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Hamilton's Comet of 1812
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Alexander Hamilton
The waves rocked the ship back and forth in way that gave Alexander Hamilton a great deal of trouble sleeping. The ship was supposed to (view spoiler) leave about four weeks ago, but a number of things had delayed it. Winter, Alexander ventured, would come soon, and with it winter storms. That wouldn’t be good. He glanced across the room at the rest of the people on board, all asleep. The ship jerked forward. Alexander was restless. He might as well see what was going on.
Silently, he tiptoed out onto the deck and peered over the edge. A huge whirlpool had formed in front of him. He reached forward.
It pulled him in.
[Alexander]
Alexander arrived in a bar. Even though it was noon, men had already begun getting drunk and standing on tables. Maybe he had arrived in New York, where he was supposed to go on that ship. Maybe all that happened with the storm on the ship was really just a nightmare.
He found a man a bit older than me standing away from the drunken hordes. His face was red and he had a shot glass next to his book that he held in shaking hands.
The other men in the room were chattering in an unintelligible manner. They must all have been drunk because Alexander couldn’t make out a single world they said.
He approached the man with the book.
“Pardon me,” he asked, “but are you Aaron Burr, sir?"
“Nyet,” he replied.
Alexander furrowed for a second, taking in more of the drunken men’s speech. It was then he realized they were not merely drunk but drunk in a foreign language and even the partially sane man with the book was speaking Russian.
He frowned. “Alexander… Hamilton, eh? You must be English, only you appear more likely to be Spanish.”
Alexander gazed puzzled around the bar.
“Where am I?”
The man with the book sighed. “Welcome to Moscow. I’m Pierre Bezukhov.” He held out his shaking hand. “There’s a war going on.” He paused. “You’re Alexander, huh? Like our Tsar.”
“Tsar?” Alexander asked. “Isn’t Catherine the Great still empress?”
Pierre looked puzzled.
“You’re lying.” He said. “Either that or wherever you came from must be incredibly backward. The year is 1812 and Napoleon is nearing Moscow closer and closer every day.”
[Pierre]
Alexander’s head spun with the shock. First of all, he found himself in a bar in Russia and then it turned out to be forty years in the future. How did he not notice that before? The men were not wearing wigs of any sort and their coats and breeches looked a good deal different from what he’d seen in St. Croix or what he had expected to see in New York. There was something in the way they talked and carried themselves that also differed from anything Alexander had seen.
“I don’t know where I am,” Alexander told Pierre. “I don’t even know how I got here. I was on a boat to New York and there was this big storm in the Caribbean that blew our ship off course and I fell into the water… only to get here. And I suddenly realize I’m not wet. And I’m standing here. I guess it must have taken me into the future.”
Pierre nodded. “Caribbean, eh? So that’s where you’re from. English colonies, I presume.”
Alexander nodded. “We were bound for New York. But then as storm came and I was pulled into the water. I guess it must have brought me here.”
“You’re not drunk?” He asked.
“I’ve never been,” Alexander replied.
Pierre held Alexander’s hands in his larger, hairier ones. “You’re not shaking either.”
Several heads turned around to stare.
“Kto ti?” a man asked drowsily.
“Ya ne vi ponimayet,” muttered another man.
“I suggest you get out of here, son,” Pierre grumbled. “I should too. This is no place for an idealistic young man like you. Come with me.”
Alexander nodded slowly. “Will most people here understand me?” He asked.
Pierre sighed deeply. “This is a world where people reject their heritage. They don’t want to be Russian, like the peasants who eke out a living tied to the land. They’re forced to work for the landlords who get all the crops they harvest…”
“That’s unbelievable! Why do they do that?”
Pierre shook his head. “I was like you once,” he muttered to himself. “But that’s the way it’s always been. We never had a renaissance here. But no one has the heart to change things here….”
“So will they understand me?” Alexander asked again.
Pierre nodded. “Sadly, most people here have rejected their heritage and most speak English and French to seem advanced. Even though we’re so far behind. Ignore the glitter, Mr… Hamilton, this world is broken.”
