Pride and Punishment

By Vera Spiller

They were rich and powerful men in Russia who seemed to have everything. But it wasn't enough for them. They conspired to replace the autocratic regime of Czar Alexander I by the codes of laws that resembled British or even American Constitution. The poet Pushkin was a friend of theirs. Their life of privilege ended after their failed attempt to establish free institutions in Russia. They caused the rebellion of several Imperial Guard Regiments, using the confusion and vacuum of power that followed Czar Alexander's death. The uprising was ruthlessly suppressed. Some of them paid the ultimate price, while others were exiled in Siberia. Their friends remained loyal through good and bad times. Their beautiful women followed them to the earth's end. They helped one another survive, including the younger generation that arrived there for punishment. Among them was the great writer Dostoyevsky. They returned victorious decades later. Leo Tolstoy tried twice to write a novel about them. In the end, he went to their origins and wrote War and Peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Dec 2, 2019
• ISBN: 9781645849636

Book preview

1

The clocks showed it was long past midnight, but it was still bright outside, like it was noon. White nights enveloped the Russian capital of Saint Petersburg in the early summer of 1849. Cool breeze blew from the Neva River and the Gulf of Finn. In this weird night, the grim wall of the country’s main prison, Peter and Paul Fortress, looked particularly menacing. Czar Nikolay Pavlovich, Nicholas I, could well see it through the windows of the Winter Palace. He always knew what went on inside there.

Twenty-nine men stood in line on the large prison yard, with their backs pressed against the tall brick wall. They blinked their eyes from the light that was brighter than in the fortress’s cells. They had civilian clothes on, wrinkled and untidy after weeks of incarceration. A longer line of soldiers, holding rifles atilt, drew up in front of them. An officer stepped ahead of the soldiers and loudly read from a paper each prisoner’s name, then a verdict for the whole group. By the order of His Majesty, Emperor Nicholas, they had been sentenced to death by firing squad for conspiring against the Russian Empire. As soon as the officer stopped reading, another group of soldiers rushed to the prisoners to blindfold them and tie their hands behind their backs. At first, no sound of protest or indignation came. They were stunned by the sentence. Conspiracy? They had done nothing more than talk among themselves at their friend Petrashevsky’s gatherings. Sometimes they had criticized Russian laws. Who didn’t? They had drawn caricatures on Czar Nicholas and sympathized with revolutions that had spread all over Europe the last year. Yes, they had wished having it in Russia too. However, being executed for talks and dreams appeared, to them, as an unthinkable idea. The Russian government was bad, but it didn’t shoot people down for such insignificant crimes.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, standing in the prisoners’ line, heard moments later a comrade near him say to soldiers, Don’t cover my eyes. I want to see light when I take my last breath.

Dostoyevsky hadn’t time to find out if the soldiers complied with the request. A blindfold was put on his eyes. With the darkness, the terror seized him. He would die in the next moment at only twenty-eight years old. It was too early even by Russian measures. Here, they didn’t consider a man of this age as a young person, but a mature, accomplished one. And he, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, had achieved much in his twenty-eight years. He had gone far from humble beginnings, leaving behind poverty with a drunkard physician for a father, then his hungry student years at Saint Petersburg University. He had become a successful writer. The whole country had loved his short novels about simple people. Critics praised them. He was full of plans for new books. Life seemed wonderful and promised him a brilliant future. These weeks in prison appeared as being rather a misunderstanding than a misfortune. He didn’t want to die; he couldn’t stand the thought of it. He was unable to believe that everything would be over the next minute and there would be no more Fyodor Dostoyevsky in the world. The talented author of books about ordinary people would be but forgotten. He still had much to tell. So many more stories.

Dostoyevsky heard the command to get ready for firing. His strained nerves jumped on the edge at the sound of clinking rifles. One moment more, O Lord, one moment more!

A silence fell. Soldiers and prisoners were waiting. Other sounds came: somebody’s sobbing and the clatter of horse hooves. The voice of the officer who had read their sentence earlier pronounced, Our emperor, Nikolay Pavlovich, has mercifully changed your death sentence to twenty years’ exile in Siberia after four years of hard labor. Praised be His Majesty’s kindness! Let this serve you a lesson. Hopefully, Siberia will cool off your hot heads.

The blindfolds were taken off from their eyes. They blinked again at the light. The anger, mixed with relief, overwhelmed them. They expressed it in talking.

The sun shines in Siberia, too.

It’s not kindness to send us to the world’s edge for twenty years. We didn’t commit a crime. We only had conversations among friends.

People do live there also.

There’s even a higher society there.

The meaning of the last statement was well understood by soldiers and prisoners on the fortress’s courtyard. Twenty-three years ago, men had been executed here in a similar strange summer night. Others, over a hundred titled, rich military noblemen, had gone from this yard to Siberian hard labor and still remained there. If they were alive. Very few news reached Russia from that distant, cold land.

Today’s twenty-nine prisoners represented a new generation of educated, growing-in-importance people. They were of no nobility or military, not rich at all, but Czar Nicholas saw the same menace to his regime in them as in the powerful rebels of two decades ago.

No sun shone in the sky, but the moon, crescent, and the stars cast a bright light on this strange night. A new day would come soon, and many other days after that one.

2

Fyodor Dostoyevsky had lost count of the days, the weeks of being on the road to Siberia in a police coach with four gendarmes and his two friends. It was getting colder. A pregnant woman, bless her kind soul, had secretly handed them a worn, once-warm blanket. They shared it, though still feeling freezing, especially at night. Their feet suffered the most. They had only light summer shoes on. They had thrown away their socks a while ago for their being helplessly torn in many places. The soldiers that escorted them shook their heads but did nothing to ease the prisoners’ sufferings. Would they survive this forced journey? Everyone doubted it. The icy breath of winter could already be felt on the Ural Mountains and past it in the month of September. It became colder the farther they moved from civilized Russia. The nature here appeared brighter and richer. Grandiose was the word. Endless thick forests looked majestic, darker and taller than in Russia, and rivers seemed larger and clearer.

So much fish and game, soldiers sighed.

They passed few villages and even fewer towns on their way. They noticed that houses were sturdier and more spacious. The biggest surprise for them turned out to be the local people. Had Siberians been born with straighter back, bolder eyes, than Russians? The locals didn’t hide their sympathy for the arrived convicts.

Spoiled brats, grumbled the gendarmes. They think no authority can reach them here from Saint Petersburg.

Siberia, the Russian colony, began behind Ural Mountains, which geographically separated Europe from Asia. It was not what Dostoyevsky and his friends expected. They felt enchanted. And very cold. At night, the thoughts of cold prevailed. Cough shook them till exhaustion. It got worse soon after they had crossed the Siberian border. Their convoy changed and took away the horse-drawn coaches. They walked on foot from now on, chained to one another, themselves resigned to slow death.

