Antonina remained motionless.
“Well. This is an interesting turn of events,” her father said, reaching for a cigar. He clipped the end. “For once, my daughter has no opinion: Antonina Leonidovna Olonova, with nothing to say for herself.” He lit the end of the cigar, puffing vigorously.
His daughter had no idea how desperate he was, how unmarriageable she might soon be.
For the last few years Prince Olonov had managed to hide the grave errors he had made with his finances. His expenses were astronomical. The cost of running the estate was huge in itself, and he also had the grand house in St. Petersburg to support, along with his wife’s rampant spending. He supplemented the incomes of all his sons, and Dimitri had lost huge amounts of money in gambling that he’d had to clear. Taxes to the government were high, and he was far in arrears. He was deeply in debt.
He had taken note of Count Mitlovsky’s interest in his daughter since the count’s bereavement. He explained to his old friend that he would be happy to have Antonina Leonidovna become his wife, but that with the crushing expenses he was incurring he could no longer supply the significant dowry expected for such a marriage.
Konstantin Mitlovsky had nodded, telling the prince that due to their long-standing friendship, and because fortune had smiled on him for the last number of years, he had no need of a dowry. The gift of the prince’s lively daughter was certainly enough to satisfy him. So eager was he to have a young and fertile wife that he had agreed to purchase a number of versts from an estate that adjoined the prince’s property. He would make a gift of these, along with the one hundred or more serfs living there, to the prince. The waning Olonov fortunes would be increased.
When the prince brought this up with his wife, she agreed completely. Antonina’s mother was more than anxious to have her daughter taken to another man’s home.
She didn’t care about Antonina’s moods or wayward behaviour; she wasn’t around to notice what her only daughter got up to. She was more concerned that the girl, although not conventionally beautiful, had a certain charm, and that comparisons would inevitably be drawn between a beauty past its prime and one coming into full flower. For the last two years she had not allowed her daughter to stand beside her in the receiving line when she welcomed guests to the house in St. Petersburg or at the country manor.
This unfortunate merging of Prince Olonov’s financial losses and his wife’s self-absorbed fears created Antonina’s destiny.
Antonina did not go quietly into the arranged marriage. She protested to her mother, beseeched her father, and threatened to run off. She was bluffing, and her parents knew it; where would Antonina go? Still, she used every verbal tactic she possessed to persuade them that she did not wish to be married to Count Mitlovsky. It did no good: both the prince and princess knew that this was their only opportunity to carry on in the manner to which they were accustomed.
Besides, they told each other, Antonina would become almost unmarriageable as she approached twenty. It would be cruel to condemn her to the life of a spinster, living with her parents or her brothers’ families. This was a fate no woman wished. They were helping their daughter, as any concerned parents would, they said to each other in a rare show of harmony, shaking their heads at their daughter’s ungrateful spirit.
The wedding was to take place in the city of Pskov. Count Mitlovsky’s request was that the ceremony be held in the grand and picturesque Trinity Cathedral within the medieval walls of the citadel. Pskov was only a three-hour carriage ride from his estate of Polnokove, and he didn’t wish to travel the nearly three hundred kilometres farther to St. Petersburg, as the princess had hoped. She’d wanted all of St. Petersburg society to see her daughter married to the wealthy Count Mitlovsky, but agreed with her husband that they must not argue over any of the count’s suggestions. There wouldn’t be another offer such as his for their unruly daughter.
Two days before the wedding, during the final fitting, Antonina spilled a glass of claret down the front of her wedding gown, a costly effort designed by her mother and stitched by the finest seamstresses Pskov had to offer. The ruby liquid irreparably stained the bodice and voluminous skirt all the way to the hem. Why she had held the claret during the fitting was odd to the seamstresses, and how she had been clumsy enough to tip the full glass on herself was a mystery.
Princess Olonova had screamed as the claret spilled, and had then slapped Antonina across the face. The many seamstresses stood with open looks of horror on their faces. Which were they more shocked at: the ruining of the gown they had worked on for over two months, sewing thousands of tiny seed pearls over the entire skirt and train, or the behaviour of the supposedly well-bred woman?
