Encore (15 page)

“Please sit down, Boris Vassilievitch,” she countered. “The pleasure is mine, I assure you.” She seemed stiff, but he knew that she was shy, and when she smiled he felt renewed confidence. “How is your father?” she asked politely.

“Papa is fine, and begs to be remembered to you. He sends you a basket filled with compliments and eulogies, to be delivered by me.”

“How charming, Boris Vassilievitch! Now tell me, what is troubling you? How can I be of help?” She leaned forward ever so slightly, and he thought, She cannot break through her reserve, but she tries.

“I have come to Your Majesty on behalf of some friends of mine,” he said. “You have always been such a balletomane—so has the entire Imperial Family, of course.” He watched carefully as his innocent words registered on her. Then he proceeded: “There is to be a benefit performance at the Mariinsky, on the twenty-first of this month. It was to be a new ballet,
Nuits d'Egypte,
choreographed by young Fokine, with designs by some excellent people, among them a painter called Riazhin with whom you are probably not yet familiar. One of the dancers is a good friend, but she is eighteen and impetuous. In defending this ballet, she managed to insult Matilda Felixovna. It was all so innocent, I assure you! She feels absolutely miserable about it!”

“Indeed.” Alexandra Feodorovna sat gravely looking at Boris. She did not betray her emotions. “Please continue, Boris Vassilievitch,” she simply said.

“To shorten this tale of youthful woe, our young
coryphée
has been suspended for the duration of the month and fears that her brilliant career will stop before really beginning. She is talented, Your Majesty. She is as good as Karsavina—and such a considerate person, too. But Mala is adamant—her pride has been wounded. It also seems she may talk Teliakovsky into canceling
Nuits d'Egyþte
altogether.”

He stopped, tactfully. Alexandra Feodorovna was pensive, abstracted. “Yes,” she said at length,
“Nuits d'Egypte.
Our uncle, the Grand-Duke Vladimir, told me that you had traveled to Egypt and India to purchase marvelous materials for the costumes and sets of this ballet. I should be distressed to learn that your trip was in vain. But tell me: Who is this young ballerina in whom you have taken such an interest? Have I seen her perform?”

“You may have, Your Majesty. Her name is Natalia Oblonova. She—”

“Why yes, Oblonova! Little Aspitchia! She is graceful and nervous as a springtime doe. I do remember her. She was also in
Le Pavilion d'Armide,
the
pas de trois
with that remarkable young man, Nijinsky. Two very unusual dancers, and both so very young.” She paused. “I shall speak with my husband and my uncle. Surely so great a dancer as Matilda Felixovna can choose to overlook such a peccadillo. I can promise nothing, of course. But I hope, Boris Vassilievitch, that Natalia Oblonova will be most grateful to you for intervening on her behalf. Not every dancer can boast of such a devoted patron.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Not every patron can boast of the sympathy of such a gracious monarch.” He rose after her, and bowed once again over her proffered hand. She gave him a brief half-smile and accompanied him to the door of the receiving room.

“Boris Vassilievitch,” she said clearly, “you behaved in a most cruel fashion toward your wife. I was disappointed in you. I would have thought that you, of all men, would have been kinder. Why, I have received Marguerite Stepanovna in my own chambers, and I do not believe that she is more than nervous, poor thing. I do not think she possesses the strains of insanity within her.”

Boris bowed again. “I hope for her sake you are right in your charity, Your Majesty. But I had grave doubts, which disturbed me greatly, and I had to think of possible children. One can hardly bear to imagine the guilt incurred by those who pass on, or allow their spouses to pass on, bad blood.”

The Tzarina inclined her beautiful head of gold-red hair. “I had not thought of the situation under such a light,” she remarked. She smiled. “I shall not forget our talk, Boris Vassilievitch.”

Natalia was summoned once again to General Teliakovsky's office, but this time he smiled at her benevolently. “Matilda Felixovna tells me that in her concern she may have misinterpreted a momentary nervousness on your part and overblown it. You are a sweet girl, Natalia Dmitrievna, and a responsible member of the Ballet. I feel that if you tell me you are not suffering from strain, then I can trust your own evaluation. You will take two days' rest, to make certain that all is well. Then, you will resume your rehearsals. Lopokhova and Pavlova will give you back the roles that were yours to begin with.”

Healthy color rose to Natalia's cheeks. “I am infinitely thankful,” she murmured. “I shall not disappoint your faith in me.”

“Indeed not. But I shall not rescind your fine. After all, you cannot lose your head in my presence and question my fairness. I did what I thought was best, as I am doing now. The fine, you understand, is a matter of principle.”

