Jennifer Shaw

Read Part I here.

Part II: Secret Correspondence

October 17, 1895

Four months earlier

Dear Henry,

My hand trembles a little as I write this. You assured me, however, your “marvelous Miss Katya,” that I may always write to you, and so I am taking you up on your kind offer. I know letters will never be like our wonderful conversations, but they are certainly better than this dearth in communication.

I hope you are settled into your position at the university. What is Athens like, there in Ohio? Quieter than New York I suppose. I imagine you can hear the birds chirping through your open window. I envy that. Even in our Newport summers, in our cottage standing just above the mighty sea, I feel more removed from nature than I’d like, surrounded by that high iron fence. Are you still playing the piano in your free time? I hope your wrist is better. I asked Molly, my lady’s maid, if she knew of anything to soothe your aching joint. She recommended green tea. Please try it, if you’re in need.  

I miss our lessons together. I still do my finger lifting exercises, and when I “play the hell” out of Chopin, I smile at the memory of Mother balking at your language. Goodness, that first lesson was such fun! Lucky for you, your sterling reputation as the best instructor preceded you—eccentric and irreverent as you were in your odd clothes and spectacles—and you proved remarkable in your abilities.

And, lucky for me, Mother didn’t realize how badly I desired those lessons. Had she known, she might have refused them on principle. She never wants me distracted.

I hope to hear back from you. If I do not, I understand. I know you are a busy man, and I am just an awkward 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 fast as I can, despite this damnable wrist, and I found your suggestion of green tea so sweet that I procured some as soon as possible. I’ve been enjoying a cup a day; it makes me think of you.

I am settled, though my teaching and conducting load is heavy. I do miss playing with the New York Philharmonic. I miss my pupils, too, particularly you. Had those wrist pains never developed, I would have played away my entire life, performing at Carnegie Hall by night and teaching piano between rehearsals 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 too, sooner rather than later. You’re no awkward child. I only hope you’ll find yourself in a happy situation. 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 heard for myself your excellent rhythm and timing, the nuance in your dynamics, and your ability to interpret the sheet music with such emotion. All you ever needed from me were pointers on technical proficiency. You brought me the easiest wages I ever earned, and the greatest pleasure in that line of usually tedious work.   

Don’t forget that and nurture your gift the best you can. If circumstances 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,

Your reply made me the happiest I’ve been since our year together. 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 just for you, at a faster tempo of course, as you advised.

I blush as I write this but, you make me feel like a magical creature. Like one of the sylphs the music evokes. Despite all my deficiencies—my small features, my dark hair that lacks Mother’s luster, my awkward manner in conversations, I could go on—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 6^th 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 the 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 absorbed everything with a frightening avidity, especially Mrs. Astor’s procession down the aisle as the guest of honor. It only confirmed for me what I suspected Mother was already plotting. She desires entrée into European nobility, too. After all these 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 also get 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 it. How much 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 the daughter of a dvaryane! Or so she’s always claimed. 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 abroad. 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 and explained as delicately as she could. Of course, I did not tell her the term had been applied to Mother. She would have locked her jaw tighter than a vault.

Do I believe it? I don’t think so. I don’t know. Mother has never shared details of her parents or her life back home. My grandparents 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, is yet another social obstacle, compounding the difficulties inherent in our paternal grandfather’s background. Even Father admits he was just a coarse man who owed a large portion of his success in oil and steel to stubbornness and luck. It’s problematic, Father agrees.

The way they all speak! As if we are just mangy curs.