✰✰Pierre’s wife, Helene greeted them at the door of his house.
“Ohh…” She said, “Vous êtes charmante. Tu t’appelles comment?”
“What?” Alexander asked.
“She’s asking what your name is,” Pierre said.
“ Alexander Hamilton ,” He said. “My name is Alexander Hamilton.”
“Ohh....,” Helene replied. “Well, there is a new opera coming demain, tomorrow.” Perhaps you would enjoy seeing it with Dolokhov and myself.”
Alexander nodded. “Alright.”
For the present, he would be occupied with the Bezukhov library. It would take a while for him to read everything he could get his hands on.
✰✰The carriage was bigger than anything Alexander had ever ridden in. Not to say that the carts one rides in St. Croix are all that big. The seats were plush and red and actually comfortable to sit in. From what he had seen on the map on Pierre’s desk, the opera was a few blocks from their house. However, Helene stopped a bit before the halfway point between their house and the theater. She stepped out of the carriage and knocked on the front door of some house.
A few minutes later, she came out with a man, who kissed her hand and started talking amiably with her in French. It didn’t take me long to figure out what was going on.
“Is my brother coming, Dolokhov?” she asked.
The man Alexander presumed to be Dolokhov shrugged. “He’ll probably be late.”
Alexander looked around to find the carriage driver gone.
“Could you…” Helene began.
Alexander nodded. Even though he didn’t know the next thing about carriage driving.
No one said anything the rest of the walk towards his carriage. Hopefully the driver wasn’t drunk. At least the horses weren’t.
The Opera
The carriage rocked back and forth. Alexander felt a sickening sensation in my stomach as if the meager supper he had the night of the storm had made its way back up to his mouth. Then a crash noise came as he heard the squeak of the carriage hitting something.
“Ow,” said a male voice, higher than Dolokhov’s
“Anatole?” Helene asked.
“Y-yes,” Anatole squeaked.
“Is he alright?” Alexander asked.
“I-I broke my arm,” he replied. “I-I’ll have to miss out on the opera tonight, tell me what it’s like.” (view spoiler)
[Anatole]
The Opera was not to start for another few minutes, but everyone came early to share the latest gossip in their respective boxes. Sofia, “Sonya” Rostova had arrived a few moments ago with her cousin Natalya, “Natasha” and Natasha’s godmother Marya Dmitrievna. It was Marya’s place to gossip, she supposed.
“Countess Bezukhova isn’t here, eh?” Marya asked. “Good riddance.”
Sonya nodded reluctantly. It was common knowledge that Helene Bezukhova had been cheating on her drunken husband Pierre with the younger, more dashing Fedya Dolokhov, only no one said it out loud. Probably most everyone had been cheating on their spouses too. As a widowed old maid, Marya had the right to gossip about it.
The last few patrons spilled in, among them Countess Bezukhova. Dolokhov, who I knew, was close behind, but next to Helene stood a stranger perhaps about my age who Sonya didn’t recognize as she and Natasha made their way into the foyer.
[Helene]
“...A pity,” Helene was saying to an associate of hers. “Anatole was hit by a carriage.”
”Ah, quel dommage,” exclaimed her friend. “But who is this?” She gestured toward the stranger.
“My name is Alexander Hamilton,” he replied. “I have only come to Moscow recently.”
Helene, her friend and the stranger continued making their way through the crowd, the rest of their conversation obscured by its noise. Natasha found Sonya soon after she spotted the conversation with the stranger, apparently called Alexander Hamilton. (view spoiler) As they girls made a bit of unremarkable small talk, Helene came toward them.
“The two remarkably pretty girls,” she gushed, holding Dolokhov’s arm as they showed themselves off to the world while Alexander approached them.
“So, Helene was talking about you,” he said.
“How do you know Helene?” Sonya asked.
“It’s complicated,” he replied. “I’ll tell you when we’re out of the foyer.” he held his hand out. “Alexander Hamilton.”
[Dolokhov and Helene]
She nodded. “Where’s your family from?”
“Unimportant, there’s a million things I haven’t done.”
