Her dancing often set her apart and after tonight’s strange interlude of possession she was inclined to believe that she was exceptionally gifted. There could be no doubt that their sudden summons before the Imperial Court was as a result of her performance. The curious, alarmed little looks which she caught obliquely from the mirrors confirmed it, as well as the fury with which the directress had picked on her. Her strength was undeniably special. In the school everyone knew everyone else’s weakness, and physically little Kusminskaya had none of gravity; thus what was simple for her was an ordeal for her companions, and their fears were not her fears.
Her faults seemed harder to correct. She was accused of lacking feeling, of being unmusical, even of having no soul, and these qualities seemed hopelessly nebulous. Practice, she assured the others sincerely, would easily make them strong, but how could one practise feeling? They said she was insensitive. Olga frankly called her vulgar and asked what else one could expect of a merchant’s daughter. She had become wary.
Ambitions are born at the beginning of adulthood. There was a consensus among the students that to dance the great roles, the princesses in the huge five-act ballets, was the only proper ideal. Lesser spirits might aspire simply to please their parents or to marry well. The pretentious group, among whom Leo was prominent, dreamed of creating a great art which would transcend the classics. None of this moved Lydia. Dancing was too easy for her. She had an unformed sense that the real world was on the other side, beyond the orchestra pit, across the footlights, among the men with decorations and the women with jewels. Despite the tears and blood shed for it, the ballet was nothing of any significance to her, although she dared not voice this sentiment, even to herself.
Lydia uttered a few exclamations to show that she shared the general elation and returned to the stage with the others. She felt that her progress was to begin. In less than an hour she would make the mystical journey across the footlights and stand among the courtiers, and the Tsar himself would speak to her. She was so nearly in a trance with the knowledge that if Marie had not seized her hand and pulled her forward she would have stood still in the wings throughout the entire second act.
Shepherded by Varvara Ivanova they were conducted through the empty theatre to the salon beyond, where the audience gathered to drink champagne before moving on to supper. Striving not to gawk like yokels, Lydia and Olga led the demure enfilade. The crowd parted to admit them, and halfway down the room they heard the soft clapping of many gloved hands.
The room was still intimate in scale, but elaborately decorated. Rococo mouldings, white palm fronds, treillage and gilt rosebuds overlaid walls of bird’s-egg blue. The light from six gilt chandeliers gleamed on Court dresses by Worth and Nicaud, jewellery by Fabergé and Cartier. The air was rich with perfumes, tobacco smoke and the faint aroma of consommé from the distant dining room. It was necessary to take care and watch each footfall, for when the women turned to look at them their long stiff trains swept unexpectedly across the polished wood floor.
The Imperial Family themselves wore so much gold and silver that they seemed to stand in a haze of light. The Tsarina wore silver silk brocade embroidered with gold thread, and as she greeted each girl in turn the white ermine which edged her sleeves brushed their hands. Behind her Lydia briefly saw the short round figure of the Court nurse, formally clothed in a peasant sarafan sewn with gold which billowed around her as she bent to pick up a three-year-old girl.
‘So, at last – the young lady who is to be the new glory and adornment of our ballet.’ Lydia curtsied immediately, feeling faint as the Tsar himself turned his sad brown eyes upon her. She sensed beside her the agitation of Varvara Ivanova, who had been prepared to present Olga first. The Tsar was extending his hand towards her. Automatically she curtsied again, then almost leaped upright, struck by the idea that she ought to have taken his hand instead. Beside the Court ladies in their stiff dresses she felt grubby and half-naked in her costume. She was so confused that she felt tears start in her eyes.
‘Charming child,’ murmured a resonating deep voice, quickly echoed by others. ‘Charming, charming.’ Lydia froze with uncertainty.
‘Take care not to grow up too fast,’ His Majesty continued. ‘Tell me your name.’
‘This is Lydia Alexandrovna Kusminskaya,’ Varvara Ivanova announced immediately, struggling for control of the situation. ‘Olga Sergeyevna Spessitseva, Marie Stepanova Kozhukova …’ Almost in panic the girls placed their right feet forward, swept their left back and sank to the floor in a ragged succession. At the end of the line Leo and Nico bowed so low that they swayed off balance. Nausea gripped Lydia’s throat. Surely their horrible gauche display would be a joke in the Court for weeks.
