The Master Craftsman, page 17
“May I ask why an egg was given as a gift in the first place?” Carol asked.
“Yes, of course. This is a very good question.” Larissa gestured them forward to look at the next egg on display. It was the Imperial Coronation Egg. The golden egg had been engraved with sunburst panels on the entirety of its exterior, each of which was covered with a sharp gold enamel. Ava turned to listen to Larissa’s explanation.
“The tradition of giving Easter eggs dates back a very long time, nearly a millennium! Eggs were seen as symbols of fertility and protection. They represented new life. When Orthodoxy was introduced in our country, eggs took on an even deeper symbolic meaning, with the color red being used to dye them in honor of the blood of Christ. Of course, when Fabergé began designing the eggs for the Imperial family, these eggs took on a whole new form of symbolism.”
“So interesting,” Ava said. She turned back to the Coronation Egg. “Can you tell me a little about this one?”
Larissa looked through the glass. “The Imperial Coronation Egg was prepared for Tsar Nicholas the Second and given to his wife, Tsarina Alexandra Feodorovna, in 1898. It was to commemorate the new tsar’s coronation. As you can see, the design is extremely intricate.” Larissa pulled a laser pointer from her pocket.
“Do you see the detail between the lattice work here?” she asked, pointing at the golden egg. “Each sunburst was delicately hand carved. And in order to drill the holes for the lattice work, they had to put the egg under water. Extreme care and caution was used in designing this egg. It took a full year to complete it.”
“The coach is simply stunning,” Ava said, looking at the surprise gift that was displayed beside the egg.
“Yes.” Larissa nodded. “The craftsman who designed this egg was Mikhail Perkhin, one of Fabergé’s top craftsmen and dearest friends. He designed the coach to be an exact replica of the royal coach that Tsar Nicholas and Alexandra rode in on their coronation day. As you can see, the exterior consists of solid gold and red enamel. The wheels work and can actually even turn the coach. And the door works on a spring hinge, which was very innovative for Fabergé’s time. Perhaps the most amazing information of all is the fact that this replica stands at only ten centimeters long.”
“Wonderful,” Carol breathed.
“The detail of the coach was so intricate,” Larissa continued, “that when it came time to try and restore the former Imperial coach many years later, they looked at this model for some of the details.”
Ava scribbled in her notebook. She looked eagerly back up at Larissa. “Is it just amazing to work here?” she asked.
Larissa smiled. “It is a great privilege for me to work in this place full of history.”
“I can imagine,” Ava replied. She walked next to Larissa as they went from case to case, looking at each of the displayed eggs and hearing the detailed history of how the treasures made their way back to Russia.
“As you can see, it is very important for us to see our history displayed and shared about properly,” Larissa said as they approached the next case.
Ava nodded, then stopped and caught her breath. “The Winter Egg,” she said.
Larissa smiled and nodded. “This is one of the most unique eggs to come out of Fabergé’s collection. It was designed by Alma Pihl, one of two female master craftsmen in Fabergé’s company. She was known to be Fabergé’s pet. He took her under his wing and had a fatherly affection for her. More than anything, he admired her talent. She had a very distinct eye for detail. The Winter Egg was born out of her study of the ice that would form on her windowpane. She took the designs from nature and turned them into this stunning creation.”
“It almost looks like it could melt right before our eyes,” Xander said.
Larissa blushed and smiled as he looked down at her. “It does,” she said. “You feel that it could be cold when you touch it.”
“Larissa, your English is excellent,” Carol said as they continued to circle the glass, studying the Winter Egg from every angle.
“Thank you,” Larissa said with a dip of her head. “My father was a diplomat. We spent some years in the United States when I was younger.”
Carol nodded. “Well, that makes sense then. I can barely detect an accent.”
“And Bethany,” Carol said, turning to Ava with raised eyebrows. “Tell us a little bit about the book you’re writing. I’m always so fascinated with people who can write books. I can barely string two sentences together in an email.” She let out a little laugh as Xander and Larissa smiled.