“Sofia Rostova,” she said.
“Natalya Rostova,” said Natasha.
“My cousin,” Sonya added.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said.
A chime announced the start of the opera
✰✰✰✰✰✰It would be impossible to say Alexander knew what to expect from an “avant-garde opera” when the curtain rose on a stage set with three oddly placed chairs and an upside-down table. The crowd buzzed with excitement. According to Helene’s friend Marina, if it were a miserable failure she could relate all the horrors that befell her ears as she watched. If it were a success, she could boast about how she was one of the first ones to see and love it.
Was this the new fad, Alexander wondered, or simply the traditional behavior of what appeared to be Moscow’s well-to-do?
["The Opera"]
The leading lady, in a strange costume where she had half a jacket attached to a dress, belted a note that reminded one of a doorhinge. She then extinguished a few candles as a chorus entered. The cello line became more pronounced. The instruments suddenly seemed out of tune while the music itself jumped around and invaded the ears with a storm of screeching violins that would never leave one’s head.
Strangely, when Alexander turned around, Helene and Marina both looked pleased, applauding mechanically as if in a trance everyone had fallen under except for him. He blamed it on the drinks they had brought into the box and quickly downed, leaving several empty glasses on the table.
Alexander’s focus shifted to Natalya, who stood behind her cousin Sofia deeply in trance. Though the music affected all but him and Sofia, it was Natalya who Alexander found himself drawn to every time he stared back at them. Maybe it was the way her small dark eyes reflected the candlelight or perhaps the thing called fate so many people talked to me about that he never paid heed to was real.
But he had only met her.
✰✰✰✰✰✰There was an instrumental break mid-act, but the patrons were told to stay in their seats.
“Amazing,” Natasha said. “I feel so…. Helpless.”
The curtains to Marya’s box opened.
“Oh, Alexander,” Sonya said.
Natasha waved. “Hello, Alexander.”
She ushered the stranger into the box while Sonya sat down in the chair opposite his.
“So, you said you’d explain everything when we were out of the foyer,” Sonya began. “Is now the time?”
“Well, I suppose,” he answered, “but I doubt you’ll believe me. And could you close the box curtains?”
“Sure,” Sonya replied.
He sighed deeply.
“It isn’t a huge deal for you, is it?” she asked.
“Like I said, I don’t think you’ll believe me.”
A sighing riff from an accordion signaled that the second act would begin. The flimsy wooden backdrops had changed to a moonlit night in which the characters chased each other around a maze of tombstones. Marya stared with a strange entranced gaze at the stage but whatever she felt was doubled in its effect on Natasha, her eyes so wide her pupils looked like islands of brown in a sea of white. During a point in the show, she stood up in the box and began wailing with the chorus, an act that somehow did not seem unusual. As a matter of fact, several other ladies began standing up and joining her.
Whatever it was that possessed them, Sonya could not understand.
Alexander stood at the edge of the Bezukhovs’ box, gripping the edge of the railing and staring out over the silent house.
It was like a watershed, that one second when she laid her eyes on him staring over the railing. All Sonya could say was that he had something, some look in his eye, that made me keep staring at him in a way I would never do with any other man.
She felt her chest begin to tighten.
Only a little.
They were the only ones not in a state of trance.
Sunday Morning
The next morning, Natasha stood up from the chair she had been sitting in near the window.
Has Andrey arrived?” She asked, referring to her fiance who had left for the war.
“I don’t know,” replied the maid who had come to sweep the bookshelf. Every day was like this, ever since we’d arrived in Moscow and moved into our guest room at Marya’s house.
Maybe he’s come and no one knows,” Natasha said.
“I’ll tell you if I know,” replied the maid.
“Come to church dears!” Marya called from the front of the house.
Natasha and Sonya threw on their pelisses and rushed outside into the foggy morning. A carriage awaited them.
✰✰✰✰✰✰✰Most of church that day disappeared from Sonya’s memory. It felt like there was something that needed to happen which never did, as if it were meant to reach out to plain orphans with no dowry like her, but they were all ignored. If everyone became equal in Christ, then how come all the old ladies who claimed to be the most devout overlooked the less fortunate while they basked in opulence? How much was corrupted between what God wanted and what ended up happening in churches on Earth?