Anyway, it was then, at Consuelo’s wedding, that I began to suspect Mother intended for me to marry an aristocrat too, for I am the only one who can do so. I imagine how you would joke—”What, your beautiful, ferocious mother not snag a noble 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 sometimes enter Mother’s morning room, quieter than a mouse, and find them entwined in a passionate kiss. Though awkward, this also fills me with optimism. I hope that when I do marry, I will have for myself what Mother and Father have 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 would soon host 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 the most well-studded sporting dog (I will not compare him to a Thoroughbred; he deserves no such flattery). We’ve already thrown two of the most expensive dinners ever, and Mother is planning a massive Christmas ball in his honor. She’ll padlock me to Worcester’s arm the entire night, I know 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 detached appraisal that shifts to boredom, then preoccupation, then fatigue. Often, he looks melancholy, and he downs more hard drink than even my elder brother. Mother makes me sit on his other side at dinners, and we force our way through stilted conversations. She makes me play the piano for him, too, but he looks through me, smiling smally and occasionally nodding. He claps politely, says “Excellent,” but only ever sounds indifferent.

If we marry, he will not be a kindred soul.

Such souls are rare. It is not often that we meet one.

I hope, in Athens, you will meet one. 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 purpose 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 true social responsibility to ennoble my time. She is right, I suppose. But, is it terrible to admit I am not so selfless, that I do not desire that kind of responsibility? I suppose I would get to know the villagers, but the idea is 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.

Oh, how I wish I might audition for the New York Philharmonic. If one were to ask me, what would you do, little Katya, if given your freedom, that would be my answer. How I envy your experience with them. To hear them in concerts is wonderful, but to perform with them on stage…that would be transcendent.

Perhaps, just finding my own kindred soul would be fulfillment enough, so long as I keep playing piano, even if only for myself. Perhaps he is out there. But, without the right pedigree, Mother will keep him out while she leashes me inside.

Goodness, this letter is long! I hope I have not taxed your patience, but it is a relief to express these thoughts. I’ve never uttered them to another soul, though they weigh on me daily.

I am glad you are enjoying your tea and that you think of me. Though it’s a little early, I wish you a merry Christmas. 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,

That doesn’t sound like me, but now, that’s how I wish to address you.

I was surprised by how much your last letter broke my heart. I understand you must wed within a certain circle, but to make your home so far away… I’m glad the earl is nice enough, but 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 doesn’t appreciate your gifts.

I almost cannot believe I am putting this on paper, but—it feels like heresy if you cannot pursue this art.

Apply to conservatories. You needn’t go far—Oberlin, my alma mater, is deeply respected, and there in the city, The National Conservatory of Music is a fine institution, particularly now under Dvorak.

Try being 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… Your family doesn’t need your marriage for financial gain, only to satisfy your mother’s desire for some social prize that, in my opinion, is just a deceit of the imagination. I would wager it wouldn’t make her happier. Not really.

And what will it do to you?

Even a symphony at a university would prove better than this union. We’ve had several women graduates. There’s even a woman, a flautist, who plays in my orchestra. I say all this because, well, I do believe most things are possible.

Soon, it will be a new year. 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 world’s greatest concert halls, far 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. Maybe I am selfish, but that would make me happier than, well, most anything.

Now I’m the one who blushes.

I’m sorry, my wrist hurts. I cannot continue. Just know, you remain in my thoughts. You’re in my thoughts every day.

Love,

Henry 

*** So glad I have not posted yet because I want to tell you how last night, dear Katya, I laid down to a restless sleep. I swore I heard Chopin, and I crept downstairs at the witch’s hour to sit at my own silent little upright. I ran my fingers along its keys, no doubt smooth as your cheeks, and I felt a light phantom breeze.

The sylphs you mentioned sprang to mind. Invisible yet always present. Luminous in their abilities. In the old lore, those winged creatures were powerful enough to control the wind, rain, and snow.

Remember that, my beautiful friend. Remember your power.

I am not usually a sentimental man, and I marvel at what you do to me. These lines into your private thoughts fascinate me, and there is so much more of you to know. I hope you will let me know all of you.

January 1^st, 1896

My Henry,

I will reciprocate in my address, and I find it the tenderest 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, both within me and without.

