White Ice

by Celia Brayfield

  The audience, who had applauded the butterfly piece only tepidly, were now seeing what they understood as Russian ballet, a fabulous pagan spectacle, all colour, excitement and eroticism, and they responded immediately. At the end of the first act she stepped out with Massine to applause which, reverberating around the tiers and up to the domed ceiling, was like the roar of the ocean.

  As the second act came to its finale she had a palpable sense that triumph was in her grasp. A little slave-boy in a turban brought her the head of John the Baptist on a silver charger, she seized it by its curtain of matted hair and began the new solo. The huge theatre was now utterly silent. It had never been the custom in France to halt the action of a ballet for repeated encores, and it had become one of the Ballets Russes traditions, promoted firmly by Fokine, for the audience not even to applaud until the end.

  Lydia found it strange to perform without noisy appreciation, but in the dazzling lacuna of the stage, here where illusions were created, where she was insulated in light from her companions crowded in the wings and from the invisible audience, she began to feel that she was being drawn into herself. All the fiery intensity which she normally projected across the footlights seemed concentrated into her limbs, even into the marrow of her bones, so her body was transmuted into a glow of white heat.

  Never had she possessed such strength or felt so free. The perverse eroticism of the dance seemed mere irrelevant decoration on a pure exercise in space and time. Her will seemed to slice the air like a sword, carving it into beautiful shapes which lingered fleetingly in the mind’s eye before recombining and flowing into new forms. She felt herself to be some exotic hot-house lily, budding, unfurling, scattering her inner riches on the humid air, then dying down only to be immediately reborn. The illusion was so vivid she had the distinct sensation that her own pollen, a warm, fragrant powder containing her spirit’s essence, was falling on her bosom and her outstretched arms.

  Leo, who had remained frozen with fear throughout the ballet, strode forward to command Salome’s execution and the men of the corps who portrayed Herod’s guards lifted her up for the final tableau. Then the unthinkable happened, and Lydia’s strength suddenly failed. The trance in which she had performed her final solo was wearing off, its departure helped by the manhandling of the guards as they lifted her. All she had to do was brace her body in a defiant arc as they held her above their heads, but her joints seemed suddenly spongy and there was no power in her muscles. A feeble tremor seized her. As the curtain descended she lost control of her body entirely and slumped in the men’s grasp; they staggered under her dead weight. Unable to support her, not knowing what to do, they allowed her to slip limply downwards. One man caught her under the armpits. When her feet reached the floor she regained a little co-ordination and stood up unsteadily.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Lydia, poor thing, what’s wrong?’

  ‘She’s ill, she must be ill – but that solo was a sensation, I’ve never seen her dance like that before.’

  ‘Can you say anything, little one? Little girl? What’s the matter?’

  It seemed as if every single one of the watching company ran instantly onto the stage and surrounded her. The applause thundered behind the curtain and voices on all sides called to her. Lydia looked around in surprise, still uncertain what had taken place. The black bulk of Diaghilev, nimble on his small feet, rushed towards her.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, poor dear child, no one saw anything. It looked quite as if you intended it, very effective. How do you feel, can you go out to take calls?’ His deep voice seemed to spread calm around them both.

  ‘I don’t know …’ She motioned to the man who was still supporting her to step back, and stood by herself, trying one foot, one point after another, holding her arms in front of her. She stepped forward a few paces. ‘I think so. I just feel tired, that’s all. Everything suddenly seemed very far away.’

  ‘Leo, Levrusha – both of you give her your arms, keep hold of her. Now, everybody else off the stage!’

  At once the crowd dispersed as rapidly as it had congregated, Bakst pausing to flick the corner of one curtain, disturbed in the stampede, back into its proper shape. With Leo and Massine on either side, Lydia arranged herself in preparation for her curtsy, drew a deep breath and nodded to Diaghilev in the wings, who ordered the curtain to be raised. The applause crashed in their ears. Her legs were firm, she no longer felt dizzy; things seemed to be returning to normal.

  ‘They love us,’ Massine whispered in her ear, squeezing her hand as he held it. ‘It’s a great, great success, isn’t it?’

