White Ice

by Celia Brayfield

  Orlov’s mind was busy placing facts in an acceptable order. As an aristocrat, he had no concept of achievement and thus no appreciation of failure, but his pride was bruised. Beneath what he thought of as superficial responses, his personal despair had been deepened. What could the future hold for this unhappy federation of nations governed by so many timid mediocrities? In such gloom enlightenment was blown out like a match, as he had now been shown. Russian soil was soaked in blood. All his life he had witnessed horrors: war, uprising, mass executions and, most terrible of all, harmless gatherings at which the masses had been seized by a self-destructive frenzy and virtually murdered themselves.

  He remembered as a young officer in a small town presiding over the distribution of souvenir mugs for the Tsar’s coronation in the square. The milling crowd had broken through a cordon around the site of a new building, stumbled into the ditches dug for the foundations and trampled each other; three hundred people had died, half of them helpless children. ‘So it always has been and so it always will be,’ his superior, the Minister of the Interior, had remarked when given the news that another workers’demonstration, at a gold mine in Siberia, had turned into another massacre. Orlov’s mind, ever ready to cool his feelings by argument, turned to wondering how it should be that familiarity never dulled the Russian people’s response to such scenes of carnage, and how their hearts could always be ready to respond with volcanic outpourings of pity and rage.

  He took his seat, oblivious to the brilliance of the scene in the theatre. The curtain rose on Fokine’s Carnaval, a pretty, elegant extrapolation of the Commedia dell’Arte scenario. Columbine was the languid Olga Spessitseva whom he compared to the memory of Lydia’s piquant interpretation and found dull.

  ‘Quite miscast, poor thing,’ Besobrasov’s gruff voice rumbled in his ear. ‘She hasn’t the technique. Mikhail Mikhailovich demands more of his dancers than one imagines.’ The audience were of the same mind; they were eager for the main event. The word on the street was that Salome was a sensation. The auditorium tingled with impatience.

  Orlov did not leave his box during the interval. Champagne was brought, and he surveyed the crowd, becoming aware that they in turn were watching him. He caught the whisper of his name and the occasional twinkle of a lorgnon catching light from the numerous crystal chandeliers. Besobrasov, whose tall, imposing figure with pure white hair automatically drew all eyes, leaned over the edge of the box to hold a long conversation with Svetlov, the critic who had once received Pavlova’s favours, and from their confidential manner the Prince deduced that they were discussing Lydia. His old identity, Prince Orlov the aesthete, the balletomane, the owner of many priceless cultural artefacts and the patron of a great ballerina, settled around his disappointed shoulders like a cloak of glory.

  ‘Ah! At last.’ Besobrasov settled eagerly into his seat as the lights dimmed. ‘Now, my friend, I believe we shall really see something tonight.’

  Orlov did not miss the edge of reproof in his voice. ‘Forgive me, General, I am a little distracted this evening.’

  ‘Believe me, I know what it is when one has responsibilities,’ the elderly connoisseur reassured him with a touch on the arm. ‘But now you can forget for a while, eh? Give yourself to Terpsichore for an hour.’

  Salome seized the audience by the throat from the moment the curtain rose. Bakst’s decor was a cavern of indigo draped in immense billowing curtains which alluded at once to Salome’s veils. In the centre of the dark stage Herod was discovered on his throne musing on the evil omens for his rule. Shafts of intense light splintered the gloom as the dancers appeared, placed them in prominence but cast deeper shadows all around. When Lydia appeared, her skin gleamed like mother-of-pearl through her crimson draperies.

  In the company it was clear that the suffering which that heartless chit Kusminskaya had inflicted on young Volinsky had been turned to excellent account. He had found the courage fully to embrace the modern style and reach new heights of expression. The steps seemed to scream with yearning, sing seduction, scorch the stage with sensuality, and he used the very shallowness of Lydia’s own character to create Salome as a monster of self-absorption. The music was a magnificent vehicle for dark passions, an assembly of fragments by Rimsky-Korsakov collected from chamber suites and opera intermezzi.

