Lydia had made her debut, and received all the bouquets, the little presents and the approving reviews she wanted. She had joined the company as a coryphée, the second grade, missing out the corps completely, but since then she had done nothing of distinction but learn a few small parts. The eventful social life which she had intended to establish remained a dream. At least once she was dancing it ceased to distress her that the pink mousseline dress had been hers for two years and had been worn only once, to a decorous supper given by the War Veterans’Benevolent Society after their annual benefit performance.
Her shoulders stretched back, pulling up her ribs, bracing her chest forward in a bird-like curve. As she turned out her legs her hips eased forward and outwards, slowly opening the pelvis like a flower. The movement had begun to feel immodest. The day when she would spread out her body for a lover was still unmarked in the endless future, but her heart was clinging now to every handsome face which presented itself, and her flesh was fretting and ready to follow.
The puppyish contours of her childhood were disappearing, and the mirrors which were her daily companions told her that her limbs were becoming ripe and firm. When she pointed her toe, pulling her heel up into the calf, pressing the knee straight, the dimples were so shallow they barely showed through her tights. The foot on the floor held firm, instep steady, ankle strong, all the planes true and every joint supple as she rose smoothly on to half point.
In Theatre Street there was no room for deception, of others or of oneself. So many hours were passed each day in scrutiny, analysis and criticism that everyone knew their faults. Lydia appreciated as well as the rest the secret of her failure to fulfil her student potential; it was in the one quality which had brought her early acclaim; she was too good, too fast, too brilliant, too technically accomplished, too delightfully flirtatious, all together too much like a younger incarnation of her idol Kchessinskaya.
‘Such extraordinary gifts our little pansy flower has,’ the great Kchessinskaya had pronounced on the very day of her return to the stage after the birth of her son. ‘We must take care of this precious child, the best possible care – how terrible it would be to see a young career ended by an injury.’ This had been said with raised voice and a knowing glance at the company’s director, and ever since that day Lydia had been denied a place among the friends of Coppelia, the Sleeping Beauty’s christening guests or Giselle’s neighbours, all the small, brilliant solos which would have displayed her gifts to perfection, and instead given the cameo roles for which she was not at all suited.
‘Watch your knees, Lydia, don’t let them fall in.’ She shot the ballet master a resentful look. Her knees never fell in; he should save his criticisms for those who deserved them, like Anna, two places in front of her, who was already shaking like a young birch in the wind. Leo also had strange knees, no elasticity in them. Now she worked with him in class every day she could see the mysterious tension in all his movements. Even his arms were taut. He had a powerful physical presence, which she reluctantly acknowledged; with his dark hair and slanted, almost oriental features, he was generally held to look like a perfect Mephistopheles.
‘Don’t think, Leo, you can’t dance and think,’ Legat scolded him. ‘If you must do it, think about your dancing. Press that plié down, make it juicy … and you, Vaslav, thinking’s not your problem is it? But what’s happened to your line? And your fingers! Don’t bring your Italian port de bras to my class if you please – or are you trying to put the evil eye on me?’
A chuckle ran around the bare room. In flowing succession, like a pack of cards flipping over, the dancers turned to repeat the exercise on the other side. Legat was jealous of young Vaslav, because Kchessinskaya had chosen him as her new partner, and because he and Anna Pavlova were taking private lessons from the old Italian master Enrico Cecchetti, but even in the extremes of envy Legat was too good-natured to resist making a joke.
When the barre was finished Nico picked up the watering can and sprinkled the bare boards to give a better surface for the centre work. Then the dancers spread out across the floor, muscles warm and expectant, and eighty legs began to swing in precise pendulum movements as if driven by the same motor. Their accompanist, an elderly violinist, hunched over his instrument and his scalp under his thin white hair flushed red with the effort of playing faster tempi.
Above the noise of flapping skirts and jumping feet, Legat had to shout. ‘Pull up, Olya, up! Where’s your balance? It’s above your head, pull up to find it! Lydia! Have you gone deaf this morning? How can you plough across the music like that – listen, listen! This poor man isn’t playing for his own pleasure, you know. Right, now you boys – Vaslav, try to come down with the beat, if you please, I know you can do it. Mischa! I’ll shed that blue blood of yours if you don’t concentrate. Try going to bed to sleep for a change.’