Dostoyevsky had plenty of time for reflection. He longed for his previous fulfilling and comfortable life, which, admittedly, he hadn’t appreciated enough. He had been blessed then, maybe more, than he had deserved. Unfortunately, it came to the point of getting sinful to demand something else. Was this freezing version of hell a punishment for his arrogance, for his pride being too big to humbly enjoy his actual achievements?

In Tobolsk, the biggest town they passed by on their way in weeks, they stopped for the night in the house of a well-off peasant. Half-alive, they shivered from the cold in the warm front room. The feeling of being frozen didn’t cease in the morning. They dreaded to leave in the next hour. Suddenly, they heard the creaking of wheels and a horse’s neigh. Policemen were glued to a window.

One of them muttered, Ladies! Gueneralshi. How did they found out?

Shouldn’t they stay home with their sick criminal husbands? said the other.

Gueneralshi, wives of generals, really? Dostoyevsky thought. A nickname, probably.

Two women entered the room. They did, in fact, look like genuine highborn ladies. Everything around seemed to change since their appearance. The warmth finally enveloped Dostoyevsky and his companions for the first time in months.

The older lady was in her fifties, plum, gray-haired, with a kind smile on a pleasant, though unremarkable, face. Everyone stared at the younger woman. She wasn’t young, forty something, but had smooth, unwrinkled skin, light-brown hair, and enchanting—no other word would better describe it—blue eyes. Both generals’ wives wore high-quality overcoats adorned with luxurious sable furs. Dostoyevsky had seen such richly dressed ladies only from afar in Saint Petersburg. They had been out of his reach.

Now, the heartwarming vision with luminous blue eyes held out her hand to him. My name is Natalia Fonvizina, she said simply, paying no attention to the gendarmes. My friend here’s Maria Ushneva. We heard about your misfortune and came to offer some help.

No talks allowed with the criminals, one of the guards protested.

Natalia Fonvizina ignored the remark. She sat on a big wooden chest, for there were no more chairs, and patted a place on it, casting a glance at her companion. Take a seat beside me, dear.

The convicts made introductions. The ladies’ faces lightened up.

Dostoyevsky? The writer?

It pleased him that they had read his books.

Of course, we did, Fonvizina said. Living far from the mainland didn’t prevent us to follow closely political, literary, or scientific events in Russia and Europe.

How long have you lived in Siberia?

Twenty-three years, dear.

Over two decades in Siberia! Dostoyevsky believed he wouldn’t last a month here. His life was about to end. Nobody could survive long in this inclement climate, isolated, with no warm clothes and footwear, no means to get them. How had these ladies and their husbands made it? Had they been treated better? Or perhaps having money had helped them to survive for so long? Somehow, Dostoyevsky doubted it. Twenty-three years ago, Natalia Fonvizina had been, what, in her early twenties? How did one deal with such drastic change in circumstances?

Faith, Fonvizina answered.

Dostoyevsky realized that he had pondered over those questions aloud, and felt embarrassed.

I lost my faith in the almighty a long time ago, one of his friends admitted.

The lady sighed. Apparently, she had heard similar declarations more than once before.

Faith is certainly needed, Natalia Fonvizina said. At least believe in yourself, your worth.

The lady’s advice hit the mark. Their self-esteem fell at the lowest level. They had been humiliated and dispirited since their sentencing, since they almost had been shot by firing squad. Such near-death experience would throw anyone off their high horse.

The ladies stayed for about an hour, and the guards resigned themselves to their presence. Obviously, these ladies were used to defying orders and had assisted convicts anyway. Dostoyevsky lost sense of time. He listened in bliss to Fonvizina’s and Ushneva’s soft voices telling their story in a somewhat old-fashioned manner of speech, and he mentally put it on a paper. Dostoyevsky’s vocation as a writer had remained with him in the direst of circumstances.

We have a trunk full of warm clothes on the back of the carriage, Fonvizina addressed the soldiers. Would you be so kind as to bring it in?

The gendarmes hesitated.

Fonvizina raised her eyebrows. You wouldn’t suggest, gentlemen, that ladies carry heavy things, would you?

The guards grudgingly went out. They returned in a minute with a wooden trunk. The ladies handed warm coats, scarves, and hats. There were also blankets, medicines, food, even wine, sort of bribery for the gendarmes. The prisoners rejoiced when the ladies gave a pair of boots to each of them.

The footwear is probably too big, Fonvizina said apologetically. We couldn’t know your sizes and guessed the bigger one is the better. Take several pairs of socks and lots of footcloths with you.

It seemed like they had gone to heaven, feeling blood rush down their numb-from-cold feet and regain its circulation. It was a gift worthy of a king, or rather a queen’s generosity. Someone from above had sent guardian angels in the face of two kind, spiritually strong women to save their lives.

The soldiers took the emptied trunk back to the carriage. The ladies soon left, but the excitement caused by their visit remained long after the gueneralshis’ departure. Dostoyevsky and his friends started to believe that they would survive and overcome years of hardships in Siberia. The ladies had done it, so they figured they could do it also.

3

Two days later, Natalia Fonvizina sat in her comfortable—even on terrible Siberian roads—carriage and watched absentmindedly the passing sceneries of the wet and cold fall season. It looked the same on the long way back and ahead: pine trees, pine trees endlessly on both sides of the road. She wasn’t in a good mood. She felt furious. The woman on whose help Natalia had counted in assisting political prisoners from Russia had closed her door at her and Maria Ushneva’s faces. The anger had made Natalia leave her sick husband in the care of servants for several days and head eastward, deep in Siberian bowels, to see her husband’s friends. She needed to talk particularly to one of them who had been that woman’s longtime admirer before her marriage to another man, also exiled here. The dire financial plight of the woman, a former princess, didn’t excuse her behavior in Natalia Fonvizina’s mind. How could anyone refuse to lend a hand to dispirited people of the same age as that woman’s late son? Those young men could use not only warm clothes and boots but a word of encouragement or inspiring example as well.

Shame on you, Anna, Fonvizina whispered, still fuming.

She shivered, remembering the deplorable conditions, the miserable state of mind in which she and Maria Ushneva had found members of Petrashevsky’s circle who had long resigned themselves to pending doom. One could see the belief in their being near the end of their lives in those young men’s eyes. Their broken spirit needed to be healed in order for them to survive in this hardest part of the world.

