A last ray, yellow, heavy,
Sets on the dahlias' bright bouquet,
And I can hear violins playing,
A clavichord's rare display.
- Akhmatova
The weeks of our visit rolled by and the month had turned to warm July, the grain ripened in the fields and village children played, in harbor. Nan and Jerry took long walks, debating about everything possible under the sun, and sometimes beyond it, Reverends latest sermons had tried to be a synthesis between Presbyterianism and Orthodoxy, and were deeply philosopical in nature. Faith shone rosy and brilliant, rushing around the village with Rosemary's affairs, Una was taking care of little Bruce, sometimes and often in the evenings we played piano together, Carl was deep into his insects and we did not see him often.
Then one week Anne suggested that we would perform for selected guests at Ingelside. I discussed the matter with Virginie and agreed on a program that would burden her least. So in one beautiful, clear July evening, Leslie and Ms. Cornelia, Rosemary, and Una all gathered to Ingelside, evening was peaceful, filled with wonderful conversations, and tea and various delicate cakes as there had been Laidies Aid meeting, last night and there was surplus of offerings in the eats-department.
Annes children were at a dance at Hazel Levisons, with the Meredith siblings, they as a children of the Reverend could not dance, at least not in public. I pondered that a few of them still might dance together in the shady forest paths, or behind schoolhouse or some barn. Faith had left the Manse golden and gleaming, dressed not in deep rose, but rich red taffeta, that suited her very well, Jem seemed smitten, the twins Di in green and Nan in gold, glowing with freshness of youth. Shirley and Rilla were deemed to be too young for the dance, so they were at Ingelside, or should be, but Shirley had gone to fishing with Carl and Rilla had went with Miranda Pryor, to make some lace in Rainbow Valley with succulent piknik, in the courtesy of Susan.
We had chosen our clothes carefully, Virginie was in purple, and I was in my favorite dress, in that pale petal pink silk, we had tied our hair simply, with silk ribbons, I had purple and Virginia had pink, and looking at us Anne said softly, " oh I wish so that I could wear pink, as the two of you both looked like a souls of flowers, all fresh and sweet."
The golden light of the evening played with the noses of Gog and Magog as I stood in front of the piano. Virginie smiled at me, quietly a pure and heartfelt smile that reflected pure happiness as her well-being was better, rest and fresh country air had helped, so I wanted to believe, or it was the simple precense of people that loved music as much as she did, of Una and Rosemary, and their calm, steady companionship.
I calmly addressed the audience in front of me, " as Anne has told you, by now I am studying classical singing at the Mariinsky Imperial Conservatory in St. Petersburg, Russia, and since here is one who has been to many countries, I want to honor one of my favorite composers and perform a aria, that is very important to me personally."
I walked into the middle of the room as Virginie started playing, soft, delicate silk tones, I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and began to sing, as Puccini's heartbreakingly beautiful melody it glowed in the room, my high tones were tender, soft, precise, and flexible, at that moment I was Cio-Cio San, the Buttefly, full longing, love, suffering and hope as that high trillingly sad, and wistful, final evocative and lingering note of the end, of the aria faded softly into stillness.
I noticed that eyes of all listeners were full of tears, then Leslie sood up, and came to me, her arms twined softly around me as she wishpered, "thank you my love, sining that aria, you stopped time for a while and I was in Japan again." She then gently, fleetingly kissed my cheek, in passing, and walked back, to Anne.
Ms. Cornelia wiped her tears and said bluntly, " I don't know what you just sang, girl, but if it makes Leslie shine, like that, I am grateful and happy".
Virginie started to play, the soft-flowing Rimsky-Korsakov flooded under her fingers, gently and sweepinly, and then Chopin full of tempest of emotion, as the song were drawing to a close, as she started another familiar melody, it was haunting and darkly sweet, so with a smile I came again the centre of the room and said, "next song is the last one, is made to a poem of our dear friend Renee, who is a poet, and the composition is Virginies own."
Elle est venue avec ses cheveux et sa robe,
Sa robe de beau pourpre et ses beaux cheveux d'or !
Et mon âme aussitôt a pris un prompt essor
Dans l'ivresse du cher instant que l'on dérobe !..
Mon cœur lourd est léger comme une bulle d'or,
Puisque je la revois près de moi revenue !
Et comme en un miracle, apparue, advenue,
Une aile de chimère a repris son essor !
The caressingly creamy shade of my voice intertwined softly around Renee's verses, and I noticed that Anne glanced as if unbidden toward Leslie, full of wordless affection. As Renee's poem was the last performance of the evening, we smiled happily, to the raucous applause.
Ms Cornelia, said with a pointed tone to everyone " hmm, of course it had to be french, and so artistic, at that, well I thank you for this evening dears, I have to go now and put the dinner to shimmer, though I guess that Mary Vance has done it alredy." Ms Cornelia left Ingelside in busy steps after nodding to Anne and Leslie, and us, with a frown between her brows, and muttered softly in the evening walk towards her home to herself: "women musicans, unmarried those two, or are there fiancees somewhere as there are rings in the fingers, but no mention at beaus. These artistic foreing songs, of all things in Gods green earth, what this world is coming to. The girls seem sweet, but it's good that they're leaving this village soon, they have
false influences, they're not even presbyterians, they're both weird. They've had a strage effect on Reverend and Rosemary and Una, she's not been so into the music before, though under Rosemary's influence, the piano is reportedly playing there almost non-stop now, or at least that's what Mary Vance says."
I noticed that Rosemary approached Virginie, and in softly groomed french asked if she could copy the notes for that song, for the composition was incredibly beautiful, and complex, and she would like to learn it for herself as would Una too. Virginie, glanced quickly at Rosemary's dark blue eyes, they were reminiscent of a violets, and she smiled, and took a piece of sheet music, and in a few moments had copied the necessary notes, in delicate and careful hand in sheet music that she handed to Rosemary, complete with dates, and her signature. I heard that Virginie promised to write Una too her own copy of the same notes, as they talked togeher in one of the ingelnooks of Ingelside.
Sometime later I observed Walter and Una were walking together under gentle shimmering moonlight, as they did not go to the dance, with their siblings. I smiled myself as one mystery was solved, as Walter was the family friend she had spoken of, in our first meeting. I watched them, two dark heads together and pondered that what if, but no Walters manner was the same with everyone, kind, gentle, and devoted, with none of the burning passion of his elder brother, showed towards everyone, but particulary to Faith. There was also a creeping sense of imminent separation in the air. Leslie was planning to go back to Toronto, and we too, would soon to be beginning to preparing for a departure, but there was still time, yet.
The evening was stingingly beautiful, full of the soft scent of flowers, combined with the salty whisper of the sea. Idyllic, lush, and almost unreal, that the Glen existed in this day and age, and not some mirage of Eden, of all the nature in it. It seemed trite to compare Canadian village to a Eden, but in that night that is how I felt it, with Virginie beside me, as we observed the stars, and heard the gleaming laughter of Annes children from the road, echoing in still evening air.
A/N: The Puccini is "Un bel di vendremo" from Madama Butterfly(1904) the poeme of Renee Vivien is " L'aile brisée" (Broken wing) from a collection calledDans un coin de violettes(In the corner of Violets).