The Silent Land

by Sally Spencer

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Of course you don’t. How could you, when there seems to be a conspiracy to keep the truth from you, a conspiracy that even I daren’t … Do you remember what you were doing the first time we met?”

  “Could I ever forget it? I was arguing with Zossim over the price of my strawberries.”

  “I knew about you long before that day, and I did nothing. But once I’d seen you, I had no choice but to take you in. You had such a fine spirit. I couldn’t let that be crushed by the poverty and ignorance of the mir.” He laughed ironically. “So I can’t really complain when that same spirit causes me a few difficulties with my wife, can I? You’ll get your room, Anna. But whether you keep it or not is quite another question.”

  He turned and walked quickly away.

  A feeling of faintness swept over me, and I clutched at the cherry tree for support. What a fool I was being, I thought. What a terrible gamble I was taking. I could lose the schoolroom, my Aladdin’s cave where I spent my days soaking up knowledge as a dry plant gulps in water. And what did I stand to win? Only status, the outward trappings of rank – things which were totally unimportant to me.

  But they were important to my dead mother.

  “Are you happy, Mama?” I asked softly, looking up at the bright blue sky. “Are you proud of me?”

  The room was mine, though I never learned what price the Count was forced to pay. When we had parties, I no longer dressed in the servants’ quarters, squinting into a cracked mirror as I adjusted my frock. Instead, I stood before a full-length glass whilst the maids fussed with my gown.

  “We’ll never get it right unless you can learn to keep still, Miss Anna,” they complained.

  It was always Miss Anna now.

  Once dressed, there was no climb from the dormitory to the first floor, but a regal progress down the stairs to the ballroom where the party was being held – just like Mama would have wanted.

  What parties they were! Even the expensive dinners which my great-granddaughters throw for the bosses of their yuppie husbands – and which they brag to me about incessantly – are as nothing compared to the parties at the Big House. Our guests didn’t start to yawn at midnight and phone for a mini-cab at one – they stayed for days!

  The parties varied in size and composition. Sometimes they’d include the Count’s relatives from Petersburg, a bunch of time-servers and pensioners who, in their greed, would have put a pack of ravening wolves to shame. Sometimes, though never, of course, at the same time, Countess Olga’s family descended on us. They were a stiff-necked, disapproving group of people who couldn’t look at one of the Count’s heirlooms without mentally pricing it. During the hunting season, neighbours – which in Russia can mean any one who lives within a hundred miles – often stayed with us and occasionally we were graced with the presence of a grand duke or government minister.

  So many parties, so much extravagance, at a time when more and more of the Count’s lands were being mortgaged or sold off. They all blur together in my mind, those grand affairs where pounds of jewels were worn and mountains of food consumed.

  No, that isn’t quite true. I remember one very clearly, the one the Americans were invited to. They were called Mr and Mrs Hiram T. Block, and they hailed from Cleveland, Ohio. Mr Block was a bulky man who wore his Savile Row three-piece suits as if they were overalls – but he looked no fool. Mrs Block was ‘a faded blonde’ whose conversation seemed limited to only two things – sables and Fabergé.

  “They’re very rich, Anna,” the Count confided in me, “and probably,” he sniffed, “very Jewish.”

  “Why are they here?”

  “Block wants to buy my forest.”

  “You should be careful,” I warned him. “You’re no man of business, are you?”

  “Of course not,” the Count said, sounding slightly offended. “I’m a gentleman. But that may be to my advantage. The Americans have no aristocracy of their own, so they’re like children in the presence of the foreign variety. Once we get down to business, I’ll soon make him feel ashamed for wishing to haggle with a man from such a noble family as mine.”

  “You’ll need help,” I told him.

  “And I’ll have help. I’ve asked an old friend of mine, Prince Mayakovsky, to stay with us. He’ll be arriving later today.”

  Prince Mayakovsky! How like the Count to choose another aristocrat as his advisor, and probably one who, like he himself, had frittered away most of his land.

