“But how can I find peace, Lilya? How can I ever feel peaceful again?” she whispers. “I’m so frightened.”
At this, Lilya lies beside Antonina, putting her arms around her. Antonina buries her face against Lilya’s shoulder.
“I’ll help you,” Lilya tells her. “I will always be here with you.” Her voice, although barely above a murmur, is confident.
After a few moments, Antonina’s breathing grows soft and even. The laudanum, aided by the wine and the vodka she drank in Misha’s room, is working. Lilya moves her head back so that she can see the other woman’s face. She touches Antonina’s cheek, and then leans towards her and softly, softly, so as not to wake Antonina, kisses her mouth, tasting the laudanum on her lips.
The first time Lilya kissed Antonina was when they were thirteen years old, and she a village serf on Antonina’s father’s estate.
Antonina was the daughter of Prince Leonid Stepanovich Olonov and Princess Galina Maximova Olonova. Although it was difficult to remember the very distant royal lines so many of the aristocrats laid claim to, Russian nobility was divided into ranks, Grand Duke being the most senior title, reserved for members of the imperial family, followed by thousands of princes, counts and barons.
Prince Olonov had an opulent home in St. Petersburg but preferred to spend his time on his sprawling, luxurious country estate built in imitation of an English manor. The Palladian mansion in the province of Pskov had an imposing facade and separate wings, attached to the house by corridors. Outside were verdant parterres and allées. Spreading for hundreds of versts in all directions were dark forests of birch and pine, and rolling meadows, ponds and rivers, as well as rich fields that, every year, with the labour of his serfs, turned from black to green or golden and yielded all manner of crops: wheat, corn, sunflowers and sugar beets. Prince Olonov owned thousands of souls, the male and female serfs living on the estate or in the many small villages that dotted the countryside.
Antonina was the last of four children. There were three boys before her, the youngest brother already eight years old when she was born.
Lilya was the daughter of a blacksmith and a fieldworker. Lyosha, ten years younger, was her only living sibling; six children had died between Lilya and Lyosha. They lived in one of eighty-nine single-roomed izbas in Kazhra, the village closest to the manor house.
One afternoon in early May, Antonina rode through her father’s forest, accompanied by Kesha and Semyon. They had been her guards for the last three years, ever since she had begged her father to let her ride away from the fenced fields near the house. Antonina stopped so her pony could nose at some soft underbrush; the new grass was just appearing after the long winter. Kesha and Semyon stayed well behind her, as Antonina demanded. She resented their constant presence, and longed to be alone, truly alone, although she knew it could never be allowed.
Antonina sat on her supple leather saddle as her pony munched the fragrant grass in the quiet afternoon air. After a moment she frowned, pulling up the pony’s reins to stop his chewing, and turned her head. Signalling the two men to stay where they were, she rode slowly in the direction of what sounded like weeping.
In a clearing, a girl knelt, hugging a small cloth-wrapped bundle against her chest. As Antonina watched, the girl laid the bundle, very gently, in a shallow depression hollowed from the soggy, dead leaf–strewn ground, and started to brush the damp soil over the cloth. Lost in her grief, she didn’t hear Antonina until she had dismounted and walked a few steps towards her. As a dry branch cracked under Antonina’s foot, the girl’s head jerked up.
“What is that?” Antonina asked, stopping between the slim, naked birches. “What are you burying?”
The other girl jumped to her feet, brushing her hands down her apron. Antonina saw how red her hands were, the nails broken and rimmed with dirt. The girl immediately bent from the waist, her face parallel with the ground.
“Rise,” Antonina said, and the girl straightened.
