"Murmurer, musical, dans les veines des fleurs.
Le velours de la terre aux caresses muettes
T'enserre, et sur ton front pleurent les violettes."
Vivien.
When we returned from Canada in that tail end of August seemed to be accelerating fast. The past summer had been wonderful dreamlike Eden, but it was wonderful too, to return home in peace, and enjoy the hard work at the Mariinsky and Conservatory. I had recived several accolades from the management of Conservatory, and so I was hopeful, for my future, so gently another year flew past. During it I traveled to Caucasus and lived some time at Nakhchivan, where I enjoyed one hot and dry summer, and local cusine especially the Shirin plov, it was a kind of risotto with raisings and beef, fresh mint and few other things, was excellent, as were the local fruit called Goyja, it is a kind of blend between cherry and plum, was utterly wonderful. There then seemed to be always gentle breeze and the scent of heliotropes, and all the promenades, and parks were filled with flowers. I sat on a bench and read prose and poetry the palmtrees seemed to hum in the wind, Virginie was next to me, and she laughed her hair framing the red cheeks. There was endless and varied train journeys, the hustle and bustle of the Balkans and strong sweet tea and flowing honey. Returning to St. Petersburg always felt a little strange after these trips, but it was home.
The sharp cold november sun shone on the surface of the Neva wind seemed like it was screaming. I was on my way home from the Conservatory, the day had been long and heavy, the packages weighed my hands, it rained, all day, achingly cold sleet, the hem of my blue dress was wet and cold all the way to my knees. I hurried my steps and soon Nevsky was front of me, I walked its length swiftly and soon was at Liteniy, and in front of Dom Muruzi. I climbed the sweeping stairs and soon was on the first floor, and opened one narrow door.
The apartment in front of me was bright, and it consisted of three rooms and a large fireplace. Stylish light toned furniture, of late imperial style, very remnicent of Nathalies aparment at Rue Jacob, and I dropped the paper packages on a small beautiful side table, and put my jacket in the hanger. In front of me was a simple elegant, vase full of glowing white and dark orange roses, the first room had a graceful piano and sheet music, neatly in its own folders, large light double doors in the second room were open, and in there warm fire glowed, and a smoky grey cat was lounging near the fire, dreaming the evening away. The scent of brewed tea, a little ink, and the familiar well loved scent of certain perfume was lingering in the air.
On the green Empire divan was Virginie, wrapped in a woolen scarf surrounded by Zinaida Nikolaevna's embroidered scarf, she rested with her eyes closed, beside her was few folded handkerchiefs with bright red spots.
She heard my footsteps and raised her head, faintly and said, "darling, take the tea and warm up a little, I have news, there has come a word that" her voice broke mid sentence and I noticed tears fresh tears flooding down her cheeks. The chilling cold pierced my heart, and everything around me seemed to solidify, for an endless instant, but then I noticed that in her slim hand there was a crumpled letter.
So I took a deep breath, that went down to my toes, and made fresh tea, and changed my clothes, hung my wet dress to dry near the fireplace, and slipped on a dark red kimono and a woolen shawl that was dark purple, then I poured tea for both of us, in a small dark blue teapot, its sahde was mixed between deep midnight blue and pale soft virginal pale blue like a corner of Virgins cloak, there was slim gold-leaf decoration, formed in abstract leaf patterns. The pot was a Christmas present from Una, and Rosemary, and I put it on a small tray beside the crystal glasses, and sat down beside her, and put my hand upon her, and waited.
Instead of answering, Virginie corrected her posture and handed me the crumpled letter, the handwriting on it was familliar, ink was a strong dark vivid red, like blood and roses, it folded open, and my world shook in its foundations.
22.10.1909, Rue de Jacob, Paris.
She is gone, and now all the light in my life has disappeared. I found her the day before yesterday when Colette sent word that she hadn't seen a glimpse of her lately, so we broke down the door. She rested there, pale and so slender, with a bouquet of violets in her hand, and the whole apartment really resembled a mystical tomb, white lily flowers, and lilacs on the windowsill, but the manuscripts were all bound beautifully and the desk was neat, there were hardly any letters, except for a few, one for Katherine. When we opened the shutters the honey-toned light played on her hair, so it seemed quite alive for a moment, and just as she would wake up soon and smile at me and suggest some walk, visit to the Opera, or scandal, that we could plan to stir up Parisian social circles.