  “You’d be better off letting Peter negotiate the deal for a commission,” I advised.

  The Count was stung. “You’re a very clever girl, Anna,” he said, “but this time, you’re wrong. Wait and see. They’ll be so impressed that by the time Mayakovsky and I have finished with them, Block will be willing to sign anything.”

  Prince Mayakovsky – Konstantin – did indeed impress the Blocks of Cleveland, Ohio, and not only because of his title. He was an imposing figure, six feet four, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He’d just turned thirty-six, and his temples, which were beginning to grey, framed a face composed of deep, intelligent eyes, an aquiline nose which stopped short of being a beak and a wide, generous mouth. To cap it all, he was wearing the full-dress uniform of a Colonel in His Majesty’s Hussar Guards.

  The Clevelanders were lost. Mrs Block slipped into a half-curtsy, wondered if she was doing the right thing, decided she wasn’t, and straightened up again awkwardly – like a mother hen getting off her nest. Mr Block gave a semi-bow as he shook hands, then said, “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Ma … uh … Royal … uh … Highness.”

  “My title is knyaz,” Konstantin said easily. “In English, prince. You can call me that. We Russians tend to be informal about such matters.”

  “Uh … thanks, Prince.”

  Watching the scene, I found it hard to suppress a giggle at the Blocks, yet, I suppose, they were right to be impressed by Konstantin. He was what they would call ‘the genuine article’. He was rich, had been educated at the Corps of Pages and was now an important officer in an important regiment. And if he chose to dazzle the Americans with a uniform he normally only wore on ceremonial occasions, it was not because he really needed it as a prop, but merely to exercise his sense of humour.

  The Blocks found the Russian capacity for food and drink a strain to keep up with, and excused themselves from the dinner table early. The Prince followed their bloated progress to the door with his eyes, and I watched him, watching them. “We’ll take them on a wolf hunt,” he told the Count after they’d gone. “A good wolf hunt, and they won’t be able to resist buying your forest at whatever price you care to name.”

  “A wolf hunt?” I said. “But it’s summertime.”

  “Hunting in winter is no sport for a man,” the Prince said, seeming to notice me for the first time. “Where’s the skill in waiting while your beaters drive the wolves towards you and then blowing big holes in them before they even get close enough to be a real danger? I don’t suppose you’ve read War and Peace, have you, child?”

  Child! How dare he!

  “Not yet,” I replied. “I have a list of books I intend to read when my studies permit me the time. War and Peace is, I believe, the fourth one down.”

  I sounded priggish, but I didn’t care. It had been a long time since the Count had spoken to me as if I were anything other than his intellectual equal, and I resented being patronized by this visitor. I’d recently turned fourteen and knew all the answers. I wish I could be as sure of one thing now as I was of everything then.

  “Fourth on your list, is it?” the Prince asked. “It should be at the very top.”

  I was furious to see that he was amused, rather than justly chastened. “Indeed,” I said coldly. “And why is that?”

  “So that you can see Russia through Tolstoy’s eyes – not as a mealy-mouthed land full of milksops, but vast, grand, magnificent – a land big enough for heroes to live in. Do you ride?”
>
  “Yes,” I admitted.

  “As if she’d been born in the saddle,” the Count said proudly.

  “Then you’ll ride with us on the hunt, and see me kill a wolf in a manner of which Tolstoy would have approved.”

  The Count kept no wolf hounds, but Prince Mayakovsky had brought his own dogs and whippers-in with him, and two days later, just after first light, we all assembled in front of the house, ready to start the hunt. Mr Block, uncomfortably perched on a borrowed horse, looked positively ill as he watched the Prince drain a silver goblet of mulled brandy and follow it with half a chicken washed down by a bottle of Bordeaux.

  “This is the traditional way to start off a wolf hunt,” the Prince shouted across to the American.

  “Of course. Tradition,” Block called back, though he seemed far from convinced. “We just love tradition back home.”

