"We'll be practicing three of our pieces in a little while. Will that disturb you?" It was intended as a polite inquiry but nothing more. "We have more musicians coming, and soon we'll be fairly noisy."
"I doubt it will," said Saint-Germain. "But will my tuning be a distraction to you?"
"I wouldn't think so," said the French violinist.
"If we discover there are problems, then we can deal with them when they arise," said Saint-Germain, picking up one of his wrenches again.
"Good of you, Hercegek," the violinist said, revealing by the use of his title that the other musicians had been instructed by one of the hostesses to defer to him. Over the next half-hour, the rest of the consort drifted in, the oboe da caccia player complaining of a sore throat and occasional cough, to whom the violinist recommended hot brandy and orange peel before they began playing. They set about arranging their chairs and stands to their liking and settled down to tune.
"Whose note?" The lyra da braccia player asked.
"Hercegek," the violinist called out as Saint-Germain was trying out one of the Italian airs he had brought to play.
"Yes?" Saint-Germain replied as he stopped
I Fiori de' Lagrime
in mid-run.
"Would you give us your middle A?" He lifted his violin to his chin and prepared to align its sound with the clavichord.
"Gladly," said Saint-Germain, and struck the note with some authority.
From the doorway, a handsome young woman with glorious red-brown hair, dressed in a grande toilette of rosy taffeta and ecru lace, exclaimed, "Oh, I wish I'd known you'd be here. We could have done songs together, Hercegek."
The violinist lowered his instrument. "My wife, Irina," he said, making room for her in the horse-shoe center of musicians. "And where is Natalia, and Julij?"
"They are coming. We have been warming up, as you're about to do," she said, kissing him on the cheek. She curtsied to Saint-Germain. "Hercegek."
"Madame," Saint-Germain responded with an acknowledging nod, all the while remembering his time in Roma with Giorgianna Ferrugia, fifteen years earlier.
"My wife is a contralto of rare range and richness of tone," the violinist boasted. "Natalia is her student, a soprano, and Julij used to sing at the Court of Augustus II of Poland." He escorted Irina to a chair, then returned to his place among the instrumentalists. "Hercegek, if you would be kind enough to sound the A once again."
Saint-Germain provided the note, and listened to the swarm of sounds that greeted it; he enjoyed the amiable chaos that began so many musical occasions, finding it a familiar observance throughout much of the world. The six string-players settled on their A, and the violinist nodded to Saint-Germain. As he struck the A again for the brass and woodwinds, he noticed that the fellow with the lyra da braccia was staring at Irina as if he were parched and she were spring water; Irina was smiling slyly, her attractive features carefully controlled.
"Shall we try the middle portion of the Gesualdo?" the violinist asked, and waited while everyone found his place in the music. "On the up-beat. One and." He motioned with his bow and the consort
picked up the rocking beat of the plaintive threnody. They were halfway through the piece when the two remaining singers arrived, and for a short time the rehearsal stopped again while the specific order of playing was decided upon.
Just before the salon began, Julij Redzynski approached Saint-Germain and held out an envelope to him. "I have been asked to give this to you by a countryman of yours." He spoke so punctiliously that his bow was superfluous.
Saint-Germain reached up for the envelope, concealing his intense curiosity. "That is kind of you," he said calmly; he saw there was only his name on the envelope, and that confirmed his misgiving about its source.
Julij seemed disappointed at this cool reception; he prompted Saint-Germain with his observation, "He said you'd understand what it's about."
"I have some notion, but this is not the time or the place to address Lajos Rakoczi's concerns." He slipped the envelope inside his coat and into the pocket concealed there, then he brought out a silver Angel and handed it to the singer. "For your service."
"Thank you," said Julij, biting his lower lip. "You know that the Grofok will be here this evening."
"I do," said Saint-Germain without displaying a trace of discomfort.
Nonplussed, Julij turned away. "Oh."
