" Jag längtar till landet som icke är,
ty alltid som är, är jag trött att begära.
Månen berättär mig i silverne runor
om landet som icke är."
Södergran.
Gentle verdant spring, slowly turns into a sweltering June.
On the balcony of the sanatorium, some patients sit for aerial treatments, on clear cloudless days. The large dark circles around beloved eyes are growing, they get larger, and more dark, as weeks pass. Virginie is always tired and pale, after needle treatments. Passing by in the hallway, I heard the nurses speak in a low voice, nodding towards Virginies room. I conclude that there may not be much time left.
Katherine visits Virginie often, she now stays with me in the apartment, plays the piano and offers support, after seemingly endless days of Mariinskys operatic splendor, my nerves are wearing thin, I do not have the stamina currently to do intercompany politics. I often visit the sanatorium in the mornings and afternoons, before any performances in the evening. It is one life´s deep ironies that one of my dreams has come true, namely, in the role of Tchaikovsky's Virgin of Orleans. The role is great, and the music indescribably wonderful, Violetta would have been far too much in this situation.
Often I hear in the hallways Katherines voice as she argues loudly with the doctors, and tries to reason with them to try new treatments.
July is near at end. For many weeks there has been a heavy low pressure hovering over the city, a damp hot heat, the sky sometimes looks almost white. Along the Neva and the canals, people walk and enjoy the weather, the city is glistening, and the endless rays of sun sparkles from the windows of the palaces, to the domes of varied churches.
I observe fitfully slumbering Virginie, beside me in well padded recliner, covered in blankets, despite the heat. The wide glass and iron balcony glitters, absently I correct my and Virgines large straw hats, it would not do that she would get sunburn. Her complexion has always resembled a delicate pink rose, but now, after months, there is almost no red left, all the blood is gone. The bluish blood vessels pulsate softly on the delicate, slender wrist.
Zinaida Nikolaevna has sent a selection of her short stories to be read aloud to Virginie, and I browse through the volume and find a story that seems appropriate. I start to read quietly in a soothing tone, Virginies eyes are open and she listens intently: "We walked, Maria and I, through the streets of quiet Siena. The hour was late evening — early night: fires were already blazing in some places in the houses. The dark palaces that entered and narrowed the streets seemed black, and in the rapidly fading, sky the jagged cornices were as sharp as coal. Above the gray passages, in the upper depths, lights also began to glow, white, twinkling stars. The autumn air trembled softly and gently. Siena was silent.
Maria was the woman I loved and who I knew loved me. I saw her face in the light of the stars, and when we passed a house with a lighted window and redder, brighter rays fell from above - I saw her face more clearly - and I was glad that it did not seem unexpected to me, that I recognized it and at the twinkling of the stars, and at the last dying of the day."Katherine joins us, she looks tired, and powerless, as fruitless arguments always angered her, and listens in silence as I read to the end: " Living grasses will rise from the earth, bees will rustle in the flowers, living clouds will pass through the sky, and if death is the way, accomplishment, there will be no death in what has already happened, there is no death, there is silence. And in everything perfect and accomplished - no, death, there is silence. The stars grew, fluttered brighter, silent and pale. The muffled noise subsided, everything was silent all around, wide airy. And our love was silent between us."
The story lives and breathes sure in structure and metapysical philosophy, Zinaida Nikolaevna's style is solid, though not as enchanting as her plays or poetry. After the reading time the rest of that day is spent in drowsy warmth.
We play solitaire, or Katherine and I do, Virginie observes, and tells us slavic fairytales, of Koschei and Marya Morevna, or Baba Yaga, they are full of death, riddles, and secrets. The clouds turn red with golden edges, and the nurses assist Virginie inside, she however, shakes her head and leans on me and Katherine.
The room, her room, is cool and shady. There a vase of flowers, pink carnations, vivid roses, and on the table modest practical utensils, no crystal or gold edges here, one glass and medicine ampoules. A doctor with a bustling manner with none of Gilbert's charm examines Virginie quickly and efficiently, and make records of figures and sets off to see other patients. For the Doctor Virginie is only one statistic, a patient, or a number in a file, for me, she is my whole life.
July turns to August.
Now I know full well why the consumption is called that, as it cleaves the flesh from it victims, leaving only spirit behind. In the evening before the fever rises, I try to warm Virgine up, she starts to glow, and is instantly wet with sweat and I carefully changed her into dry nightgown. It´s cotton is thin and decorated with lace, and purple ribbons, some small luxury in the midst of all the suffering.
Virginie takes up so little space now, her arms and legs seem disproportionately large, the body is slender, it always, was but now there is almost nothing left, so I lift her in my arms, she is light as a feather, hot tears flow from my eyes when she finally falls asleep, they fall on the pillow: she is already half gone, is no longer what she was, her bones are still intact, and yet she hears and looks, but how far she is from me now!
Softly and gently I sing Elgar´s hauntingly sweet ballad After, that song that Rosemary first played at Manse to us, and that we had often played together in years since. The lyrics tear my heart, but still I sing them, half-voice to her as she is still here, warm restless and slumbering in my arms.
" A little time for laughter,
A little time to sing,
A little time to kiss and cling,
And no more kissing after.
