Grisha hasn’t moved.
“That’s all, Grigori Sergeyevich,” Antonina says. She fights not to thank him again, simply to prolong the conversation, and moves to the desk as if searching for something in a small pile of papers. “Oh. No, wait.” She turns back to him, remembering. “The peasant in Tushinsk. The one you were talking to.”
Grisha nods. “I sent a coat for the child, as well as a basket of new clothing as a reward.”
“Not him. The man in the doorway I saw you with just moments before I saw the child in Misha’s coat.”
Grisha waits.
“Who was he? Did he work for me at one time?”
Grisha’s face is immobile. “Yes,” he finally says.
“I thought he was familiar.” So it wasn’t Lev. “Have you made any further discoveries about what happened with Felya?” She wants to ask him if he has any suspicions, if he thinks it could have been Soso. If he is worried about further threats at Angelkov.
“No,” Grisha says, his face expressionless.
As the silence stretches, she again looks at papers on the desk, glad she hadn’t knocked on Grisha’s door a few nights earlier, glad she came to her senses before she embarrassed herself. I am not like my mother, she thinks, the picture of Galina Maximova and the violinist—Valentin—once more vivid in her mind.
What she did with Grisha was a mistake. Everyone is allowed one mistake.
When she finally looks up and sees she is alone, there is a moment of disappointment. She sits, heavily, in Konstantin’s chair behind the desk. But the air is chilled, the fire dying. She shivers in the room filled with the memory of her husband. She rises to go to her bedroom. Lilya always keeps a fire lit for her. She looks down at the card in her hand, and reads the name, written in curling cursive.
Three days later, Valentin Vladimirovitch Kropotkin is ushered into the library. Antonina is waiting. The moment he arrives, she’s sorry she invited him to call. What was she hoping for? What will she say to him? Will the ghost of her mother stand in the corner, smirking?
Antonina told herself, when she sent the note to the Bakanevs’, that she was instigating this social call to distract herself from her ongoing grief over Mikhail, from her new widowhood, from her worries about Angelkov. She knows this is partly true. She also doesn’t want the complicated thoughts of Grisha.
It’s Grisha who greets Valentin in the yard, speaking to him as they walk towards the front door.
“I hope you’re aware of the grief that has been visited upon Angelkov, apart from the count’s death,” he says, glancing at Valentin. He’s taller than the musician by a few inches.
“I heard about the kidnapping of the Mitlovsky child at the funeral.”
“It’s been six months of hell for the countess. She is not herself. And now her husband’s death, so recent …” He glances at the musician again. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Kropotkin?”
“Have you appointed yourself the countess’s bodyguard?” Valentin doesn’t have to explain himself. He’s a free man now. He realized when he came to Angelkov to try to see the countess the first time that Naryshkin was the man he had seen helping Countess Mitlovskiya into the barouche after the musical evening. “I am here to offer my sympathies.” He looks at Grisha. “And you, Naryshkin?”
“What?”
“Why are you here?”
Grisha stops, forcing Valentin to stop as well. “You know I’m the steward. I help her run the estate, as I helped her late husband.”
“I see,” Valentin says.
To Grisha, the two words sound condescending, perhaps even suggestive, or insulting. He watches as Kropotkin puts his hands together and squeezes, as if releasing some tension in his fingers. They’re long and delicate. Something about the unexpected movement reminds Grisha of Mikhail.
It’s because they’re both musicians, Grisha tells himself.
Valentin notices, as Grisha ushers him through the tall front doors, that there are few servants apparent in such a large house. There is none of the usual bustle of the Bakanev manor, with endless staff cleaning and moving about on all the floors. There’s an elderly man in a house servant’s uniform standing in the entrance hall, but that’s all. Valentin also finds it odd that the steward is the one to bring him inside. When he’d arrived, the steward whistled, and a young man ran from the stable and led his horse away.
Grisha stays where he is while Pavel steps up and takes Valentin’s coat and hat and then, with a short bow, extends his hand down the hall towards the library. Antonina has chosen the cozy, book-lined room to receive this guest.