Carruther looked in at the door. "The Czar is arriving," he said. "The salon is about to begin."
"We're ready," said the violinist, the flurry of shifting pages belying his statement. "The
Entrata.
On my signal."
There was a flurry of activity around the front door, and one of the staff pulled the side-room door wide so that the music could be heard. Since he was not playing with the consort, as the
Entrata
began, Saint-Germain rose and, with the rest of the household and staff, bowed to Piotyr Alexeievich and Marfa Skavronskaya as they came into the Residence, the Czar ducking to keep his head from striking the door-frame.
Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, and Abigail Carruther were the first to rise from their curtsies in order to welcome the first guests of the evening.
Text of a letter from Lajos Rakoczi, Grofok Saint-Germain, to Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, written in Viennese German.
To the most distinguished Hungarian, Arpad Arco-Tolvay, Hercegek Gyor, and husband to Zozia, Ksiezna Nisko, Polish Royal observer at Sankt Piterburkh, the greetings of Lajos Ragoczi, Grofok Saint-Germain.
My dear Hercegek,
Before his departure to Moscow, the Czar's deputy, his
poteshnye
Alexander Menshikov, informed me that you had told him that you knew of your own knowledge to a certainty that my uncle, Ferenz Rakoczi, is alive, or was so when you say you saw him no more than nine months ago. While I do not question your motives for advancing such a claim--for it is understood that if you have evidence that my uncle is still alive, it is your duty to declare it officially--yet you must understand that I would like very much to see what proof, beyond your assertion, you have to support this. As you may imagine, I am most interested in all you have to tell on this point, for it seems strange to me that I would have been granted his title were there any doubt as to his survival. To support my own position I have with me, here in Sankt Piterburkh, the official decision from Buda, with the seals of the court upholding my inheritance; I would not like it thought by anyone that because I have no body to bury, that I have come to my position by fraud.
I do not say that you have made such a claim, of course. I have been told that you most specifically avoided making such a charge: Menshikov told me himself that you were most insistent that you only wished to inform him that you had seen my uncle more than two years after the Court was informed that he had died, and that you were convinced further investigation was necessary.
Since you have not come to me in regard to this matter, it appears
that I must come to you, and so I entrust this to the singer, Julij Redzynski, and ask that he deliver it into your hands before the salon at the English Residence this evening. It would hardly be appropriate for me that I broach the matter with you while the festivities are ongoing, so I hope this will serve to gain your attention. If you are willing to discuss this with me, you have only to say when and at what place, and I will present myself.
I know you informed Menshikov that you are disinclined to take up the matter with me in order to avoid the appearance of impropriety, and were we in Hungary, I would second your probity, but as we are in Russia, such sticking points would seem to be too severe to our shared circumstances. Therefore I urge you to provide me with all the information that is at your command so that I may set about putting this injustice--if there is an injustice--to rights. You may rely upon my discretion in anything we discuss.
Believe me, Hercegek,
Your faithful countryman,
Lajos Rakoczi
Grofok Saint-Germain
October 25th, 1704
4
A puddle of light from the overhead oil-lamps brought the pages on the trestle-table to full legibility; he had set out the latest lists of words and phrases in Dutch and Russian, and was now waiting for Ludmilla to arrive. The room was warmer than it had been, for Saint-Germain's quarters were now almost finished. At the other end of the room, the half-built athanor was the only obvious sign of incompletion. The wall-panels were new enough to retain marks from the saws
that cut them, but the book-cases placed up against them made the rawness less apparent. The bunk constructed for Gavril Valentinovich was next to the athanor, empty now that its occupant had died, but made up and ready to be put to use again.
At seven o'clock, there was a knock on the door, and Saint-Germain went to admit Ludmilla. Tonight he was in his long, black chamber-robe, which he wore over ankle-length black leggings of knitted silk; his chemise was simple, without collar or neck-cloth, and of spotless white triple-ply silk. His black slippers had unusually thick soles. He offered her a partial bow. "Come in, Ludmilla Borisevna. You are always prompt."