A little while for scheming
Love's unperfected schemes;
A little time for golden dreams,
Then no more any dreaming."
All there is stillness, and our breathing, suddenly her cold hand touches mine, the one with her ring, it glimmers and glitters, and a light whisper " my darling, remember your promise", and almost unnoticed, she ceases to live, between one breath and the next.
The clean sterile room around me spins, out of focus. Somewhere, far, far, there is a high so shrill scream it echoes, and echoes, and gains strenth, again, and again, till it rattles the windows.
Everything ends.
Golden honey shaded light glimmers in the streets of St Petersburg and Neva flows endlessly onwards. Katherine walks in the corner of the Teatralnaja Ploshad and looks at the buildings bordering the square, glistening in the hazy twilight of August
and remembers, a moment two days ago, when she arrived at the sanatorium and found unconscious Elizabeth lying on the floor, and Virginie, so still in bed.
Soon it is time for panhida, memorial service.
The bright clean room is full of flowers, roses, violets, and some hothouse flowers, and a piano, and there is also a priest in attendance, with incense. A small crowd gathers, Zinaida Nikolaevna, a candle and flowers in her arm, in a black suit, DM and Zlobin and Blok, and some lavish-looking woman, she came in with Blok, all have candles, alight and a pale bloodless Elizabeth dressed in a purple silk dress, white roses in her abundant braid crown. Katherine walks in front of the piano and addresses the small crowd in a low soothing voice:
" we are here to say goodbye to one of the most beautiful souls, that created most wonderful music, and as this day was known to come, she left behind a request that after her death her closest would gather, and here we are now, and she wanted that her companion would sing one particular aria."
Katherine observed as Elizabeth, like a sleepwalker, stepped in front of the piano, and turned to the audience, saying in a cold remote voice: " This aria is from Verdi's opera La Traviata, from the final act, it is Addio del Passato." After receiving a small nod from Elizabeth, Katherine spread her arms and sat down on the pianobench and started to play, slowly room was filled with glowingly powerful Verdi. Katherine noticed in passing that Elizabeth's posture corrected, with fast almost invisible movement, and after a little silence the she began. Elizabeth sung softly, cleanly,with a pure dazzling voice, every word, was intertwined to the souls of those who were in the room, strangers, and friends alike. The ever flowing emotion was tender, gloomy, and shaded with desperate, sorrow as the coloratura voice, rose from middle register to high gleaming top notes, and landed incredibly soft on a dark sub-register that was sweet and soft, like meltingly warm honey.
The church is small jewel-like and intimate.
Air is thick with incense, a glowing golden candellight sparkles in the icons. Katherine's presbytery soul somewhat disapproves of all this splendor, in the church. There is a priest standing in front of the altar, reciting the traditional prayer the choir echoes it softly, candences gleaming in harmony.
Coffin is open.
Virginie lies there beautiful, slender and waxy pale, in one finger, a ring glimmers small lilac light against the ivory dress. On her chest is a small icon depicting St. Veronica, the saint of her nameday, there is also silken embroidered scraf with floral motives, and boquet of lilies. In a delicate table there is a serving of koliva, with a candle, and a dish of honey.
Everywhere a liturgical white glows, a symbol of rebirth, a burning thin candle is handed to Katherine, the same is true of all other mourners.
Service, continues, it is a long and old church slavic echoes, the choir takes turns, and then the priest and so on. Katherine glances at Elizabeth standing next to her. The girl's face is translucent white, and her large golden-hazel eyes are dry and red, but she doesn't cry, not a single tear.
Some prayer or another ends and it's the turn of the last farewell. Zinaida Nikolaevna crosses herself lightly, and then makes slow sing of the cross in the air and kisses Virginies cold cheek, and then it's Elizabeth's turn.
Katherine watches in silent heartaching sorrow, as Elizabeth steps in front of the coffin, her flowerlike face is frozen in a rictus of shattered, heartfelt grief, and silent shudders tremble the slender frame. She too, makes sing of the cross fluidly, with three fingers, bends over and kisses Virginies cheek, three times, and then, one by one, picks up the rich white roses from her hair and puts them in the coffin, covering her own gleaming hair with a pink gauze scarf..
The candles are almost burnt out and a strong scent of honey, incense and flowers floats in the air.
Suddenly a faint whisper is heard:
" Oh Virginie my love, we never did have enough time."
A/N: The opening poem of this chapter is one of the finest poems by Finnish-Swedish modernist, Edith Södergran (1892-1923) who is nowdays is also considered to be queer literary icon, in some her genderqueer modernist poetics. Södergran also died of tuberculosis at her home in Raivola, in the Karelian isthmus. The first verse of the poem "Landet som icke är", may be translated as follows:
I long for the land that is not,
for all that is,
I am weary of wanting,
the moon speaks to me in silver runes,
about the land that is not.
After is a song by Edward Elgar from 1895 the lyrics are from poem by Bourke Marston. That Gippius short story is work called Шум смерти, Noise of Death, it was written in 1911. I took the liberty to translate fast raw version of beginning and ending in here, mainly because it is one of my favorite pieces.St. Veronica was a woman who improved/healed from a twelve-year-old bleeding disease by touching the sheath of Jesus 'robe. Her nameday is 12.7 and she is considered to be protector of artists and laundry-persons.