“No. We’re not.”
“How did you get my pistol?” Soso yells, and Lilya jumps.
“Do you suppose it was that difficult? You always slept like a boar. It was an easy matter to take it out of your coat before I woke you.”
“Lilya,” Soso says again, lowering his voice with something like a chuckle. As if she were a small and clever child.
Lilya cocks the hammer of the Cossack pistol the way she saw Soso do it in his izba. At the sound, so loud in the cold, still air, Soso’s chuckle fades. Lilya knows, by the look on his face, that the pistol is loaded, as he had boasted.
“Do you not believe I’ll shoot?” she says. “I’ve killed before. I’ll do it again, if I have to.” She steps back. “Lyosha, pick up the money.”
Lyosha does as she orders, and then Soso takes another step towards Lilya. Lyosha calls out, “Soso! Stop! It’s true. She’s already …” He glances at his sister, then back at Soso. “You must believe she’ll do it. I’m telling you, Soso, she’ll shoot.”
Something about Lilya’s expression and the confident way she holds the pistol, her thumb steady on the hammer, or perhaps what Lyosha has just said, makes Soso stop.
Grisha still holds his own pistol. Before anyone can anticipate what will happen next, Soso turns and grabs Misha, pulling him from the priest and dragging the boy in front of him.
Misha struggles, kicking backwards, trying to wrench himself free of Soso’s grip. “No!” he shouts. “Let me go!”
At his loud cries, a burly man in a long greatcoat and grey fur hat appears behind the priest, from inside the chapel. His hat has a white star, and the words Pskov Captain are embroidered under it. He is followed by a second and then a third man, both as tall and wide as the first, wearing the greatcoats and fur hats of the police. They all hold their own revolvers.
Grisha doesn’t understand.
“Good,” Lilya says. “You’re here.”
“You’re Lilya Petrova?” the captain asks, and when she nods, he adds, “Put down the weapon. And you.” He looks at Grisha. Grisha hesitates for a moment, then carefully sets his pistol on the ground in front of him.
Lilya still holds hers. Her hands remain steady, her face composed.
“Let the boy go,” the captain says, and Soso spits onto the priest’s boots with an expression of disgust as he drops Mikhail’s arms. Mikhail runs to Grisha, who is nearest to him. Grisha pulls Mikhail close, his arms tightly around him.
A sob comes from Misha’s throat. He knows it’s not over yet. He stares at Lilya, and the pistol, but she hasn’t looked at him. Her eyes are fixed on Soso.
“Put the pistol down,” the captain says again.
As Lilya keeps the revolver aimed at Soso, Lyosha slowly holds out one hand to her, palm up. “Sister, what are you doing? Look. It’s Misha. We have him now. Don’t hurt anyone. You’re upset, Lilya. That’s all. Give me the pistol, and let’s take Misha home. Let’s all go back to Angelkov, to the countess.”
At that, a strange look comes over Lilya’s face, one of sudden clarity, followed by horror. She looks at her hands holding the revolver as if they are someone else’s, and lowers the pistol so that it points towards the ground at her feet. For the first time, she looks at Misha. He’s turned his face against Grisha’s chest, and his hands are over his ears. “Misha,” she says. “I’m sorry, moya malysh, my baby, I’m sorry. It’s all right. Don’t be afraid. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
As Misha lowers his hands, he half smiles at Lilya, a tremulous, trusting smile, and Lilya attempts to smile back at him. Then she says to Lyosha, in a small voice, “I loved her, Lyosha. I always loved her. But she doesn’t want me. I know that now. I saw it, so clearly on her face. Even if I bring back her son, she won’t love me.”
Lyosha doesn’t understand what she’s talking about, but he needs his sister to be calm, to not hurt anyone. She’s still holding the revolver. “I … You know I care about you, Lilya.” He has never used the word love, and can’t now.
She blinks and looks at him as though he’s a stranger. “You love Anya now. I didn’t want you to love anyone else. But you do, don’t you, Lyosha? You will love her just as she loves him. She loves him, not me.”
“Lilya, please,” Lyosha urges, confused.
Suddenly Lilya smiles, the natural smile Lyosha remembers, and relief goes through him. He smiles back at her, nodding encouragingly. “That’s right, Lilya. That’s better. Give it to me.” He takes a step towards her, his hand still out, palm up.
