“I won’t ask you to ride with me, as the carriage is full.”
Behind her in the carriage he saw the haggard, crumpled faces of her five or six traveling companions. A second rattling and shuddering carriage followed with difficulty in the wake of the first. Who else but this old woman would have dared to make the trip without stopping? She might protest that she could only breathe the rarefied air of kings and emperors, but she still had more energy and impatience than most. She hadn’t changed at all. Jamal Eddin found her vitality amusing and endearing, just as he always had.
He had turned back and dismounted and was now slowly backtracking through town in her company. He would gladly have accompanied her all the way to Machouk, but he was on duty today, and the captain required his presence. He would take her as far as the relay post and ensure that she would be able to start off again as she wished.
The indefatigable Potemkina nattered on at the coach door window, listening to nothing, looking at nothing, paying no attention whatsoever to her companion, nor to the monuments along the path. She did not see the neoclassical pediments, the colonnades, the porticos, or the domes that perched, white and monumental, between the isbas and the wooden churches. What could it possibly matter to her that “this village” was dripping with history, that it had been burned by the Mongols, captured by the Polish, retaken by the Slavs, and finally rebuilt by her relative, the very wealthy Prince Lvov, an inspired architect enamored of antiquity and benefactor of the city?
“Yes, of course they receive the gazettes at Machouk,” she continued, obsessed by the prospect of her forthcoming stay. “They translate Byron and transcribe Scarlatti, they compose and paint and hunt and dance, but they simply know nothing of social graces. When I think of the stature the Olenins once enjoyed in society—their relations, their fortune. Do you remember Alexis Nicolaïevitch Olenin? Do you have any idea what a man of character he was?”
No, he didn’t remember. Truth be told, he had never known.
“The founder of the National Library, director of the Academy of Beaux Arts, a friend of Pushkin, of Krylov, of Briullov. Alexis Olenin’s salon at Priutino was altogether different from his son Piotr’s circle at Machouk. Guess what he had the audacity to tell me this winter—that ninny Piotr! Just guess! After I had arranged a position for his eldest daughter with the empress. ‘My Lisa, at court? Never. She’s much too good for that.’ I thought I was dreaming. And the poor girl, in the carriage just behind us, pretended not to be disappointed to go home, pretended to prefer the charms of her Machouk to the pleasure of serving the empress. Well, you’ll soon see for yourself. Just don’t expect much. Of course you know the Olenin girls. You met them at my home. I gave a ball for Lisa when she made her début, along with the young Lvovs. You remember, it was four years ago. A group of sisters, cousins, and aunts, all more or less the same age. A tribe much like our Georgian princesses. Less illustrious, less exotic, but more numerous. This winter, eighteen of them came to spend the ball season at the house; it was absolutely exhausting. And now that it’s over, they’re heading back to Machouk. I’m bringing ten of them home all at once.”
Seated on a bale of hay in the courtyard of the post house, La Potemkina chattered on.
The lieutenant came and went around her as he selected the horses, negotiated the price, and found two men to drive her to her nephew’s home, bring back the team, and return the one she was leaving behind now.
It was only when they were about to leave that he saw her, the figure of a small and delicate young woman among the animals. He was taken aback. She had alighted from her carriage with her companions and was leaning against one of the arches, among the horses tied up to the iron rings. The trip had left her chignon in some disarray, and a few locks of blonde curls had escaped from it. He noticed that, contrary to custom, she was bareheaded. She wore no hat, not even a head scarf. Two diamond teardrops scintillated from her earlobes, catching the sunlight. She had been observing him for some time and did not try to hide the fact. She seemed to find Jamal Eddin’s ballet before La Potemkina—his politeness and diligence, his efforts to please her—highly amusing. Nice show, her eyes said. How gracious and competent! He frowned, feeling ridiculous. Such open curiosity on the part of one of her sex and age surprised him. Young women did not usually scrutinize men, or if they did, it was only from behind the cover of the feathers of their fans. She was challenging him. He walked toward her.
“Lisa, come over here,” La Potemkina quickly interjected.
She dipped under the horses’ necks and strode forward among the animals.
“Have you met Lieutenant Shamil?”
“Yes, of course, Aunt. But don’t ask him the same question, he’ll tell you no.”
No, Elizaveta Petrovna Olenina? He hasn’t had the honor. She shot him an impudent look, her eyes black and lively. “We were introduced at your home in Gostilitsy and at your home in Petersburg. And once again here at Uncle Lvov’s, in Torjok, last summer. He never recognizes me.”
“I beg your pardon. Even at a distance, in a green riding habit, you are unforgettable.”
She was taken by surprise, and her astonished expression was even more genuine than her insolence. He was flustered. How could he have uttered this imbecilic compliment, pronounced those idiotic words? Moreover, he hadn’t any proof that this young woman was the rider in the forest. Except that she was blonde. And that she stood up straight. And seemed to like horses. Had he already been introduced to Lisa Petrovna? It was impossible. She was teasing him. At Gostilitsy? His memory was a blank. At one of the Lvovs’ many balls in Torjok? Disaster. Nothing rang a bell there either.
La Potemkina cut things short, sending all the travelers in her entourage back to their carriages.
“Come to see me, Jama, come soon,” she said plaintively, leaning on his arm. “You know, it’s going to be just dreadful for me there.”
He promised he would, helped her into the carriage, and shut the door. Lisa had taken her seat at the back of the second carriage.
“You know,” the dowager stressed even more loudly, “Machouk—”
The young woman pressed her face close to the window. They were talking about her home, and so she listened.
“It’s everything I detest.”
He glanced at the girl at the window. She had heard everything.
“The little flowers, the nightingales’ songs, the old neighbors, the ancient cousins, the entire summer, without anyone—my God, what a bore!”
Embarrassed, he flashed her an apologetic look, asking the young woman to excuse this lack of tact, begging her not to take these insulting remarks to heart. The princess didn’t really mean what she was saying. Lisa understood and acquiesced with the same look she had given him earlier.
He was once again struck by this strange blend of good sense and sparkle, of sweetness and irony. She shrugged her shoulders, a twinkle in her dark eyes, as if to say, “Yes, I know, the princess is like that; she always goes overboard. What can we do?”
He smiled at her. “Strangle her. Or forget it.”
The carriages shuddered as they started off.
As the old lady passed the porch, she leaned out the window of the door again.
“Don’t leave me!” she wailed in a tragic voice, in case Jamal Eddin had not fully understood her distress.
This time, he and the girl both raised their eyes to the heavens and laughed out loud.
He did not wait for the proper period of time to pass, not a week, not even a day. After a sleepless night, he started off on the road to Machouk.