You will think about her as about your first bride,
To the point of tears in your dreams.
We did not inhale her fragrance together,
And you did not bring her to me.

She was brought to me
By that winged ruler of gods and muses.

Akhmatova.

The monthly letters had arrived again, pile of them from everyone, from Paris, Nathalie, Renee, Katherine, and Colette too, and Canada. In addition to Anne's usual letter, I had recived a thick letter, the address was written in unknown hand, in clear cyrillic, but there was something little fumbling in it. So I put my current libretto – Vivaldi, Bajazet, on the table, and poured strong tea that simmered in a crystal teaglass, and sat down on the greenish Empire divan to read it.

My curiosity was fully piqued, as the letter had the same Canadian postmarks as the letter from Ingleside, but who other than Anne would write to me here?

I had no contact to the Fords, but I did know that their children, elder dark haired and smoothly clever, Ken and a few years younger golden Persis, had made friends with a certain, canadian-russian-girl, who had long sweeping rosegold hair, and small stature, she was graceful and did posess most remarkable voice, that was from Elsewhere, or so Annes letters of the schooldays of Persis Ford at Branksome Hall. As I had read that letter of Annes flowing cursive, I was sure that the girl would find her own way in life, but I had slight feeling in my soul that we, would be fated to meet some far off day.

The mystery letter was long, at least ten pages, all filled with precise flowing cursive-cyrillic, its tone was devoted and passionated. When I got to the end, a sudden smile illuminated my face, for the letter was signed with initials, W.C.B, son of Anne, young Walter to whom I had donated my own copy of Pushkins collected works few years ago.

Enthusiastically and glowingly, Walter wrote about how he had delved into the world of Onegin, and Pushkins all the other works in that volume, but especially the poetry touched deeply to his soul, and how he had gradually studied the language as well, but since he has little to do with anyone who could help him progress in his studies, he wanted to suggest correspondence and exchange impressions, and talk of the high beautiful things, that could be found in life, the gilttering city were the Neva flowed, and were Pushkin, too had roamed and died.

So moved to tears I wrote a heartfelt letter to young Walter in which I willingly answered all the questions and described both the swans of the summer garden, and the atmosphere of Tsarskoye Selo lyceum, the light of the Neva and the glory of the clouds in the sky, and the glow of the varied pastel palaces, but as well few words about the current affairs and hardwon reforms, too. I also wrote a little about my current studies at Conservatory and performances at Mariinsky, and closed the letter with heartfelt assurances and best wishes, for him. I added a postsricpt that I was always, just a letter away, if he had something to ponder about that he did not want to talk about to his siblings or parents as wonderful as they were.

I then decided to put together some literature and other things for Walter in a box, as money was no obstacle. So over the next few weeks, I searched for certain works, classics, and novelties some of them were also discussed in Ivanov's Tower and Zinaida Nikolaevnas Salon. In the box of Walters I included Zinaida Nikolaevnas volume of poems, and her play Svjataja krov (Holy Blood) because it had an incredibly fine interpretation of the Rusalka myth, Lermontov's collected works, and a few issues of Mir Iskusstva magazine, poems of Blok, and Tolstoys War and Peace as well as a grammar and verb guide, to help him further along, and cherry-chocolate, and a tin of russian dark tea. I had clipped out poem-series by Mihail Kuzmin, and secreted it away in the Tolstoy, it had greek-themes in it as I pondered it might be a good thing to have some variety, from the deep feelings of Tolstoys epic, and the varied paths of Lermontovs romanticisim and Zinaida Nikolaevnas lyrics of their darkness and faith.

Satisfied, I wrote a letter to Anne explaining that I took the liberty of sending Walter a little encouragement for his enthusiasm for Russian literature and wishing everyone peaceful times in Ingelside. I went and posted the box along with it the two sealed letters, it would arrive to Ingelside sooner or later.

Happily all my errands done, I went to walk, the summer evening was like a dream, as I passed the former palace of that assasinated Grand Duke – the building was light pink and so beautiful, it made my heart ache I stopped in front of it, and pondered the rumour that I had only just heard, it was said on the streets that Jelizaveta Feodorovna, elder sister to the Tsarina, and one of the most know beauties in Europe, had taken the veil and lived her life now in prayer. I shook my head and pondered the variety of life and destiny we all have before us, and also the vagaries of faith.

