Encore (4 page)

“Borya, you are irresponsible. You spend money as if it were limitless, but you seem to forget that you have sisters, and with two more weddings on top of Nina's, there will have to be two other large dowries. Your own income cannot remain the way it is, but your tastes are as extravagant as ever. I have this monstrosity of a household to keep up, as well as the summer estate, and there are the usual expenditures accruing to all members of the imperial court. Already, you have blithely consumed more than half the fortune left to you upon your mother's death. And your artistic friends bleed you dry. How much did that Diaghilev fellow borrow for his Exhibition of Russian Portraits? No, don't tell me: It was a gift, of course, from the bottomless purse of the bountiful Kussovs.” The old count snorted, and his nose twitched. Small red veinules seemed to swell over his cheekbones. “Damn it all, Boris! You will have sons, too, one day, and I shall not have you squander their inheritance before they are even born!
^”

The young man turned around, his face merry. “So that's it! You worry that, as with Pushkin's fisherman, my luxurious predilections will cause the magic fish to turn my palace back into a hovel. But you forget, Papa, that the fisherman started out poor, and that it was his wife's boundless greed that finally irritated the little fish. I have never wished for more than I had; I am not a gambler and have no debts. I merely live well, as we Kussovs have been living since the days of Ivan the Terrible. Am I so different from the sons of your good friends?”

The older man glared at Boris, then puffed silently upon his pipe. “Yes!” he finally stated, his voice rising to a dangerous bellow. “God in heaven, yes! A mistress, even an expensive one—even two expensive ones—can only exact so much per month. But art …! Someone was telling me—I can't for the life of me remember who—that you have a new protégé, yet another one—a young painter this time. And your travels—other men buy baubles, but you! Silks from the Orient, Renaissance paintings, first folios, Meissen figurines—it never ceases. Even Kussov money dwindles down. There is only one solution, for you are my only son and I refuse to beggar my daughters. You must marry, Borya. You must make an advantageous union with a woman of standing who will bring you a considerable dowry. You are too old for bachelorhood.”

Boris was quiet. He fingered his mustache, his beard. “I love you very much, Papa,” he remarked after some thought. “But one no longer weds to please one's father. Isn't that a rather antiquated notion?”

“I am asking for your sake. A dowry would not hurt your extravagance. And …one does not have to deny oneself certain discreet pleasures, my boy. If you loved someone, then all the better. But if you are forming a bond of convenience, there are means of easing the pressures. And those means are augmented by a second fortune.”

“Do you have someone in mind, Papa?”

“Indeed. Do you remember Princess Marguerite Tumarkina, the niece of the provincial governor of Kiev? Her father is an

important sugar plantation owner there, and Marguerite is his only child. I saw her father at the Brianskys' home last night. He asked me pointed questions about you, and from my own inquiries of Count Briansky, I gather that the Prince wishes to find a husband for his daughter.”

“Why can't she find one herself? She must be at least twenty-three. Why does her father travel to the capital to marry her off?”

“He was here to see a minister. Don't be an idiot, Boris. And don't condemn this girl. Kiev does not possess the possibilities of the capital, and surely her father would wish the most advantageous life for her. As for you—you know all the unmarried women in St. Petersburg, yet you have chosen none. Perhaps you should search outside for a suitable bride.”

“I simply do not wish to marry. I have a lovely sister, and would rather be loved by her than by a wife. Besides, I am not without female companions, Papa. Princess Marguerite is thin, nervous, and sickly, from what I remember. Do you not recall the rumors several years ago? She suffered a nervous collapse and was sent to Switzerland. Besides, she upset my constitution when I last saw her. It was when I made that trip across Russia in search of unusual icons—and I visited the provincial governor. Marguerite and I met then. It was quite enough, thank you.”

“She is coming to Petersburg, Borya. Her father is sending her, to enjoy the remainder of the winter season. She is to stay at the Brianskys'. I should appreciate it if you called upon her and took her somewhere. The theatre—wherever. I see in her an excellent possibility. You do not need a flamboyant hostess, for you are sufficiently flamboyant yourself. She is not a bad-looking girl, and her family is excellent. In short, I would be pleased to have her bear your sons. I would have preferred a truly unique woman along the lines of your late mother, a charming, witty beauty, as was the dowager empress in her youth. But short of that, a cultured, aristocratic girl, a bit shy and provincial, will do. The Tumarkin connections cannot hurt a Kussov in court circles, and Nina's Stassov would like that. He does business with Marguerite's father.”