  The Prince leaned forward in his saddle so that his head was close to mine. “We just love tradition back home,” he mimicked. “My family was faithfully serving the Romanovs a hundred and fifty years before his country ever came into existence. What can he know about tradition?”

  Perhaps it was his arrogance which annoyed me, perhaps it was merely that my vanity was still stinging from the way he had spoken to me over dinner. Whatever the reason, I refused to nod my head like a good little girl should.

  “Do you think I’m wrong?” the Prince asked.

  “Yes, it’s a very young country,” I admitted. “And perhaps it does have no tradition. But still, it is they who are coming here to buy our forests, not we who are going to America to buy theirs.”

  The Prince threw back his head and laughed. “You may be impertinent, child,” he said, “but at least you’re never dull.”

  “Why are you here?” I asked, before I could stop myself.

  “To help the Count sell his land.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what?”

  But he didn’t seem the kind of man who would become involved in dealings of this sort. He didn’t even seem the kind of man who would choose the Count as a friend.

  “I served with Feodor in the army,” the Prince said. “And I make a point of always aiding old comrades. Besides, child, I find it amusing to impress these boring, stodgy people with my titles and my uniform. Things I know don’t matter a fig. Don’t you find it amusing?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Where’s your sense of sport?” the Prince demanded. He took a last gulp of wine and wheeled his horse round. “Come, little fire-tongue, let’s go and kill a wolf.”

  “D’you think we’ll find a wolf, Prince?” Mr Block asked as we trotted along.

  “Yes,” the Prince said. “A mother will never move far away from her cubs, and my men have already located the den. We’ll find the wolf, all right. The interesting question is, what will happen then?”

  I heard Block gulp. “Are they dangerous?” he asked.

  “A wolf lopes along as though she’s got all the time in the world,” the Prince said. “But she’s fast, very fast. She can even run down a horse which is galloping for its life.”

  The Prince’s answer did not seem to have done much to reassure Mr Block. “Fast … yeah. But I mean, are they really fierce?”

  “Look at the dogs,” the Prince said, pointing to the pack of borzois at our heels. “How big would you say they were on average?”

  Block squinted at the animals. “About two and half feet tall, maybe a little more,” he hazarded.

  “A good guess. And do they look fierce?”

  “Sure do.”

  “In single combat with a wolf, the borzoi will always lose. Even if they attack as a pack, she’ll probably kill one or two of them before they finish her off.”

  Block was looking distinctly green.

  “A wolf is not just a bigger version of a fox,” the Prince said. “A wolf is a powerful, totally ruthless, fighting machine.”

  We came to a halt where fields ended and forest began. The Prince issued instructions to his whippers-in. Some plunged into the forest with their hounds, but others began to lead their animals along the perimeter.

  “Why are you splitting up your pack?” I asked.

  “Because I have a plan,” the Prince told me. “It will be most interesting if it works out.”

  Half an hour passed quietly, then, suddenly, there was a cacophony of noises – “Ulyulyulyulyu” from the handlers as they urged their dogs on, the baying of the hounds themselves, the neighing of our horses as they sensed the presence of a wolf.

  The barking in the woods got closer and closer, but we still could not see the dogs. Then there it was – out in the open – a huge grey she-wolf with a pointed muzzle and wicked, bright eyes. She was running straight at us, so intent on escaping her pursuers that she hadn’t even noticed this new threat. My horse started to rear, and it took all my skill to keep the animal under control. Mr Block, no horseman, was not so lucky. From the corner of my eye I saw him flying off his mount. But I didn’t see him land – I could not tear my gaze away from the huge, loping monster which was almost on us.

  Seconds before she reached us, she veered to the left, as effortlessly as if that had always been her intention. Seconds more, and she was already a distance away, skirting the forest.

  “Let’s see how good you really are on a horse,” the Prince said, spurring his own mount. “Follow me.”

  How we galloped. Jumping hedges and ditches. Fording three or four shallow streams. I was a good rider on a good horse, but the Prince was better, and it was only my pride which kept me in pursuit of him long after it was clear that I was losing the race. Yet if the Prince was losing me, the wolf was losing him, widening the gap between us with every stride.

