Chapter Four
Chapter Four
Two years later. St. Petersburg, October 1825
‘Y ou must dance the waltz tonight, Papa! I am going to teach you the steps.’ Anna held Mr Wilson’s instruction book in one hand, the other stretched towards to her father. ‘I’m informed the waltz is all the rage in England and France.’
‘You’re informed, are you? Well, may I remind you that we live in St. Petersburg and not London or Paris? I’ve no time for indecorous familiarity. You should be content with the polonaise and quadrille.’
‘Are you going to spoil poor Sofia’s party?’ Anna pouted her pretty mouth. ‘Oh, Papa, how can you be such a misery?’
‘Please don’t concern yourself on my behalf–’Sofia began before Count Brianski interrupted.
‘My dear Sofia, you’re now Sasha’s responsibility, while Anna remains under my supervision. I shall decide with whom she may – and with whom she may not – perform the waltz’.
‘So, you’re going to be horribly strict and ruin my evening.’
A mischievous smile crossed Anna’s face. She had a knack of manipulating her father and getting her way. Sofia and Sasha had been married a month ago and a reception was to be held in their honour this evening. Musicians were hired and Anna had already spoken to Monsieur Filot, manager of her father’s affairs, and asked him to instruct them to play a waltz between every other dance.
‘If you won’t join in, Papa, then I’ll have to be the man. Come on, Sofia! Put your hand on my shoulder. Take no notice of the old bear!’
Anna put the book down and placed her arm round Sofia’s waist. ‘One, two, three. One, two, three… Keep your arm straight. No dipping…’
The small salon was crammed with furniture and the two young women manoeuvred awkwardly between tables and chairs. When Count Brianski finally left the room, they collapsed on a sofa in giggles.
‘Indecorous familiarity!’ Anna said when she could speak at last. ‘Isn’t that the whole point of the dance?’
‘My parents are more strait-laced than yours. Thank heavens they’ve returned to Moscow. Maman would have a fit!’
‘Sasha will permit you to waltz, won’t he?’
‘I hope so – but he insists I dance with him and he’s not fond of waltzing.’
‘Lord above, I’m quite put off the idea of marriage.’ Fresh laughter burst from Anna. ‘I’ll never marry, if waltzing is prohibited. Life wouldn’t be worth living.’
Autumn had come early that year and the windows were sealed against the cold and damp. The scent of lilies was overpowering and when Sofia sneezed, not once but three times, Anna jumped up.
‘I’ll ask Mama to have the flowers taken downstairs. We can’t have you sneezing and coughing all evening. I’ll see to it at once.’
Anna hurried out of the room. Hearing her parents’ voices, she stopped at the top of the staircase and saw them on the landing below.
‘You spoil her, Vanya! You were far stricter with Sasha. Anna gets away with murder because she reminds you of your mother.’
‘That’s not true!’
‘How else does she have the impertinence to give Filot instructions for the musicians? He came to see me and I put him right. Oh dear… why can’t Anna be like other young women?’
‘Because our daughter’s an artist, and artists cannot be regimented. Her tutor says she has the talent to become an academician.’
‘The only talent Anna needs is to be a good wife.’
Her mother’s frustration puzzled Anna. Valentina Brianski belonged to a generation disciplined to always show restraint and ran the household with calm efficiency. She rarely showed emotion and only cried when she was happy. Why should such a trifling matter upset her? What harm could there be in a few extra waltzes? Anna was usually cheerful and wanted everyone around her to be the same. She was about to go down and apologise when the front doorbell rang and James, the footman, ushered an elderly couple into the vestibule. Anna recognised her grandmother’s old friends. She would have to apologise later, she decided, and made her way to the basement by the back staircase.
The Brianski house, like all grand houses in the city, was a spacious building with a large front courtyard. Two elegant salons, a dining room, her father’s library, and the orangery were on the first floor, with the morning room and bedrooms above. Situated close to the fashionable Nevsky Prospekt, the Brianskis entertained at least three days a week and the basement was a labyrinth of domestic activity. There were two kitchens, three pantries, a wine cellar, laundries and storerooms. Outside, in the large back courtyard, was situated the wooden banya for bathing. The stables were further away next to a small yard occupied by chickens and pigs.
Anna knew her way round every inch and walked quickly down the passage to the silver pantry where she found Josef, the head footman. She asked him to dispatch two pages to remove the lilies from the small salon. Please could they also take up a bowl of fruit for her painting? Then she hurried back, collecting her portfolio on the way.
But the time she arrived in the salon, the flowers had gone and Sofia was sitting by the window, working on her tapestry. Anna arranged the fruit in a bowl with a pineapple balanced on the top. She collected ink, water and paper, and sat down with her back to the light. As she leafed through her sketchbook, her eye fell on her studies of Alexander Pushkin.
