by Bianca Bloom
I gave a slight nod and a smile, as I could feel my mother’s eyes on us, but could not completely change my manner. “So now your feelings have changed about Pushkin? I wonder that this transformation could happen in so short a time.”
Sharp breaths came from Elias, as a moment occurred where we had to switch partners. Mine was Mr. Wendt, a villager who was recently out of mourning for his wife of thirty five years. The sight of his great bald head was a relief, and he greeted me politely. “Enjoying the dancing, Miss Morton?”
“Not entirely, but is the obligation of anyone who attends such a gathering,” I told him, and he was not offended by my honesty. Indeed, I was hardly enjoying the dancing – as much as I wished Elias’s words to be true, he could hardly have gone from a barely literate and blindly nationalistic Englishman (rather like my father) to a great scholar in less than a fortnight.
When we were joined in the dance again, however, he endeavored to explain his recent conversion. “I began reading translations of your Pushkin. And not just him, but other authors as well. I confess that Nicholas Gogol is rather a puzzle to me, but I hope to learn more about him yet.”
Though my heart sang, my skeptic mind was still unable to allow for such a quick about-face. “You have been to town to visit booksellers, then?”
Elias nearly tripped with eagerness, taking my hand to lead me into the next sequence. “No, not at all! Though I certainly hope to, please don’t misunderstand me,” he continued, hurriedly. “But as for what I read, no. It was all in our library, which father likes to keep looking well-stocked, but I was blind to all of it.”
My heart took off, but I managed to keep my countenance calm as I told him, “I wonder that it was on your shelves, then.”
At this, Elias actually laughed, though he still looked a bit discomfited. “Well, it’s my father’s doing, really. He takes a great deal of pride in having the books, but reading them is secondary.”
In spite of myself, I was drawn out. “You are not expected to read them either, then? My father also cares little for books, but then, he never buys them.”
At this, Elias gave a deeper smile. “Well, perhaps he is more honest. My tutors often had me read, but I would do so quite slowly out of laziness and ignorance. When I was forced to read, it was by my elder sisters. Now that they are gone, there is nobody to recommend works to me and sit sternly until I grow to like them enough that I finish reading.”
The picture of his family life softened my countenance further, and I responded warmly. “Your mother does not take this on, then? In my house, she is the taskmaster when it comes to literature. In fact, I have never read a Russian translation, mainly by her influence.”
“Pardon?”
“She has us read in the original. It can be quite tedious for me, as she is always after me to improve my grammar.”
“Yes, but what a gift! To speak another tongue well, and read someone like Pushkin. If I had a daughter, I should think that knowledge of a different mother tongue would be a marvelous thing to pass along to her.”
At this point, our eyes met, but we both looked away rather instantly. The idea of children had always seemed a bit odd to me, though younger girls than I were marrying and having children rather constantly. In fact, at eighteen, I was already past the age where girls married in haste to be wed to a father for babes conceived out of wedlock. Many girls younger than I were marrying in purity and having children years after. And yet, I had never envisioned myself possessing the energy that was required to endure even the confinement of a lady, replete with rest and various delicacies.
But looking at Elias, I felt a little bit older – and more ready than ever to leave both the comfort and the boredom of my father’s house.
It was a terrifying, yet thrilling, prospect.
Before I could work myself into more of a frenzy over an imaginary future, the dance ended, and Elias rather abruptly offered me refreshment. “I have noticed that the punch bowl has become rather less mobbed than before. May I offer you a glass, Miss Morton?”
It was a socially acceptable sentence, meant not only for me but for any curious onlookers. But I was more than willing to accept. “Indeed, I find myself in need of refreshment. I am afraid that I have grown rather weary of dancing.”
We walked over to the table, and without thinking of anything, took two of the empty seats by the wall.
“Thank you,” I told Elias as he handed me my cup.
As he seemed quite tongue-tied, I was now the one to begin our conversation. “Mr. Glover, I fear that I have wronged you by not quite accepting your apology.” Holding up a hand to stop him, I continued, “I do wonder at your present situation, however. You say that you do not read many authors who are not English as we are.” I paused for a moment to see if he should contradict my statement. I well knew that to most in the village, I was not to be considered English.
But Elias simply watched me, waiting for me to continue.
I tried to explain my doubts. “To me, one of the greatest delights of books is the ability to revel in memories of countries that one has visited. Have you never been able to make a European grand tour of sorts? It is a luxury afforded to young men that I have often envied.”
He smiled cautiously. “I have not made such a tour, primarily due to the, well, indisposition of my sister Beatrice. It is a luxury only offered to wealthy young men, and as you can see, not even every young man in that category may afford to go.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said that it is a luxury afforded to young men. But truly, it is only for a very small set of young men. There are many others who travel abroad out of necessity, to seek their fortune, and those on sea often suffer greatly for it.”
I frowned. “When you say that, I’m not sure whether you remind me more of my father or my mother.”
