"A Shadowed Dance" is a book written by Bruce Craig in the form of a narrative, using a classical sonnet form. The third chapter is given below in its entirety:
Chapter 3 Babette
Lev had in Auer's company
The basic threads of German learned;
Though mindful of adversity,
To German syntax he had turned.
But French to him was still unknown,
A sort of Gallic monotone.
He had, of course, its odd-shaped sound
In musical notation found,
But otherwise was quite naive.
Now he must orient his mind
The nasal sounds by French defined
With those he knew to interleave.
But from what was and from what is,
That choice could be no longer his.
Survivors share a common stock
Which binds their fate as though by kin;
The strength that holds their step in lock
Comes from a seed found deep within.
That seed responds to light direct
On that which we call intellect,
And to that sometimes feeble light
Respond those few whose inner might
Resists through obstinance to fail
Those tests of life which one by one
The less strong-willed among us shun,
Oppressed by magnitude of scale.
But only those who fear refuse
Can life's travails in sum amuse.
The days that followed soon were blurred
By foreign sounds with Russian mixed;
The pot in which Lev's life was stirred
Seemed all his roots to set unfixed.
Forced now to call upon his friend
For all on which he must depend,
He felt his tongue as impotent,
A clumsy, useless instrument.
But soon he joined in Feldtman's clique,
Resolved to make himself of use,
And finding also good excuse
His native tongue to freely speak.
A month passed by as though a day,
And gropingly he felt his way.
What Feldtman had to Lev described
Was accurate in every way;
The patrons who to him subscribed
Had ample need for him to play.
As Lev now entered this routine
He marveled at the change of scene.
Each evening, should he so desire,
His instrument could be for hire.
The scene was wholly artificial:
A private world of wealth and leisure
In which one's worth held vulgar measure,
But in surroundings quite official.
In such a world, the status quo
Revealed itself in cameo.
Though Feldtman shared Lev's company,
They differed in their social class;
While Feldtman roots were bourgeoisie
Lev's own stemmed from the peasant mass.
He could perhaps a week or two
In Feldtman's lodgings well make do,
But quickly felt a need to find
A place more suited to his kind.
He broached the subject gingerly,
To which his friend both shrugged and scoffed,
But in the end, with gesture soft,
Made known to Lev that he'd agree.
Without offending Feldtman's wish
Lev sought his own more private niche.
But how does one a lodging find
When one does not the means possess?
For, an apartment of the kind
Where Feldtman lived was wild excess;
And Feldtman, although good in heart,
Was helpless in this simple art.
Lev found of aid, surprisingly,
The friendship group Club France-Russie.
Though Lev was not of pedigree,
He found within it kindred souls
Who valued cultures many roles,
Against all probability.
They understood how one must nurse
A sometimes underfunded purse.
In hopes some rumor might appear,
Concerning lodgings just come free,
Lev poised himself with ready ear
In search of opportunity.
But from the air a room to pluck,
Required more than modest luck,
And each time, hurrying to some door,
He'd find some other there before.
For Paris had just then, of late,
A somewhat curious disease
In which it vainly tried to squeeze
Into itself a mass too great.
The crowded buildings seemed a curse,
Constructed oddly in reverse.
The European courtyard style
In which grand buildings find their form
Relies upon the builder's guile
That size and shape to space conform.
The blocks that form an older street
Are in their way long obsolete:
The narrow buildings back-to-back
Can sometimes form an awkward stack.
With face without and court within
The grand apartments face the street;
The courtyard as a cool retreat
Provides a shield from noise and din.
But in that courtyard's quiet soil,
Lives pass in long domestic toil.
The servants' back-court stairwells wind
From courtyard to the highest floors,
Some seven levels, well designed
For access to the service doors.
The metal stairway is exposed
And not, like that inside, enclosed.
The top-most floors consist of rooms
In which are housed both maids and grooms.
