Grisha crosses his arms. “She creates her own truths.”
“That peasant has made her feelings towards me obvious.” Valentin’s look pierces Grisha. “It’s clear I haven’t been welcomed at Angelkov by anyone except for the landowner herself, which is all that matters, really.” His voice grows loud, angry, and he steps further into the room, in spite of the frown on Grisha’s face. “Countess Mitlovskiya appeared cheered by my music and my conversation. And I have greatly enjoyed her company. And yet someone …” He stops. “… has been telling sordid tales.”
Grisha says nothing. Valentin glances at the full bookshelf. Strange for a man who has probably spent half his life beating the serfs at Angelkov, he thinks. But from what Valentin has witnessed, there are now few left to flog.
“So you’ve heard I’ve been dismissed from the Bakanev estate.” When Grisha still doesn’t speak, he says, “Surely the whole province is enjoying this bit of scandal. I felt it necessary to speak to the countess. I want to make sure she’s all right. The last thing I wanted was to cause her any more pain. She’s had enough in her life to contend with without gossips trying to ruin her reputation. As for mine”—he gives a barking cough—“I’ll be lucky to find a day or two’s work in all of Pskov once the Bakanevs have finished their campaign against me.”
“I don’t understand what this has to do with me,” Grisha says, fully expecting that Valentin has come to accuse him of spreading the lies. He and the steward at the Bakanev estate are friends. It only took a few words in his ear.
“I’ve written a letter to the countess. I thought I might post it, but then realized, as I said, how much I’d like to see for myself that she’s all right. When that servant didn’t allow me in, I didn’t want to leave the letter with her. I knew it would be better to bring it to someone with authority, someone who will ensure that the countess receives it.”
It appears that Kropotkin isn’t accusing him of anything after all. “You don’t trust Lilya with the letter,” Grisha states.
“That hard-faced woman? No. And although I know you don’t think much of me, Naryshkin, you have the look of a solid man.”
As Grisha goes to the fireplace to throw another log onto the fire, Valentin studies the bookshelf more closely. It’s lined with neatly arranged volumes interspersed with a variety of small, charming objects. A svirel—a primitive Russian flute—sits on the top shelf. He picks it up, turning it over and looking at the name carved there. He puts the flute to his lips and blows a quick scale.
Grisha looks up at him, the poker in his hand. A chill runs through him. He drops the poker and snatches the flute from Valentin. Nobody has ever been inside his house except the count and Tania; the countess has only stood at the door once or twice. It angers him that this man is here at all, let alone touching his belongings.
Valentin’s hands hang empty in the air. He shakes his head at the rudeness of the man, then, without knowing why, asks, “Who is Tima?”
Grisha’s stomach contracts as if the buckwheat kasha he had eaten earlier has turned rancid. “Give me the letter for the countess.” He sets the flute back on the shelf. “If you intend to get back to the inn before they lock the door, I’d suggest you leave now.”
Valentin takes a square of paper sealed with dark blue wax from inside his coat. The cold has cracked the wax. He hands it to Grisha.
“It’s very important to me that she receive it tomorrow morning. Early.”
Grisha is angered by the man’s gall. “I have my own plans for tomorrow. I’ll see that she gets it when I have time to deliver—”
“In the name of all that’s holy, Naryshkin,” Valentin interrupts, his voice rising, “have you never felt anything for a woman?”
Grisha sucks in his breath, turns and puts the letter on the mantle. Not looking at Valentin, he walks to his door and opens it.
Valentin pulls down his hat and steps out into the cold. “Please, Naryshkin,” he says. “All I ask is that you deliver the letter to Antonina tomorrow. It’s not much, is it?” His voice is even, with no whisper of subservience, and this angers Grisha further. And that he calls her Antonina. “Can you not help me, Grisha?” he says, and Grisha’s head pounds. Something about Kropotkin is troubling him, making him feel strangely unsteady. He wants him to leave.
That he would dare act as if they were old friends, calling him Grisha, talking of feelings for a woman, for her, Grisha thinks as he closes the door on Kropotkin.
