Simon Montefiore - Sashenka

“You’re the perfect courier,” said Mendel, “because who would search a Smolny schoolgirl in a snow fox stole riding in a bloodsucker’s crested sleigh?”

“Sashenka!” Lala was shaking her gently in her bath. “It’s lunchtime. You can sleep all afternoon. They’re waiting for you.”

As Lala rubbed her back, Sashenka thought of her interrogation by Sagan, the whispers of Natasha, Mendel’s woman, and her own ideals and plans. She realized she was stronger and older than she had been yesterday.

Five minutes later, Sashenka stood at the door of the drawing room.

“Come in,” said her father, who was warming his back against the fire and smoking a cigar. Above him hung an Old Master painting of the founding of Rome set in a colossal gold frame.

She was surprised to see that the room was full of people. In Russian tradition, a nobleman held open house at lunchtime every day, and Zeitlin liked to play the nobleman. But she had expected her parents to cancel this mockery on the day she was released from prison. As she looked around the room, she wanted to cry—and she remembered a time when she was a little girl and her parents were giving a dinner party for the Minister of War, a Grand Duke and various grandees. That evening she had longed for her parents’ attention, but when she appeared downstairs her father was in his study—“I asked not to be interrupted, could you take her out please”—and her mother, in a beaded velvet gown with gilded acanthus leaves, was arranging the placement—“Quick! Take her upstairs!” As she left, Sashenka secretly seized a crystal wine glass, and when, on the third floor, she heard the fuss as the Emperor’s cousin arrived, she dropped it over the banisters and watched it shatter on the flagstones below. In the fracas that followed, her mother slapped her, even though her father had banned any punishment, and once again, Sashenka had found Lala her only source of comfort.

Sashenka recognized the inevitable Missy Loris (in an ivory-colored brocade dress fringed with sable) talking to her husband, the simian but good-natured count. Gideon held up his glass for another cognac and addressed the lawyer Flek, whose bulging belly was pressed against the round table.

There was an English banker too—a friend of Ariadna and Mendel’s long-departed brother, Avigdor, who had left in 1903 to make his fortune in London. Two members of the Imperial Duma, some of Zeitlin’s poker cronies, a general in braid and shoulder boards, a French colonel, and Mr. Putilov, the arms manufacturer. Sashenka gave him a satisfied smile, as she had spent many hours instructing his workers to destroy his bloodsucking enterprise.

“Would you like a glass of champagne, Sashenka?” her father offered.

“Lemon cordial,” she answered.

Leonid brought it.

“What’s for lunch?” she asked the butler.

“The baron’s favorite, Mademoiselle Sashenka: Melba toast and terrine, blinis and caviar, Pojarsky veal cutlets cooked in sour cream with English Yorkshire pudding and kissyel cranberries in sugar jelly. The same as ever.”

But everything had changed, Sashenka thought. Can they not see that?

“A quick chat in my study first,” her father said.

I am to be tried, decided Sashenka, and then I shall have to talk to this bunch of shop dummies.

They went into the study. Sashenka remembered how, when her mother was away, her father would let her curl up in the cubbyhole under the desk while he worked. She loved being near him.

“Can I listen?” It was Gideon who threw himself onto the sofa and lay back, sipping cognac. Sashenka was delighted he was there; he might help counteract her mother, who sat down opposite her, in her father’s chair.

“Leonid, close the door. Thank you,” said Zeitlin, leaning on the Trotting Chair. “Do sit.” Sashenka sat. “We’re so glad you’re home, dear girl, but you did give us a hell of a shock. It wasn’t easy getting you out. You should thank Flek.”

Sashenka said she would.

“You really might have been on your way to Siberia. The bad news is that you’re not going back to Smolny…”

That’s no funeral, thought Sashenka, that institute for imbeciles!

“…but we’ll arrange tutoring. Well, you’ve shown us your independence. You’ve read your Marx and Plekhanov. You’ve had a close shave. I was young once—”

“Were you?” asked Ariadna acidly.

“Not that I recall,” joked Gideon.

“Well, you may be right, but I went to meetings of narodniks and socialists in Odessa—once when I was very young. But this is deadly serious, Sashenka. There must be no more fooling around with these dangerous nihilists.” He came over and kissed the top of her head. “I’m so glad you’re home.”

“I’m so happy to be here, Papa.”

She gave him her hand and he pressed it, but Sashenka knew this loving scene with her father would provoke her mother. Sure enough, Ariadna cleared her throat.

“Well, you look quite unscathed. You’ve bored us long enough with your views on ‘workers’ and ‘exploiters’ and now you’ve caused us all a lot of trouble. I even had to bring this up with the Elder Grigory.”

Fury reared up inside Sashenka. She wanted to shout out that she was ashamed that a creature like Rasputin was ruling Russia, ashamed that her own mother, whose love affairs with cardsharps and fads with charlatans had long embarrassed her, was now consorting with the Mad Monk. But instead, she could not stop herself answering like the petulant schoolgirl she still was. Searching for a target, she aimed for the dress chosen by her mother.

“Mama, I hate sailor suits and this is the last time I shall ever wear one.”

“Bravo!” said Gideon. “A figure like yours is wasted in—”

“That’s enough, Gideon. Please leave us alone,” said Ariadna.

Gideon got up to go, winking at Sashenka.

“You’ll wear what I say,” said her mother, in her flowing crêpe de chine dress with flounces of lace. “You’ll wear the sailor suits as long as you behave like an irresponsible child.”

“Enough, both of you,” Zeitlin said quietly. “Your mother will indeed decide what you wear.”

“Thank you, Samuil.”

“But I propose a deal, darling girl. If you promise never to dabble in nihilism, anarchism and Marxism ever again, and never to talk politics with Mendel, your mother will take you shopping for your own adult gown at Chernyshev’s, on my account. She’ll let you have your hair done at Monsieur Troye’s like her. You can get your cards and stationery printed at Treumann’s and you and your mother can take Pantameilion and make ‘at home’ calls. And you’ll never have to dress in a sailor suit again.”

Zeitlin opened his hands, thought Sashenka, as if he had cut the Gordian knot or solved the mysteries of the Delphic oracle. She did not want dresses from Chernyshev’s and she certainly did not need them where she was going. Her dear, silly father so longed for her to leave her cards and write love letters to pea-brained counts and guardsmen. But she already had what she needed: a plain high-necked blouse, a sensible skirt, woollen stockings and walking shoes.

“Agreed, Ariadna?”

Ariadna nodded and lit a Mogul cigarette. Then they both turned to Sashenka.

“Sashenka, look into my eyes and swear solemnly to this.”

Sashenka peered into her father’s blue eyes and then glanced at her mother.

“Thank you, Papa. I promise that I will never ever talk politics with Mendel and never dabble in nihilism again.”

Zeitlin pulled a brocade cord.

“Yes, Baron,” replied Leonid, opening the door. “Lunch is served.”