She bobbed a curtsy. "As we are under the same roof, I have no excuse not to be." She adjusted the fine Turkish shawl around her shoulders as she carried her lesson-books into his quarters; the lamplight turned the rust-color of her dress to chestnut, and shone on her ordered coronet of bronze braids. "They are having their meal downstairs."
"I can smell the fish baking," he said, watching her with concern. "It is baked fish and turnips boiled in milk tonight, I believe."
"That's right," she said. "We're getting to winter food now that it's November and the ice has come. In another week, the Neva's ice will be thick enough to hold carriages and wagons and all the boats will be marooned until spring, but the Guard can go hunting for game for the city."
"Winter food or not, should you not have something?"
"I wasn't very hungry." She looked away from him. "And it was time for our lesson. I'll have something later, while I take my ease at the end of my watches." Her watch concluded when the Cathedral clock chimed four, many hours away.
He saw the remoteness in her face, and said, "Are you sure you would not rather cancel tonight's instruction? This has been a harder day than most."
"Not studying won't change the day." She did her best not to look directly at him. "I'd like something to concentrate on, other than our losses."
"I have no wish to intrude, but, Ludmilla, have you recovered from the misfortune earlier today? It would be most understandable if you had not." He could see lingering shock in her eyes and the beginning of anguish. "If you are troubled, tell me; I will hold anything you say in confidence."
"Would you?" She studied him. "Why should you?"
"For respect, and trust." His voice was low and steady, like the bass string on the viola da gamba, and the sound reassured her.
"What if what I say doesn't deserve respect, or trust?"
"You already have my respect and my trust, Ludmilla Borisevna; nothing you say will change that."
She crossed herself; when she spoke it was as if she were compelled and relieved at once. "There are so few children in Sankt Piterburkh, fewer than forty that I know of. To lose one to something so simple as an inflamed cut ... I do feel desolated by the death of the Ratschin boy as I have not when the deaths have been of adults. He is the fourth child we have lost since midsummer, and that troubles me. He was cheated of so much, that child. I would have been willing to try anything to keep him alive and help him to get well again--But there was nothing we could do by the time they brought him here. So the Danes no longer have a page at their Residence, and the steward and chambermaid have lost their only child. Just eight years old, and so far from home. He came here in June, from Moscow, with his parents. They told me that the Czar ordered them to come, as he has ordered so many others, and he told them to bring their son, to serve with them in the Danes' household. It is all part of the Czar's plan: Piotyr Alexeievich seeks to have his city built, and to be a hallmark for all Russia, and an example for Europe as well." Reciting this as if it were a strange alphabet, she moved automatically to the trestle-table, each step disjointed from every other step. "What would you like me to study tonight, Hercegek?"
"I think, as I have told you, that you may want to postpone the lesson, at least in our usual manner; I will not send you away, but with all you have been through, something a little less demanding may be preferable, and provide an instructive distraction--something that
engages your attention without demanding your concentration," he said, taking the books from her and then gathering her hands in his so that she would face him. "If that seems too much, tonight you may choose to rest, so that you may restore yourself." He held her gaze with his own for several seconds, and then she looked away as if compelled by guilt.
"I shouldn't," she said, her voice quiet. "Tonight is going to be a difficult time for all the staff, and I must be prepared, and not only for the boy's death: we have lost others today. With Heer van Hoek gone for two hours to be with his Dutch friends, to ease the burdens of the day and to relieve his homesickness ... A lesson will help me to regain my perspective, a little. I need to regain it so that I can do my work. I can't allow ..." She glanced toward the shuttered windows. "It's still snowing, you know. Kyril said so when he came in from the street a short while ago. He had gone to the Cathedral to arrange something for the boy." Her voice broke; she began to weep silently, without sobbing.