The soft applause broke out again. Surrounded by tall people, Lydia could see nothing but she heard Kchessinskaya’s name murmured around the room, and the ballerina’s unmistakable high laugh as she acknowledged compliments. The focus of attention mercifully moved away from them. She saw the Tsar lean over the shorter figure of a Court page, muttering an order while his eyes were clearly looking for the ballerina’s arrival. The boy hurried away while the stiff figures around them stirred and regrouped themselves. Expressionless, the Tsarina proceeded to a far corner of the room.
The awkward atmosphere vanished as Kchessinskaya approached on the arm of the Director, the bouquet of orchids and tuberoses which she had received on stage held lightly in the curve of her arm. She had changed into a silk dress of the pale lilac blue which was the absolute rage of the moment. It was oversewn with tiny pearls, and so lavishly embroidered with corded silk that the tactful ruching of the waist seemed a natural decorative touch. Behind her, appearing small and with no special presence in their evening clothes and normal make-up, the remaining dancers followed in a procession.
The crowd fell silent, momentarily transfixed as the presentations began, and then recalled the need to pretend that there was no cause for prurience and began gossiping at once.
‘We are sad to hear of your retirement.’ The Tsar was speaking to Kchessinskaya.
‘I shall be sad to leave the stage, Your Majesty.’
‘You will be a great loss to our ballet.’ The words were formal banalities but the tall man whose uniform blazed with decorations and the tiny woman in flowing silk had the appearance of old friends in relaxed conversation.
‘Your Majesty is too kind.’
‘Are any of Madame Kchessinskaya’s ballets to be given next season?’ This inquiry was to the Director. It was a pointed question and a shiver of interest passed through the onlookers.
‘Only La Bayadère, Your Majesty. At Madame’s request. She has given the role to Mademoiselle Pavlova.’ The younger dancer immediately dropped to the floor in a curtsey, acknowledging her mentor with a graceful inclination of her long neck.
‘The generosity of a great heart.’ The complicity of the former lovers was beyond doubt. The official information was that the marriage of the Tsar Nicholas and the Tsarina Alexandra was a great love match, but all St Petersburg knew that Nicholas had evaded marriage for years and had been forced to give up Kchessinskaya only when it was clear that his father was dying. The real generosity to which he was alluding was hers in accepting that loss with extraordinary grace, and now his in blessing her new alliance. All around the couple there was a warm outpouring of breath as the Court savoured the true meaning of the exchange.
‘It seems that every year a new generation of great dancers is born in our country,’ the Emperor continued, gesturing towards the children. He leaned forward and said something inaudible, then gestured to the page.
The Director nodded to Varvara Ivanova who surreptitiously took hold of Lydia’s arm to pull her forward. ‘You are all to receive a gift from His Majesty’s own casket,’ he informed them in a ringing voice, and while her companions exchanged nervous glances Lydia immediately grasped his meaning.
The page stepped forward with a tray draped in red velvet, on which were arranged eight black l
eather boxes stamped in gold with the Imperial eagle. The Director selected one and presented it to Lydia, who curtsied to him, then to His Majesty, and then, amidst the cloying aura of tuberose, received a kiss on both cheeks from Kchessinskaya.
‘The little pets!’ she exclaimed, tipping up Lydia’s chin as she rose. ‘Such a sweet, surprised little face! Just like a violet, isn’t she? Show us His Majesty’s gift, little one.’
With the bright sable eyes encouraging her, Lydia opened the box with graceful gestures and then gasped with surprise at the sight of an oval hoop of gold, a bracelet chased with scrolls, lying inside it. At Kchessinskaya’s prompting she turned the box around and displayed the gift to the approving crowd.
‘You will treasure this gift for ever …’ She nodded, unable to find her voice, patting the bracelet in its place with timid fingers. ‘Although I am sure it will be the first of many tributes to such a gifted young artist.’ There was another burst of animated comment. Clearly La Kchessinskaya did not pay such compliments lightly. ‘And now this little angel …’ Olga was at her side and Lydia stepped back swiftly to make room.