Boris's eyes had half-closed to slits and now the irises shone

between his lashes like bits of blue glass. He had intertwined his fingers so that his hands were gripped together like taut vines. His father regarded him with a scowl that turned into a look of surprise, then of dismay. Boris resembled a carved alabaster statue of compressed anger and restrained force. The two men remained wordless as the flames rose and fell listlessly before them, sending out no warmth.

Then the study door was opening, and a gay female voice filled the room, dispelling the static between father and son. The young woman who greeted her brother filled Boris's nostrils with the perfume of attar of roses.

“Nina!” he cried, seizing her wrists, and she collapsed into his arms, joining him in laughter. Count Vassily closed his eyes, crossed himself in the Orthodox fashion, and touched the wedding ring on his finger as though it were a soothing icon. The flames in the great ebony hearth had subsided to dying embers, and the brass tong stood forgotten near Boris's chair.

N
atalia awakened
in the middle of the night from a vague dream of Christmas trees growing and children playing with life-sized toy soldiers. While she had been dreaming, her conscious voice had spoken out, telling her that the children were only an illusion, that the tree was a fantasy teasing her, that she herself was really in bed, sleeping. She had awakened with a jolt, and now, sitting up, she thought: My God, yes! That is the secret—so simple, after all! We do not have to take
The Nutcracker
seriously, for it was meant to be a dream within a dream, a joke. The spectators all know it is a fairy tale. Then why can't I dance the Sugar Plum as though I am on their side, as though I, too, know I am merely an illusion for their momentary pleasure, for Clara's pleasure? I will be an intelligent, humorous Sugar Plum who enjoys the game while knowing full well that it
is
a game. She could not go back to sleep, although she had often been told that it was essential to rest properly before a performance. She was so excited at the notion of dancing her unusual Sugar Plum that she could not relax. She had never felt so wonderful. In time for the performance, the black, hearselike carriages used to convey dance students from the school to the Mariinsky took Natalia's group the short distance between the two buildings. Natalia and Katya, who was to be an older girl at the Christmas party in the first scene, went to the dressing room reserved exclusively for members of the school. Katya chattered continuously, but Natalia said not a word, her thoughts riveted on the movements that she would have to perform. She put on her costume of pink tulle and her small headdress. A spot of rouge on each cheekbone, and that was that. Natalia fretted, and yet she yearned to feel a part of the Mariinsky, longing for the moment of almost nuptial blending of herself into the company of dancers, when she would cease to be set apart as a student and finally become her true self. Impatiently interrupting Katya, she said: “I must go to the water closet.” Quickly she turned on her heels and left the room, which had begun to oppress her.

Natalia leaned against the door of the students' dressing room and shut her eyes. Red dots moved on the inside of her lids, and her mouth tasted of iron. She looked around and, seeing no one, ran on tiptoes through the corridors of the Mariinsky Theatre, in search of the room where she knew dancers of the
corps de ballet
must be preparing themselves. Now, for the first time, she did not want to be around other students: She wanted to see and be a part of the real world of ballet, to smell real makeup and listen to bona fide dancers as they gossiped before a performance.

She stood on the threshold of the dancers' dressing room, a very small, slight girl in a pink tutu, with a delicate, heart-shaped face and large almond eyes. Women were sitting at tables in front of mirrors, applying white powder and rouge to their faces and helping each other adjust wigs and climb into elaborate costumes of moiré silk and brocade. The heady odor of female sweat mingled thickly with that of musty clothes and cosmetics. Natalia watched, bemused, as large thighs gleamed before her, strong female thighs, less dainty than those of the younger students. Immodest bodices were exposed in ways that would have shocked the governesses of the school. Yet Natalia did not feel as though she were witnessing an improper sight. She felt, somehow, that here, and here alone, was reality. One pretty young woman whispered to a companion: “Are you being taken to Cubat for supper tonight, Marie?” And Natalia found herself yearning, from deep inside herself, for the privilege of being asked that question in such an easy manner. To belong!

So engrossed had she become in the women's conversation that she did not notice the approach of a tall, black-haired

woman dressed as Clara's mother. “Well,” the woman said in an undertone, “ ‘tis the spirit of the Sweet, I see.”

Natalia looked up and saw a long face with strong features, not at all beautiful but distinctive, unforgettable. The woman had black eyes and a Roman nose. Natalia smiled. “Not at all sweet. Only the costume,” she said.

“Ah. Good. I am allergic to sugar; it gives me indigestion.”

