friend, Peter Lanskoy’s good-natured eyes lit with interest. I did not sense the world shift beneath my feet, as I had when I first met Alexander. Still, I had noticed him and even smiled when I saw the glint of admiration in his eyes. I had not received such attention in a long time, and I confess, it gave me great pleasure.

  We found a divanto the side of the dance floor and talked for an hour. Nothing complicated, nor earth shattering. I learned Peter was forty-five and a career soldier; from the reflective nature of his conversation, I intuited he had reached a stage in life where he wished to focus his attention on one woman and the comforts of a domestic life. I was in need of such focus. The more we talked, the more I realized this amicable tête-à-tête—with a fellow neither rattled, nor offended with ease—was exactly what I needed. I even asked him to fetch one of the hearty potato and mushroom–filled piroshki I had spied on the side tables. When Masha came by to check in, I waved her away with a pleasant nod and nibbled on the stuffed bun, trying not to burn my tongue.

  Peter watched Masha’s black curls, held loosely back from her face by the poke bonnet, as she returned to a group of giggling girls. “Your daughter is a beauty.”

  Thankfully, I detected no hint of entitlement in his voice. It had been an innocent observation. Everything about Peter seemed innocent, despite his age. I paused midbite. “She looks a pretty little mirror of her father. If he shaves his whiskers and attends a masquerade ball as a woman, they might pass for twins.”

  Peter grew quiet and looked uncomfortably at the slanted tiles beneath us on the floor. I set the piroshki down on its china plate, appetite suddenly gone. I had spoken of Alexander as though he yet lived, a mistake I hadn’t made in years.

  “I hope you won’t think this rude, but I wanted to ask about your late husband.”

  I stared at the half-eaten pastry, bracing myself for questions. Our entire meeting could have been a ruse to convince me to relate scandals of years past. Aunt Katya had warned me of unscrupulous writers who wished to tell stories of the end of Alexander’s life in the most shameful manner, and Peter could have been dispatched to cajole me to utter a careless revelation, some tidbit that might make for a fine addition to a tawdry novel to be sold abroad.

  “I didn’t intend to raise the subject,” I told Peter primly, making a subtle move away from him on the divan. “I don’t care to speak of Alexander at length.”

  Peter’s cheeks colored, and he looked even more like a younger man, despite the gray. “I did not intend to offend you, Madame Pushkina. It is only … you see…”

  He was stammering now and I waved my hand to encourage him, the way I did with Grisha or Sasha when they stole cookies and were oh-so close to confession. “I see what?”

  “It is only that I am an admirer of his work,” Peter blurted at last. “I followed Onegin, of course, but my favorite is The Captain’s Daughter.”

  I smiled, but the contentment I had felt a moment ago had vanished. Once again, I was valued only for my relation to another human being, not for myself. Still, this Peter Lanskoy had good taste. The Captain’s Daughter was one of Alexander’s last works, set at the time of Pugachev’s Rebellion, with a love affair between a man also named Peter and a woman named Masha. Perhaps he had his eyes on my daughter, despite her youth, after all. “Did you wish to speak with me only to hear tales of my late husband?”

  Peter was still blushing. He set his china plate on the floor so that he could take my hand in his and squeeze it. “I wished to speak to you because you are the most beautiful woman in this room. I suspect you are the most beautiful woman in every room. That doesn’t mean I love Pushkin’s work more or any less. But it seemed … inappropriate to mention it from the start.”

  I allowed his hand to linger on mine. “You didn’t want me to catch you reading Alexander’s tales behind my back? Under the covers at night when you should be asleep?”

  He laughed a little, but did not respond. Alexander would have thought of something sly to say in response, and we would have enjoyed our banter for another quarter of an hour at least. Peter was a different sort. That was all right. Now that I understood his intent, I was glad he had brought up Alexander. I could not dwell forever in the past, but neither could I embark on this new phase of life without speaking of him at all.

  As I left the ball, I felt Alexander’s presence once more. He had asked me to mourn for two years and I had now been alone for nearly seven. Peter Lanskoy was a pleasant distraction, but no threat to his memory. Beyond that, he was a reader, and my late husband deemed no quality more important than that. If Peter and I were meant to be together, I knew Alexander approved.

  * * *

  My wedding to Peter Lanskoy was a small affair, consisting only of my children, Azya, Sergey, Aunt Katya, and Mother, who if she had any negative opinions on this match at least had the decency to keep them to herself. Peter invited a few family members and soldiers as well, but seemed grateful enough to keep it a small affair. We agreed on such matters. We fit well together, both in our day-to-day life and when we sought comfort and pleasure from one another in the privacy of a bedroom.

