Read Part I here.
October 17, 1895
Four months earlier
Dear Henry,
My hand shakes a little as I write this, but you assured me—ordinary little Katya—I may always write to you, so now I am taking you up on your kind offer. It feels good to compose words you will read. I know letters will never be like our wonderful conversations, but they are certainly better than this dearth in communication.
I hope you are well and settled into your position at the university. What is Athens like, there in Ohio? Quieter than New York I suppose, and how wonderful that must be. I imagine you can hear the birds chirping through your open window. I envy that. Even in Newport, with our cottage standing just above the mighty sea, I feel more removed from nature than I’d like, surrounded by that high iron fence as I am. Are you still playing the piano in your free time? I hope the pain in your wrist has lessened. I asked Molly, my lady’s maid, if she knew of anything to soothe your aching joint. She said her mother would recommend green tea. It is likely you already know that, but I want to share it with you just in case you don’t.
I miss our lessons together. I still do my finger lifting exercises, as you directed me after that first day, and when I “play the hell” out of Chopin, I still laugh at Mother’s horror over your vulgar language. Goodness, that first lesson was such fun! Lucky for you, your sterling reputation as the best instructor—though eccentric and irreverent in your odd clothes and spectacles—preceded you, and you proved remarkable in your abilities.
And, lucky for me, Mother didn’t realize how badly I desired those lessons, how much I wanted to refine my skills and nurture my artistry because, even then, long before I knew you, the piano was one of the few things that truly made me feel the blood in my veins.
I hope to hear back from you. If I do not, I understand, for I know you are a busy man, and I am just an awkward little girl. Thank you for letting me write to you.
Your friend,
Katya
November 7
My friend Katya,
Don’t be so hesitant and deferential! We are friends for sure, and I was thrilled to receive your letter. I sit here now answering it as quickly as I can, though my wrist still aches. I did know about the healing properties of green tea, but I found your suggestion so sweet that I procured some as fast as possible and have been enjoying a cup a day. It makes me think of you.
I’m fairly well settled, though my teaching and conducting load is heavy. I’m adjusting to life as a professor, but I miss playing with the New York Philharmonic. I miss my pupils, too, especially you. Had those wrist pains never developed, I would have played away my entire life, performing at Carnegie Hall by night and teaching piano to the city’s richest daughters by day. This work is harder; it comes with greater responsibility. It’s lonelier, too. But we must all grow up some time, mustn’t we?
I’m afraid you will face that truth too, sooner rather than later. You’re no awkward little girl. I only hope you’ll find yourself in a happy, satisfying situation; you deserve no less. And promise me, you will always play your piano. I’ll say it again, since you never seemed to believe me: You are genuinely talented. You can’t imagine my pleasure when, that first day, I realized you already had training—you were quite advanced, actually—and I heard for myself your excellent rhythm and timing, the nuance in your understanding of musical dynamics, and your ability to interpret the pieces with such emotion. All you ever needed from me were pointers to refine your technical proficiency.
Don’t forget that, and nurture it the best you can. If circumstances ever stifle you, let that knowledge, and your playing, be the little bird in your heart.
Write back to me soon!
Affectionately,
Henry
November 23
Dear Henry,
Receiving your reply made me the happiest I’ve been since our summer together. You cannot know how flattered I am that you want to correspond, and upon reading your assertion about my talent (why is seeing it in writing more powerful than hearing it?), I went straight to the piano and played my most passionate Chopin, the Waltz Seven in C Sharp Minor. I played those gorgeous, cascading notes for you and increased the tempo, as you advised.
I blush as I write this but, you make me feel magical. Like one of the sylphs the music evokes. Despite all my deficiencies—my small features, my dark hair that lacks my mother’s luster, my flat figure, my awkward manner in conversations, my inability to play the elevated coquette (as the other girls do so well)—your words make me feel exceptional. They always did. That is part of your gift as a teacher, and a wonderful quality you have as a man.