[Sonya and Natasha]
However, the strangest miracle that seemed to occur on Sunday mornings was how the most hedonistic of Moscow society somehow morphed into innocent parishioners and then went back to being their usual selves as soon as they left the church. Helene came, on Dolokhov’s arm, of course. Pierre did come, but they sat in separate pews. Alexander followed him, which surprised me, considering he seemed to speak only English and was definitely not from here, meaning he was probably not Orthodox. Yet again, perhaps he had come to get acquainted with Moscow society.
Most likely they knew nothing about Alexander other than his presence at the Bezukhovs’ box on Saturday, but nevertheless his name seemed to flow frequently from the lips of Marya’s old prude friends.
[warning, adult themes]
Has Helene been cheating on Dolokhov?
Does she take two lovers to her bed, one on odd nights and one on evens?
But he’s standing with Pierre.
Would that mean something else?
The last lady was promptly shushed as the service started. Sonya would normally pay decent enough attention to service but instead found myself staring at a pew across the aisle and a bit in front of hers, even though he never looked back, yet the more she looked at him the more Sonya noticed the tight feeling in her gut. It had been a long time since she’d felt that way, but she knew better than to instantly turn into a scatterbrained schoolgirl.
Natasha tapped her on the shoulder.
“Sonya?” She asked.
“Yes?”
“Soniushka, you don’t have a fever do you?” Marya asked.
A few hushed whispers passed through the women in the pew behind them, but it seemed awfully self-centered for Sonya to think they were whispering about her. Orphans with no dowry were not worth their gossip.
Service continued as usual.
On Sunday afternoons, the wealthy of Moscow would visit each other. Paying calls, they called it.“I’ll be starting with Marya Dmitrievna and the Rostova girls,” announced Helene. “Care to accompany me?”
Natalya’s face flashed through Alexander’s mind. He didn’t know her, but the more he thought about her, the more important she became to him.
“Sure,” he replied.
As they took our seats in the carriage, Alexander initially considered telling Natalya and Sofia about how he had arrived. They’d never asked for him to keep secrets, after all. But the faces from the bar stared back at him in his mind. Drunkeness was the same in every era, but the faces in the bar still knew just how strange it was to be from another time and place.
The carriage turned a corner of a particularly rocky section of road past a strange cart driven by three horses. Troikas, they were called.
“One more turn,” Muttered the Bezukhovs’ carriage driver.
The halt came before he expected it. Alexander and Helene hopped out of the carriage as Helene knocked on Marya Dmitrievna’s door.
[Natasha and Sonya]
“Countess Bezukhova.” A maid smiled as she opened the door. “Madame Akhrosimova went to visit the Bolkonskys but her guests the Rostova girls are still here.
Sonya walked into the entry area. “Oh hello Helene and Alexander. Come and sit down.”
They walked into the drawing room, where Natasha sat.
“Have you eaten or would you like some tea and biscuits?” She asked.
“Biscuits would be fine, thank you,” Alexander replied.
“So where have you been lately?” Natasha asked.
“Moscow takes a lot of getting used to.”
“Indeed,” Natasha replied. “I’m from the country myself.”
“Oh. How long have you been in Moscow, then?” Alexander asked.
“Only a few days.”
“And your …. Cousin?”
Natasha nodded. “Yes, cousin. She came with me.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, why are you staying with Madame Akhrosimova?” Alexander asked.
[Sonya, Marya, Natasha and Helene]
“She’s my godmother.”
“And she took you to the opera?”
“Yes.”
“So how’s Moscow been for you?’ Alexander asked.
“Overwhelming,” Natasha replied. “So much.
Alexander nodded. “Definitely.” Sonya stood up. “So why does your cousin travel with you?”
“My parents died,” Sonya replied.
They made eye contact for a brief moment.
“I’m an orphan too,” Alexander said.
She nodded slowly.
