How can you bear to view the Neva,
How can you bear to cross its bridges?..
No surprise I'm marked for sadness,
Since that vision of you appeared.
Sharp, the black angels' wings,
Soon, the judgement day;
And raspberry-coloured bonfires blossom
Like roses, in the snow.
Akhmatova.
I never forgot, even later the feeling that captured me when I saw the Mariinsky stage for the first time, from the wings. Everything glistened. High up large dome ceiling with its bluish cherub fresco, and glittering large chandelier. All that flair golden balconies throughout, the auditorium was shaped into a horseshoe-shaped arc for the best acoustics. Stage wide, warm wood, softly worn with age and footsteps, with an angle.
I closed my eyes and recalled the opera history that had been performed on this stage, all those wonderful productions, of Gilnka, Life for the Tsar, the different Tchaikovskys, the performances of the Italian Royal Opera, of Donizetti, Rossini, Bellini, Verdi, and those performers, Shaljapin, Serebryakov, Mravina, Slavina, Finger, and, of course, Kuznetsova, had all created magic and unforgettable performances on this same stage. If I invested time and effort and developed and took full advantage of the teaching and the challenges ahead, that could be also true for me.
The Imperial Mariinsky's ballet had stage rehearsals, I heard whispers when a small, dark-haired woman stepped on stage and made a basic position, she was dressed in the role of Esmeralda. That is Krzesinskaya I heard aroud, loudly, creeping, whisper, she was the tsar's former mistress, she dances in all the major roles, and has close relations with members of the Imperial family, several Grand Dukes almost eat from her hand and she has a magnificent houses one of them is at Strelka, where the wildest parties and evenings are held after some performaces. In the wings, I was surrounded by students from the Imperial Ballet School, all of them were dressed in white, their balletshoes tied over slender ankles in silken bows. One dancer in particular caught my attention, perhaps because she was a bit reminiscent of Virgine in her appearance, dark, slender, and dreamy, she seemed to hover across a sloping stage, an incredible presence, seemed to radiate from this girl. "That is Pavlova, someone said, she is very good, but not as good as some others here." Opera and Ballet had a tight schedule and competition for different stage rehearsal times so when I had stated my curiosity I left Mariinsky, and walked back home, to rehearse future productions, and to recap the basic principles of the mime, because unlike I imagined acting had been an integral part of the opera's new vision for some time, this guaranteed a better immersion in the demands of different roles.
So I delved heavily into Dargomyzhsky's opera the Stone Guest, the libretto was taken almost directly from Pushkin's play, from 1830, which is the basis of his Small Tragedies, so it's a variation of the legend of Don Juan. I enjoyed immensely focusing my energies on Mariinsky's own repertoire, which of course also included traditional italian opera. Now I got to practice Rimsky-Korsakov, for example to my hearts content!
However, not even in the midst of all the rush, I did not neglect my correspondence. I wrote to Virginie almost weekly, and I had sent alredy to Nathalie a large pile of letters describing my feelings and my fears about the challenges ahead. I had received a letter from Renee also, in it there was a few Moscow addresses, one of them located somewhere in Tryokhprudnyi pereulok, apparently there was some musicans there, or something, and it closed with heartfelt wishes for future fun that I would surely come across.
I wandered endlessly through the streets of St Petersburg, like I had done in Paris, and pondered my future in this big city, finally exhausted I arrived at Mohovaya. Katherine was reclining in bed, next to a tray of bread and a pot of hot tea, with jam. She seemed to be engrossed reading a collection of essays by someone named Anton Krainy, suddenly Katherine popped up to sit straight and exclaimed to me saying: " incredibly stunning, and inspiring thoughts, and what precision, and perception. The writers opinions on art, prose, lyricism, decadence and love are excellent, a little too much shades of spirituality, but endlessy fascinating. Do you think Renee knows this Krainy, because I really want to talk to him, or her as this could be pseudonym as well.. On the table is a post, another letter from your father, and a letters from Tver, of course from Virgnie, and some pink letter smelling like rosewater, from whom is it?"
I had written a certain letter a couple of days earlier following Renee's advice, and here was the answer. I weighed the thin, fragrant letter in my hand, and took a deep breath and opened it. It was an invitation, written in the most beautiful italic, an invitation to come to Dom Muruzi, early in the evening next day, and take Katherine with me, as a Canadian world traveler sounded very exotic indeed, it was signed in only one letter, a curvy italic Г.
So the next night, just before six o'clock, I walked with Katherine to Liteniy and soon in front of us opened the beautiful and magnificent facade of Dom Muruzi, that elegant Moorish-style house. The frescoes painted on the in the interiorwalls immediately captured soul, and imagination as we walked to the third floor and knocked on the door, in it there was a graceful knocer, all flowing lines. I fingered my new amber beads, waiting for the door to open. I had dressed in the same soft, delicate pink silk dress I had performed in at Nathalies, and I had twined my hair on a heavy braid, a slightly simpler version of the Sisi style I usually prefer, without flowers. Katherine was in her yellow silk, challenging, and shimmering, without gloves.
