Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Two
J ust after eight o’clock the next morning, Anna alighted from a droshky near the Moika Embankment. She had left the house by the tradesmen’s door, passing the stables where the air smelled of horses and hay. The grooms were in the tack room and she pulled her hood low over her face until she came to the street where she hailed a cab.
Whenever she thought of the meeting with Boris Renin, she was overcome by revulsion. She had been too outspoken and antagonised him. Heaven alone knew what he might do! The sooner her drawings were safely in Pushkin’s hands the better. There had been no word from Nicholas so she had to find out for herself if the poet was in the city. The sketchbook in its leather folder was tucked under her arm and Pushkin’s address in her pocket.
The Neva was as blue as the sea, and street vendors trading briskly in pirozhki and roasted chestnuts. There was still too much ice in the river for merchant ships to come upstream but the quayside was busy. Horse-drawn carts were being loaded with water casks as bleary-eyed soldiers headed back to barracks after a night of gambling.
Anna kept to the opposite side of the street, walking past dark-ended houses until she came to a canal leading off the embankment. Here she slowed down. It was quieter away from the river and, crossing a narrow bridge, she stopped beneath the arched entrance of a courtyard. Pushkin had rented lodgings in Moika Street. The numbers twelve and fourteen were painted above the doorway. His apartment was on the second floor and Anna looked up to see the shutters firmly closed. The poet was either asleep or not at home.
A woman pushing a cart of woven twigs went past and Anna heard the clatter of horseshoes behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a curricle coming down the street. The driver wore a black hat with a low brim and was handling two frisky chestnuts. She couldn’t see his face, but the man was the same build as Nicholas, and she stood staring after him until the curricle turned the corner.
Nicholas couldn’t have gone to Moscow and returned already. Besides, he drove grey Orlovs, not Russian dons, Anna thought, wiping a hand across her eyes. Boris Renin’s visit had frightened her and her mind was playing tricks. I must hold my nerve, she thought. The meeting with Pushkin is too important. Renin won’t make a move yet. He’ll bide his time and hope to persuade Mama to give her permission. I have to think of a way to protect Sasha and Sofia – all of them – before turning him down.
Anna clambered up the two flights of steps and was panting by the time she reached the second floor. She stood a moment outside the apartment to catch her breath. Then, pulling back the hood of her cloak, she lifted the brass knocker on the door. There was no response. A black cat jumped off the wall and ran down the stairs. She raised the knocker again. At last, there came a sound of heaving and grating on the inside as a heavy object was moved. The door opened and a sleepy-looking young man with fair hair stood before her.
‘Please can you tell Monsieur Pushkin that Anna Brianski is here? He’s expecting me.’
‘Monsieur Pushkin’s not up yet, ma’am. Come in, if you want to. But he’ll not rouse himself.’
The chest used to block the door was manoeuvred to one side and Anna wiped the mud off her boots on an iron scraper before stepping into a dimly lit room.
‘Sit yourself down, ma’am. I’m Pierre, his valet.’
Pierre opened the shutters to let daylight into a low-ceilinged apartment that smelled of sandalwood and sweet tobacco. The walls were faded gold, the curtains made of red velvet, and the room furnished with a couple of chairs and a table covered with sheets of manuscript. Every shelf overflowed with books. Pushkin was a fluent linguist and Anna saw titles in French, English, Italian, German and Russian. On one wall hung a heavy oak-framed mirror above two unopened crates marked Chateau Lafite and Veuve Clicquot .
Moving aside a tallow candle that was burned to the wick, she sat down at the table.
‘He’s been writing all night,’ Pierre said to excuse the disarray as he tidied away ink-stained blotting paper and broken quills.
‘What time does he usually get up?’
‘Some days the master’s at work before dawn – others he stays in bed until noon. I never know unless there’s something urgent to attend to…’
‘I have pressing business with Monsieur Pushkin. Please can you tell him that I’m here?’
Pierre shuffled his feet and Anna persisted. ‘I’ll take full responsibility for disturbing him. I can assure you he’ll be pleased to see me.’
When Pierre went through to the second room, Anna opened her folder and took out her sketchbook, placing it on the table alongside Pushkin’s scribbled verse. Unable to resist, she picked up a piece of paper lying beside the large ink pot. The poet wrote in a fast forward hand. There were whole lines scratched out in black ink, and in the margins were exquisite profile sketches of men and women. His skill as a draughtsman astonished her. There were silhouettes and caricatures on every page; even one of himself wearing a bolivar hat with his hero Onegin.