A lot has happened here. On the 6th of November, my parents, brothers, and I attended Consuelo Vanderbilt’s wedding to the Duke of Marlborough. It was the most grandiloquent event I’ve ever seen. I will not bore you with details, but suffice it to say Mrs. Alva Vanderbilt quite outdid herself. What I found more interesting than the ceremony was watching my mother’s expressions. She examined everything with a frightening avidity, especially Mrs. Astor’s procession down the aisle as the guest of honor, and it only confirmed for me what I suspected Mother was already plotting. She desires entrée into European nobility, too. After the string of American and European alliances—Jennie Jerome to Lord Randolph Churchill, Consuelo Yznaga to the Duke of Manchester, and now poor Consuelo V. to Marlborough – she sees this as the surefire way we will be accepted, fully and finally, into the circle of the New York Four Hundred. You might not have realized this, but our position now is peripheral and tenuous at best.
My mother would detest me sharing this with you, a “lowly” piano instructor, but you ought to know—she wants to be connected to European nobility to be accepted by the nobles of America. It is humorous, is it not? And the absurdity only extends to the fact that she herself is Russian! And the daughter of a dvaryane! Or so she always claims. Her own father, she insists, was a member in the Assembly of the Nobility back in Mother Russia.
This is a point of pain for me, in truth. I have heard on more than one occasion, from other girls in my dancing group at Dodworth’s, that their parents say my mother was no such thing, no daughter of a Russian noble. That, in fact, she was a Mariinsky ballerina in St. Petersburg, and that she bewitched my father during his year traveling abroad, separated from his family. Which made Mother, in essence, no more than a courtesan. When I asked Molly exactly what ‘courtesan’ meant (though I had a good idea), she went red as a tomato but explained as delicately as she could. I did not tell her the term had been applied to Mother.
Do I believe it? No, I don’t think so. I don’t know. Mother has never shared details of her parents or her life back home. They’ve never come to visit; they do not send letters. Father never talks about his and Mother’s lives before their marriage, though to be honest we’re not in their company often, so my chances of hearing many details are few. But this rumor, even if it’s only such, adds to our social obstacles, along with the fact that Father’s father, who made our fortune financing oil, steel, and electricity, was a rather coarse man, as Father himself admits.
Ah, anyway, it was then, at Consuelo’s wedding, that I began to suspect Mother intended for me to marry a Euro aristocrat too, for I am the only one who can do so. I imagine how you would joke—”What, your beautiful and ferocious mother not snag a royal for herself?! Is there not a more naturally regal woman than Mrs. Miranda Williams?” But ah, there’s the “Mrs.” bit, and Mother loves Father. I know that because I’ve caught them in tender moments. Even now, I might enter Mother’s morning room, quieter than a mouse, and find them engulfed in a passionate kiss. This, though awkward, also fills me with warmth. I hope that when I do marry, it is to someone I love. I would like to have for myself what Mother and Father found in each other.
I am unhappy, I admit, even though it’s nearly Christmas. My suspicions about my mother’s intentions were confirmed when she announced (just after I received your letter) we were having a special guest, the Earl of Worcester from England. My parents met him briefly on our trip to London last spring, just after my debut. He has been with us for a while now, and you would not believe how Mother licks his boots. She does so with “dignity,” of course, and in the most elevated and careful language, and her own English is now nearly perfect. But her behavior is so obvious it mortifies me. Dear God, the way she shows him off at parties, like he’s a prize catch! Or the most well-studded Thoroughbred! We’ve already thrown two of the most expensive dinners ever, and Mother is planning a massive Christmas ball in his honor. I will be forced to remain on his arm the entire night, I know it.
I dread it.
The earl is a skinny, sallow man, not terribly tall, with an oversized mustache. He is kind enough, but he looks at everything, including me, with a sort of detached appraisal that changes to boredom, then preoccupation. Often, he looks melancholy, and he drinks more spirits than even Father. Mother makes me sit on his other side at dinners, and we force our way through stilted conversations, and I find myself feeling sorry for him. She makes me play the piano for him, too, which is nicer for me, but he looks through me as I play, smiles smally, and occasionally nods his head. He claps politely, says “Marvelous,” but sounds indifferent.