His long-limbed victim scrambled vainly for the final attitude then lounged towards the barre. ‘I bet no one kept him up last night, the mood he’s in this morning,’ he remarked to the room in general, and then, pouting at the mirror, admired the way his heroic shoulders strained the seams of his grey practice tunic while the girls giggled and nudged each other. Of all the homosexual men, Mischa Alexandrov was the most handsome, the most vain and the most dedicated to his social life. He had confided to every one of his hundred and fifty closest friends that the late Tsar Alexander was his real father.
When the first class of the day ended the men remained in the humid, sweat-smelling room for their advanced work with Legat, while the women went down the corridor for their own lesson. As Lydia pulled on her wrap and made for the door, Leo ran across the floor to intercept her.
‘Tonight – will you come out with us?’ He often spoke to her as if they had already discussed the matter in question. ‘There’s something I really need to talk to you about,’ he added, noticing her irritated expression.
‘I’m dancing tonight.’
‘Oh, of course you are, I forgot. Tomorrow, then.’
‘I want to stay in and do some sewing. And who’s “us”, may I ask? Who else is in this party?’
‘Ssh, please, I don’t want them all to hear. I’m asking Anna, Inna, Julie, Vera and Leon Samilovich. We can meet at his apartment. And another man, important, you don’t know him. And Olga and Marie, will you ask them for me? Please, Lydia. Don’t tell anyone yet, but I’ve got a commission. I’ve been asked to create a ballet, isn’t it wonderful? Nothing big, of course, but – Lydushka, I do need you. Sew your skirt another night, please.’ His eyes, light hazel and set deep below thick black brows, were glittering with excitement.
‘You’re such a tyrant, Leo. You just assume I’ll do whatever you want, don’t you? I’ll ask the others, but I can’t promise they’ll come. And what time? And have you spoken to Paul?’ Permission from Marie’s brother was desirable before she allowed a man to escort her.
‘Oh for heaven’s sake, leave all those silly flirt’s tricks alone, will you? This isn’t that kind of invitation.’
‘So sorry! Since you’ve been sending me poetry for the past five years, I’m a little confused. I didn’t realize you had suffered a change of heart. Do forgive me.’
He almost snarled, plunging his fingers into his springy black hair and holding his head as if in pain. ‘I haven’t – I don’t … look, I feel the same about you, it’s my curse, I know it now, but this isn’t the same thing, this is important, Lydia. A new ballet! I’d love you even if you had two left feet but …’ The whine of the violin announced the start of the next class and Legat was throwing impatient looks at the gossiping couple. ‘I’ll call for you at seven – yes?’
‘If you like. Talk to Paul. Now I must go.’ And she ran complacently down the corridor, her blocked shoes tapping on the floorboards. He watched her until she turned into another classroom, wondering how, being so utterly and tragically empty-headed, she could make him as inarticulate as a road-sweeper within a few seconds.
Lydia was int
rigued. A new ballet might be the very thing she needed to get herself noticed but – what kind of commission could Leo have? He was absurdly young for such a responsibility, although Mikhail Mikhailovich was always praising him. Perhaps it would be some ridiculous provincial tour; in which case, she would refuse to be involved. But the opportunity to meet Leon Samilovich was not to be passed up – the artist was quite the hero of the year since he had designed an exhibition of Russian art organized by Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev, still nicknamed Chinchilla by the ballet community. In Petersburg the show had burnished the city’s national pride, and Diaghilev, for once in favour at the Court, had obtained the backing to take it to Paris and astound the West with the achievements of Russian artists. The dancers felt a proprietary pride in his success.
Leon Samilovich Bakst designed occasionally for the ballet, but Lydia’s special fascination with him derived from the legend that he had once been so poor he could not afford to buy paint, and was now fashionable, feted and the husband of the daughter of the cultured Prince Tretiakov.
