The Lost Souls of Angelkov (18 page)

A
ntonina missed Lilya. Lilya had become a part of her life, and she longed to see her every Sunday.

She became restless, filled with a heaviness that made her uninterested in her usual winter pastimes. She didn’t feel like skating or going to the yearly winter fetes at other estates, and none of her books interested her. She found comfort, as always, in the piano, but all the songs she played made her think of Lilya. And of her kiss.

Seven weeks after she had last seen Lilya—at Christmastime—Prince Olonov frowned at Antonina as she sat across from him at the breakfast table. He carefully set his fork and knife on his plate.

“Come here, daughter,” he said, and Antonina rose and went to stand in front of him. His bristly grey moustache was stained in two yellow-orange lines from his nostrils, evidence of the endless cigar smoke he exhaled.

“What’s this you’re wearing?” he asked, his fingers brushing the raised figure on the metal oval beside her crucifix.

“It’s Saint Nikolai, most merciful of saints.”

Her father shook his head. “I know who it is. But where did you get it?”

Something in his voice made Antonina wary. She never imagined her father would notice—or care—what she wore around her neck.

“I asked you a question, Antonina. Where did you get this icon?”

“Someone gave it to me,” she said, thinking that would satisfy him.

His face darkened. “Who gave it to you? One of the house serfs?”

She couldn’t think of an answer with her father staring at her in such a strange way. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Are you such a simpleton?” Antonina was shocked at the threatening tone. “Tell me, Antonina Leonidovna.”

Antonina would not make any more trouble for Lilya.

Her father stood and took hold of her shoulders. “Which serf gave it to you?”

Antonina’s mouth opened. She closed it. “Why do you think it was a serf?”

Her father’s hands were hard on her shoulders as he stared at her intently. “This is what each of the new souls on my estate is given at birth. The steward informs me of the family, and the child’s name is added to the record, with an individual number. If we purchase new serfs, they are also given an icon with their number recorded.” He reached out and pulled on the amulet, forcing Antonina to stretch forward.
The chain bit into the skin on the back of her neck. He turned it over, squinting. “I need my eyeglass to see the number properly,” he said, and Antonina’s heart thudded. “What is it? Tell me the number, Antonina.”

Antonina swallowed, putting her hand over her father’s, pushing his fingers off the icon, pretending to study the tiny inscription of 962. “I found it, Papochka, in the fields, a long time ago, before the snow. I thought it was pretty, that’s all. The number is five-one-one.”

At this, her father stepped back, and his face relaxed. “You found it? But you said someone gave it to you.”

Antonina licked her lips. “I … I just pretended someone gave it to me. That I had a friend, Papa.” She tried to look downcast.

It worked. “Well. You should always speak the truth. You can see that you upset me. If you had been honest, there would have been no need for me to be angry with you.”

“I know, Papochka,” Antonina said, picking up her father’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she said, pressing it against her cheek.

“All right, daughter,” he said, pulling his hand away. “You must give the icon to Kyrill and ask him to return it to the serf who lost it. Five-one-one, you said? Besides, it isn’t pretty at all. You have your own jewels. That icon, a cheap bit of nothing owned by every soul on my estate, is unfit for the daughter of a prince.”

“Yes, Papa,” Antonina said. “I will give it to Kyrill right away, Papa.”

She curtsied and left the room. But she did not go to seek out Kyrill, her father’s steward. She went to her bedroom, removed the icon from her chain and buried it deeply under the velvet lining in the bottom of her jewellery box.

A few days later, her father summoned her to his study. He was staring out the window at the falling snow as he sat in his wide chair behind the mahogany desk.

“You gave the icon to Kyrill, as I asked?” he said as soon as she entered the room, and Antonina’s heart thudded at his words. She looked at her father’s profile—his long, straight nose, the slight bulge over his eyebrows.

When she remained silent, he swung around in his chair. She couldn’t read anything on his face. He held out his palm. “Is this the icon you gave him?” he asked, and now Antonina swallowed. “Take it,” he said to her.

She came to the desk, picking up the small metal oval from her father’s hand.

“Turn it over and read the number to me,” he said.

Antonina knew what the number would be. “Papa, I—”

“Read the number,” he said again, his voice quiet and hard.

Antonina turned it over. “Five-one-one,” she whispered, staring at the three figures. They swam as though her eyes were watering. She blinked to clear her vision.

“Am I to thank you for being honest, and turning the icon over to Kyrill as I requested?”

She couldn’t look at her father.

“Of course not,” he said. “Again you are lying, Antonina Leonidovna. Kyrill came to see me about another manner. He mentioned something about your horse, nothing of importance. I asked him when you’d last spoken to him. He said over a week ago. So I had him check his records. This icon you hold, five-one-one, is owned by a serf in a tiny hamlet near here. I had Kyrill go and see this serf. It’s an old woman,
near to death. He brought me her icon. The one you hold.”

The icon felt like a shard of ice on Antonina’s palm.

“Will you tell me the truth now?”

Antonina closed her hand around it.

“I want the icon you wore, Antonina. Go and fetch it, now.”

“I threw it away.” She spoke boldly to cover the slight tremble she was afraid her father would detect.

“How can I believe you? How will I ever believe anything you say?”

When Antonina had no answer, her father continued. “Do you understand why I’m dealing with this matter in such a way, Antonina?”

Antonina shook her head.

“Speak. Don’t shake your head from side to side like a dumb animal.”

“No, Papa. I don’t understand why the icon matters so much. Or why you’re so angry that I had it.”

“Do you think I know nothing? I have uncovered your deception. First the dog, then the icon … You’re involved with a serf, aren’t you, Antonina?”

