My Mother no longer mentioned him. His absence had become a routine in our lives. And as Springs turned to Summers, and then early Falls brought on harsh Winters… and one year melted to the next, his memory faded to a mirage. Did my Father really exist? Ever?
My older Sister had memories that perhaps cut deeper into her mind. But there came the time that even she kept these memories locked away for safekeeping and not to be shared… at least with me. It was our unwritten code not to bring him up.
She retreated to her piano. I, to my drawing.
*****
For our younger Sister it was harder to tell. She kept to practicing her letters. She was quite young when he was taken from us. Maybe she was the lucky one… lucky for not knowing him as well. Not to know his strength. Not to remember the depth of his voice. Not to hear his words and ideas. Not to understand the passion he possessed.
These were qualities that I could but barely taste at a young age; but would eventually develop a fuller appreciation as I added years to my life.
My Mother seemed to drift between the present and someplace else. The vacancy she felt remained largely hidden from view, although I suspect that Anna our housekeeper knew, and maybe Sasha, the fieldman, too.
It was said that few ever returned; but when Anna opened the door to the parlor that afternoon, and he walked in… I knew that my Father had returned… even if my little Sister was afraid.
In 1884 Ilya Repin finished his painting The Unexpected Return.
I saw that canvas in the Tretyakov Gallery in Moscow in 1969 and again in 1970. I absolutely adored the canvas. I loved the way the painting told a story… Repin captured the present; but it was built on the past… and it would lead to a future. Rather than words, he used a brush to weave his tale. A story of an exile returned home.
Repin was also a renown painter of portraits… his subjects read like a who’s who list of Russian Society. But it was in “story telling” that he excelled… paintings done in grand scale… each person a careful study in expression.
Of the technical merits of the painting I am not qualified to render an authoritative opinion.
I do like his use of light and shadow. And from the sensual perspective, there is something about the young girl’s attitude that sets the spirit of the painting. She is young… look how her feet dangle, how they are crossed in a youthful way… how she is leaned into the table… apprehensive of who has just entered the room. Who is this?
Look how she is in highlight, her Brother in shadow… even the Father is mostly shadow. This is her experience. She will be the one to put the story of her Father’s Siberian exile to words one day.