In a few more instants it was over, and as they were led away to more salon applause Lydia saw the footmen opening the doors to the dining room and caught a whiff of rich soup which almost made her stomach rumble. She was extremely hungry. Their maids, who were waiting to help them change into their thick outdoor clothes, also had baskets of pastries and hot milk which had thoughtfully been sent up from the kitchen.
A heavy square coach of ancient design, known to the students as an antediluvian, waited for them by the artists’entrance to the theatre. In the winter it lurched through the snowy streets on iron runners in place of wheels. The wicker baskets containing their costumes were loaded behind, the coachman pulled the rugs off the three heavy horses and they set off along the icy river embankment. It was snowing, tiny flakes blown in thick gusts by the wind. Lydia realized that her hands were still pressing the black leather box to her heart.
‘I wonder why she chose Anna Matveyana to take over La Bayadère?’ Marie spoke drowsily, pulling the rug around her face. ‘She works so hard and she is very lyrical, of course, but it’s supposed to be terribly demanding. I’m sure she isn’t nearly strong enough.’
‘Then everyone will always remember La Kchessinskaya and how marvellous she was.’ Lydia yawned. The reasoning seemed simple to her. ‘Don’t take all the rug, Marie. My knees will get cold.’
‘Why of course! How clever you are, Lydia. I’m sorry, here’s the rug back. If Anna Matveyana is a disaster then Kchessinskaya will seem all the better. That must be why she’s making a favourite of Tamara Platonova too. I heard her promise to give her some of her costumes.’ It was natural to them all that a student should qualify unofficially in dance company politics at the same time as her formal graduation.
‘I heard she isn’t really retiring.’ Leo, whose father was a dancer in the company, spoke with his usual authority. ‘It’s all a sham. Once the baby’s born they’ll ask her to come back. So she doesn’t want to give herself any competition.’
‘I’d never be able to do that,’ Olga suddenly whispered in the darkness.
‘Do what?’ Lydia mistrusted her companion’s morbid tone.
‘See the man I loved married to another woman,’ responded Olga.
‘When you’re officially protected by his uncle and pregnant by his cousin too – yes, that must be quite a challenge,’ responded Lydia with gaiety, forgetting the need to eschew vulgarity. But sleepy laughter warmed the carriage and she realized that her status had altered.
The boys were made to descend first and give the girls their arms as they left the carriage, a chivalrous drill which enabled Leo to slip a note into Lydia’s pocket. She frowned with irritation but in the meagre light of the school entry he saw nothing and was soon hurried away.
‘Hurry to bed now, girls, but don’t wake the others,’ was Varvara Ivanova’s parting instruction. Twenty girls slept in their dormitory, and a maid dozed in a chair at one end of the long room. Marie and Lydia were close together in a far corner and were permitted to share a night light while they undressed. Under cover of brushing out her long hair and braiding it loosely for the night, Lydia pulled a small box edged with paper lace from her night stand. Here she kept everything precious to her, and she intended to put the Tsar’s gift with the collection of two sweets wrapped in silver paper which were too pretty to eat, a spray of velvet forget-me-nots which she had picked up in the street, a tiny silver charm like a violin and a tortoiseshell comb edged with brilliants. The last of these two items had been the property of other girls, and so Lydia kept her treasure box to herself.
‘What’s in there?’ Marie sat on the edge of her bed and rubbed her sore toes.
‘Oh, just hairpins.’ To confirm the truth Lydia pulled the last few pins from her braid, dropped them into the box and put it quickly out of sight. Marie seemed uninterested, although something was on her mind.
‘Lydia,’ she whispered again, ‘do you have a friend?’
Friendship was a formal affair among the girls. If two agreed to be friends they pledged themselves to reserve all their confidences for each other and to walk into dinner together every evening. Knowing that she was, if not exactly unpopular, then at least a girl regarded as different by the others, Lydia was resigned to remaining without such a special companion.
‘No, I haven’t got a friend.’ Maybe Marie would say something sympathetic.
