Pearls against Snow

Though the sun had yet to set, the lamplighters were beginning their rounds on the evening of June 06, 1899. The two little girls were awake past bedtime, waiting for the event, the arrival of the new baby. They had been waiting for what seemed like an eternity. Papa had come to them last night filling the nursery with his ever-present scent of cigars and brandy. He had smiled down lovingly at his daughters, his deep voice full of pride and anticipation.

“Soon, my kroshki, soon the baby will come, may God grant us a son…”

But it had not been soon, it had been a night and a day and now it was night again. Soon the sun would set in the way it did every summer, never quite dark, the night a subtle glow. The whole household waited in suspense while Princess Irina cried in agony, her normally perfect composure gone, replaced by the pains of a difficult birth. The doctor held high the lantern while the midwife coaxed, her apron bloodied by the efforts.

Sophia, five years old with golden curls that matched her sunny disposition whispered to her younger sister,” Maria, don’t you wish Mama would hurry? I want to play with the baby, I’ve already decided to give it one of my dolls, well, one that I don’t like very much...”

Maria, younger by a year, with chestnut colored hair like her Papa’s answered with a seriousness that was far greater than her age, “What if the baby is a boy? Papa keeps saying it will be a boy, and he prays to God for an heir. Maybe you should give up your wooden horse?”

On the other side of the house Princess Irina, in her bedroom that faced the Neva, gave one final push, and the third child was born, not the hoped for son, but a third daughter, pink as the roses at Tsarskoye Selo, with the pale gray blue eyes of her mother. The midwife gently cleaned the baby and gave her to her mother to nurse for the first time. She then went to the study to inform Count Nicholai that he had a healthy baby, a beautiful girl. She worried about delivering the news, in far too many homes the news of a daughter was met with disappointment and even anger.

Indeed, his initial reaction was a frown and a furrowed brow, but he sat for a moment, composed his thoughts, and closed his eyes for a moment, making the sign of the cross.

He looked at the midwife, and said,

“It is a good thing I was prepared,” reaching into the drawer of his desk, pulling out two cases that bore the label of the famed jeweler Faberge.

After an appropriate period of time, he knocked quietly on his wife’s door and opening it with care, spoke quietly,

“Beloved, may I enter?”

As her entered he heard Irina’s voice softly singing the old lullaby, “sleep, my darling, sleep, my light, Mama’s near, fear is nothing, sleep as in a cradle on the wave, in a quiet cove, in dreams…”

His step is quiet as he crosses to her and looks down at his newborn child, sleeping sweetly in her mother’s arms.

“We shall name her Olga after my mother. Thank you for giving me another beautiful daughter. It is a good thing I always think ahead,” he says, pulling the two cases from his pocket.

He opens the first box and pulls out a bracelet of moonstones and diamonds. He clasps it to Irina’s wrist.

“For you my Irinochka, a gift of the White Nights, may the glow of the moonstones always protect you.”

He opens the second case, showing a cabochon sapphire the size of a robin’s egg, surrounded by diamonds.

“For my little Olyushka, a sapphire as dark as the Neva in winter, surrounded by diamonds bright as the summer sun.”

“What type of gift is this for a little girl?”

“My darling one, it is a gift for her future, we will call it a jewel for her twentieth year, a protection, and a reminder…”

With that he gently took the sapphire and carried it to Irina’s dressing table where the pearls she had worn the night before, the famed Voronstov pearls, the three ropes held together by a gold clasp studded with emeralds, a gift for three generations of brides, lay forgotten in the excitement of the coming birth. Looking down, he thought that they were truly blessed, and he prayed that nothing would ever disturb the happiness of his little family.

He stepped back to Irina’s bedside and tenderly touched her shoulder. She looked up from the sleeping infant and smiled at her husband.

“What would you have given me if it had been a boy?” Irina asked playfully.

“Give me a boy next time and find out,” he teased back.

As the gaslight in the chandelier above their heads wavered and hissed, and the pink and golden glow came through the windows in a day that seemed as if it wouldn’t end, the light caught on the sapphire and briefly it danced, a prism of sparkling night. That sapphire in its open case, small as a robin’s egg, would outlast empires. But tonight, it slept.

