We were: I in a splendid dress
Of golden silk,
You — in a knitted black jacket
With a winged collar.
And you laid your hand in mine
With a long motion,
And it tenderly lingered in my palm
Like a shard of ice.
-Tsvetaeva.
Zinaida Nikolaevna had arranged for me to visit one of her colleagues salon, the woman was called Adelaida Gertsyk and she was a translator and naturally a fellow poet. So I traveled to Moscow, the city was the same as it had been before, lagre, glimmering with inner deep mysticim, and rushing crowds.
The travel went relatively fast despite war, the trains full of soliders going to the front, smoking, sleeping or carousing.
Soon I sat in my purple silk in a beautiful, opulent, but modest room, all different conversations rumbling around me, shining oil lamps, fire in the fireplace glowing, tea, champagne, and tobacco smoke, and in the midst of it all Gertsyk's humble birdlike figure, sweeping like a swallow to one group to a next one.
It was evening.
Gertsyk got up lightly from her settee and introduced me cordially to her guests, there was a polite applause from around the room and a few shouts of brava, from which I concluded that my reputation had also rushed to Moscow.
Delicately I stepped forward, handing the notes to pale blond man who had played various pieces all evening with considerable skill, on a slightly worn piano.
Charpentier's soft, light French tones, a soft waltz-like tune glowed in the air, in addition to the piano, suddenly violin came along, it created wonderful soundscape, I took a deep breath, straightened my posture and started. Louise's aria Depuis de Jour sparkled, my high notes were precise, supple and sensual, and my lower register brought depth to the lyrics of the aria, that eternal theme of first love´s ardent blush. As we finished the room downright exploded with applause everyone smiled and seemed very pleased, at my performance. The champagne bottles circled, and someone dug a box of chocolates out of their bag and served them, the scent of chocolate, combined with flowers and candlelight was an utter delight despite the wartime rations that were the norm in these days. Imported chocolates were a true luxury!
Door opened and a familiar looking woman stepped in, from the deep gloom of October. Her previously blond hair had darkened, into more golden brown shade, she was pale, and wearing glod-colored dress, of fine silk, her posture had become proud, and the green eyes shaded, the girl with the inkspots, Marina Ivanova had grown up, I noticed a thin golden ring on her finger, so she was married, then. Our eyes met across the room, and she nodded to me swift and quick, then everyone started clapping, and in the storm of applause, she came to the room, and took a glass of champagne, and retreated into a corner to talk to a dark man, someone whispered to me that he was Maksimilian Voloshin, whose datcha in Crimea was a utopian dream, amidst the deep blue sea and cliffs.
And then it was time for my second performance. The moment that tones of Vitellia's aria Non piu de flori from Mozart fnal work Clemenza di Tito, echoed in the room, in crystalline clarity I observed vaguely that Marina Ivanova's back straightened and she listened with her head slightly crooked to one side, her arms crossed on her knees, her fingers moving lightly, like playing invisible piano, seeing those little gestures, they almost broke my concentration, and the tone of my voice became shaded with pure sadness, in a few quick moments, a break that echoed Vitellia's despair as the coloratura trills rose higher and higher, as Mozart intended.
With a cold, smooth professional smile I nodded my thanks to the adulation, and got a new glass of champagne, and I went with it to a padded chair in another corner, better to observe others and listen their discussions and arguments, clock at the mantel ticked, it was past midnight.
There Marina Ivanova found me, she sat next to me, and said; " You look familiar have, we've met, somewhere, your voice is wonderful." I smiled at her and briefly described our previous meeting, in Moscow, after Tchaikovskys Opera. Tsvetaeva looked into the distance, and said, " yes, I wrote an absolutely incredibly fine poem that night."
I noticed that she had some fervent uncertainty in her that flashed out, like a tide, she spoke a few words about her husband, and her little daughter, who grew up in the hands of teachers, and maids, there was an intense, attentive look in her eyes, and we discussed literature, poetry, and Paris all the glimmering evenings and the wonders to be found therein.
Tsvetaeva was asked to recite her poems, so she stood and with a burning, passing glance at me she started. It was, indescribable, it seemed quite as if the verses had arisen purely in the moment, she uttered them seriously, clearly, and straightforwardly, without any frills.
There was a woman, reclining in the doorway, she watched as Tsvetaeva recited her verses. She was a slender, fine-featured gray-eyed woman with a reddish-blonde hair and a poised, elegant appearance, she seemed to be around thirty or so and was wearing black suit, with a winged cream colored collar, and there was a small monkey sitting on her shoulder, a small monkey, with great eyes, and a thin embroidered collar around its neck. With a smooth graceful turn reddish-blond woman gilded with a smooth grace, across the floor, everyone stared at her, or it was the monkey and went to sit near fireplace.
It was soon made clear to us all that the womans name was Sophia Jakolevna Parnok, she was a writer, translator, and critic and she had just returned from Europe. I soon found myself in a animated discussion with her, as we talked Parnok lightly stroked her little monkey and took a little bag in her pocket, it contained nuts, I observed enchanted as the monkey graciously took one nut at a time and ate it. It turned out that she had studied in Geneva, classical music, and composition, but had not finished her studies. Last few years she had translated Baudelaire´s poems to russian, and done some critisim of Russian contemporary poets. I hesitantly mentioned Renees work, especially her Sapho translations, and I noticed how her eyes had begun to shine, with eagerness and she admitted to me in a soft tone, that she planned to write collection, that reclaimed Sapho, in a more pure, not so symbolistic, or decadent view. Maybe Parnok would do to Sapho in Russian soil what Renee had already done in France, one could hope, I pondered musingly.
Parnok seemed gentle, reserved but at the same time passionate person. I noticed a slightly hungry look in her eyes and small movements of her fingers as she watched piano surrounded by an ever-increasing circle of musicians, the music was now mixture of popular tunes, and few classical pieces.The very air of room smelled of tea, and perfumes of different varieties – a hedy mix.
Few hours later, I observed covertly, how Tsvetaeva lit Parnok's cigarette, a soft hazy curtain of smoke conjured them for a moment invisible, and then visible, in a discussion near firepalce.
There seemed to be electricity in the air, the pace of conversations were accelerated, ambiguous, dirty jokes were thrown around.
Suddenly I noticed a light linen handkerchief on the floor, and Tsvetaeva quickly bent down, handing it to Parnok, the touch was light, airy and fast.
Champange flowed, again as the revellers danced, all of them in turns, endless circle, except for Tsvetaeva and Parnok, they were still talking. I noticed that Tsvetaeva reclined in a nearby chair, in it she sat very straight and twisted her ring on her finger, it sparkled in the light, thin, like only real gold does.
I turned away and smiled wistfully, remembering my first encounter with Virginie at Nathalies house. I closed my eyes and remembered her, as she was, laughing in the rain, standing, and waiving to me from our window, playing, endlessly, playing, the soft wishper of her hair in a captivating half-shadow, shady and beautiful, looking like a prototype of a Dame aux Camilles from Dumas, her eyes sure, confident and full of her faith and love in me.
Humming I walked over to the piano and began to play. My voice flowed endlessly on creating enchanted circle of enraptured listeners as I sung first Violetta´s sempre libera, from La Traviata´s first act. My voice glimmered soft, fierce and generous as Violetta pondered her options, to continue as before or to succumb to Alfredos fervent and ardent declarations of love.
For an encore I continued to Brindisi, everywhere in the salong there was glinks of glasses, and singing people toasted to love and success, and to swift end to war!