Natalia recalled her own first days in Siberia, deprived of any comfort, full of struggle, despite being followed by her six wagons filled with clothes, food, and other countless items. She had assumed that all those things would suffice for decent living in any place on earth—at least in the beginning. However, no amount of money or stuff had saved her from the terrible heartache of having to abandon her two little sons in the care of her husband’s brother. The government and Czar Nikolay had forced wives who intended to join their criminal husbands in choosing between staying with their small children or remaining true to their marriage vows. During the years that followed, seeing playing boys, Natalia imagined her sons in their place, being of the same age or older or somewhat younger. She had done the same days ago, picturing them among the exiled members of Petrashevsky’s circle. The eldest of Fonvizin’s sons was, like many of those unfortunate people, at the age of twenty-six, while her youngest boy was only twenty-three years old.

Suddenly, in the middle of nowhere, a small column of convicts arose beside the carriage. They moved in a rank by three policemen on horseback at each side of their slow procession. Common criminals or political ones? Natalia peered at their faces tensely, regretting her shortsightedness. She, however, recognized coats and wool scarves they, she and Maria Ushneva, had donated to members of Petrashevsky’s circle. And boots. They walked in familiar boots. Despite the sadness that seized her, Natalia Fonvizina smiled. She felt as if she had just won a victory. These young people would survive because she had given them means to do it.

The column was soon far behind. Natalia took a book out of a traveling bag. It was her favorite volume of Pushkin’s verses. She never had met the famous poet, though her husband had known him quite well. There had been many speculations among Yevgeniy Onegin’s readers from whom the author had written Tatiana’s prototype. Some of them believed, according to rumors, that she, Natalia Fonvizina, had served to Pushkin as his most favorite heroine’s prototype. Had she?

Natalia held the book on her lap, but her thoughts soared far away from the poetry. Memories of the past overwhelmed her, flooded with pictures of her girlhood, first love, marriage, Siberia, and that man, still handsome, fearless and an impossible teaser, who excited and exasperated her, preoccupied her mind too much for being proper for a married old woman of forty-five. Her whole life ran before her eyes—disappointments, mistakes, regrets—and there was nothing to be ashamed of. She lived a nice, decent life.

Part 1

Conspirators

Members of this family gathered

At restless Nikita’s

Or at cautious Ilia’s.

Mars, Bacchus and Venus’ friend

Lunin boldly proposed here

His resolute measures.

And muttering with inspiration,

Pushkin read his Noels.

Melancholy Yakushkin

Seemed silently unsheathed

A Czar killing dagger…

Lame Turgenev listened to them

And, hating lashes of slavery,

He foresaw serfs liberators

In this noblemen crowd.

—A. Pushkin

Yevgeniy Onegin, chapter 10,

allegedly burnt

What, what did we witness!

Games of mysterious fate.

Confused nations rushed about

While Czars rose and fell.

And altars were covered

In people’s blood, now

For glory, now for freedom,

Now for pride.

—Alexander Pushkin

4

I will definitely leave for the North American states.

The new season of 1818 began in Saint Petersburg’s Bolshoi Theatre with the ballet Acis and Galatea. The enormous hall was cramped full in this November day. The pit, boxes, and especially, gallery gave a stormy ovation to choreographer Charles Didelot and prima ballerina Avdotia, otherwise known as Dunya Istomina, who received a much more ecstatic applause than when the performance was attended by Czar Alexander Pavlovich.

The bright decorations on the stage represented whimsically put hills, fake palms, and sandy sea beach. Dunya Istomina as the nymph Galatea, a guardian spirit of sea in Greek mythology, appeared weightless. Her legs, her arms, her whole body seemed to be singing. Her partner, August Poirot, did not touch the floor in several scenes because of special strings. Istomina had no robes on her. It was easy to imagine this ballerina as a flying being that could take herself up to the sky at any moment.

Bravo, Istomina, bravo!

Airy, Istomina! Bravo!

Five young officers, occupying Prince Sherbatov’s box, looked to be engrossed in a deep conversation. They didn’t pay attention to any action on the stage and didn’t share the enthusiastic shouts of the spectators. The officers were dressed in civilian clothes. The tight-till-being-shameless, pale-colored breeches of the Russian uniform that left little to the imagination had finally been changed before the War of 1812 to wider, more decent-looking trousers.

Colonel Mikhail Fonvizin had tears in his eyes. You’re not thinking clearly lately, Ivan. Why America? Wild, strange land far, far away.

They have civilized laws, strictly followed. No autocratic ruler, like everywhere else.

And slavery as well as savage Indians. What will you do there?

Captain Ivan Yakushkin, Jean in French manner for his friends, shrugged his shoulders. He had served in Fonvizin’s regiment for two years and had become his boss’s closest friend and confidant.

The same thing I do here, Colonel. I’ll offer Americans my sword.

Nobody goes to America because of unrequited love, said Piotr Chadayev, whose piercing blue eyes stared with reproach at his childhood friend and comrade during the military campaign. To leave us, the country you shed your blood for! No woman is worthy of such sacrifice.

Hey, careful, Pierre! You are talking about my sister here, protested their host, Prince Ivan Sherbatov.

Chadayev grinned. Who’s my cousin, dear couz. It’s all Anna’s fault. She doesn’t appreciate Jean’s fine qualities. It would serve her right if she marries that empty-headed Naryshkin.

Don’t be harsh on her, the fifth and youngest officer in the box, Feodor Shakhov, said. Anna tries her best in being a good, obedient daughter and a loyal friend.

You always find excuses for her, Fonvizin retorted angrily, rather than put Yakushkin’s well-being first!

Fyodor blushed and averted his eyes. The intimidating Colonel Fonvizin had become his commander also, after he, Shakhov, followed Yakushkin by transferring from the Semyonovsky Guard Regiment to Fonvizin’s 38 Egger one. The younger man had fallen in love with Anna Sherbatova, too, and more successfully—the little princess preferred his company to Yakushkin’s. Fyodor didn’t dare to confess it, out of fear to hurt his friend’s feelings.

It is all your fault.

Thirty-year-old Fonvizin, oldest of them in age and rank, now accused Sherbatov. You failed to show your sister how heroic Yakushkin was on the battlefield, how bravely he defended justice against injustice, or what splendid job he did before in the Semyonovsky Regiment and then in mine.

Prince Ivan scowled. You do not present him for a medal, Colonel. My sister loves Yakushkin like a childhood friend. No more than that. She refuses flatly to consider him as a husband.

While she entertains the idea of marrying Naryshkin, whom she hardly knows but likes his wealth and connection, Fonvizin went on. Are you aware that Yakushkin has written an insulting letter to Naryshkin and is waiting for the appropriate occasion to send it? What afterward? Duel. Another way—not a very honorable one—to end his life.

The man being talked about appeared annoyed. His friends were discussing him as if he weren’t there.