Antonina didn’t react to the slap. She’d apologized to her mother and the seamstresses, saying that surely the wedding would have to be postponed, as there was no time to make another gown. In a harsh whisper that nevertheless carried to all the dressmakers, her mother said, “Don’t think I am so stupid as to not recognize what you are doing.” She then handsomely bribed the head dressmaker to give them another young woman’s almost finished gown. It was a beautiful tulle, and while not as glorious as the original, it would do.
It did not fit Antonina, too tight in the bodice and too loose at the waist, but there wasn’t time to fix it.
Count Konstantin Nikolevich Mitlovsky and Princess Antonina Leonidovna Olonova were married at the soaring cathedral in Pskov in September 1849. As the priest droned on and on about vows and commitments, Antonina was aware of a breathlessness, caused, she was sure, by the tightness of the bodice with its many satin-covered buttons. She thought about the young woman who had lost her wedding gown due to her own childish behaviour, and was ashamed of herself. She hadn’t planned to ruin anyone else’s wedding, just her own.
Later, she saw the hard, pleased look on her mother’s face as she kissed her daughter after the ceremony and wished her a fruitful life on the far-off estate of Polnokove.
Antonina’s father’s expression was somehow uncertain, although covered by a jovial smile.
She didn’t let herself think about the night ahead.
Count Mitlovsky and the new Countess Mitlovskiya spent their first night together in the sumptuous suite of an inn overlooking the lovely Velikaya River that ran through Pskov.
A maid had helped her out of her gown and into the ribboned, high-necked, long-sleeved ecru silk nightdress.
Exhausted by the stress of the day and her anxiety about what was to come, Antonina climbed into the wide bed and sat there, her hair still piled on her head and threaded with strings of tiny lustrous pearls in the elaborate arrangement that had held her veil.
She was certain she wouldn’t fall asleep but did almost immediately, propped against the pile of lacy pillows. When there was a quiet knock on the door between the two adjoining bedrooms, Antonina was startled awake. “Yes,” she said, blinking, and cleared her throat. “Yes,” she repeated, a little louder. “Come in.”
Konstantin entered and stood awkwardly beside the bed in his nightshirt and robe and slippers. “Are you comfortable, my dear?” he asked, wiping his lips and moustache with a handkerchief he pulled from the pocket of his robe.
“Yes, thank you,” Antonina said.
“It was a fine wedding,” he said then, putting the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Don’t you think?”
“Yes, very fine.”
“I thought that we would go to the Monastery of the Caves tomorrow, just outside the city, if it suits you. It’s very interesting. Pilgrims come from all over Russia to see its wonders.”
Antonina nodded, although what would suit her would have been to be back in her bedroom surrounded by her familiar things: her many books of history, fiction and poetry, her sketches of horses hung on the walls, her atlas and memoirs of adventurers’ depictions of exotic, faraway places, and, most especially right now, the flask of vodka hidden behind the padded window-seat cushion. Although she had drunk two glasses of wine a
t the wedding dinner, Konstantin had, she noticed, given a sign to the server that she not be given any more.
She was trembling ever so slightly, as though a cold breeze blew through the open window, chilling her. However, it was a beautiful, warm autumn evening, and there was no breeze.
“Immediately after breakfast, we’ll go back to Trinity Cathedral. I always start the day with prayer, as I’m sure you do,” he said. “You’ll enjoy my Church of the Redeemer at Polnokove. I insist on daily morning Masses for the house serfs, and of course ourselves and visitors. It’s quite a beautiful chapel. I had the stained glass imported from Italy.”
Antonina didn’t answer. She did go to Sunday Mass on her father’s estate, and said her prayers at night to her icons, but that was all she’d ever done in the way of observance.