Grisha hears stealthy footsteps on the staircase and looks up to see Lilya, who is staring after Valentin. Then she glances at Grisha, and Grisha sees the disapproval on her face.
When Valentin walks towards the carved doors without another word to Grisha, he feels fresh anger. The man has forgotten that less than a year ago he was a serf. That a year ago Grisha, as a free man, would have been above him, and the musician would have had to bow from the waist to him, or be reprimanded. Or perhaps the musician hasn’t forgotten—how can one so quickly forget the patterns of a lifetime?—but is making it clear to Grisha that he doesn’t owe him any courtesies. That they are of the same class now: free men.
Grisha waits, listening, as Pavel opens the doors and ushers Valentin in. He can’t believe that Antonina has allowed this simpering, effeminate man to call on her. Grisha hears Antonina’s voice—although he can’t make out what she’s saying—and then Kropotkin’s in response. And then Pavel shuts the doors and takes his place outside the library. Lilya is still on the stairs.
Antonina has chosen to be unchaperoned during her visit with Kropotkin.
Grisha is made uncomfortable—more than that, is troubled—by Kropotkin’s presence in the manor. Something about the man gets under his skin. But he can’t stay without a reason. He turns and leaves, not wanting Pavel or Lilya to see his expression.
Valentin Vladimirovitch is used to being adored by women but has no room in his heart for the complexities of their feelings. It’s the same every time: the exaggerated sighs and lingering looks, the first tentative and then bolder touches, the melodrama at the beginning of the affair, and then at the end. It is as steady and tiresome as the dripping of rain off a roof. And yet he still enjoys the game, and has long understood the rewards. He gives women what they want—whatever form of adulation or respect or romance or sensuality they require—and in return he gets what he needs.
When he saw the Olonova princess—now a countess—at the Bakanevs’, he recognized that she was distraught. Now, knowing of the disappearance of her child and the death of her husband, Valentin imagines that she is very vulnerable. It may be that the Countess Mitlovskiya, alone and bereft, could benefit from his company. It might be that he could benefit from hers.
Her edginess and uncertainty are apparent as she greets him, tightly holding a little lapdog with one arm. He offers expressions of sympathy regarding her husband’s death. From her rather unemotional reaction both at the funeral and today, he assumes that there was little affection between her and what he knows was a much older man. A typical situation: how often he has offered companionship to a bored young wife, too passionate and enthusiastic for a husband decades older and no longer interested in youthful pursuits.
Valentin fills the visit with clever and droll stories of situations he has encountered at some of the estates he has worked on. He accepts two cups of tea and three small cakes, complimenting her on their delicacy: A cook who can create such light pastry is difficult to find in the provinces. He answers Antonina’s questions about his favourite composers and what he is teaching the Bakanev nieces. He and Antonina agree that this October seems cooler than last. He comments on Tinka’s devotion to her mistress, and the pleasure of canine affection. He is aware of the time, and leaves after exactly an hour.
He made certain that the conversation was light and effortless. And yet, Antonina realiz
es once he’s gone, in no way is Valentin Vladimirovitch an uncomplicated man. She also recognizes how hard he must have worked to create such sociable conversation. She knows fully how painfully awkward she is. He offered her opportunities to speak of her deceased husband, but he hadn’t asked her about her son, even though the Bakanevs would have no doubt recounted the terrible story. Proof that he is thoughtful and sensitive.
She doesn’t expect that he will wish to see her again, as the visit couldn’t have been particularly pleasurable for him.
When she receives a note from him the next day, telling her how much he enjoyed his time with her, she is surprised. After some thought she sends a note back, telling Valentin Vladimirovitch he is welcome to pay her another call the following week.
When he comes to Angelkov the second time, he brings his violin. “I thought we might play together.”
“Oh, I don’t think so, Mr. Kropotkin.”
He sets down his violin case. “I understand. And I apologize for my forwardness.”
