The Four Winds of Heaven (30 page)

O
n Thursday afternoon
Sonia came to her mother in a soft blue-gray gown that was the exact hue of her eyes, and which was singular in its austere simplicity. The high ruffled collar and the trim on the long sleeves were of the finest lace, and they provided the only ornamentation on the outfit. In her pompadour Sonia had placed a comb encrusted with gray pearls. She wore no other gem.

Mathilde awaited their guest in a day gown of deep sapphire, which outlined her full figure. Johanna de Mey, in peach-colored muslin, was by far the most exuberant of the three women. Mathilde had sensed that this meeting meant a great deal to Ossip, and although she did not understand that more was involved than his friendship with Volodia, he had wordlessly communicated his message to his mother. Now she sat regally upon the sofa, wondering. Sonia, by her side, stood erect, almost protective of her family, thinking at once of her father's fierce expression during that breakfast several days before, and of Volodia's nut-brown features, so honest and unabashed. Superimposed upon their faces was Ossip's, flushed as though with fever, as it had been the night of the Tagantsev ball. He had cried with such rapture, “She is perfect!” and Sonia felt herself stiffen against this mysterious “she” of whom her brother had not spoken since, but whom she instinctively felt to be a threat. She waited, her throat constricted.

When Stepan entered, he announced, “Countess Maria Efimovna Tagantseva, and her daughter, Countess Natalia Nicolaievna.” Mathilde exchanged glances with her daughter: that was Volodia's twin. Mathilde's brows rose on a note of inquiry. And Sonia thought: Is this the “she”? When the women entered, and her mother stood to welcome them, Sonia's heart leaped with recognition: there could be no other “she” than this tall, willowy girl who had just appeared.

The Countess, who was in her middle forties, was elegant in a matronly way, with a high-crowned hat trimmed with flowers. She wore a gown of red silk with a high-necked overblouse and a skirt ending in three rows of ruffles. But her daughter, Natasha, gleamed beside her, her tall, slender form sheathed in a simple tailored dress of green cotton and a shorter jacket trimmed with astrakhan. Her straw hat was wide-brimmed and tilted up over her forehead, and her magnificent color radiated health. Sonia was taken aback. Sparkling blue eyes sought hers, and a warm hand pressed hers, and Natasha was saying, “So you are Ossip Davidovitch's sister!”

“You remember my brother… ?” Sonia asked, her voice small. But the young woman was already sitting down beside her, and the face she turned to Sonia was almost mocking in its happiness.

“How could I forget him?” she said. “I had so hoped he would be here…”

Sonia passed the girl a platter of delicate tea cakes, and replied: “But Ossip is in school. With Vladimir Nicolaievitch.”

Natasha's lips parted, and she nodded. “Yes, naturally, you are right! So you are the one who sees my own twin brother more than I do! It is most intriguing to meet you at last. Ossip is the most charming man I know. Volodia speaks of him constantly! And he has described you to me in great detail. I could have recognized you anywhere! Would you have known me, too?”

Sonia passed Natasha a glass of hot tea with a slice of lemon. “I—I am sorry,” she answered, “but I seldom see Vladimir Nicolaievitch for more than a few minutes a day. Unless, of course, it was Ossip you were talking about—” She blushed, and lowered her eyes. “Whom do you mean, Natalia Nicolaievna?”

The other girl tilted back her head and laughed. “I see why I have confused you!” she cried. “Although—to tell you the truth—I had been thinking of both. It is Volodia who described you for me, but I had wondered if perhaps Ossip Davidovitch had paid me a similar compliment. Or has he forgotten the dance?”

Sonia's hand went to her throat. She stammered, “I am certain he hasn't.” Inside, she was thinking: He has told her of me! Of me! And I am not even pretty! Then she regarded Natasha, and saw that the color had left her cheeks and that her mouth had fallen open in an expression of dejection. She looked more closely at the beautiful girl, Ossip's mysterious “she,” and suddenly she felt compassion. Impulsively she said, “He finds you ‘perfect!'” And then horror assailed her. What had she said? Her father's face loomed before her, and she hid her confusion by sipping her tea.

