" It is true, is it not, that our souls are not used yet to parting?
With a shimmer of glimmering wings they each other call!
Someone higher parted the arms, tenderly interwoven,
But forgot the remembering souls.
Tsvetaeva 1910.
Crystal bright reddish morning light embroidered glentle shadowy lace patterns on gold-toned walls. A full bodied, malty scent of dark tea, with a hint of raspberry jam mixed with warm fresh toast, was lingering inside under a delicate sophisticated silver dome. It was placed by somebody on the walnut occasion table, the legs were engraved to resemble lion's feet.
In the sleigh canopy bed, its cream-white curtains offering shade, Nathalie reclined lazily and wrote, letters, as she had promised to me in that first night of our mutual and sudden reverly.. Her fingers were blackened with ink, the thick blonde braid was half-opened, the silk ribbon, was the same shade as as her eyes, large and dark blue, almost purple. On her forehead was a small wrinkle that disappeared when the morning work was completed. Egyptian cotton sheets, with lace embroidery, were wrinkled around us, Nathalie reached for a light, fleeting kiss on my shoulder, her hand trailed to touch my face gently and pondered aloud musingly:
"There was really indescribable relief in me when Liane´s controversal novel Idylles Saphique was published and printed, probably the reprints are in quite high numbers by know. Mainly because I was also involved in making the book, for myself, to all of us. Women and men like us, queers and inverts, are not usually talked about, in polite society. I have lived my own truth firmly since I was a child. Private intimate things are not written about in public, ever. And we, Liane and I broke that rule without worry. Though almost immediately I set off for Florence, and let the newspapers and society people stir up in peace. My father was naturally furious, but since he was in America, all he could do was pay part of the share of the family inheritance in advance. Now that he has passed on. I have full control of my monetary assets, and can do what I like with it, like organize parties, and bankroll in part, all the varied, different creative efforts of my circle have embroiled themselves in.
I deeply believe that if thou meet Eva at some point, thou will fall in love with her, at least a little. That's what everyone does, she looks just like a mythical mermaid or a medieval virgin. Her hair is deep full red, of oak leaves, in autum time and it extends to her knees. In fact, the ouzo stock is partly for her benefit. She has a deep enthusiasm for early Hellenistic culture, music, theather and crafts, and is planning of doing a revival of Delpic oracles and the cult of Sappho, she also made the dress that I wore in La Scala appropriately in the Hellenistic style, a remaked chiton. In her schooldays Eva studied classical greek and latin, and one occasion she was banned from living in the Bryn Mawr Collage dormitory at Radnor Hall for a year, at one semester in 1898, until May of the following year 1899, by the order by letter of the then president of the collage, because someone complained to collage superiors about Eva engaging in inversion, in the dormitories. She adores Gounod by the way, especially ` O ma lyrie immortelle` that final dramatic aria in Sapho at the end of final thrid act. Something about the sound structure and emotions, of the composition, and the lyrics of Emile Augier, are utterly divine, or so she says often.
On the other hand this life is not always mere persecution, prejudice and gloom, and wealth smoothes out a lot of incisively sharp edges, in society and in life, as thou will probably know in time, still choose thou loved ones carefully.
I listened calmly to Nathalie´s words, and for the first time I felt whole. The curtain that had separated me from the rest of the population had been torn down. I now knew with certainty that there are people in the world with whom I was able to communicate on all levels.
Renee, on the other hand kept her distance, from us. Nathalie had told me that she was in deep throes of manic creation period during which she did not sleep properly or eat well, and maybe consumed chloral hydrate, and wrote feverishly.
The June sun shone from the blue sky of Paris, pigeons and finches flew and I was in harmony with the whole world, a state of being not only due to Nathalie´s continued precence in my life.
Nathalie´s home at Rue de Jacob was an eminently delicious, harmonious building, with clear neoclassical lines. The interior reflected the taste of it´s mistress in every detail, and here, too, the flowers adorned every possible surface, high empire mirrors reflected light radiantly. The furniture was a graceful light Empire style with a few art deco accents and curios, an ivory letter knife, silverpenknifes, a couple of malachite ink bottles, a cascade of amber beads from Russia, vinelily candle holders, with parfumed candels, a pack of Tarot cards, and a slim Bible of deep red leather.