She never did discover the cause of the argument at Kamenka. Pushkin had sat for her the day after the picnic and she had to draw fast so there was no time for conversation. The poet was restless, fidgeting in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs. When a new thought came to him, his expression altered dramatically so that it was impossible to get a true representation in a single study. In the end, Anna had decided to make a series of thumbnail sketches to work up later. In one, the poet was lost in thought, his brow furrowed as he chewed a blade of grass; in another, smiling as he related an amusing anecdote. Sometimes, he was lost in concentration, his eyes fixed on one point in a vacant stare, and in others, like a tormented soul, grimacing with his chin in his hands.
Anna studied his dark skin, his long nose and full lips. She drew the intensity of his blue eyes, his black hair and the claw-like nails of which he was so proud. Pushkin was in exile so she had sent a drawing to him at his mother’s home in Pvosk. A reply was delivered within a fortnight. Pushkin wrote that he was devastated to learn that Maria Raevsky was engaged to Prince Volkonksy. He vowed he would never recover – but Alexander Pushkin was a poet with talent for exaggeration. Women all over Russia were in love with him and Anna suspected he wouldn’t be heartbroken for long.
Maria Raevsky had been married the year before and returned to St. Petersburg with her son a month ago. She was living in the Volkonksy palace overlooking the Moika canal, and Anna and Sofia had called on her last week. Despite its grandeur, Anna found the house gloomy and ostentatious. Its atmosphere was so different from the Raevsky family home, she wondered how Maria could stand it.
The Volkonskys had been powerful boyars and every room was hung with family portraits. They were well-painted, proud aristocrats without a friendly face among them – and the coldest of them all was Sergeí’s mother. The dowager princess had joined them for tea, dressed in a bulky kaftan over layers of goose down. As Maria poured tea from a steaming samovar, she beadily observed the young women over her lorgnettes.
‘I hope you girls take plenty of exercise. I’ve no time for delicate creatures too feeble to endure our St. Petersburg climate.’
The old dragon went on to denounce open wood fires and pretty tiled stoves – the very same that kept the Brianski house cheerful and warm. Did they know that she had been First Lady of the Bedchamber to the dowager empress and was a close confidante of the present tsar? Of course they knew. How could they not, when all of St. Petersburg was constantly reminded of the fact?
Poor Mashenka… Anna sighed as she began the outline of her drawing. Maria had been the most exuberant of them all at Kamenka. Now, her wardrobe overflowed with furs and her jewellery box was crammed with gems but the laughter had gone from her eyes. Was she unhappy? Did she love her husband? Certainly not in the way Sofia was in love with Sasha – or how she loved Peter Dashkovy.
There had been no chance to speak to Peter after the picnic. Anna hadn’t seen him again until after they returned to St. Petersburg and then not as often as she had hoped. When he visited, it was usually when Sasha was at home and she was able to study him from a distance. Everything about him was precious. She loved the way he moved and the sound of his voice. When he was near, she was enveloped in warm glowing happiness; without him, her world was dormant and cold.
Despite the devastating floods of last winter, her first season had been a success and Anna received two proposals of marriage. Both were summarily dismissed, for her mind was made up. Mama had sighed a great deal and Papa urged her to reconsider, but Anna took no heed. She would only marry the man she loved. There wasn’t a ball last summer when Peter had not led her onto the dance floor, and she didn’t understand his reticence to propose. Two years ago, she had been so sure of him. Still, he had hardly left her side during Sasha and Sofia’s wedding. She was certain he would say something then, but he uttered not a word.
Did he still love her? Anna never saw in his eyes the hot, eager light she recognised in her other admirers. Peter was always courteous, and she wondered if his restraint was deliberate. He didn’t openly flirt with her – though how could he when they were rarely left alone together? Peter was a mature man. He would have found a way, instinct told Anna, but he hadn’t called at the house for weeks. Suppose – it was a terrible thought – suppose he had fallen in love with someone else?
Anna looked across the room to her sister-in-law, her slender neck bent as she threaded her needle. ‘Has Captain Dashkovy spoken to Sasha recently?’
‘They talk to each other all the time. Why?’
‘I’m surprised we haven’t seen him here lately.’
‘Don’t say you still carry a torch for him?’
The pitying look in Sofia’s eyes made Anna lose concentration. A drop of ink slipped from her pen onto the paper and her drawing was ruined. She would have to cut out the page, but she didn’t care. There’s no such thing as still life anyway, she thought. Life is never still. It’s always moving, changing from one minute to the next. To catch the essence of a fleeting moment – that’s the skill of the artist.
‘How did you make Sasha fall in love with you?’ she asked as she reached for a paper knife.
‘I didn’t make him fall in love with me. It just happened.’