I’m not suicidal, he muttered. I believe duels are a barbaric custom. I just think I must go away. That’s why I will leave for America. There’s nothing terrible or extraordinary in my decision. Thousands of people from many countries are headed there now. Some of them want to escape the boredom. The others, like me, hope to be useful in the fight for independence of the people who seem to be worthy of freedom. For the sake of it, I’m ready to bear the drunk sailors’ company during several weeks of crossing the ocean.

America needs toilers, Chadayev said, what you are not.

They need soldiers too.

It will kill my sister. Sherbatov shook his head in frustration. She does not mean to chase you completely out of her life and so far away.

Yakushkin sighed. I know it. Tell her not to worry about me and that I’ve decided to take care of myself in a way, as if I were the happiest man in the world.

What nonsense! Fonvizin’s angry voice resounded loudly beyond Prince Ivan’s box. I shan’t let you go. Call me selfish, but I shan’t lose my best friend because of that spoiled girl!

My sentiment exactly, Chadayev seconded the colonel. You, Jean, better drop this crazy idea. You’d leave behind many people in misery.

Yakushkin would rather drop the subject than go on. In search for another one, his eyes roamed the theater hall. He almost jumped from surprise when he saw among the spectators in the stalls a very familiar face with glasses on. The man had short dark hair combed in a fashionable crest on the top of his head.

Is our classmate Alexander Griboyedov there in the third raw? Yakushkin asked in disbelief.

Thirteen years earlier, Griboyedov had introduced him, then a thirteen-year-old Moscow University student, to his friends, cousins Piotr Chadayev and Prince Ivan Sherbatov. They had become an inseparable quartet from that time on. Griboyedov had been the youngest among them at eleven. And the smartest. At six years old, Griboyedov could already speak fluently five foreign languages.

Why is he not here in your box?

Prince Ivan looked uneasy. He’s always welcome in my box and house. It’s not my fault that Griboyedov prefers nowadays the much rowdier hussar company. And actresses, ballerinas.

The rake Griboyedov? Yakushkin wondered. He’s prepared a doctoral thesis before the war. It’s so unlike him.

We did point it out to him, Chadayev said with disapproval in his voice. Many times, in fact. He blames the war for changes in him. He stayed with the merry band of hussars for four months and, six years later, can’t still step back on the right path. It will end up badly. I worry for Griboyedov more than I do for you, Jean. You’ll come to your senses. You always do. He’s too far gone.

Look, Pushkin’s here too, sitting two rows behind Griboyedov! Fyodor Shakhov exclaimed. I love his poetry. He dedicated to you such a beautiful verse, Chadayev. The greatest!

The young man cited with enthusiasm:

My comrade, have faith,

It will rise,

The star of fascinating happiness.

Russia will shake off her drowsiness,

And on the wreckage of autocracy,

They’ll write our names.

The author of this poetry, entitled Epistle to Chadayev, at this moment was fully absorbed in Istomina’s performance. As if being in a trance or bewitched, Pushkin followed with his eyes every movement of the fluttering ballerina onstage. His face differed strikingly in the Russian crowd. It was too swarthy, with strong African features that three generations of Russian noblemen had softened a little. The nostrils of his nose quivered. He didn’t notice anything else around him. All Pushkin’s attention was chained to the ethereal figure.

Pushkin had recently recovered from a bad flu. He had barely survived a burning fever. He had lost weight, had to cut his curly black hair, and had to wear a wig. In the beginning of the performance, he had amused himself and others by taking the wig off his shaved head with the funny protruding ears and used it like a lady’s fan. He quit doing it, getting completely enchanted by Istomina’s dance.

Feelings are shown very obviously on his face, Chadayev remarked with some disapproval. He is, however, a true poet. I suppose it is quite proper for him to reveal his feelings while contemplating such outstanding scene.

5

The box of Prince Sherbatov was scrutinized by many in the theater. The presence of his cousin Piotr, Pierre Chadayev, had always stirred curiosity because of his impeccable fashion in clothes, the immaculate care of every centimeter of his appearance. They called him Russian Beau Brummell, the famous London dandy. It was widely known that Chadayev had raised the skill of dressing up to a degree of historic importance. You could meet a man in richer attire, but you would not, however, find a person dressed up better than him. Nobody wore clothes—be it uniform, tails, cloak, or frock coat—with more taste and dignity. Nobody looked so, in his own way, that meant differently, provocatively remarkable, without putting any jewelry or decorations.

During the war, Chadayev’s smooth skin, his slim figure, always in inconceivably elegant uniform in all his appearance had caused perplexity, even irritation. More than a few people had found him resembling a girl masquerading coquettishly in hussar costume. And nobody would accuse Chadayev of cowardice or neglecting his military duties. He served the czar and the fatherland as he wore his clothes: with perfection and without blemish. Many guardsmen could easily understand why the smartly dressed, inapproachable Chadayev had stood on guard at the Semyonovsky Regiment standard during the whole day and night of the Battle of Borodino under a hail of bullets. Or that it had felt right seeing him beside the Russian emperor at the day of the seizure of Paris by the alliance troops. What appeared hard to imagine was that Chadayev had participated in bloody attacks by Kulm and Leipzig, that he also knew of an ordeal of Russian and foreign muddy roads. Only when one watched him among his friends and comrades, Semyonovsky Regiment officers, that everything would fall right on its place: prim, neat Chadayev had marched literally through fire and water, like others had done.

Young men idolized Chadayev, and women of all ages adored him. He was more than a king of fashion, rather a philosopher. They repeated his every phrase with an air of significance and carried it further as an important political news.

He’s doing it again. What a hooligan!

Czar Alexander interrupted his observation of the officers in Prince Ivan Sherbatov’s box and lowered his lorgnette to find out the cause of the displeasure of the minister of the imperial court, Prince Piotr Volkonsky.

Who? What?

Lyceum graduate Pushkin, Your Majesty. He fans himself with the wig to mock rules of proper behavior.

The Russian emperor shrugged. He’s quite amusing, Prince.

It is scandalous, Your Majesty. His verses even worse.

Hmm. I never read them.

"Because they are unpublished. Unauthorized, the precise word. But it doesn’t prevent our youth from spreading them all over Saint Petersburg in thousands of copies."

Are they so good?

So bad, Your Majesty. One of his verses is aimed directly at you. The author arrogantly named it as ‘Ode to Liberty.’

Czar Alexander brought the lorgnette to his eyes, directing it back at Prince Ivan Sherbatov’s box. He averted his gaze away from the sight of the minister of the court.

I heard Pushkin had written it about my late father, not me.

Sorry to point it out, Your Majesty, but it is not completely true. I apologize for citing this revolting poetry just to make my point and show you how dangerous it is. He then proceeded to recite it:

Autocratic villain!

I detest you and your throne.

Your ruin, death of children

I see with cruel joy.

Hmm, hmm.

"Children in this ode refer to you and your brothers."

Hmm, hmm.