These lodgings serve a dual end:
Their occupants are close at hand
On instant call at one's command,
Yet on their lodging can depend.
Such rooms for rent are often found:
The chambre de bonne of French renown.
A Paris family quite near by
Sought Russian lessons to arrange,
And posted notice to apply
With chambre de bonne in part exchange.
The family was as odd perceived,
Convinced world peace could be achieved.
Idealistic in belief,
They sought a balm for Europe's grief,
But not without religion's plea,
Which in their lives tradition played:
The wife's own uncle's worldly trade
Was Catholic Bishop -- l'Évêque de Paris.
Their dream was that through God-sent grace
Gauls, Slavs, and Teutons would embrace.
It was to this unlikely house
That Lev was drawn by random chance,
Content whatever to espouse
That would improve his circumstance.
The family numbered three in all:
According to their protocol
Each family should itself replace,
With only one to fill that space.
The father was a bureaucrat,
Well-placed in civil service rank;
His wife could private tutors thank
For all which in her head now sat.
Their alliance seemed pre-arranged
In ways from age-old times unchanged.
Their daughter was of age nineteen
And had attended private schools;
She spoke in German as routine
And studied Russian grammar rules.
She planned her skills to utilize
In efforts peace to realize,
And to this end had planned throughout
Her education's chosen route.
Of pleasant mien and ready smile,
She could as liberal well pass,
Though privileged and of middle class,
Extremes she sought to reconcile.
She hoped her Russian to perfect
And learn a pleasing dialect.
When Lev an active interest showed,
An interview for tea was set;
The family's surname was Malaud,
The student daughter was Babette.
Because Lev's French was all but nil,
He asked his friend that role to fill
And lend perhaps a polished touch
Where poise and manners count as such.
They gathered at the time agreed
And chatted over tea and cake;
Lev sat and smiled and worked to make
Himself appear of bourgeois seed.
The daughter's intellect was sure,
But in her Russian insecure.
Now Lev was of that northern blend
Whose Slavic traits to women speak,
Whose slightly Tartar lines extend
To facial features sympathique.
His eyes were of a limpid gray,
Both soft and sparkling in their play.
Few women could the urge resist
To probe beneath their surface mist.
But Lev was well aware that such
Could to his disadvantage work,
For in the minds of parents lurk
A fear which on such features touch.
Despite their hospitality
He sensed a lack of empathy.
The conversation was polite,
But soon the matter was made clear:
His hosts wished one who in their sight
Could unencumbered persevere.
Monsieur Malaud tried to explain
Without inflicting unmeant pain,
While Feldtman as interpreter
Was forced to play the messenger.
But Lev himself was not afraid
To use his skills to make his way;
The talents that within him lay
Were all he had to ply his trade.
He smiled and folded his serviette
And spoke in Russian to Babette.
"I see about me certain signs
That music in this house is played:
The quarto volumes on whose spines
Composers' names in gold are laid;
The open music on the shelf
Appears to be from Bach himself;
From here the notes are not quite clear,
But is that not Bist du bei mir?"
The open piano held indeed
Bach's well-known short soprano piece
In which clavier accompanies
The Magdalena notebook lied.
(And framed nearby in filigree,
Babette sat playing pensively.)
And then as though the Gods had smiled,
Lev saw upon a shelf within
The instrument which, as a child,
Babette had used as violin:
An ancient half-sized box and bow
On which she'd played quite long ago.
"Could I perhaps?" Lev said and rose
And pointed toward its dusty pose;
Monsieur Malaud's determined speech
Was interrupted in its flow,
But as Lev raised the tiny bow,
He shrugged at this informal breech.
Engaged in such an awkward cause,
Perhaps he welcomed now a pause.
Lev gently tuned the balky strings
And looked inquiringly at Babette,
"Perhaps while in the way of things,
We might play through some small duet?"
Babette replied with charming smile,
"Monsieur, my playing is without guile;
My skills are much too imprecise
To burden ears with that device."