The musician hardly knows her.
The next morning, Antonina unlocks her bedroom door when Lilya brings her hot chocolate and two sweet buns. “You must eat, Tosya,” she says, setting the tray on the table beside her.
She glances at it. “I’m not hungry.” Antonina’s face is puffy and pale.
“If you’re upset over Kropotkin, and whatever else the letter said … Tosya, it’s not worth it to make yourself ill.” Lilya takes the empty vodka bottle from the bedclothes and sets it near the door. “He has nothing, Tosya. He’s penniless, and useless, apart from making beautiful music. He’s like a pretty songbird, designed to bring pleasure. Yes, he’s well-spoken, but every word is surely rehearsed for you. To impress you.” She holds her breath, ready to be reprimanded.
Antonina’s silence makes Lilya bold. “Don’t you understand, Tosya? For someone so clever, you don’t see what’s in front of you, do you?”
Antonina looks at her, waiting, knowing Lilya will tell her what’s in front of her.
And Lilya will. But she has a different angle in mind than the one she used with Grisha.
“He knows you’re far beyond his reach. Yes, he’s a free man now, but that means nothing—all men are free in Russia. Does that mean you would take up with the village butcher or local blacksmith? With a merchant with a few bolts of cloth for sale, or a former steward with a patch of land to his name?” She is taking a chance on the last sentence, but Antonina’s expression doesn’t change. “You must continue to think of your class, Tosya. Nothing’s changed in that respect. You’ve only been teasing him.”
“Teasing him?”
“You’ve made him care for you, haven’t you? It’s clear he’s taken with you.” Lilya shakes her head. “What are you doing, Antonina Leonidovna?” she says, her voice almost a whisper. “What are you doing?” she repeats. “You put Kropotkin in an impossible situation. He cannot be part of your life. You are committing class treason, and in this way you are being unkind to him.”
Antonina looks away from Lilya’s steady gaze.
“There is no possibility of anything between you,” Lilya says, her voice still low, but firm. “Surely you know this, Antonina. First impressions might be that he’s a good man, but he’s not. He’s not the right kind of man, even if he was of your class. You will never find a man who will be able to deal with your strength, a man who understands what you’ve been through. What we have all lived through at Angelkov.” She kneels in front of Antonina, taking her hands in her own. “Look how you’ve coped without your husband. He was useless from the day of the kidnapping, and you carried on so bravely. And now you must let the musician go. You know he’s already suffered for it.” Lilya’s voice is low, soothing, full of sympathy.
“I never had feelings for Valentin other than friendship, Lilya. And I do not suspect he had the feelings you speak of for me. We simply enjoyed each other’s company. That’s all.”
“Truly, Antonina?”
“Do you not believe me?” Antonina pulls her hands away, standing.
“No one knows you as I do, Tosya. No one,” Lilya repeats, softly, still on her knees.
Antonina says nothing. She sits on her window seat and looks out over the dying garden.
The sky is full of stars, and a full moon lights the road. Tinka is asleep in front of the fire glowing in the music salon; Antonina has chosen to eat her dinner there. The rest of the house is in darkness apart from the kitchen, where the servants complete the last of the day’s work. There’s no reason
to heat stoves and light fires when the rooms are empty.
Antonina looks at the new bottle of vodka Pavel set on the table near the door at her bidding, but, without touching it, she puts on a heavy cloak. She leaves Tinka sleeping and carries her cup of tea out to the veranda and looks up at the stars. She finds some of the constellations, and remembers pointing them out to Mikhail.
On the still air is the sudden echo of distant barking from the nearest village. Her two harriers, lying on the floor of the veranda near the door, rise silently. Hooves pound up her drive. As the horse and rider draw near, she can see by the moonlight that it’s Valentin. She puts her teacup on the railing and goes down the front steps. The dogs crowd against her skirt; she rests a hand on each of their heads.
“You got my letter, then,” Valentin says, dismounting and coming to her. “Thank you for waiting for me. I wanted to come earlier, but it was impossible.”