A second of silence—time for two quick heartbeats—passed in the still room. “No, Papa. I’m not involved with any of the serfs.” This question was easier to answer. She and Lilya were no longer friends. She met her father’s eye.

“How old are you, Antonina?” he asked.

“You know I’m fourteen.”

At that, he stood so abruptly that his chair clattered backwards, and Antonina jumped, dropping the icon. She had never seen her father this angry—not with her. Not even when she’d struck him when she thought that Sejza was dead.

He came around the desk and took hold of her upper arms. “This cannot go on. I’ve let you run wildly, let you do as you wish for too long. You’re no longer a child. I married your mother when she was not quite sixteen. You will not be ready for marriage in another few years, no thanks to her.”

“I don’t want to get married in a few years,” Antonina said.

“That isn’t the point. The point is that you don’t know how to behave as a proper young woman. I don’t want you influenced by any of the serfs.” He hadn’t let go of her.

“Why?”

“Why? Because they don’t possess brains such as we do, Antonina. They can’t feel things the way we do. It’s impossible for them—they’ve been bred by the same families for centuries. They’re uneducated and illiterate. Quite simply, they’re born with a lesser intelligence and less capacity for emotion.”

Antonina pulled back slightly. Her father’s grip hurt her arms. “That’s not true, Papa. Not true at all.”

Her father stared at her. “And what makes you say this? You think serfs have the same abilities we do? The same abilities for mathematics and languages? That serfs could run an estate? Run a country?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re saying they’re the same as the nobility? The same as blood descendants of tsars?”

“I … I’m just saying …”

There was baying from the dogs in the yard, then the sound of hooves on the hard-packed snow. Antonina glanced towards the window, hoping her father would leave her to see who had arrived.

But he ignored the noise from outside and gave her another
slight shake, so that she was forced to look at him again. “Well? What are you saying, daughter?”

Antonina thought of Lilya, with her clever face, her sudden smile. She remembered her words:
the natural order of life as God has decreed it
. She thought of the sadness in Lilya’s golden-brown eyes as they said goodbye, the way her thin arms had clung to her.

“You know life as the daughter of great nobility, Antonina. You must know how to continue this life in your own home, with your husband and your children.” His mouth tightened. “You will owe your allegiance to your husband. You will have to know how to deal with the servants. You cannot befriend them. And more importantly, you cannot squander your affections with low-class lovers, cuckolding your husband. Who is he, Antonina? Who is this man?”

“Man? Papa, what do you mean?”

“I’m not stupid.” His voice had risen. “Do you think I don’t know the ways of women, even my own daughter? All women are slaves to their romantic notions.”

“Papa. No. I …” Antonina’s face was hot. How could her father imagine this of her?

“Silence, Antonina Leonidovna. Silence,” he shouted, then abruptly dropped his hands.

Her upper arms throbbed. The next day, each would be bruised with a band of dark purple.

Prince Olonov sat heavily behind his desk. As Antonina’s face had flushed with embarrassment at her father’s suggestion, his had become pale. He studied the book on the desk in front of him, running one finger up and down its cover.

“I am not Mama,” Antonina said then, her voice barely above a whisper.

Her father’s finger stopped moving.

“I am not like her, Papa,” Antonina said, her voice stronger. “I would never behave as Mama does. Never.”

Now Prince Olonov closed his eyes and put one hand over them. “I want to believe you, Antonina. But you have told too many lies, acted too impulsively. Although I’ve been negligent, there is still time for me to drive home to you the importance of proper behaviour. There must be some sort of punishment, or at least chastisement.” He took his hand away from his eyes and looked at her. “It’s impossible for me to allow you to carry on, keeping secrets, lying. You must conform. Your marriage and your future depend on it. You must go to your husband in a … a clean state, Antonina.”

He turned to look out the window so he didn’t have to face her. “It should be your mother’s job to discuss these things with you.” He cleared his throat. “Russia is changing. We must fight to keep it as it is, to make sure our culture remains intact. Some, especially those who have travelled abroad extensively, have begun suggesting political experiments. They have spoken of the issue of serfdom, and its evils. But serfdom isn’t evil—it is necessary.”

His voice had fallen on the last sentence. “Where would we be without the serfs, and them without us, Antonina? Where would we all be without this established order? Would the serfs be happier without our direction, without our support? No. They’re like children, and we—the noble landowners—are their fathers. We treat them well when they follow the rules and punish them when they don’t. They must understand the importance of the system, just as you must understand.”

He looked back at her. “The serfs have no ability to run their own lives independently, let alone a country. It’s us,
Antonina Leonidovna, men like me, and the future wives—you, daughter—who will keep the country pure. You defiling yourself with a serf can only lead to a downfall.”

“Defiling? Papa …” She looked down. “I didn’t … I haven’t done anything wrong, Papa.” Then the memory of Lilya’s lips rushed back.

There was silence. Antonina didn’t know which of them was more embarrassed. She studied the pattern of the deep red and purple rug. The dropped icon glittered beside her right foot.

Prince Olonov sighed, long and deep. “I want to believe you, Antonina. But you’ve lied to me too many times. You must speak the name of the serf you’ve been seeing.”

Antonina looked up. “I have told you the truth, Papa. There is no man.”

Her father stared at her for so long that Antonina had to concentrate to not look away.

Prince Olonov at last nodded. “You’re stubborn. Perhaps you imagine you actually have some true feeling for him. You’ll eventually tell me.”

“How can I, when there is no such man?”

Her father tilted his head. “If you wish to play it like this, you leave me no alternative. We’ll flush him out. You’re living in your fairy stories. You imagine it’s love, and you will be loyal to him. You’ll see. A serf doesn’t have the capacity for loyalty, or real love. A serf will speak in order to save his own skin. I’ve seen it too many times. With the touch of the knout on their backs, they all sing.”