For the next few moments, they ate biscuits in silence. There was something about the look in Sonya’s eyes when she regarded Alexander.
Alexander was an orphan. Sonya was unable to determine how exactly she felt about the news, but she knew something rustled in her heart. Maybe he would understand her better. If only he would listen.Alexander sat next to Natasha on the sofa and appeared to be writing something while she smiled and laughed in a way she never had since Andrey left.
Andrey. What would he think if something happened between them, Natasha and Alexander?
“I wonder where Helene is,” Alexander muttered.
They stood up and started walking towards the garden. Minutes passed, and Sonya wondered if her heart may have begun to break, not just for herself but for Natasha and Natasha’s future.
Helene came back down the stairs and whispered something to Alexander. Alexander turned to Natasha.
“Well, it was a pleasure talking to you, Natalya,” he said.
“Natasha,” she replied.
“Well all right then. Until we meet again.”
Sonya stared down at the floor. Could she get the nerve to tell Natasha what would happen if Andrey discovered they’d been walking in the garden together? Would she listen or simply accuse her, since it must’ve been obvious how Sonya looked at Alexander?
The house filled with silence until Marya returned.
“Alexander said Countess Bezukhova has a ball planned at her house tonight. We should go,” said Natasha.
Marya nodded.
“Alright, I suppose.”
Sonya nodded.
“Seven this evening,” Natasha said
“Seven,” Sonya agreed.
The Ball
Alexander waited at the door as people spilled into the ballroom, gossiping and eating pastries from a table by the side of the room. He had been in 1812 Moscow for almost three days, but it never ceased to surprise him how small and light the women’s gowns were and that the men, mostly in military uniform, neither powdered their hair or wore wigs. Perhaps in this way it would be easier to find Natasha when she arrived.
The church bells of Moscow chimed seven when he heard the door open.
“Everyone’s here already,” Sonya muttered. “They probably come here early just to gossip, but how can I say I didn’t expect this? It’s Helene.”
“And how is that so bad?” Natasha asked.
“You know what I’m talking about,” Sonya sighed. “Dolokhov.”
The other guests obscured the rest of their conversation as they wove their way through the crowd from entrance door towards where Alexander stood in the far corner and found him before he expected it.
“Hello Alexander,” Natasha said. “Are you well?”
He nodded. “And you?”
“A bit overwhelmed,” Natasha replied. “We live out in the country and there’s never been so many people around.”
Alexander nodded. “I was raised on an island in the Caribbean, so I can sympathize with that.”
The music began for the first dance, catching them by surprise.
“I would ask you to dance, Natasha, only I don’t know how to.”
“We don’t have to dance, Natasha replied. “We can stand in the back and watch them.”
Alexander nodded and moved to the back of the room while the other guests assembled. He watched every precise step as they glided across the floor while Natasha only stared down and occasionally at the dresses and jewelry. The dance ended and, heart pounding, Alexander approached Natasha.
May I have this dance?” He asked.
“Of course,” she laughed.
Alexander and Natasha took their first steps onto the polished marble floor as the music began. He hadn’t paid much attention to it earlier, but something in the way they spun across the room past the intricately carved baroque panels and white columns built into the walls made the ballroom seem to come alive and make its appearance clear.He hadn’t seen the Bezukhovs’ ballroom until this point except occasionally looking through the window in its door when he ever left the library. It hadn’t seemed half as big then - not compared to the foyer of the opera - when he took a peek through the glass, especially since it had previously been empty. Now that he gazed upon the equally exquisite ceiling and grand Corinthian columns, the two could well have been equal in his mind.
“Alexander!” Natasha yelped as his stumbling feet veered off course.
“Oh, sorry.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. “I was fearing for Yulia Andreevna’s headdress there.”
“I was lost in my thoughts,” Alexander replied.
“That’s alright, but please concentrate on the dance.”
For the next dance, Natasha had Dolokhov, leaving Alexander with Sonya.“Could I have this dance?” Alexander asked.
“Of course,” she replied.