“I simply don’t feel prepared to accompany you. But I would love for you to play,” she adds with a kind of anxiety, or perhaps it’s relief. It may just be that if he plays, she won’t have to make conversation.
He sees, as he did on his first visit, that she’s uncomfortable with a man calling on her, and yet she hasn’t turned him away. Though it’s really too early after her husband’s death for him to be here.
They go into the music salon, and she sits on the settee while he stands near the bay window. “Do you have a request, countess?” he asks, taking his violin from its case. The instrument has a beautiful red-brown veneer, and a gold fleur-de-lys on the tailpiece. “I have a large repertoire,” he says, with no attempt at modesty. He’s a musician, and this is what he does: he plays for people. “Is there a composer you favour?”
He knows what the Glinka piece did to her the evening at the Bakanevs’, and worries that certain other pieces or composers might affect her as deeply. She is, he’s realizing, in a fairly unstable mood, and he recalls the steward and his warning. He doesn’t like the man.
“Perhaps Bach?” he asks when she doesn’t answer. “The Partita in D Minor? I would play the first and second movements.”
She nods, folding her hands in her lap and sitting back.
Valentin steps closer to the square Érard and lifts the key lid. He plays the A of the middle octave.
The piano is slightly out of tune. As with the rest of the estate, there has been no upkeep. What a pity that the beautiful French piano is neglected. What concerts Valentin could give in a salon like this. He sees a stack of sheet music and looks closer: it’s Glinka. And it’s from him, to the Princess Olonova. He had forgotten about giving this to her on her name day so long ago. The top sheet of Separation in F Minor is slightly torn and streaked with fading red marks.
“Countess,” he says, looking at her. “You still have it. The music I gave you.”
Her face flushes. “Yes. I have so enjoyed it. I transposed some of Glinka’s more complex works for my son when he was younger. But now he is able to play it as it is written, with ease. Of course, you understand the underlying difficulty of perfecting Glinka’s compositions: they require a sense of simplicity and naturalness that is actually very arduous to achieve. My Misha was playing that—Separation in F Minor—the last time I … when we were together last …”
Now he understands why the Glinka nocturne distressed her so.
“I’m sorry, countess,” Valentin says, stepping away from the piano. He pulls a small tuner from his case and uses this to tune his A string, turning the tapered pegs in the peg box a fraction and plucking the string. When he’s satisfied, he tunes the other three strings to the A. Then he settles his violin under his chin and lifts his bow, and the rich notes of the first movement sing into the quiet room.
After Valentin is gone, Antonina brings to memory the image of his bare arms and legs as he lay in her mother’s tumbled satin bedclothes. His limbs were well formed, and yet there was something delicate about him. And now he’s older, yes, as she is, but still slender and somehow boyish. He’s like a horse bred for speed, Antonina thinks, with a strong and yet lithe body, perhaps a vulnerability about the mouth. He gives the impression of the perfect fusion of strength and gentleness.
He’s not like Grisha, hard and restrained, confusing her. Valentin wears his emotions on his face, while Grisha … the man is unreadable.
In spite of what Grisha has said about Valentin’s manners over arriving without sending a calling card, Antonina observes that he is indeed cultured. She knows that in his former life as a serf musician he was taught the behaviours necessary for mingling with royalty and nobility as he played in their music salons and theatres and ballrooms. He’s also well educated: he drops French phrases with nonchalance, and mentioned that he is currently reading Musset’s La Confessions d’un Enfant du Siècle.
When he plays, a lock of soft blond hair falls over his high, pale forehead. He touches his violin as though it is a beloved child. No, his grip is too firm—as if it is a secret lover.
But this leads her back to Grisha, and the way he so easily lifted and held her against him, the way he led her with confidence, and yet also let her take the lead.
Grisha. If not for him, Antonina wouldn’t suddenly and unexpectedly have this disturbing ache for the sweetness of skin on skin, the sensuous remembrance of the weight of a man atop her, the push and pull of desire.
She falls to her knees and prays to try to drive away the images.
