The Ocean Liner

Santa Barbara

The guest cottage at Santa Barbara was their weekend refuge, and they relished the drive up from the sprawling, grimy tangle of Los Angeles. The Sachses had provided a good piano in the living room, and Stravinsky could compose here, which was what he usually did every Saturday and Sunday morning. But Sundays at noon were reserved for Mother Russia.

Stravinsky closed the lid of the piano, and with his cigarette-holder clamped in his teeth, searched for the fresh box of pins which he had brought up from Los Angeles. He found it in his briefcase, and went with it into the next room.

The large-scale map of Russia had been fastened to a cork board. Coloured pins and lengths of tape marked the progress of the German invasion, which was now in its second month.

That Hitler had suddenly turned on his erstwhile partner in crime, Stalin, had come as a surprise only to the naïve. Between the two nations there was not only a political gulf, with fascism on one side and communism on the other; there were also decades of ancient enmity. The Führer had clearly stated his belief that Russia must be conquered to provide the German people with the living space they required.

It was a campaign being fought with unusual viciousness. The Nazis were waging a rapacious war of extermination and obliteration which would leave nothing behind but naked Russian soil for Germans to repopulate. The Russians were fighting desperately for their very existence.

Stravinsky’s map showed the huge gains which the Nazis had made. If it were the map of a human body, it would show an apparently unstoppable cancer invading the healthy flesh in great swathes; or perhaps a savage beast devouring its prey in gulps, tearing off and swallowing limbs and organs each day.

The German armies had Leningrad, Moscow and Kiev in their sights already, although von Runstedt had encountered fierce resistance in the south. Guderian’s panzers had captured Ostrov, and were almost at the great gates of Kiev. Russia was succumbing to the Blitzkrieg tactics which had annihilated France; and it seemed that nothing could stop Hitler.

Stravinsky switched on the radio and fiddled with the dials until the announcer’s voice faded in. Then, sucking on his cigarette-holder, he sat back to listen to the latest news.

Hearing the radio, Vera came in from the garden and sat on the arm of the chair beside him. She had been sitting in the garden, watching the sea, and he caught the sun-warmed smell of her skin as she leaned on his shoulder.

They had been married for four months. Tumultuous as those months had been, Stravinsky was aware that he had never been happier, might never be so happy again. Vera, his mistress of so many years, was at last his wife. She had brought to his life her stability, her beauty, her magic. Above all, she had brought her healing.

The announcer’s voice drifted in and out of the static, dryly cataloguing the progress of the war in Europe. Stravinsky trusted only the BBC Overseas Service, but reception was sketchy at best. He listened intently. When the news turned to Russia, he got up with his box of pins and went to the map. Yet again, he was forced to push new pins deeper into the bleeding body of the motherland. The Germans had made new advances, conquering almost incredible stretches of territory. Cities, towns, villages, lakes and farmland were now behind German lines.

He moved the coloured ribbons into their new places, watched by Vera’s large and lustrous hazel eyes. His scowl deepened minute by minute. Then something that the announcer said caught his attention. He peered over his long nose at the map and stabbed a point with his finger.

‘Did you hear that?’

‘I heard the usual catalogue of disasters.’

‘No, no, Vera. They have been checked here, at Novgorod, near the lake. The announcer says their troops are exhausted.’ He turned to her, his spectacles flashing triumphantly. ‘They’ve gone too far, too fast. It’s the mistake Napoleon made before them. Now they are depleted, far from their supply lines, overwhelmed by the vastness of the country. Here they will sit to recover; and then the rains will come. And then the snow.’

She was a beautiful, stately woman with a dancer’s fluidity of movement. She slipped down into the armchair he had vacated, crossing her ankles on the arm. She inspected him over her peep-toe wedges. ‘The snow is months away yet, Igor.’

‘But it will come.’ He laid down the box of pins and smacked his fist into the palm of the other hand. ‘By God, it will come. And then we will show these Nazis how Russians can fight.’

She smiled her soft, voluptuous smile. ‘We, Igor? Who is this we? For years you’ve been telling everyone you are French. Then you said America was your home. Now you are suddenly Russian again?’

‘I am French,’ he said, ‘and America is my home.’ He struck his chest. ‘But this is Russian.’

‘Your very nice Argyll sweater? As I recall, it came from Bloomingdales.’

‘My heart. My soul. Why do you mock me?’