Natasha danced as if she were in a dream, lost in something but utterly focused on the steps she took across the floor. Sonya took a more prosaic approach to it and talked while doing so. Fortunately, it was a fairly simple dance.
“So what do you do when you’re not visiting people or trying to find your way through town?” She asked.
“I’ve been reading and writing,” Alexander answered.”There are more books in the Bezukhov library than I’ve seen in my entire life and I write down everything I see in the city in a journal. It’s like a dream, their library. I’ve hardly been outside.”
For a second, Sonya flashed Alexander a strange look. Having a lifetime’s worth of books probably wasn’t the greatest dream to the Moscow elite, even the orphaned Sonya. Yet her cheeks flushed red in a way that told Alexander something was up.
“So what was it like where you lived?” Sonya asked.Alexander sighed. “My father abandoned us when I was ten and two years later, my mother died.”
Sonya’s face fell a bit. “I guess I’m lucky then. I’ve never seen it that way. All this time, people just pity me. How I have no dowry and probably won’t marry.” For a moment, Alexander’s eyes caught something forlorn in hers. “And I can’t really get a job or anything, not something of any substance at least. I suppose it’s good to have my family, though. Otherwise I don’t know what I’ll be doing the rest of my life when I’m left single.”
Alexander’s thoughts shifted briefly to Natasha. Perhaps he felt something similar for Sonya, only in a different way. They may have been cousins who had spent their whole lives together, but they carried themselves in utterly different ways.
For that dance, however, Alexander concentrated on Sonya.
“It was nice dancing with you,” She said.
“You as well, Sofia.”
“Thank you, but please call me Sonya.
“Sonya, eh?”
“It’s a pet name, what we use in a more casual setting, but in a formal setting you would call me Sofia Alexandrovna.”
“What?”
“It’s a Russian thing.”
“Oh well,” Alexander sighed. “May I have the next dance Sonya?”
“Of course.”
In the next dance, Sonya and Alexander stood farther apart from each other, but there still seemed to be a growing spark between them. At least, there was in Sonya’s mind. She had started to realize, during those fleeting moments, that her initial interest in Alexander felt more like a slight fluttering in her heart. The kind of affection that left a life with only the slightest change. Dancing with him, however, her feelings began to turn into something greater. It wasn’t like Sonya had never been in love before, but some indescribable difference between the last time and now could keep her holding on until the end of time.
“May I have the next dance?” Asked a man in military uniform she didn’t recognize as Natasha came back to their corner of the ballroom. She nodded reluctantly, looking back one last time at Alexander as he took Natasha’s hand.
“I’ll try to visit you again some time this week,” he whispered to her as the music began.
Two more dances and the ball was over.
Alexander retreated back to the library once the ball was over. Almost all his time was spent there if he wasn’t out of the house. As a matter of fact he slept there (view spoiler) That night, however, he couldn’t really sleep. Initially he read a few more chapters of a large treatise on “time-travelling” he had found in the dark recesses of one of Pierre’s cabinets. He had dismissed it as utter fantasy, but having arrived in Moscow in 1812 by some strange process, Alexander was inclined to believe it was more real than anyone gave it credit for. Maybe it could tell him how to travel at will and get him out of the mess he was in.The first few chapters he read with little surprises, but the third one, the beginning of part two caught him by surprise when he found his own name in it Alexander Hamilton: In Original Time, first secretary of the treasury in the United States of America. B. 1755, D. 1804. The book trembled in his hands as he flipped back. He would have to find a way to get out of 1812 and go to his rightful place in history. Somewhere earlier in the book, they had mentioned the technique for time-travelling at will….
All that night, the two cousins’ faces during the dance flashed through his mind. Beautiful, graceful, popular Natasha. Plain and overlooked but warm-hearted Sonya. Sonya who understood what it felt like to be an orphan. Natasha who had captured his heart from the beginning. Whatever he decided, though, it appeared clear enough that both loved him.
His heart sank when he realized he’d never told them the whole truth. How could they love him and not know who he really was?
The thoughts spun around his head a few more times before he finally fell asleep as the church bells of Moscow chimed midnight.
