Encore

by Monique Raphel High

  And Pierre. Pierre was going to exhibit some work in Paris. His future reputation might be made at such a show. Pierre had not shown him the painting of the girl, the dancer, and Boris knew exactly why. Pierre was learning to play the game by Boris’s own rules, and this was not good; it was even dangerous.

  Children, or those endowed with the naïveté of children, should not be permitted to manipulate events to suit their own fancy, to play at being gods. Pierre had to be allowed to go to Paris—for the sake of all concerned. The Tumarkin dowry would amply cover the expenses of the exhibition, and no Kussov funds would need to be probed: His father would be relieved, Pierre would be grateful, and the Sugar Plum would reenter the realm of a simple artwork. Because it could be no other ballerina but that one, he knew.

  Before he had a chance to regret it, Boris turned very rapidly to Marguerite and said thickly: “You were right, and there is no need to apologize. This is the moment to ask for your hand in marriage. Will you permit me to take the first train to Kiev in order to speak to your father? For we must be married soon, my dear. We cannot wait.”

  “I had no idea your feelings were—so deep,” she stammered. And then, piteously, she burst into tears.

  Right after their wedding in Kiev, Boris took Marguerite to Moscow for a honeymoon trip. He had not wanted to take her to Paris, for Serge Diaghilev and their friend Alexander Benois were there, preparing for the exhibition. He did not want to be seen by his friends with his new wife. And to travel with her to Rome, or to the Greek islands, such spots of charm that seemed to spell romance, would have been a violation of himself and of these places. So he selected Moscow. It was interesting and not too far. He would not feel cut off from the world there, alone with her, or forced to provide for her every need. Consequently, they took the train and spent their first night together in a spacious Pullman. He settled her politely into her berth and returned to the compartment only after she had turned out the light. If she was disappointed, she did not say; he did not ask. But in Moscow he knew he would have to face this dreadful error he had made.

  He liked this city: It was typically Russian, with wide streets, mostly unpaved, bordered by lovely houses of one or two stories, with façades of delicately wrought stone or graceful pillars.

  Moscow possessed four hundred churches, as well as museums and historical monuments. The Kremlin was a city unto itself, with its own churches, large and small palaces, houses built at various epochs and of different architectural styles—a heterogeneous conglomeration that was nonetheless imposing. Boris took his bride to visit it as soon as they arrived. Then he brought her to the Slavinsky Bazaar, a restaurant where the waiters were clothed in white, their collars and cuffs adorned with embroidery, and a wide, supple belt cinching their waists. He ordered a traditionally Russian meal for her: borsht, pirozhkis filled with cabbage, chicken, and for dessert, kissel, a fruit-and-sugar compote. They drank kvass, the ordinary peasant drink made from fermented wheat. Marguerite thought the dinner a vast success and laughed nervously during its progression. Her cheekbones were very red and she clenched and unclenched her hands a dozen times.

  He had reserved the bridal suite at the Hotel de l’Ours, and when he took her upstairs, he said: “I think that I should like to walk around a little, my dear.” While he was gone, she readied herself, but he did not return as quickly as she might have expected. He had gone downstairs then out into the city, his mind a fog and an angry blur. She rang for the hall maid and expressed concern: It was past one in the morning, and it was cold outside. But he had forgotten the time, willing himself to forget it. It was only when the church chimes in some godforsaken neighborhood rang two o’clock that he shook himself from his stupor. Nobody could help him now. God had long ago stopped caring, for Boris had himself left religion behind him in his adolescence. And who else would have brought comfort to a man of thirty-three, fit and able?

  He retraced his steps, hoping that Marguerite would have possessed sufficient sense and modesty to have gone to sleep. He entered the sitting room and received a jolt: The chandelier was brightly lit. He heard her moaning slightly, and there she was, on the threshold of the bedroom, her long, thin blond hair spread like a mantle over the bony shoulders. “Oh, Borya!” she cried. “My darling, are you quite well? What happened?”

  Attempting to avoid her eyes, he said with annoyance, “I am not accustomed to being watched, Marguerite. I’ve lived too many years as a bachelor for you to expect me to change my ways so quickly. I merely stepped out, that’s all. If you become hysterical every time this happens, I shall not be able to tolerate it.”

  “But this is our wedding night!” she exclaimed. Her shoulders drooped. “Boris—please. I’m your wife now. The train—”

  At this he suddenly became very red and glared at her. “Are you, or are you not, a lady?” he asked her roughly. “If you are, then pray behave as one. I took you to be modest.” And abruptly, trembling all over, he turned away. There was a decanter of Napoleon brandy upon the sideboard in the sitting room, and he tried to pour himself a thimbleful. His hand could not stop shaking. He spilled the liquor. Marguerite watched him, truly terrified now and also ashamed. She began to whimper.

  He turned to face her, and thus to face his own demons squarely. Her large breasts, unsupported in the frail lace of the nightgown, loomed ominously in his field of vision, and he felt a surge of illness. If only she had been compact, well muscled, and small. Her bones showed in the wrong places, and the breasts—oh, God! the breasts! He swallowed down a spew of bile and clutched the sideboard for support. After all, it couldn’t be worse than the cocottes of his early youth. Remember that: It couldn’t be worse. At least she was not vulgar, as they had been.

