Alisa jumped up, wildly scattering her sketchbook, paints, and brushes in the process.
“How do you do, sir,” she stammered, replying in the same language, but totally flustered by the unexpected handsome stranger looking down at her. She flushed uneasily under his close inspection.
Nikki lifted one eyebrow quizzically, smiled slightly, and calmly waited for her to introduce herself. The silence lengthened.
Nikki prompted her.
“I believe I’ve seen you on occasion in Viipuri, but, unfortunately, always at a distance,” he said smoothly. “I fear I don’t know your—”
“Of course,” Alisa blurted out, embarrassed at her lapse in manners but shaken by meeting the piercing scrutiny of those pale golden eyes. “I’m sorry, forgive me, Monsieur. Mrs. Valdemar Forseus at your service, sir,” she responded rapidly, and bobbed a quick curtsey.
I certainly hope so, Nikki said to himself. His eyes swiftly swept her bowed figure as she gracefully executed the curtsey.
Nikki’s former glimpses of Mrs. Forseus hadn’t done her justice. She wasn’t simply another wholesome country lass, merely pretty and vivacious. She was breathtakingly beautiful. Her hair at a distance seemed to be copper. It was in fact a scintillatingly luxuriant golden-red; her eyes were large, dark violet, seductively lashed; her lips inviting (still slightly parted in surprise); her creamy complexion was flawless; her figure full-bosomed and slender-hipped. She was a lovely sight, and Nikki viewed her with a slow smile of sheer aesthetic appreciation. On second thought, alas, only partly aesthetic, for she had an opulent, ripe lushness about her that generated a surge of pure lust in Nikki’s libertine soul.
Her long-lashed eyes lifted, bright with a startled vivacity, and meeting Nikki’s gaze, she encountered a hungry look that made her creamy skin glow again for an instant with rose.
For a man of his experience and jaded appetites, Nikki felt, ridiculously, a crazy, youthful elation as he contemplated the beautiful upturned face, a stirring of desire that comes on one at the sight and scent of a perfect masterpiece of female flesh. This little seduction should prove to be tantalizing, he speculated pleasantly to himself.
“You must be related to the Prince Kuzan who owns the hunting lodge,” Alisa remarked a little unsteadily, feeling she must say something to break the spell of those magnetic, unnerving tawny eyes.
“One and the same, Madame,” he carelessly retorted in a deep, husky voice. “Allow me to retrieve your sketching materials which I so heedlessly forced you to scatter,” Nikki continued agreeably as he dropped to one knee and began gathering her supplies.
“Oh, no, Monsieur, that’s not at all necessary,” Alisa quickly responded in supreme embarrassment, “I can do it myself.” And she, too, knelt down and frantically began picking up the pencils, brushes, and paint containers.
The Prince Kuzan here! It was horrifying! It quite shattered her composure. Rumors and gossip of his eminence and escapades had penetrated even her confined, retired world. She would simply die of mortification if she stammered one more time; she must certainly appear as the most gauche, discomfited girl he had ever met.
At one point their hands accidentally brushed as both reached for the same object. Nikki was amused to see her drop her eyes self-consciously and snatch her hand back as if burned. A true innocent? Nikki reflected. Impossible! She was married to that old misanthrope Forseus. No doubt she was merely an accomplished coquette who could very effectively blush on cue. Whatever the case, he thought, innocent or actress, he’d know the answer before three days were past.
All the artistic paraphernalia properly replaced in Alisa’s small basket, Nikki disposed his lean form comfortably on the grass, remarking politely as he scrutinized her landscape sketch, “You’re a most accomplished artist, Mrs. Forseus. Are you self-taught or have you studied with someone?”
Alisa didn’t answer.
“Please sit down,” he requested cordially, and patted the grass as she remained kneeling. “It’s such a pleasant spring day, I impulsively decided to taste the pleasures of nature, and upon seeing you painting, intruded on your privacy. Do forgive my impertinence.” And he grinned warmly to disperse the lie.
With consummate skill he continued to try to put her at ease. What could she say unless she wished to be rudely uncivil?
