The Memory Painter

JANUARY 27, 1837

Alexander stared out the carriage window and thought that if his life were a book and God had a pen, then George d’Anthès had been written to play the antagonist. Or perhaps the devil held the pen, for there was no doubt an evil heart hid behind the Frenchman’s handsome looks and charming manner. Why else would Alexander find himself in a carriage at dawn on his way to duel with the man?

He only wished that he had the power to write today’s outcome. It had been years since he had challenged anyone, let alone wielded a pistol. At thirty-seven, Alexander’s world revolved around his wife, their four children, his writing, and whatever money could be earned by it. Yet he longed for the simple solace of his study to write his Peter the Great novel … perhaps his best work yet, if he could ever finish the damned thing.

With a heavy sigh, Alexander reached out to feel the pistol box. Perhaps it was folly to duel, but he refused to live out his days with the knowledge that he had done nothing to defend his wife’s honor and his manhood. Ever since George d’Anthès had arrived in the city, he had robbed them of both. D’Anthès’ ceaseless and open pursuit of Natalia could not be borne.

Hailed the beauty of Russia, Natalia outshone every woman at court. Such exquisiteness came with a price and he had been paying it for years, both mentally and financially. His wife was the belle of every party, and every party required a lovely gown and jewels. They had been living beyond their means and Alexander could not write fast enough to pay his debtors.

But money was the least of his worries at the moment; he hoped he would not shoot himself or create some other embarrassment, for he knew this contest would be talked about. He was not an egotistical man, but he acknowledged himself as a public figure. His writing had resounded with his countrymen—at least what had not been censored or denied publication.

The truth was, he wrote as he breathed and could not have stopped the words if he had wanted to. Even now he felt the beginning of a poem swirling among his dark thoughts.

He had forgotten his talisman today while getting dressed, a turquoise ring given to him by his good friend Nashchokin to protect him against harm. And he had to return to the house to get his coat. Even though he knew it would be terrible luck to retrace his steps, his feet had moved on their own accord.

These bad omens had started him thinking about the mechanics of destiny, and like an expert engineer, he had taken that notion and begun to craft a poem. If he had not been running late, he would have ordered the driver to pull over then and there so his pen could have free rein. He felt the words forming and only hoped to remember them later.

The carriage came to a stop and Alexander looked up with surprise. Here so soon—the time had vanished. He had hoped d’Anthès would be late so that he could have more time to gather his thoughts. But upon seeing his rival, the words dancing in his mind faded at once.

D’Anthès eyed him with a derisive sneer and bowed his head. “I thought you weren’t coming. Old men don’t do well in the morning.”

Ignoring him, Alexander got out of the carriage and prepared his weapon. He breathed in the cold, marveling at how the snow-covered countryside resembled the one he had imagined for Onegin and Lensky when he had written their duel. Would he die just as his fictional poet Lensky had?

“Ten paces,” he heard himself insist.

D’Anthès frowned. “But that’s point-blank range.”

Alexander nodded and stared at his challenger’s face. Something in d’Anthès’ eyes pulled at him, making him feel that they had played this part before—known hatred for one another before. Had their novel already been written? He felt the lines were there, destined to be enacted. And now here they both were. The ten paces felt like an eternity.

Turning to face the man who would kill him, Alexander knew his fate. It was as if he had left his lucky turquoise ring behind deliberately—as if somehow he had known in his heart’s darkest chasm that nothing could protect him on this day.