Natalia cried, “Yes, of course, and I am sorry!” but she thought: Who cares about the five rubles? Money is only money, but I am to dance, and that is everything to me! She bowed her head, curtsied, and left. How different today was from the last time she had been called to Teliakovsky's office!

On Natalia's way out of the theatre, an elegant figure nearly collided with her. It was Matilda Felixovna Kchessinskaya. Natalia looked aside, but the other woman placed a cool hand on her arm. “Ah, Natashka, Natashka,” she said. “What a pretty child you are. Let us be friends, shall we? For I do admire you, I do!” Her beautiful eyes twinkled. “You are almost as good a dancer as I was at your age,' she said, and then her gaze hardened. “But never forget that I am not your age.” She walked away, and Natalia shivered slightly in her shadow.

Natalia closed the door of her small room and sat down at the secretary, tears in her eyes. She took out her pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and began to write on the crisp white paper:

She raised her head, swallowing her unshed tears. Then she folded the note and began another.

“Dear Boris Vassilievitch,” this one read,

Your generous intervention has brought me back to grace. However can I thank you? I am not adept with words, but I shall dance for you, that you may know for whom you pleaded. Your most grateful Natalia Oblonova.

The sun gleamed copper on the horizon, and she rolled down the top of her secretary. Slowly she went into the little drawing room and fetched a hard backed chair. She removed her shoes, then stepped on the seat of the chair and reached up to the wall. Her frail fingers closed around the edges of a painting frame, and she took it down, turned the canvas to the wrong side, and wedged it between a bookcase and the door.

I have never been a dreamer, she thought, and went out, carrying the letters.

N
atalia did not receive
an answer from Pierre. His anger upon receiving the note was profound and violent, like an \unleashed deluge. He uttered a wild cry land tore the paper in half, then hurled dish after dish of his inexpensive plate ware against his bedroom wall. His j face was congested, purple, and the muscles in his neck stood out, taut and ‘swollen. As much as he had loved her, he now hated her—with passion and abandon. At the gala of
Nuits d'Egypte
he saw her. His black eyes bored into her face, mesmerizing her, so that she could not look away from the pure hatred in them. All his humanity, all his gentleness, seemed to have been drained away and replaced by untold bitterness.

She had spent the first few days fighting the hope that he would disregard her words and come to her. She had known the persistent, insistent lover Pierre. She had not guessed at the implacability of the vindictive, rejected Pierre. Now she finally encountered him and shuddered:
She
had done this to him. But even then, at the back of her mind, she thought: There is still time. If I go to him now, he will accept me again, he will forgive me. But she could not. Her dramatic, pathetic Tahor, betrayed by Amoun for Cleopatra, was magnificent. Why must men make me suffer so in my roles? she wondered, and did not go to Pierre. In her dancing, part of the pain in her own heart showed through, and she felt sublimated, almost whole again. Later she asked herself whether her frenzied desire to achieve had not removed her from the very pulse of life—but her answer always confirmed the Tightness of her decision. She could accept love, revel in it, but it would kill her if she did not then retreat from its total immersion, to protect her innermost self.

One night late in April Count Boris Kussov invited her to dine with him at the restaurant Medvyed, in one of the private rooms off the elegant gallery. This was not the first time she had supped with him. He was a gracious, witty host, and his attentions were flattering to a woman as young and unworldly as Natalia. She sharpened her own mind on his, and he appeared to take pleasure in teaching her the finer points of culture that endowed life with a softer, gilt-edged finish. She questioned him freely. He was a cynic and thus appreciated her own view of the world, her unabashed distrust in Providence, her boundless curiosity, her keen intelligence. They talked. That these were never personal talks did not detract from the agreeable quality of their conversations.

Yet each was wary of the other. She sensed that a game was being played, recalling Pierre's statement of months before, that his mentor lived by controlling the souls of others. Boris realized that Natalia was not merely a good dancer, a provincial girl whose head could be turned in an instant. He could understand now why Pierre had loved and wanted her. She was bright, sensitive—and strangely wise. If he were to manipulate her for his own purpose, he would have to use the utmost finesse. And in so doing, he was prepared to enjoy himself.

That evening Natalia appeared more striking than usual. She wore a very simple gown of emerald green, which heightened the delicacy of her features and figure. Boris thought, If only Marguerite had resembled her. The tiny breasts, the firm body. There was nothing loose-skinned, flaccid, or colorless about her except her pale complexion. He remembered his first impression of her in the corridor of the Mariinsky: She had brought to mind a young boy, a proud Athenian youth. She wore pearls—his pearls—at the throat and ears. “I shall have to give you some emeralds,” he said lightly.

“Oh, no, Boris Vassilievitch. People already exchange naughty thoughts about us. Everyone in the Ballet seems to be observing us.”

He laughed, throwing back his graceful, golden head. “And this disturbs you?”