“Oh, uh . . .” Ava stuttered, flustered at being drawn away from her study of the Winter Egg. “Well, I’ve always had a fascination with history, and Russian history is particularly interesting to me. The world knows a lot about the Romanovs, of course, and the Fabergé eggs are especially interesting to people, but in my research, I realized there wasn’t a lot of information on Fabergé the man. Who was he? What motivated him?” She glanced at Larissa. “I want to paint a portrait of the man behind the eggs.”
Larissa nodded her head vigorously. “Oh, yes. I could not agree more. Fabergé was a very interesting and complicated man.”
Ava cocked her head. “Complicated? How do you mean?”
“Well, for starters, he was a family man, known for the way he loved and doted on his four sons when they were young. He was the picture of a good father and husband until it became apparent he had a secret mistress. She was an actress who had a very suspicious background. It is reported that she was ultimately exiled to Siberia and died there, likely in a gulag.”
“Interesting,” Ava said, jotting down a few notes in her notebook. “He didn’t have an affair with Alma Pihl, did he?”
“Oh, no. Definitely not. Fabergé loved Alma, but as a father would love his daughter. He recognized Alma’s talent when she was very young. That was one of Fabergé’s strengths—seeing the talent in others and drawing it out of them.”
Larissa looked around the museum, which was quiet and still. “Have you all visited the site of Fabergé’s former workshop yet?”
Ava shook her head.
“You should go there,” Larissa said with a smile. “It’s an apartment complex now, but it would still be interesting for you to visit and see where he worked. He was very close to Nevsky Prospekt. It might help you get a sense of what he would have seen and felt to be in the place where he walked.”
“I think I’d like to do that,” Ava said.
“Oh, that would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?” Carol said.
Xander smiled. “For her, perhaps, but I’m afraid we won’t have the time, Mother.”
“Well, that’s too bad,” Carol replied. She turned to Ava and held out her hand. “It was wonderful to meet you, Bethany. I wish you much luck with your book on Fabergé. It seems you’ve gotten some great information today.”
Ava shook her hand, biting her lip to keep from smiling at her mother’s performance. She nodded at Xander.
He turned to Larissa. “Thank you so much for allowing us to tag along on your tour today. It was fascinating.”
“You’re welcome,” Larissa said. She shook his hand, her cheeks turning a crimson red.
Xander and Carol turned, walking back toward the exit.
“He was very handsome, wasn’t he?” Larissa asked, turning to Ava.
Ava offered a tight-lipped smile and nodded her head. “I have just a couple more questions, if you don’t mind?” she asked.
Larissa cleared her throat. “Yes, of course.”
“Whatever happened to Alma Pihl? She was a woman employed under one of the most decorated artists in Russian history, yet there is little written of her in history books. Where did she go after the revolution?”
Larissa looked around at the nearly empty room, then stepped closer to Ava. “I am equally fascinated with Alma.”
She gestured for Ava to follow her to another display case. They looked together at the Lilies of the Valley Egg displayed behind the glass. Delicate flowers danced up the side of the Art Nouveau–style egg, guiding the eye to the portraits at the top of the egg of Tsar Nicholas II and his two eldest daughters, Olga and Tatiana.
“There is little information about what happened to Alma in the years after the revolution. There are records showing that she and her husband, Nicholas Klee, left Russia for Finland in 1921. I do not know what happened to her after that. But . . .” Larissa paused. “I did find something interesting not long ago,” she said, her voice almost a whisper.
Ava glanced at her. Larissa offered a small smile, then turned back to the case and observed the egg again. Ava took her cue and trained her eyes forward.
“I found a letter written by Alma Pihl to a friend in Finland.” Larissa spoke in a hushed tone. “The letter was dated 1918, and in it she mentioned that she’d had something of great value, which she could discuss with no one.”