Although she was afraid to look into the princess’s face, the girl studied the strange clothing she wore. The Princess Olonova, daughter of the man who owned her and her brother and mother and father, their hut and village and the land they worked, was dressed as a boy: trousers and a belted tunic and boots and a short jacket. Yes, the trousers were of luxurious brown velvet, and the white linen tunic fine, with stitching of the most delicate design down the front; the belt and boots were of soft, pliant leather, the jacket a rich dark green wool. But still, this was not the clothing of a princess. Her blond braids were coming out of their bindings, and the loose hair—she wore no hat at all—was stuck to her forehead with perspiration. Her eyes were wide and grey-green, her mouth also wide, her nose perhaps a little too long. She looked slightly annoyed. For one instant the village girl in her ankle-length skirt and embroidered blouse and apron and kerchief thought that she herself looked cleaner and tidier than the princess. She silently asked for forgiveness, knowing she would confess her sin of pride that evening at church.
“I asked you what you are burying.”
Finally she glanced into the princess’s face, but only for a second. “It’s Romka. He was my puppy.”
Antonina went to the edge of the little grave. “What happened to him?”
“He ate poison put out for the rats in my father’s shop,” the girl said. She raised her head, although her eyes were lowered. “I didn’t know my father had set out the poison.” She drew in a ragged breath. “Poor Romka. He cried so loudly at the end.” She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the ends of her braids.
Antonina crouched, patting the earth over the slight mound. “Shall we say a prayer?” she asked, looking up at the girl, who stood motionless. “Shall we?”
The girl gave a small nod, blinking.
“What’s your name?” Antonina asked.
“Nevskaya, Lilya Petrova,” she answered.
“You know who I am,” Antonina stated, standing again.
The girl bowed low, her hands clasped in front of her. “Of course I know who you are, Princess Olonova,” she said, and then, with a slight hesitation, she looked up again. She was a little shorter than Antonina. She had dark auburn hair and eyes that were golden brown. Her skin was darkened from the spring sun and wind.
Antonina liked the colour of the girl’s eyes.
“I’ve seen you when you ride through Kazhra,” the girl added, as if the princess was waiting for an explanation. “Where I live.”
“Oh,” Antonina said, studying her. “How old are you?”
“Thirteen. Exactly three months older than you. To the day.”
“How do you know my birthday?”
Lilya’s mouth moved in a very small, uncertain smile. Her eyes were still damp. “Everyone knows the birthdays of the prince and princess and their children,” she said. “Each family in the village is given a celebratory bottle of vodka on the birthdays and the name days.”
“I didn’t know that.” Antonina studied Lilya. “So we are the same age. Do you have many friends in the village?”
“Oh yes, princess.”
“What do you do with them?”
“Do?” Lilya asked, growing more and more uncomfortable. She had never before been in the private presence of her landowner or any members of his family, but knew the importance of subservience to them.
“Yes. Do you play games with them?” Antonina thought of the yard boys on the estate and the confusing games they played with pigs’ knuckles and rocks and sticks. But she wasn’t to speak to any of them, unless it was to give an order.
Lilya frowned. “We work together in the fields, princess.” She was afraid this wasn’t the right answer, and tried to think of what might please the girl. “But when we stop for a drink of water or to eat, we talk. Sometimes when we walk home, if we aren’t too tired, we sing hymns. I like that, the singing.”
Antonina nodded.
She doesn’t appear too displeased, Lilya thought, and looked at the grave again
. She wanted the princess to mount her horse and ride away. She made her anxious with all her questions.
“Did you love your puppy very much?”
“But of course, princess.”
There was silence.
“I suppose you have many dogs,” Lilya finally said, when it appeared she was expected to speak.
“My father and brothers have dogs for hunting.” Antonina thought of the three elegant, aloof borzois, lounging on the red velvet sofa or on the thick wool rug in front of the fire. She was not allowed to touch the dogs, although her father daily brushed them. In the spring he used a strong boar brush, urging out the soft undercoat that thickened in the colder months. When she had been very small, she remembered leaning against her father, watching him as he crooned and sang to his dogs while he worked over them.
Lilya licked her lips. Was it her turn to speak? “But you don’t have your own dog?” she asked.
Antonina shook her head.
“That’s too bad,” Lilya said. “I will get another puppy soon. My father promised.” She again looked at the grave; she didn’t know where else to look.