Elias began to laugh, smiling, but his laughter was soon cut short. He was looking over my shoulder, his face growing tense. “Father, thank you for joining us. May I present Miss Helena Morton. Miss Morton, my father, Lord Glover.”
I stood and curtsied deeply, “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Lord Glover.”
For the first time in my life, a gentleman I had just been introduced to failed to bow. “Elias,” he barked, the word ugly in his mouth. “You have kept me waiting. I believed that you were to dance the next with Miss Mulhearn.”
He looked up, then away. “I’m sorry, father.”
Lord Glover stood, and Elias started to follow him, but he then said to me quickly and quietly, “Thank you for speaking to me of that friar waiting daily by the water, Miss Morton. It was quite an interesting story.”
Then he walked off, hurrying to catch up with his father’s lengthy stride.
I walked back over to my mother, angry in my defeat. Apparently, Elias didn’t even have the courage to say anything truthful in his final, murmured words to me. Rather, some lie about a “friar” was supposed to suffice to explain his sudden rudeness.
“Mama,” I said, my lips trembling, “Have we stayed a sufficient length of time for you?”
She was wary as she answered, sure that something was disturbing me but unable to put a finger on the cause. “Yes, Lenotchka. You mean to ask whether we’ve stayed long enough for me to judge your manners and dancing up to the occasion, and the answer to that query would be yes.”
“Might we . . . ” my utterance slipped off, distracted by the sight of Elias sitting with the beautiful Miss Mulhearn. She appeared to be giggling behind her beautifully gloved fingers like some little fairy sprite, and Elias’s broad grin seemed as if it might well be sincere.
My mother stood, taking my arm. “Might we call for the carriage, then? Yes, if you wish it. I’m to have an early morning tomorrow with the roses, and would not wish to sleep through it.”
“You are sleeping through this lesson, Miss Helena,” said Miss Dorothea, looking ready to rap my knuckles. “Your sister and brothers are hard at work. Is
this geometry too difficult for the morning after a ball?”
I sighed, unable to prevent myself from responding to the question that I had been asked. “Most anything would be too difficult for the morning after a ball, Du – Miss Dorothea.”
“Not for your own mother, it would appear. She was in the garden before either of us had dressed, though Cook had prepared her a tray.”
Furious, I got up from the desk and walked to the window. After all, Dusty might be wrong – perhaps my mother had woken early for other reasons, or gone briefly to the garden and then stepped back inside.
In fact, that was not the case. My mother was standing outside, smiling as she held a trowel in her gloved hands and examined the stems on one of her rosebushes.
Behind my back, the woman I was beginning to recognize as a frustrated but well-intentioned teacher told me to return to my seat.
Instead, I simply turned to face her. “Miss Dorothea, pardon the impertinence, but do you not think that working at a girls’ school would be a sight better than having to school me? I know that I wear on your nerves.”
I was not quite ready to apologize for wearing on her nerves, but just the knowledge that she probably prayed to marry me off and be rid of me went a long way toward allowing me to have more charitable feelings toward the poor woman. After all, if I were teaching an impertinent little Helena Morton, I’d likely want to achieve the exact same aim.
Miss Dorothea looked at me, her head tilted slightly. Whether this was in thought or simply an unfortunate effect of tiredness, I was unsure. For the first time, I noticed that Miss Dorothea did seem to have gained a great many grey hairs during her brief tenure in our household – or, more specifically, her brief tenure as the most recent in a long line of governesses driven to madness by my failure to obey.
“May I speak plainly, Miss Helena?” she asked, her tone level.
For the first time, I felt a prickle of fear as I nodded.
But Miss Dorothea’s comment was not specifically about me.
“To own the truth, I should very much like to open a finishing school.”
For a moment, I forgot my sympathy for the woman, and saw only a way to get myself out of lessons for at least a month, perhaps two. “Then why do you not do so at once? I have heard that, far from town as we are, there is a very particular demand for such establishments.”
Miss Dorothea nodded. “Absolutely. In that, you are correct. But you do not think of the requirements of beginning such an establishment. I would not easily be able to raise the capital that I needed. Indeed, if I were rich enough to even begin such a venture, I would hardly need to seek employment.”
I took a deep breath. “It’s a sort of, erm, paradox, is that correct?” I tried to remember if I was using the term accurately.
Again, she nodded. “In that, you are correct, Miss Helena. But each of us must make the very best of her current situation. In that vein, I must beg you to sit down and continue with your geometrical lesson. The figures that you drew earlier were quite crooked.”
“Miss Dorothea!” I burst out, walking toward her rather than sitting down. At her sour frown, I amended my utterance. “Please forgive me, Miss Dorothea. But if we were to open a girl’s school together, that would solve your capital problem, would it not? I am quite sure that my parents would lend out whatever we might need to get started.”
Miss Dorothea’s lips were pursed as she answered. “I never had a notion that you were thinking of starting such an establishment, Miss Helena. Do you not wish to marry?”