‘Only because you have been abusing Russia for the past thirty years. You have been telling everyone it was bad to start with, and the Revolution has made it even worse.’

‘All that is true.’ He came back to her, and they lit the cigarettes which they tried to restrict to five a day. ‘But a man can have only one birthplace, one motherland. And the motherland is the most important circumstance in his life.’ He exhaled a cloud of smoke into the sunlight that streamed through the window. ‘The right to abuse Russia is mine, and mine alone, because Russia is mine and I love it. I give nobody else the right to abuse Russia. Especially not the Nazi swine.’

‘So you are Russian again.’

He gestured at the map, festooned with pins and lines. ‘While this is happening, I am fully Russian again.’ He puffed at his cigarette. ‘I am going to start on a new work.’

‘But, darling, you’ve just finished something very important. You need to rest.’

‘I’ve never felt fitter,’ he retorted. ‘I’m going to write a symphony to celebrate the defeat of Hitler.’

They had a late lunch with their hosts, the banker Arthur Sachs and his charming French wife Georgette, and then were joined by some visitors, including Robert and Mildred Bliss, for whom Stravinsky had written the Dumbarton Oaks Concerto, and Katharine Wolff. By common consent, seeing it was such a lovely afternoon, they drove down to the beach, and walked along the sand in two groups. Stravinsky strolled ahead with the Sachses and the Blisses, while Vera followed with Katharine at a distance.

‘How is he?’ Katharine asked.

‘Very engaged with the war,’ Vera replied. ‘This morning he made quite a speech about being fully Russian.’

‘Is that a good sign?’

‘I think so. It shows that he is becoming sure of his identity again. He is not so—’ She groped for the English word. ‘Épars.’

‘Fragmented.’

‘Yes, exactly. He has been broken in pieces for a long time, I think. And the pieces were all scattered. Now he’s starting to find these pieces of himself in strange places.’

‘Like the war news?’

‘The German invasion of Russia fills him with passion. It enthuses him. It’s almost like a novel or a film to him. You saw the maps, the coloured pins?’

‘I did. It’s very impressive.’

She laughed. ‘You know how methodical he is.’

‘I think he should offer his services to the Allied High Command.’

‘He says he has never felt better. He’s talking about writing a Victory Symphony.’

‘So he’s composing again?’

‘Not only composing, but composing with great facility.’ Vera lowered her voice. ‘Don’t say anything, but he finished the Symphony in C yesterday.’

Katharine threw up her hands. ‘But that’s wonderful. I thought he might never get back to it.’

‘It came like an easy childbirth. Few pangs, few alarms, few hesitations or second thoughts. The music is sad. But he was sad when he conceived it. It’s one of his great works. I see it as his farewell to Europe.’

‘I can’t wait to hear it. Do you know, he gave the original manuscript of the second movement to a young Jewish refugee we met on the boat.’

‘An attractive woman?’ Vera guessed.

‘Not even especially attractive. A nobody whom we will never hear from again.’

‘He is prone to these impulsive acts of generosity. Let us hope she looks after it…’ They walked in silence for a while, the gulls wheeling over their heads. The laughter of the others drifted to them on the breeze. Robert and Georgette Sachs were the centre of a cultured, elegant circle which adored Stravinsky. ‘This place has been a godsend to us,’ Vera went on. ‘Los Angeles is hellish in the summer. But up here we can breathe. Igor wants to buy a house here.’

‘If you need any help or advice, let me know.’

‘Thank you, Katharine.’

‘And what of the Disney film, Fantasia?’

‘They’re still working on it. It’s taking longer than they expected. They say it’s the most ambitious animated film ever attempted. They’re hoping to release it by the end of the year.’

‘Is he still upset about the Rite?’

‘I think he’s dreading what they will do with it. You know how the music was mocked when it was first performed. He doesn’t want to go through anything like that again.’

‘I hope they show it the respect it deserves.’

‘Hollywood is unpredictable. There’s no telling how it will be. He has no control whatsoever.’

Ahead of them, Stravinsky paused and turned. ‘What are you two gossiping about?’ he called.

‘Not about you,’ Vera replied, ‘you can be sure of that.’

‘Then come along,’ he commanded, ‘and don’t dawdle.’

‘You see what I mean?’ Vera said in an undertone. ‘Quite masterful.’

The two women caught up with the rest of the group, and they continued across the beach, over the rocks.