There is also Pushkin’s ‘Epistle to Chadayev,’ which young people repeat dozens of times a day as a mantra.

The minister of the court started citing the verse that Fyodor Shakhov had cited several minutes ago in Prince Ivan’s box, only from the beginning and without the younger man’s enthusiasm:

While we still long for freedom,

While hearts live for honor,

My friend, let’s devote to Homeland

Our souls’ beautiful longing outbursts.

At the line about wreckage of autocracy, the czar frowned though said nothing.

Prince Piotr Volkonsky insisted, I hope, you understand now, Your Majesty, that Pushkin must be stopped and punished for his defiant poetry.

The Russian emperor sighed. Pushkin is very young. Perhaps he got a little too crazy from all the attention he received after his lyceum graduation last year. He’ll calm down.

Still skeptical, Piotr Volkonsky preferred to abandon the topic of Pushkin’s poetry, realizing the czar’s reluctance to talk about it. He quickly changed the subject, though close to the previous one.

Who is that nice-looking officer sitting next to Pushkin? I’ve noticed him staring constantly at Sherbatov’s box.

The czar peered at the person in question. Ah, he’s a lyceum graduate also, Ivan Putzin. A very fine, respectful young man, grandson of Admiral Putzin.

Czar Alexander Pavlovich knew well all twenty-four lyceum graduates. He had met them on several solemn occasions. From the begging of his reign, Czar Alexander had considered the matter of education as most important for the future of the country. He held it dear to his heart and intended to significantly improve it for noble subjects. The only university founded in Moscow in the mid of the last eighteenth century had not sufficed the needs of the enormous empire. Alexander Pavlovich had established three more higher schools in Kharkov, Kazan, and of course, in the empire’s capital, Saint Petersburg. The czar had allowed them to keep the freedom of self-ruling, like in Moscow University, where rectors and faculty deans were elected among their own professors for one year and not appointed by the czar or governor. The new universities also recognized no authority, except that of the Senate, rather of a curator assigned by the Senate to supervise and help the educational institution’s activities.

Less than a decade later, Czar Alexander had become disappointed with results. Too many commoners had attended the universities and too few noblemen. Students from nobility were usually boys, to be exact, of the early age of thirteen, sometimes even younger. The czar had seen a danger in the predominance of common people in higher schools. Commoners, receiving the best knowledge, would seize matters of education, science, and possibly, law. The Russian emperor could not allow this to happen. He firmly believed that only the noble class had exclusively been able to take in its clean hands the task of governing such a vast country like Russia without extremities. Only the nobility knew no dirty work or corrupting bribes and offensive blisters, as well as slaps in the face or whipping. To solve the problem, Czar Alexander had decided to establish an institution that gave higher education to children of nobility only. He had taken as a model for it the example of boarding schools in his favorite Switzerland. Following Czar Alexander’s order, a four-story building of a new establishment had been erected near his summer residence in Tsarskoye Selo, the czar’s village. The emperor had intended to keep a close watch on it. Alexander had even entertained for a short while an idea to send there his little brothers Nikolay, then fourteen, and Mikhail, twelve, to boost the prestige of the planned institution. He quickly changed his mind, though, in favor of fully military education for both young grand dukes.

October 19 of 1811, the lyceum had opened its doors in the capital’s suburb for twenty-four boys of thirteen and fourteen years old. At about that time, inseparable eighteen-year-olds Chadayev, Yakushkin, and Sherbatov had ended their studies in Moscow University and headed to Saint Petersburg in order to enlist, all three of them, into the Imperial Guard’s Semyonovsky Regiment.

The czar had adopted the name lyceum from ancient Greek history. The famous philosopher Aristotle had taught his young pupils in an Athenian gymnasium with a garden near the grove sacred to the god Apollo. This Greek and Roman god of the sun, patron of muses in music, poetry, prophecy, and so on, had been much praised in Aristotle’s lyceum. Despite Czar Alexander’s fondness for ancient gods and muses, he had intended to raise statesmen, diplomats, and not musicians, philosophers, or Lord save them, poets. Only time would prove if the czar’s expectations would be realized and would justify his secret challenge: lyceum versus university, in favor of the new school.

Unfortunately, in the present, it did not look promising, considering the graduate Pushkin’s poetry. Had it happened because of lyceum professors lecturing their students there that nobody was born into this world without getting a talent for something? This idea transparently included serfs in nobody.

The czar sighed again. I’m sure no verse can cause more trouble than the friends of Prince Ivan Sherbatov. Look at them. They are not following the performance. I bet our heroes are discussing matters of their secret society and not Chadayev’s tailcoat cut.

Friends of Prince Ivan are conspirators? The minister of the court sounded incredulous. He and each of his friends in the box are your bravest officers. The true heroes, as you said.

I know, I know. I personally awarded Yakushkin with the Kulm Cross for bravery on the battlefield. Fonvizin was the best aide-de-camp a general could wish for. He now commands my best Army regiment. A general rank is overdue for him.

Fonvizin is hardly thirty years old, the minister of the court remarked. Isn’t it too early?

Mikhail Orlov became a general at twenty-five, his friend Kicelev also at that age. Your cousin Sergei Volkonsky—

Third cousin, Your Majesty.

Even earlier, at twenty-four. I’m proud of them. My young generals deserve their high rank, regardless of age, the czar retorted, somewhat irritated.

Alexander Pavlovich never raised his voice on his subjects, be that minister, general, soldier, or serf. After a pause, the czar added, As far as Fonvizin is concerned, he fell completely under Captain Yakushkin’s influence. They all did. He is a leader among them, not Chadayev or Sherbatov.

Captain Yakushkin is reputed for his high moral quality.

Czar Alexander snorted. High moral, ha! He challenged to kill me.

Alexander Pavlovich heard the sharp intake of breath of the minister of the court and caught his startled glance. The czar already regretted his slipup about Yakushkin’s attempt on his life. He had learned months ago about it from a denunciation. The Russian emperor had decided not to pursue it, though he had certainly changed his opinion about the heroic captain Yakushkin and his friends. Fyodor Shakhov especially had surprised him. The boy had agreed on his name being cast lots for a czar assassin. Several more officers had approved such insane proposition; others declined and prevailed at the end after long discussions (discussions, and long!).

When? How? asked the court minister. Do you suspect them being in some secret political society?

Fonvizin, Yakushkin, and Shakhov are there for sure. The czar threw another glance at Sherbatov’s box. I suspect Chadayev and his cousin Prince Ivan became entangled in the plot as well. They are too close to Yakushkin. As for your question, Volkonsky, how and when, I found out about it from an informant’s letter over half a year ago. He wrote that during my Guards’ stay in Moscow last fall for the Temple of the Savior foundation, a group of officers got so enraged with my speech in Polish parliament that they declared me a traitor and made assassination plans.

