"In the garden strains of music,
Full of inexpressible sadness."

Akhmatova.

I found that Renee had left me a really thick letter with a series of poems, and a few instructions Soon I was totally immersed and plunged into the world of Renee's strong and expressive poetics and syntax, and the current reality around me seemed to vanish. Sometime in the afternoon I showed the letter and the chosen poems to Virginie, very soon after that, the parlor and the surroundings of the piano resembled some kind of battlefield, crumpled, papers, sheet music, tea glasses, pencils, had been sprinkled here and there. The contrast of the elegance of the rest of the house and that room was great, but Nathalie just glowed, saying that Virginie, or I could even sow her Persian carpet full of speckled ink blots and she would just go shopping a new one. Bright clear, flowing, trills, and high notes, different parts of Virginies composition, repetitions, different emphases, breaks, and negotiations, the search for the right tone and harmony. Sometimes Nathalie would call to us, to have some tea in the patio, and we would run to her, pink cheeked and laughing, and a litte smudged, and mutually mussed, with ink.

Now I was also able to experience of Virgines Paris, she had spent most of her time in Momartre, and in around Rue de Lafayette, and sometimes also in Bolugone sur Seine, and she had visited often in Saint Alexandre sur Nevsky Cathedral, the Russian Orthodox cathedral situated in Rue Daru in the 8th arrondissement, the place looked like a fairytale castle. We visited them all, and went for a walk in the Bois de Bolonge and had a picnic in Parc Monceau.Virginie glowed on those bright and sunny days, and nights at Nathalies, like a living taper of pure flame had been ignited in her.

So about a week or so, later, Nathalie's salon was full. It was so wonderful to see Colette, and Missy. All Nathalie's new acquaintances rushed into the salon and I chatted with them, writers, musicians, playwrights, and a few sosialites as well in the mix. People were touring, chatting, eating, and enjoying each other and all the things that were in the offering. The evocative and flowing mood, the warmth of Nathalie and her regard, that was extremely addictive, when her attention was drawn to different people, they all wanted to be close to her, a little like as the sun radiates her warmth, this magnetism and charisma was one of the reasons for the success and widespread popularity of her salons.

Then Renee rose to the center of the floor, candles illuminating her ravaged and delicate form, and she made sort speech. "As some of you here know, I have been working for several years on the idea of making some of my poems a series of compositions, now it has happened. The composition is Virginies and she is here from Russia, to perform it for us, soloist is Elizabeth Grayson of the Russian Imperial Conservatory, tonight, also here for the premiere."By mutual agreement, we Virginie and I were both wearing purple silk dresses, and had decorated our hair with music glowed, it sparkled, Virginies composition twined around Renee's poems like a gleaming starlight. One poem followed, another, the moods ranged from love, to despair, to submission, to contemplation, to midnight blue silences thousands of different and varied delicate moments, and everything in between.

" Voici la nuit : je vais ensevelir mes morts,
Mes songes, mes désirs, mes douleurs, mes remords,
Tout le passé… je vais ensevelir mes morts.

J'ensevelis, parmi les sombres violettes,
Tes yeux, tes mains, ton front et tes lèvres muettes,
Ô toi qui dors parmi les sombres violettes !"

My voice shone bright, clear, soft, caressingly warm and intimate as I brought series to a close. Virginies playing slowed, its inner harmony reflecting the lyrics, mirroring them, in a sudden and deeply felt way. It was completely quiet.

Then one by one, slowly but surely, like the tidal wave applause began to echo in the room. Nathalies eyes were in tears, as were several others I noticed. Katherine came before us with a bouquet of deep red, roses, as she passed Renee she turned, and almost offhand manner, dropping a purple bouquet in her arms, so that a letter was tied to it. Renee glanced at it quickly, and put the letter in her pocket, then detached one of the purple flowers from the bouquet and put it in her buttonhole. When I saw it, a great relief seemed to lift my whole body into the air for a moment.