At the end of that second visit, Valentin had asked if he might call on her with regularity. “It’s so tedious, the back and forth of cards between the estates, don’t you think?” he asked. “I teach only in the mornings,” he continued. “My afternoons are free to do as I please. And you, countess, do you have any time you may call your own? I can understand how the running of an estate such as Angelkov could take great effort.”
She had nodded uncertainly. She’s not sure if she really wants this, and yet she doesn’t know how to politely deflect Valentin. He’s so full of life, and even after two visits she sees how he brings colour and music into her dull days. How he takes her away, briefly, from the thoughts that plague her: her own remorse over her behaviour while her son suffers away from his home, the financial troubles of the estate.
Antonina sends for the piano tuner from Pskov, and pays him with a heavy silver snuff box of Konstantin’s. The silver is badly tarnished; none of the Angelkov silver sparkles any longer. The man turns it over in his hands, and Antonina knows he’ll clean it and sell it for far more than he could have charged for the job.
Valentin continues to bring his violin, wrapped in wool and a sheepskin to protect it during the ride from the Bakanev estate to Angelkov. Now, upon arriving, Pavel takes him directly to the music salon, where Valentin unwraps the violin and takes it out of its case. He sets it on an ottoman in the warmth from one of the stoves in the corners of the room before tuning it and applying resin to his bow. While he waits for the instrument to adjust to room temperature, he and Antonina talk. It’s easier now; she grows more open each time he comes.
For Antonina, it’s good to be in the music salon again. The way Valentin moves his bow over the strings, evoking and shaping and colouring the sounds so that her heart expands to fill her chest, gives her a deep sense of gratitude for the happiness she knew with her son in this room. She remembers so many lovely hours, so many weeks and months and years as he sat at the piano and played with such commitment and expression. When he turned on the padded bench, his eyes bright, asking, “How did I do with that last movement, Mama? Were the trills light enough? What shall I play now?”
Misha. She glances at the rain-streaked windows. The weather is definitely turning; winter is so close. Is he warm?
Long before dusk, Lilya always comes in to light the candles and lamps, a subtle clue that it’s time for Kropotkin to be on his way. She is unusually slow in these
simple tasks, lingering too long at each one, watching the violinist with an almost petulant expression.
Antonina wonders what’s got into the woman. Why does she appear so sour? It’s quite evident that Lilya doesn’t like having Valentin at Angelkov, and surely it isn’t because it means she has the simple extra job of serving them afternoon tea.
It’s only after the third or fourth time Lilya has made a big show out of lighting the lamps that a thought crosses Antonina’s mind: could Lilya be jealous?
Almost as soon as the idea comes to her, she dismisses it. Why would Lilya be jealous?
Lilya thinks she understands what’s happening: Valentin is falling in love with Antonina. It is natural for Lilya to think this; she assumes that no one could be around Antonina for any length of time and not fall in love with her.
She can’t tell what Antonina feels for Valentin, although she does try to gauge her in a breezy, conversational way. How long will Mr. Kropotkin stay at the estate of the prince and princess? Is he married? Where is his home? Will he return to St. Petersburg when the Bakanev nieces leave, or might he stay in the area, teaching other landowners’ children?
Antonina is straightforward in her answers to Lilya’s casual questions as the woman straightens the bed or hangs up a gown after one of Valentin’s visits. But when Lilya makes small criticisms of him, saying, He certainly eats a great many cakes every time he comes, and did you see? He held a piece of sugar in his teeth and drank his tea through it—a sure sign of his peasant roots, she expects—hopes—that Antonina will laugh and agree with her.
Instead, Antonina speaks to her sharply. “Your job is to serve the cakes, Lilya, not count how many are consumed.” Lilya thinks, then, that Antonina cares for Valentin Vladimirovitch in a way that has nothing to do with how he plays the violin.
Lilya knows that Grisha too is angered by Kropotkin’s visits. Each time the violinist arrives in the yard, Grisha escorts him to the front door, watching as he is led to the music salon by Pavel.
The Lost Souls of Angelkov Page 34