“Of course, Prince Kuzan, there’s no need to apologize. You’re right,” she said as she settled less stiffly on the grass, but kept her distance from him, which didn’t escape Nikki’s notice. “The weather is altogether remarkable for this early in the spring.”
“Have you studied somewhere?” he repeated politely.
“Oh, no, I’ve never been beyond Helsinki, but my parents studied in Paris; in fact, they first met while sketching at the Louvre. Both served as my teachers, although Father viewed his painting as a hobby and was rather more interested in gathering information on the historic roots of the Kalevala. He quite devoted his life to the enterprise and had collated thirty-four stanzas of the epic before he and mother died—”
An unmistakable expression of pain passed over her lovely face and her sentence trailed off.
She was from the gentry. That accounted for her delicate beauty and fluent French, he thought.
“My condolences, Madame, the memory must be painful.”
Alisa nodded, unable to speak. Recalling her parents’ death could still paralyze and stupefy her even after all this time. With a palpable effort she returned to the present and quickly brushed off Prince Kuzan’s sympathy and her self-pity. “It all occurred six long years ago; I am quite reconciled to my loss.”
Nikki, however, could see she was not, and he experienced an uncharacteristic pang of compassion for the obviously distraught young woman. She at least wasn’t acting when it came to her bereavement over the loss of her parents.
“With your training, you no doubt are interested in the new exhibits of the Wanderers,” he conversationally stated, hoping to distract and cast aside her painful thoughts. “I saw an extraordinary reception of their work last winter in Petersburg.”
The diversion was more successful than he’d anticipated. Mrs. Forseus’s eyes, her expression, immediately, patently brightened.
“The Wanderers!” she exclaimed. “Have you really seen their work?”
“Yes, I have several catalogues of their exhibitions and a small landscape of Shishkin’s.”
Her violet eyes widened in fascinated excitement. “You do?” she breathed in wonder, her face overcome with a childlike awe.
Nikki refrained from revealing to her that he was relatively uninterested in the Wanderers, or any other painters, for that matter. He’d been cajoled against his will into attending the exhibitions because his mistress, Countess Amalienborg had seductively insisted, and he was in a receptive enough humor to yield to her extremely pleasurable methods of entreaty. And as for his purchase of the Shishkin landscape, the only reason he’d bought it was to annoy that pompous ass, Count Borcheff, who was bent on having the painting. Nikki had derived inordinate satisfaction from carelessly raising each one of Borcheff’s bids until the bombastic Count had been forced to drop out and lose the painting. His personal secretary, Ivan Dolorosky, conscientiously bought the exhibition catalogues as well as every other new book, pamphlet, and article published and added them to Nikki’s extensive library. Ivan had been given carte blanche to purchase for the library since the pursuit was so gratifying to the young man. Nikki vaguely recollected Ivan speaking rapturously of the newest Wanderer catalogue; thank heaven, he’d attended, however superficially, to Ivan’s enthusiastic monologue.
Alisa conversed freely after Nikki’s fortuitous attempt at diverting her morose memories, explaining her admiration for these new painters, who with a technical skill, par excellence, portrayed socially significant subjects, historical scenes, landscapes from life, that were poignantly effective as well as exquisitely rendered.
Alisa glowed with fervor when she spoke of the courage it t
ook for Kramskoy and a group of fellow students to resign from the Academy in a dispute over subject matter. How the “Mutiny of 13” had become the “Peredvizhniki” or “Wanderers,” basing their approach on N. Chernyshevski’s revolutionary book Aesthetic Relations of Art and Reality, which stressed the superiority of reality over its representation in art.
“You see, my parents, too, painted from nature; painted outside and not exclusively in the studio. It was revolutionary in their generation, but they were acquainted with many French painters who vacationed at Barbizon and worked directly out of doors.”
“Ah, yes, the vanguard of the—what are they calling those young painters in Paris?—the Impressionists?”
“Yes, that’s exactly right!” Alisa replied in delight. Since the death of her parents she’d not had a single opportunity to discuss art with anyone. “And Repin …” she breathed ecstatically, “such subject matter; it brings tears to one’s eyes.”
“His new painting ‘Volga Boatmen’ was just finished last year after three years of preparation. Marvelously stunning when I viewed it,” Nikki said.