Lev looked surprised, then realized
She thought he meant the violin,
Which he then tucked beneath his chin
And on the thema improvised.
Her mouth fell open in delight
That box and bow could thus recite.
Now Lev had struck indeed a chord
Which could his chances well renew,
For music in this house was Lord
And to its sound disciples drew.
Madame Malaud was strong in voice,
With Schubert lieder being her choice;
Her light soprano matched in grace
Monsieur Malaud's quite pleasant bass.
Babette had once tried bow and string
Till youthful patience met its match,
Replacing its quite mournful scratch
With keyboard's far more tempered ring.
She loved the sound of harmony
And songs which she'd accompany.
As Feldtman saw this come about,
He quickly entered in the fray
And pulled the piano bench half out
And gestured to Babette to play.
She smiled in jest, coquettishly,
But quickly joined Lev's company.
Madame Malaud already hummed,
While on the chair her fingers drummed.
Monsieur Malaud at first delayed,
Uncertain what might be his choice,
But soon took up the solo voice
While Lev in obligato played.
And Feldtman laughingly gave cue:
"Vous qui aimez Bach, chantez avec nous!"
They played the Bach and then devised
To sing a rustic French duet;
And as they sang, Lev improvised,
Observing tasteful etiquette.
For during his not yet lengthy stay,
He'd seen the Paris mind at play
And knew the rules one must observe
Their cool approval to deserve.
And as the music found its close,
The breathless pleasure that they shared
Their now less fragile bond repaired
And gave to Lev a fresh repose.
"Mon cher," enthused Monsieur Malaud,
"Vouz êtes vraiment bien comme il faut!"
Indeed, Lev's simple sleight of hand
Had won for him his chambre de bonne,
Although the overall demand
Perhaps exceeded what he'd done.
But, nonetheless, quite satisfied,
He found in it a simple pride,
And felt a little more at rest,
As though he'd passed some vaunted test.
Acceptance in a foreign land
Is sometimes measured by a nod
From passers-by whose native sod
One tries in vain to understand.
The slightest smile can lift the heart
As though in mighty counterpart.
Lev soon began his day to set
And found a comfort in routine.
His role as tutor to Babette
Defined a schedule unforeseen:
He'd spend an hour once each day
In Russian drills and language play,
While trying to make the Russian tongue
Appear as though to music sung.
This can, of course, a smile beget,
Since to the native Gallic ear
The sounds of Russian can appear
To less than musical effect.
But youth is to such things immune
And can its ear with ease attune.
His evenings were, of course, quite filled
With matters of priority,
But once each month these all were stilled
To spend an evening en famille.
So that all might participate,
Madame Malaud would orchestrate
A soirée musicale intime
Adhering to a programmed theme.
It could be Fauré, Bach, or Brahms
Or light Italian opera airs,
Or, when the days of Saints were theirs,
They'd play and sing from sacred psalms.
It was from this quite charmed milieu
Lev's later love of opera grew.
Ignoring now, to tell the truth,
The worries of Monsieur Malaud
Pertaining to Lev's tender youth
And of the dangers it might hold,
It may be better to pursue
The tale which from Lev's letters drew,
From which will come in quite due time
The twists through which such stories climb.
Suffice it to remind one's self
That in the Gallic middle class
Revolves a ponderous, bourgeois mass
Which cycles fixed upon itself.
A father's faith could trust to chance
The sheer inertia of that dance.
For in Babette's strong family ties
Was grounded her philosophy,
Determined both in breadth and size
By middle-class doxology.
Despite her liberal beliefs
Her goals were bound to worldly griefs,
Whose brutal side she countered best
Through family ties by love expressed.
Quite independent of her peers,
She found in family a support
Which no outsider could distort
And which she'd known throughout her years.
Monsieur Malaud could well, indeed,
Upon that sense of nurture feed.
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