Helene entered the library at about ten the next morning.“Oh, Alexandre,” she sighed in her acquired French accent. “How do you live like this?”
“I live,” Alexander replied. “Where I’m from, most don’t pass twenty and I can’t believe I’m fortunate enough not to worry about it.”
“I can’t imagine,” Helene said. “I was considering to visit Marya Dmitrievna, since she was gone on Sunday. Care to come?”
“Of course!” Alexander exclaimed, getting up from his chair.
“Well, I suppose we could go now, though that wasn’t my intention….” Helene sighed. “But there is a carriage outside.”
They hopped into the carriage and arrived sooner than they expected. Anxious tides rose and fell in Alexander’s chest.
Here it comes, he thought, knocking on the door.
A maid greeted them.
“Same visitors from yesterday, eh? Well Marya Dmitrievna is in, as are the Rostova girls.”
At that moment, Marya Dmitrievna Akhrosimova entered the foyer of her house.
“Well, good morning, Countess Bezukhova.” A note of resentment slipped into her voice.
“And good morning to you,” Helene said. “I’ve been meaning to talk. Why don’t we go upstairs?”
“We shall,” Marya answered.
Alexander’s shoulders dropped. He had no more excuses not to talk to the girls about who he really was. Walking with small unsure steps, he entered the drawing room.
“Oh Alexander.” Sonya furrowed. “You look unwell. What ails you?”
Alexander stared down at the floor.
“Nothing really. Nothing you could do.”
“Oh, I see.”
Alexander’s heart pounded. Here it goes. He’d never felt so nervous about merely speaking the truth before, yet the words simply left his mouth.
“I know it seems odd, but I suppose it’s time for me to fully explain myself. See, I was about to tell you how I knew Helene - Countess Bezukhova - when the second act of the opera started back on Saturday. It’s been hanging over me for the past few days and frankly, it doesn’t seem fair for me not to tell you when you have not withheld anything from mew. Like I said during the opera, though, I don’t think you’ll believe me, but let me tell you that I am telling the truth and there is no other way for me to explain the circumstances that brought us to the present.”
He caught his breath.
“I cannot delay this any longer. I come from the year 1776. I was standing on the deck of a ship during a storm when I was sucked into the water and somehow ended up in a bar where I met Pierre and well, he took me with him. It must be some unnatural wonder that took me out of one era and into another in a process beyond my control but I cannot fully explain it based upon a singular experience.”
Natasha and Sonya both stared down at the floor, still trying to process the shock.
“Then are you not longing… to return home?” Natasha asked.
Alexander sighed. “I am, only I know not when.”
Natasha looked up and scanned their faces.
“Well, to be frank with you, I’ve been engaged,” she said. “I didn’t think it would matter until I realized how you felt.”
“No matter. At least we’re all settled now.”
“So do you intend to return to your time now?” Sonya asked.
“Perhaps yes or perhaps no. All in good time, of course. I may begin believing in a thing called destiny for once in my life, the idea that things other than us control our lives. After all, how else could we have met?” He pulled out a leather-bound book.
“Here you are, Natasha, Here you are, Sonya. Perhaps-”
Alexander Hamilton was gone just as he had came. Silently, Natasha and Sonya opened the book and read the first page.
“You or your children or childrens’ children may find me.”
“He finished his sentence,” Natasha said. “No wonder he believes in fate.”
ᴇɴᴅ ᴏғ ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ
Now that this story is over, I will begin posting my Natasha, Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812/Aria thing here.
ᗯᕼᗩT Iᖴ....
Alexander Hamilton's ship never made it to "1776, New York City" and instead fell through a time portal in to "Nineteenth century Russia" where "Natasha, is young and Andrey isn't here"?
ᗯᕼᗩT Iᖴ....
Natasha Rostova never went to the ball, and never fell for Anatole Kuragin - none of that - because of a mysterious stranger in outdated clothes that ends up in Moscow the day before.
ᗯᕼᗩT Iᖴ....
Sonya Rostova found love?
ᗯᕼᗩT Iᖴ....
A crazy theater geek made this all up for real?