When I arrived at Mohovaya, I noticed that there was a stack of travel coffins in front of the door, suddenly my hands were sweating, and my pulse was rising, and then I heard light footsteps behind me, and cold slender fingers covered my eyes, and I could smell a familiar perfume, Virginie.

After that first emotional turmoil subsided, we sat on the bed, entangled in each other, and I thought I didn't want to part, anymore if it was in my power. Her trunks were neatly stacked and a briefcase with notes was leaning against the harpiscord. We enjoyed each other, in silence, the air smelled of strong tea, jam, honey and perfume. She shook her hair, and I carefully picked up the pins and that hair flowed down her back, a little curly. Virginie was same as before, maybe even more subtle if possible, her eyes were bright and slight flush on her skin.. Calmly we got up and, she wore a bright yellow silk kimono, against that intense color, her hair looked almost black, a faint happy smile brightened her face and straightening her posture she started playing. It occurred to me that Virginie could try to apply to the Conservatory, because her talent was something miraculous, or at least it felt like it. On the other hand, she had already been taught in Paris, as was I, but the idea should not be abandoned, I pondered.

So in next few weeks, we dined late and woke early and took walks in everywere hand in hand, with gloves and parasols. Summer flowed into deep, warm July. Virginie loved the swans in Summer Garden, and the atmosphere in Singer House, all the newness and the bustle of it. Sometimes our walk took us to a delicatessen run by Yeliseyevs, it was located along Nevsky. The building was completed around 1902-1903 in and it was now one of the gems of St. Petersburg's Art Nouveau-style. Virginie and I, we occasionally did our groceries there, mainly because the atmosphere of the shop was simply wonderful, and charming, and the statues and windows were magnificent, sometimes we stopped to look at the windows just for fun, there was always some exciting display in them.

Then one night, in late August, after arriving from Conservatory, I asked Virginie if she ever thought about continuing her own studies, and applying to the Conservatory? Her slender fingers stopped playing, in the middle of the tune, and she turned to me. She glanced at me quickly, lightly, evaluatively, my light summer dress, with gray ribbons, my walking shoes, with small heels, gloves, and hat with ribbons, and my braid that was messed up, and she sighed lightly. I was hanging my hat on the hanger when and she stated, quietly, with a remarkably inflexible and steely tone in her soft voice:"don't demand it from me, dearest. I'm happy with this training that I have from my years in lycee, with some private instruction, and from Paris. Of course it would be wonderful to be surrounded by music all the time, but it's just not possible for me, it's not related to my talent in any way, because I know that if I tried I would get in, but that is not my destiny. I am completely happy with you, here and I will fill these rooms, and all the spaces in our lives with music, as long as I can." I thought for a moment to persuade her, to change her mind, but I had already noticed that there was steel in Virginie, so I let it be. Instead I came to her, pressed a light kiss to her face, and made tea, for us. Soon Mozart echoed again, in our apartment, and everything was idyllic, or so I thought, then.

I had no idea what she was doing during the days when I was rehearsing, I imagined she was resting, reading books, and playing, but she might as well be greeting the swans in the summer garden, or buying new music, or wandering in the different bridges and canals. Sometimes the smell of fresh blinis flooded the hallway when I returned home after a long day, there were days when nothing seemed to go smoothly, in the Conservatory, those days Virginies presence was incredible comfort.

Soon letters dropped on our carpet again. Virginie had lifted letters to the small side table, and with a light smile on her face, as she waited for me to return so we could read them together, as was our usual habit. Anne wrote in her clear cursive of her deep enchantment, and sudden joy, for she had sent at Walters recommendation Zinaida Nikolaevnas play to the acquaintances of the Fords, and they had made a raw translation of it. Anne praised the spirit of the play, and both Rusalka's faith and sensitivity. At the same time, she somewhat rebuked me for being too wasteful, but she was really grateful for Walters sake, who was now slowly planning for Queens, and in his spare time eagerly read the contents of the box, especially Lermontov, Tolstoy, and those remarkable symbolist dark and spiritual poems that someone you knew dear Betty had written? Everyday life in Ingelside went on in its normal peaceful way, the garden glowed with the splendor of late summer color, the Rainbow Valley was like a little piece of Eden, where fairy bells echoed, and young people, her brood and the Merediths, argued and revelled in turns.