Anna was so absorbed that she lost track of time until a door opened and Alexander Pushkin swept into the room. Dressed in a long silk dressing gown, his dynamic, diminutive figure struck her with the same force as the first time she had set eyes on him. He was like an exotic bird – his expressive face, vitality and energy seemed to absorb all the air in the room.
‘My dear Miss Brianski! I’ve been waiting for you.’ His laughing blue eyes looked at her boldly. ‘Young ladies rarely step outside without a chaperone in this city. Did you come alone?’
A smile hovered on his lips and Anna held out her hand. ‘Quite alone. I believe Count Bulgarin explained the purpose of my visit.’
‘Bulgarin and I discussed the matter at length.’ Pushkin kissed her hand andhis expression became serious. ‘He tells me the images are painful to behold. I am steeled in readiness.’
He stood at her shoulder as Anna began to turn the pages. The drawings were more powerful than she remembered. The dignity and suffering of her friends were so intense, it hurt her to look at them. How could she have drawn such tragic images of people she loved?
They came to the portrait of Maria, and Pushkin rested one hand on the page. ‘My beautiful Maria. I pray for the day freedom warms her with its light. My heart, I believe, was once dear to her…’
‘I made the drawings at Maria’s behest. She was my inspiration.’
‘Then we shall put her on the cover. I’m going to have them printed in book form and suggest the title should be Visions of Hell . Do you agree?’
Anna nodded. ‘Who will publish them?’
‘No editor in Russia will touch such material.’ Pushkin’ s fleeting glance moved from the drawings to Anna’s face. ‘We’ll print and publish them ourselves. Your drawings are a powerful call to arms, Miss Brianski. We must be certain to leave no evidence of your identity.’
‘But people will know… All the circumstances point to me.’
‘Even so, both the drawings and the woodcuts from which we’ll print must be destroyed. Count Bulgarin was most insistent. He paid for six hundred copies to be printed and distributed but refuses to endanger your reputation further.’ Pushkin’s gaze fixed on a point over Anna’s shoulder and his foot began tapping on the wooden floor. ‘The revolution was a pebble dropped into a pond – a few ripples and then silence. These pictures could create a tidal wave that will engulf our country. The fate of the Decembrists and their wives will become legendary throughout Russia.’
He stepped away and blew his nose, then turned on his heel and clapped his hands. ‘Pierre, where are you? Forgive my inhospitality, Miss Brianski. I was too distracted to offer you sustenance. Pierre, please bring us coffee and vodka immediately.’
Anna was familiar with his quicksilver moods and her eyes followed him as he began to pace the room, his lower lip jutting out and his hands clasped behind his back. She wondered what dark thoughts were on his mind. Finally, after a long silence, he spoke.
‘I should have been with the rebels in Senate Square, but they refused to allow me into their ranks. They called me a gossip who couldn’t be trusted with their secrets, yet my verses were found among the possessions of all those condemned.’
As he stopped pacing and stood still, Anna caught his reflection in the wall mirror. Pushkin wasn’t handsome in a conventional way but possessed a powerful magnetic appeal. He could be witty and caustic, but his attraction came from the openness and depth of his feelings. He had been hurt by the Decembrists and their failure to trust him. So, that was the cause of the argument at Kamenka all those years ago, she thought. And the confrontation had been provoked by Peter Dashkovy.
‘Strange are the ways of God.’ Pushkin’s expression lightened. ‘While our friends languish in Siberia, I’m in [Petersburg], imprisoned in the tsar’s pocket. I wasn’t born to provide for his imperial amusement, yet can only write under his protection.’
Pierre came in and Anna cleared a space for the tray. The boy poured out coffee and glasses of vodka.
When he withdrew, the poet sat down opposite, studying her with a curious stare. ‘So, are you going to marry Nicholas Bulgarin?’
Anna almost dropped her cup. She put it down and thought before she answered. ‘He proposed to me and I refused. Nicholas Bulgarin doesn’t believe in love.’
‘Or so he says…’ Pushkin chafed his hands together. ‘Why else did he invest so much time and effort in bringing you home? Do you love him – or have I misjudged the situation?’
‘You’re not wrong…’ Anna said, taking a breath as she forced the words out. She was embarrassed and yet it was a relief to speak openly at last. ‘However, he’s involved with someone else.’
Pushkin asked with a little yawn, ‘The Romanov princess?’
