57°03”N, 135°19”W #7
Anna Elisabeth Furuhjelm, the doyenne of Novo-Arkhangelsk high society, the nubile young wife of the Governor of Alaska, lies in bed chewing the drawstrings on her nightgown.
It is already midday, but she has not yet risen, has not asked the housekeeper whether she has fetched everything they will need for dinner.
She does not meet the pastor to discuss the morals of the girls at the school but sits in bed feeling the patterns of her lace gown between her teeth and imagines she is somewhere else, someone else, someone who knows not what it feels like when a husband abandons his newly wed wife at the edge of the known world.
She doesn’t get out of bed for six weeks.
This she does not mention in letters to her mother.
Constance Furuhjelm has imagined the meeting in advance, gone over it in her mind so many times that it’s almost as though they have already met.
She has decided to stand with her back straight, her face relaxed, to look her brother’s wife firmly in the eye, but now that she is finally standing on the quayside, a headache is making her eyes water.
She has to lower her gaze and look at the ground so as not to be dazzled by the light.
When she stepped off the boat, she very nearly stumbled and fell into the sea.
Only the quick reactions of the rower stopped her from tumbling into the waves, but the fear of drowning remains, and she cannot stop herself trembling.
She is so tired that, if she were to close her eyes, she would fall asleep on the spot, sink into a deep sleep there on the crowded quayside, but Anna seems not to notice her misery; she simply opens her arms and clasps Constance against her.
Anna tries to look like the considerate, warm-hearted hostess that she is supposed to be, but she is terrified.
Her back is damp with sweat and her heartbeat is erratic.
She has not left her chamber for weeks, but today she has taken the steps down from the house and walked through the town, with servants and guards to protect her, to receive her husband’s beloved, long-awaited sister.
The two women have never met before. Constance was too sickly to attend her brother’s wedding, but now she has been sent across the world to their residence, and Hampus has told Anna nothing about his sister except that she suffers from falling fits, and this is why she has never married.
He has told her nothing else because he barely remembers his sister and cannot imagine a grown woman where only recently there was a child skulking in the doorway, but in Anna’s imagination Constance is an eerie, cunning creature that will make Hampus see all of his wife’s flaws.
She too has pictured their meeting, she has worried and fretted about it, yet now there is nothing but this gaunt, scrawny thing in her arms, and she releases her grip and looks at the woman standing before her.
Anna smiles, but Constance can tell that her sister-in-law is unhappy, she knows she ought to say something, but the words will not come, and the two women stare at each other, silent as rabbits.
Constance waits for the door to close behind her, then slumps into a chair.
Pain swirls in her head, and she presses her forehead against the window.
The moisture of her breath condenses on the glass and turns to frost. She looks at her new home: the water, the rocks and the decaying town in between, but she is concerned neither by rotting wood nor dwindling morality.
No – she likes the sound of this town of whores and drunks.
The ebb and flow of the ocean helps her withstand the throbbing pain in her temples, and she breathes in time with it.
The waves are like the ticking of a clock, you cannot hear it without concentrating, but it is there all the same, always in the background, an even, reassuring hum, and she closes her eyes and drifts into sleep, and in the morning she hears Anna complaining to the housekeeper: Constance leaves greasy marks on the windows.
Of course, there is nothing Constance can do about her condition.
They say that those with falling fits enjoy God’s special protection, that it is a sacred disease, but Anna thinks this is probably nothing but Catholic heresy and she is anxious about having to witness all that thrashing and moaning.
Her sister-in-law is timid and taciturn.
Anna finds it hard to believe that this young woman is related to her husband, until one day she sees Hampus’s expression in Constance’s face, as if imitated by a bad actor.
She watches her sister-in-law with a mixture of fear and curiosity, looking for clues as to when she might start having a seizure.