If we marry, he will not be a kindred soul.
Kindred souls are rare. It is not often we meet one.
I hope, in Athens, you will meet one. For your sake. She should be a kind girl, the sister of a colleague perhaps, who also plays the piano and will make you happy.
Mother says romantic notions about kindred souls marrying are foolish. She says, partnership and stability are more important. That, as a countess, I will live a life of true purpose in England, for I will have obligations to my husband’s tenants, a real social responsibility. Much work of true importance to fill my time. She is right, I suppose, but is it terrible to admit I am not so selfless, and I don’t want that kind of responsibility? I suppose I would get to know my villagers, but the idea seems strange and distant. And what if they don’t like me? I am not so easy and charming in public as other women are, not as Mother is. She would be a brilliant countess. I am confident at a piano, but one does not go out among the people hauling behind her an unwieldy musical instrument.
I am getting nervous. I do not want to marry this earl. I can admit that, too.
I do have a true purpose, music.
Oh, how I wish I might audition for the New York Philharmonic. If one were to ask me, what would you do if given your freedom, that would be my answer. How I envy your experience playing with them. To hear them in concerts is wonderful, but to play with them on stage…that would be transcendent. That would be fulfilling.
Or, perhaps just finding my own kindred soul would be fulfillment enough, so long as I keep playing piano, at least for myself. Perhaps he is out there. But, without the right pedigree, Mother will push him out and lock me in.
Goodness, this letter is long! I hope I have not taxed your patience. In truth, it is a relief to express these thoughts. I’ve never uttered them to another soul, though they weigh on me daily.
If you find these ramblings tedious, I am happy to stick to shorter, easier platitudes, and to read more about your position. I am not one, after all, to dwell selfishly in my own discontent.
I am glad you are enjoying your tea and that you think of me, and I wish you Merry Christmas, though it’s a little early. I hope your break between terms will be restful and you can play some piano for yourself, just a little, if your poor wrist allows it.
Love,
Katya
December 9
Oh, my Katya,
I’m laughing at myself because that doesn’t sound like me, but that’s how I want to address you. But, to be serious, your last letter broke my heart. I’m concerned about your mother’s marriage plans. I understand you must wed within a certain circle, but to strive for a foreigner, someone not even of your culture, and to make your home so far away… I’m glad he’s nice enough, though I hate that he doesn’t appreciate your music. What will the two of you talk about? I loathe the idea of you bound to someone who doesn’t care for the things you love and who doesn’t appreciate your talent.
But, do you know what?! Just now, God, or Zeus (or whoever’s above us), struck me with a powerful thought. I remembered one of our remarkable alums, Margaret Boyd. She was the daughter of Irish immigrants, and she went on to become Ohio U’s first female student. She graduated in 1873 and later in ‘76 with her M.A. She was a professor of mathematics in Cincinnati, though now she’s back here in Athens teaching at the public school. She’s a marvelous old cat—I say that affectionately—and you would like her.
Since then, we’ve had other women graduate from our institution. There’s even a woman, a flautist, who plays now in my orchestra. I say all this because, well, I do believe most things are possible.
If you want to play in a symphony (even just one at a uni), be honest with your parents. At least, be honest with your father. Your family is one of the richest in America. All your houses and automobiles and sailboats and parties and horses and everything…you all can have anything you want. Your family doesn’t need your marriage for financial gain, only to satisfy your mother’s desire for a social prize that, in my opinion, is just an illusion.
You are gifted; I will assert that as a fact. You ought to pursue music; it feels like heresy if you cannot. Soon, it will be a new year, and this is a new time.
If one were to ask me what I desire for you, my Katya, if you were free, I’d say without hesitation I’d have you in the greatest concert halls, away from your mother.
At the very least, I’d have you here. Not as my student, for I’d like those days to be done, but as my pianist, in my orchestra, always. This is rather selfish, but that would make me happier than, well, than just about anything.
