"Jag har en port mot alla fyra vindar.
Jag har en gyllene port mot öster - för kärleken som aldrig kommer,
jag har en port för dagen och en annan för vemodet".

Södergran.

The boat trip from Helsinki to Stockholm, was terrible, fierce wind and stormy seas buffeted the ship in the Baltic Sea. All that calmness that I had gained in my short Helsinki visit was utterly gone, as my mood was low and as grey as the sky and grey-green forthing waves. I observed other passangers and rebuffed few attempts of convivality that came in my direction.

Luckily Katherine was to meet me at the harbourpier. She was dressed in red as was her usual habit, gleaming bird of a woman, with most delicate and sure hands, gloved in mute mauve – another rememberance. Softly she embraced me, and looked sad to see my tattered and windblown state, my scoffed trunk, and bag, and pale wasted and seasick figure.

Katherine tapped her hands firmly and the uniformed porter took the trunk and the money very quickly, it was like an eye-catching trick. Katherine then took me to her rented rooms, somewhere in Södermalm.

The architecture of the area was beautiful and miscellaneous full of old Lutheran Gothic churches, 18th century wooden houses, 19th century modern stone dwellings in every possible color, with grand leafy trees, it was also an island, Katherine enlightened me when I walked behind Katherines brisk and sure form. Söder, which the area was called had previously been a slum area but had little by little become the palce of artists and other creative spirits.

Katherines rental apartement was located in greenish house, in a third floor. The rooms had wide windows toward verdant park, below. The rooms were delicately furnished, light wood, fresh white and kustavian style, 17th century Swedish country version of French neoclassical style, there were different keepsakes of travels, a painting of oriental women from Japan, scarf from Prague, small statue from Marrakesch, and so on. I observed that there was a picture of Renee, on the corner table, next to a vase filled with fresh violet-cuttings.

I blissfully submerged myself in the warm water and enjoyed the sound of Katherines precice voice flowing over me like a dark chocolate sauce, from the next room as she quoted Bellmann's poems, with a barely detecable shard of humor in her warm voice.

After washing and drying my hair and wearing Katherine's clothes, she had at a glance condemned the clothes I had come with to burned and disgerarded at once.

Tomorrow we would go shopping she gaily declared, after seeing my nonverbal amazement Katherine said in her stingy style: "Elizabeth is the chaos in Russia and the Bolshevik regime there made you completely forget how money works? Clothes are important, especially when you are going to Paris. I suggest you wait until early fall before you go to the audition to get a little distance from your experiences. You don't talk much, but I don't think the last few years or so have been easy for you. "

Katherine smiled and then said softly: "Well eat now, here is good warm Swedish oatmeal with butter island in the centre and cinnamon for you and for me vegetable soup and rolls."

Slowly I observed the food, the porridge in front of me. It was good, but as I ate I felt a stinging guilt, and thought of everything I had survived. Suddenly hot tears dropped into the empty porridge plate, and I rose from the table to the open window. Without saying a word, I heard Katherine fix the dishes away, and left the room humming, it sounded like Greig, and after a moment she returned and started to play, glently flowing Grieg - for it was Grieg - and then Katherine glanced at me, bekoning me towards her. I came, observed the notes on the piano stand. The piece was Solveigs song, from Peer Gynt. Admittedly, Greig was a Norwegian composer, not a Swedish one, but I already knew that Katherine had traveled all over Norway and she loved Greig's compositions, and especially this particular song, so I nodded to her and smiled softly, straightening up and started to sing, feeling almost compelled to do so by her watchfull eyes.

My voice wrapped around the longing, delicate, melody, fluttering light tones glowing brightly like a mountain creek in the Norwegian fjords. My voice reflected Solgveig's sincere and true faith and trust as the years flowed from summer to winter and there she waited, amid nature and trusted Gods heavenly mercy.

"Kanske vil der gå både Vinter og Vår,

og neste Sommer med, og det hele År,

men engang vil du komme, det ved jeg vist,

og jeg skal nok vente, for det lovte jeg sidst.

Gud styrke dig, hvor du i Verden går,

Gud glæde dig, hvis du for hans Fodskam mel står.

