The Lost Souls of Angelkov

by Linda Holeman

  Lilya didn’t know. When she held Mikhail, she did remember the feel of her own babies in her arms, but they had both been sickly and endlessly wailing. She’d had to go back to work in the fields with one strapped to her back and the other to her front when they were only days old. At night she was so exhausted that she wept as she fed them, trying to keep them quiet so their cries didn’t wake Soso and anger him. She was grateful to Lyosha; he always helped, holding and jiggling one of the howling infants while she was busy with the other. He also did simple tasks like stirring the kasha on the stove so it didn’t burn, and gathering and bringing in small baskets of dried dung to keep the fire going.

  Now she felt something almost like sadness as she watched Antonina’s joy. She wished she could have known some of this gratification with her babies. She had studied their wee faces and wispy hair. The one who had died last had begun to laugh, and Lilya recalled how that had always given her a small start of pleasure. But it had been so difficult for her to keep up with the work in the fields and in the izba, and to make sure Soso was satisfied. After the second little one was buried, she had had her first full night’s sleep in months. She awoke in the morning with a heavy spirit, but also a quiet relief.

  It was so different for Antonina, she knew, as she watched the other woman rest in her wide, clean bed with Tinka at her feet, reading and sipping tea with her baby beside her. She watched Antonina instantly put down her book and teacup when the child made the tiniest squeak, picking him up and covering his small face with kisses. Lilya knew what Antonina would like to hear, and so she told her mistress that yes, this was normal, that Antonina had fallen in love with her baby, as nature meant it to be. “Love for a child is perhaps the only real love a woman knows in life, madam, apart from love for God.”

  Antonina looked at her. “Yes, love for your child and for God.” She didn’t want to ask Lilya if she thought it possible to feel such deep love for a man.

  Most nights, when Konstantin either was entertaining friends or had gone off, saying he had business on the estate to attend to, Antonina would have Lilya stay with her while she gave Mikhail his last feeding.

  Lilya knew, as did all the other staff, that Konstantin spent some of his evenings with the laundress. She wondered if Antonina had any idea what her husband was up to.

  One night, when the baby was three months old, Antonina was lying in bed with him in the crook of her arm. He had just been fed and was asleep, his lips still pursed. Antonina was reading, holding a book with her free hand. Lilya sat in a chair nearby, making tiny stitches in a lacy gown of Mikhail’s.

  Antonina dropped the book onto the bedcover. “My eyes are tired. I want you to read to me, Lilya.”

  Lilya looked up and shrugged. “You know I can’t read.”

  “I’ll teach you,” Antonina said. “We will start in a few weeks, when Mishenka is into more of a routine.” She kissed his head.

  “As you wish, Tosya,” Lilya answered, going back to her sewing. “I would be happy to learn to read if you wish me to, although in my life I have never seen the need for it.”

  “You should read, Lilya,” Antonina said matter-of-factly, gesturing at a pile of books on her table.

  Lilya glanced up from the baby’s gown again. “My life leaves no time for such things.”

  “Then I will give you more time. I’ll have one of the other women take over some of the things you do for me, like that—the sewing—and then you could have time to read. You can find out about so many things in the world when you read.”

  Lilya kept stitching. Finally she said, “There’s no need for me to know anything more than what I know.” Antonina leaned forward, but before she could respond, Lilya continued, “What good would it do me to know more, when my world is here, Tosya? Would it not bring me unhappiness to know what there is beyond the mud of the villages, beyond the streams and rivers, beyond the boundaries of the estate, when I will never have more than this?” She met Antonina’s gaze.

  The sleeping baby snuffled, his eyebrows twitching, and Antonina sat back. “But Lilya, there might be a time, someday, when there are more opportunities. You know of the talk of proposals for emancipation. If this ever comes about—”

  Lilya put up her hand and Antonina stopped. “I prefer that you don’t speak to me of these things, Tosya. I prefer to live my life as it is. I prefer not to …” She frowned as if annoyed with herself, or perhaps with Antonina.