“And directly after we’ve enjoyed the Mass, we’ll have the carriage take us to the Pskov Gardens before driving out of the city to the monastery. It’s still early enough in the fall for the colours to be bright. The following day, you can visit a dressmaker. I’m sure you’d like that.”
“But I don’t need anything,” Antonina said.
Konstantin smiled. “Need? But I know women, my dear. It’s not a question of need. Surely you will want to have some new clothing made, and perhaps purchase some jewellery before we return to Polnokove.”
Antonina nodded then, thinking it best to agree, at least for tonight, but she had no intention of spending any time in Pskov being fitted for more gowns. She had spent enough time in that pursuit over the last few months with her mother in St. Petersburg. Her father had scolded Galina Maximova, telling her that the count would have a new wardrobe fashioned for his wife and there was no reason to spend any more. As usual, Princess Olonova ignored him, and gleefully filled box after box with new gowns and hats and slippers and gloves and cloaks for her daughter. It was the first time, Antonina thought, that her mother appeared to be enjoying time spent with her.
Antonina’s new nightclothes alone filled a trunk.
“But there is something I’d like,” she said to the count. “A dog.” After the unhappiness surrounding her short time with Sezja, she had never again brought up having her own puppy.
“A dog? But of course. You shall have whatever dog you wish.”
“Thank you.” She smiled at her husband.
He smiled back.
Now she waited. She could smell Konstantin’s moustache wax, and the slight, lingering odour of cigar smoke, which reminded her of her father. She didn’t want to think of anything but sleep. She wanted to be left alone.
“May I extinguish the lamps, my angel?” Konstantin asked.
“Yes,” Antonina said, but the word came out flannelled, as though a filmy web coated her larynx. Again she cleared her throat. “Yes, of course,” she said, more firmly.
As each of the lamps was turned further down, then off, the room was left in darkness but for a faint line of light showing between the curtains over the wide windows. Antonina closed her eyes, and opened them to see Konstantin’s shape climbing into her bed.
She moved to the far side, holding her breath when he pulled back the bedclothes. When Konstantin lay down on his back, Antonina did the same. Her neck was tense, and her ankle itched. The white satin ribbons on her wedding slippers had been tied too tightly. Where she had been chilled only moments earlier, now she felt too warm, but she didn’t want to move.
The silence stretched. She thought that maybe Konstantin had fallen asleep. She listened to his breathing, but didn’t know what he would sound like if he was asleep. She eventually closed her own eyes, and felt her anxiety ebbing. Her itchy ankle annoyed her. Sleepily she reached down to scratch it, and at the same time there was a movement and rustle of the bedclothes. Konstantin found her face in the dark, and put his lips against hers.
His moustache tickled, and the fruity smell of the wax was strong. Konstantin moved his lips, opening them slightly. She kept hers firmly shut, and let him kiss her. More than anything, she was afraid the smell of the wax would make her sneeze.
Finally he stopped kissing her, moving his lips to somewhere between her cheek and her ear, and gently put his hand on her breast. She froze. He left it there for a long moment, squeezing it a bit as though testing for something, and then his fingers grew still.
“May I?” he said, and she didn’t know what he was asking permission for.
When he waited, she said, “Yes.”
He slowly moved to lie on top of her. “Is that all right, my dear?”
It wasn’t all right. He was heavy, but again Antonina said, “Yes.”
Konstantin did everything slowly, tentatively, as if Antonina was very fragile, or he was very uncertain.
He planted his lower body between her legs, forcing them apart, and fumbled to pull up her nightdress to just above her knees. She drew in her breath at the sensation of the hair on his legs, scratchy against hers. And then she stayed immobile, hardly breathing, as if by her held breath and stiff body she could preserve herself. His stomach pressed her further into the soft mattress as he rhythmically moved against her, and she also felt the warmth from his flesh between her thighs, even though the fabric of their nightclothes was between them. This rubbing through their nightclothes seemed to go on and on; she kept her eyes closed and took small gulps of air when she could no longer hold her breath.