Congratulations rained around us, Virgnie was praised, and Colette talked something to her, gesturing violently. I noticed, however, that her energy was starting to drop, so I slid next to Colette, and whispered to Virginie, "go to sleep, you did your part, marvelously well, tonight, further praise can wait until tomorrow." She then got up gracefully, and thanked everyone present, in her soft voice, and Renee in particular, for this wonderful opportunity and slipped like a shadow upstairs.

I noticed that Katherine and Renee were talking outside, quietly, and Nathalie glowed with happiness when she, too saw it in passing.

Almost too soon, or so it seemed the first rays of the dawn glistened in crystals of the parlour. I collapsed next to Virginie my last clear thought was that this time I wouldn't wake up alone, just a letter under the pillow, like last time, we did this, so I wrapped my arms carefully around Virginie, buried my face in her hair, braid was half open, as if she hadn't been able to finish it, and I slept.

When I woke, soft cream-light curtains shaded the room a little, there was a letter on the table, I read it, and I smiled happily as Mozart echoed from downstairs. Virginie was happy, she always played Mozart when she was in a particularly good mood.

The journey to Canada and to the Blythes would begin soon, but right now I was immensely enjoying the peace, privacy, and openness I have, that we have. There is no pessimistic or compassionate gazes from the passengers, no brazen suggestions, or speculation, just silent bright peace and brightness, and the enchantment of Paris and friends wrapped around me like a warm shawl.

In the parlor Nathalie wrote, large stack of completed letters next to her, fingers in ink. Virginie had switched to a different Mozart, and then Chopin. Katherine read book on the divan, a small smile on her lips I curled up behind her and glanced past what she was reading with such devotion, it seemed to be Dumas' collected works, full of gothic gloom and adventure, but entertaining way to fill time in this beautiful cloudy afternoon, that was full of creeping shadows and little rain. "Everything is well? I asked Katherine, and she smiled in a vague way, and stated calmly to me " you will soon find that nothing in life is simple, but everything will be corrected in its own time, I hope." Hearing Katherine's words, Virginie paused for a moment and she crossed herself with a quick, flowing motion, soon soothing music continued to create an oasis of calm around us, like drops of water against the windowpane.

Our time at 20 Rue Jacob was peaceful, comfortable and homely, with good food, wonderful company and a safe and homely atmosphere, flooded with light and acceptance. Endless nights together, in the flickering candlelight, Virginies warm body beside me, whose arches and contours, I touch lightly, caressingly, lightly flushed cheeks, the scent of champagne and roses, her mischievous smile, light variety of different silk scarves, and a ice bowl, gentle laughter, and mutual ecstasy, and companionship.

Then on a clear morning we stood, Virginie and I with our trunks and bags, on Le Gare du Nord, and then we were on the train, looking out the window of our compartment as the figures of Nathalie, Renee and Katherine were diminished, the handkerchiefs fluttering in the gentle wind were almost invisible to us, just scraps under gleaming deep blue sky. As our ship crossed the gleaming waves of the Atlantic, in front of us rose the form of Prince Edward Island, an island whose beautiful and romantic former name Abgeweit had long since changed in a more prosaic direction. The air was clear, and the salty wind itched my face as as I watched the island rise before my very eyes. It had been at least a decade, or more since my last time in Canada when Father picked me up from Summerside and I pondered that road towards Tomorrow had begun then, the same journey that I was still on. I was curious to face the fresh harmony of the famous Ingelside.

At the same time, I was strongly aware that Virginie and I would have to be careful, while there the memories of laughter, of thousand intimate gestures, and intimacies, trummed in my mind images of her in half shade, body draped in shadows, reclining in bed, or divan, hair flowing freely, eyes half open. So the time that we spent at Nathalies was even more precious than gold, in balance.

A/N:The French poem is by Renee Vivien,"Let the dead bury their dead," Cendres et poussières, 1902, Lemarre.