She puts the revolver into his hand. He stoops, setting it on the ground, as Grisha did.
“You said there were four of them,” the captain says.
Lilya shrugs. “There are only two now, Soso and Grisha. Not him,” she says, putting her hand on Lyosha’s arm.
Soso waves his arms in the air. “What’s she talking about?” His voice is loud, indignant. “She’s crazy. You can see she’s crazy. We’ve come to free the countess’s son. We heard he was here, at the monastery. We came to bring him back—”
“You are Iosef Igorovitch, known as Soso,” the man states, and Soso closes his mouth and lowers his arms. “We have spoken to Father Saavich. He corroborated with the woman’s story: that you would be coming for the boy today. That you have threatened him unless he hid the boy these past months.”
Soso looks at Father Saavich. “Bastard. Traitor,” he says, and spits at the priest’s boots again.
“And how were you involved?” the man asks Lilya.
“She wasn’t,” Grisha says. The boy has stopped trembling, and is looking up at him. “She wasn’t involved. It’s as she told you. It was Soso and me. Grigori Sergeyevich Naryshkin. Go to Lilya, Misha,” he says then, and the boy does as he says, but looks over his shoulder at Grisha.
Lilya takes off her cape and wraps it around Misha, holding him against her and kissing his cheeks, his bristly head, his cold ears.
“Give him your ushanka, Lyosha,” Grisha says, and Lyosha takes off his hat and sets it on Mikhail’s head.
At the police station on Fedosovoy Prospekt in Pskov, Soso and Grisha are led inside, their hands tied behind their backs. Lilya and Lyosha and Mikhail follow; a report on the discovery of the Mitlovsky child must be filed.
Lilya retains her composure during the laborious writing out of many details. She answers all the questions slowly while sitting with her hands held loosely in her lap.
Lyosha waits with Mikhail in an outer room, the boy still wrapped in Lilya’s cape. He holds the ushanka. Someone has found an old pair of felt boots for him.
At one point, Grisha is led past him, and Misha draws a deep, shuddering breath. Lyosha puts his arm around the boy’s shoulders. Grisha stops in front of them and says, “Lyosha. Please. Make sure all the money is given to the countess. With it she can pay her taxes and keep Angelkov for a while longer.” As Lyosha nods, Grisha looks at Misha.
The boy stares up at him. “Grisha?” he whispers, a question in the name.
“Mikhail Konstantinovich,” Grisha says. “I’m sorry. This is not what I wanted to happen to you. Ever.” As the captain and another policeman try to pull him forward, Grisha asks, “Will I be allowed to write a letter?”
“Not now,” the captain says. “Later you will be allowed one communication.”
“I will write to your mother, Mikhail, to explain. Can you tell her I will write to her?”
Misha reaches down the loose front of his robe and pulls out a small leather booklet. He opens it and tears two pages from it, walking towards Grisha.
The captain takes the pages of music, turning them over and frowning.
“It’s her notes to Glinka,” the boy says, “so Grisha can write to my mother.”
The captain nods, and they lead Grisha away.
The captain says he will accompany Lilya and Lyosha and Mikhail back to Angelkov. “I’ll follow by horse,” he tells them in the waiting room. “I must ensure that the boy is returned safely to Countess Mitlovski
ya, and present her with the official report.”
Lyosha stands straight, his hand on Misha’s shoulder, and dips his head at the man.
As the captain follows them outside, he tells them to wait while he brings his horse from the stable.
Before Mikhail climbs into the troika, Lilya again hugs and kisses him. She holds him for so long that Lyosha touches her arm. She lets Misha go and turns to her brother. He puts out his hand to help her up. She takes it, but then brings it to her lips and kisses it, laying her cheek against it.
“Come, Lilya. Climb in.”
“Make sure you give the money to the countess as Grisha instructed.”
Lyosha puts his hand inside his jacket. “Here. You take it. You should be the one to give it to her.”
“No. You must do it. I’m not coming with you.”
“You’re not coming back to Angelkov?”
“No. There is only one thing left for me now.”
“What are you talking about? The countess will need you even more now that Misha—”
“No,” she interrupts. “It’s as I said. The countess doesn’t need me anymore. There is no place for me at Angelkov.”