The door was opened by a small and graceful man, he seemed like a kind of secretary, he looked at us, quickly and nodded that we follow him inside. The opening apartment resembled several Parisian apartments, high rooms, light slender windows, furniture of a certain style and walls walled with bookcases, divans, chairs, and vases, full of light pink roses, the little man, our guide said in a whispered soft, slightly creaking voice, in french, that they had just moved here, this apartment had six rooms, from the same building, fortunately the move went well, and everything began to be fine again. Zina so hated the clutter, and noise, and then in a lower voice, even quieter, except when allowed to develop it herself..
Suddenly, inside the apartment, a little hoarse, but calm voice is heard it inquires in a pure classical french following words: "Volodya stop creeping along the walls, and tell me if the Canadians have arrived, they have greetings from our beloved Renee! Bring them here, immédiatement ! The little man, Volodya was startled and instructed us to follow him more quickly. We soon arrived at a room that was clearly the spiritual center of the entire apartment.
The candels glowed in a room that was white in color, except for furniture that was Empire style and covered with pink silk, a hand rose from a divan, and I knew right away that the owner of the hand had spoken to our guide and also written an invitation tonight. The fingers were slender, litte stained with ink, bare, and small, and held a cigarette with perfumed smoke hovering in the room, a light mist. The woman was tall and slender, she was wearing a pure white high-necked very narrow dress with long hem, a slender medallion in a long silver chain around her neck, thick long red hair assembled into an intricate hairstyle that was not entirely in keeping with the latest fashion. The face was pale, and mangnetic, on her forehead there was a small glittering gemstone in gold chain twined in her hair, the nose narrow and high, the eyes large and vivid green, the mouth wide and slightly reddened, her feet were bare. She had an incredible presence that didn't seem to be completely out of this world.
Ah, I thought to myself more of Renee's red-haired mysterious women, were all her contacs redheads I pondered.. I had not noticed at all that there were others in the room, until Katherine poked at me, and hissed in sotto-voice" Lizzie do not be rude, and aknowledge the rest of the room."So I did, with curtsies.
In sofas and chairs around that exquisitie room there was sitting a motley cavalcade of persons. A small-sized man, pale and bearded, who looked so neat that the dust would surely not dare to land on him, and another dark man with strong features, a high forehead, mustache, and a hard collar, there was also a third man, a slender handsome one, with very large blue-grey eyes, and two slender women resembling slightly redhaired woman dressed in white, who was reclining on a divan. She smiled at us, reached out small hands, and said:
" Be at home, and welcome to Dom Muruzi, to the salong of the Merezhkovskys, we will soon discuss topics of interest, and then I will recite my poems, and if either of you can perform so please do we love music!" The evening went on comfortably, the conversations were heated, of current literary trends, religion, of art and music, written and unforgettable, opposing opinions, rhetoric and arguments spun around like arrows. The atmosphere in the salong was a little like at Nathalies, but not quite similar. During the evening I found out that the other participants were the poet, and our guide Vladimir Zlobin, Dimitri Merezkovsky, the author of historical novels, among other things, D. , another critic, philosopher, theorist, author, who wrote in some important journal, or other, the celebrated poet Aleksandr Blok, as well as the hostess's sisters, art students, Tatjana and Natalia.
Katherine almost dropped out of her chair when she found out that our mistress of the evening, Zinaida Nikolaevna was Anton Krainyi, so, of course, the most heated discussion began. Katherine glowed like a daffodil or a sunflower, as she presented her arguments, and Zinaida Nikolaevna, just sat, listened calmly like a marble statue, wearing flesh, and at times threw such a sharp comment that it completely confused and ripped apart Katherine's arguments.
I always felt the piercing green gaze of hers on my face from time to time, and suddenly I heard a whisper at my ear," she is called the spider of symbolism and decadence, be careful not to get caught in her webs, for they are varied and ever evolving." Flustered I made my excuses and got up and walked calmly around in the apartment, leaving Renee's package on the delicate empire table with the same sophisticated calligraphy as the letter, everything, in that room there was different shades of pink, even the light. There were papers, sketches, notes, a piles of it and those bookshelves, full of varied works and vases full of pink and red roses.
Suddenly I heard light footsteps behind me and felt the delicate scent of rose water, I heard the soft hypnotic voice of Zinaida Nikolaevna say: " I had just read Renee's beloved letter, praising your singing voice, and she had included her new poems as well as her sapho translations, marvelous"! So very soon after Zinaida Nikolaevnas small talk to me, in her private rooms, all the other guests of the salon gathered in front of me and, accompanied by Katherine, I performed to them, after a little thought, some italian opera, Donizetti, and his condemned, poor Lucia, Regnava nel silenzio from the first act of that particular opera. My voice sparkled bright, trills secure, the italian pronunciation clear, and I tried to achieve something of that gothic storm of emotion in the midst of which Lucia lived and breathed, but I was aware in my
consciousness that Donizetti might be the one of the composers who didn't fit my growing style, even though I gave everything to the composer's music. When I had finished, the salon was quiet only Zinaida Nikolaevna rose water smelled, and then slowly D.M. said: " Hmm, pretty gothic, but the spirit was right, yes there must be something in her, because the short scene glowed completely separate, and in general I hate Donizetti, but I completely forgot my deep-seated aversion. What do thee think Z.N?" Zinaida Nikolaevna who had done embroidery, stopped it, a silver needle gleamed amid deep red roses, and with a slight smile she stressed to everyone: " That was one of the most impressive performances, since Maria Kuznetsova, who just did her debyt at Mariinsky in the role of Tatjana, in Onegin, that we saw few weeks back, so well done, Renees letter did not exaggerate when describing you, you are really just as lovely like she wrote, I am very glad that you are wearing pink. It is one of my colors, and I have in the closet at least about forty dresses, in that color, silk of course, but today I had feeling that I did not want to wear it, so I did chose this, very becoming is it not?"
