What do you see, on the wall, dimly alive,
At that hour when the sunset eats the sky?

A seagull, on a blue cloth of waters,
Or perhaps it's those Florentine gardens?

Akhmatova.

Outside, it was snowing, it was snowing, the streets of St. Petersburg, the canals, fine snow cover, the architectural lines of the city, the beauty of the structure emerged in a new way, the time of Lent, silenced the city. The moon glowed, and snowflakes swirled from the sky, according to their own silent dance. Somewhere the door slammed, and the cat slipped in, or out. On one street, a light came on in an apartment, the house was Moorish style. The next morning, when I opened the door, there was a basket in front of it with roses, pink ones. I glanced at the message. There was following lines with beautiful, clear italics:

" I'm back. Florence, Rome and Paris are in place and glowingly wonderful, even in wintertime, come visit when you´ll have time, maybe after Lent?

Г.

I was suddenly extremely excited to hear the news of Europe. There might even have greetings and packages from acquaintances and mutual friends, if I guessed correctly. Fortunately, the mistress of that salong was such that I usually never had to talk much, my presence alone seemed enough, for her, as it was enough for Nathalie, even though the two women were completely different, they still had something the same, a certain steadfastness and serenity, even in difficult situations.

So when the month had turned. I was in a familiar salong again, and Zinaida Nikolaevna was in front of me, sitting with her legs crossed, ankles outstretched, handicraft in one hand, beautiful embroidery with silk-thread on the edges, clear lines glowing in the rays of the winter sun. We drank tea and we exchanged news, I asked about Europe and impressions and some common acquaintances, and whether travelling in the winter is boring and frustrating, it apparently was.

The winter sun cast its shadows on the walls, in another room D.M wrote vehemently, something new, and Zlobin rumbled in the kitchen, bringing new tea and cake, to us at regular intervals. The winter light reddened, reinforcing the pale features of Zinaida Nikolaevna, and sparkled in the crystalvase filled with fruit.

And in a few short words, I described the current situation. Zinaida Nikolaevna looked at me for a long time, earnestly, and stood up, fluttered to me, and embraced me for a long time. The scent of rose water surrounded me, and all the tears I had held back for the last few weeks, they came. It felt like I couldn't stop the tears at all, but in the end, hours, or just a few minutes later, I stopped, or they stopped.

I had vaguely felt a slender hand stroking my hair and back, but I hadn't paid any attention to it. Eventually I got up, from my slumped posture, and I said in a trembling voice, to her "you will probably realize that I am not going to visit here again for forseeable future, because I want to be home, I am needed there."

Zinaida Nikolaevna nodded, and said slowly"I really have packages, for both of you, wait a bit so I get them, then you can go home, and remember that you can, always come here, day or night, if the need arises, you both, because here is more space."

Zinaida Nikolaevna soon returned, carrying a small wicker basket full of various packages and several letters. I smiled gratefully at her and I looked at the packages in front of me, recognizing all the handwriting in them. I said to her, " oh, I almost forgot if you happen to have Mihail Kuzmin's latest work, it's reportedly been published, but I haven't had time to look it up in bookstores, if you have it, can I get a copy of it. I thought of giving the book as a Christmas present to an acquaintance abroad." Zinaida Nikolaevna, looked at me, diagonally, and laughed gently."It is a good that you asked, I bought several copies of it almost immediately after the publication, and good that I did, the content is dynamite. I wish you acquaintance experiential moments with the book, the style is very good, poetic and flowing and realistic too in a platonic way."

Zinaida Nikolaevna got up, from the divan, and dug a folded square fabric from her basket, that was placed in a near chair. It was an all-embroidered scarf, floral motifs, roses, thorns, the handicraft was extremely precise, and detailed. She smiled and held out her hand, towards me, and said, softly, "I thought this might suit Virginie, you told me that she is darkhaired, and often uses lilac, these flowers blend well with different shades of lilac."

Without a word, I held out my hand to receive this surprising gift, and again I felt the tears begin to come fore. We smiled to each other and I and got up and left the salon, its warm, pink glow and comfort.

In the strong and snowy wind, I walked quickly from Liteniy to Mohovaya, towards our home and waiting Virginie. A woven basket in my arm, full of packages, and a green-bound harcover, with a stylized name in the front cover Крылья.

At home, Virginie rested, she was refreshed and perked up, when I returned home, and she noticed the packages. We opened them and read the letters, and enjoyed the warmath of friends, and the strong feeling of the family we had made, and chosen for ourselfs, that did not need geographical boundaries.

Renee had indeed sent me a package with plans to arrange her poems, and also notes, she suggested Virginie would try composing for the poems, if she had the strength. After reading the letter, I looked at her questioningly, she quickly read the letter and glanced at the poems, and told me, softly "I have to think, it would be delight, if I could leave on the earth even something of my own before."Determinedly I snuggled into her, toying with her hair, and feeling her pulse under my fingers, gentle, flowing, but there, still as I glanced and skimmed at Kuzmin's novel. It seemed at the surface at least be the usual travelogue, to be centered in Italy around 1897, or so, and was full of delicate monologues, in Platonic and Greek style, with a strong influence of antiquity in it, and there was sections that were situated in Russia as well the contryside of Volga featured at some length. The style was clear and the sentence structure beautiful. So I was glad to write a short letter to Walter, and another slightly longer one to Anne, but first I slipped the first letter to Walter in between the pages of the novel. I decided to mail the packet, and letter in the first opportunity, they could even arrive in Canada in time for Christmas, I hoped Walter would be glad I that had fulfilled his previous wish.

With a light smile, I blew out the candles, in the apartment, and climbed next to Virginie, she was warm and present, slender, and sleepy, and she said, in a drowsy tone, "darling wouldn't it be wonderful if we had a kitten waiting for us, at here?" I laughed lightly, the sound rang in a quiet apartment, like small bells, and I whispered, if you want a kitten then we'll get it."

A/N:

Many thanks to all the readers, and reviews, as ever! I am surprised and happy that Elizabeth's journey towards Tomorrow is of interest!

Крылья (Wings) is a first novel of Mihail Kuzmin, the work was published hardcover in 1906 to a consternation of a conservative literary establishment.