“Oh!” another gasp of excitement, and Alisa chatted away volubly, free from restraint. Nikki had only to murmur appropriate responses intermittently and he was not, after all, completely untutored in the new movements in art. Having lived in Paris for two years, he toured Europe often and extensively, and when lured to the new art exhibits by Countess Amalienborg’s desire to be seen at the avant-garde displays, he was not altogether unseeing. Behind Nikki’s normal posture of indifference was a keen mind and a perspicuity beyond the common. He observed much without appearing to. As a matter of fact, on the occasion of his purchase of the Shishkin landscape, he’d also impulsively bought an extremely small Savrassov still life which he’d sent to his mother and until the present moment completely forgotten.
“I have some of the catalogues in the library at the hunting lodge and also the Shishkin landscape,” he lied. “Perhaps you would like to come over for tea some afternoon and see them,” he casually suggested. He would send a message to Ivan this evening in Petersburg and have the catalogues and painting delivered to him post haste, wherever they were.
“No! No!” Alisa exclaimed in highly nervous agitation. “I couldn’t—I’m sorry, I’d love to, but—” she stopped in a near state of panic.
Were his intentions that transparent? Nikki wondered uncomfortably, and decided not to press the suggestion. He quickly changed the subject, exerting his charm to calm the unusual display of alarm his invitation had occasioned.
Nikki couldn’t have known that fear of her husband’s actions rather than Nikki’s had prompted her inordinate manifestation of fear. Valdemar Forseus had on two recent instances beaten Alisa, not grievously, but enough to frighten her. After years of almost total indifference, since the birth of their daughter Forseus had once again begun, infrequently, to press her with bizarre and unwelcome demands. Alisa was dreadfully terrified, and more sure every day that soon she would have to take her daughter and leave her husband regardless of the consequences. The last few months had become so increasingly intolerable, she now wondered daily how much longer she could last.
Nikki restricted himself to polite and innocuous inanities for the next fifteen minutes, ultimately succeeding in restoring Alisa’s lively spirits and bringing the delightfully ingenuous smile to her lips. Feeling it best to depart now that her cheerful disposition was reestablished, Nikki rose from his relaxed sprawl and, towering magnificently above her, remarked equably, “Perhaps if you’re sketching here tomorrow, I could bring my catalogues to show you.”
“I don’t know. I can’t, I mean … I don’t think so,” she stammered falteringly.
“It doesn’t signify if you’re otherwise engaged,” he reassured her. “I’m rather at loose ends at the moment, and if you’re not here, the stroll over will, at least, be a pleasant occupation of my time.” He smiled faintly. “Charmed to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Forseus. Good day.”
“Good day to you, Monsieur,” she quietly replied.
And bowing courteously, he strode slowly away.
Alisa was left with multitudinous and conflicting emotions waging war in her mind, a sweet confusion holding sway. He was so handsome, faintly foreign- and exotic-looking. Alisa couldn’t drag her memory from the strikingly attractive maleness he exuded. Prince Kuzan was also enchanting company (of course, since Nikki was out to ingratiate himself), so kind to her and wholly conversant in the new art movements, a topic of infinite delight to one who could keep abreast of the new currents only by irregular periodicals that might find their way to Viipuri. Alisa didn’t allow herself to dwell on his handsome attractiveness. In the six years since she had been forced into marriage with the sixty-one-year-old Forseus, no man had ever treated her gently. The entire encounter that afternoon was bewildering and left her unusually agitated. She couldn’t concentrate on her painting anymore. All thought of color and form had left her mind. She knew she wanted to meet Prince Kuzan tomorrow. But dared she follow her own warm feelings of pleasure he engendered within her this afternoon? If her husband had been home, she would have had no choice. But he wasn’t, and these few days of freedom from his tyranny had brought a Prince into her life.
Alisa gathered her supplies and walked home slowly, lost in tumultuous thought, hugging each enchanting memory of the Prince to herself. Arriving home, she devoted herself to her five-year-old daughter, Katelina, who had just awakened from her afternoon nap, and in entertaining her child endeavored to push aside the distracting, disturbing thoughts of Prince Kuzan.