  The first act concluded with a long pas de deux in which the temptress taunted her wretched victim, for which Leo had appropriated two movements of a cello sonata, a sobbing adagio and angry rondo allegro. It was violently effective. The encores began immediately and by the time Salome stood alone in a pool of light vowing vengeance on the steadfast young prophet the audience voiced a constant roar of romantic adoration.

  ‘What a marvel she is, your little girl!’ Besobrasov beside him was bellowing to be heard. Spring flowers, for which Lydia’s fans had raided the market early that morning, hailed down on the stage at her first curtain call, and as she began each round of curtsying she turned by instinct towards Orlov with a triumphant smile. Immediately his heart inflated with pride.

  Besobrasov himself was bowing involuntarily in all directions as if to appropriate some of the ballerina’s glory merely by association with her lover. All around him Orlov heard cries of ‘Incomparable!’ and ‘Magnificent!’ and his heart was thrilled because this wonderful object belonged to him. The highest degrees of her art flowed from the love they shared. Every sensual illusion she had created proceeded from delights which he had shown her. All the perfection of her body, its breathless grace, its fluid precision, its steel strength and suppleness, the ferocity, the tenderness, the élan, the delicacy, were gifts she would place in his hands in a few hours’time.

  The dark speculations of two hours past were driven from his mind. He accused himself of neglecting his most precious treasure. Guilt, fear and panic suddenly laid hold of his imagination. She had achieved this miracle without him – what now if he proved unnecessary to her, if another, more forward admirer had claimed her in secret? A maelstrom of concern swept his thoughts to one point – a special gift. There was no better way to consolidate his love. Ungrateful fool that he was, he had been so immersed in his own affairs that he had neglected the simple chivalrous duty of selecting an appropriate memento for his beloved’s triumph. In another hour she would be surrounded by flowers and trinkets and his own presentation, which ought to have been the most imposing of all, would be awaited in vain. She would be wounded, she would be angry, he would be shamed.

  The Grand Duchess Vladimir acknowledged him from her box with a knowing nod, and he noticed her tiara of rubies, one of the early consolations of her widowhood, with the Beauharnais ruby once owned by Napoleon at its centre. Immediately his mind turned to the casket awaiting his future bride. He sent his coachman to fetch the imperturbable Davidov, who reached the theatre as the light dimmed for the ballet’s last act. The necessary instructions were written and sealed in a few seconds.

  At the ballet’s end the audience erupted into a frenzy of acclaim which endured for almost an hour. The Prince, enervated by the uproar, retreated a few steps to the rear of his box, and then resolved that he must be the first to pay his private tribute.

  With his gift gripped firmly in both hands, he half ran through the cool grey corridors of the theatre, found his way through the concealed door to the backstage offices and arrived breathless at her dressing room where the maid was fussing over the surplus of flowers crammed into all manner of containers, half of them on the floor as there was no other place for them.

  He caught his breath, smoothed his hair, and chose a place on the dressing table on which to lay his gift. He cast his eyes over the presents from the public which the concierge had already heaped on a side table. There were over fifty. The cards proclaimed the givers from every walk of life, from the laboured script of a group of railwaymen – ‘Your devoted admirers in the gods’ – to the engraved copperplate of his own friends and associates.

  At last there was a commotion at the end
of the corridor and in a few more instants the door was flung open by Alexandrov, and Lydia entered, her skin white against her black silk costume embroidered with gold and pearls, one hand still pressing a spray of lilac blossom to her bosom. The Director walked attentively at her side. The choreographer and designer followed, and behind them two stage footmen, sweating under their white wigs, followed with their arms full of bouquets.

  In that moment Orlov was filled with the most exquisite sense of possession. He turned from the table of offerings, held out his arms and the goddess seemed to leap into them directly from the doorway. After months in which he had hardly known what to say to her the perfect phrases of praise bubbled effortlessly from his lips, and she, still intoxicated after her exertions, responded with practised grace.

