Chapter Two
Chapter Two
K amenka, the country home of the Davydov family, was a sprawling dacha with a wide balcony and front door that opened onto a shadowy hall. The other girls had gone to bed but Anna was too wide-awake to sleep.
‘Let’s walk once around the house before we go up. Please, Sofia! It will only take ten minutes.’
Sofia hesitated but Anna took her hand, pulling her along towards the sound of the music. They stopped outside the ballroom where the windows were open and guests were lining up on the dance floor for a quadrille. Candles in sconces threw shimmering light onto dresses of floating silk, evening coats and military regimentals. Ladies who were sitting out fanned themselves while gentlemen conversed in small groups, occasionally glancing in the mirror and adjusting their cravats as they awaited their turn.
At the far end of the ballroom, Madame Davydov was seated on a throne-like chair. She was a tall, handsome woman with steel-grey hair pinned beneath a sapphire tiara. Attached to her voluminous robes was an enormous brooch bearing the initials of the former empress. Anna stared at her. To think she had once been lady-in-waiting to Catherine the Great! Surrounded by a court of friends and relatives, Madame Davydov looked grand enough to be an empress herself. She was a niece of General Potemkin and a woman of some importance. Anna knew Maria adored her warm-hearted babushka. She watched as a young man, presumably one of her relations, leant down to whisper in her ear. The lady burst into a peel of deep-throated laughter.
The orchestra began to play a waltz and Anna looked around the ballroom for Peter Dashkovy. He wasn’t on the floor, but her brother, Sasha, was dancing with a raven-haired beauty. Sofia must have seen him too, for she lifted her skirt and walked on. Apart from the ballroom, the ground floor was in darkness until they came to the billiard room windows where oil lamps were burning. Anna peeped in past the shutters, then hastily drew back, pulling Sofia out of sight. She put a finger to her lips before she poked her head round again.
Peter Dashkovy and Nicholas Bulgarin were seated across an unlit hearth. Her gaze passed briefly over Bulgarin and settled on Peter Dashkovy. How many times had she drawn him from memory? Whole sketchbooks were filled with his image, but not one of them did him justice. Peter was even more handsome than she remembered. His wide-apart eyes and broad forehead reminded her of the classical statues she studied for her art. Lamplight shone on his blonde curls as he sat with elbows on his knees, the tips of his fingers brushing his clipped moustache. Peter had the strong hands of a soldier. Anna imagined them holding her face.
There was a knock at the door and a footman entered with a bottle and glasses on a tray. As he went out, Peter stood up and poured two shots of vodka. His back was turned and Anna glanced at Nicholas Bulgarin. With his jet-black hair and high cheekbones, he was as different from Peter as anyone could be. Thick lashes shaded his eyes so their colour was hard to define – they could be blue or green. He was clean-shaven and his mouth finely carved, the middle of his upper lip forming a wedge that closed firmly on the lower one. This, together with his drowsy eyes, gave an impression of sensuality that reminded Anna of his sister.
She knew Count Bulgarin had been one of the young men who’d accompanied the tsar to Paris after Napoleon’s defeat. He had been rewarded with honours and a white imperial star was pinned to his dress coat. Half of St. Petersburg and Moscow were his relatives or friends, yet he gave the impression few people were worthy of his attention. He was undeniably good-looking, but his features were marred by an expression of bored condescension that annoyed Anna. Nicholas Bulgarin wasn’t the only war hero staying at Kamenka. What made him think he was superior to everybody else?
Peter Dashkovy said something and Bulgarin leant forwards, listening attentively. Anna strained to hear what he was saying.
‘Serfdom is Russia’s national disgrace! When Napoleon was defeated, we believed that slavery would end in our country. How can we tolerate a society where our own people are bought and sold like cattle?’
‘You may free all the serfs, but how will they live? What will they own?’ Bulgarin replied. ‘Russia needs a new economic system and a constitution before serfdom can be abolished.’
This was strange talk. Anna and her friends were not encouraged to involve themselves in politics, affairs of state were the preserve of gentlemen, but she was curious. Last week, when she went to look for Sasha in his room, she had spotted a manuscript on his desk. A sheet of paper lay across the page. Moving it aside, she’d bent to read the small print.
‘A body flayed, an ankle chained,
The useless tears of slavery,
The law perverted and profaned–’
Sasha had interrupted her at that moment. He gave no explanation, picked up the book and put it in a drawer. Anna had resisted the temptation to question him, but she had not forgotten.