Lyosha studies her face. It is pale, but calm. Resolute. “You know that God loves you, Lilya,” he says.
“No. Not since I did the unforgivable at Grisha’s house.”
“But He is forgiving. He will forgive you.”
“I will devote my life to asking for His forgiveness. Goodbye, Lyosha.”
“Where are you going?”
“To where I can do only good. To Seltocheeva.”
Lyosha frowns. “The convent?”
“They have welcomed me. They await me,” she says.
Lyosha knows she’s too old to be a novice. Besides, they take only members of the nobility into the sisterhood. But what can he say? He understands Lilya well enough to know there is no use in trying to change her mind. It appears she’s already arranged this. He thinks of her, again, in Grisha’s house, with the bloody rifle. He remembers how only a few hours earlier she aimed the pistol at Soso.
“If you change your mind, come back to Angelkov.”
She shakes her head, but her eyes and mouth are soft. “This is part of my repentance, Lyosha. I must be punished. Never again seeing those I truly love will be my greatest grief.” She looks at Misha again. “Goodbye, Mishenka, my darling.”
“Goodbye, Lilya,” Misha says. “Your cape,” he adds, “you must have your cape back.” He starts to take it off.
Lilya puts her hands out to stop him. “Keep warm. Stay warm until you are in your mama’s arms.”
Mikhail and Lyosha watch Lilya walk away. The cold November wind ruffles her skirt and light shawl. Her kerchief is slipping off the back of her head, as it often does, and Lyosha sees the part in her hair.
Her scalp looks vulnerable.
“Goodbye, sister,” he says, although she is already too far away to hear him, and then he climbs into the troika beside Misha.
At Angelkov, Antonina had awoken to a quiet house. When she went downstairs to the kitchen, Raisa and Pavel and Nusha were there. She asked Raisa about Lilya, but Raisa told her she hadn’t seen her. And Grisha? Again, Raisa shook her head.
Antonina waits for something to happen. For Grisha to come to her with Mikhail. Or even for Lilya to appear. But nobody comes. By mid-afternoon she has a terrible feeling that something has happened, something that will be unbearable.
She goes to the stable, but only Fyodor is there. He tells her that Grisha and Lilya and Lyosha all left together in the troika that morning. She walks down the winding road to Grisha’s house. It is cold and empty. She builds a small fire and sits there, looking at his books and the items on his bookshelf. After some time she wanders around, staring at the small, tidy kitchen and at his bedroom. She sits on the bed. She imagines him here, filling the space. She lies down and covers herself with his thick quilt.
An hour passes.
When the fire in the sitting room has gone out, Antonina starts back to the manor. She is adrift. At this moment she feels more alone than she can remember. They are all gone: Misha, Konstantin, Valentin, Lilya. Grisha. Even Lyosha.
She looks around her as she trudges up the snowy road, studying the beauty of the snow embracing the pines, hearing the calls of the white-backed woodpeckers and nuthatches from their branches.
As the manor comes into view, she sees the troika and an unknown horse. She walks faster. She makes out two tall figures. Please, she pleads, let one be Grisha. Let one be Grisha. But it isn’t. Lyosha and a uniformed man stand on the veranda. She hurries. As she comes up the steps, she looks into Lyosha’s face, but can’t understand what she sees there. She glances at the other man. By his clothing, he looks to be a member of the police force. Suddenly she doesn’t care, because now she hears it.
Music. It comes from inside the house. Antonina pushes past Lyosha, who reaches towards her, his mouth moving as he speaks to her. But she can’t hear his voice. She only hears music. She pushes open the door and runs down the hall, her snowy boots sliding on the wooden floor.
She runs towards the music salon, towards the Glinka music, and her son.
ONE YEAR LATER
New Year’s Day, 1863
SELTOCHEEVA CONVENT, CITY OF PSKOV
Seltocheeva Convent is quiet for the holidays. The Little Sisters of Righteous Elizaveeta celebrated the birth of Christ on the eve of Christmas, but the New Year passes unnoticed.
