My Countess
Élisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun (1755-1842)
Countess Anna Ivanovna Tolstaya (1796)
Anna, if I may call you that:
Of the many paintings hung, your searing stare stole me,
Though I know not what your story held,
I could tell, those eyes dipped in ink, cut with facets of intrigue—
You were only welcoming to those deserving.
A Countess adorned thin,
Sheer sleeves like tender kindness affectionately draped;
Warm chestnut curls loosely rested.
But that unblinking gaze, a tilt barely-there—
It was that quiet pressure before the rain poured,
Where something taut flickered at the corners of your mouth,
As though hearing a challenge and fanning it away,
Even as it stormed, I knew you would not sway.
I lingered longer, waiting for your voice to reach,
As though even the artist had known of another story—
Lacquered deeply within the gold lay more to be told.
I was rewarded when, suddenly, the footsteps in the gallery faded
And the canvas now pulsed and breathed once more.
In silence, you told me a tale of rebellious feat,
Of mossy rocks embracing a plunge deep,
To rise and show them there were teeth
Beneath
All that was gilt and molded.
I made no mistakes, but I knew those of others
Who would typecast you the moment they knew of your charity,
The moment you held out your hand and smiled.
And you laughed with me—
We knew exactly whose whose interpretation that had been;
Certainly it was not yours,
And I grinned at our shared secret.
“We may have looked kind and sweet,” you whispered,
“but that certainly did not make us weak.
Kindness was only weakness in the wrong hands—
And to hold true was to run as the river ran,
the force of the waterfall within reach.”
Truthfully, though I met Monets and Pisarros that day,
I remembered your heart and defiance above all.
A face, the face, alive with what seemed like contradiction,
With the way you leaned, both open and defensive,
Both curious and judging.
You reminded me, as I gathered poise:
“I offered kindness only to see what you would return—
And should you have proved unworthy,
it was simply your own doing.”
My Countess, as the water sweetly flowed
Behind the veil,
I looked in and saw
only the worthy, and only
The worthy could truly see.
And I as wrote these words tonight,
My desk illuminated by your framed amber light,
I understood why your portrait I aligned:
The truth could cut, even if
It was filled with grace;
And benevolence, when wielded
Could raise walls and
tear down pretense as needed.
You held me in vibrant pigment—quietly, mercifully—
That the kindness I own was not softness,
And my discernment was not cruelty,
But the powerful, steady strength
Of a woman who refused to only endure
What fate had thrown at her, and
Instead stood tall for someone else
So that we could rise in the light
You returned.