  The second night after we had returned from our honeymoon, I flipped through a stack of letters while standing next to the hearth’s crackling fire, and paused at an envelope addressed to me in French. One of Ekaterina’s letters, delayed by a year from the looks of it, but as far as I was concerned ready to be stacked with the rest. I had never opened any of them.

  I tried not to follow news of Georges, but Aunt Katya hinted he was viewed with some disdain in European social circles. I think she was only trying to make me feel better. While Alexander remained well-loved in Russia, I hadn’t been asked for permission for his works to be translated into other tongues, and so had no reason to believe readers in Europe or the New World appreciated him as we did here in Russia, nor that Georges suffered for his role in Alexander’s death. I only felt sorry for the baron, who had gifted property and a title to a man he loved, only to lose him forever, sacrificed to a
hasty marriage to my sister, which ultimately did nothing to avert the duel anyway.

  A letter had arrived from the tsar as well, telling me how much he liked Peter, and how glad he thought my first husband, the great poet, would be if he knew I had found happiness once more. I smirked, past fear. As I made my way around St. Petersburg, I saw Tsar Nicholas on occasion. He walked the streets without guards, as he had walked the public gardens of Tsarskoye Selo so many years ago, still oblivious to the idea that his subjects might feel anything but love for their mighty tsar and he could be in danger. I encountered him once while shopping at an English store on Nevsky Prospect. Up close, he looked much older than he appeared on our currency and in official portraits.

  By now, I was numb to it all. Seeking justice on this earth seemed a futile endeavor. All we can do is seek momentary pleasure and leave the determination of right and wrong to whatever might await us in the hereafter.

  I crumpled the envelope with Ekaterina’s letter and then the tsar’s note into small balls and threw them both into the fire, watching them glow, bright orange and red, before dissolving to naught but ash.

  * * *

  The following week, I visited our old flat on the Moyka with a bouquet of red roses. The wind blew softly in my hair as I riffled through the reticule slung at my side to find my spectacles. It pleased me to find a slew of other flowers at the site, but I had a powerful need to be closer to him, to have a moment alone with one another, and so I knelt on the cold ground outside the flat where I had told him good-bye for the last time.

  “So I am married,” I whispered. “I’m happy, but it’s a different type of happiness than I shared with you. Peter Lanskoy is a good man and I love him, but not in the same way.”

  I bit my lip, for I was about to say something disloyal to the man I had vowed to devote myself to for the rest of my life. But once out, I would never say a word against him again.

  “He is kind and good, but he has not your wit nor your unique way of seeing the world. I will miss you until the day I die. You changed my life. You helped make me who I am today. I will keep you in my heart even as I stay loyal to Peter. I know you understand, but I needed to share with you.”

  “Madame Lanskoya!” the coachman called. “Pardon the interruption, but we need to leave now if we are to make your next appointment.”

  I touched the cold wall. “I will come back. I’ll bring our children.”

  Our next stop was the archivist’s library. I delivered the bundle of papers, tied with ribbon, to the grateful man: all of the letters Alexander had ever written to me. For years, I kept them on the little table at my bedside and read them at night, especially when I had trouble sleeping. Tolstoy and Danzas and other friends of Alexander had encouraged me to release them to the public, but the thought made me nervous, for some of Alexander’s most tender, most erotic words to me were in these letters, as well as some of our old quarrels. I was beyond caring what the world thought, but not quite to the point of inviting any further scrutiny of my personal affairs. Besides, I didn’t want to part with the private world Alexander and I shared.

  Except now I was a married woman again. The timing seemed right.

  “I know these will interest future biographers.” The archivist smiled as he set the letters on a table, reverent as a priest before an altar, and placed thin cotton gloves on his hands so that he could look at them carefully without damaging the material. His hair was thinning and he adjusted his own spectacles as he spoke. He seemed gentle and his reverence touched me. “I understand you have spoken to several people about releasing new editions of Pushkin’s collected works.”

  “My husband and I have spoken to publishers, yes.” Peter remained an avid and loyal admirer of Alexander. I wanted to make sure he remained in this conversation.

  “Did your first husband by any chance preserve your letters, Madame Lanskoya?” the archivist asked. “I am sorry to pry, but such correspondence would also be of interest.”

  I had been expecting this request and returned his smile. Alexander had saved all of my letters to him, even proudly showed me the little wooden chest where he kept them, but I could only furnish the world with so much of my heart. To tide the man over, I said: “Oh, I fear those may have been lost, but I did find one that he kept. I included it at the end.”