Her skal jeg vente til du kommer igjen".

The Ibsens text was heartbreakingly sensitive. My voice shone, in the upper register, flowing and selflessly bright as flickering as sunlight on a silvery stream, one moment there and then gone. I felt strongly that in its sensitivity, this Greig compostion compared to Puccini's longingly wistful Un Bel Di from Madama Butterfly, as the both young girls in these arias, waited for their beloveds to come back to them.

Then was completely quiet, and Katherine embraced me, gently and together we watched as glimmering silvery moon grew slowly in Swedish sky.

The next few days were spent in quite a hustle and bustle. I let Katherine do what she wanted with me. She had delcared that her mission for now was to remake me anew, no longer the ragged pale ghost of a woman, but once again that charming living fairy-like girl that she had met at the Le Gare du Nord, many years ago. Amused, and touched, by her words I had replied that one could not get the flow of time - everlasting river to turn back, or pain or losses to be unmaked. I found myself very fond of the image which Katherine, in her words, had draw into air. Katherine had looked at me for a long time in contenplative silence, and then smiled fondly and remarked, " Betty you've never been a simple and contented soul, you're always looking for something higher and better, like me. The experiences of recent years have changed you. You now have more darkness and fervor, in you, even though externally you still give a fragile impression, it is the golden and creamy quality in you and the sense that you are not wholly here on the level of existence, with the rest of us. Sure, it's utter rot, but first impressions are crucial, especially in this still unfortunate masculine world."

At the end of her triade Katherine had made me drink three whole glasses of fresh milk, to get the roses back to my cheeks, and then she went to piano and started to play Virginies compostion. The tender and caressingly fiery music - it flowed all the delicate strands of emotion, and I started unwittingly to hum one of Katherines favorite pieces as the dusk fell.

Next day around noon Katherine guided me with a straight back and firm steps into one of her favorite dressmakers shop. It was an utterly wonderful place, with dark shelves, filled with various bolts of fabrics, and dresspatterns, hair ribbons, lace and so on. Katherine and the dressmaker negolated in a low voice while cutting the dress fabrics, light purple, dark night blue, and pale green, an express order, thus no longer hand-made dresses, but once again custom-made dresses, fabrics varied, silk also among them, pale pink and hazy purple.

Stockholm glimmered around me, there were countless small cafes, art museums, and the splendor of the Kungliga slottet, the deep blue of the waves of Malären, and the neo-baroque of the Royal Opera House. It was dazzlingly beautiful, at least from the outside, and had at least 1,100 seats.

On my last night Katherine surprised me with tickets, and we went to see two parts of Puccini's il trittico, Sour Angelica and Gianni Schicci. After the performance, Katherine glanced at me in offhand manner and slowly delcared: "Elizabeth you would do both better Sour Angelica and Lauretta than either of the performers, of tonight though Puccini's music was absolutely wonderful, as always." I didn't reply anything to Katherine, as I was still deep in the enchantment of Puccini's music and two separate dramas, both of which were appealing in their own way.

Then my Stockholm time was over, few weeks had gone by and I was ready to travel to Paris. When I entered the first grade compartment, Katherine came to accompany me for a short duration and said softly: "I may come there at some point to visit at least to her grave."

and then Katherine jumped lightly off the train and with a sardonic, but soft smile at her lips, waved a delicate scrap of lace in front of my window.

I watched Katherine for a long time as the train started, she seemed to have found peace for herself in these years, so maybe I also had hope.

Then I turned my thoughts to Paris and slept, for a long time. The train took me through Europe recovering from the war, and finally, after several years, I stood on Le Gare du Nord again, looking at the translucent glass roof, but I was alone, there was no Virginie at my side, not now, or ever again. I sat on my trunk, completely exhausted and melancholy.

My circle had broken up. Akhmatova had stayed, in Russia, I had not heard from Marina Ivanova at all, no letters nothing just large gleaming emptiness. I knew that Olga Glebova Sudeikina was already in Paris and I wondered half curiously what Nathalie might think of her if their paths met some day. I hoped that Zinaida Nikolaevna was here, already and not travelling somewhere. From Virginie I knew that there was already a large community of Russians in Paris, in different parts of the eternal glittering city, but because the borders were open, representatives of the intelligentsia flooded Paris from Russia, glowing the message of the new age to their compatriots who drank their coffee and Perdnod with indifferece.

