The Lost Souls of Angelkov

by Linda Holeman

  “My only comfort—and this I do remember—was the certainty that one day someone big and strong would save me. I was thinking of my father, I suppose, a little boy’s dream that I would be rescued and taken home. Because I couldn’t remember my home, I naturally made it the most wonderful place one can envision.” He smiles ruefully. “Of course, nobody came. I became accustomed to the life, and grew up.

  “Now you know the rather uninspiring story of my life.” He gives a flourish of his hand and smiles at her. “I became Valentin Vladimirovitch Kropotkin. The little boy I was no longer exists, Antonina.” Her name feels delicious in his mouth. He rolls it around as though it were a sweet cherry.

  Pavel arrives with the tea tray. When he’s gone, Antonina asks Valentin how long he remained with Desyatnikov.

  “When I was fourteen years old, he sold me into an orchestra owned by Prince Yablonsky in the Smolensk province. We played at his musical evenings, and he rented us to friends and estates throughout the province and beyond.” He drinks his tea. “As we came to be at your name day fete.”

  “It’s terribly sad, Valentin.”

  “Not when you look at the lives of the villagers. Without the serf orchestra, I might have been nothing more than another labourer bent over in the fields, living a life of deprivation, never knowing the joy of music.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. And now you may play for whom you wish—where and when.”

  Valentin tries to keep the pleasant look on his face as he sets down the delicate teacup. Of course, he won’t tell her what his life is really like: the struggle to find work, to hope he will be able to afford new strings and resin as needed. What of Madame Golitsyna—has she replaced him by now? Will he have anywhere to live when he returns to St. Petersburg after his job with the Bakanevs is over? “Would you feel comfortable telling me about your son?”

  Antonina inhales and holds it. Can she talk about Misha? Valentin is sitting so still, and yet in a posture of waiting.

  “If you can, Antonina.” He says her name softly.

  “He … he turned eleven in June. He’s a musician. Like you,” she says, trying to smile. “He’s a truly gifted pianist—he’s played since he was three years old. Like an angel.” She thinks of the cherub that fell from the church roof.

  “I’m sure he inherited this brilliance from his mother.”

  She smiles. “Actually, Valentin, you remind me of him.” As she says this, she’s surprised. Had she seen it on his first visit?

  “Because I’m a musician?”

  “Well, yes, but also because of your fineness of features, and the expressiveness of your face. When did you understand that you felt music within you?”

  Valentin gives Antonina a rueful look. “That’s gone as well. I only remember playing with the other boys under Desyatnikov. But I do know that I always had an odd quality, related to music: I see colour when I hear music. I know I must have always, because occasionally a shade is like a whisper from something in my past.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Valentin’s face is animated. “Earlier in my life, I thought everyone saw it the way I did. When I hear certain sounds, I see colours. For example, when the cello plays, I see red. Depending on the ability of the cellist, the colour is clear and vibrant or in varying shades down to a rather dark and muddy burgundy. The colour pulses in the air or, if I close my eyes, inside my head.” He continues to tell her about the colours he sees for each instrument.

  “How strange and wonderful.”

  “Yes. Of course, I don’t often speak of it—it would be seen as too odd by some, those who don’t understand the power of music, and what it does to the mind. To the soul.”

  “I know that Mikhail, even as a very little boy, felt music more deeply than I have ever done,” Antonina says, and Valentin sits back.

  “How did he come to be taken?” he asks now, and Antonina blinks rapidly. Suddenly the objects in the room are too bright; they hurt her eyes. “I’m sorry. I see that I shouldn’t have asked you.”

  “Valentin,” she says. “What if Misha forgets, like you did? You said the child you were no longer exists.”

  “I’m sure I was younger than your Mikhail.”

  “Yes. Mikhail is eleven now. He won’t forget me.” Tears fill her eyes as she stands. “Will he?” She has trouble keeping her balance, and holds on to the arm of the chair.