  The archivist nodded. “Thank you.” He hesitated. “And might you have any other writings of your own you wish to include with your husband’s work?”

  I thought of my verses and short history of Russian poetry. Those were mine alone.

  “Thank you for asking, but no.”

  I left the archivist to Alexander’s beautiful words. The past was settled and I felt confident that I had helped secure my husband’s place in the future.

  I was ready to begin the next stage of my life.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Empty-headed. Frivolous. Selfish. Slut. How often are words like these used to describe women? How many times do they accurately describe the truth of a woman’s life?

  History has proven particularly unkind to women who fall outside of the traditional norms of dutiful daughter, faithful wife, and saintly mother. Historical accounts, written largely by men, sometimes fall into the habit of ostracizing women, particularly if there is any hint of romantic or sexual “misbehavior.” And yet nothing is more fascinating than a beautiful woman with a bad reputation.

  I’ve long been intrigued with Russia’s greatest poet, Alexander Pushkin, and the circumstances behind the duel that led to the tragic end of his tumultuous life. At the center of those events? His young wife, Natalya.

  In several older portrayals of the Pushkins’ marriage, Natalya is depicted as a vacuous flirt, focused on balls and gowns and liaisons with other men, carelessly spending Alexander’s money, oblivious to his emotional pain and his genius. Natalya’s role in Alexander’s duel was a fruitful source for shaming, as allegations of her inappropriate flirtations and even a possible affair with the handsome Georges d’Anthès lingered long after Alexander’s death.

  Though Alexander himself absolved his wife of any wrongdoing, Natalya was sometimes viewed as complicit and even responsible for the duel between the great poet and his perceived rival. In an age where a man’s honor meant more than his life, some sources continued to blame Natalya for her husband’s death. By this line of thinking, a scandalous woman robbed us of whatever future works Alexander might have created, had his life not been cut prematurely short. To my mind, the tragic end of Alexander’s life and the Pushkins’ marriage is connected to a culture that presented women as delicate objects to be fought for and defended, and the pressure Alexander felt to preserve his own sense of masculinity and purpose in life.

  Fortunately, more sympathetic interpretations of Natalya’s personal story have emerged, honoring her emotional complexity and status as an intriguing historical personality. This newer interpretation of Natalya’s life, which I first found presented in a Newsweek write-up by Anna Nemtsova citing the research of Larisa Cherkashina, inspired the fictionalized version of Natalya presented in my novel.

  One issue in Natalya’s personal history which seemed keenly relevant to readers today was the question of whether or not she slept with the tsar, Nicholas I. He certainly seemed smitten with Natalya. I can’t imagine the tsar’s interest put her in anything but an incredibly uncomfortable position she would then have been forced to negotiate as best she could. Natalya did not have the benefit of the vocabulary we use to understand sexual harassment today. Still, her story might resonate with anyone who has ever been at the mercy of the romantic whims of an individual with power over their lives. In some respects, Natalya’s experiences may seem strange or even sad to us, but in other ways, the challenges she faced may seem all too familiar.

  Although this is a work of fiction, I relied heavily on the research of historians to re-imagine Natalya and Alexander’s world. In the interest of narrative flow, I made minor adjustments in the timeline, while trying
to stay faithful for the most part to the Pushkins’ lives. For English language readers interested in learning more about Natalya and Alexander, I strongly recommend T.J. Binyon’s Pushkin and Elaine Feinstein’s Pushkin. A more extensive bibliography is available on my website.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I can think of no better way to spend a scorching hot Central Valley afternoon than wandering the stacks of a university library. During the research and early writing stages of this novel, I spent several happy months at the UC Davis Shields Library, among shelves and shelves of Alexander Pushkin’s writing and books devoted to his life and times, his charming sketches, and many gorgeously rendered visual and written portraits of nineteenth-century Russia. Midway through drafting the manuscript, personal circumstances brought me back to my hometown of Stockton, where I continued to research and write in the elegant University of the Pacific William Knox Holt Memorial Library.

  I have been fortunate to enjoy the talents and expertise of early readers and editors who helped me navigate Natalya and Alexander’s complex world. As always, Melissa Jackson provided invaluable insights after reading an early draft. My agent, the ever marvelous and perceptive Erin Harris of Folio Literary Management, and reader Maya Chung helped me polish and add further depth. Editor extraordinaire Vicki Lame at St. Martin’s Griffin brought me through the final stretch of revisions with her graceful and keen observations. Copy editor Naná V. Stoelzle helped put the finishing touches on the manuscript. I am immensely grateful to Lisa Marie Pompilio, who has provided beautiful, evocative cover art for all three of my books.