  She was uncertain, not knowing how to read the responses of this foreign crowd, but then their conductor appeared, and after him Diaghilev, flashing his huge smile all around with obviously genuine delight, and Lydia realized that she had indeed secured the triumph which she had so desperately wanted.

  First among her bouquets was a huge arrangement of pale gold Gloire de Dijon roses from Nikolai, and when she returned to her dressing room he was there already, his normal stiff reserve warmed by the pink glow of her reflected glory which she recognized so well. In her weak mood she was irritated, but automatically suppressed the feeling and nestled in his arms with every appearance of happiness. His present on this occasion was a pendant in the shape of a fish, an oval Indian sapphire supplied with a head, tail and fins of diamonds set in platinum, flowing in shape and cleverly jointed so that it moved very naturally. It was a lovely object, but Lydia knew that he despised anthropomorphic jewellery, however fine, and was the more suspicious.

  ‘Let me stay while you dress?’ This too was uncharacteristic, but she agreed, and he sat stiffly on the small blue damask sofa provided for visitors and talked to her through the mirror while the maid began the lengthy task of unpinning her headdress. He wanted a moment of simple closeness, but immediately there was a knock at the door and Diaghilev appeared.

  ‘My dear, you were quite marvellous. I’ve never seen such a public, you would have thought their seats were on fire they were so quick to leap up at the end.’ He ignored Orlov and pulled up a stool. ‘But I’m worried about you, you’re so white …’

  ‘It is her usual colour, La Kusminskaya has always been noted for her lovely pallor.’ Orlov was annoyed. The two men rose and greeted each other, shook hands, exchanged compliments with complete insincerity and resumed their seats.

  ‘Have you felt well since you arrived in France? Since you arrived in Paris? Perhaps we should get my doctor to attend you …’ The impresario clearly had visions of being obliged to give money back all over Europe if his new star broke her contract.

  ‘I’ve felt marvellous, Sergei Pavlovich – how could I feel anything else? It’s all been like a dream come true.’

  ‘You’ve eaten well? What did you have for lunch?’

  ‘We ate here, you remember, you had the food sent over from that restaurant we went to last night to console us for having to work nonstop all day. I had oysters and some pâté, and chicken and salad …’

  ‘Oysters! That’s the problem solved! It’s too late in the season anyway, they’re bound to be treacherous. No more oysters, that’s an order.’ Satisfied that he had discovered the cause of his star’s sudden faltering, he rose to his feet, replaced his monocle and made for the door. ‘My dear, Your Highness, I shall leave you now, and see you at the Embassy later. There is a car waiting, he knows the address.’ The Russian ambassador had claimed the honour of celebrating their opening night with a reception.

  ‘He never stays anywhere long, does he?’ Orlov spoke in a peevish tone, annoyed to be cheated of the tender moment he had suddenly craved. ‘What did he mean, anyway? You’re not ill.’

  She registered, without great concern, that he had not noticed her collapse, and therefore the audience as a whole would have seen nothing at all amiss. ‘It’s nothing. I made a mistake on stage, that’s all. I do feel rather weak, though – c
an we leave early, darling?’

  ‘Was it nervous exhaustion, perhaps? So much travelling, so much hard work … I think it’s true what they say about that man, he certainly gets his pound of flesh from his dancers.’

  ‘Work and nerves! You’re so clever, you know me so well – I’m sure that’s what it is.’ She rose quickly to kiss his cool cheek, feeling a little restored by his concern for her.

  The rest of the month was tinged with magic. Paris was once again captivated by the barbaric splendour of the Russian Ballet, and once more ready to lose head and heart to a new dance deity. Lydia scored another success in Joseph, and found herself mobbed in the street, and cheered and toasted every time she entered a room. Her letter box at the stage door was stuffed with envelopes every day, containing praise, adoration, invitations and even poetry. To Orlov’s amusement an elderly industrialist took his obsession so far as to wait all day for her arrival to issue a dinner invitation in person.