Anna nodded and felt colour flood her cheeks. She might have said more, but Pushkin’s hands began to move over the table, gathering up pieces of paper.
‘Those kinds of liaisons are no more than a defence against boredom. Passion with its wayward tricks always brings pain, but to feel true love is what it means to be alive. Count Bulgarin may be guided by reason but he’s not without sentiment.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because I observe the vicissitudes of human nature. As we grow older, we come to understand that love has no boundaries. It’s uncontrollable, a madness that never ceases to torment us until we acknowledge its existence in our souls.’
Pushkin broke off, staring at the window. He wasn’t yet thirty, Anna thought, and so full of life and creativity, yet his brilliance was shot through with melancholy. Was he still in love with Maria? After a moment, he turned back and looked at her, drumming his fingers on the table as though keeping time with a tune in his head.
‘ But whom to love?
To trust and treasure?
Who won’t betray us in the end?
And who’ll be kind enough to measure
Our words and deeds as we intend? ’
He smiled. ‘You’re young and beautiful, Anna Ivanova. Don’t wait until it’s too late. If you love Nicholas Bulgarin, then you must tell him so.’
*
Pierre was sent to find a droshky and, as they drove home, Anna tried to fix in her mind everything that Pushkin had said. His words had cut into her heart, but the poet didn’t know Nicholas as she did. He told me to trust him, she thought. I must believe he’ll come back. If I let myself think otherwise, I will lose courage.
Arriving at the house, Anna ran upstairs to her room and changed from her walking habit into a house robe. Mazra told her she had visitors who were in the drawing room with the countess. As Josef opened the door and ushered her in, Anna saw her mother talking to Rubin and Anastasia Marinsky.
Rubin Marinsky came to his feet and his wife embraced her.
‘I was telling the countess how we met again at Davinka.’ Anastasia was dressed in a green coat with a tiny hat perched on top of her head.
‘I didn’t know you had visited Count Bulgarin’s home…’ Valentina sounded perplexed.
‘We stayed for just a few days, Mama. Count Bulgarin wanted to rest his horses,’ Anna replied calmly, turning to the guests. ‘I’m so pleased to see you. What brings you to St. Petersburg?’
‘The Marinskys have returned your father’s beloved Orlovs!’ Valentina put in before they could answer. ‘They refuse to let us pay them back. I am overwhelmed by such generosity.’
‘We’re aware of your family’s tragedy…’ Rubin Marinsky began before Anastasia caught his eye and took over.
‘Anna told us about your son and daughter-in-law. We wish to support them and the others in any way we can. It’s the least we can do.’
‘Those brave women deserve to be applauded,’ her husband stated in his calm, sure way. ‘How many wives would abandon security and comfort to live in exile with their husbands?’
‘Well, it’s the kindest thing I ever heard.’ Anna smiled at him. ‘Thank you from the depths of my heart. Papa will be delighted. I’ll go and tell Omelko right away.’
‘There’s no need,’ Valentina interposed. ‘The horses are already in the stables. Your friends brought them here this morning. I’ll take your father to see them later. How can we express our gratitude?’
‘We’d be honoured if Anna could accompany us to the ballet next week,’ Anastasia replied. ‘Please allow her to come with us, Countess Brianski? I will act as her chaperone.’
Valentina gave her approval and Anna went to the door to say goodbye to the Marinskys. She longed to ask for news of Nicholas. Had they seen him in Moscow? Did they know when he might return to St. Petersburg? By a supreme effort of will, she stopped herself, turning her head away as they left.
Her mother was quiet after their departure, and she went to sit close by her.
‘What are you thinking, Mama?’
‘I’m worried about your father. He may not understand.’
‘Oh, but he’ll recognise his Orlovs, I’m sure of it! They’ll make him happy.’
‘But we only want Sasha and Sofia back…’ Valentina gave a sob. Her face crumpled and Anna put her arm around her, feeling the bones of her shoulders.
‘Darling Mama. I’m here…’ she whispered, pressing herself to her and kissing her cheek. ‘Papa will get better. We must have faith.’
‘Yes … have faith.’ Valentina clung to her daughter’s hand. She closed her eyes, then opened them. ‘Anna, you do love me, don’t you?’ she said in a whisper. ‘Tell me the truth. Will I ever see Sasha again? Will we die not knowing our grandchild?’
Anna looked at her, her eyes filling with tears. ‘I love you, darling Mama. And God is merciful. I believe you will see your grandson and be reunited with Sasha. We must never give up hope.’