  Alexandrov, Bakst, Volinsky and the Director stood aside. ‘A few moments, gentlemen,’ he ordered them in a confidential voice, and they immediately withdrew, Volinsky directing a lance of pure hatred from his pale eyes. The maid shooed out the footmen and retreated after them, rolling her lumpy hips under her black skirt in sympathy with the general excitement.

  Lydia looked expectantly at him, her hands folded at her breast. In these periods of transition between performance and everyday existence she still used the exaggerated gestures of the stage. She was euphoric from dancing, swaying as she stood, flushed and breathing deeply, her eyes luminous. He kissed her forehead, tasting the salt sweat.

  ‘There is nothing that I have which is as beautiful as you,’ he began, turning to the flat case of birch wood which he had laid down before the mirror. ‘Nor is there anything under the sun more precious to me. This is our family jewel, intended for my bride’ – he opened the box and was gratified to see her gasp at the blazing mass of diamonds which it contained – ‘and I know now that there will be no one ever more worthy to wear it than you are tonight. Please do me the honour to accept it, and with it all my love, now and for ever.’

  For an instant the old greedy Lydia appeared and stepped forward to grab her trophy; then she paused, filled with the new grace engendered by her triumph, for an instant too excited to think clearly or to know what she should do. A heavenly tension gripped the centre of her body.

  ‘Such an exquisite thing … I can’t say a word,’ she whispered, finally dragging her eyes from the necklace to gaze into his face with rapture. ‘I – darling, forgive me, it’s too much, my heart is full, I’m overcome …’

  ‘Say nothing, my love. But will you wear it now? I should like you to do that.’

  ‘Not as I am, in my poor costume? No, no, the effect will be wrong …’ She was as concerned as he was to present the necklace to the world in the right light. ‘Let me call the maid and change, then I can wear it properly.’ The first intimation of the significance of the gift began to reach her consciousness through her agitated mood. ‘Oh, but first – my love, my wonderful, generous Nikolai – let me kiss you.’

  She had to jump to reach her arms around his neck and all the delight he had first taken in her body burst out anew. The costume, contrived with decades of skill to resist violent movement, was clawed away somehow by two pairs of equally passionate hands and upon the red plush couch at the side of the room he sank into the hot, tight heart of her, glimpsing in the mirror the white thighs raised and crushed against his black evening clothes. They returned to each other as if they could fuse into one being, and the fears of the past years were blasted to faint memories.

  It was some time before the world was readmitted; she insisted on sending home for a dress with a better décolletage to display the necklace to its best advantage. It was an hour before the door was opened, but the throng of well-wishers waited patiently and came in with due humility to make their own offerings. Among the treasure which Lydia at last carried home from the reception given in her honour was a silver bowl from the railwaymen and a black feather fan from a schoolboy who begged her, if she had any pity for his desperate love at all, to carry it when she next danced in Paquita. The Director gave her a diamond arrow brooch, and Leo received a gold lyre also set with diamonds. Besobrasov appeared with a brooch of modern design which echoed the sweeping lines of the decor and was set with blue topaz, amethysts and pearls. From the Dowager Empress Maria Fyodorovna, who once again had occupied the Imperial Box, she received a diamond aigrette and a personally inscribed card. She squealed with delight at every gift, but even as she displayed the hoard to the little audience squeezed between her bouquets she looked into Orlov’s eyes with adoration and he was glad he had given her a part of his heritage.

  Dawn was struggling reluctantly through low smoky clouds when she turned to Orlov in her bedroom wearing only the necklace and assured him, with a strange ecstatic light in her eyes, that none of these tributes delighted her one hundredth as much as his own.

  They began a new period of happiness, deeper and more satisfying than the first months of intoxication with each other, but not destined to endure. For a year Lydia considered herself so perfectly blessed that she would be satisfied for eternity. She understood at last that her public life was the most vital part of her fascination for her Prince. The malaise which had sapped her energy during the clouded months of their affair was defeated, and she applied herself to her dancing with a steely resolve. One triumph followed another, and it seemed that Fate was on her side at last. The Directorate gave her new ballets – Swan Lake, Coppelia, and finally the role relinquished in her favour by the ageing Kchessinskaya in Esmeralda.