But at one point, she opened her eyes. What she saw made her close them again immediately. Konstantin’s face was so close that even though the room was dark, she could make out his features. His eyes were closed, and there was a look of concentration on his face, as if he were contemplating a deep philosophical question. For that moment, in the dark, strange room, she was suddenly frightened—not exactly of Konstantin, but more of a sensation of imprisonment, of this intimacy with a near stranger.
A distressed moan forced itself from between her clenched lips, and she struggled, pushing her hands against Konstantin’s chest. His eyes flew open, and his expression changed, becoming familiar. He rolled off her with a sigh that was weighty.
“I’m sorry, Antonina Leonidovna,” he said quietly. His apology confused her. “We are both tired. I’ll let you sleep. Good night,” he said, “my angel.” It was the second time he had addressed her in this way. He rose and pulled down his nightshirt. Slipping on his heavy robe, he left the room.
Antonina was at first relieved that she hadn’t been made a true wife; the thought of the act with Konstantin had worried her. But once he was gone, and she was alone and able to turn over and let sleep come to her, she felt a stab of sadness. She had wanted to feel something. She had dealt with her wedding night the way she had learned to deal with the physical pursuits her brothers had forced onto her as a child. Perhaps the closest she could come to describing her feelings for those long, unpleasant moments was being held under water, holding her breath and waiting to surface.
She thought of her mother, moving atop the violinist with such obvious satisfaction. She thought of Valentin Vladimirovitch’s face as he had stared at her over her mother’s shoulder.
She wondered whether Valentin ever thought of her.
Antonina found it awkward to greet Konstantin the next morning in the private dining room reserved for the newlyweds, but he acted as though all was normal. He questioned the server about the freshness of the thinly sliced veal, then smiled at her across the table. She forced herself to return his smile.
Later, after the morning Mass, as they were walking through the pretty allée of ornamental trees in the Pskov Gardens, Konstantin said, “As a gentleman, it’s probably not best that I bring this up, but I’m sorry that last night was … as it was. Although I suppose the blame can be placed on the fact that you are young.”
“It was my fault?” Antonina said, trying not to sound too indignant. The air smelled peppery from the many marigolds still in bloom.
“You’re pleasant-looking enough, but too slight, too fair. I prefer a taller, stronger woman,
like my late wife.”
Antonina stopped, so surprised that she didn’t have time to be hurt. She thought of his mannish, raw-boned wife.
Konstantin stopped as well, pulling a small knife from his pocket. He opened it and looked down at his fingernails. “You are not yet very interesting, Tosya.” Antonina stiffened at the insult. “Although I know that you are highly accomplished at the piano”—he paused—“you are still inexperienced and empty.” He pared the nails of his left hand, speaking as casually as if he had just announced that he didn’t like horseradish. “One can only hope you’ll become less ordinary as you mature.”
Antonina stared at him, heat spreading through her, slowly at first, like fire under moss. But then it caught, flaring up with a kind of relief, and she moved from beside him to in front of him. “How can you say this to me?”
Konstantin gave her no more than an unconcerned glance, then held his hand in front of him, surveying his fingernails.
“You believe I’m empty? Empty?” The word hit a sharp staccato note. A couple strolling by looked at them, then hurried on. “Empty as in a fool, as in stupid, with no more brains than a sturgeon? If you thought that, then why did you reward my father so handsomely for me? Why, Konstantin Nikolevich?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “I am sorry you feel that way, husband. That I am somehow to blame for what was clearly difficult for both of us in the bed.”
He put away his knife. “That’s enough, Antonina,” he said in a low tone. “Decent people don’t discuss such private details.”
But Antonina wasn’t finished. “You are the one who brought it up. I can no more change my physical self than that statue,” she said, gesturing to a marble figure in the middle of a circle of begonias, “but you and I both know that you are very wrong about my intelligence. There’s no need to be mean-spirited simply because you’re disappointed.” Softer than before, she carried on. “As for how I felt while you lay on me last night, you might consider—”
The Lost Souls of Angelkov Page 15