" Sounding the dark depths of memory,
I find a St. Petersburg night, fluid and shimmery,
A theatre box's velvet-hung gloom
Haunted by smells that are chokingly warm."

Akhmatova.

It was spring of 1911.

My class was preparing for the graduation show with a loud commotion, everyone´s nerves were tense as Glazanov marched around grumpy like a cat, the flanks of his coat fluttering, as he crossed their path some of my class fainted from the pressure. There was so much to choose from countless options, something new or old and sure, the choices of arias was to be protected like state secrets, the recepit of perfect happiness, or liquid luck. Crying echoed in the hallways as few nervous sopranos burst into tears because the music was more depressing than mezzos selections. The alternatives between sacrificing love and roles like Pamina, Vitellia, Tatjana, Rusalka, Micalea, Elena, Semiramide, Countess, Fiordiligi, Violetta, Amina, and madness, Lucia, Elvira or death, Manon, Tosca, Mimi, Aida, Norma, Butterfly was not easy at all. In contrast mezzos walked confidently elegant in the halls, with perhaps a little quirky mien all the various possible Carmen´s Cherubinos, Dorabellas, Sestos, Charlottes, Saphos, Marguerite´s, Delila´s Adaglisas, Amneris, Rosinas, Angelina´s and Princess Ebolis, Didos, or Santuzzas. Everyone were running with thick librettos in their hands, dodging each other, in the sweeping gilt hallways.

In the last year or so, in the Conservatory I had put in work with mindless and all compassing determination, and learned new parts, been also polishing my acting, and mime skills. Then, it seems that the past years have flown so fast, the day, the day that I have been dreaming for so long, comes when I stand in the middle of the splendor of Mariinsky, in the wings of the stage, there is sawdust, powder, face-paints, tired members of the Corps de ballet leaning against the walls, glittering costumes, the scent of perfumes and flowers, hair oil, beeswax, champagne, and piles of caviar, as well as other delicacies waiting, in the finest restaurants, and maybe a contract if all goes well. Everything around me glows as I prepared to sing, to the audience.

My head is completely empty, blood is throbbing in my veins, fast, and, fierce and for a moment I feel like I can't breathe. I hear Glazanov's voice sounding calm confident as he introduces me, and then the Mariinsky orchestra takes a high A, and there is no more time. I step onto a stage where legends have lived and glowed, into the blinding lights, and finally I stand in the stage of Mariinsky in my pale shell pink silk dress, hair decorated with pearls, blue anemones, and violets. My voice rising, bright, incredibly clear, the feeling in it vibrating as Puccini's shimmering melodies glow in the hall, amid all the imperial splendor and decadence.

The Mi chiamano Mimi, from La Boheme rises, coloratura trills, glimmering, steady, sharp and sure, twisting like shrads of ice; all emotions from the poor dreaming seampstress dreaming of spring and flowers and love, flood from to stage and into the hearts of audience, like life giving blood, true and dark.

Then suddeny, it is over.

Applause, sudden and fourious echos, it seemes to shake the building to its foundation stones. I am drowning flowers, they are everywhere, roses, red, white, pink, and carnations, violet, scillas, tulips.

I notice the door of a one box lined with dark red velvet is swinging slowly open, the noise in the audience intensifying into applause, then soft screams, as Tsar Nicholas II, steps up, and then slowly waves, and nods, next to him there are slim figures of four girls, and a one boy in sailor costume, the door closes and they are gone, like they never did stand there at all.

Everything is cream, shimmering, and gold, my pulse is pulsating in my temples, and all of a sudden there is far too much, all the crowd around me, and the words of praise lose their meaning, I cannot internalize them, I hear snippets from there, another from here; "the most impressive debut, since Maria Kuznetsova, the girl seems extremely promising, she is going the way of the stars, amazing that the tsar was there with his family, they do not do it very often anymore, does it mean that this girl is under imperial protection, it is a pity that Djagilev is in Paris, he's really annoyed that didn't see this, it's rumored that this girl knows the dancers of Ballets Russes, especially Pavlova who graduated from here too."