‘We do not fear death on the battlefield – yet are unable to speak out in favour of justice.’ Peter’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Tsar Alexander promised us a constitution. How much longer must we wait?’
‘Peter Igorovich, you know that nothing changes in this vast empire except by slow and cautious steps. Habit is everything to a Russian–’
‘Then habit must be broken! Did we free Europe from tyranny to be kept in chains ourselves? Did we gain pre-eminence among nations to be humiliated in our own country?’
Peter’s face was taut, the anger in him palpable. Anna had never heard him sound so passionate and gazed at him in awe as he went on. ‘We believed our tsar was an enlightened ruler – and we were wrong. Alexander has turned his back on freedom and equality. We have no alternative but to take action.’
‘Listen to me, my friend.’ Bulgarin’s voice dropped low. ‘I urge you to petition the tsar before embarking on any such adventure or your dreams will end in Siberia–’
He broke off as the door opened and Sasha Brianski walked in. Her brother was of medium height, her brother was five years older than Anna, tall with a springing step and muscular physique, fair hair and a drooping moustache. He made a fine figure of a soldier, she thought proudly, before her attention was diverted by the man who followed.
After the tsar, Alexander Pushkin was the most famous person in Russia. The poet was dressed in a tailored frock coat with a tartan sash draped over one shoulder, his cravat tied a la Byron. Anna was struck immediately by the piercing blue of his eyes and his impudent stare as he shook hands with the two other men.
Pushkin was not tall, barely shoulder height to the others and incapable of staying still. He seated himself, then almost at once stood up and began pacing up and down, talking and gesticulating with his hands. He had a wild reputation in St. Petersburg. There were stories of outbursts at the theatre, love affairs and duels, but Anna had read his poem ‘Ruslan and Ludmila’ and the beauty of his verse made her heart sing. The poet was a burning torch, aflame with so much creativity she felt he might set alight anything he touched. Her fingers itched for pen and paper. She must draw him! If she could just capture a small measure of his dazzling personality, she would be happy. I’ll ask Maria to arrange a sitting, she thought. Was it true that Pushkin had declared love to her and she turned him down?
Anna felt Sofia touch her arm. The atmosphere in the room had changed and was crackling with animosity between Dashkovy and Pushkin. The two men were talking over each other so that it was impossible to hear what they were saying. Then Pushkin threw his arms in the air.
‘I believed my existence had a high and noble purpose!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now I see it was nothing but a cruel and malicious joke. I’ve never been more humiliated, more unhappy in my life!’
There were tears in his eyes as he stormed out of the room. With a click of his heels and dip of his head to his senior officers, Sasha followed him.
Anna leant towards Sofia, confounded. ‘What on earth was that about?’
‘Pushkin’s a friend of the Davydov family but some people here don’t trust him. They call him an irresponsible, babbling youth.’
‘But he’s Russia’s foremost genius–’
‘A genius exiled from St. Petersburg for his incendiary verses. Madame Davydov may entertain whoever she wants – the tsar would never move against her – but it’s different for other people.’
Nicholas Bulgarin closed the door and returned to his chair. Peter filled a Turkish pipe and bent his neck to light the tobacco. Captain Dashkovy had impeccable manners. Anna had never heard him be rude to anyone. What could he have said to so offend Pushkin? A curl of smoke escaped his handsome mouth and she cast the question aside. Peter was no more than four paces away. She could almost reach through the window and touch him. She longed to feel his arms round her and his lips on her mouth.
‘We must go up now, Anna. It’s past midnight.’
Sofia’s voice floated across her consciousness. Anna wanted to stay but her friend was tugging at her sleeve. Reluctantly, she dragged her eyes away from Peter. As she did, she caught Nicholas Bulgarin looking at her through the open window. There was an ironic, inquisitive glint in his eyes, and she felt her cheeks turn crimson. How long had he been watching her? Could he tell from her expression what she was thinking?
A knowing smile played at the corners of his mouth and Anna’s temper began to rise. Her love for Peter Dashkovy was the most beautiful thing in the world. A man like Nicholas Bulgarin could never understand such an emotion. How dare he assume he understood what was in her heart? A surge of dislike swept through her. For a long moment, she stared back at him, scowling. Then she stuck out her tongue and ducked beneath window ledge, before running after Sofia.