  “You prefer not to imagine anything more than what you have today. You have no other dream?” Antonina wondered if Lilya still thought of the convent.

  Lilya nipped the thread with her teeth and put the needle back into the pincushion. “This is my dream. This is what I dreamed of. And now I have it.” Still holding the little gown, she stared at Antonina. “Do you understand? I have everything I want, here, in this room, Tosya.”

  Antonina was unnerved by the intensity of Lilya’s look, but then the baby let out a sudden wail and she turned her attention to him.

  Grisha knew it was Antonina he should be grateful to for his new life. When the count ordered him to his study and told him there might be an opportunity to take over Gleb’s position as steward, Grisha had been astounded. It was the most coveted position for a free man with no title and no land.

  “My wife feels you would make a more respectful and even-tempered steward than Gleb,” the count said. “Change on the estate is good. The serfs may perform at a higher level with someone new. The salary is much higher than what I pay you as a cooper,” he added. “Are you interested?”

  “Yes, Count Mitlovsky. I can assure you I would take such responsibilities with the utmost seriousness.”

  Konstantin nodded. “My wife tells me you read.”

  “Russian and French.”

  “French?”

  Grisha wondered if he’d taken it too far. “Only a little,” he lied. “And I will learn accounting skills, should they be necessary.”

  “Yes, yes. I won’t find another position for Gleb until you’ve proven you’re worthy of the job. We’ll try you for two weeks.”

  Grisha knew the next two weeks would not be easy, with Gleb knowing he and his wife might be moved to another estate in favour of Grisha. Then again, it was Count Mitlovsky who was in charge of Gleb’s future, not Grisha.

  Grisha quickly proved to the count that not only was he more astute at accounting than Gleb, but he complained less. He handled immediate problems with the serfs on his own, without constantly coming to the count to drone on about small issues and ask for direction.

  Two weeks later, he moved into the steward’s pleasant house and immediately painted the shutters blue, like the wooden house in Chita where he’d grown up. In place of the vegetables in the garden, he planted cherry and apple trees. He built shelves for the books he had brought with him from Siberia and those he had collected since, as well as others the countess lent to him, believing he would enjoy a particular author. He slept alone at night for the first time in his life apart from those months he’d travelled through Siberia, when the sky was his roof.

  And yet he continued to carry a deep sense of restlessness. He believed it was because he was still a slave to another man’s whims. He considered Konstantin beneath him in intelligence, and this was hard to bear as well. After Grisha had been steward for a year, the count told him he was weary of sneaking about the manor with Tania and wouldn’t lower himself to go to her room in the servants’ quarters. He wanted to use Grisha’s house once a week. Grisha was aghast and disgusted. But what could he say? The count did not own him, but he owned the house.

  Certainly these factors played a part in Grisha’s unrest. But a part of it was also loneliness. After working so hard to feel nothing, Grigori Sergeyevich Naryshkin was incapable of recognizing that he was lonely.

  Antonina gave thanks in her daily prayers for finding Lilya again. But she was sorry their friendship had to remain hidden. Only when they were alone in her bedchamber could she and Lilya ta
lk in the old way. There Lilya could call her Tosya instead of countess or madam, and speak to her with some of her old frankness. Occasionally, when Lilya spontaneously laughed over Misha’s antics, Antonina thought she was almost like the girl she had been in the forest.

  She wondered about Lilya’s life outside her bedchamber, but Lilya made it clear she wouldn’t talk about Soso. She did, however, often speak of Lyosha with pride, telling Antonina how strong he was growing, and how he was being given more and more responsibility in the stables.

  One morning, as Lilya smiled, smoothing Misha’s fair hair with the palm of her hand, Antonina asked, “What of you, Lilya? Do you hope to have more children?”

  Lilya stopped smiling, although she continued to run her hand over Misha’s hair. “I hope not. I don’t want any more.”