“I would much prefer being linked to your name than to be thought the illegitimate daughter of a country servant,” she said, smiling. “But some people are envious. In a sense you have become my unofficial patron. You spoil me. Your other friends in the Ballet feel that you are forgetting them because of me. I am only an upstart, you see.”

The waiter entered, bearing an enormous platter covered with a silver dome, which he removed. “Pheasant!” Natalia cried.

“Yes. I am to leave Petersburg soon, and so I thought we should celebrate before then.” He smiled at her, his odd half-smile that meant that in some manner he was making fun—of her, or of himself. They were silent while the waiter served them. A wine steward entered during the proceedings and wheeled in a small tray with a bucket and champagne. “Always take the
brut
, Natalia,” Boris advised paternally. “When you give your first reception, don't forget that. Dry champagne is cloying to the palate and not really ‘dry' at all!”

“And besides, it's
déclassé,”
she added impishly.

They were alone again. “Well, yes,” he agreed, pretending bashfulness. “But look—I was telling you about my trip. I am going with the opera singers to Paris. Diaghilev is exporting
Boris Godunov
and Chalapin. The painting exhibit was so well received that he and Nouvel wanted to bring Russian music to France this season.”

She looked into the translucent champagne glass in her hand. Of course, she is wondering about Pierre, Boris thought. “It is stupid to pine for him,” he commented acerbically.

Her head flew up, startled. For a moment she said nothing, blood rushing to her cheeks in embarrassment. How did he know? Had Pierre told him? Then she shrugged, admitting defeat. “I was thinking, he will be accompanying you, won't he?” she murmured simply. “I can't help it,” she added. “Sometimes, I do think of him.”

“I don't know what happened between you, but I do know this: He certainly is not wasting
his
time thinking of you!”

Natalia started. She looked at Boris with amazement. Her fork, laden with roast pheasant and truffles, remained in mid-air between the table and her parted lips. “What a cruel man you can be, Boris Vassilievitch!” she said at length.

“Not cruel, realistic. You and Pierre Riazhin would be ridiculous together, with nothing to add to each other. Let's face it, sweet girl: You are both immensely talented in your own fields, but apart from that,
c'est tout.
Neither one of you possesses sufficient clout to help the other. Both of you need rich patrons, people of influence. If he can make a princess fall in love with him, it will boost his career. As for you, the upward climb will be easier. Society dandies adore ballerinas. You must simply learn how to take advantage of that. You are a Crimean nobody, and Pierre, the son of an obscure vine grower in the Caucasus. Your decision not to pursue this relationship—”

“How did you know that the decision was mine?” she asked.

“I guessed it. Pierre does not discuss you with me. I regret to tell you that there are other matters on his mind these days.”

“You make everything sound so ugly, Boris Vassilievitch!” she cried. “But there was never any relationship. He is free to consort with whomever he pleases. Why should I care? I do not want a binding union with any man. Perhaps you are right: Pierre Riazhin and I would not bring each other good luck. But still, you make talent seem so unimportant compared with connections. I don't agree. A woman does not need a famous lover to be lifted to fame. That is an antiquated notion.”

“As you wish,” Boris replied lightly. “You had wanted to learn whether Pierre would go to Paris with us: Yes, naturally. For him it will be a vacation this time. Perhaps one day soon, I shall take
you
to France. It is a sublime country, filled with charm, though not a grand country, such as our own, or a precious, intricate, fragile one, such as Italy. France is beauty, France is grace. I suppose that sums her up: grace inherent. You must enjoy her wine country, her châteaux, her rivers—and Paris, of course.”

“Yes. Someday I should like to travel. But Petersburg is probably as far as I shall go. From the Crimea, it seems like China!”

They ate in silence after that. She was thinking: Surely for some women love can coexist with selfhood. But not for such a nobody from the Crimea. She thought of Paris, her dreams of it and paintings she had seen of it. Boris Vassilievitch possessed it all: the taste, the wealth, the connections. But for her—and for Pierre—life was a constant struggle.

Boris went over bitterly what he had thought almost three years before: that his own soul was empty, bereft of the creative gift. This exquisite young girl would be remembered by posterity—but who would give due credit to the patron behind the scenes? Dear God, each time I hope to attain release, and lose it before ever finding it, he said inwardly.

There was a gentle knock on the door of the intimate cubicle in which they sat. A
maître d'hôtel
appeared. “Someone to see you, Excellency,' he announced, covertly examining Natalia. A man's shape filled the doorway. He entered behind the
maître d
^'
hôtel.
Natalia saw his tall, well-built frame, the monocle, the trim mustache, and the lock of white hair in the dark head. She had seen him before. As he strode to embrace Boris, she recognized him.