Antonina shakes her head. “I didn’t receive a letter. I came out … the stars are so …”
“Your steward didn’t deliver my letter to you, to tell you I would come this evening?”
“No.”
“I wanted to see for myself that you were all right after what happened with the Bakanevs,” he says. Valentin believes he was very close to gaining some footing with the countess. He was prepared for it to take some time; he has rarely known a woman so reserved. “I don’t know what they said to you, though I know they sent a letter. Were they insensitive?”
“They made their position very clear. But what of you, Valentin? Is it true that you won’t get work anywhere in Pskov?”
“It appears that way. I had no luck today, even in the city itself.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll go back to St. Petersburg. Nobody there will care about what happened—or didn’t happen”—he smiles—“between an unknown musician and a beautiful landowner out in the provinces.”
“Do you have friends there, somewhere to live?”
Valentin thinks of Madame Golitsyna. Will she invite him in when he knocks on her door? “I have my violin. That’s all I need. I’ll find something, if not in St. Petersburg then in Moscow.”
Antonina remembers Lilya’s words in her bedchamber that morning. “I feel responsible, Valentin. I shouldn’t have … encouraged you.”
Valentin smiles again. “It was I who sought your company. I wanted to see who you had become.” He pulls his collar closer against the chill.
“And did you?”
Valentin continues to smile.
“It’s cold,” she says. “Will you come in?”
Ah. It’s not over yet, then. Valentin says, very quietly, “Have I not created enough turmoil for you?”
“It’s still my home. Nobody can tell me what to do in my own home. And it’s clear that you can’t be damaged any further by gossip. Come.” In a bold move, knowing she won’t see him again, she takes his hand. In spite of the night air, his hand is warm, and his fingers wrap about hers.
In the entrance, she lights a candle. Olga is asleep in a deep cushioned chair in the shadows, her rosary looped through her fingers. Antonina points to her and puts her finger to her lips, and then leads Valentin to the music salon.
Tinka rises and comes to Antonina. “Could you build up the fire?” Antonina asks, and lights lamps as Valentin crouches in front of the fireplace and stirs the embers. He adds kindling and, when it catches, puts on two small logs. The air warms, and the glow is red and orange over their faces as she comes back to stand in front of the fire. She picks up Mikhail’s journal from the mantle; she had been reading it again, for comfort.
He tries to put his arms around her; she moves away from him.
“Antonina,” Valentin says, almost a whisper.
Holding the journal against her with one hand, she puts the other to her face, warm from the fire. She thinks of Grisha. She has known Grisha for more than a third of her life. She respects and understands him, his honesty and integrity, his strength of character. She knows so little about Valentin, even though he has recently told her more about his life than Grisha has of his. “All that consumes me is the thought of my son, Valentin.”
“I can help you. If you open yourself to me, Antonina, and let me love you, you will see your darkness lift. I promise you.”
Antonina turns away from him. She caresses the soft leather of Mikhail’s journal, then lifts it to her mouth and kisses it. “There was word from him once, that he was alive. But that was months ago. I believe that he still lives, Valentin. I would know if he were no longer on this earth. Until I see him …” She faces him again.
They stand in silence, the distance Antonina had put between them still there.
Valentin has tried. She will not weaken. But there will be another woman, one who won’t be as immovable as Countess Mitlovskiya. “I believe it’s time for me to leave you, Antonina,” he says.
They go to the veranda together. Antonina holds the dogs to keep them silent.
“Again, I’m sorry for what’s happened to you because of me,” Antonina says. “Will you leave for St. Petersburg soon?”
“Yes. There’s no reason for me to stay. Is there?”
“Thank you, Valentin Vladimirovitch,” is her reply.
“What do you thank me for?”
“For your friendship.” At last she steps closer and allows him to hold her, but only for a moment.
It is too late, and will lead to nothing, he knows. He drops his arms, walks down the steps and mounts his horse. Just before he blends into the shadows of the trees on the drive, he turns and waves to her.
Lilya watches from the dark landing window.
The next morning, Lilya arrives with Antonina’s breakfast. Antonina is already reading before the fire in her dressing gown. Her hair is tangled.
