"A Shadowed Dance" is a book written by Bruce Craig in the form of a narrative, using a classical sonnet form. The second chapter is given below in its entirety:
Chapter 2 Arrival
The journey on which Lev set forth
Now brought him towards the Gare du Nord,
The Paris station from the north
Through which provincial traffic poured.
The evening's light was not yet gone
As through the towns they rumbled on.
His cramped compartment, troisième classe,
Was filled with passengers en masse.
Eight bodies in the space were spread,
Some standing in the passage aisles,
Their luggage stacked in random piles,
Beneath, across, and overhead.
They talked and smoked and read and slept
And sanity through habit kept.
Lev alternately sat and stood
And gazed upon the passing view;
Each town displayed its neighborhood
As towards the city's heart they drew.
He felt that helplessness of soul
When life slips out of one's control,
For all the ways that he'd once known
He could no longer call his own.
An unknown place awaited him
Which, peopled by a foreign race,
Would treat his less-than-Gallic face
As though it were some useless limb.
The dread he felt did well forget
That Russia's ways were harsher yet.
Societies are layered spheres
In that which touches social class:
Each layer to the next adheres,
But touches not the general mass.
For those who tread on native earth
The choice of layer is by birth;
To those unwelcomed who appear,
That layer's choice is less than clear.
Each one who from his land takes leave
Does so from exile or from fear,
Abandoning those things most dear
Which all his life he will bereave.
Scant place for such might well exist
In France's xenophobic mist.
The train slowed as it neared its goal
And through the Paris suburbs slipped;
Lev's drifting thoughts relived the toll
Of that which life for him had skipped.
But now such thoughts were past regret
And from his mind must needs be let,
For, as the station came in view,
The old passed on to greet the new.
The squeal of brakes and hiss of steam
Announced the journey's final end;
The noise, which did so long offend,
Ceased suddenly its raucous scream.
For one hushed moment, time suspends
Before arrival's noise descends.
The evening's haze of charcoaled fog
Gave signature to Paris' air;
The acrid scent of coal and log
Smelled sweetly in the lamplight's glare.
Lev joined the platform's moving crowd,
Then heard his name being called aloud
(What emigré would not proclaim
Life's sweetest sound to be his name?).
He searched the crowd to find the face
Of Feldtman, clothed in evening dress,
Which in the crowd's uncommon press
Seemed quite absurdly out of place.
They greeted in the heartfelt way
Of countrymen on foreign clay.
The year of Feldtman's Paris stay
Had seen him in his pockets dig;
He earned his living by his play,
Through what musicians call a ‘gig.'
Such work is constantly arranged
By contacts made and tips exchanged.
He'd play for dances and soirees,
For costumed balls and matinees.
That evening as they left the train
He had but little time left free,
Enough to Lev accompany
Before he'd leave to entertain.
His waking hours were the night,
When for his bread he'd needs recite.
An omnibus ran from the square
Direct to Paris' upper part --
Haussmann, l'Étoile, Avenue Kleber,
And then the Avenue Mozart.
"Ah Lev, the world's a different place
Outside of Petersburg's embrace;
The Paris Russians so revere
Is but a shade of all that's here.
Within the city's civic parts
The so-called grand arrondissements,
Are layered all those smaller haunts
Which, known as ‘quarters', have their hearts.
What, for my trade, could one more want
Than Paris' seizième arrondissement?
"When I arrived a year ago,
My family had arrangements made
So that my patrons might well know
That I was worthy of their trade.
Good Russian friends, whom we've long known,
And whose three children long are grown,
Are bored their time each year to spend
In constant wait for winter's end.
They keep in France a place apart
In Paris' finest neighborhood,
Along the Bois de Boulogne's wood
Just off the Avenue Mozart.
They much prefer the Paris light
To Russia's sullen, wintry night.
"Their lodgings occupy a floor
Within a seven-story house,
Providing ample space for four,
Or eight, if shared with wife or spouse.
A large salon and banquet room
Serve to dispel the winter's gloom.
As family friend I'm taken in
And earn my keep with violin.
They come and go quite at their will
And often leave for months on end.
My function is their place to tend,
Which, in its turn, my needs fulfill.
Of all the months throughout the year,
They spend no more than several here.
"With my arriving just as you,
They took great pains to help me start
And made me known to their milieu
As one adept in music's art.
Through further luck I found a group
Which served my spirits to recoup:
The friendship group Club France-Russie
Links emigrés of pedigree;
Through them I have connections laid
With other families well endowed,
Who of their Russian roots are proud
And long to hear its music played.
They find the Paris music trite
And lacking Slavic appetite.
"I'm known in the community
Of Russians who in Paris live,
Comprising both nobility
And those who deference to them give.
Within this group, musicians thrive
And deftly by their wits survive;
Connections are the needed guide,
A means of living to provide.
I've taken on the modest role
Of forming groups for string quartets
And harmonies and brass quintets
And large ensembles in the whole.
To contract work I've set my hand
And find myself in great demand.
"And that's why you, my friend, will find
This place will on your talent feed;
I need someone of Russian mind
Who can both play and players lead.
The Paris season's at its height
With music called for every night;
The cream of Petersburg is here
And craves for music for its ear.
Salon music is of a sort
That should amuse but not offend;
The social sorts who fêtes attend
Rely upon it for support.
The music fills those awkward gaps
When hostesses most fear a lapse.
"As music it may lack finesse
And for the ages poorly serve,
But for the moment, nonetheless,
It soothes the Gallic social nerve.
But look ... l'Étoile, Champs Élysées,
That which in France defines cachet!
The grand apartments that you see
Cry out for players such as we.
I have inquiries every day,
Through Russian patrons of our group,
That families of cinq-cent repute
Would have us for their evenings play;
And since our efforts are well-paid,
We need fresh blood to fuel our trade.
"Our instrumental retinue
As competent can easily pass,
But for the uppermost milieu
One must have those of solo class.
A hostess of Parisian taste
Will plan her evening without haste;
Musicians who her pleasure serve
Must hold their talents in reserve.
In conversation's normal mode
The music should banal appear,
But should an awkward silence rear
The hostess nods in silent code:
The common sounding string quartet
Must now a solo work beget.
"And then there is that Eastern touch
That Russian music seems to hold.
The ‘mighty handful' still has much
That seems exotic, lean, and bold:
One hears the Roman Korsakov
And Borodin and Glazunov,
And in our own community --
Balákirev, Moussorsky, Cui.
Tchaikovsky is, of course, much sought:
It never hurts to have at hand
Some snippets at your quick command,
By which applause is easily bought.
Ah, but mon cher, I rattle on,
Forgetting quite your tired yawn."
Lev had indeed a certain lapse
Of concentration undergone,
Which Feldtman might excuse perhaps
Of one whose strength had long withdrawn.
The journey had its toll made known,
And Feldtman's voice seemed but a drone.
Descending Avenue Mozart,
They watched the omnibus depart.
The neighborhood through which they'd walk
Was of an elegance discreet;
The wrought-iron gates along the street
Drew passers-by who came to gawk.
The building to which Feldtman turned
Would by such viewers not be spurned.
That day for Lev passed as a dream
To which he'd later on look back,
For certain days in life redeem
The memories that others lack.
The foreignness that he had felt
Was now the foot at which he knelt.
The lodgings at which they arrived
Seemed from a fairy tale contrived:
The owners' Russian Slavic taste
Was dipped in Gallic rococo
With gold and lace-embroidered show,
Which all the rooms' appointments graced.
Lev shrugged and smiled and found his bed
As garbled French besieged his head.
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