It was the first time somebody had asked me such a question. And there was really no reason that I should be kept from making a splendid match. But every time I thought of entertaining a suitor, the image of Elias speaking with that odious Miss Mulhearn sprang before my eyes, and I had great difficulty containing my anger.
“I do not intend to marry for the time being,” I said. “I am undecided as to whether I shall ever marry. After all, being the proprietress of a new sort of school for girls would be quite as interesting as life as new wife and mother.”
At this, Miss Dorothea simply pointed to the chair I was supposed to be occupying. I sat, and she sat across from me. “Miss Helena, pray enlighten me as to what you mean by a ‘new sort of school’ – I cannot understand what is wrong with any of the schools in existence now.”
I sighed. “Those schools teach little beyond social arts. I have learned much more than that frippery from mother,” I said, and noticing Miss Dorothea’s glare, added “And I have learned many things from you. Even if I have been lazy in my geometrical work, which I shall admit quite freely, I am still much more accomplished in it than most any girl my age.”
She frowned. “This much is true, indeed. But your idea of a new curriculum seems rather murky in its dimensions. For example, what literature would the young ladies be asked to learn?”
“Oh, a great deal! Certainly Russian literature, that is scandalously neglected in the schooling of many children,” I said, thinking rather bitterly of Elias.
“What else? Have you a list of the books you would want each girl to learn?”
I frowned deeply. “Well, not exactly. I have some notion of how to get the school started, but a list of books? I had not got that far.”
Miss Dorothea gave a small smile. “I might have expected it. Well, Miss Helena, before either of us entertains this notion any farther, I might advise you to draw up such a list.”
I was not given much time in my father’s library, as he was to entertain again at lunch. Miss Dorothea allowed that if I would make myself scarce, I should not be forced to join them at this time. Perhaps her eagerness for my prospective nuptials had waned a bit. At any rate, she seemed more excited by the thought of my drawing up a new curriculum than she did by the notion that I might finally find a suitor in one of father’s uncouth friends.
But if I was to avoid those friends entirely, I should need to exit the library in haste. Father might not use the area for any literary activity, but he did like to strut about in there with acquaintances, complaining loudly about the high cost of books.
As I strode about by the shelves, I marked off a great deal of English classics. Still, I wanted the girls of this little school to learn something a little bit more classical without having to strain their eyes with Greek and Latin. My hand fell upon the King James Bible. I wondered at its inclusion – would not a great many of the girls have already studied it in their own homes? There was certainly little likelihood that many of them would be Jewish, as I was.
Still, I reflected that whether one believed in all or none of the book, it had a great deal of literary merit. The words had been translated by certain brilliant writers and thinkers, and the stories themselves were dramatic and rather lovely.
I could hear stirring in the hall. There was not yet a horse and carriage, but I could tell that the arrival of papa’s friends must be imminent.
With haste, I amended the list to include many of my favorite Russian works. But for some of them, I did not even have an English title. And there were various clippings I had organized, some from my mother and others from friends, all of which contained Russian works.
As I re-entered the schoolroom, noticing that my siblings had been taken out of it, I rustled through the papers. They contained a great deal of poems. My aunt Vera was particularly insistent in copying out new poems as soon as she read them and sending them, unable to wait for a moment when they would be published and the book would fall into our family’s hands.
With a great sigh, I sank to the schoolroom floor. My mother would scold me more than anyone if she saw me here, no doubt subjecting me to tirades over cold floors and my hope of having children in the future, but I wished to sort out the poems and choose the perfect ones for my curriculum.
As I read, I realized that mama truly could have been the perfect Russian schoolmarm. There were, in fact, no poems that were truly unfamiliar to me. This was due entirely to my mother’s s
trict tutelage – she had made us read every single one of them. Some were so familiar that we could practically recite them. “Rusalka” was one such – I gritted my teeth thinking of Elias when I read the title, but eventually fell into a rhythm of reading the poem itself. The beauty of the setup struck me. Pushkin didn’t give a single irrelevant detail, but laid out a setting that was absolutely complete, and a sad old priest who seemed ready for his life to end.
If this poem were to be used with English girls, though, even with years of Russian they might not proficient enough to read it well. I would have to translate “Rusalka” as “The Water Sprite” or “The Fish Girl” or some such thing, and talk about the man as a minister or friar.
With a start, I realized that Elias had been speaking of a friar! The friar who was waiting by the water each day. Looking outside with a gasp, I realized that he must have been attempting to send me a message. And like a fool, I had failed to receive it. Would he be waiting by the water? When? Instead of muttering something stupid, Elias had actually been covertly telling me something quite intelligent. I had underestimated him, and had only myself to blame.
I recalled that his father rose late, so he would likely be there only in the morning. And even from the schoolroom, I could hear the booming voices of my father’s friends.
Breathing deeply, I resolved to visit Elias the next day. I would have to leave quite early in order to ride all the way there and back without being noticed, but it would be the one way that I could speak to my neighbor again.
The rest of the story can be found in The Scoundrel’s Son.