  “Really?” She put her hand on Lilya’s arm. “You will always be my maid, even if you have more children. I promise you that. And I want you to feel happiness again, as I do with my Misha.”

  When Lilya said nothing, Antonina insisted, “Surely you don’t mean you don’t want any more children. What about Soso? Doesn’t he want a son, like all men?”

  Lilya shrugged, and the conversation ended.

  Lilya was glad that Antonina needed her to stay with her through the nights while the baby was so small. But as he grew older and Antonina told her she should return to her room with Soso in the servants’ quarters, Lilya still found excuses to stay late. She did not like relations with Soso any more than she had when they were first married. She tried to make sure that when she returned to their room Soso was in a deep, snoring sleep, and didn’t roll over onto her.

  She knew that the fewer times a month she had to submit, the fewer the chances of ever being caught with child again. She despised having to open her legs to him.

  Antonina did not know that just as she dreamed of Valentin Vladimirovitch to help her yield to her wifely duty on the nights when her husband moved heavily over her, Lilya envisioned the long, pale neck of the beautiful countess.

  It’s now early September. Mikhail’s birthday had passed at the end of June, but there has been no more word. Over and over Antonina questions Grisha. What did that man Lev say when you beat him for answers? Why didn’t you follow him and see where he went? You could have waited, watched his home. He had the ransom money. Someone would have come for it.

  And just as Antonina badgers him with the same questions, Grisha has the same answers: I couldn’t get any more out of him. He moves from village to village; he has no home. He is only the messenger, others are involved. He knows nothing more. We must be patient, countess.

  Patient? How can she be any more patient?

  Life at the estate itself has grown even more difficult. Konstantin is a shambling ghost of his former self. He prowls about the house, shouting at the servants, calling them the wrong names, and accusing them of theft and insubordination. They try to stay out of his way, crossing themselves when they see him. None of the women want to go into his room to clean except Tania, and he refuses to be seen by the doctor. Pavel is the only person he will allow near him, but he won’t let his faithful manservant help him bathe or change his clothing. His hair has grown long and greasy, his beard matted with food. He swears that his son is dead, and sometimes wanders in the cemetery looking for his grave.

  Over the summer, their closest neighbours, Prince and Princess Bakanev, came to Angelkov three times. Each time Antonina made excuses that the count was resting, offering refreshments and trying to keep track of the princess’s gossip-filled conversations while hoping Konstantin didn’t begin to shout from upstairs during the visit. Other estate owners in the province have sent notes full of sympathy about Mikhail, asked after the count’s health and offered invitations to Antonina. She has politely written back that it is a difficult time, and she will look forward to visiting at a later date.

  After a while, the invitations become infrequent.

  More and more of the former serfs are leaving Angelkov—not only because emancipation has freed them from any legal obligation or responsibility to their former owner, but because their former owner has gone mad. The last of the rubles in the strongbox have run out and Antonina cannot pay them anything. Most would rather try to create new lives for themselves than live on in the disturbing atmosphere of Angelkov.

  As each comes to Antonina to say he or she is leaving, Antonina says goodbye and thanks them for their faithful service. She gives them each a small gift: for the girls and women, one of her own pretty shawls or a tortoiseshell comb or bottle of scent; for the men, something of Konstantin’s, a pair of monogrammed handkerchiefs or a linen shirt.

  She makes the sign of the cross on their foreheads. Some of the women cry, and she holds their hands for a moment, trying to smile, wishing them well.

  The house feels larger, emptier and quieter except for Konstantin’s sporadic outbursts. In the evening, when the air stills, Antonina can hear the distant sound of the peasants labouring in the fields: their calls and whistles, the steady rhythm of the scythes. The sky is light until quite late, and they work until darkness falls.