Antonina’s lacy, delicate chemise is tossed carelessly on the bedcovers. Lilya imagines Kropotkin removing it in the music salon the previous evening. “There’s a problem in the kitchen, Tosya. Raisa has found mouse droppings in the flour. She’s very upset. The flour must last us through the winter.”
Antonina puts down her book. “What’s usually done when this happens?”
“Traps can be set. Or we can put a barn cat in the pantry at night.”
“Well, can’t it be seen to, then?”
“Raisa wishes to speak to you about it. She doesn’t want to bring in a cat unless you approve,” Lilya sees Antonina hasn’t fastened the top buttons of her dressing gown, and that she wears no nightgown underneath. She has never known Antonina to be so dishevelled.
Antonina sighs, rising. “All right.”
Lilya reaches to button Antonina’s dressing gown. Her fingers graze Antonina’s breast, and Antonina pushes her hand away and does up the buttons herself.
Once she’s gone, Lilya picks up Antonina’s chemise. She brings it to her face and breathes its scent. Thinking of Kropotkin’s hands on it, she crumples it into a ball, holding it tightly with both hands.
She brings the fabric to her face again and smells it a second time. Then she bites at it with her sharp eye teeth. When she’s created a small tear in the silk, she slowly rips it in half. She throws both pieces into the fire. The soft lace smokes for a moment and then catches, the flames leaping as they feed on it.
Lilya pushes the burning fabric about with the poker until there’s no evidence of what she’s done, then replaces the poker and sets out Antonina’s breakfast. The cup rattles in its saucer.
Half an hour later, Lilya arrives at Grisha’s house unannounced, and pounds on his door.
“He was with her, Grisha. With her. In the music salon. She snuck him into the house. I heard them, heard what they did.”
Grisha is too shocked to speak, but fights for control in front of Lilya. He thinks of Valentin’s face as he said: Have you never felt anything for a woman? Then he regains enough control to quietly ask, “And why do you feel it necessary to tell me this, Lilya?”
�
��It did no good to have him dismissed from the Bakanevs’. Do you really think he’ll leave her alone, now that he’s had a taste of her? He’s ruining her reputation, and she’s too blind to care. Next he’ll be putting his boots under her bed. I heard them, Grisha,” she repeats. “What will you do to stop him?” she demands, and by the colour in her face, the barely disguised fury, Grisha understands, with a start, what he hasn’t before.
The woman isn’t worried about Antonina losing Angelkov to Kropotkin. She’s jealous, jealous in the same way he is. She wants Antonina as he does. How long has it been like this? How has he not seen it?
He feels weak at the thought of the musician making love to Antonina. “It isn’t in our control to stop the countess from bringing whomever she wishes into her home,” he says calmly, not wanting her to see how deeply he’s affected. “It is still her home, Lilya. Don’t forget that.”
Lilya stares at him. “Fine. If I have to, I will stop him myself.”
He turns away from Lilya’s glare. “And just what do you propose to do?”
When she doesn’t answer, he looks over his shoulder at her. She has an odd smile on her face, something that gives him a jolt of understanding even deeper than the one from a moment ago. Something’s not right with her. Surely she’s ill in some way.
“You’ll see, Grigori Sergeyevich. If he returns, you’ll see how I stop him.”
Later that morning, as an icy, slanted rain falls, Antonina looks out her bedroom window at the garden below.
Almost all of the plants are dead, the leaves blackened and drooping, the soggy mounds of the flower beds like graves. The only survivors are a few beaten-down chrysanthemums with their tattered rust and dull gold blossoms, heavy with moisture. There are spots of brightness from the rosehips on their thorny stems: hard, brilliant garnets against the skeletal remains of the rose bushes.
And as Antonina surveys the sad remains of past beauty, the rain turns into the first snow. It falls onto the garden, slowly covering everything with a strange silvery glow. Antonina feels a sense of relief. She would rather it all be covered with pristine white than see it in such a state of ugliness.
The Lost Souls of Angelkov Page 38