When Nikki returned to the lodge, he was greeted with rapid-fire, coarse, and teasing questions from the importunately inquisitive, now slightly drunken Cernov and Illyich.
“Well, how is the bull of Petersburg doing with Forseus’s ice maiden?” Illyich laughed uproariously, more amused than ever at his choice of prey. He felt quite certain of collecting his winnings.
Cernov slyly added, “I see your clothes are as unruffled and immaculate as ever. Didn’t get to her this afternoon, eh, Nikki? Losing your touch?”
Nikki good-naturedly accepted the crude jesting interspersed with much helpful and extremely graphic advice. He was eminently familiar with barracks humor and also entirely satisfied with the course of the afternoon’s efforts. He looked forward eagerly to a leisurely, unhurried seduction; the victory would be sweet.
“My friends,” Nikki explained with a patient forbearance, “Mrs. Forseus is not a common slut. She is, surprisingly, in spite of having married that peasant-merchant Forseus, of gentle birth and upbringing. She’s also a lovely, skitterish young filly unused to the bridle, so I must gentle her slowly before she’ll be tame enough to ride. Today was not entirely unsuccessful, so don’t count your winnings yet, Illyich.”
Nikki had been unprepared to find Alisa so well-bred. Her French was fluent and without accent. She wasn’t a peasant after all, although Nikki had no scruples or class distinctions when it came to taking his pleasure. His sexual diversions were international, interdenominational, non-ideological, entered into with a true and open spirit of brotherhood.
That evening Nikki remained aloof from the ordinary orgy of drinking, dancing, and whoring. With barely tolerant amusement and ultimately total indifference he watched the drunken antics of his friends. Finally, to the astonishment of the servants, for the first time in years he retired alone to bed at the relatively early hour of one o’clock. He was even sober. Now they were worried. Was the master ill?
For all his drunken wildness and eccentric behavior, Nikki had an old-fashioned regard for his responsibilities to his peasants and was, in turn, adored by them. He was generous to his servants, a quirk denoted by most as softness or eccentricity. He was genuinely interested in their problems, laughed and joked with them, would partake in their amusements, had learned to ride, hunt, and ski from his father’s Finnish Lukashee (trackers).2 In fact, Nikki’s ardor for hunting interfered consid
erably with his regimental duties, but his superiors favored him and intervened more than once to save him the consequences of over-staying his leave or being absent without consent.
Nikki, oblivious to the servants’ whispered solicitude for his health, slept deeply and peacefully throughout the night.
Alisa, for her part, was not so imperturbable. She tossed and turned, in long stretches of wakefulness restlessly wondering if she should meet Prince Kuzan the next day. Still distraught with indecision, she finally fell into an exhausted sleep at four in the morning.
Nikki had dispatched a trooper to Petersburg 100 versts away (66 miles) the evening before, with a message for Ivan, instructing him to gather all the current art catalogues from the library and send them back by return messenger. Ivan was also to ascertain the provenance of the landscape by Shishkin and have that delivered as well to the hunting lodge.
By mid-morning of the second day of the wager, the catalogues were in Nikki’s hands and a note from Ivan explained that the painting was being sent by carriage since its size made it impossible to be carried on horseback. Nikki selected four of the newest catalogues he felt would be of most interest to Mrs. Forseus.
Dressing leisurely, he left without waking his friends, who were still sleeping off their fuddled heads, although the day was well advanced beyond noon. He wore the buckskins and peasant shirt he preferred as country dress. Books tucked under his arm, Nikki strolled without haste to the small meadow on the opposite side of the shallow river. There he lay down in the warm sun, arms hooked behind his neck, and waited for Alisa. He’d deliberately arrived very early in order to precede the woman to the assignation. Alisa’s quavering trepidation had been extremely evident yesterday, and Nikki was afraid she might quickly reconsider and bolt if he wasn’t there first to greet her.
Nikki entertained himself, as he waited, by mentally cataloguing the various and delightful attributes of the beautiful Mrs. Forseus. This pleasant exercise was eventually disturbed by the arrival of the subject of his musings.
Seized by Love Page 4