“Let’s say the prayer for Romka, then,” Antonina said, standing beside her now, and Lilya felt a surge of relief. This was as it should be—the princess deciding what was to be done.
Together they bowed their heads and clasped their hands. “Which one?” Antonina asked, and Lilya hesitantly began: “Into Thy hands, oh Lord, I commend the soul of Thy servant Romka,” and Antonina joined her in the Prayer for the Dead, “and beseech Thee to grant him rest in the place of Thy rest, where all Thy blessed Saints repose, and where the light of Thy countenance shineth forever.”
Then Lilya added, “And I beseech You, oh Master, be merciful to Romka.”
“Amen,” they both said, crossing themselves.
Lilya gathered some tiny wild spring hyacinth and knelt, laying the little purple blossoms on the earth. Her kerchief had slipped to her shoulders, and Antonina looked at the whiteness of Lilya’s scalp through her dark hair as she bent over Romka’s grave.
“The next time I come by the village, will you show me your new dog?” Antonina asked.
Lilya quickly got to her feet, her head bowed. “Yes, if it is your wish, princess.” Cautiously, she looked up. “But … why?”
Antonina shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said, and it was true. She didn’t know what made her want to keep talking to Lilya, what made her feel that she didn’t want to leave.
At a horse’s snort, they turned to see Kesha and Semyon. Though Antonina had ordered them to stay behind, they had come nearer, pulling Antonina’s pony with them. They were close enough to hear the conversation.
Antonina shook her head, annoyed. But she understood that this was their duty. Should anything befall her, Kesha and Semyon would pay with their lives.
Lilya lowered her head again, even more uncomfortable. The two burly men might think she was at fault for talking to the daughter of the landowner. “Have I permission to leave?”
“Yes.”
“Goodbye then, Princess Olonova,” Lilya said, bowing from the waist before she turned away. When she had taken ten steps through the grove, Antonina called out to her.
“When do you get your new puppy?”
Lilya had to turn around and bow again. “Next week. Today my father showed me a litter, almost weaned. He said I can pick one.”
Antonina thought of her own father. Would he do this for her? She didn’t know. “Then I will come to Kazhra next week, to see it.”
Lilya performed another small bow. “As you wish, princess.”
But Antonina wanted something more. “Lilya Petrova,” she said, and Lilya cocked her head. “Do you want me to come?” Antonina asked.
Lilya pulled her kerchief up, tying it firmly under her chin. She looked over Antonina’s head at the softly swaying branches with their small, furled buds. Her eyes skittered past Kesha and Semyon. When she finally looked at Antonina, her face was tight, suspicious.
“I don’t understand, princess,” she said.
Antonina raised her shoulders. “What don’t you understand? I asked if you want me to come to Kazhra and see your puppy.”
“But … but … if you wish to come, you will come. It is not my choice.”
It wasn’t the answer Antonina wanted.
Lilya saw that she had annoyed Princess Olonova. “If this is what you wish, princess,” she said quickly, aware of the clenching in her stomach, “then, of course, it is my wish too.” She held her breath.
Antonina smiled.
Yes, her nose was a bit long, Lilya thought, her eyebrows so much darker than her hair, but when she smiled, the stern expression disappeared. She was pretty, really.
“All right,” Antonina said. “I’ll come to the village. Look for me.”
Lilya let out her breath. She had chosen the right words, then. “Perhaps … perhaps it would be better if I bring the puppy here, to the clearing. And princess? It must be on this day, at this time.”
“Sunday afternoon?”
“Yes. It’s the only day I’m not at work, and allowed my own time—Sunday, after church.” Lilya couldn’t imagine what her father would think should the daughter of Prince Olonov come to their izba; surely it would cause trouble. He wouldn’t understand.
Lilya didn’t understand herself. But it was the princess’s order. She smiled back at Antonina, a small, forced smile.
Her front teeth were short, the eye teeth longer and pointed, and Antonina saw the tiniest bit of her pink upper gums. With her slightly slanted golden eyes and sharp incisors, Lilya Petrova had the look of a small and wary yet intelligent animal.