‘But you loved him for ages before. You must have done something!’
‘Darling Anna, are you so innocent of men?’ Sofia drew her wool down through the canvas, studying the pattern. ‘You must encourage them but not appear too eager. Respect is more important than coquetry.’
As Anna removed the ink-stained page and tossed it in the basket, a thought struck her so suddenly she gasped. Perhaps, Peter doesn’t know that I love him? Since Kamenka, I’ve taken for granted he understands how I feel, but I’ve never said anything or had a chance to show him. He’s afraid to ask me in case I refuse. That’s why he hasn’t proposed. He doesn’t want to put me in a difficult position.
Anna was so absorbed, the thud of an explosion made her jump. The next moment the doors opened and Sasha walked in. Her brother was in his Hussars uniform and must have come straight from barracks.
‘What was that noise? Is the city under attack?’ Anna’s heart was racing.
‘There was a fire at headquarters. It’s under control now, apart from a few barrels of gunpowder we didn’t manage to salvage.’ Sasha bent over Sofia and kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ve come to take my darling wife for a drive.’
‘How kind you are, dearest.’ Sofia looked at her husband with a smile that lit up her face.
‘Please be careful!’ Anna interjected.’ You could be blown to pieces.’
‘Don’t you trust me, Anna?’ Sasha grinned and put his arm round Sofia’s shoulders. ‘You know I’d never put my beloved in harm’s way.’
He’s just like Mama, Anna thought. The roof could blow off and Sasha wouldn’t turn a hair. He’s always been the sensible, responsible one, helping me out of trouble and making excuses for me. She smiled and her voice softened. ‘I hope you enjoy yourselves, but don’t get cold.’
When Sofia and Sasha left, Anna stood up and walked over to the window. She loved this city with its wide avenues and bridges over misty canals. She loved its mystery and charm, the river Neva shining in the sun, its islands still clad in rippling green. Her gaze was familiar with the fine buildings on the waterside, the mansions belonging to nobility and the English Line where a colony of British merchants lived and worked. As her eye passed over familiar landmarks, she saw Peter’s face everywhere, his eyes as blue as the summer sky.
I can only be myself, she thought. I’m no good at acting a part. Somehow, I must let Peter know I love him. If I don’t, I might lose him. He’s coming this evening. Shall I write to him like Tatyana in Pushkin’s latest poem? He’s a better man than Eugene Onegin. Peter will never break my heart.
Omelko, the head coachman, could take a letter to the regimental barracks that afternoon, Anna decided; then changed her mind. If Mama and Papa found out, they would be horrified. She must think of a way to speak with Peter in private. She racked her brains until an idea flashed into her head. She would ask him to sit for his portrait! No one was allowed to disturb her when she was working. It would give them a chance to be together without the family breathing down their necks.
A north-facing bedroom had been converted into a studio and Anna pictured the scene, Peter seated in the leather armchair as she stood at the easel. She imagined his expression when she confessed her love for him, his beautiful smile as he took her in his arms. What would it feel like when he kissed her? She thought of him pulling her up on tiptoes, pressing his lips to hers, and a shiver ran through her entire body. Be careful, warned a voice in her head. Let Peter speak first. But what if he doesn’t declare himself? What do I do then? I’ll tell him I envy Sasha and Sofia’s happiness, Anna decided; that will give him the opening he needs.
Suddenly it was all so simple Anna couldn’t think why the idea hadn’t occurred to her before. She laughed aloud with happiness and then checked herself. Don’t anticipate future contentment. Wait for good luck to tap you on the shoulder. The old taboos lingered. Only one person had refused to believe in them: Nan Maree, her Scottish grandmother. Despite being married to a Russian for fifty years, she insisted to the end that they were old wives’ tales based on fear and ignorance.
‘Your future lies in your own hands.’ Anna remembered her lilting Highland accent. ‘Depend on no one but yourself and ignore those superstitious old women.’
Nan Maree was born in Scotland and came to St. Petersburg with other exiled Jacobites at the time of Catherine the Great. She had been educated during the Scottish Enlightenment and was outspoken in her views. It was Nan Maree who introduced her to the novels of Sir Walter Scott and encouraged her to become an artist. She had died six years ago, and Anna still missed her
She told me to follow my heart and I won’t let her down. I’ll ask Peter to sit for his portrait as soon as he arrives. Anna hugged herself, closing her arms tight about her chest. In her mind, she was standing beside Peter in a chapel, wearing a red dress and her grandmother’s long veil. Deep male voices were chanting, and candles lit up the darkness. The fragrance of incense filled the air as crowns were held over their heads. In a few days we could be betrothed, she thought. Happiness is within my grasp. By the grace of God, I’ll be Anna Dashkovya before the year is out.