‘Well then … Lydia Alexandrovna, will you agree to be my friend and tell me all your secrets?’
A proposal from sweet-natured Marie, whom everyone loved and whose father was said to have been a count from a really old noble Polish family – Lydia almost forgot to whisper.
‘Oh, heavens – Marie! Do you really mean it?’
‘Yes, yes, of course I do. I’ve always liked you, Lydia. You’re going to be a wonderful dancer, everyone says so. And you’re terribly clever. And you’ve got beautiful hair, not like mine.’
‘Well, of course I will.’
‘No, you have to say it properly.’
‘Oh yes, of course. I Lydia Alexandrovna agree to be your friend and to tell you all my secrets.’ Furtively, in case the maid should order them to bed immediately, they exchanged kisses on the cheek.
‘Well, go on then.’
‘What?’ Lydia was alarmed. Was there another point of school etiquette of which she was ignorant?
‘I saw Leo give you a note, Lydia.’
‘Oh, that …’ It had fallen to the floor and she swept it up with disdainful fingertips. ‘Do you want me to read it to you?’
‘Yes, yes!’
‘It’s a poem. “She dances as one of the immortals among the stars of heaven. The goddesses marvel at her celestial beauty. Among the muses, Apollo favours her alone.” Oh how awful! Isn’t that silly?’
‘Oh, no. It’s really romantic, Lydia. Imagine, you are the first of us to have an admirer.’
‘You can’t count Leo as an admirer, he’s only a boy.’
‘Well, I think you’re very lucky.’ Disconcerted to find her friend so unmoved by love, Marie gathered up the folds of her nightdress and climbed into bed.
‘I tell you what,’ Lydia whispered, realizing that the pact needed to be sealed immediately if Marie were not to regret her proposal. ‘Let’s do something. After we blow the night light out, let’s wait until the maid’s asleep and then look at our bracelets in the moonlight. The sky’s clearing, there ought to be plenty of light soon.’
Marie found this a suitably exciting adventure and half an hour later the blind was quietly raised and the new friends lay in bed turning their little hoops of gold in the colourless light of the moon. Their enclosed world was full of magical talismans – Cinderella’s slipper, the Swan Queen’s feather, Giselle’s fatal necklace and countless roses and lilies symbolizing eternal love. Lydia knew with complete certainty that the Tsar’s gift was her own token
of fortune. An hour later when Varvara Ivanova passed on her final patrol she found the new ornament of the ballet sleeping with her arms crossed like a corpse and the bracelet pressed firmly against her heart.
2. Chelsea, London, 1968
‘Why do you want to be an artist, Bianca?’ He smelt of sweat, Kents and beer, in quantities; at least twenty cigarettes, at least six pints and as much sweat as a healthy mesomorph could work up through emotional exertion alone in the first half of a close summer night in Chelsea.
‘I don’t want to be an artist. I want to die.’ He taught her screenprinting. Bianca did not see her future in screenprinting, and in any case he had already written his report on her. She normally preferred to be polite, but in his case it seemed appropriate to make an exception.
‘You don’t really mean that.’
‘Of course I bloody mean it, why do you think I bloody said it?’ She thumped the windowsill with her fist and felt the hurt with surprise. It was reassuring to feel something, even pain. As the necessity to choose her future course of study had grown more acute, anxiety had numbed all her senses. Now the echoing canyon of the summer vacation was opening ahead and she was unable to choose a direction.
By chance at that moment the Rolling Stones completed their farewell to Ruby Tuesday and the nearby group of men whose recurring guffaws had almost drowned their conversation had nothing to amuse them. Bianca’s voice resounded across the room above the general buzz. A few heads turned, but Bianca, adept at averting attention, assumed a bored expression and an inactive slouch so that the curious found nothing to interest them and the party soon resumed its volume.
‘You don’t want to die, Bianca.’ His hand, holding hers, was clammy. Perhaps the beer was starting to ooze out of his pores.
‘I do want to die. I can’t draw, I’ll never be able to draw …’
‘You’ve got a lovely sense of colour …’
‘I can’t draw, everybody hates everything I do …’
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