The Four Winds of Heaven (25 page)

He smiled, and was shocked when Anna burst into tears and ran from the table. He heard her sobs as she fled, and was utterly amazed. And then, he felt very guilty. Poor girl, he thought, she does not enjoy society. A ball would be an ordeal for her. I have thought only of myself, wanting to show her off, forgetting how uncomfortable she would be. He thought once more of the Swedish physicians, then dismissed the notion with anger at himself. Women were still mysterious to David, and these days, added to his wife's sometimes confusing attitudes, there was his daughter, Anna, now a woman too. He sighed deeply. He would have to think of a way to apologize to her, but it would be best if he let a little time go by. Morning would be better. He did not know that morning would be too late.

T
he house in Saint-Germain
, where Mathilde and her children were spending the holidays, had been purchased by Baron Yuri's father, the original Ossip, founder of the Gunzburg dynasty. He had wanted a suburban home. He had already built a large mansion on the Barrière de l'Etoile in Paris itself, but, a true Russian, he had also yearned for the country, and had bought a marvelous chateau in the Beaune region, which was famous for its wines. For this suburban estate, his third French home, he had considered first the Malmaison, where Napoleon I had resided; but it had been too damp. Next he had considered the chateau of Maisons-Laffitte, with its vast acres for horse racing; but Baron Ossip had not liked the work of Mansard, the sixteenth-century architect who had constructed it. Instead, he had become enamored with Napoleon III's officers' mess hall.

Mathilde, who had profoundly loved her Grandfather Ossip, could understand the emotions that had drawn him to this far smaller house. She could feel the peace that bathed the small town of Saint Germain, with its palace where Louis XIV had been born. Mathilde found repose in this chateau's neat straight walkways, in the glistening stone that was centuries old. In the French garden there were chestnut trees and oaks to provide shade, a loving shade, she thought, like the cool hand of a mother on a child's feverish brow. The English garden, which the children preferred for its cheer and freer lines, was inside the forest. Mathilde adored the forest, for though it was wild, it was also majestic and peaceful, unlike the threatening Russian woodlands. She liked to walk along its paths, which were safe and wide. But best of all, she enjoyed ambling along the Terrasse, a large, straight avenue nearly two miles long, which bordered the parks and the forest.

In contrast to the winters of St. Petersburg, this winter seemed mild to Mathilde. Wrapped in white ermine, with a matching muff and bonnet, she walked arm-in-arm with Johanna. “Look,” she said softly, “today the Seine is calm and gray.” The great river stretched far below them, winding its lazy way. She regarded her friend, glad that Johanna seemed so happy here, too and smiled. “You are Dutch, and I am Russian,” she said, “but are we not both French? There is something so civilized about this country, about its land and even its rivers. Something controlled and tamed. I am never afraid here, never gasping for breath. David, you know, has never been fond of Saint-Germain. Perhaps that shows the essential difference between us: he is a true Russian.”

Johanna squeezed Mathilde's fingers through her muff. “My dear, your heart has ached for this moment. If that silly revolution had not broken out, you would only have dreamed of this, and a place in your heart would have died. I do not think the Baron knows what sacrifices you have made for him. You have given up your own self for his wishes. But then, you are far too good to think in such terms.”

Mathilde said, “No, I am not good. I know myself well enough to be aware of that. I am lazy, and uncommitted. David is passionate, and a believer. It is true, though, that living in Russia erased part of my very being. Right now, I wish—” But she stopped, her teeth on her lower lip.

“You wish you never had to return.” Johanna de Mey, her fine eyes compassionate, did not allow Mathilde to look away. She began to whisper, with a strange urgency: “Yes. And you also wish that you could forget. All the problems. Anna and her pain. The Baron and his love, which you do not reciprocate. I know all these things, for I know you, the Mathilde that lies beneath that surface of regal dignity and serene composure. You detest your life.”

“Johanna!” Mathilde cried, appalled. Her face turned whiter than ever, then bright red, then white again. She attempted to withdraw her fingers from the other's grasp, but Johanna only tightened her own over them. Mathilde began to shudder, and Johanna said, “You are furious with me, because you believe you have been violated in the deepest privacy of your thoughts. But I am not an intruder, my dear Mathilde. I belong there. I am the only human being who has completely understood you, and that is because my love for you is undivided. Even the Baron has his children, his father, his Jews, his Russia. The children each have their father, one another, their grandparents, their friends. But I have only you, Mathilde. Only you. I think of you when I awaken in the morning, when I turn out the lamp at night. I yearn to be with you, to comfort and love you. You are my life.”

For a moment Mathilde could not speak. Then, shaking her head vehemently from side to side, she cried, “But no! That cannot be! You have your own mother, your sisters…”

Very softly Johanna said, “No. I have only you. And you have me, for I shall never turn my love away from you. I shall never disappoint you as others have. Isn't it good to know that there is someone who will love you no matter what happens?”

Mathilde was silent, and let Johanna's steps guide her back toward the gardens. As they walked, Johanna kept her fingers over Mathilde's muff, not pressing, merely holding. Snow began to fall gently about them. It was then that she saw that Mathilde's bowed face was bathed in tears.

During the night, when she heard Baron Yuri, always the last to retire, mount the stairs to his chambers, Johanna de Mey, clad in her nightdress of lavender silk, left her room with a candle, and made her way to Mathilde's door. She turned the handle. The door yielded silently. The room was dark. Mathilde sat by the bed, her hands clasped, her magnificent black hair flowing over her shoulders and back. She whispered, “Johanna? I could not sleep tonight.” Her voice trembled.