Because of your speech in Warsaw?

You probably remember, Prince, that I spoke about the example that the Polish constitution must set for the rest of the empire.

Yes, I recall. Your Majesty offered Poles to prove to us that legally free establishments, the beginnings of which we usually confuse with rebellious, even revolutionary, ideas, did not mean a distraction and did not represent a dream. For the life of me, I can’t understand what made our officers furious with you.

Czar Alexander sneered. My Russian subjects got jealous of the Poles. These young Carbonaris in Sherbatov’s box and their friends quickly assumed the worst of me. They imagined that I love Poland more than Russia. I allegedly had planned to move there, make Warsaw the empire’s capital, and leave Russia in rebellious turmoil.

Where did they get such crazy idea?

From that speech in Polish Parliament. They deliberately misread it and did not want to see dangers in refusing Poland its constitution. Napoleon’s boons toward Poles, his Jacobin contagion and liberties, took firm roots among them. Thank goodness, Russia’s ignorant of those ideas. She fought the French usurper with all her might and conviction in the right cause.

The Polish constitution was, in fact, liberal enough, and Poles would consider themselves quite content if Czar Alexander hadn’t forced on them his brother, unbalanced heir to the Russian throne, Grand Duke Constantin as their viceroy. And even Constantin did not dare to extend his eight years of Army service term, implemented by Napoleon. Russian soldiers watched enviously the cheerful Polish legions, while their military duties, resembling hard labor, lasted twenty years, twenty-five in the Navy.

The minister of the court, Prince Piotr Volkonsky, looked perplexed. If you believed the information was truthful, why didn’t you take any measures, Your Majesty? The plot should be at once eliminated, and guilty officers punished.

The czar gave his minister a mocking glare. What do you know about a conspiracy, Prince? This one isn’t ordinary. Public opinion easily elevates or drops anybody, including me. One doesn’t fight ideas with guns.

While the court minister mused over the emperor’s words, Alexander Pavlovich added, barely audibly, It is not for me to judge them. I had my share of conspiracy once.

The minister of the court said with indignation, This is their gratitude for what Your Majesty did for them, for the empire! What do they lack? Coming from the best Russian families, they have everything. On top of it, they received recognition and the respect of their monarch.

Czar Alexander, not being yet forty years old, could be considered the same generation as Colonel Fonvizin or even Yakushkin at the age of twenty-five. The Russian emperor felt himself, however, much older and very, very tired. Alexander Pavlovich often dreamed of leaving the court and go…where? He did not really liked Poland and was well-known, though not popular, in Europe. He would be too exhausted to sail as far as America. An emperor did never retire.

Lately, Czar Alexander often abandoned the country and went to Prussia or Austria under the pretext of forging the Holy Alliance there to establish a new Christian order in Europe. That Holy Alliance had turned out to be a disappointing, futile task. Lyceum graduate Pushkin had nicknamed him, the Russian monarch, the nomadic despot in his verse Noel. The whole capital of Saint Petersburg repeated this verse with delight countless times a day:

Hurrah! A nomadic despot

Rode toward Russia.

A child was bitterly crying

And all the people with him.…

Tsk, tsk, close your eyes

And listen, as father Czar

Is telling fairy tales.

The eighteen-year-old poet had called the Russian emperor’s speech in Polish Parliament fairy tales. The country had believed at once the youngster who had dared to mock the institution of monarchy.

It looked like the lyceum had presented another disillusion for the czar, this time in his effort to improve the nation’s education.

Hmm, hmm.

You were saying, Your Majesty?

I was just thinking that Saint Petersburg’s chief of police still hasn’t reported to me reasons of Colonel Fonvizin’s stay in the capital.

Oh! You asked?

I certainly did. I wondered about it when I saw his name among others as arriving in Saint Petersburg. I folded the page in order to not forget.

Most probably, Yakushkin and Shakhov brought him here to be introduced to their former comrades, Semyonovsky officers, the minister of the court suggested.

Nothing good will come out of it.

Piotr Volkonsky silently agreed. It surprised him that the czar had kept a watchful eye on his officers, not completely trusting the best of them. The minister of the court doubted also that Alexander Pavlovich had never heard before Pushkin’s verses.

Out of the blue, the czar said, shocking Volkonsky again, Tell your cousin Prince Sergei—

Third cousin, Your Majesty.

It will do better for him to engage in his brigade’s military business than to meddle in my state affairs, which he has no understanding of.

Are you talking about Sergei Volkonsky, Your Majesty?

None other.

A conspirator?

The czar ignored the minister’s incredulous question or exclamation. Instead, he said, Keeping peace in the empire is my first priority. Do you know, Volkonsky, how things will end if I leave them as they are?

As the court minister looked at him as if at a loss, the czar answered himself. In about ten years, Fonvizin, a general in command of a division, would storm the Polish capital or he’d be sent in chains to Siberia.

Piotr Volkonsky didn’t take seriously Czar Alexander’s strange prophecy. Who could foresee what would happen to you, to the country, to the enormous empire in a decade? Certainly not monarchs, terrible fortune-tellers.

You, however, said, Your Majesty, one doesn’t fight ideas with guns.

6

Heavy curtains shut onstage for the last time. Ovations stopped, and spectators rushed to the exit. Alexander Pushkin followed the crowd, his former classmate from lyceum and best friend, Ivan Putzin, on his heels. Pushkin stopped abruptly, and the much taller, broad-shouldered Putzin, still moving, almost knocked him down.

What?

Do you see that gentleman with glasses on, black tails, and big white jabot on front, going in the opposite direction? He’s my colleague on the board of foreign affairs, Griboyedov.

I’m familiar with him too. So?

He’s heading to the stage. Behind the wings.

So?

He’s going to talk to our divine prima ballerina, watch her closely, kiss her hand, and more.

Putzin heard open envy in his friend’s voice. He grinned. Your imagination’s running wild, Alexander. Istomina has half of the Guards at her feet. You never liked to blend in the crowd or to be one of many.

I don’t. But Istomina! Celestial creature! Why, Griboyedov or General Orlov can have what I don’t!

You assumes things, Alexander. That dirty verse you wrote about her and Alexey Orlov has nothing to do with reality. It could cause a duel.

Only his very close friends knew of this poetry, inspired by jealousy:

Orlov lay in bed

With Istomina in poor nudity.

The cold-blooded general

Didn’t distinguish himself

In matter of passion…

The following lines were worse.

Do you really need to remind me about my foolishness?

Hey, I’ve done it for many years, haven’t I?

Putzin’s grin lightened up his whole face. Do you remember Katenka Bakunina? Our entire class was mad about her and jealous of you. You always presented her some nice verse.

She favored you the most, you handsome devil!