Katherine wrote in her sure and firm hand, that in Paris everything went according to the usual pattern. Renee was her own startling self, and wrote herself in a premature grave, as she planned some collaboration with Colette, and was also thinking of adapting some of her verses into music, the problem was finding the right composer, for Renee did not believe that any man would be able to find and tease out all the necessary tones in her poems, and deeply regretted that Tchaikovsky was already dead! And she wanted me to sing them! Katherine pondered, sweetly ironic tone, that most of Renee's future letters to me would contain nothing but plans and sketches, but she hoped that I would not mind, as I knew and loved Renee as she is. Nathalie's letter was calm and soothing, full of soft warmth, she sent a lot of greetings to Virginie and hoped that everything went harmoniously foward in our lives.

I had saved Walter's letter last, it was an inspired eruption, full of beautiful imagery and also in it was few copies of his own verses. They were really impressive, delicate and skillful syntax, and the themes were traditional, but the way they were handled was not. There was an incredibly skillful sonnet sketch that glowed with something alive, symbolist, and sparkling, the young author's own voice was sure and solid, without the slightest bit of imitation. The letter ended with a request, that I would send to him all of Kuzmin's future work, even prose, that would come before me, for he felt that they specifically addressed him, in some delicate and deep way. I pondered for a moment what was in that clip of Kuzmins that I had slipped between Tolstoy, something classic and alexandrin whose ryhme scheme was functional and beautiful, but if Walter wanted more of the author's works he would get it if it depended on me.

We went for an evening walk, into the soft moonlight, the rays reflected from the surface of Fontanka and the sky was very clear. I asked Virginie if she would like to join Zinaida Nikolaevna´s salon the day after tomorrow, the invitation applied to her too, as hostess, was very curious about her. Virginie looked at me in silence, the moonlight staining her face, and whispered that she would rather stay home, but I was of course free to go and have fun. I slipped my hand into her hand, and smiled, saying I would rather be with her than in a thousand different salons. So I wrote a polite note to Zinaida Nikolaevna apologizing for not getting to Dom Muruzi this time. Instead of reply Zinaida Nikolaevna sent us a large basket of pink roses, and champagne, as well as a card with a citation from her own love poem, and small note that said that she was going to Europe for some time, but we would soon meet again, when she would return to Dom Muruzi.

Delighted, I smiled, and with the lightest dance step I put the basket and card on the table. I began to hum Verdi's La Traviata, for I had decided to tackle Verdi as it was proving to be complicated, still humming I went in front of the harpiscord and dug up the notes and started playing Addio del Passato. Behind me I heard Virginies quiet sigh, and a small cough, a few clinks as the pins, from her hair dropped on the table. Soon she came behind me and the narrow, delicate hands touched my neck, and opened my braids, and she whispered," darling don't practice that aria, you can practice anything else, but, don't practice that in my hearing, and not here, not in our space." I nodded, and smiled to her, and switched Verdi to Puccini. The candles burned, low, and reflected through the mirror our figures distorted and trembling, two heads, light and dark, close together, soft lace curtains fluttering...

A/N:

Heartfelt thanks to everyone for reading and comments, as ever! Certain part of this is dedicated to wonderful Alinyaalehtia.

Gippius' play Svjataja krov, Holy Blood (1900) is a stunning interpretation of Pushkin's Rusalka, and of various Rusalka myths in general. Mihail Lermontov(1814-1841) ouvre is extremely popular, full of lyricism,exotic escapism, and adventure. Aleksandr Blok(1880-1921) is a modernist symbolist poet who, few years later, achieved cult status in various circles. Mir Isskustva(World of Art) magazine was a publication presenting various art and literary trends, it inspired a artistic movement, that was a major influence on the Russians who to revolutionized European art scene during the first decade of 20th century.