The Four Winds of Heaven (35 page)

M
athilde heard
a tap on her boudoir door, and when she said, “Come in!” Ossip's slender form appeared in the doorway. She had been reading in her chaise longue, and on the hassock at her feet sat Sonia, diminutive and pale this morning. Johanna had awakened with stomach troubles, and so Mathilde, knowing the girl would not have her lesson, had sent for her. She had recalled her ghastly appearance the previous night at supper, and wished to be reassured that her daughter was not about to develop another case of pneumonia.

Sonia, on the footstool, stiffened at the sight of her brother, and Mathilde eyed him with bewilderment. “Do not tell me that you are ill too,” she said. “Why are you not at school?”

Ossip hovered in the doorway, his features drawn, his eyes seeming larger than usual. He licked his lips and darted a quick look at his sister, but she turned her head aside. “Mama,” he began, “I have a matter of the gravest importance to discuss with you. And no, it is not necessary for you to leave, Sonia. I wish for you to hear me, too.”

He advanced into the room, and straightened his back. He closed the door, then regarded the two women with an even, clear gaze. He inhaled, locked his fingers together, and said, “I have only insisted about my life in a single instance, when I wanted to attend a normal school. This concerns something far more essential to me, and to my future. I have found a girl I wish to marry, Mama. She wants that, too. But there are... problems.”

Mathilde clasped her hands upon her lap. “Problems? Is she of the wrong sort of background?”

Ossip's face contracted into a tight smile. “In a way, yes, Mama. But not in the way you think. She is, first of all, a girl of total charm, total goodness, total understanding and intelligence. Her personal qualities do not stop there. As far as her breeding is concerned, it is impeccable. She is of noble birth, of refined culture.”

Mathilde relaxed upon the pillows. “Then what could be wrong?” she asked gently. “Is she too young? You are not yet twenty, my son. Perhaps it's too soon…”

“That, yes, of course. But we intend to marry, and I wish to declare my intentions now. Neither one of us is a child. It is not that, Mama.”

To his intense discomfort his sister rose, and wringing her hands, cried, “I cannot bear this, Mama! I must go now.”

Mathilde's eyes widened. “What drama, Sonia. Your brother wished for you to remain. Sit down.” She looked at her daughter with severity. “You are not to interrupt again. What, then, could we possibly hold against this girl, if she is so perfect, Ossip? Do we know her?”

She heard Sonia's sharp intake of breath, and a frown appeared between her own black brows. Ossip, pale and erect, advanced a step. “Yes,” he replied, and his eyes met his mother's without flinching. “You know her, and have openly admired her. The only one who doesn't is Sonia—”

“That is unfair, Ossip! I never claimed not to admire her! You are twisting my feelings—”

“Who is she?” Mathilde demanded.

“Natalia Tagantseva.”

He did not remove his eyes from his mother's face. Her hands flew to her throat, but then she sat up straight and sighed. “Natalia. I had no idea. And you, Sonia—you knew of this, and—”

“Sonia has fought me on this for months! But she had no notion of the seriousness of my intentions. In fact, she wanted me to pay court to Nina Tobias.” He paused, then: “Mama, I have never begged you before. Now I ask that you listen, for what I am about to say will surely shock you. You know that I do not believe in God. You also know that here, in Russia, civil weddings do not exist. I am going to convert in order to marry Natalia. She is the only thing that has meaning in my life—I could never love another woman! If you oppose me, I shall go to the Count, and I shall arrange for immediate religious training. And if he does not accept my suit, Natalia and I shall elope. It is as simple as that. No one can stop us.”

Mathilde sat, still and white, on her chaise. She saw the splotches of red on her son's face, his fists clenched by his side. She had never seen her calm, cynical, passive son this way. Then she looked at her daughter, and saw her distorted features, her horrified expression. “I see,” Mathilde stated. No one spoke, and the room echoed with the gentle ticking of a golden clock upon the mantelpiece.

“Ossip,” she said at last, “Count Tagantsev would reject you at once. As a convert, he might accept you—even as David's son. Perhaps even more readily as your father's son, to gloat over him. But you have not thought this through. David would disinherit you, as would your grandfather. As for me—you know that I brought no dowry into my marriage. You would have your title, but the Count's is a more important one. You would be destitute, Jew or not, and he would laugh in your face. I doubt that Natasha would defy her entire family for a boy with nothing behind his name.”

“We have discussed it,” he replied. “Natasha wants me as much as I want her. And you said so yourself—Papa took you without benefit of dowry. Love is stronger than money!”

His mother smiled. “Maybe. In certain instances. Where the man is wealthy, if his bride adds nothing to his fortune he may overlook her poverty. But not in the opposite case, my dear. How would you and Natasha live? You'd have nothing. Nothing! A man needs a fortune if he is young and without profession, and if the girl he desires comes from a family of great standing. Natalia's love for you would not survive abject poverty.”

“And you, Mama, would allow us to starve?”

Mathilde sighed. “Ossip. There are small things that I can do for my children, on my own. There are things in which I can convince your father to see life my way. But you know as well as I that religion is not one of those things. And in this your Grandfather Horace would have his say, and it would outweigh mine. Do not think like a child.”

“But Natasha has a fortune in her own right—”

“Which is dependent upon the good nature of her father. If David disinherited you, the Count would do the same to his daughter.”