The clocks had been stopped at the time of Olga’s birth, as tradition dictated, a protection against evil spirits. In contrast, the rest of the household was a flurry of activity. There were only eight short days before the christening and much had to be done. The house which had been ready for the yearly exodus to the country now had to be prepared to receive guests. The dust covers had been removed from the chandeliers in the White Salon. The curtains and shutters in the guest wing were opened. The parquet floors gleamed in the eternal summer sun. The silver was brought out from the vaults and given a final polish. Most importantly the great silver ewer and basin were dutifully transferred to the marble altar of the family chapel where the icons of St. Nicholas, Saint Olga, and the Blessed Theotokos cast a watchful eye. Count Nicholai sent out the telegrams, to Tver, to Peterhof, to Darmstadt, all the same message, “Another pearl of great worth, healthy, 06 June.”

Princess Irina spent two days in isolation, seeing only her husband, her maid, the wet nurse, and her elder daughters- under the stern eye of their governess.

Sophia, who had indeed brought the doll with the burgundy dress and perpetual frown to present to the baby, was so disappointed that the baby couldn’t play with her that she promptly vowed to NEVER have one of her own.

Maria, wary of the tiny girl at first, soon looked at the infant and began to sing the same lullaby her mother had the night of Olga’s birth,

“Hush a bye my little one,

 Don’t lie down upon the edge,

The little gray wolf will come, and grab you by your side…

hush a bye, have no fear., Mama sings a lullaby…”

All was joyful for the family as they privately celebrated Olga’s birth. The two days, forever long, were spent in quiet reverie. After months of fear, and anticipation, they were safe. Each morning Nicholai had presented his wife with gifts, The first day sprays of white orchids, the second morning chocolates from Maison Borman. The mood in the house was as bright as the sun outside.

On the third day, Nicholai’s mother arrived, like a storm moving across the Neva, further throwing the household into disorder. The Dowager Countess Olga Alexandrovna Voronstov-Dashkov never arrived easily. Even a short trip necessitated trunks full of clothing, a case of jewels, another case of icons that travelled with her everywhere, and a Pekingese named Bruno who delighted in shrieking at the staff every time they entered her room. After chiding the servants for their lack of care and giving instructions to her own maid regarding the unpacking, she was finally prepared to meet her new granddaughter.  After a brief kiss on the cheek to her Nicholai and a perfunctory greeting to her daughter-in-law, she finally went to the child, sleeping sweetly in a lace trimmed bassinet. She reached into her bag and pulling out her pince nez, she duly inspected her namesake with a long and appraising gaze. Only then did she truly greet Irina.

“My darling girl, how tired you look. Don’t worry, I am here now to arrange things…”

With that she sat at Irina’s bedside. Irina offered Nicholai’s mother a bon bon from the tray upon which they rested. The Dowager Countess accepted, and chose a Fondant Rose, her particular favorite. As she delicately nibbled the proffered bon bon, she made a tutting noise which the family knew meant she was about to speak something unpleasant with her voice like a crystal bell.

Finally, she turned to Irina and simply said, “She will do, I suppose, and she appears healthy, thanks be to God. My dear, you are beautiful, and well born, but birthing three daughters, another three babes lost, it seems so much to bear. At least she has your coloring, so we may have another beauty on our hands…”

Privately over the years, to her sister, to friends over tea or cards, Olga had whispered sotto voce:  “Her blood is ancient, perhaps too ancient…”

To Nicholai in letters, she was blunter: “Love is no substitute for an heir…”

Indeed, Count Nicholai had married well by joining into one of the oldest families in the empire. Surprisingly, it had not been a marriage of ambition, but rather one of love. From the moment they saw each other at that crowded Shrovetide ball nearly a decade before, they had known that there would be no other person with whom they could be genuinely happy.

Irina had heard his laughter before she saw him. It was rich, deep, and musical, a bit too loud for polite society. Next, she saw him, dark chestnut curls, impeccably dressed, holding a glass of champagne, and entertaining a group of people who stood transfixed by his charm. When their gazes met, his words failed. She was wearing a white silk ballgown edged in lace. Her jewels, a parure of diamonds and aquamarines, a Romanov gift, matched her eyes. Her blond hair was swept into a chignon, with diamond aigrettes that sparkled beneath the chandeliers of the Anichkov Palace. He had begged her cousin for an introduction.