A fox. Yes, a fox.
Antonina lived in the huge and glorious country manor with her father and brothers. Her father hired nurses and governesses to watch over her, and tutors who taught her to read and write based on religious and Biblical texts: the Psalter and the books of hourly prayers and the Gospels. She was a quick learner but difficult to keep on task, working carelessly, easily distracted and often gazing longingly towards the windows during her lessons.
Her favourite time was at the piano. She had taken her first lessons on the small spinet in the corner of the music salon but quickly advanced to the beautiful rosewood Érard square piano, imported from Paris, in the centre of the room. Her teacher, the elderly Monsieur Fadeev, told the prince that his daughter showed great eagerness for a four-year-old, and had a definite gift. He had Prince Olonov come into the music salon, where Antonina sat on a high tufted cushion placed on the piano bench. The old man played a simplified Mozart sonata and Antonina played the tune back easily, her small fingers stretching surprisingly to reach the keys.
Prince Olonov smiled proudly at his daughter, fondly, perhaps, but the fact that she was talented musically was of minor importance. Playing the piano was one of the requirements of young ladies of the nobility. By the time they were ready to be courted, they were expected to have a repertoire pleasing to the ear. They would play at small soirees and gatherings for the pleasure of family and friends and, hopefully, a future fiancé. However great a musical talent a Russian noblewoman might possess, it was simply a form of entertainment within the confines of the home. Professional performing was relegated to the serf troupes trained specifically for this purpose.
For women of Antonina’s class, singing, the reciting of poetry, skill with the needle, lovely penmanship, cleverness at cards, or playing the piano with a deft touch were all part of a package, one designed to attract the proper suitor. In Antonina’s case, her dowry was so large that it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d possessed the face of a horse and played the piano as though her fingers were wooden pins—there would be a line of men eager to wed her for her riches, and Antonina’s father imagined that he would marry her into further money.
Whatever her father’s thoughts about Antonina’s abilities, she progressed quickly in her insular music career, and derived great daily pleas
ure from her hours at the piano. She happily learned the thundering chords of Bach, which reminded her of the darkly scented world she knew from church. She loved the complicated trilling of Beethoven and the lighter crescendos and diminuendos of Schubert, which made her think of the sounds of the forest. But her favourite composer was Mikhail Glinka, his music redolent with delicate nuance for her.
A Russian aristocrat who studied in Milan and Berlin, the young Glinka had produced the first Russian operas in the years following Antonina’s birth. She loved the village sounds of his music, especially those with the falling fourths that Glinka referred to as the soul of Russian music. By the time she was twelve, Antonina had memorized a number of his mazurkas and polonaises as well as the longer, more haunting fugues and nocturnes that became, to her, tiny epiphanies of private emotion.
Although her father occasionally sat, smiling, and listened to her play, her mother never entered the music salon unless she was hostessing one of her own soirees.
Antonina’s mother preferred city life. She occasionally stayed with her husband and children at the country estate during the pleasant summer months, but she chose not to leave her St. Petersburg social circle when winter covered the countryside in snow.
Princess Olonova had given her husband children because it was her duty, nothing more, and she had left their care and rearing to wet nurses and nannies. She found the three boys rowdy and annoying, and often smelling unpleasantly of the fields and stables. She would occasionally hold Antonina and stroke her hair as though she were a doll or a charming pet when she was a baby, but as the girl grew older, she lost interest in her as well.
Galina Olonova was known for her beauty. She was also flighty and fickle. She cared only about the latest gossip, what she wore and the next fete. All of the princess’s concentration was directed towards herself and her own pursuits: shopping, having a new wardrobe designed and sewn for each season, the planning of elaborate, week-long parties and the various forms of entertainment these celebrations demanded, and the endless stream of company that arrived and sometimes stayed for months at a time in the grand St. Petersburg house with its views of the Neva River. She also spent considerable time on her romantic dalliances. She took lovers. Her husband knew but turned a blind eye, for he had his own affairs.
The Lost Souls of Angelkov Page 8