His apartment near the Admiralty was disappointingly small and ordinary, with grey-striped wallpaper in the salon. Bakst and his well-born wife also supported his grandmother, mother and two sisters, and the apartment seemed inhabited by slow-moving, full-bosomed females with lustrous hair and dark eyes who almost concealed in their skirts the painter himself, a slight man whose smile folded up his face so that it seemed all nose and ears.
‘How wonderful to make your acquaintance,’ she told him as he kissed her hand. ‘I have always loved your designs for The Fairy Doll, the prettiest thing in the whole repertoire – don’t glare at me, Leo, you know I adore it.’
‘Well, and no doubt you will soon be equally fond of this young man’s new creation.’ He patted Leo on the shoulder like an uncle. ‘He tells me that if he could have asked for any dancer in the company he would have chosen you first, so I’m as delighted as you that we meet at last. And this must be Mademoiselle Kolkova?’ Marie’s social curtsey was as quick and charming as a robin’s dip. ‘Shall we sit down around the table? There’s tea or … champagne, perhaps?’ Through gold-rimmed spectacles he caught Lydia’s eye; for a moment she was unsure what he had said. Leon Samilovich had changed his name from Rosenberg and renounced his religion, but he still spoke with a pronounced Jewish accent ‘Champagne! We brought enough back from Paris to relaunch the navy. And you must try these chocolates, no nonsense about dieting!’
A crystal dish of sweets was placed under her nose and she at once picked the violet cream. Leon Samilovich’s red hair gleamed with pomade and the aroma of Hungary water wafted across the room at each of his hospitable gestures. The table was half covered with dishes of small cakes and dainty sandwiches. A maid brought champagne on a silver tray, and gold-rimmed glasses. It tasted sour and she made a face, quickly reaching for another chocolate.
A few minutes later Olga arrived with her brother Pierre, a thin, nervous boy of thirteen who sat at the end of the table without speaking, eating everything that came within his reach and occasionally turning away to cough. The other dancers arrived together, and last of all Anna appeared, clinging to the arm of a haughty-looking man in an astrakhan overcoat.
‘Anna – sit here, nearest the stove. Try these, little sandwiches with spiced beef, delicious!’ She took one and nibbled the corner, appraising the company with timid eyes although she was the senior dancer among them.
‘Everyone – may I present Monsieur Victor Dandré? A City Councillor, a philanthropist and perhaps already known to some of you as a great lover of the ballet.’ Leon Samilovich pulled out a heavy, red-plush armchair for his distinguished guest, who seated himself as if taking a throne.
‘And a great lover of skinny Anna – he’s been chasing her for years,’ Marie whispered, pretending to pat a hairpin into place.
‘Well, we’re all here now so I must begin.’ Leo stood up to speak, putting his hands in his pockets to stop them trembling with nervous agitation. ‘Monsieur Dandré originally asked Mikhail Mikhailovich to create a new ballet for this year’s gala in aid of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Children.’ He cleared his throat and continued in a firmer voice. ‘But he has already undertaken another new commission and so I am greatly honoured that he has proposed me as his substitute, and that Monsieur Dandré has bravely agreed to take the risk of launching an unknown choreographer upon the unsuspecting world.’ Dandré, unsmiling, inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘And Leon Samilovich will design the piece, which is wonderful news.’ There was a patter of applause, led by Marie. ‘So what remains is for us to decide a theme and style.’
‘Oh please – something Greek, with bare feet and tunics in the Duncan style!’ Of all the impressionable pupils who had been invited to a special performance by the American dancer, Inna had become the most passionate convert.
‘Certainly not!’ barked Dandré, obviously angered. ‘A charity performance is the last occasion to defy tradition. When you’re asking people to be generous you want to be as pleasing as possible, not offend them with ugliness and certainly not send them to sleep with some dreary classical nonsense.’
Leo and his designer exchanged glances of resignation.
‘Pretty legs in pretty skirts.’ Tata had such a guileless face it was impossible to accuse her of sarcasm. ‘Well, that won’t be difficult, we can do that, girls, can’t we?’
