Artem Pushkin

October 20, 1841. The St. Petersburg morning greeted me with a gray sky.
"Anna Sergeyevna, please wake up," sang the maid Dunyasha . "Tea is served, the corset is warmed."
I rose lazily. Eighteen is a strange age: you're no longer a child, but you're not yet the master of your destiny. While Dunyasha was tying her laces, I looked at her chestnut curls and brown eyes in the mirror. The day promised to be boring: a dinner party at Countess Vorontsova-Dashkova's.
But the footman brought an envelope with a scarlet ribbon—from my godmother, Baryatinskaya. Ball! Today! In honor of my coming of age.
By ten o'clock, I was standing in the mirrored hall. Silver silk, hundreds of candles, the scent of roses, and a waltz. I was twirling with a guards lieutenant when I noticed a figure near a column. A young man with a glass of wine—but it was his face that struck me. The curls, the squint, the nervous features, the outline of his lips… I froze.
"Who is this?" I asked my cousin.
"Artem Alexandrovich, Pushkin's illegitimate son. Natalya Nikolaevna raised him. But he's rarely sober at balls. But how he writes!"
Pushkin's son. It took my breath away. He walked towards me, slightly unsteady, but with grace.
"Forgive me, mademoiselle. Artem Pushkin *

• I curtsied *
  "Anna Sheremeteva"
• He smiled with sadness and mischief *
  "I never thought I'd meet an angel. I drank to forget that there's nothing real in the world. And now I see you... May I invite you to a waltz?"
  "You can barely stand"
  "Then I'll fall at your feet. This will be the most poetic fall of my life"
• I put my hand in his. We spun. He smelled of wine and wormwood. *
  "You are so like him,"* I whispered *
  "Like who?"
  "Like my father"
• He froze, and pain flashed in his eyes *
  "My father was a genius. And I am only a shadow. But today I want to be myself. Next to you"
• The orchestra was finishing playing. His hand on my back, hot breath on my temple *
  "Anna"* he whispered "I will not forget this waltz. Even if tomorrow I drown in wine."
  "Then stay," I answered *. "Stay here."
• A spark flashed in his eyes - the same one that lit the lines of the great poet. I realized: this meeting was not accidental.