For the first time, in the Strauss waltz
We discerned your quiet, haunting calling.
Now, we're strangers to the living souls,
And we find the racing clocks consoling.
Just like you, we hail the setting sun,
Get intoxicated with the nearing end.
We are rich with all that you have done
And instilled into our hearts again.
-Tsvetaeva.
It was now autumn. Bright, cloudy days and stormy gray ones, following one another. One day we packed our bags and headed for Moscow. I had heard a rumor at the Conservatory that there would be performance of Tchaikovskys Орлеанская дева, The Maid of Orleans, would be performed somewhere in Moscow, for the first time, since that Mariinsky premiere in 1881. So we jumped on the train, and after day or so we had arrived in Moscow. In the morning mists, the large massive squares, and streets seemed almost to glow with the spirit of Kievan Rus, and the ghosts of Tolstoy's heroes, and heroines. The vast Kreml, was very, impressive, in all its glory. St Petersburg seemed almost too European compared to this quiet mystical and massive city.
It soon turned out that this production of Tchaikovsky would be performed at the Zimini Opera, the troupe and the house were founded in 1903, and there were quite famous productions, and premieres such as Puccini, Rimsky-Korsakov, and guest performers, such as, Lina Cavalieri, had been performed in that space. Reportedly several sets and costumes were made by Ivan Bilibi and Viktor Vasnetsov, they who had developed the Russian neo-romantic and revival style.
I was extremely excited about this because I especially loved the work and style of the Передви́жники(The Vanderers, or Itirenants)group, there were other gems in Russian Arts, of course, but their work appealed to me in particular. Virginie loved Surikov and also Repin. I found it amusing that our art taste was similar too, but luckily we hadn't started wearing the same shades of dresses yet, at least at the same time.
When we were in Moscow Virginie wanted to go greet one of her music teachers, and when she told me the address, on the train, I almost laughed myself to tears, by chance the address was the same one Renee had sent me three years earlier. So very soon we arrived at Tryokhprudnyi pereulok and in front of us was a handsome, well-groomed-looking house. We climbed the small stairs and, raised gifts to a better position, flowers, white roses, and the box of chocolates, before we knocked on the heavy door. It took a long moment before it opened. A short man stood in the doorway, he had plenty of mustache, handsome clothes that were a little dusty, glasses, and an exhausted, busy look. He looked at us for a long time and then finally said:
"Mademoiselles, if you come to offer condolences, you are late, she died in July and is already buried, and the mass has already held, our daughters are in the gymnasium, or well Asya is, Marina is here somewhere, writing, can I help you?"
I looked at Virginie, she had turned pale like roses in her arms, and whispered softly:
"Is Maria Meyn dead? She was the best teacher I had, not even in Paris there was anyone like her and I would have come to thank her for everything she did for me. She will certainly rest now in eternal peace, where all the music of the universe is."The man nodded, hearing Virginies words, and said, musingly, well, " Maria always said that if she had at least a few really good students, it might help a little, that not her daughter.. Well, it doesn't matter. Delightful, really, do you want to come in and look around? Her room is downstairs, another room on the right."
So we stepped in to that house with its courious unlived in feeling, and just as we took off our hats, the footsteps sounded on stair, and a young girl, fifteen or so, slid on the carpet, right before us. She was slender, and blond, her face were not beautiful, but it was interesting. Her eyes were large and green, and she had a strong presence about her, that was commanding, powerful, fiery, and challenging. The hands were full of ink spots, and the fingers were hardened, just like a piano students, would. She looked at us quickly, overly, and burningly with appreciation, and said in a dark voice: "Mother's metronome stopped again, and I have to go buy more paper,"so saying she shrugged and turned around, the collar of her dark dress was wrinkled, and the blue ribbons were badly tied and left the house. The man said to us ironic inflection "So Mademoiselles, that was my eldest daughter Marina Ivanovna, she is trouble, I must probably send her to Dresden or Paris, as she has already been suspended from three different gymnasiums. Maybe she would level up a bit abroad."
We politely refused tea, and left a bouquet of roses and chocolates in a beautiful room with a gorgeous grand piano, dark red velvet curtains, two small statues of Beethoven and Mozart, and a stack of different notes, and a metronome. The atmosphere in the room was something remarkable, like strong iron self-discipline, refusal, severe depression, and dissatisfaction. There was a small picture on the bookshelf, in it was a graceful slim blonde woman, in half profile, playing the piano. The woman had a serious sad look. Virginie nodded toward the picture and said in a whisper, "that is young Maria Meyn, she was an extremely talented pianist. I always felt like she was never very happy."When Virginie was curtsiying to the photo, and detaching one of the roses from the bouquet, leaving it in a diagonal line in front of the picture, I thought about the girl with her fingers in ink, and pondered that if the stars were favorable, we might meet each other one day, as there was something really fascinating about her.