“I could not, either.” The Dutchwoman kneeled by Mathilde's feet, took the clasped hands, and kissed them. “Come to bed,” she murmured. She pulled back the sheet and made Mathilde lie down on her side. Then she began to massage her neck, her back, her arms. Tears flowed from her eyes, and she let them fall upon Mathilde's pale skin. She bent down and kissed the shoulders, the arms, the neck, and then her long, elegant fingers became entangled in Mathilde's dark hair. She caught the soft strands and curled them about her hands, kissing the curls. Then all at once Johanna slid beneath the sheet and pressed her body against Mathilde's back. She encircled her waist and held her powerfully, but Mathilde did not, could not, move.

“Only I know how to love you,” Johanna said at length, burying her face in Mathilde's hair. “Only I, and that is good, for you can trust me. Trust me, Mathilde, my darling, my sweet, my beloved…”

The lone candle flickered on the nightstand.

A
lia Berson
, with her customary frivolity, had ordered, several years before, a magnificent covered troika, so that she and her sister could take drives through the snow without fear of the elements. The landau, a kind of brougham drawn by two horses, seemed too staid to her, and because the victoria was open it was therefore unsuitable—and entirely too connected with the despised British queen. Only a troika would do: it was a totally Russian mode of transport, designed for Russian snows and ice, for it was a sleigh and not a wheeled carriage. It was drawn by a team of three horses, which pleased Alia. The only problem was that most troikas were not enclosed, and Alia Berson, novelist laureate, would not risk uncurling a single tendril in the wind. She had cajoled her father into ordering hers covered.

But Alia was not one to persevere in any area of life. Suitors were soon found boring, novels were also discovered to require a surfeit of imagination and diligence; she abandoned her efforts with a trilling laugh. And so, when her brother Ivan showed interest in her troika, she had given it to him as a present for his twenty-first birthday. “A lawyer must ride in style,” she had stated with a flourish. Ivan had protested, somewhat outraged, that he would not accept such a costly, useless present. Alia knew that his way of life was simple, that he would never use this extravagant toy of hers. But she had patted his cheek and burst into giggles. “I want my brother to be a gentleman,” she had declared. “Whether you use it or not, the troika is yours, forever. And if you continue to reject it, then
I
shall feel rejected, and pout. My brother does not love me sufficiently to receive tokens of my affection.”

Now it was Petya Orlov, the dour-faced little printer, who sat on the driver's stoop of the troika and guided the three thoroughbreds through the Russian countryside. He was wearing three overcoats, the last one made of sheepskin with a fleece lining, and high felt boots. Covering his knees was a heavy blanket from Mathilde de Gunzburg's closets. Inside the carriage sat Anna, with Ivan's arm around her to keep her warmer, and on the seat facing them, the thin schoolteacher, Lolya, and the sacks containing their food and the arms destined for the peasants. Now she gave a small, harsh chuckle at the thought that during these times of strike and crisis, no one had stopped the elegant vehicle. “You are useful after all,” she said to Ivan. “It is not I alone who take you for a
burshui.”

It was only the middle of December, and winter had not yet attacked in full force. But the winds were like small tornadoes, and the horses, terrified, reared more than once as they were blinded by snowdrifts. The roads were bad, sometimes mere tracks. But Petya Orlov knew them well. He headed south toward Novgorod, stopping frequently in small hamlets along the way to distribute arms, shoe the horses, and let them rest, and pausing for nights at larger villages, where one hut would open its doors to him and Lolya, and another to Ivan and Anna. The huts were always alike: one room for an entire family, with a big square earthenware oven to keep them warm.

Past Tsarskoe Selo, where the Tzar had his Summer Palace, and Pavlosk, where his uncle, the Grand Duke Konstantin Konstantinovitch, had a magnificent residence, the countryside became farmland, now white with snow. Each day, Petya found that he could drive nine miles, even though at times he had to make detours because of bad weather conditions. Anna, her face stinging with cold, huddled near Ivan, who would draw her head upon his shoulder. Nobody spoke much during the drives. Perhaps Lolya was thinking of the peasants, and of their mission, but Anna was so weary and chilled that her mind was as numb as her body.

When they stopped in the villages, they consumed bowls of potato soup and raw onions with black bread, and Ivan introduced her as his wife. Once, in Lyuban, she whispered to him, “Why does Lolya jeer at us, and detest me so?”

He shrugged lightly, and pressed her fingertips. “It is an old story, my sweet. Of no importance. Lolya is a very bitter girl, and vindictive.”

“But why? Have you ever done anything to hurt her?” Anna cried.

A half-smile passed over his face. “It was very simple, really. Long ago, before I ever met you, she and I were students together, and we shared a few… lonely moments. That is all. Maybe she believes that nothing came of our relationship because she was poor, and I was a Berson. She is wrong. I never pretended to love her, nor she me. But she is angry that I have found another to love, and that you belie your origins and feel a true commitment to our cause. She would prefer to fling your aristocracy in my face—but she cannot, and is galled.”

Anna's face whitened, then reddened abruptly. “I cannot understand jealousy,” she said. “If Lolya loved you, she would have found happiness in your joy, even if that joy is shared with another woman. If I lost you, I still would wish for you to have joy. We do not own one another in this world, and love is a selfless emotion.”