The Rebel Daughters

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

‘S asha didn’t come home again last night. It’s the third time this week he’s stayed in barracks.’ Sofia picked at the cuffs of her sleeves as she looked out of the window.

‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,’ Valentina Brianski answered. ‘The military are rehearsing for a celebration of the tsar’s return to St. Petersburg.’

It was four days later and Anna was at home with her family. Ivan Brianski was standing with his back to the fire, his brow creased in deep furrows.

‘The sooner the emperor returns from Taganrog the better. His Imperial Majesty’s the only person who can knock some sense into these hotheads. When I was young, Russia had the finest army in all of Europe. Nowadays, the officers do nothing but lounge around, soaking up political drivel from France. Men like Pavel Pestel should be shot!’

Pavel Pestel … the name momentarily distracted Anna from her own unhappiness. Major Renin had been disparaging, she recalled, while Maria Volkonsky had defended him. He was a friend of Pushkin. Her mind went back to Kamenka and the conversation with Count Bulgarin when Peter had spoken so passionately about justice and freedom. It was hard to imagine life without the armies of men and women who worked the land or were in domestic service and, with a hot glow akin to shame, Anna realised it had never occurred to her until then that serfdom was evil. She thought about their own household. Papa was a benevolent master. He rarely sold or punished his serfs. They seemed happy enough – but was that because she’d never truly thought about it before? Didn’t everyone want to be free?

Anna picked up a bunch of silks and began separating the threads into different colours for Sofia’s tapestry. The assumptions she had made about her home were shifting, unravelling and tangling like the silks in her hands. Everything she had believed in, Peter’s love and a way of life she had taken for granted, seemed suddenly uncertain.

‘The young are seduced by the new ideas of our age.’ Count Brianski puffed out his cheeks and moved away from the hearth. ‘They elevate them with fancy names, but they amount to nothing more than anarchy. ‘

‘Don’t work yourself up, Vanya. Sasha’s not one of the radicals. He’s far too sensible to be involved in their foolish pranks.’

Anna looked at her mother as she sat opposite dressed in a blue silk gown from Paris, a cornette cap with blue ribbons covering her hair. Valentina was the voice of reason in the family. Anna longed to lay her head on her lap and cry her heart out, but her mother wouldn’t understand. She’ll say I’m a hopeless romantic. Mama believes I don’t see the world for what it really is, that I only dream about people in books, but it’s not true.

Anna tried to still her mind, but the vision of Peter and Olga together tormented her. It might have been pure coincidence, she told herself. There were hundreds of people skating on the Neva that day. They could have met by chance – but she had seen the triumphant look in Olga’s eyes and knew it was no accident. What was keeping Sasha away all this time? She desperately needed him to come home. Time was slipping past and she couldn’t get to Peter without his help.

As anxious now as Sofia for her brother’s return, Anna declined her parents’ offer to visit Prince Gagarin and sat with her in the small salon upstairs. Sofia seemed outwardly calm, reading a book by the fire, but Anna was restless and fretful. Picking up a newspaper, she flicked through the pages without taking in a word. How could Sofia be so serene, not even looking up as the clock on the mantel chimed the hours? Anna sharpened her pencils and fiddled with an arrangement of dried flowers. She began a drawing but couldn’t concentrate and put the sketch away. Taking a chair by the fire, she stared sightlessly into the flames until there came a knock at the door.

Anna and Sofia stood up as Maria Volkonsky was ushered in. She was dressed in a long green velvet coat, her black hair hidden under a bonnet trimmed with white fox. She took off her cloak, giving it to Josef, and held out her hands.

‘I’m sorry to call in unannounced but I was passing by. I hoped you might be at home.’

‘I’m so glad! It’s a pleasure to see you, dear Maria.’ Anna led her to a chair. ‘I hear you’re leaving St. Petersburg before Christmas.’

‘Well, that’s the plan, but nothing’s decided for certain. I wondered if Sasha was at home? I wanted to talk to him about Sergei.

‘Is there something the matter?’ Anna asked.

‘I’m probably being stupid…’ Maria paused and cast the two women a hesitant glance. ‘It’s just I’ve a feeling something’s going on that I don’t know about. Sergei’s been so strange lately. He hardly ever comes home and, when he does, he’s preoccupied. I asked what was the matter, and he brushed me off, telling me not to worry. I hoped Sasha might reassure me.’

‘We’re waiting for him now. He’s been held up at the barracks,’ Sofia responded.

‘My brothers are being horrid,’ Maria continued, ignoring Sofia’s intervention. ‘They say all Pushkin’s friends are hotheads and revolutionaries–’

‘But that’s preposterous!’ Sofia interrupted hotly. ‘Our husbands aren’t revolutionaries. Sasha’s the most patriotic of men. And Sergei too. Why, the Volkonskys have fought and died for the tsars since the time of Peter the Great.’

With an unexpected pang, Anna thought of the book in Sasha’s room. She had gone back later and retrieved it from the drawer. It was an illegal copy of Pushkin’s poem ‘Ode to Liberty’, for which the poet had been banished from St. Petersburg. One verse in particular had stuck in her mind.

‘ You autocratic psychopath,

Your throne I do despise!

I watch your doom, your children’s death

With hating, jubilating eyes.’

Anna had been brought up to fear and respect the tsar. She had been too young to realise the poem was about the Romanovs. Now she felt goose bumps rise on the back of her neck. Was Pushkin really a revolutionary? And did Sasha agree with him? The notion was inconceivable. Sasha was Pushkin’s friend. He respected the poet’s passion and talent. It didn’t mean that he condoned everything he said.

‘Pushkin uses words for their dramatic effect – not to incite insurrection,’ she said quietly.

‘I hope you’re right.’ Maria’s gaze moved uncertainly from Sofia and Anna. ‘The truth is I’ve been worried since the day of our marriage. There were bad omens at our wedding. An old woman crossed our path as we entered the church, then Sergei’s witness dropped one of the rings. My mother says I am too superstitious…’ Her words trailed off. Then Maria shook her head and managed a faint smile. ‘The other reason I called is that I’ve a favour to ask of you, Anna. I wonder if you might find the time to paint a picture of me with little Nicolenka? I want to give it to Sergei as a Christmas present. He was very taken by your portraits of Sasha and Sofia.’

‘I would be delighted to paint the portrait,’ Anna answered.

‘I’m longing for you to see him again. Nicolenka’s utterly adorable – the single greatest joy of my life.’

There was such wistfulness in Maria’s tone, Anna wondered if she was susceptible to the melancholy that afflicted so many. She thought of her at Kamenka. Beautiful Maria, always happy, always laughing. She had been the life and soul of the party. Was it possible that Sergei, whom she had liked so much, was unfaithful? Sensing her friend’s distress, she kept her tone bright. ‘When would you like me to start? The light’s best in the morning and it shouldn’t take more than a couple of sittings. Shall I come the day after tomorrow?’

‘That would be perfect.’ Maria stood up and Sofia pulled the bell rope for Josef. ‘I’ll expect you then. Thank you, dear Anna.’

Josef arrived with her cloak, and Anna and Sofia went with Maria to the door. She embraced them both and was halfway out when she stopped and looked back. ‘Oh, I almost forgot! I received a note from Olga Bulgarin this morning. She’s betrothed to Peter Dashkovy and they’re to marry in the spring. Isn’t it the most wonderful news? I’m so happy for them both.’