In silence, we walked the streets of Moscow, and in the evening the sky shone like a green opal. We passed a small orthodox church, and entered it. The evening service was about to begin, and we slipped into harmonious unity, covering our heads with soft scarfs. At the end of the service, we lit candles, everywhere they were gleaming, gold, icons, and the scent of the insence hovered in the air, clinging to the clothes and in our hair. The sense sense of deep peace, always landed in my soul after attending service and it calmed my anxiety, for I had suspected for a time now, that Virginies state of health was in a downward spiral. That pallor, that had come to her face after hearing the news had not yet faded, and her hand felt burning hot and dry. Quietly, and calmly, we followed the rest of muscovites out the door, in single line, into the dark starry evening of Moscow, and I paid for a carriage ride to our place of residence, near Patriarshiye prudy. Next evening we were going to see Tchaikovsky, it had been an actual thriller, the effort of getting the tickets, but it was done, luckily.
Just before eight o'clock the we were standing in our silk finery, I was in pink and Virginie lilac, roses, lilies, and pansies, in our mutual, crown of braids, silky gloves in our hands in the lobby of the Zimsky Opera House, looking with hazy eyes at the view that opened before us, and what a view it was.
A beautiful neoclassical building with a clear line, somewhat reminiscent of Mariinsky in size, but in a smaller scale. The color scale was light cream, purple, and dark night blue. The curtains of the stage, were embroidered with Romanov's double-headed eagle, of gold thread, and were dark burgundy in color. The balconies were lined with neoclassical edging gold-painted. The fresco in the domed ceiling depicted Greek muses, and the God of the Sun and Music, Apollo, and the flying Hermes, an olive leaf in his outstretched hand.
And soon the orchestra settled in, the curtains opened and Tchaikovsky's music began to echo in every part of the champagne warmed up in our glasses, as this four-act depiction of the Virgin of Orleans progressed. The music glowed in Tchaikovsky's styling of french opera. I felt tears rise deep from my soul as the mezzo that performed the role of Joan started the aria at the end of the first act,Да, Час Насталь Tchaikovsky's music glowed, fatally, powerfully, evocatively as Joan stated goodbye to her homeland, and went to accomplish her ultimate destiny. The orchestra's horns, violins, cellos, and flutes, created the perfect harmonious backdrop to the fervent request that was contained in the aria. The music was so beautiful, vivid and living, that in places it even surpassed Onegin's leitmotifs, a fact I myself had imagined almost impossible, but then this was the same composer. The ballet part of the second act, was overwhelmingly beautiful. As the musical and emotional roller coaster ride was past, and the opera ended, with wide and harsh applause and cheers to shouts, and to countless bouquets thrown on stage, and to the orchestra...
We rose, Virginie and I both utterly exhausted, with tears streaming down, in gentle rivulets, from our faces, and we walked towards the lobby and catering, the fruits, glasses of champange, and fresh strawberries. The atmosphere in the lobby was electric and charming, public opinion in the queues seemed to be overflowingly happy, and Tchaikovsky's genius and performers were widely praised. I was queuing for champagne and strawberries for Virginie and myself, I had left her to rest on a side bench little away from the worst crush of opera-lovers.
As I approached her I noticed that she was accompanied by a familiar looking girl on a bench next to her. They chatted in a low voice, together and the girl fluttered with her hands in the air, as her words needed effects, or exclamation marks. Virginie looked at me, smiling with a quick smile, and turned back to the girl, said to me over her shoulder,"we were visiting her home, earlier yesterday, and here we have talked about music and playing the piano, as well as a little traveling. Marina Ivanovna, here, is soon heading to either Dresden or Paris."The girl, Marina Ivanovna, turned and looked at me quickly, in the same evaluative style, as before, and said, powerfully, but softly to me: "If I understand correctly, from what your companion had said, you as well have lived in Paris for several years, maybe you can make recommendations. I love French and German, especially romantics are my great heroes."Without saying a word to Virginie, I held out her glass, and leaned against the wall, and looked at Marina Ivanovna in silence. There was still something magnetic about her, and I had a sense that over time she would become brilliant and burning, but in her attitude there was something that I didn't like, a certain kind of selfishness, and entitlement. So I smiled to her and in a mesured tone, said" surely Paris will reveal its own secrets over time, as the city and its various regions will do for anyone who has the patience to seek out and listen to the call of the muses."
After mentioning the muses, something glowing seemed rose to the features of Marina Ivanovna. She straightened up and said calmly that she agreed with me, with her whole heart, but unfortunately she would have to leave now, for there is something extremely important that she still has to do tonight, at the end of this speech, girl had got up and took fast steps out of our sight. I looked thoughtfully at the now empty bench, and I remembered the ink spots in the girl's hands that had been covered in dark gloves. Virginie touched my sleeve and said, softly"darling, let's go home, this evening, and the music have been wonderful, but it would be even more wonderful to be together alone in our own space, not a hotel room, or some rented apartement.."
So we bought train tickets back to St Petersburg, and left behind the glorious varied Moscow, the wonders of Zimini Opera, and intriguing, and irritating new acquaintance.
A/N:
Orleanskaja deva, the maid of Orleans (1881) is, in my opinion, one of the gems of composer's ouvre, and is performed relatively rarely. The title of Joan's aria can be translated as:"Yes it is time."
That girl with the inkspots grew into one of the most wonderful and experimentative poets of the 20th century, Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva is also one of the players in the queer scene of late Imperial Russia, she did wrote a wonderful, evocative and sad, piece about her relationship with her mother and music, called Мать и музыка, Mother and Music. It has one of the best descriptions of studying, or trying to classical music and piano that I have never read. It can probably be found in translation in some collection of Tsvetaeva's prose, it is heartly recommended.