" Men ett människobarn

är ingenting annat än visshet".

- Södergran.

It was autumn, glowing and totally abundant. I had not seen such splendor of color in years. All around it shined, maples, oaks, ivy, canals and the Neva shone like a fairytale silver river, and the Summer Garden was like a dream, the palaces shone, and the light, it was was cold clean and beautiful, as it sparkled in the windows of the Ermitage and mint-greenery of Mariinskys façade.

I was immersed in Lucia as my debut in that role approached. I lived and breathed bel canto, and the composer's melodies and I had slept badly for several nights now, because I happened to have terrible nightmares of the mad scene. My nerves were on the surface, as it was too close to the despair I had sunk into when I lost Virginie, the despair that still bubbled beneath the surface.

I practiced and practiced, in Mariinsky, and in the different parks, to the delight of various pedestrians, sometimes I had to stop and chat with them for few moments, apparently my popularity had soared almost unwittingly. Often in the evenings I climbed few floors up to the apartment of Zinaida Nikolaevna, even those nights with no salon at all, when the empty stillness of my apartment grew too much, when there had been before music, and gentel laughter. Zvezda, was prowling around the neigbourhood, her greenish eyes glimmering.

Zinaida Nikolaevna gave me tips, I was reportedly too self-conscious, I should throw myself more in the skin of Lucia, and know the music more holistically. I was aware of the instructions, but at the same time I was afraid, there was immersive blackness ahead, it would be too easy to only live memories, especially in current war-ravaged times, as the high number of casualites, of allies and détente powers of both sides, climber higher each passing week.

Donizettis shockingly difficult and high coloratura trills, were an extreme challenge, for soprano. The degree of difficulty of the aria was the same class as Mozart's Queen of the Night, a role I had never been able to master, but apparently the management believed in my ability to do justice to the role of Lucia.

So on September 15, 1916. I appeared as Lucia in Mariinsky's production. The libretto, based on Walter Scott's romantic story, The Bride of Lammermoor had been a huge success since its premiere, and the audience was expected to be seated on every possible spot. I had only noticed in passing the extensive advertisements around Petrograd for weeks already that advertised tonight. The three-act tragic opera glowed in all its gloomy Gothic romance, just before I took the stage, I thought of Walter, and his love for this particular Scott's work, and I decided to dedicate this debut to him.

With a deep breath I walked into the large, vast stage of Mariinsky Imperial Theater. The opera flowed, music glimmered and audience was abslolutely still as they followed the story of Lucia and Egardo. When the thrid and final act begun, I staggered, as Lucia across the stage, in circles, softly stumbling and twirling. I was dressed in pure white silk, and golden thread, my hair flowing for once totally free, it reatched to my knees, in honey-golden curtain. The extreme irony of being dressed in a truly luxurious wedding dress, was not lost to me. Music flowed freely glimmering, glittering, the endless coloratura trills, and high notes, went flawlessly, higher and higher. The emotion of my performance was like a tidal wave, as I pictured life with Virginie, beside me, warm and inviting, that I tapped all of it to Lucia, as she saw her love, standing near her, in wistfull, and dreaming tone, of all the future happiness of long life together, and heavens blessing beconing. My voice shimmered high, crystal clear, and precise to the auditorium of Mariinsky, completely without any instrument exept a glass harmonica, that created gothic counterpoint to the melodies of Donizetti.

Then it was over.

A huge storm of applause seemed to shake the stage, a shift from the enchantment of the role, and the emotional storm it caused was sudden, like jumping into icy water, without warning. Flowers, dozens, roses, business cards, dance invitations, as usual, were slipped between the flowers and the cards, a few courtiers who thought of switching from ballet dancers to opera singers had left their cards and letters.

A couple of hours later in my dressingroom, at Mariinsky I tried to disentangle the strange feeling that had taken over me halfway through the mad scene, it was as if I had felt a light kiss on my neck, and I had smelled Virginies perfume for one endless instant, but I hadn't put that scent on today.

For some moments it did feel like that there was Virginies presence in the air beside me, like curtain had been ripped apart, between this world and the next, but what did it mean, and why now of all nights?

For weeks, and weeks after her death, I had been haunted by insomnia, when I had imagined feeling her presence every moment, and wished for it with a fervor that surpassed all my previous prayers. Those times Katherine had been patiently by my side, supporting, and giving deep wordless sympathy, making me eat and washed my hair and sometimes also drugged me with milk filled with cloralhydrate, to make me sleep.