No, the blond Gorchakov.

Exclusively because of his princely title.

They recollected of the lyceum students’ longing for Katenka Bakunina’s visits to her brother, their classmate. The very pretty lady-in-waiting to Empress Elizaveta, Czar Alexander’s wife, had caused them many a sleepless night. And verses. At present, it seemed unbelievable how eager they had been to get out of their incarceration, calling their modest rooms cells. Pushkin’s room, number 14, had been in front of thirteenth, where Ivan Putzin, Jeannot, lived. They had gotten connected at once. Firstly, they noticed that their last names sounded very similar. Secondly, they both loved physical activities, which the lyceum provided in great abundance, and competed with each other like crazy. Pushkin, an overweight and awkward boy when he had entered the lyceum, quickly lost weight. The Russian government didn’t want its future statesmen being weak and fragile. It wanted them robust and tough. That was why every morning, the boys doused cold water on themselves, then rode, fenced, wrestled, shot, and so on. Now, a year after graduation, they missed terribly the lyceum, their alma mater, wishing back their togetherness, the spirit of high hopes, and their common interests. They went different ways by choosing a diplomatic field or Guards or the Navy, but lyceum graduates tried to stay in touch with one another. Pushkin signed his notes and letters to them as number 14. Sometimes he regretted his entering the board of foreign affairs, envying Putzin. A Guards uniform suited Jeannot’s tall, broad-shouldered figure beautifully. They would be still together. Putzin remained his best of the best friends—loyal, reliable, and fair. One day, Jeannot would make some woman he fell in love with happy, because his qualities of constancy and protectiveness changed in no circumstances.

The two friends almost reached Griboyedov. Pushkin suddenly froze. He felt the perfume that Chadayev, his idol, usually wore. Griboyedov, absorbed in his thoughts, didn’t notice him.

Pushkin called him. Monsieur Griboyedov!

The man turned around and absentmindedly looked at him above his glasses. Ah, Pushkin.

Have you seen Chadayev over here?

Griboyedov cast a glance at Sherbatov’s empty box. He left already. Chadayev has guests today from Moscow.

A disappointment showed on Pushkin’s expressive face. Griboyedov noticed and said politely, I am sure Chadayev will be glad to see you anytime. Let’s visit him tomorrow after our service on the board. I’ll be delighted to introduce you to Fonvizin.

Fonvizin? Isn’t he dead?

Behind Pushkin’s back, Putzin pulled hard at the tails of his friend’s evening coat. Pushkin looked at him in confusion. What?

Griboyedov made an obvious effort to restrain himself from laughing out loud.

I didn’t mean the famous playwright Denis Fonvizin, of course. Chadayev is hosting Colonel Mikhail Fonvizin, the late playwright’s nephew.

Oh.

I heard about the colonel, Putzin intervened, trying to ease his friend’s embarrassment. You must remember, Alexander, we read in a newspaper from the first days of the war about an officer in a peasant’s disguise. That officer, Fonvizin, had met a big column of our soldiers marching to Moscow. Fonvizin warned them, unaware, that the city had been occupied by French troops, and showed the right way. He saved hundreds of Russians’ lives. So yes, we’d like to make his acquaintance.

Fine. Till tomorrow, then.

Griboyedov bowed and moved away.

Pushkin looked annoyed. I’ve made again a fool of myself in front of him.

Again?

The first time was when we, as newly appointed board members of foreign affairs, gave oath not to reveal state secrets.

It happened over a year ago!

It seems like yesterday to me, Jeannot. I remember when our classmate Gorchakov signed his pledge, self-confident as always. One would think he owned the place.

The diplomatic field is right for the prince. He’ll go far.

He will. Anton Delvig signed lazily, without pomp. Willya Kuchelbecker dropped a pen on the paper, leaving a big ink spot on it.

Dear, dear clumsy Kukhlya…

Next, I heard the clerk call, ‘Alexander Sergeyevich.’ I assumed it was my turn and went ahead, only to be outstripped at the table by, guess who?

Griboyedov.

Yes, him. He almost took a quill from my hand. We both have the same first name and patronymic. Mostly, his perfume struck me dumb.

What about his perfume?

The same that Chadayev wears. I felt terrible to embarrass myself in front of his friend.

I’ve seen that Griboyedov’s quite nice to you.

He usually is. After the ceremony, he approached me and said that he had heard many positive things about me and wished to make my acquaintance. Griboyedov seemed gracious, not intimidating or mocking.

As if anybody’s able to intimidate you, Alexander.

Putzin smiled and winked at his classmate. The same first name and patronymic, ah? In lyceum, we often used for fun the resemblance of our last names. A professor called ‘Monsieur Putzin,’ you answered, ‘Yes, sir,’ and then, ‘Oh, I thought you said Pushkin.’

You did it too!

They hadn’t been the most exemplary of students. Being still boys, they easily found subjects for amusement. At the end, Pushkin graduated as sixteenth in his class of twenty-four students, exceeding only in French, literature, and physical activities as fencing and shooting. Putzin, not assiduous in his studies, finished seventh, succeeded by Willya Kuchelbecker, the sixth, only because of Kukhlya’s exceptional diligence. Prince Alexander Gorchakov, despite his brilliance, came second. None of them had surpassed Griboyedov, who spoke five or six European languages, as well as Eastern Arabic and Farsi. Griboyedov was a poet, too. He had written several facetious plays in light, sparkling verses. He was even more known as a virtuoso pianist and a composer of very charming waltzes. Emperor Pavel, the father of Czar Alexander Pavlovich, had forbidden waltz as a frivolous dance. After Pavel’s death, the waltz had returned in Russian ballrooms with a vengeance, sweeping young and old people off their feet in embracement of a partner. Biting, clever twenty-two-year-old Griboyedov had the impressive background of a man much older than him. He had graduated from two, and almost the third, faculties of Moscow University before he enlisted as a volunteer officer to fight Napoleon at the age of seventeen. Griboyedov was expected to be intimidating and arrogant toward younger colleagues without his experience. He was all that, but not toward Pushkin.

You, my friend, are quite interested in Fonvizin, Pushkin said. Do you think him a member of some secret political society?

You are obsessed, Alexander. There’s no secret society I’m aware of.

All of Saint Petersburg talks about it, Jeannot. Surely, you’ve heard something in your Guards.

No, I didn’t. You listen to groundless rumors, my friend.

Pushkin had a strong feeling that those rumors were true. Victorious Russian troops had found by their return home several years ago a striking contrast between their country and serf owning free Europe. They waited for changes that did not come. Discontent and discord brewed in all classes. The establishment of a secret society seemed like a logical solution to Pushkin. It puzzled him that Putzin stubbornly denied the opportunity of its existence. No way, the most truthful man in the world, Jeannot Putzin, would lie to his best friend.