  Valentin steps close to her, taking her hands and raising them to his lips and kissing them. “Of course he won’t. He’ll remember every lovely detail of your face. He knows his name, and the name of his estate. He will find his way back to you.”

  Antonina is moved by the compassion in his face, in his voice, and so dizzy. She holds on to him.

  “He will be found,” Valentin murmurs, putting his arms around her. “A child like yours—of the noble class, recognizable by his breeding and upbringing and talent—can’t simply disappear. He’s waiting somewhere, Antonina, perhaps playing his music.” He kisses her. His lips are warm and soft.

  But Valentin’s lips make her think of Grisha and her immorality. She is drunk again, behaving abominably. She puts her hands on his chest and pulls her face away from his.

  His arms are still around her, loosely. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Please accept my apologies. You’re so beautiful, and so sad. I want … please, I so want to alleviate your pain. I have no excuse for my behaviour but that I was carried away. By you.”

  She puts her fingers to her lips, then her throat. “I … I am not blameless. It’s a confusing time for me. All I can think of is my son,” she says, knowing this isn’t entirely true. When she thinks of Grisha, there are moments when she isn’t thinking of Mikhail. Grisha takes up so much space when he enters a room, and fills her head in the same way.

  Valentin still has his arms around her. Antonina knows she should move away.

  “I don’t know of anyone who has the power to find my boy,” she says. Again she thinks of Grisha. He has had the only contact with the kidnappers, although the last time was months ago. “Whoever returns my son, Valentin, would have my love and gratitude for life.”

  There is a muffled thump.

  Antonina pulls away from Valentin to see Lilya standing in the doorway. Three logs are at her feet; she still holds two.

  Lilya has been in the doorway long enough to see Valentin Vladimirovitch with his arms around Antonina. Did she see the kiss? She has heard what Antonina just told him.

  “Excuse me, madam,” she says, kneeling to pick up the logs.

  Whoever returns my son would have my love and gratitude, Lilya repeats in her head. For life.

  This is what Lilya has always wanted from Antonina.

  The next day, Lilya again sends for Grisha. This time there is no vodka, no plate of delicacies. As soon as he steps in the back entrance, she beckons with her head towards the pantry. In the alcove, she says, “We must do something.”

  “Tell me what happened last night,” Grisha says. Without waiting for her answer, he adds, “He stayed?”

  “The Bakanevs’ coachman spent the evening in the kitchen, waiting to drive Kropotkin back,” she tells him. “Kropotkin couldn’t use the excuse of the cold to stay.” She looks for something on Grisha’s face, but it shows nothing. “Anyway, he told me that Kropotkin’s position could go on indefinitely.” She leans against a shelf and crosses her arms.

  Grisha notices Lilya’s hair. She’s pinned it up at the back, and has cut wisps that hang around her face. She’s trying to wear her hair as Antonina does. “Go on,” he says.

  “The princess’s sister has decided she’ll spend the winter with them. This means that Kropotkin will stay on as music tutor to the children.”

  “Until spring?”

  Lilya shrugs. “Who knows? Maybe even into the summer. You know these people—they do as they choose.” She reaches up to touch her hair. “You can see that Kropotkin has already become a regular visitor to Angelkov. And now it looks like he won’t b
e leaving the province for a long time. Long enough, if you know what I’m suggesting.”

  Grisha is watching her face as if reading the words as they come from her lips.

  “If only …” she says.

  “If only what?”

  “There was some way to get such an immoral influence out of Antonina’s life. But what can we do? We’ll have to sit back and watch it happen. Watch him seduce the countess.” And then Lilya doesn’t say anything more.

  Grisha pulls an apple from an open sack on the shelf. He rubs it absently with his thumb as he walks from the pantry.

  Lilya follows him. “Grisha!” When he doesn’t respond, she shouts, “Antonina deserves love. Not what that man is trying to use her for.”

  Her words stop him. Finally he looks back at her, then tosses the apple onto the table. It rolls off and hits the floor as he leaves.