Soon they found themselves caught up in a waltz. Then they danced another, then a third. Irina’s dance card was forgotten. Their romance was the minor scandal of the season, and he made his intentions clear before Lent was over. The only strenuous objections came from his mother, who thought Irina an unlikely candidate for her darling son.

The Dowager Countess Olga  did not much care for her son’s choice. She felt Irina was too reserved, too well bred… she thought her as beautiful and fragile as a porcelain doll, and about as likely to make Nicholai happy. Her son needed a woman who shared his zest for life. More importantly, one who could give him strong sons. But even she was forced to admit that they were drawn to each other like moths to a flame, she silenced her doubts temporarily.

Unfortunately for Irina, she gave Nicholai two daughters and then suffered three lost babies in a row. She had prayed every day with this pregnancy that God grant her another child, whether the longed-for heir or another daughter. When the pains had begun too early the doctor insisted on bed rest and forbade travel until after the baby was born, delaying their departure to the country. Now that the child was born, yet another girl, her prayers had changed. Now she prayed maybe next time, maybe next year. Her mother-in-law, with her typical lack of grace, had already mentioned at least three times the obligation to continue the family name.

“My dear, it must be done, it is your one obligation as a wife…”

Irina sat silently, allowing her mother-in-law to speak, knowing that before long the conversation would turn to gossip. The countess was known for her sharp tongue and her encyclopedic memory. Any gossip told to her would soon flow forward in a never-ending stream that made her both popular and feared. No secret was safe, no detail too small. Now, Irina’s fragile health was just another current in the stream.

Eventually, Irina realized that the conversation had shifted, and listened as the Dowager Countess chimed on, “… and then I saw one of the Rustov girls, you know the one who is no better than she should be… oh I could tell you stories about her… dear girl you look positively spent. I’m going to look in on the nursery and say hello to the girls if your dreadful governess will allow it…”

With that the Dowager Countess was off, leaving in her wake the scent of violets and lace still warm from the summer sun.

The next days passed, with a fervor normally reserved for the season, with guests arriving, First it was Nicholai’s Uncle Ionn, the bishop who would perform the christening. Next his Aunt Varvara provided a willing ear for the Dowager’s never-ending stream of gossip and disapproval. Then in the same day, Irina’s parents, Prince Felix Nickolevich and her mother, Princess Marie Louise, and Irina’s dearest German cousin Prince Frederick of Haltzfelt-Trachenberg and his wife Anna. On the day before the christening Father Mikhail, Nicholai’s brother, who had chosen the church over the army, and Irina’s younger sister Natasha came together. Gossip had once linked the pair, but in the end, Natasha refused to become the wife of a provincial priest, so nothing came of it. She did, of course marry as was expected, but her husband, twenty years her senior, died within the first year of their marriage. Now she scandalized society with her numerous dalliances, none of which replaced the love of a simple parish pri

As the guests arrived, so did the gifts. From Frederick and his wife, a miniature gold cradle from Faberge, its cot cover a moonstone, which opened to reveal a tiny golden cross. From Bishop Ionn, who would perform the service and act as Godfather, a fine filigreed golden cross. The Prince and Princess Brought an enameled egg pendant hung on a platinum chain whose links were interspersed with forty small pearls. They also gifted Nicholai five thousand rubles for her dowry, but this was done in a private moment, it was not for show. Natasha brought a silver rattle with an ivory handle studded with citrines. On day six, an Imperial courier brought a case of pale blue leather which bore the double headed eagle, embossed in gold. Inside, nested in white satin, a leather-bound prayer book, tooled in swirls of gold, with a golden clasp studded with sapphires. The note, in a spidery hand read: ‘For Olga Nicholovna, may God protect you as he protects the Czar- A.” Even the Dowager Countess was impressed  that the Empress might send such a gift, and that she had agreed to be Godmother to the child, so much so that her sharp tongue didn’t criticize her daughter-in-law for the rest of the day. Only later would Father Mikhail present his gift, a miniature triptych, hand carved by his own hands from ivory and painted over the long winter in his quiet room. On one side, Saint Nicholas, on the other Saint Olga, in the center the Christ child. In a secret compartment behind the Savior Child, a lock of his hair and a note, a blessing for little Olga. Of all the gifts, it was the one that touched Irina’s heart the most, and she wrapped it carefully back into its cotton wrapping and slipped it into the bassinet.

“My baby girl may God go with you and protect you always…” she whispered.

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