Then I hear Glazanov's voice, he seems to be talking to a few reporters, "Grayzona's audition was one of the most impressive that I seen over the years, she has developed magnificently throughout her studies, and now the world and Mariinsky are open to her. "

Few hours later after my performance, and a celebratory dinner with champange, endless toasts, caviar with blinis and succulent desserts I walk once again on the empty stage of Mariinsky. The scenery has been taken away, everything is empty and fragrant, the large dome of the roof glows faintly, the crystal sparkles.

I close my eyes and cross my arms and breathe deeply, once, twice and then a third time as I improve my posture. Everything is quiet, my dress whispers on stage lightly, dreamily, as I raise my gaze to the ceiling, and Ave Maria's prayer is thrown into the hall, my voice rises, the soft latin sparkles. I close my eyes and my voice drops lower, lower, caressing until the last echoes have subsided and there is silence.

Suddenly a quiet applause refreshes the hall, and a familiar, so dear voice, that is like dark smoky chocolate, says with softly ironc inflection; " you have developed a great deal since our last meeting, and were, absolutely incredibly brilliant, you made Mimi completely yours, without excessive sentimentality, and that is difficult thing to do. "

I open my eyes and right in front of me a few feet away stands Katharine.

She is pale, and dressed in a silk dress that is dark purple, in mourning fresh tears come and I flew the length of the stage and to her, she opens her arms invitingly and I collapse in her arms. We stand there, for a long time, there is no need for words. After minutes or hours, we detached from each other and there is tears in our eyes. Katherine looks tired, down to her soul, but her smile and sarcasm are as sharp, if not sharper, than before.

Nathalie only had written that Katherine had left one morning, without warning. Katherine glanced at me quickly, sharply with a sideways eye, and stated, " I have traveled if I had stayed there, without, well I would no longer be here or anywhere, so I had to leave." But how are you, here and above all right now, I inquired, Katherine, glanced at me quickly, and a small tremor pierced her, then as if gathering her thoughts she responded slowly "do you know by the way that your graduation performance has been a stir in the local press, and in part also abroad for weeks."

For me Katherine's words didn't seem to make sense at all, but it might have explained the plethora of reporters in the hall; is this international success one doorway to Tomorrow as I had found Islands of Happiness already with Virginie.

We then walked Katherine and I, in the greenish misty light of spring towards the Anichkov most, past the Russian church, and then along Nevsky.

Apassionata echoed from the open window.

As her condition had worsened Virginie had been transferred to a sanatorium, the place was all clear lines and well regimented order, and stern staff.

In Virginie´s room there was view to yard, and all the trees, that were blooming, in the spring wind, all half shadow and light. When I arrived the door was cracked the nursing staff, was everywhere bustling around, when they did see me they nodded, once and slipped softly and silently away. In the room there was a white, narrow iron-framed bed with thin linen curtains, a small table with a platter, and a few glasses, and medicine ampoules.

Virginie herself, rested on a narrow couch under a window that was open. She had a writing pad in her lap, narrow pen, and a few handkerchiefs, and an embroidered scarf on her shoulders, a light pink cotton dress, the hem of it trailing floor, her pen crackled on paper, and a small frustrated sigh came, softly.

I raised my voice and said, " darling, I have a visitor to you today", Virginie turned, so, so slowly, and a faint smile lit up her face as Katherine stepped in. I put the roses I carried in a vase and placed them on the table, where the light hit them best.

Katherine and Virginie talked in a quiet voice, of what I did not know and in later did not ask, either.

I noticed how shocked Katherine was about Virginie's changed appearance, although she tried to cover her shock. I myself was used to it, but still seeing her, so wan, thin, and utterly bloodless, sliced my heart like a sharp knife.

Virginie 's heavy hair fell on her forehead, and on her back, in dark copious waves, no longer in braids or pins, her eyes looked huge, on her narrow, slender face. After some convivial hours Katherine walked away, unshed tears glimmering in her eyes as she left us alone.