Eventually, exhausted, I got up and left Mariinsky, when the rising dawn, reddened the skyline with a pure orange stream, rushing golden-edged clouds shining, like a doorway to heaven.

The next morning, the boulevard magazines declared: Lucia di Lammermoor, Mariinsky's most artistically impressive performance in years, incredible empathy, elegance, soul-hungry pain. I hovered over praising criticism for a day, or so then decided not to look at what was written about me anymore, or even talked in the streets at all, because I had more important things to do, there were always new parts to conquer, and my own skills to develop. I had to prepare for the future if something happened and I couldn't continue in Mariinsky.

There were reports from Europe that the battle of Flers Courcelette, on one of the battle of the Somme invasion, had been devastating, but successful, with hevy losses.

Feeling restless and worried I walked to the nearest church and lit a candle, first one, then soon second and third, as I circled the icons in order, with three quick cross signs, and around me echoed canon, Biblical canticle chant. There was slight scent of beeswax candles, and the mustiness of church was all around, like a comforting hug. Feeling more calm, I walked out into the gentle twilight. Birds flew in circles, and beautiful shaft of pure sunlight glittered in the magnificent façade of nearby building.

Then one evening there was a letter, by military post, the envelope was tattered and very grimy. I went to certain cupboard and poured a little glass of french brandy, and armed with it I opened it with trembling fingertip.

There was nothing, only second envelope, and one sentence written in it pure cyrillic, my name Элизабетfleeting and sure strokes. I opened that one and a letter dropped in my lap. It too was written in cyrillic, hurried, fast scrawl, but legible.

" I go over the top tomorrow.

In recent days I have seen the piper clearly walking in no one's land, in the moonlight, translucent and inviting. I know that you are strong enough to withstand the truth that this is the last letter I will write. Others need hope to go on with life and build it for future generations, for poets and dreamers. A future where there are no wars and where faith and beauty can still exist, a future that you too fill with beauty and the gift of music.Elizabeth by gifting me that Pushkin you have given me a mirror through which I can interpret myself more clearly than before. I truly think that my only publication and that damn popular poem would not have been as impressive without your investment in my language studies. I've often thought about our conversation on Glen's July night lately, and your quiet, calm, support, and presence. I can now admit that the second part of the sonnet deals with Ken, that is, Kenneth Ford, my childhood friend. We've always had a deep bond and understanding, but I know he belongs to Rilla, and together, they will guarantee in time the future of my dreams by telling their children about this dream of the free world, for which I cast my life, in last bloody sacrifice.

I want you to remember me as I really was, not as a martyr or a brave soldier or a noble shy romantic introverted brother, but as a young man who may not have had the courage to seek love from the wider world, but who loved beauty and pure word with all his soul. As for love, fortunately you found, and also lost. I'm so deeply sorry Elizabeth, but at least you and her had a little time together. If I meet her there somewhere I kiss her for you, and I ask her to visit you.

If you sometimes could sing Pamina in remembrance of me, do that and light a candle, with all love and endless gratitude.

WCB

Ps. the officers will send the artefacts of fallen to their relatives, my mother will get my notebooks and medals and a few other things.When enough time has passed, make copies of all our letters and take the originals to Mums. I think getting them would comfort her.

With trembling hands, I carefully placed the letter on the table, and like a sleepwalker I lit candles, until the whole apartment bathed in flickering light. I went to the piano, picked up the notes, and looked for Mozart.

I took a deep breath and in a caressing soft voice, sung the aria of Pamina. It struck the silence of the room, like a bullet that had extinguished Walter's life.

A/N: We are all now living in extremely difficult times. The world has changed, again. Russia's attac in Ukraine on 24.2.2022 is absolutely reprehensible.

When I was planning and then writing this story, I wanted to try my wings. Write about Elizabeth, how a foreigner would experience certain changes in Imperial Russia, and elsewhere as well, and at the same time shed light on the opera world as well as the cultural queer history of the 20th century. I know also that this story is not the usual fare of LMMs fandom and for some that can be offputting, no Anne/Gilbert as the main paring. But I am so glad that there has been apparently quite lot of readers from different cornes of the globe. That said I understand very well if you readers no longer want / are able to read this story any more in these current circumstances.

And now off to the usual operatic and poetry-trivia: Lucia di Lammermoor´s III act "mad scene" is a total showstopper,18-minutes extremely difficult singing, it truly is an olympic feat. The translation of Södergrans swedish poetry can be translated as follows:

" But a human child, is nothing but certainty".