The Lost Souls of Angelkov (23 page)

His daughter had no idea how desperate he was, how unmarriageable she might soon be.

For the last few years Prince Olonov had managed to hide the grave errors he had made with his finances. His expenses were astronomical. The cost of running the estate was huge in itself, and he also had the grand house in St. Petersburg to support, along with his wife’s rampant spending. He supplemented the incomes of all his sons, and Dimitri had lost huge amounts of money in gambling that he’d had to clear. Taxes to the government were high, and he was far in arrears. He was deeply in debt.

He had taken note of Count Mitlovsky’s interest in his daughter since the count’s bereavement. He explained to his old friend that he would be happy to have Antonina Leonidovna become his wife, but that with the crushing expenses he was incurring he could no longer supply the significant dowry expected for such a marriage.

Konstantin Mitlovsky had nodded, telling the prince that due to their long-standing friendship, and because fortune had smiled on him for the last number of years, he had no need of a dowry. The gift of the prince’s lively daughter was certainly enough to satisfy him. So eager was he to have a young and fertile wife that he had agreed to purchase a number of versts from an estate that adjoined the prince’s property. He would make a gift of these, along with the one hundred or more serfs living there, to the prince. The waning Olonov fortunes would be increased.

When the prince brought this up with his wife, she agreed completely. Antonina’s mother was more than anxious to have her daughter taken to another man’s home.

She didn’t care about Antonina’s moods or wayward behaviour; she wasn’t around to notice what her only daughter got up to. She was more concerned that the girl, although not conventionally beautiful, had a certain charm, and that comparisons would inevitably be drawn between a beauty past its prime and one coming into full flower. For the last two years she had not allowed her daughter to stand beside her in the receiving line when she welcomed guests to the house in St. Petersburg or at the country manor.

This unfortunate merging of Prince Olonov’s financial losses and his wife’s self-absorbed fears created Antonina’s destiny.

A
ntonina did not go quietly into the arranged marriage. She protested to her mother, beseeched her father, and threatened to run off. She was bluffing, and her parents knew it; where would Antonina go? Still, she used every verbal tactic she possessed to persuade them that she did not wish to be married to Count Mitlovsky. It did no good: both the prince and princess knew that this was their only opportunity to carry on in the manner to which they were accustomed.

Besides, they told each other, Antonina would become almost unmarriageable as she approached twenty. It would be cruel to condemn her to the life of a spinster, living with her parents or her brothers’ families. This was a fate no woman wished. They were helping their daughter, as any concerned parents would, they said to each other in a rare show of harmony, shaking their heads at their daughter’s ungrateful spirit.

The wedding was to take place in the city of Pskov. Count Mitlovsky’s request was that the ceremony be held in the grand and picturesque Trinity Cathedral within the medieval walls of the citadel. Pskov was only a three-hour carriage ride from his estate of Polnokove, and he didn’t wish to travel the nearly three hundred kilometres farther to St. Petersburg, as the princess had hoped. She’d wanted all of St. Petersburg society to see her daughter married to the wealthy Count Mitlovsky, but agreed with her husband that they must not argue over any of the count’s suggestions. There wouldn’t be another offer such as his for their unruly daughter.

Two days before the wedding, during the final fitting, Antonina spilled a glass of claret down the front of her wedding gown, a costly effort designed by her mother and stitched by the finest seamstresses Pskov had to offer. The ruby liquid irreparably stained the bodice and voluminous skirt all the way to the hem. Why she had held the claret during the fitting was odd to the seamstresses, and how she had been clumsy enough to tip the full glass on herself was a mystery.

Princess Olonova had screamed as the claret spilled, and had then slapped Antonina across the face. The many seamstresses stood with open looks of horror on their faces. Which were they more shocked at: the ruining of the gown they had worked on for over two months, sewing thousands of tiny seed pearls over the entire skirt and train, or the behaviour of the supposedly well-bred woman?

Antonina didn’t react to the slap. She’d apologized to her mother and the seamstresses, saying that surely the wedding would have to be postponed, as there was no time to make another gown. In a harsh whisper that nevertheless carried to all the dressmakers, her mother said, “Don’t think I am so
stupid as to not recognize what you are doing.” She then handsomely bribed the head dressmaker to give them another young woman’s almost finished gown. It was a beautiful tulle, and while not as glorious as the original, it would do.

It did not fit Antonina, too tight in the bodice and too loose at the waist, but there wasn’t time to fix it.

Count Konstantin Nikolevich Mitlovsky and Princess Antonina Leonidovna Olonova were married at the soaring cathedral in Pskov in September 1849. As the priest droned on and on about vows and commitments, Antonina was aware of a breathlessness, caused, she was sure, by the tightness of the bodice with its many satin-covered buttons. She thought about the young woman who had lost her wedding gown due to her own childish behaviour, and was ashamed of herself. She hadn’t planned to ruin anyone else’s wedding, just her own.