Now I’m the one who blushes.
I’m sorry, my wrist hurts. I cannot continue this letter. Just know, you remain in my thoughts. You’re in my thoughts every day.
Love,
Henry
January 1st, 1896
My Henry,
I will reciprocate in my address, and I find it the tenderest one I’ve ever made. Even now, my eyes are filling, I have so much to impart.
Since your last letter, a great many things have changed, within me and without. Mother found your two notes to me, and she seethed with such a cold, hard rage I thought she would sicken herself. She waited til the men were out, then she entered my room, much to my surprise as I was reading quietly in a chair, and shut the door. My first reaction was a raw, unfiltered thought—“polished obsidian”—which is how Father refers to her hair, but it is really a reflection of her nature. She pulled out your second letter and read certain lines aloud, the ones where you encourage me to pursue music. Then, her face dead pale, mouth tight, eyes boring into mine, she walked over to me, knelt, and gripped my knees. I could smell the strange lilac of her perfume even as her clutch felt desperate, her hands like claws.
“You are a stupid child,” she hissed. “Would you really risk alienating the earl? What if he saw this? Have you truly no sense of what matters?” She shook the letter in my face. “Have I not taught you better than THIS?”
The degree of her wrath, quite inexplicable, startled me, and I tried—I tried so hard—to explain how important the piano was, how it made me feel worthy and alive and like I was achieving something real, connecting with something higher than myself. I must have been fairly eloquent because I saw her expression change. Her eyes widened, then softened, and she had to look away from me. And I saw her posture, even as she crouched down, that straightest and most gorgeous of spines among all the set. And I saw, too, her physical grace which, even then, was unearthly, and I realized the truth.
She was no nobleman’s daughter.
She had been a dancer. I would stake my life on it. And she understood my feelings. But it didn’t matter.
Once I finished my pathetic monologue, she struck me. Right across my cheek so hard it felt like she fractured the bone. She’s never touched me like that before, never hit me. No one has. She did it in cold blood, and my cheek aches even now as I write this.
Ignoring my tears, she told me I do not yet have the perspective of a full adult life, so I cannot understand why these other things are more necessary, but that I MUST trust her. She said, art and love cannot nourish one’s body, cannot bolster one’s status, cannot sustain a sense of true purpose. When I asked her, but why this earl? She added, “Riches in vacuity mean little,” and that I needed the work my position as a countess would require.
“Is your life so vacuous, Mother?” I asked, even as I braced for another hit. I could not help adding, “You know it’s all derivative, don’t you? That you are simply aping Mrs. Vanderbilt, and everyone can see it!”
She wanted to hurt me again; I saw it in the icy flare of her black irises. But she restrained herself. And that was the end.
What I want is of no consequence. Now, I fully understand that. I am an extension of her, and she will get what she wants. This, the aristocracy on both sides of the Atlantic, is all she has yet to achieve, and she wants it now more than anything. She will get it through me, for I am just another part of her. It explains my name, doesn’t it? Though legally I am Katherine, she has always said that in her heart, I am her “Ekaterina,” I am her “perfection.” She has referred to me this way for years, and she will make me perfect, in her eyes. And she gets what she wants.
There, in front of me, she burned your letters and forbade me to write to you. You must have noticed the return address on this one—with Molly’s help, I secured a letter box of my own, at a post somewhere far from our residence. Mother will not prevent me from communicating with you.
She also said she and the earl agreed that our engagement should happen soon, and what better day than Valentine’s Day? Mother said she had a vision: the earl proposing somewhere public enough for the press to see it. Clearly, she has learned from Alva Vanderbilt the power of using the gossip-mongering press to her advantage. She understands that we—she—must control the narrative.
I am sorry; I will pause my melodrama to say, I hope you had a merry Christmas. I hope it was not too lonely. I am sorry I did not begin my letter this way, for I thought of you every minute on that special day and sent my warmest wishes to you for jolly times with new friends.