“I do not think so,” Ossip said staunchly. “Papa and I have never seen eye to eye. But Count Tagantsev adores Natasha. He could not bear to lose her! And besides—we do not care. Money, no money—no matter what, I shall convert, and then we shall be married! I merely wished to give my mother the courtesy of advance warning.”

“You are most considerate,” Mathilde said with irony.

“No, you are immoral!” Sonia shouted suddenly, rising. She stood before her brother, her gray eyes blazing. “You would kill Papa with no remorse! What do you mean, ‘never seen eye to eye'? Papa loves you, and has hopes for you. You are his heir! Your duty is to take over the Jewish community of Petersburg, as Papa did for Grandfather. Duty, Ossip! Your honor as a Gunzburg demands this, requires it! Have you no feelings for the family that has reared you, given you its title and name?”

“You think nothing of sacrificing my happiness for Papa's causes!” Ossip cried. “I speak to you of my love, of my marriage. Would you have me live without Natasha, simply to honor Papa's religion, which is not mine?”

“Yes!” his sister answered.

“Sonia. Be quiet,” Mathilde declared. “I understand your feelings, Ossip. I am very sorry. I think that I can sense your plight, my son. But your sister is not wrong. I do not feel that you must support the Jewish cause, if you do not have your heart in it. But you cannot, as a Gunzburg, shame the family. You cannot openly convert. Do not celebrate the Jewish holidays, reject the Jewish God—but in your soul, Ossip, not for all the world to see. It is a question of noblesse oblige.”

A tremor of fury passed through the young man. He looked at his mother, and his eyes were shot with red veins. His lips were drawn into a tight, bloodless line. “Thank you,” he said, in a clipped tone. “At least, Madame, you gave me ten minutes of your time. That was more graciousness than I received from my sister.”

He turned on his heel, and Mathilde lifted her hand and called, “Ossip!” He wheeled about by the door, and his face, white and withdrawn, suddenly became vulnerable, pleading. She gazed at him, her eyes full of unspoken sympathy, remembering her own betrothal. But she said nothing, and a spasm of pain constricted his features again. He opened the door and walked rapidly out.

Mathilde's eyes filled with tears, and she murmured softly, “I have done this to him. Dear Lord—”

“No, Mama,” Sonia said. “He has done this to himself!”

But all at once her mother's eyes were cold. “Go to your room, Sonia,” she said. And then, more sharply, “Send Johanna to me. I need Johanna!”

S
onia could hardly bear
the estrangement from her brother. He took care, during the first few months of the new year, 1907, not to mention Natalia Tagantseva to his sister. Their mother watched him, but he did not speak of his love. Toward his father he remained courteous and agreeable, but toward Mathilde he displayed an ironic detachment. She ached from this rejection by her favorite child, but she did not show him her wounds. Instead, she returned irony with irony. They would speak to each other in tones laced with hidden meanings. To others, this seemed strange and disquieting, but inexplicable, for there had always been an understanding between mother and son. But it was Sonia who suffered the most cruelly, for Ossip behaved as though she were a stranger.

She felt as if her life were torn apart. There was no Anna, fiercely loyal; no Ossip; and worst of all, there
was
Volodia Tagantsev, who continued to visit, but whom Ossip spirited away to his bedroom. She sometimes caught his eye, and he would raise his brows in question. But he knew what had happened between Sonia and Ossip, and he was Natalia's brother. In certain ways he must have found Sonia despicable too, for she had caused the rift by not offering her support. Volodia felt compassion for her, but Sonia did not know that. She was certain that he hated her now, that Ossip and Natasha had seen to it that their friendship was destroyed. And that was almost too hard to bear. She lost weight, and refused invitations to balls and teas. At night, she sobbed silently into her pillow. But she did not apologize to Ossip, nor did she attempt to explain herself to Volodia.

One evening in early spring, Ossip burst in upon her in her room. His face was ashen, and there were deep purple circles beneath his eyes. Without warning, he threw himself upon her bed, wracked with sobs. Sonia could not see his face, but she dropped her embroidery and rushed to him, propelled by love. She wrapped her arms about his trembling body, and tears sprang to her eyes, spilling over her lashes. She held him, and they cried together without a word. Never had she encountered such despair, except the night of Anna's return, when her sister had been sent to the widows' room to sleep. Yet somehow, Ossip's pain reached even more deeply within her.

Finally, he sat up, and whispered, “Natasha and her mother have left the country. It's over, Sonia.”

“She refused you?” his sister asked gently. But now she was outraged. “I thought that she had promised herself to you!”

“She made only one error, and that was to speak to her father. We warned her not to—both Volodia and I. But she did not want to wait or hide. He has sent her to South America, with her mother. He would not let Volodia know where they are, for fear that he would tell me.”

“But she will be back, Ossip! She will return, and then you can arrange matters between you! Papa is not made of stone! Papa will arrange things with Count Tagantsev! As long as Natasha still loves you, there is no reason to lose hope, Ossip! No reason!”

He shook his head and turned aside. “It's even worse than I said, Sonitchka. The Count has arranged a marriage for her when she does return. There is no way for me to reach her in time. There is a Prince Kurdukov, who is vaguely related to the Tagantsevs, who wants to marry her. The Count has sealed an agreement with him today—”