Ava resisted the urge to pull her pen from behind her ear and write down Larissa’s words. Instead, she nodded her head and listened intently.
“The letter had some very strange language in it. It was as though Alma was trying to preserve something. She went on to talk about how the fall of the tsar was desperately sad, though she understood and sympathized with the plight of the people. But right in the center of the letter, she said that she wished Fabergé had never given it to her.”
Ava drew in a deep breath. “Given what to her?”
“That is the thing. I don’t know,” Larissa said. She moved around to the other side of the case, still staring intently at the egg inside. Ava followed her. “I showed the letter to my superior. It had been tucked inside the lining of a jewelry box that was being cleaned and repaired. He took the letter and told me to forget about it, which is very strange.”
“Indeed,” Ava murmured. “Do you know what he did with the letter?”
“I do not. But it got me thinking about Alma. And now here you are asking questions about her as well. I don’t believe in coincidences.”
“Me either,” Ava said.
Larissa checked her watch. “Oh, it is a pity. I have to go now. My next tour begins in ten minutes.”
Ava tossed one more glance around the blue room, reluctant to leave the beautiful art encased inside. “Thanks for all the information.”
Larissa smiled. “Perhaps that information will give you questions to seek, which will make your book more unique.” She leaned forward and raised her eyebrows. “Most people write the same things about Fabergé over and over. It would be nice to learn something new.”
Ava nodded. “Well, I’ll do my best.” She held out her hand and shook Larissa’s. “I’ll be going now so you can get to your next tour.”
“Yes, of course,” Larissa said with a nod. She reached in her pocket and pulled out a business card. “You will let me know when your book is released?”
“Oh,” Ava said, taking the card from her awkwardly. “Um . . . sure. It will be a while, of course. The publishing industry moves at a snail’s pace.”
Larissa laughed. “Yes, I hear this is true. Do you have an email address where I can reach you?”
Ava coughed, then opened up her satchel. She riffled through it for a moment, then looked back up. “I’m so sorry. I don’t have any of my cards with me.”
“Oh, it is fine,” Larissa said with a wave of the hand. “Just send me a message at that address and we can keep in touch. I will answer any other questions you have as they come up, okay?”
“Sure,” Ava said. “I’ll be in touch.” She turned and quickly made her way back through the museum toward the front door, her mind turning with questions.
She pushed out into the street, the winter air burning her cheeks. Just as she rounded the corner, the car pulled up to the curb and stopped. Ava grabbed the door handle and slid inside in one swift move, pushing against Xander and pulling the door shut behind her.
“What took you so long?” Carol asked as Anatoly merged into traffic.
“I’m going to need to call Nick when we get back,” Ava said.
St. Petersburg, 1910
Karl ducked his head inside and let the door swing shut behind him. Stomping the dirt from the street off his boots, he unwound his scarf, removed his hat and coat, and hung all three neatly on the coat hanger by the door. He rolled his head around, stretching out the tension that had knotted his shoulders and neck. It was finished, the task accomplished.
He turned toward the stairs and walked up quickly, knowing that his employees were waiting for the news that the eggs had been successfully delivered and received by the royal family. Karl made the trip to Tsarskoe Selo every year to hand-deliver the works of art. There was a buzzing sort of energy in the air this time of year. Holy Week was generally their busiest season, as customers came in looking for last-minute Easter gifts, and sightseers came hoping for a glimpse of the newest eggs prepared for the tsarinas. It was an exhausting, overwhelming, and energetic time, and Karl found that he still enjoyed the thrill of the season, but he was more tired than usual this year. Perhaps it was his age, though he couldn’t possibly admit that out loud because it felt like a concession of the winding down of life.
He reached the top of the stairs and startled as his son Eugen popped around the corner.
“How did it go?” Eugen asked. “Were they pleased? Did they like the Colonnade Egg? How was the tsarina’s mood while you were there?”