" Well how did your performance go, Virginie inquired looking at the blood red and pink roses, "what aria did you end up performing for all the crème de la crème of society", she laughed lightly, soft and low, but the laughter ended once again in a raging, tearing, cough. I smiled at her an said gentle tone that I ended up with Puccini and Mimi.

Silence fell.

Outside the spring wind was humming and birds flew in sweeping circles in blue sky.

Virginie she sighed quietly and said in caressing tone: " I predict that in your future career you will break the hearts of critics with at least the following roles, Gilda, Mimi, Semiramide, Butterfly, Rosina, Lucia, or some other Donizetti, and something new and exciting of we don't know anything about yet".

"You forgot Violetta" I replied.

Virginie smiled gently at me and said: "never, your Violetta will be your way to the stars." I stared at her in mute astonishment, and I pointed out, " there are several sopranos who perform Violetta brilliantly, at Mariinsky and all over the world, in big magnificent opera houses" that is true Virginie admitted, " but they're not you, and one day you will outperform them all."

I softly kissed her forehead, one, two, three times, and embraced her, then after a moment, I got up gracefully, and took package from the table, in the middle of the crumpled paper was a book.

A book of poetry.

Since the beginning of the 20th century shady, tempting, obscure french-influenced way of russian symbolisim had prevailed, the streets were humming different romantic literary scandals and cult of persons like Mirra Lokhvitskaya, Maria Baškirtseva they who made suffering into art, highly stylish, emotive, and died young, the tuberculosis burning them too up, like fast and sudden flame, they had pawed the new way of another generation of womens literature and artists. There was the deep and fervent cult of Blok, countless of schoolgirls and gymnasium students were in trall,trailing him everywhere, blushing and ardent, personal, private, and intimate mixed up in a hedy sensation that floated in the very air.

The shadowy symbolists were reiging supreme, but their tide was turning, and new time was coming, full of noise, shock, vivdness, and cold, clear, pure, structure, return to the simple ordliness, of a simple word. The competition between Moscow and St. Petersburg, the two opposing geographical districts in poetry, begun again, it was a neverending cycle, of debates, influences, of topograpchical intertextualities, and moods. I opened it and began to read aloud to Virginie; the verses shone, they captivated, narrated and portrayed, boldly almost excessive diary-like intimacy, the poetrybook was named Вечерний Альбом.

Virginie smiled at me slow and said to me in a teasingly fond tone of voice;

" well nice to note that those times, with ink in fingers have not been wasted, a truly captivating debut, poems have extreme honesty and incisive charm, and straightforwardness, it seems that the literary circles have embraced her with open arms, as they should."

I hummed softly and in half voice of Berlioz´ D´amour l´ ardente flamme, from La Damnation de Faust. We looked at each other, in the glimmering, soft light, as the setting sun gleamed in the high windows. Slowly one by one stars came, they shone like a diamond shrads, from far, far, away.

A/N:

Thanks to as ever to the all myriad readers and reviewers. It seems that fanficition really is an worldwide thing, or it's the wide flung fandom and varied old-timey spell of L.M. Montgomery´s works?

The graduation performance of Elizabeth is Mimi´s aria from the second act of Puccini´s romantic, and tragic opera La Boheme (1896). I've imagined that Elizabeth's voice sounds a bit like Anna Moffos. Moffo in her prime was one of the best performers in post-war Europe, and USA alongside other golden greats like Callas, Caballe, Tebaldi, Freni or Nilsson.

Mirra Lokhvitskaya (1869-1905) was a poet who rised fame in 1890s, is now considered to be one of the forerunners of later Russian 1900s modernism. Maria Baškirtseva(1858-1884) was well known diarist, of over 16-volumes, a feminist, painer and sculptor. Вечерний Альбоm, Evening Album is the literary debyt of Marina Tsvetaeva and it was published in 1910 to a rave reviews.