I nodded to her, and praised in a quiet voice the whole atmosphere of the apartment, and especially the roses, for I had not seen such beautiful varieties, the flowers seemed quite glowing, in this soft and light pink environment, since I left Paris. I thought to myself that if there were really six rooms in the apartment, what kind of personality dominated the others, as I hadn't walked through the entire property. Soon after my performance, some of the guests left, but Zlobin stayed, I as I had found out that Zlobin lived with D.M, and Z.N. Zinaida Nikolaevna smiled at us and stood up, she walked flowing gait, in the middle of the room and uttered the following verses in a slightly hoarse voice:
Oh, do not trust the nighttime hour!
It is filled with evil beauty.
In the nighttime people are close to death,
And flowers alone are strangely alive.
Dark and warm are the quiet walls,
And the hearth is long without fire…
And from the flowers I await betrayals,
For the flowers hate me.
She is one of the crowned queens of the symbolist style I thought as I listened to the flowing, resonantly dark verses about of flowers, that come to life at night and have dubious, queer intentions. I later, learned that she ruled people, looked for and struck their weaknesses, sensitively, sharply, psychologically, and that in her ouvre, in prose, poetry, plays, and criticisms, there really was something light, dark, airy, and supernatural, but there were storms ahead, the winds, they barely touched her, she was above it all flowing like a leaf in the wind. She had a strong need to attract attention, to astonish, in her there was a streak of certain type of exhibitionism, it seemed to hide some obscure secret from which all her peculiarity and silent suffering came.
We finally left the salon, and that beautiful apartment, with a eager, enlightened mind, the company had been the most pleasant, and some of the doors were really open for both of us, as Renee had predicted. The rising sun gilttered as we walked back to Mohovaya, and I thought, only if life would be always like this, full of wonderful new acquaintances, interesting conversations, and new challenges. At home there waiting for me was several scores and heaps of liberttos. We slept well into the afternoon, luckily I had no rehearsals, but still I played the harpiscord, and tired to learn and absorb as much as possible. Suddenly the door was knocked and Katherine opened it, I heard a distant murmurs, and soon Katherine came back inside. I was examining the libretto and notes of Rimsky-Korsakov's opera, Skazka o Tsare Saltane, when Katherine said in a very soft, controlled voice: " Elizabeth, you have a telegram that seems to be from Manchuria."
I nodded at her and held out my hand, carelessly, and for a moment I had no idea what I was reading in that light, smudged paper. I felt a painful, and tearing dizziness, and everything went black.
The paper fluttered to the floor, and Katherine read it, kneeling and cradeling in her arms still and pale form of Elizabeth.
It said: , killed, as a civil casualty in battle of Liaoyang.
The ongoing Russo-Japanese war had now claimed its first personal victim, Katherine pondered, Elizabeth was now an orphan, like Anne, and myself.
A/N:
The list of names that Elizabeth ponders are all famous Russian classically trained operatic singers; bass, tenor, sopranos. The dancers from Mariinsky are of course the celebrated ballet dancer, and infamous femme fatale Mathilde Maria Krzesinska(1872-1971), I am using on purpose Krzesinskas surname in its polish spelling, and upcoming jewel of Ballet Russes Anna Matvejevna Pavlova(1881-1931), Каменный гость(The Stone Guest) is the last and most famous opera of Russian composer Dargomyzhsky.
That mysterious Zinaida Nikolaevna is Gippius, she too was a bit infamous and controversial cultural figure in Russian scene, her salong was one of the various it-places of different cultural luminaries to gather, and she did rent apartment in Paris as well. Gippius ouvre is varied, political thinker, esseyist, poet, critic, playwright, novelist. She is one of the queer-icons of the 1900s scene, in her way, but that interpetation of her can be up to debate, but I have chosen to portray her as queer in this.
The poem of Gippius is called the Цветы ночи (Flowers of Night) it was written in 1894 and the two first verses of the poem in original here, as I put the translation in the text.
О, ночному часу не верьте!
Он исполнен злой красоты.
В этот час люди близки к смерти,
Только странно живы цветы.
Темны, теплы тихие стены,
И давно камин без огня...
И я жду от цветов измены, —
Ненавидят цветы меня