“Join us for a cognac,” Boris said gayly. “Tell me, Serge, do you know Natalia? My dear,” he addressed the young woman, “this is Serge Pavlovitch Diaghilev. Serge, Natalia Dmitrievna Oblonova.”

Diaghilev smiled and bowed gracefully over her hand. They were two of a kind, she said to herself, one blond, one dark, both with infinite charm. “But of course, I would know her anywhere,” he murmured to Boris. “I have been watching her since she danced the Sugar Plum Fairy. In fact,” he added, “it was she I first noticed tonight, when you both walked into the gallery. When somebody eclipses you, Borya—need I say more?”

Natalia smiled, wanly. She still did not know how to receive a compliment with poise. Flattery sat ill with her. Never having received it as a child, it was still too new, too foreign. She watched Diaghilev and Boris. So this, then, was the man who had been Teliakovsky's rival for the position of director of the Imperial Theatres. Pierre admired the man, found him alternately charming and harsh, encouraging and manipulative. He was a genius at putting together artistic endeavors, much as Boris was one at finding new talent.

She listened to the two men, sitting in her chair, her back upright, her long neck straight and graceful. There was so little for her to say! Then she recalled something. “Serge Pavlovitch,” she said, “you have been planning this season of opera for a long time now, haven't you? I can remember hearing Boris Vassilievitch talking about it months ago. Why has Russian music been so slow to spread to Western Europe? The Italian opera is well known here, and the French troupe comes every winter for a season of plays at the Mikhailovsky. Boris Vassilievitch says that countries, like people, are vain—that cultures want to conquer one another. Why have we Russians remained such an enclave unto ourselves?”

“There was never a Serge Pavlovitch to bridge the gap,” Diaghilev replied, his eyes twinkling at her.

Boris raised his glass to her.
“Ma chère,
how you have changed since that conversation! Imagine, Serge—Natalia was most angry with me. She assured me that Russian opera would do very well without spreading anywhere—that we did not need France. Now she wonders why we didn't go there sooner!”

Natalia blushed, suddenly feeling awkward and out of place. But Serge Diaghilev remarked, draining his own glass: “We were all like that in the beginning. Boris is cruel. He was a born and bred Petersbourgeois, whereas I only came here for law school—which, naturally, I abandoned for more interesting vistas! We are all parochial at first. I only enjoyed the music of Glinka and Glazunov! How mercilessly my better-rounded friends teased me! But, Borya, to a man or woman from a smaller province, the capital itself seems a foreign country. Doesn't it, Natalia Dmitrievna?”

She nodded. “Boris Vassilievitch was telling me about Paris. I do not think I shall ever go there. As you said, Serge Pavlovitch, St. Petersburg seems a cosmos in itself to someone like me. Still

“Still,” Diaghilev said, “I would not close my mind to the West if I were you.”

Both men regarded her intently for a moment, and, embarrassed and confused, she glanced at her hands, at the roses on the table. She felt she had made a bad impression, that the emerald dress was too stark. She wished Diaghilev would go away now and that Boris would leave her alone. She did not belong with men like these.

When the Mariinsky season ended, and Natalia was given her new contract for her second year, she received a shock: She had been promoted to solo dancer of the second degree. Old Enrico Cecchetti, who ran the classes for the soloists, said to her: “We shall have to work together on the
port de bras, carina.
Much, much work. Do not pay attention to your admirers—too much admiration is as bad for a young ballerina as excessive criticism. It dulls one's perception of one's own work.” She smiled at him: To be trained by him was in itself an honor. She was the youngest of the official soloists.

The long, hot summer stretched before her. Katya graduated and would enter the
corps de ballet
in the fall. Meanwhile, there was little to do in the suffocating city. Lydia was going to Poland on tour with a small group of dancers. Natalia thought: I am betwixt and between. No one is offering me anything. I have gone beyond the
corps
but am not yet a soloist—and so, I fit in no touring company. No one knows me well enough to like me; they think I'm too reserved. I don't fit in anywhere: I am not a lady, and I am not a star. Yet, I am no longer a nobody. She felt proud of that. There were times now when someone would recognize her—not yet by name, but from some previous role.

She caught herself thinking of Pierre. The glow of her small successes, of her promotion, had heightened her awareness of life. She wondered if he would ever forgive her, if any other man would ever touch her. She wondered about Boris: What did he want with her? What was he doing in Paris? She felt small, inconsequential and unwanted. Boris was not really her patron. True, he had intervened in her behalf and escorted her to fashionable restaurants. But he was Pierre's patron. He was taking Pierre, not her, to France—for the second time. Then the full weight of her nothingness fell upon her, staggering her. Perhaps, she wondered miserably, she would always be dull, ugly, strange little Natasha.