Taking a deep breath, I got up on my feet and dragged my trunk behind me, as I walked in Parisian streets towards Nathalie's apartment.

The greenish-yellow light of Parisian spring glowed everywhere. Feeling exhausted I looked at the passers-bys, they seemed well, no one was pale from hunger, no one had a scaly rash from vitamin deficiency.

Fashion was changed again, many women wore loose colorful dresses, with wide flowing jackets, and sheer scarfs, and thin head-shaped hats under which the singled hair glistened. To my surprise, I noticed that the passing women had Russian-style embroidery on their clothes. I smiled wanly and thought that some of my clothes would fit quite well with the current local style.

I had done nothing for my hair, it was still braided profusely in to a coronet, maybe it was old fashioned, but I did not care. My perfume was still the same. Plenty of new fragrances had entered the market, and the same was true here too, as Paris was one of the fashions metropolises and scents were personal and very sellable commodity.

Then before me was Nathalies home, 20 rue Jacob. Graceful house the large windows had still lace curtains, a magnificent garden at the back of the house, where birds fluttered in the orange trees, or where there any trees anymore?

I tried to remember if it was Nathalies salon night now, but I didn't remember. I straightened my posture and knocked on the door. Time passed, and no one came to open it. I knoced again, more harsly, then I rung the bell.

Finally the door opened, it opened a crack.

The woman standing in the doorway seemed familiar. She was tall and robust in a slender way, and had very light blue eyes, dark sleek hairstyle in latest fashion, but I was sure that I had not seen her before in my life. The woman looked at me for a long time, and attentively, and finally said: "You are Elizabeth, you look exactly like Nathalie has described you, down to the pale dress, only the flowers are missing, but because it is summer they will be available soon. Come on in, Nathalie is in."

Slightly embarrassed by the familliar attitude of an as yet unknown woman, I stepped into apartment behind her. Everything was exactly the same as on my previous visit. I looked around, and tears blurred my eyes. For a moment it felt like that soon Renee would come out, waving her new poems and smiling mischievously, but Renee, like Virginie were already dust on the ground, and we the living ones would just had to continue alone, and remember them, often.

Suddenly there were footsteps and Nathalie was in front of me, she had a white loose and well-dressed outfit, and a narrow golden medallion around her neck. Thick still unruly blonde hair was combed back into a loose knot. She looked at me for a long time, and without saying a word, opened her arms.

We embraced, for a long time.

Finally, Nathalie said, wiping her eyes: "Cherie, it's really wonderful that thee are here. I have so much to tell thee Romaine paints my portrait, another version, and thee haven't even met Lily, even though I've written of her, and here's Dolly."

I glanced sharply at Nathalie, as her voice was somehow significant, Romaine Brooks, painter and French noble Lily de Garmot had been the subjecs of varying degrees in Nathalies correspondence for years, as her social and romantic life was varied and evolving as ever, but this Dolly was a new acquaintance, clearly.

I observed as Dolly leaned against the doorstep and watched us with her really amazing blue eyes, and our reactions to each other and to her. She had an attitude that conveyed strong self-irony and a desire for adventure. So I asked her " Dolly, what are you doing here in Paris?"

She shrugged sweetly and said,"now not really anything, during the war I came to France as an ambulance driver, and helped where I could and I had most amazing adventures. Today, I'm a social butterfly, and I maintain a witty conversation and an overall fun atmosphere."

Nathalie smiled lightly at the response, which was given in a slightly mischievous yet heartfelt tone, and said "Dolly is from England and has inherited some of her uncle's comedy gifts."

I looked intently at Dolly's essence, the air of privileged relaxation, and radiant charm, and I realized.

She was Wilde.

A/N: Södergrans swedish poetry verse can be translated as

I have a gate towards all four winds.

I have a golden gate to the east - for love that never comes.

I have one gate for the day and another for Fate.