  Then Victor Dandré was arrested and charged with embezzling millions of roubles from the city funds. When he was released on bail he fled the country, taking Anna Pavlova with him, and so the Directorate was obliged to redistribute her roles. Diaghilev was equally bereft, since Pavlova’s first act as a free artist was to break her contract with him. Karsavina was absent for longer and longer periods; other soloists were seduced by the huge fees offered for Ballets Russes seasons, and the younger dancers at the Maryinsky found that they no longer had to wait for retiring ballerinas’shoes. Olga drifted into the more romantic roles, and the bravura fell to Lydia. She learned with prodigious speed, so eager was she to put the proper pzazz back into parts which her enemy had taken purely for their importance rather than her ability to dance them.

  She was feted by the public, praised by the artistic elite and treasured by the Court. She was pestered as never before with invitations, most of which she was forced to decline because her stage commitments were overwhelming. Her photograph was sold on street corners, Orlov commissioned a life-size bronze sculpture which he kept in his own study, and her portrait was painted three times for other admirers, including a banker from Moscow who dispatched a fashionable artist from that city, installing her in the best hotel for as long as she needed to finish the painting.

  Diaghilev courted her persistently. ‘He’ll never give up,’ was Tata’s parting advice as she packed for her summer in Europe. ‘When that man wants somebody she gets telegrams served with every meal until she surrenders.’ Lydia discovered that she was not yet on sufficiently intimate terms for the notorious impresario to put her on his telegram regime. His strategy was to use intermediaries to plead his case, and with the Ballets Russes company on a triumphal tour nonstop through Europe and then, to Tata’s extreme excitement, making a long sea voyage to South America, he had no other option.

  Tata herself, when she returned for the winter, never ceased to sing his praises to Lydia, but was too wise to press her directly. Leon Samilovich, once the coveted post of Artistic Director in the company was awarded to him, was more direct.

  ‘She is young, she is beautiful, she is a great, great artist why is La Kusminskaya hiding away in this half-civilized country when she belongs to the world?’ was his constant demand, his eyes behind his pince-nez humorous, taking the edge off his words. Whenever their paths crossed in the salons of St Petersburg or the waterlogged lawns of the Imperial summer palaces she heard him wheedle in his distinctive, aspirated accent.
‘Won’t you at least come to my home one evening and meet some of the Artistic Committee? I’d love you to hear Sergei Pavlovich’s plans for next year, so, so exciting …’

  The Committee, convoked by Diaghilev to raise money for the Ballets Russes tours, was chaired by General Besobrasov who, despite his failing health, had also been recruited to the campaign to capture her. He took a different tack. ‘You would weep to see the honours which are showered on Anna Pavlova now – everywhere she goes – London, Vienna, Milan, even Paris, where they have seen some real ballet at least. I tell you I could cry with shame to hear that feeble creature hailed as the greatest Russian ballerina of all time by people who have no idea what our country can really produce.’

  This argument even persuaded Orlov, who was quite fascinated by the idea that Russian art, vital and full of passion, was sweeping away the played-out conventions of Western Europe. When they resumed their summer tours to Europe and went, at his insistence, to see the Ballets Russes company give the new ballet by Nijinksy, The Rite of Spring, he changed his opinion.

  ‘How wrong I was to question your judgement,’ he told Lydia with genuine contrition. ‘This isn’t a ballet, it’s chaos – like the Moscow station when the train’s just arrived. And that isn’t music, it’s just noise, a cacophony, like the railway yard. No wonder half the audience walked out on the first night! I presume Diaghilev thought they would like anything avant-garde, no matter what its artistic merits, but he doesn’t understand the Parisians, they’re not fools. How arrogant you must have thought me, my love, to argue with you over your own territory.’

  ‘I forgive you,’ she announced with condescension. ‘I should know what an oaf Vaslav is, he’s been treading on my toes since I was ten years old. The idea of him attempting choreography was always absurd. Promise you’ll listen to my little opinions in future?’