As you might guess, we're all here in shock, her death is a severe blow, it has wounded us deeply, she's being buried in Passy, and I plan that a poetry prize should be developed in her honor, maybe carrying her name.
Katherine just looks out the window, and do not sleep or eat at all, she, fingers the letter, I don't know what it says, because she hasn't said a word, to anyone, since, we came from Passy, she is completely numb, she won't even, cry, maybe her tears will come at some point, as mine have, and will continued to do so, for a long time, yet.
It was signed,
N.C.B.
I looked at Virginie and in deep silence and walked over to the piano, and struck my hand firmly on the keys, it created sound wave that was unreasonable cruel, I repeated movement many times, just as if I could force the contents of a crumpled letter to be wrong, it felt like my world had broken into jagged, hurtful, sharp pieces and nothing was as it had been before, nor it could be, for what a world can be like without Renee, her light, her mischief, and literary talent, while a little quiet the voice, sighed in my consciousness, part of this rage and grief is really a relief that the news was not about Virgine, for Renee has been flirting with death more or less all the time. I closed my eyes and remembered our last meeting, in Paris, after our joint performance, she came to me with a smile and we embraced, she was so slender, smelling of lavender, honey, and something sharply chemical, and had said lightly to me " now I can soon head towards new adventures, maybe some travelling to a far and distant land, for you have fulfilled one of my dreams, dear ones."
Virginie sighed, and suddenly a tearing cough shook her, like a fall wind and I noticed that there were new red stains on the handkerchief, she closed her eyes and breathed quietly for a moment and said, " darling will you give me that glass of tea" she smiled softly and said, " well now I have at least good company, when my own turn comes". I looked at her sharply, and I said, " I know you're tired, and that news are a shock, that kind of sarcasm is more her thing, or maybe I should say it was " was there anything different in the recent letters" I asked her?
Virginie shook her head and answered that she hadn't received a letter from Renee in a long time, the previous one was, when we had returned from Canada, that was year or so ago.
After a moment of silence, she continued, "I'm so happy now that I made those compositions, this way her some poems also get a musical background, Rosemary and Una sometimes play parts of my composition, to each other, I don't know if they perform poems too, probably not, because we didn't seem to leave copies of them at Ingelside."
I smiled at her, reassuringly and I said, " you are right we decided to copy only part of your composition, and no poemes, just for safetys sake, to avoid speeches, for remember what kind of rumours there was circling in the village, after our second Ingelside performance, when Ms. Cornelia, swarmed along the village, in a huff declaiming to everyone about scandalous, artist-women who corrupt honest children with dangerous new ideas and visions of life outside village life, or something like it, it had turned so bad that Rosemary tried to explain, but that did no good at all, and the last weeks were very quiet and still, with only nature walks, and no singing at all or any music."
With a sigh I got up and browsed the notes on offer and started playing. Virginie closed her eyes, listening as Gounod rang in the room and I sang first quietly then in a fiercer, dark shade O ma lyrie immortalle, the deep emotions the of aria perfectly matched my current state, in recressess of my mind was feeling of utter emptiness, it was beconing to me, gleaming darkly, as I my voice climber lower and lower scale, as lyrics spoke of making the final goodbye to the world.
When I had finished Virginie said, " I think Renee smiles at us, right now, she liked that aria so much, even though it's a little too low for your voice, but it was a great tribute, because I don't have the strength to play the piano right now." I came to sit next to her I took a silver brush from a nearby table, and began to comb her hair, it spread like dark seaweed and she gently fell asleep. I watched the flames, everything was still, the burning wood cracked in the fireplace and the shadows danced in the walls, softly and silently.
A/N: C. Gounod(1818-1893) " O ma lyrie immortalle" is from composers opera Sapho, first performed in 1851. The poeme of Vivien is called Épitaphe, it is from a collection called, Cendres et Poussières, 1902. Renee Vivien(1871-1909) or Pauline Mary Tarn died in Paris on the morning of 18 November 1909 at the age of 32 the cause of death was reported at the time as lung congestion, but likely resulted from pneumonia complicated by alcoholism, drug abuse, and anorexia nervosa. She was interred at Passy Cemetery in the same exclusive Parisian neighbourhood where she had lived.