For Christmas here, the earl gave me a green parakeet with a little yellow head. It lives inside an enormous cage gilded with 24 karat gold. It has three roost bars set at different levels, large water and food bowls, and even two hanging toys, one that ends in a little brass bell for it to ring and the other a stained mahogany swing on which it can play. The gift is not original, for I have acquaintances with tropical birds of their own. But, this present made me feel deathly cold. When I asked the earl where the bird was hatched, he looked confused and said he imagined it’d been imported from a merchant’s aviary in South America.
I hated that bird.
A few days later, just before Molly helped me dress for the day, I carried its cage to my window. I opened the window and the cage’s door. I’d imagined the bird would fly away immediately, but it sat there stupidly, shocked I suppose by the enormity of its sudden freedom. I waited a full five minutes before I took the bird out and, fighting to remain gentle, I tossed it out the open window.
You can imagine my horror at seeing the bird drop lower and lower toward the ground far beneath us, even as it beat its little wings frantically. Then, it stood motionless on the pavement below, a strange, sad splash of color on the dirty, salted ground, before hopping away. Later, no one could find it.
“That was foolish, Miss,” Molly snapped at me. She saw I didn’t understand what happened, then said, “Its wings were clipped; it never could fly.” How my stomach clenched at her words, and when I started to protest, she shushed me. She’s never done that before. She walked right up to me and took hold of my shoulders, staring hard at me. “Even if it had flown, it would not have lived through the night.” Her eyes were wide. “It’s a pet, miss. It’s not a wild creature. It does not know how to survive on its own.”
Her words stunned me, and I felt my own self sinking down, powerless against the gravity of it all.
“I know you’re unhappy, Miss Katherine,” Molly ventured, letting my shoulders go. “I am sorry for that, but I don’t understand your feelings. There are situations in life far, far worse than yours.” There her words were bitter, but then they softened. “Forgive me if I overstep, but trust me when I say this is true.”
I listened to her, and I sat with her words that evening. I sat with Mother’s words, too, and I found myself musing about her own life, the example she, Mother, has been so thorough in giving us.
I am changing tack. I will cooperate with the engagement. In fact, I will insist that the proposal happen outside in the park, for even in winter I do love the beauty of nature, do I not? And I will insist that I make the walk to my future husband alone, for that is more tender, more romantic, and it will look more respectful of the feelings that have “developed” between us. My mother is not stupid. She will be suspicious, but I will assure her that Molly will chaperone me along the way to my future husband. If Mother will not acquiesce, I know a way I can force her. And I believe Molly will cooperate; I can get cash from my brother to entice her, if need be. But, I do not think I will need to. The relentless pity I see in her wide eyes is more powerful than her fear and doubt.
Now, I come to the hardest part of this letter. I am taking a deep breath, and I am reminding myself to embrace the courage I know I have inside me.
I love you, Henry. I always did.
And I write, plainly, that I hope you love me too.
I am forming a plan.
Though I am frightened, I also feel energized, better than I have in a long time—since I sat beside you on the piano bench and played all those notes that taught me the essence of life, of happiness. Even now, behind my shoulder blades, I feel myself sprouting things powerful and new. I am determined to fly. I am no mere dumb creature.
We must all face uncertainty, must we not, if we are to take the reins of our lives? Even if I remain here to become the Countess of Worcester, I will still face shadows in all the tomorrows that come, for there are no real guarantees. Is that not true? I am young, I realize, and inexperienced, but common sense tells me this is so, plainly enough. So why oughtn’t I to embrace the inevitable uncertainty and fly toward what I know will make me happier?
In truth, if you love me too, I do not think I will encounter much uncertainty at all. Love, when it is trustworthy and true, is the strongest bond and greatest protection.
Please write as soon as you can, and please be honest. Even if you do not love me, I would still like to play in your symphony. I have items I can sell in Athens to support myself until I can earn wages of my own, if necessary.
With all my love,
Your Katya
To be completed tomorrow, February 14th.
Jennifer Shaw 