  Lilya fingers her hair. Once she brings Mikhail Konstantinovich back to Antonina, the countess will give her all her love. That’s what she said to Kropotkin: Whoever returns my son will have my love and gratitude for life.

  Antonina is playing the piano when Lilya enters the salon with a tea tray.

  Antonina stops, looking over her shoulder at Lilya as she sets down the tray. “You’ve still had no word from Soso, Lilya? You don’t know where he is?”

  Why is the countess asking about Soso now, so soon after Lilya has seen him? Is it simply a coincidence?

  “No,” she says.

  Antonina stares at her. “Do you miss him?”

  “My life is better without him.” She arranges the cup and saucer, the plate of biscuits. “He drank too much, and was often ugly in his talk, and with his fists.”

  Antonina makes a sound in her throat. “At some time, maybe some years ago, did you care for him?”

  Lilya shrugs. “He was a hard worker. And he never hit Lyosha, even though he wasn’t pleased to have him with us.”

  “That was all, Lilya?”

  Lilya stares at her. “I just said so. I have never loved a man, Tosya.”

  “But that’s terribly sad, Lilya.”

  “Is it?” Lilya challenges. “Was it not the same for you and the count? Are you not the same as me?”

  Antonina’s eyes widen. “The same as you?”

  “Neither of us will ever love a man fully,” Lilya says. She wants Antonina to agree, wants her to see how it is for her. How it could be for Antonina, if she would only recognize it.

  On the first day of November, Antonina readies herself for Valentin’s arrival.

  She thinks of Yakovlev’s advice that she should pay a minimum amount of taxes as of the first of the month. And yet she has no rubles to offer. How long will it be before officials arrive at the door, threatening to take the estate from her? She will speak to Grisha about selling some of the antiques. Surely he will know how to begin the process of emptying the manor of the items that would bring the highest prices.

  To help take her mind from the worry, she practises Chopin’s Nocturne No. 20. She will play this piece for Valentin. She has decided she will not drink any wine or vodka during his visit. She will not.

  By two o’clock, his usual time, he hasn’t arrived, although the fire is dancing in the music salon and the samovar is waiting with the teapot and the best cups and saucers. Antonina goes up the stairway to the landing window, scanning the road and the clear sky. All is peaceful, quiet, as if readying itself for the long winter. Something has shifted for Antonina. In spite of the disrepair and ruin of the estate itself, she’s seeing the beauty of her land for the first time in a long, long while. The thought of the taxes to be paid comes back to her. Will this be her last winter at Angelkov? In the next instant she thinks of Mikhail. He’s subject to colds and sore throats during the winter. Who will give him hot milk with honey and butter? Who will have him soak his feet in warm mustard water?

  She can’t think about him being uncared for. It makes her want the vodka.

  She glances at the timepiece pinned on her bodice. Valentin is close to an hour late. As she looks out the window again, a lone horseman appears far down the road, and she nods. There he is. But as the rider comes closer, she sees it isn’t Valentin. This man is heavier and shorter. She goes down the stairs, and when Pavel opens the door to the knock, a stranger hands him a folded paper, bows his head and leaves.

  “Madam,” Pavel says, handing it to her. Lilya has also come at the knocking, and is standing beside Antonina.

  “I hope he hasn’t fallen ill,” Antonina says, taking the note to the music salon. Lilya follows her, and Antonina unfolds the thick vellum square with the royal imprint of the Bakanevs at the top. She reads it then sits down, the note falling into her lap.

  “What is it, Tosya?” Lilya asks, kneeling at Antonina’s feet, the vertical line between her eyebrows deep.

  Antonina swallows and refolds the paper, standing. “I will go to my room, Lilya. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”

  Lilya jumps up, putting her hand on Antonina’s forearm. “Is it bad news? He’s ill, then—Kropotkin?”

  Antonina looks into Lilya’s face. “His name is Mr. Kropotkin, Lilya. And no, he is not ill. He has been called away.”

  Lilya is unblinking before Antonina’s steady gaze. “What of the children’s lessons?”