  Those who remain at Angelkov—the ones who have decided they would rather work for a roof over their heads and the surety of meals—struggle to bring in the garden harvest. Raisa reports to Antonina that they may not get it all in before the first frost. She doesn’t have enough help with the kitchen work: salting the cucumbers and putting them into huge brine-filled crocks; picking fruits from the orchard to make jams and compotes or to preserve as conserves; digging up potatoes and other root vegetables and putting them in sacks to be stored in bins in the cool, dark root cellars; curing pork and sides of beef; drying mushrooms—all the work necessary to stock the manor for the winter. Raisa is a tall, solid woman with thick arms and strong hands. She is usually cheerful. Now her face is constantly creased with worry.

  As Angelkov starts to crumble without the hundreds of hands needed to keep it running effectively, Antonina hears that the serfs outside the estate are gaining power.

  The world she knows is dying. She has no choice but to find a new way to live.

  Life has also changed for Lilya.

  She and Lyosha are working side by side in the garden, digging out the last turnips. Regardless of their former duties, whoever is available carries out the necessary jobs.

  “Lilya,” Lyosha says as they both straighten to take a drink of water, “what do you suppose will happen?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How long can the count and countess remain at Angelkov?” He gestures towards the manor. “Without enough staff to care for it, soon it will fall into disrepair, and then ruin. They must be making a plan to leave, to go live somewhere else.”

  Lilya studies him. “The countess hasn’t spoken of it to me. As for the count …” She shrugs. “He’s as useless as dead. Why? Do you know something?”

  “No,” he says, but Lilya sees his discomfort.

  “The countess will find a way to hire back some of the servants, even if it takes time,” she says. “Things will be as they once were.” Not quite. Not without Misha. Not with the count as he is. But she and Antonina will work together to recreate what they can of the former life at Angelkov. The two of them, together.

  Lyosha runs his palm over the handle of the spade, shaking his head. “Things can never be the same, Lilya. You know that.”

  “They will,” Lilya insists. “With you here, as always, and me—”

  Lyosha interrupts her. “I plan to marry, sister.”

  Lilya drops her spade and looks at him, her mouth open. She gives a hoarse croak, as if trying to laugh. Her face is bathed in sweat in the warm fall air. “Marry? Who would you marry? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m going to marry Anya Fomovna.”

  Lilya blinks, thinking. “Anya Fomovna?” Not the whey-faced girl from the village? Her?

  “Yes.”

  “Stop speaking nonsense. She’s n
ot good enough for you.”

  Lyosha knew his sister wouldn’t take his announcement well, and wasn’t looking forward to telling her. He’d been waiting for the last few weeks to find the right time, and finally realized there would be no right time. “Don’t speak of her like that,” he says. “You don’t know her at all.”

  “I know she’s a peasant. I didn’t raise you to marry a peasant.” Lilya’s voice is louder, angry.

  “What do you mean? We’re peasants, Lilya. Who do you expect me to marry?”

  Lilya’s voice drops, the anger gone as quickly as it had flared up. “I just … I haven’t thought of you marrying.”

  “You still think of me as your little brother, but I’m coming twenty. It’s time for me to start my own life, my own family.”

  At that, Lilya grabs hold of him. “I’m your family. Me, Lyosha.”

  Lyosha takes her hands and smiles. “We’ll always be family, Lilya. You’re my sister, and you know how grateful I am to you. But it’s time for me to have a wife. You have Soso. He’ll surely send for you soon, won’t he?”

  Lilya stares back at him. “Soso? Good riddance to him. But … have you already set a date? Has the wedding been arranged behind my back?”

  Lyosha lets go of her hands. “You won’t go to your husband when he’s ready for you?”

  “I hope never to see that pig again. This is my home. The countess needs me. But I asked you—is the wedding arranged?”

  “No. But I’ve been to visit Anya at her family’s izba many times over the last year, and she’s happy to have me as a husband, Lilya. I’ve also spoken to her father about marrying her. All I ask from you now is your blessing, and then I’ll speak to the countess, and ask for her permission that Anya come and live with me in the married servants’ quarters. Perhaps she can help Raisa in the kitchen for the next little while.”