Mother found your two letters, and she seethed with such 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 she 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 note and read aloud several lines, including your postscript. Then, her face deadly pale, eyes boring into mine, she walked over to me, knelt, and gripped my knees. I could smell the sweet scent of her perfume—so much like oleander!—as her fingers hooked into me like claws.

“You are a stupid child,” she said. “Would you really risk alienating the earl? What if he saw this?” She shook the letter in my face. “Have you truly no sense of what matters? Have I not taught you better than THIS?”

Her wrath shocked me, and I tried—I tried so hard—to explain how important the piano was, just as you suggested. How it made me feel worthy and alive and like I was achieving something higher and better than myself. How it moved the blood in my veins.

I must have been eloquent enough because her expression changed. Her eyes widened, and softened, and she had to look away. And I saw her posture, even as she crouched down, that straightest and most gorgeous of spines among all the set. I saw, too, her physical grace which, even then, was unearthly, and I recognized the truth.

She was no nobleman’s daughter.

She had been a dancer. I would stake my life on it. She understood my feelings, too. 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. My cheek aches even now as I write this.

I don’t even believe it was meant to be cruel. I believe she was trying to startle me awake.

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.

“Art and love cannot nourish one’s body,” she said, “cannot solidify one’s status, cannot create a lasting purpose. You MUST trust me.”

 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!”

That time, she wanted to hurt me. I saw it in the icy flare of her brown irises. But she restrained herself, and that was the end.

What I want is of no consequence. I fully understand that now. I am an extension of her, and she always gets 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.

There, in front of me, she burned your letters and forbade any further correspondence. You must have noticed the new return address on this one. With Molly’s help, I secured a letter box of my own, at a post 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 has 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.

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 different roost bars, large water and food bowls, and even two hanging toys, one that ends in a little brass bell and the other a little mahogany swing. The gift is not original; I have acquaintances with exotic 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, 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, tossed it out.

The bird dropped ever lower toward the ground far beneath us, even as it beat its little wings. It landed 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, and she said, “Its wings were clipped; it never could fly.”

How my stomach clenched. 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 into my eyes, something a servant has never done.

“Even if it had flown, it would not have lived through the night.” Her voice was harsh, urgent. “It’s a pet, miss. Not a wild creature. It does not know how to survive on its own.”

My spirit sank, powerless against the gravity of it all.

“I know you’re unhappy, Miss Katherine,” Molly said, letting my shoulders go. “I am sorry for that, but I don’t understand your feelings. There are situations in life much, much worse than yours.” Her words were bitter before they softened. “Forgive me if I overstep but trust me when I say, it’s true.”

I sat with Molly’s words that night.

I sat with Mother’s, too. I found myself reflecting, more deeply than ever, on her life. On the bright, brilliant, and incisive example she has so thoroughly modeled for us all.

I am changing tack. I have decided to cooperate with the engagement.

In fact, I will insist the proposal happen outside in the park. 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 will look more respectful of the feelings that have “developed” between us.

Mother is not stupid. She will be suspicious, but I will assure her that Molly will chaperone me along the way. If Mother will not acquiesce, I know a way I can make her. And I believe Molly will cooperate. I can get cash from my brother to entice her, but I do not think I will need to. I believe the relentless pity I see in her wide eyes is more powerful than any fear and doubt.

Now, emboldened by your recent words, I come to the most significant part of this letter. I am taking a deep breath.

I love you, Henry. I think I always did.

And I write, plainly, that I hope you love me too.

I am forming a plan. A possibility for us both.

Though I am frightened, I feel better than I have in a long while—since I sat beside you on the piano bench and played all those notes that taught me the essence 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 to come. Is that not true? I am young, I realize, and inexperienced, but common sense tells me this is so, plainly enough. Few things are ever truly assured, 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.

Write as soon as you can, and do not hesitate to be frank. 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

Only yours.      

To be completed tomorrow, February 14th.

Read Part III: One Year Later here.