Constance asks if she can hold the baby – what a mad thought; she might start having a fit and drop the girl – and Anna gives the servants strict instructions: her sister-in-law must never be left alone with the child, and she may only appear in public when accompanied by a member of staff, who must be ready to whisk her away again at the slightest sign of an attack.
The governor’s sister arouses great curiosity among the residents of Sitka.
The officers and officials try to catch a glimpse of Constance as she arrives for luncheon, and their wives invite the two ladies for tea, but Anna declines these offers and sends Constance to her room whenever someone is visiting the house.
Her sister-in-law is not suited for polite society.
Her mind and memory are weak. For the most part, Constance is silent, and when she does open her mouth she babbles like a child, twitches restlessly and gracelessly, and Anna resolves that Constance should not attend Mass.
Pastor Winter can provide her with communion at their home, and Anna can keep her company, so Hampus’s dear sister will not have to strain herself by leaving the house.
Anna greets her husband at the gates of Kekoor Castle.
She tries to remember to breathe, but it is hard.
She knows that men wish to have sons, but she has given him a small, burbling daughter instead.
One of the servants carries the child to the governor for inspection, thank God the girl doesn’t start wailing but stares at her father calmly and seriously.
Hampus lets the child grip his fingers. Anna says she would like to call the girl Annie after her grandmother.
Hampus nods, presents Anna with a pearl necklace and some European novels and wants to hear all about the child, what she can do, what she likes, her disposition, and Anna tries to think of something, but such a young baby cannot do very much, she sleeps and cries and sleeps again, and Anna does not know quite what to say.
The ship that brought Hampus home also brings Anna’s long-awaited piano.
Finally, she can play for the family. Her hands fumble across the keys, Beethoven, Mozart, Mendelssohn and Chopin, and Hampus appears not to notice the stiffness in her fingers but closes his eyes and listens, his face relaxed.
Constance takes the hint, complains of a headache and retires to her room early; this evening, the couple can dine alone.
Once Constance has gone, Hampus admits that had he bumped into his sister in the street he would not have recognised her, and Anna finds herself smiling for the first time in weeks.
They eat, dusk descends outside, and after dinner they gaze out of the dining-room windows at Sitka sprawling at the base of the manor.
Here there are no street lamps, the evening outside is dark, and people walk along the streets carrying small lanterns.
They watch these dots of light bobbing in the darkness, and for a moment their town looks beautiful.
In the morning, Anna wakes happy, but as she sits down to breakfast and sees her husband’s expression, her happiness fades.
Hampus has examined his daughter. She ought to be rosy-cheeked and sprightly, but Annie is pale and limp – surely she is not ill?
When he hears that the girl is being fed cow’s milk, he becomes upset.
What on earth has his beloved wife been thinking?
They must find Annie a wetnurse without delay, and with that the doctor drags a scrawny, dirty woman to their door, a Yupik who lost her child only seven days ago but who is still expressing milk.
The servants heat up the sauna, wash the woman and burn her clothes, cut her hair and tie it in neat plaits.
The woman does not speak any known language but neither does she resist their treatment, and when the doctor shows her the child, she takes Annie in her arms and begins singing her a soft, gentle lullaby.
Anna looks on as the heathen lifts her baby to her breast, her daughter’s lips pucker, she takes the nipple and drinks.
Anna orders the housekeeper to sleep with the wetnurse.
Ida Hoerle is to ensure that the wetnurse does not mistreat Annie, does not touch her unnecessarily or speak her own language, but the housekeeper shakes her head: this job should fall to a maid.
But Anna is resolute. Nobody else has experience of rearing a child properly; dear, sweet Ida is the only one Anna can trust in this matter.
She has her way, but she is saddened to note that Ida Hoerle no longer seeks out her company, she does not sit down and tell her about the day’s events, the village gossip or her family in Dresden, but listens to Anna, her lips clenched in a taut line, and leaves immediately upon receiving her instructions.
It seems Montaigne was right: plus de valets, plus d’ennemis.