Mddle sized Greek goddess statues stood in melted harmony with the Japanese vases, guarding the wall with a slender bookshelf flooded with various titles; Greek art and architecture, porcelain painting, 17th century biographies of French female artists, an extensive collection of Enlightenment authors, Germaine de Stael, Racine, Voltaire, among others, of course, included Bryon's poetry, and Dickinson's first edition. Certain titles were on another smaller bookshelf, Chinese erotic art, a redcover scrapbook, full of photos, plans for future celebrations and projects..
Already I had taken part in the famous salon. The experience of that evening
was indescribable, sitting next to some of my literary idols, and to perfom for them. I had chosen to sing `Bel Raggio Lusingher` from Semiraminde, as I done a deep dive into different operas of Rossini lately. The innate romanticim of the music, and smooth sweeping belcanto is utterly divine. The bright coloratura runs of that aria, and the highnotes, mixed with the smell of fresh strawberries, and crystal glasses of bubbly champagne, gleaming in tender candellight. Nathalie claimed that the performing regulary, in a smaller intimate settings, was a brilliant way to get me more used to practicing life on stage and to a bigger and different audiences before long. I reflected that the more correct answer was that she skillfully benefited and gently exploited my presence in her varied, twined, circle of friends, lovers, and acquaintances.
Next day I would meet the Blythe´s. I was excited because I could give them a slightly different perspective on Paris, apart from the usual landmarks. Gilbert would be interested the latest medical innovations and Anne would adore simply everything. For instance there was the new and exiting exhibition of Scandinavian art that I had only just heard about, of Finnish women painters. The exhibition showed the works of Helene Schjerfbeck, Maria Wiik, Ellen Thesleff and Elin Danielson-Gambog it was collection of still lifes, landscapes, and portraits. One picture in particular a self portrait by Ellen Thesleff, was purpoted to be most striking in it´s intensity.
Nathalie was already planning a romantic writerly evening of fun to which Anne could be invited to join, if she had the time, and inclination to do so. The guestlist was shaping to be a slightly more exclusive version of the ordinary salon crowd.
I hummed Mozart as I thought of Anne, in her green hazy dress drinking tea, and enjoying the spirited and flowing conversation about literature, art and life, and making her own observations as well egging others on naturally, and easily. Anne would be listening with her arms crossed, her head tilted her big grey-green eyes focused and shining. Perhaps she even could recite Tennyson or Barret Browning. Anne reciting was an image of full slpendour, she could and did evoke and tease out pure feeling from every line and find deep hidden meanings, that bloomed into being. So it was no wonder at all then, or so the lore claimed that Gilbert had fell love with Anne when she did some recitation at White Sands hotel in the epoc of their mutual schooldays..
Suddenly the door from the parlor slammed open in a wide arc, and Renee rushed breathlessly in. She looked like a shadow, of her earlier vitality, her big chocolate brown eyes were red-rimmed, and her narrow fingers trembled and were full of ink spots. Renee glanced at Nathalie once, burningly, and reported gloomily to us:
" I just got a letter from my publisher, apparently he doesn't think that I've translated, Sappho's poetry because of my sex, he doubted my mental capacity to understand Greek originals, or some sort of rot of that kind. I had attached a few translation samples to my previous letter to support the release plan of the first volume and to prove my talent. Do you have any contacts who could help me get my translation published on my own terms? In addition to all above I am finalizing my autobiographical work, which should appear shortly from Lemerre, if nothing goes wrong in the process. I'm not optimistic, the previous release was a horrible mess, the publisher, well yes you remember. I had to go on a nerve break in Japan. I'm so exhausted by this lonely war, to top it all off Colette, the writer of Claudine, asked me to eat out again, in Les Deux Magots, the vegetable stew there is a feast for the senses. Apparently she thinks if I am not watched I might fall into the Seine when I come home from the Opera alone. Renee laughed at her little joke, and waved her hands, at us, the lace cuffs of her perennial frock coat, swayed as she gestured hevenwards in agitation".
Nathalie answered her, in calm soothing tone:
"Really, it is a real miracle that thou are even awake in the morning, not to mention here to make surprise visit to friend, with companion in residence. So it had to be some drastic thing, or another, either concerning thou writing or lovetroubles. So writing it is. I´ll think about thou request and let thou know soon."