You’re probably right, Jeannot. It is wishful thinking on my part. Let’s found a secret society by ourselves, you and I. Willya Kukhlya will join us, Chadayev, your comrades in Guards will follow.

Putzin rolled up his eyes. Leave it alone, Alexander. You are a poet. Everyone predicts greatness for you. Poetry is your destiny, not a dangerous conspiracy.

I can do more than write verses. Didn’t I fence and shoot better than any of you in lyceum?

Indeed. I don’t think, however, that conspirators would value much these particular skills.

I can keep my mouth shut too, you know it. I betrayed nobody’s secrets in lyceum, didn’t I?

Personal secrets, Alexander. It’s different. You are too much in everyone’s view. If anything happens, you’ll be the first to fall under suspicion. You have a great future. You are our national treasure. Soar like an eagle in heights of poetry.

You talk as if you gave it a lot of thought, Pushkin muttered.

Putzin’s conscience suffered. He felt terrible lying to his best friend. He had been tempted many times to confess to Pushkin that last year, soon after their graduation from lyceum, he had joined the secret society named League of Boon. Putzin trusted Pushkin with his life, but he doubted that conspiracy was the right path for him, despite his eagerness. Recently, Putzin had admitted into the secret society talented poet Kondraty Ryleyev, known for his liberal antiserfdom views and verses. Pushkin had been given more than talent. He was a genius. Putzin believed that the decision about admitting the future great poet of Russia into the secret society shouldn’t be made by him but by older members of it, like Colonel Fonvizin or Yakushkin, one of the league’s founding fathers.

Putzin looked forward to visiting Chadayev the following day.

7

Enter!

Griboyedov opened the door to Dunya Istomina’s dressing room. The prima ballerina was sitting motionless in an old chair. She could not lift her arms and feet from fatigue. Or was she drowning in misery? Griboyedov chased the thought away, which had come from nowhere. Dunya Istomina enjoyed a glamorous life filled with success, recognition, and a crowd of numerous admirers. It appeared every man adored and desired her.

You performed divinely tonight, Dunya. Your dance drew a picture that was alive.

Thank you. Your praise is special to me.

Dunya threw her habitual coquettish glance at Griboyedov, who bent to kiss her hand.

Are you ready to go home? he asked. Strangely, I don’t see Vasily Sheremetev around. If you allow, I’d be happy to deliver you safely to your apartment. There is a huge crowd waiting for you outside the theater. I know a secret exit. We can escape them.

A shadow fell on Dunya’s face. She suddenly burst out into sobs. At a loss, Griboyedov froze. He looked helplessly down at the young woman. Her shoulders shook and seemed bare under the thin transparent fabric of her pink robe.

Enough, Dunya. That will do, he said when the shock from the ballerina’s unusual behavior had passed. What is going on with you?

He awkwardly stroked her dark-haired head, like he would do to his sister. To his annoyance, Dunya cried louder. Griboyedov couldn’t stand a woman’s weeping. Despite his being clever at poetry, words of consolation escaped him. He had always enjoyed the company of actresses and ballerinas. In fact, he had had several affairs with them. Dunya remained too high in his esteem for him to ever attempt a frivolous relationship with her. How would one court a woman of such great talent, a genius of dance? Griboyedov wouldn’t dare try. At present, he felt annoyed that he had caught Dunya in a bad time.

Choreographer Charles Didelot barged in without knocking in the prima ballerina’s dressing room. Looking cross, he waved a finger at Griboyedov. Tell your friend Vasily to leave Istomina alone. He cripples my best danseuse. Have you seen these bruises?

The Frenchman unceremoniously rolled up the robe on Dunya’s leg, revealing an ugly bluish-and-yellowish spot.

I’m surprised she was able to dance tonight. Will she do it tomorrow? I’ve warned you time and again, Dunya, to quit flirting with Russian aristocrats.

Didelot’s anger switched now to the dancer.

"You are a prima ballerina avant tout—yes, first of all—not a plaything for a rich libertine! I taught you to be smart about it. These educated, charming Russians are still barbarians. They don’t see you as a brilliant danseuse who elevates her art to a new height. They envisage no more than a beautiful body made for their pleasure!"

It is not true, Griboyedov objected weakly.

I’ve had enough! Dunya said angrily. "I am no longer in school and don’t have to listen to your scolding, maître. I’m grown up and allowed to do what I want."

Your words indicate how a childish and immature brat you are! Didelot exploded. Fool! You brought it all on you.

At least she has stopped crying, Griboyedov thought with relief.

The choreographer ran out of Dunya’s dressing room.

After Didelot’s departure, Dunya wiped the tears on her cheeks with a thin lacy handkerchief. Two fanciful letters, V and S, showed up brightly on its snow-white material. They were the initials of Vasily Sheremetev. Dunya caught Griboyedov’s glance at the handkerchief. She managed a smile, though her big brown eyes—dove eyes, as Vasily had described them—remained sad.

I don’t want to go home. He beats me. More than once, as you’ve probably guessed.

Griboyedov silently swore. Vasily Sheremetev, a good friend, proved to be a jealous lover. It was particularly unfortunate when one had Istomina for a mistress, who flirted shamelessly with every man in uniform. Count Zavadov, with whom Griboyedov shared an apartment in the fashionable district of Moika, had long tried to court her—unsuccessfully, because Vasily watched her like a hawk.

Let’s go to my place, Griboyedov offered. We’ll talk and have fun to cheer you up.

Dunya agreed at once. All right. Let’s enjoy ourselves.

She made a determined jolt of her head. Griboyedov saw her disappearing behind a changing screen. A pile of taffetas on top of it moved; the pink robe covered it.

I hate feeling downcast, he heard her voice say. You imagine yourself getting old and ready to die. The heart constricts painfully. I know there are plenty of merriment and happiness in life. I want to be with them. Some people say suffering has its own fascination. They’ve never convinced me in it.

You are a philosopher, Dunya!

She laughed coquettishly and peered out from one side of the changing screen. How do you deal with melancholy?

I also prefer to have fun. We lack real joy in our life. I grab ahold of anything that is not boring.

They walked out from the brightly illuminated theater building arm in arm through a little-known back door. The overcrowded main entrance stayed behind them. There were few carriages in the vicinity, one of which belonged to Count Zavadov, who had lent it for the night to Griboyedov, his roommate. The gust of the wind lifted high the hem of Dunya’s skirt, revealing strong slim legs till her stocking suspenders. She giggled. They disappeared inside the carriage without noticing a male figure hiding in the dark behind a column of Gostiny Dvor. The man tried hard to discern the identity of the famous ballerina’s companion, but he did not recognize him.

8

The following afternoon, Chadayev’s butler covered his amusement with