But Natasha Tagantsev had tears in her eyes. “ ‘Perfect'…” she repeated. Then she leaned over and touched her mother's sleeve. ‘I beg your pardon, Mama, but did Volodia not say that he would meet us here after the gymnasium, with Ossip Davidovitch?”

Natalia had interrupted an agreeable conversation about Worth, Poiret, and the changing fashions, a genteel and matronly conversation, and now both mothers and Johanna looked at her. Natasha's frank blue gaze disarmed them.

“Yes, he did,” her mother said, and then, apologetically, to Mathilde: “I hope that this was not yet another presumption on our part… ?”

“Not at all, Maria Efimovna. Vladimir Nicolaievitch is always welcome.”

But Sonia, dismayed, whispered: “Ossip told me nothing of this plan!” And her hand flew to the comb in her pompadour, which she readjusted. Natasha smiled. “You have lovely fine hair,” she stated gently.

They began to talk, unconscious really of the subject matter, for each was most acutely aware of the time. The young men would be arriving at any moment. Sonia stood straight-backed, like a figurine of porcelain and lace, and kept her voice controlled, pleasant, and neutral. Natasha relaxed against the soft cushions, her form elastic, her eyes expectant. She was older than Sonia by a year, and had officially come out into society, whereas Sonia was less sophisticated but more apt at hiding her emotions. She did not know how she felt about Natasha, only that she was greatly perturbed by this lanky, elegant girl who was Volodia's sister. She would think things through at a later, more private time.

When the young men's voices, joyful and deep, resounded from the hallway, instinctively both girls rose. Sonia felt frozen in position. She saw her brother's beautiful, fine face flush as he exchanged one intense look with Natasha, and that look disturbed her, as though she had seen something private. Both young men were greeting the ladies, bowing, kissing hands. Sonia saw Volodia's muscular form, his trim mustache, his waving brown hair parted in the center. She tried to avoid the magnetism of his chestnut eyes, but when he came to her, her heart began to pound in her temples. He said, “How good it is to see you when you are not rushing off to your room during our luncheons!” She smiled, and replied something inane. He had his sister's smile, open, totally disarming.

It was Johanna who called out to the young people, suggesting that they move to the piano room. Ossip, more lively than Sonia had ever seen him, led the way. “We shall play something for four hands,” Volodia announced. Before Sonia could protest, he had drawn up the piano bench and was looking over her music sheets. Finally he sat down, for she had daintily taken her place, and Ossip and Natasha had moved farther back, by the window. She felt him take his seat, felt his leg again as she had felt it that day before her departure for Paris during the revolution. Their fingers stood poised above the keys, and they began to play. It was almost as if they were dancing with their fingertips. Neither of them spoke.

But Ossip was saying to Natasha, “I could not concentrate in class, thinking of you. It kills me not to see you. You look wonderful.”

“And you,” she said, unabashed, “are Apollo wading by a stream. I would be a naiad, if you would but have me!”

He could not touch her, so he gazed upon her, and she met his eyes. “I think of you when I go to sleep, Ossip Davidovitch,” she said.

“And I do not sleep at all, thinking of you.” He moistened his lips. “Natalia Nicolaievna—you wouldn't tease me, would you?”

Mutely, she shook her head. And then, surreptitiously, he seized her elegant tapered fingers and brought them to his lips. No one saw the gesture, for Sonia and Volodia were playing the piano, their music speaking for them. From the drawing room behind, the low laughter of the Countess with Mathilde and Johanna trickled through the halls.

Then, tentatively, Volodia spoke. “Your brother likes my sister,” he declared; his words had a cadence in rhythm with the music.

“You would know more than I,” Sonia said.

“Is Ossip afraid of your disapproval?”