Lydia reached for another chocolate. ‘Anyway, Duncan style would mean us all crashing about like heifers with our hooves turned in.’ She won a harsh laugh from Dandré and with it one of Anna’s most witch-like expressions. ‘Why are we even discussing this? Leo’s made up his mind already, haven’t you? Don’t pretend you asked seven of us here by accident. You haven’t thanked us for coming, by the way.’
‘You’re discovered, Levrusha,’ Marie teased him.
‘I do thank you all for coming here, sincerely.’ Curse Lydia! Why could she never miss the chance to put him in the wrong? And now of all times, when he almost had the whole room in his hands. ‘All right, I admit it, I know what I want to do. And it will be absolutely wonderful …’
‘He’s so modest!’
‘But it will, Marie. The Pleiades. The Seven Sisters. The mysterious constellation, brightest in the Milky Way, fascinating, elusive, eternal … the navigator’s stars, do you know the Greeks wouldn’t put to sea until the Pleiades were above the horizon? Six stars shining bright and clear but one, Electra, extinguished by the Gods for loving a mortal man.’
‘Oh Leo, such a beautiful idea.’ Marie regarded him with blatant adoration.
‘Oh, I remember the story – she disappeared before the siege of Troy, because the city was under her protection and she couldn’t bear to see it destroyed.’
‘Tata, you know everything.’
There were murmurs of approval all around the table and the dancers leaned forward, eager to hear more. Leo puffed out his chest with gratification as he continued, ‘Shura Glazunov has permitted me to have some of his piano pieces orchestrated, and with Leon Samilovich I have arrived at a scenario. An opening ensemble, pas de cinq, pas de trois, and then the pas de deux, but with all the individual variations between each part. And brilliance! That’s the key, all the effects of light, sparkling, glowing, radiant – it will be absolutely thrilling, Monsieur Dandré, the audience will be on their feet, I promise you.’
Dandré gave a nod of condescension, as if he had expected no less. The rest of the company were gazing at Leo with every kind of admiration in their eyes. How perverse love could be, Lydia reflected. Leo was magnetic at that moment; each woman around the table was under his spell, but he bewitched them as a man, not as an artist. And she alone despised the man, and found his ideas ridiculous and his ambitions absurd, but as an artist she knew he was a genius. This intuition had been utterly clear from their childhood. And she was the one he loved, and they were both infuriated by it.
‘I thought I would do just a few sketches.�
�� With a hesitant smile, Leon Samilovich laid some drawings on the table and quick hands spread them out. ‘Quite simple, I think, because I’m sure we can’t expect much of a budget. A deep sea blue backcloth – you know how the night sky can be more blue than black sometimes? A mast, some spars – we can borrow them from another production, I know they’re in the scenery store. And the stars in the shades of light from red to very pale yellow, and here is our Electra in violet.’ He put this sketch into Anna’s hands, and every woman watching noted the significance of the choice. Jealousy turned the truffle to ashes in Lydia’s mouth. ‘Crystal beads, silver paillettes, everything to catch the light – I thought the shorter tutu would be appropriate also.’ In the general enthusiasm this tiny break with tradition was accepted without discussion.
‘And you are to be this mortal lover?’ Dandré inquired of Leo as if it were almost an afterthought.
‘I wanted Nijinsky, but Mikhail needs him for his new work. Legat isn’t right, Guerdt is a little senior … I see the role as secondary to the ballerina, so – well, I’ll do, at least I know the choreographer’s mind.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Dandré seemed incapable of smiling, but his manner was benevolent; Leo had obviously hit the right note with his severe patron.
‘My friends, my dear friends. Stay and talk, please, drink more champagne, don’t mind me because I have to scuttle off to another meeting.’ Their host rose to his feet, smiling and bowing. ‘Although it grieves me to leave such a bouquet of beauty, really. But I’m due the other side of the Admiralty in ten minutes, so I must dash away.’
‘Sergei Pavlovich’s infamous Committee, I presume?’ At Dandre’s question the temperature of the room seemed to drop as if someone had opened a window on to the icy night.
White Ice Page 18