Later, she saw the hard, pleased look on her mother’s face as she kissed her daughter after the ceremony and wished her a fruitful life on the far-off estate of Polnokove.

Antonina’s father’s expression was somehow uncertain, although covered by a jovial smile.

She didn’t let herself think about the night ahead.

Count Mitlovsky and the new Countess Mitlovskiya spent their first night together in the sumptuous suite of an inn overlooking the lovely Velikaya River that ran through Pskov.

A maid had helped her out of her gown and into the ribboned, high-necked, long-sleeved ecru silk nightdress.

Exhausted by the stress of the day and her anxiety about what was to come, Antonina climbed into the wide bed and sat there, her hair still piled on her head and threaded with strings of tiny lustrous pearls in the elaborate arrangement that had held her veil.

She was certain she wouldn’t fall asleep but did almost immediately, propped against the pile of lacy pillows. When there was a quiet knock on the door between the two adjoining bedrooms, Antonina was startled awake. “Yes,” she said, blinking, and cleared her throat. “Yes,” she repeated, a little louder. “Come in.”

Konstantin entered and stood awkwardly beside the bed in his nightshirt and robe and slippers. “Are you comfortable, my dear?” he asked, wiping his lips and moustache with a handkerchief he pulled from the pocket of his robe.

“Yes, thank you,” Antonina said.

“It was a fine wedding,” he said then, putting the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Don’t you think?”

“Yes, very fine.”

“I thought that we would go to the Monastery of the Caves tomorrow, just outside the city, if it suits you. It’s very interesting. Pilgrims come from all over Russia to see its wonders.”

Antonina nodded, although what would suit her would have been to be back in her bedroom surrounded by her familiar things: her many books of history, fiction and poetry, her sketches of horses hung on the walls, her atlas and memoirs of adventurers’ depictions of exotic, faraway places, and, most especially right now, the flask of vodka hidden behind the padded window-seat cushion. Although she had drunk two glasses of wine at the wedding dinner,
Konstantin had, she noticed, given a sign to the server that she not be given any more.

She was trembling ever so slightly, as though a cold breeze blew through the open window, chilling her. However, it was a beautiful, warm autumn evening, and there was no breeze.

“Immediately after breakfast, we’ll go back to Trinity Cathedral. I always start the day with prayer, as I’m sure you do,” he said. “You’ll enjoy my Church of the Redeemer at Polnokove. I insist on daily morning Masses for the house serfs, and of course ourselves and visitors. It’s quite a beautiful chapel. I had the stained glass imported from Italy.”

Antonina didn’t answer. She did go to Sunday Mass on her father’s estate, and said her prayers at night to her icons, but that was all she’d ever done in the way of observance.

“And directly after we’ve enjoyed the Mass, we’ll have the carriage take us to the Pskov Gardens before driving out of the city to the monastery. It’s still early enough in the fall for the colours to be bright. The following day, you can visit a dressmaker. I’m sure you’d like that.”

“But I don’t need anything,” Antonina said.

Konstantin smiled. “Need? But I know women, my dear. It’s not a question of
need
. Surely you will want to have some new clothing made, and perhaps purchase some jewellery before we return to Polnokove.”

Antonina nodded then, thinking it best to agree, at least for tonight, but she had no intention of spending any time in Pskov being fitted for more gowns. She had spent enough time in that pursuit over the last few months with her mother in St. Petersburg. Her father had scolded Galina Maximova, telling her that the count would have a new wardrobe fashioned for his wife and there was no reason to spend any
more. As usual, Princess Olonova ignored him, and gleefully filled box after box with new gowns and hats and slippers and gloves and cloaks for her daughter. It was the first time, Antonina thought, that her mother appeared to be enjoying time spent with her.

Antonina’s new nightclothes alone filled a trunk.

“But there is something I’d like,” she said to the count. “A dog.” After the unhappiness surrounding her short time with Sezja, she had never again brought up having her own puppy.

“A dog? But of course. You shall have whatever dog you wish.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at her husband.

He smiled back.

Now she waited. She could smell Konstantin’s moustache wax, and the slight, lingering odour of cigar smoke, which reminded her of her father. She didn’t want to think of anything but sleep. She wanted to be left alone.

“May I extinguish the lamps, my angel?” Konstantin asked.

“Yes,” Antonina said, but the word came out flannelled, as though a filmy web coated her larynx. Again she cleared her throat. “Yes, of course,” she said, more firmly.

As each of the lamps was turned further down, then off, the room was left in darkness but for a faint line of light showing between the curtains over the wide windows. Antonina closed her eyes, and opened them to see Konstantin’s shape climbing into her bed.

She moved to the far side, holding her breath when he pulled back the bedclothes. When Konstantin lay down on his back, Antonina did the same. Her neck was tense, and her ankle itched. The white satin ribbons on her wedding slippers had been tied too tightly. Where she had been chilled
only moments earlier, now she felt too warm, but she didn’t want to move.