Sonia blushed. She looked sideways at her companion. “It is the way of the world to like other people,” she said.

“But Sofia Davidovna, liking is not the same as... loving.”

She started, visibly. “We are all very young,” she said, her voice high and strong. “Love is something too exalted for us to grasp.”

His eyebrows rose. “We were speaking of them, not us,” he said softly.

“Naturally,” Sonia retorted angrily. Her fingers pranced over the keys, avoiding his. “I was merely explaining that Ossip and your sister cannot be taken seriously… and … ”

“You are your brother's keeper?”

Sonia stopped playing. “Vladimir Nicolaievitch,” she whispered furiously, “you know as well as I that they will only hurt each other! Do you wish to encourage what cannot be?”

His brown eyes bored into her level gray ones. “No,” he said sadly, “I do not encourage them, though I wish I could. I know of no finer individuals than Natasha and Ossip. I respect their feelings, though you do not. That is because you have not learned to love my sister. But no, I do not encourage them. I don't, however, discourage them too much. It would be cruel to throw water upon their fire. Life will do it in time.”

“And our fathers,” she stated.

“It will never go that far,” Volodia countered. Then he gazed at her, and his mournful expression surprised her. “This is a cruel life,” he said with bitterness.

Her young profile shone like an etching next to him, and all at once his hand moved upward as if to touch her cheek. She felt rather than saw his intention, and turned to face him. Her gray eyes opened wide, like those of a frightened doe, and her bloodless lips were parted, aghast, yet yearning. “No!” she said, but she could not move, and so his fingers reached out and rested for a second upon the softness of her cheek. They sat in numbed, shocked silence, his fingertips upon her cheek, her lips parted, her eyes afraid. And then his hand fell away, and she watched it fall, entranced, electrified. “I envy Ossip his facility with words,” Volodia murmured, and once again he began to play. But this time there was no fire to his music, only a restless imprecision.

“It is time to return home, my children,” the Countess was calling.

A
lthough the First Duma
, composed of officials elected by the Russian people, had opened in early March 1906, the Tzar's Council, or Senate, still acted as the upper house of this effort at parliamentarianism. The elite, selected by the Tzar himself, and those chosen by the aristocracy, belonged to the Senate. Count Nicolai Tagantsev was a distinguished member.

On the evening following the Countess's visit to the Gunzburg home, David faced his family and announced gravely: “I have been asked to accomplish a tremendous task, for which I have prepared, it seems, all my life. Our attorneys, my father, and I have drawn up a proposal which comes before the Council tomorrow, and I must argue for its adoption. If I win, then the law that now banishes widows and orphans of Jewish artisans and members of the Second Guild to the Pale of Settlement within twenty-four hours of the death of their provider, will finally be abolished. But if I fail in convincing the Council members, then I am afraid that the law will be here to stay…”

Mathilde said: “And who will support you, David?”

Her husband sighed. “Since Witte's dismissal from office before the opening of the Duma, we have lost our staunchest supporter. Pobedonòstsev will oppose us with all his might, as will Count Tagantsev, who can sway others with his eloquence. I am afraid, my love.”

“But you needn't be, about the Count!” Mathilde exclaimed. “The Countess was telling me that he is ill with influenza, and has had a raging fever. It is a stroke of pure luck, isn't it?”

“Oh, Papa, you shall win!” Sonia cried. She raised bright eyes to her father. “Please, Papa, I should like to hear you plead. Would Grandfather take me?”

But Johanna replied at once: “Young ladies do not belong in politics. Have you not sufficiently learned from Anna's mistakes? Do you wish to cause your family renewed embarrassment?”

David's mild blue eyes went from the governess to his daughter. Coolly he declared: “Sonia is a lady, Johanna. In my father's presence not one tongue would wag. In fact, I should be proud to know that she is there, in the gallery. And no one,” he added, gently regarding his wife, “looks to the gallery during speeches. Do not be concerned, Mathilde.”