Natalia began to laugh. She wondered if this woman would also be going to supper at Cubat, and if she shared Natalia's secret irritation with the symmetrical classicism of Petipa's ballets, considered beyond criticism at the school; and also, had she seen the American prodigy, Isadora Duncan, who had danced for St. Petersburg in her bare feet the previous year? The stranger belonged to the hallowed halls of the Mariinsky, while she herself was less than nothing, still half-formed. Yet this tall woman made Natalia feel welcome and accepted. Presently she said: “This is my first big role, but I am not going to dance the Sugar Plum Fairy sweetly. I have to understand her, or else I won't be able to be her. And I must enjoy myself.”

“You're very self-confident for a student,” the woman replied.

Natalia opened wide her brown eyes. “Not at all. I'm terrified. That's why I couldn't stay with the others. I might have been ill.”

“No, you wouldn't have, or they'd never give you another important dance. What's your name?”

“Natalia Dmitrievna Oblonova. And you?” Suddenly Natalia felt shy. She would have preferred anonymity.

“I am Lydia Markovna Brailovskaya. I am a
coryphée,
and that, my dear, is what I shall remain to the end of my dancing days. Why I was ever raised from first line of the
corps,
I shall never understand. I loved it and performed adequately. Now I am allowed to dance in smaller groups, but I won't ever rise beyond that to soloist of the second degree. But you will. If you're to dance the Sugar Plum tonight, your teachers must already have singled you out. Whose class are you in? Guerdt's? Cecchetti's?”

“Guerdt's. Maestro Cecchetti is next year. Was he your teacher, too?”

“He is old enough to have been everybody's teacher. Now you must excuse me, Sugar Plum. The Party scene begins the action, and my wig is askew.”

Natalia watched her companion mingle with the other dancers. Someone bent over the loose tendril of Lydia Markovna's wig and adjusted it, laughing. Natalia felt a pang of jealousy. Lydia could have asked her to do it, but who, after all, was Natalia Oblonova? Not even the lowliest member of the
corps de ballet.
And then she thought: But in five years, I shall be more than all these women; I shall be a soloist of the second degree. And with this thought to console her, she pushed aside the pain of being excluded.

Pierre Riazhin sat uncomfortably in the elegant stall overlooking the stage of the Mariinsky. His stiff back was hurting him. The tuxedo fit him too snugly, and the side part in his curly hair caused a bang to sweep over his brow, annoying him. He felt acutely ridiculous and resentful of Boris. Why had he listened to this dandy, and why had he allowed him to purchase this costly outfit as a gift? To be aided in one's career, when one possessed talent but no funds, was one thing; but to accept personal favors was quite another. It went totally against his grain.

There were other spectators in the Kussov stall, but Pierre refused to join their airy conversation about
entrechats
and Trefilova. He gathered that the ballet critic, Valerian Svetlov, was most fond of this ballerina, but that Boris preferred somebody called Egorova. Svetlov was seated on Boris's left, while Pierre was on his right. Boris was so engrossed in his talk with Svetlov, who sported a tuft of white hair that glistened from the chandeliers of the theatre, that he had carelessly thrown his right leg over his left, so that his right knee touched Pierre's thigh. Pierre attempted to move his own leg, but Boris's stubborn knee would not budge. Pierre yielded, annoyed. Everything was conspiring to prevent his relaxation.

The Mariinsky pleased him with its blue and silver decor, and Pierre was not above enjoying the luxury surrounding him. He could scoff at it when it was out of his reach, but when able to sample its splendor, he found it quite wondrous. He loved all that was beautiful, and with his opera glasses he scanned the other booths, relishing the sight of unknown ladies in
décolletés,
their diamonds ablaze. Pierre forgot his discomfort and his boredom with Boris and Svetlov by shutting out all but his sense of sight. He conjured up a vision of this assembly in parody: the ladies less dignified, their tiaras tilted on their lascivious heads, holding out sweets from delicate fingers to gentlemen who ate them on their knees. But Boris was speaking to him now, in low tones:
“The Nutcracker
is a delightful piece of fluff choreographed by Lev Ivanov. It's meaningless and sweet and a good beginning for you. The first woman with whom you dance should be like this ballet: utterly beautiful, marvelously synchronized, and not too intelligent. Good practice.”

“I have seen other ballets,” Pierre replied defensively.

“Well, so you have. But from a stall one can define the ballerina's movements in a totally different fashion. Valerian says that a student is dancing the Sugar Plum tonight. Rather an honor for her, I should say. I have never heard of her: Natalia Oblonova.”