  She rehearsed every day in a room crowded with Diaghilev’s influential acquaintances, and usually with an artist in the corner of the room diligently sketching her. She was photographed repeatedly as well, posing in her sumptuous costumes and in gowns from her favourite French couturiers for the benefit of La Mode Illustrée. Every day a new drawing appeared, a vivid line portrait by Pablo, a witty caricature by Jean, a chalk sketch by Bakst himself.

  Her lover, as she predicted, was dazzled again, and took immense pride in driving with her in an open car to catch the admiring looks of passers-by. He was calmed and satisfied by every evidence that people went about a business other than war, and allowed himself to forget his anxieties. One day a crowd of youths, not filthy street-arabs, but a group of smart young cadets from some distinguished academy, ran after them for the whole length of the Avenue de l’Opéra cheering and calling out ‘Vive la belle Kusminskaya!’ When the crowd claimed her thus, he seemed to need to repossess her immediately, once even throwing her to the floor of her dressing room with so little care that she screamed and bit him, then burst into tears and accused him of bringing the manners of the battlefield indoors.

  After Joseph another experimental work was premiered, Le Coq d’Or, a marriage of dance and opera staged by Fokine with music by Rimsky-Korsakov. This too was hailed, with perhaps a little less enthusiasm, but it was undoubtedly another triumph for Bakst. An atmosphere of stardust and witchery enveloped the whole company, a subtle gaiety which dissolved old enmities and put a smile on every face, from the simple-minded messenger boy to Sergei Pavlovich himself.

  The sudden fatigue of the first night did not return, but she was alert for signs that it had been more than a reaction to oysters, which she had eaten in quantities for years with no ill effects. A light-headed sensation persisted, but as the whole company was walking ten centimetres off the ground on a carpet of pink clouds she did not worry about it.

  The season concluded, as ever, with an open-air fete in the garden of the Ephrussys’house. A performance of Le Jardin Animé was staged on the lawn, with the pergolas, laden with white roses, serving as scenery and a pair of seventeenth-century stone shepherdesses, life size and carved with wonderful animation, placed among the living dancers in the opening tableau.

  The air was still and the atmosphere humid and breathless. In the far distance thunder could just be heard above the hubbub of talk. Orlov stood stiffly at Lydia’s side, her hand on his arm, and his own free hand clamped possessively over it, content to bow, smile and say very little while she chattered. His willingness to be overshadowed had begun to disturb her; she had discovered that the balletomane set in Paris, always tickled by the train of aristocratic admirers which the Russian ballerinas drew after them and quite unable to appreciate that she and Orlov were permanently attached, had nicknamed him the Ice Prince. Irritably she pushed him into the conversation.

  ‘Yes, we are going on to London now, but Prince Orlov will remain in Paris, won’t you, dearest? You haven’t finished with the War Ministry yet, have you?’

  ‘The War Ministry,’ he repeated, not knowing how to pick up her lead.

  ‘Tell me’ – their hostess suddenly showed more than social interest in the foreign statesman she had inadvertently captured for the evening – ‘will there be a war over this Serbian nonsense? Why can’t they agree anything? My husband explains but I don’t understand a word of it.’

  ‘What is your husband’s opinion?’ His face was softening with an indulgent smile.

  ‘He says there won’t be a war, nobody wants it and they can negotiate their way clear.’

  ‘That is the general view.’ His voice was clipped, which implied to those who knew him that the Prince was maintaining a diplomatic reticence.

  ‘We want to know what you think, Nikolai.’ Karsavina took his free arm in hers confidingly. ‘We want the prince’s view, not the general view, thank you.’

  At this there was a ripple of nervous laughter. ‘My own view – nobody takes it seriously, so why should you?’

  ‘Because we are your friends,’ Alexandrov pledged him with a cheerful smile over his champagne.

  ‘I would like to believe in mediation,’ he replied after a pause. ‘But they are a passionate race, Slavs, after all, like us, and we are hot-blooded as a rule. And my role in this mission, the reason I would be here even if it were not for Lydia’s sake, is to draft a treaty for arms reduction in England, France and my own country, and I cannot say it is an easy task. Everyone is very attached to their guns, not least the people whose factories make them. Last night one gentleman was explaining to me that he would be ruined if he had to cut down production next year. He said he’d even have to give up racing.’ There was more uneasy laughter, since Orlov had a way of being so drily ironic that strangers were uncertain of his meaning.