  Antonina tilts her head. “You care about the children at the Bakanev estate, Lilya?”

  Lilya won’t look away. “I know you enjoyed the visits of Kr—Mr. Kropotkin, Tosya. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed by his departure.”

  “What makes you think he’s departed? I only said he’d been called away from the Bakanevs’, not that he was gone from Pskov.”

  “I only meant—”

  “Thank you for your concern.” Antonina’s back is straight as she leaves Lilya in the music salon with the dying fire and the cooling tea.

  In her room, away from Lilya’s questions, Antonina reads the letter again.

  My dear Countess Mitlovskiya,

  It has been brought to our attention that Valentin Vladimirovitch Kropotkin has been paying you social calls.

  Because Mr. Kropotkin was in our employ, we feel it our responsibility to be accountable for his actions.

  Mr. Kropotkin, as a former serf musician, has acted inappropriately.

  The prince and I offer our apologies for his wholly unsuitable behaviour. We understand that he has taken advantage of your kind nature and high standards. We have concluded that you are still in a state of distress, and we recognize that the difficulties you have experienced are capable of creating havoc with one’s sensibilities.

  Mr. Kropotkin has been reprimanded and dismissed as of this morning. We will make certain that he does not go unpunished for his actions. He has not been given a good character reference, and this will ensure difficulty in finding future employment with the noble families throughout the province of Pskov, and hopefully further beyond.

  We have concluded that it would be fitting for all concerned if you allow some time to pass before you again grace Pskov’s social milieu, so that the repercussions of this unfortunate situation will have sufficient opportunity to be diminished.

  With God’s blessings,

  Princess Eugenia Stepanovna Bakaneva

  Antonina walks up and down the veranda for an hour before dusk. When she goes inside again, she passes Lilya on the way to her bedroom but ignores her. She orders Lilya to go away when she knocks, gently and persistently, on the locked door.

  As darkness falls, Antonina adds more logs to the fire, crumples the letter and throws it into the flames. Then she retreats to her bed with the bottle of vodka from her wardrobe, Tinka beside her.

  It is after eight o’clock that evening when Valentin arrives at Angelkov.

  Pavel has fallen asleep in a chair in front of the stove in the kitchen, and there has been no sound from Antonina’s room for hours.

  When Lilya hears the dogs barking frantically, she goes to the door and opens it, peering into th
e darkness. As Valentin comes up the step and is illuminated by the lamp Lilya holds, she tells him, before he can speak, that Countess Mitlovskiya is asleep, and has left express wishes not to be bothered. By anyone, Lilya adds. She knows Antonina will have drunk herself into a deep state of unconsciousness by now.

  “Where can I find the steward?” the man asks.

  Lilya frowns. “Why do you ask about Grisha?”

  “It isn’t your business,” Valentin tells her. “Where will I find him?”

  “I expect he’s in his house,” Lilya says.

  “And where is that?” Valentin struggles to hold his temper. He’s seen how this woman hovers about Antonina, using any excuse to be present when he visits, giving him dark looks when she thinks her mistress isn’t paying attention.

  Lilya points with her chin. “Behind the servants’ quarters. Follow the road past it. His house is the only one.”

  Without another word, he turns from her.

  Lilya watches him go, her mouth firm. Grisha will make sure Kropotkin doesn’t linger at Angelkov.

  Grisha answers Valentin’s knock.

  “How did you know where to find me?” he asks.

  “That miserable woman at the manor told me. May I step inside for a moment?”

  Grisha moves aside to allow Valentin inside, then shuts the door behind him. “What do you want?”

  It’s obvious to Valentin that Grisha won’t invite him to warm himself by the fire. It doesn’t matter. What he has to ask Grisha will only take a moment. “I rode here to try to speak to Countess Mitlovskiya.”

  “I heard you’d left the Bakanevs’.”

  “Yes. I’m staying at an inn in the nearest village. The servant at the house told me the countess was already asleep. I suspect she is lying.”