As Renee and Nathalie talked about their local companions here and abroad and traided gossip of the month flowingly. I nodded to them and left them at it, and slipped out, in my powder blue daydress, with a lace shawl, that I borrowed from Nathalie.
In house on Rue de Jacob, there was a large walled, inner patio full of exotic plants, herbs and oranges. I reached upwards and picked up one, the taste of tart orange on my tongue I dived deep into the world of Anne's letter. It confirmed their arrival, of all three; Anne, Gilbert and Mademoiselle Brooke, she was a real hidden gem, according to Anne. I hadn't met Mademoiselle Brooke before, in Summerside mostly because my school was in a different direction at the time. Every acquaintance of Anne´s would bound to be at least interesting, and Mademoiselle Brooke, probably more than most I pondered.
As I made my farewells to Renee and Nathalie, citing my need to prepare before tomorrows arrivals, of Anne, and Gilbert, when I mentioned Mademoiselle Brooke, Renee suddenly corrected her slumped posture and said reverenty, and with whisper, Brooke, Katherine, does she spell her name with C or K?
Mutely I nodded at her, and said that I did not know much about her, except that she has been travelling a lot, in different corners of the globe, and was a friend to Anne. The Blythes in fact had been staying with Mademoiselle Brooke´s rental home in Poitou-Charentes."
I left Renee with Nathalie in the parlor, as I turned the door to straighten my hat, I noticed in the mirror that Renee seemed shocked. What on earth was that about I wondered curiously, everything will be revealed in a fullness of time, I pondered, as I walked back to my lodgings.
Father ´s latest investments had gone so well that he had decided to buy several rental apartments for the company, around central Paris, this was one of them. Apartment was located near the Pont Neuf bridge. It was small, modest, and cosy, it had a french lace balcony, and centuries-old lime trees cast their shadows over my morning coffee. As I read various newspapers, such as Le Temps, Le Figaro, La Croix and L´Intrasigeant. I wanted to get a different perspective on the world and what better way then, to do so by reading newspapers and take part, in some small way to the the cultural shift that was currently taking place in French society. In evenings I recited often poems of Emily Dickinson to the passing birds. I loved Dickinson's poetics, the subtlety, multidisciplinarity, politics, the tender love poems, sensitive spirituality, that variable and extensive emotional register in them.
Setting sun was glittering golden in the waves of Seine, and tourists mingled in the streets. Paris was beautiful, radiant, like a woman in a first blush of love.
My Father was currently in St. Petersburg, investigating something related to local factories, and doing a roaring trade with his associates and was going to stay there for some time. The local mood according to him was variable and the masses of the people seemed dissatisfied, there are low rumbling in the streets and banyas.
The Romanov dynasty lived in its closed golden glittering circle. Apparently Czarina Aleksandra Feodorovna was in the family way. The atmosphere of the Ermitage, is strained, tense, waiting. The heir to the crown would be desirable because of the continuity of the Romanov line would be secured.
All the Grand Duchesses, four of them, sometimes are taken in walks to Tsarskoye Selo Park, when the weather is beautiful, precisely surrounded by a Cossack guards, as Father described it in his latest letter. He had the opportunity to have accidentally seen them from afar. All in exact rows, with large veiled light hats, in glowing greenery. Pushkin's lyrics glow and the air is full of mysterious feeling, just like in Evgenij Onegin of Tchaikovsky. Father wrote that letter with a dark and a flowing script of blue indigo ink. The envelope was filled with delicate cyrillic and international postage stamps.
The moon rose to high heavens, and I beheld the stars; they seemed to flash to me, of some secret promise, or of a change that was to come soon..
A/N: As ever my most hearfelt thanks to all of you, following, reading, reviewing. Alinyaalehtia wanted some more early queerhistory so here it is. Liane mentioned is Liane de Pougy, a infamous courtesan of the turn of the century fame, who did have liasons with everyone, and did write that expose of roman a clef, in the early 1900s. Eva is Eva Palmer, and the surviving pictures of her are really quite something. The language used by Nathalie for certain expressions in here are in keeping with the era, though it may sound to the ears of postmodern readers, prejudiced and hostile. As for the Finnish women painters, this is small, homage and gentle nod to the sisterhood of working artists, in the golden age of Finnish Art, period from 1880-1910s.