Trefilova, Egorova, and now Oblonova. Pierre smiled, but Boris misinterpreted the expression and patted him on the knee. The lights dimmed. The curtain went up, and Pierre sat transfixed. The stage setting glared back at him: Christmas tree, fireplace, sturdy furniture of the Biedermeier genre. He would have done this differently, with lighter touches denoting the fairy tale elements of the story. His tree would have spread out in delicate branchings and been covered with minuscule balls of colored foil, giving the impression of a myriad of diamond chips. His furniture would have been totally un-Germanic: ottomans of bright silks and velvets, matching vivid wall hangings and exotic curtains.

In spite of himself, Pierre was fascinated. The Party scene glittered, and the small children pirouetting before the assembled guests made him feel strange. Christmas had always been so simple in the Caucasus! This was a Hoffman fairy tale, but it also suggested the wonder of the Russian capital in its excessive sophistication. Contrary to the spontaneity of life itself, ballet was the most sophisticated art form, and it drew him by its perfect development, by its harmony. Yet the young man knew that these well-heeled gentlemen and perfumed ladies of

Petersburg had not come merely for the pleasure of watching children parading before a Christmas tree. His expectation grew, and he leaned forward, waiting.

All during the first act Pierre Riazhin waited. He began to fret. “The decor is heavy, like a burgher's wife,” he finally whispered to Boris Kussov. He had rehearsed his words and was upset when the other laughed with easy irreverence. “What do you know of burghers and their spouses, my dear Khadjatur?” his elegant host murmured. “Have you ever visited Germany?”

“No, and you know I haven't,” Pierre retorted, his pride stung. After that, he would not look at Boris and held himself aloof, while his impatience quickened. Children! Had he come merely to witness a battle between dressed-up mice and a giant nutcracker, to watch a small girl hurl her slipper at the Mouse King? And then, almost taking him by surprise, the curtain came down and the brilliant lights of the Mariinsky bloomed overhead. Pierre blinked, disillusioned.

During the intermission Boris, resplendent in his well-tailored tuxedo, his gray spats shining and his ruby and black pearl stud lending a strange distinction to his stock, rose rapidly and scanned the amphitheatre for familiar faces. “My sister is here,” he said to Pierre. “My sister Nina, and her husband, Prince Andrei Stassov. I am going to Dumas, the French confiserie in the square, to purchase some candied fruit to take to her in their loge. Will you come with me?”

“If you don't mind,” Pierre replied somewhat rudely, “I should like to stay here and watch the audience. There are so many interesting faces. ...”

The other members of the party all followed Boris Kussov from the stall. But Pierre was not bored. He had not found the first act inspiring. Russian folk tales appealed to him far more than German and French, for, he thought, they possessed more passion and originality. The costumes of the party guests had upset him. They were too staid. He now sat with a small pad of paper and a pencil, both of which never left him, and started to sketch. He imagined settings, scenery, costumes, then strange faces from the stalls. He had become so preoccupied that a deep voice surprised him. “Where has Borya disappeared to?” a man asked.

Pierre turned around and saw a tall, powerfully built man with black hair in which a single lock shone completely white. He was immaculately dressed and wore a monocle. “Boris Vassilievitch has gone to pay a call upon his sister, I believe,” Pierre said. He stood up awkwardly.

“Ah. I am Serge Pavlovitch Diaghilev. Why Boris wanted me to join him tonight is beyond me. I've seen a dozen
Nutcrackers,
and Teliakovsky's productions are in the worst possible taste. Tell me, who are you?”

“Pierre Riazhin. I—am a guest of Boris Vassilievitch. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” Pierre regarded the other with a mixture of awe and pride. So this was Diaghilev, who led the group of artists known as the World of Art committee, named after the periodical which they had produced several years before. Diaghilev was a controversial man, a dilettante, a master of no single art yet able to pick out great artists in all fields. An opinionated man, he was the sworn enemy of Teliakovsky, director of the Imperial Theatres. Some said that he, not Teliakovsky, should be holding this position. Pierre had wanted to meet him almost more than he had wished to meet Leon Bakst and Constantin Somov, painters whom he admired and who were also part of the group to which Boris belonged. It was Diaghilev who welded all these artists together. Boris had been dangling the promise of this meeting before Pierre as though it were a golden apple to be earned: Though how Pierre was supposed to earn it, he had still not discovered. Boris was an enigma for the young Caucasian.