  In the distance, there was fresh barking, and as I bumped up and down in my saddle, I saw the second half of the Prince’s pack of borzois appear.

  Oh cunning Konstantin! As cunning as the quarry he was chasing.

  From being free and clear, the wolf now found itself surrounded by a circle of snarling, yelping curs, who were slowly and steadily closing in. I felt a twinge of disappointment. Was this what the Prince meant by ‘interesting’? Watching a pack of dogs tear a wolf apart? And we wouldn’t even see that. By the time we reached them, it would all be over.

  The Prince whistled, once, and the dogs – the whole pack of them – stopped in their tracks. I blinked, unable to believe my eyes.

  Once a wolfhound has the scent of blood in its nostrils, it can only usually be controlled by the whip. There are men, it’s true, who develop such a close relationship with one particular hound and can call it off by command, though they are few and far between. But to be able to call off a whole pack – impossible! I blinked again. The borzois had not moved.

  The wolf had been preparing to fight for her life, and this unexpected development confused her. As she hesitated, weighing up the odds, the Prince reached the edge of the circle and reined his horse to a halt.

  He did nothing more than watch the wolf until I had drawn level with him. “A magnificent animal,” he told me. “Look at her, surrounded by her enemies. Most men in that situation would be too engulfed by fear to do anything, but there’s a lot of fight left in her yet. Watch, little girl, and learn.”

  He eased his mount forward, nudging two dogs aside, and entered the arena. The wolf didn’t move, but with her bright, cold eyes assessed the new foe.

  “Trunila! Karay! Attack!” the Prince shouted.

  Two dogs, from opposite sides of the circle, began to advance slowly. The wolf could not watch them both at once, and it didn’t even try. Instead, the animal kept its gaze firmly on the man and the horse.

  The dogs edged closer, the wolf remained fixed to the spot. “Trunila! Throat!” the Prince called.

  The hound on the left sprang forward. The wolf twisted round and snapped its powerful jaws in the empty air. The dog retreated.

  “Karay! Hind!”

  Karay lunged from t
he right at the back legs, but the wolf had already twisted back, and as the dog’s teeth sank into her rear, she bit down on his shoulder. Karay released his grip, yelped, and fell back.

  A lesser animal would have followed through its attack on Karay, but the wolf was too clever for that. She had turned once more, ready to fend off a fresh onslaught from Trunila.

  The Prince spurred his mount and galloped into the centre of the ring. The horse passed within two feet of the wolf. The horse passed – but the man didn’t. The riderless steed sped to the edge of the circle, scattering dogs. The Prince, hunting knife in hand, was sitting firmly on the wolf’s back.

  For the first time, I saw panic in the wolf’s eyes. She tried to shake the man off, but his thighs were clamped firmly to her sides. She tried to turn and bite, but the Prince had his arm around her neck, pulling the head back, immobilizing the powerful jaws. She tried to run, but the Prince’s feet were firmly anchored to the ground, and the muscles in his neck bulged as they took the strain of holding the animal.

  The Prince’s free hand swung, and his hunting knife flashed briefly in the sun before it disappeared under the wolf – into the wolf. Blood spurted onto the brown earth as steel penetrated the heart, the wolf’s legs buckled, and it was all over.

  The Prince climbed to his feet and stepped free of the still-twitching body. “So, little girl,” he called to me, “what do you think of a truly Tolstoyan wolf hunt?”

  What did I think? My cheeks were burning and my heart was pounding furiously against my ribs.

  I took a deep breath. “Since this was all organized to impress Mr Block,” I said, “it’s a great pity that he wasn’t here to see it.”

  The Prince smiled. “Why should I care about a fat American when my heroic deeds can be witnessed by the flower of young Russian womanhood?” he asked. “You are impressed my dear, are you not, and that’s all that matters.”

  Of course I was impressed, and Prince Konstantin Mayakovsky knew that very well.