Lilya is one of the unpaid women who earns her keep in the convent by offering services the sisters are unable to perform. The sisters clean the convent and work the gardens. They preserve and prepare food and serve it, and they do the laundry. But there is a need for delicate lace for the holy surplices, and none of the sisters have Lilya’s skill. And so she sits, every day, in a small nun’s cell with a cot and icon. She works on the tiny, intricate patterns she creates under a high window where the light streams in. As well as the room, she is also supplied with two meals a day. Although not a nun, she wears only black, a representation of repentance and simplicity. She attends the services in the chapel morning and evening, praying reverently through the Little and Great Entrances, the Epistle and Gospel readings, the Divine Liturgy, the Anaphora, the distribution of Holy Communion, and the Dismissal. In her cell-like room, she falls to her knees every hour and prays with the ringing of the chapel bells.
She finishes her work as the final daylight fades. This is not for a surplice; it is a gift. She stands, stretching, and then runs her fingers over the finely embroidered cloth belt she has created. She smooths her hair and pinches her cheeks to bring colour to them. The last hourly bells have finished ringing, and in the hush there is a lovely sense of peace.
Lilya venerates the icon and walks down the long, narrow hallway. She raps, lightly, on the low door of Sister Ludmilla. The door opens. The young sister looks at her and smiles.
“Lilya Petrova,” she says.
Lilya smiles back. She has taken a vow of silence, even though the Little Sisters are under no such order. She holds out the belt to Sister Ludmilla. As the sister reaches for it, Lilya lets her fingers touch the nun’s.
Sister Ludmilla draws back her hand, her smile fading. “You made this for me?” She studies the belt, a symbol of the vow of chastity to be worn on feast days.
Lilya’s gaze never leaves the young woman. Sister Ludmilla’s face is thin and pale, and a pure light shines from her grey eyes. A tiny wisp of blond hair emerges from under her black klobuk, just at the temple. Lilya reaches up and touches it.
She knows that under the wimple the sister’s neck will be long and white.
She would like to know it someday. She dreams of that moment.
ILIYCHIV PROSPEKT, ST. PETERSBURG
The Novogodnaya Yolka—the New Year’s tree—is beautiful, with its bright star on the top bough. Sweets and gold-painted nuts are scattered among the branches; the cherub from Angelkov, with its wing repa
ired by Grisha, is tied onto a branch with a red satin ribbon.
In the St. Petersburg apartment, there isn’t room for a tall, wide tree such as they had in Angelkov, but this one is a lovely symmetrical pine with soft, sweeping branches. Lyosha cut it himself, taking Misha with him to find it in the forest on the edge of the city. They dragged it home behind Lyosha’s horse on Christmas Eve, and set it up in a bucket of stones in a corner of the sitting room. It lists slightly, but nobody mentions that.
There is a New Year’s present under the tree for Misha—a new leather music composition book—although of course he is far too old to believe that Ded Moroz and Snegurochka, the Snow Girl, have brought it. Had he believed in Father Frost and his granddaughter the year he was taken? That time is hazy to Antonina. It’s been over a year since she and Misha started their new lives.
In the autumn, Mikhail was accepted into the St. Petersburg Conservatory, founded that year by the young musician Anton Rubinstein. It’s Russia’s first school focused on teaching the arts, under the sponsorship of the Imperial Russian Music Society. Mikhail Konstantinovich Mitlovsky is one of the youngest students, and he’s alive with excitement every day as he heads to class.
The year 1862 brought another new school to St. Petersburg: the Free School of Music, founded by Mily Alexseyevich Balakirev. Antonina Leonidovna Mitlovskiya is one of three female teachers hired to instruct talented young women unable to pay for private tuition. It is as Valentin Vladimirovitch told her: new options and opportunities are being born.
Every morning, she walks with her son to the Conservatory. Then she goes on to her own job at the Free School, where she teaches for the morning. In the afternoon, she gives private music lessons in her apartment. She makes a small sum from both her work at the Free Music School and the private tutoring, enough to pay the rent and buy what they need.
The sound on the British upright piano she bought is good, although it isn’t like the beautiful square rosewood Érard, far too large for the small sitting room. With the money Lyosha gave to her, she’s managed to ensure that she can keep the estate at least for a few years. At Angelkov the windows of the manor are boarded and what furniture remains has been covered in sheets. Antonina worries about mice gnawing the books and making nests in the body of the Érard. Someday she may want to live there again. Someday there may be a reason, but for now her life is in St. Petersburg.
The Lost Souls of Angelkov Page 44