Karl smiled and placed his hand on his eldest son’s shoulder. “It went fine, son. They seemed quite pleased with their gifts this year, as they have every year.”
All four of Karl’s sons now worked in the business, a fact that made his heart swell with fatherly pride. They were each gifted differently, and they managed to parlay those gifts in ways that benefited the House of Fabergé.
Eugen and his second-born brother, Agathon, both remained here in St. Petersburg. Karl suppressed a smile at the look of relief that washed over Eugen’s face at the news that the tsar had been pleased once again. His oldest child was a people pleaser, and he usually described himself as the public relations man of the company. But everyone knew, Karl included, that Eugen’s real talent lay in design. His brain popped with ideas and images that were increasingly incorporated into the pieces made in the workshop.
Agathon helped manage the St. Petersburg store alongside his brother, overseeing the gemology department. An expert gemologist, Agathon had taken this division of the company to new heights.
His third-born son, Alexander, now lived full time in Moscow and ran the store branch in that bustling city. Karl often asked Alexander if he really wanted to stay in Moscow, or if he’d prefer to return to the beauty and serenity of St. Petersburg, but he always turned it down. It appeared his son liked the hustle of Moscow, a fact that was mind-boggling to Karl.
Nicholas, the youngest, had taken over the management of the London office with Henry Bainbridge. Augusta, being particularly fond of her baby, commented often on her displeasure at him living so far away. Karl, however, got the distinct impression that London, and the distance it placed between them, quite suited his free-spirited son with the big ideas, big heart, and even bigger personality.
“Papa? Everything okay?”
Karl shifted his gaze to Eugen and focused his eyes in on his son’s face. His child now bore wrinkles in his skin and the peppered strands of gray on his head.
“Yes, of course,” Karl replied. “Just lost in thought.”
Eugen nodded. “You know, Papa, I’ve been thinking more about our conversation the other night, and I really think we need to move forward with asking the tsar for a higher title.”
Karl waved his hand. “I am not interested in fancy titles that mean nothing. I told you this.”
“Just listen,” Eugen continued. “The title of Supplier to the Imperial Court, which you claim now, doesn’t fully incorporate all that you do, and it diminishes your working relationship with the royal family. They must make you the official Jeweler to the Imperial Court. This is the capacity within which you’re already working. You deserve the accolade.”
Karl sighed. “But it won’t mean anything. It won’t change what we do or how we get paid.”
“But it will change the way you do business abroad, Papa. I really believe that it will. The change in title brings a measure of importance that allows for further expansion.”
Karl pulled his glasses off his face and grabbed a kerchief from the pocket of his jacket, wiping them slowly as he squinted at his son.
“If I say yes to this, will you leave me alone?” he finally asked.
Eugen smiled. “If I promise to leave you alone, will you grant me permission to write the tsar asking for the title change?”
Karl placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and peered at his son. “I’ll grant it,” he said. “But I don’t want you to request the change right away. Wait a few months and let the holidays and summer break settle. Then you may write your letter.”
“Fair enough,” Eugen said, holding out his hand. Karl shook his head and chuckled, shaking his son’s hand. Eugen had always been a dealmaker, from the time he was a little boy. He’d write contracts, asking his parents to sign them, promising that they would uphold all kinds of silly bargains, from not making him eat tomatoes to allowing him to stay up later at night to read his books. Some things never changed.
“Well, let’s go in and let everyone know the handoff was a success. These people have been working hard. They deserve a little break.”
Eugen nodded. He followed his father into the shop where the two stood silently for a moment, watching the various craftsmen bent over their work. Karl felt a wave of pride wash over him. He loved each of his employees like family, and he was immensely proud of the way that they worked.
“Ahem. Attention, everyone!” he called out. The bustle in the workshop quickly died down. Chairs scraped against the floor as they pushed away from their tables and stood up, many pushing magnifying glasses up on the tops of their heads, and turned to face the master craftsman.