  ‘Oh dear, you’ve made me feel so sad.’ Tata’s round face was a mask of tragedy. ‘I’ve been horribly homesick today and now all I want to do is go straight to the station and jump on a train immediately.’

  ‘Sergei Pavlovich will curse you good and proper if you even think of it again,’ Alexandrov warned her, and at the mention of his name they all looked around for Diaghilev’s black bulk, but in vain. ‘He’s left,’ Mischa confirmed. ‘I saw him go half an hour ago, looking lousy. I think the thing with Vaslav gets to him even now.’

  Melancholy stole among them like evening mist, to be passed off as sadness to leave such good hosts and to desert the beauties of Paris. The night was airless and hot. Over the distant suburbs a storm was brewing, and the thunder grumbled a bass line under the swell of general conversation.

  The next morning Lydia caught the general mood of sadness, and suddenly found tears dampening her morning croissant. Shortly afterwards she was sick, and continued retching all morning until Orlov insisted that he would call a doctor.

  ‘Very well, but not the company physician, for God’s sake. I don’t want the position of every mole on my backside relayed to Sergei Pavlovich, thank you.’

  The man who came was recommended as one of the most eminent personal physicians in Paris. He was certainly one of the most discreet. He looked her over intently, which, since he was an absurdly handsome man in early middle age, was not unpleasant. She struck him as a healthy young woman in radiant good health – in fact her blooming complexion and plump bosom on a body otherwise lithe and muscular immediately suggested his diagnosis. He asked permission to examine her internally, admired the picture of Kolya in its small yellow enamel Fabergé frame just as he performed a painful manipulation of her organs, left the room briefly to reassure the Prince and then returned to a chair beside the chaise on which she was curled up with her little dog hugged protectively to her side.

  ‘Your son seems to be a fine boy,’ he began with disarming lightness. Lydia agreed politely. ‘Do you have other children?’ She shook her head as if this would have been the most ill-advised decision. ‘And the pregnancy, the birth, they were quite normal?’

  ‘No, they were appalling
, though I’m told that is as it should be.’

  ‘Mothers say to me that the first one is always the worst. And are you and your … and the Prince … fond of children, Madame?’

  ‘Why?’ she demanded, suspicious at once. ‘Don’t for God’s sake tell me … not again, I’m not having another child, I can’t be, surely? Oh please, don’t tell me that …’

  ‘I believe it to be so, Madame.’

  ‘Well, I won’t. And you’re wrong, you must be wrong.’ The words came so violently from her mouth that they were almost shouted. The dog, alarmed, jumped off her lap and hid under the bed. She ransacked her memory of the past few weeks for evidence that he was mistaken. A few moments of faintness, a little queasiness –they amounted to nothing. True she had gained weight but everyone did in Europe; the food was so good and she had as usual eaten her share. But she had had no menstruation at all for two years, and that, surely, must prove him wrong. ‘Listen, a woman who has no bleeding every month is not a woman, isn’t that right? If you don’t bleed you can’t get a baby. Even if you make love three times a day. You are not fertile. That’s what the doctor in Petersburg told me. Was he lying, then? He said we didn’t need to be careful if there was no menstruation, and it often happened with dancers because we were so thin.’

  ‘That is normally the case, Madame, and certainly it has been my experience that irregular menstruation is more often experienced by women of slight build. But Nature …’

  ‘Forget about Nature, I’m only interested in me. I’ve had no bleeding for a year, almost two years. So how can I be pregnant?’

  ‘Irregular menstruation can be deceptive in this respect, Madame. The bleeding occurs at the end of the fertile cycle, and the best period for conception is normally about two weeks before that. I suggest that you did, in fact, begin one fertile cycle, and conceived at once, since when, of course, you will have seen no bleeding and everything would have appeared normal – or normally abnormal in your case.’