  He followed her into the bedroom, attempting to summon his strength of character, recalling phrases he had heard concerning his strength. Men wished to remain on Count Boris’s good side, for he was a fierce opponent. Men were afraid of him. He possessed a will of iron. He wanted to laugh and to follow that with countless bottles of vodka. Instead he watched her lie quietly upon the coverlet of the magnificent bed. He removed his coat, his jacket. He went into the bathroom and undressed completely. Too late for the bath that his body craved. He placed an elegant maroon dressing gown over his nudity, tied it securely, and emerged into the bedroom once more.

  Then he came to her and sat down upon the bed, while the lights still blazed in the lamps. He pulled the silk gown from her shoulders and looked at her, fully. The stomach was nearly

  concave, with the pelvic bones showing. The breasts flopped loosely. She had shut her eyes in misery, aware of his scrutiny and not understanding. Tears formed in the inner corners of her eyes, but he had no pity for her. In one swift move he took the coverlet and pulled it over her. Silently he left the room, reentered the bathroom, and donned his dinner clothes and his shoes. He took three bills from his wallet and left them on the sink. He was not fully conscious of performing these tasks, knowing only that they could not be avoided.

  Then Boris Kussov slipped from his bridal suite into the corridor, and from the corridor into the early Moscow dawn. He hailed the first coach he saw, and told the driver to take him to the station. There he purchased a first-class ticket to St. Petersburg.

  More and more frequently now, Natalia did not spend her Sunday leaves with Katya’s family. Their predictable gaiety and teasing, their large meals interspersed with gentle stories about old Russia, and their summers in the country seemed oppressive now that they were no longer new. It was almost as if the Balins had two daughters, and she was one of them. They fretted and fussed about her health, about her occasional sad moods, about her abstraction. They tried to teach her to be a lady, with mild manners and a kind, sweet disposition. Natalia had lived sufficient years without the benefit of parents; now their efforts bored her somewhat and made her impatient. Instead, she visited Lydia Markovna Brailovskaya.

  Lydia lived alone with her old nurse in a small apartment not far from
the school and the Mariinsky. It was on a side street, pleasantly shaded in the spring and rather dark during the winter. Manya, the old nurse, was devoted to Lydia but had grown too old to be of much use to her in the house; she had remained because Lydia loved her, and because she was the only person who represented “family” to the coryphée. Natalia liked the old peasant woman, and found her gruff, superstitious admonitions amusing and touching.

  Lydia was the daughter of a premier danseur at the Mariinsky, a friend of Pavel Guerdt and Enrico Cecchetti. He had died several years before, and though he had not bequeathed his talent to his daughter, she had inherited his friends. Lydia was invited places by members of the Ballet, by Chaliapin, the basso profundo, and by the French actors who played during the winter season at the Mikhailovsky Theatre. She knew everyone in this varicolored world of theatre folk. She also learned St. Petersburg gossip more quickly than anyone. Natalia found her biting wit a challenge: Here was a person who was interested in Natalia’s thoughts, in her own irreverence. And Lydia did not treat Natalia as an inferior because of the ten years that separated them. She recognized that Natalia had bypassed childhood.

  By Lent, the scandal over Count Boris Kussov’s marriage to Princess Marguerite Tumakina had erupted full scale, and Lydia said to Natalia: ‘Tour admirer has certainly engendered a mess. At court people have formed two camps—the Kussov one and that of the Tumarkins, Princess Marguerite’s family. It must be difficult for the Imperial Family. The Kussovs are old court retainers of the highest aristocracy, but Princess Marguerite is the niece of the provincial governor of the Ukraine. A fine stew!”

  “You know more about this than I do,” the girl replied, shrugging. “At school we hear virtually nothing intriguing.”

  “I remember what it’s like. Well, this is the crux of the issue: Count Boris claims that the marriage was annulled because he had not been properly informed of her previous bout with mental illness, and that insanity was starting to manifest itself during the wedding trip. Hence, he claims that the Tumarkins duped him on purpose. They, on the other hand, say that he abandoned her on their honeymoon without consummating the marriage, and that, therefore, the annulment was procured on their behalf. All these humiliating details have been brought to the surface because of the matter of the dowry. If indeed he married her in good faith and discovered that she was not in total possession of her faculties, then he should retain the money. But if she was the wronged party, then naturally he must return it in full. The Tzar, I’m told, thinks that Count Boris should keep half. I presume the judge will agree with this settlement. That way, nobody comes out stronger than anybody else.”

  Natalia raised her fine, arched brows. “She was a fool to subject herself to marriage in the first place. She could have used her income to travel—to see the world, to enhance her education. Now what will become of her? Or is she really—debilitated?” She motioned to her forehead.

  “I wouldn’t have the slightest idea. There must be a grain of truth in it somewhere, or Count Boris wouldn’t have the temerity to state it. But—do you know?—they say she’s already engaged again—to someone else, of course. To a Prussian man, Baron von Baylen—he’s first secretary at the German embassy. Clearly her parents want to speed up this wedding so that people here will forget the other scandal. I’ve never formally met the woman, but I saw her once at Cubat with Count Boris, before their marriage—if one can call it that. She’s a rather nondescript little person, but not really bad looking. He resembled a peacock next to a moorhen. He is splendid, isn’t he? But not a nice man.”

  Natalia grinned. “Oh? That makes him distinctly more interesting. Do you think either of them will stay in the city after this? I mean—wouldn’t you think each of them would want to escape for a little while before coming back to court and everything?”

  “Count Boris is planning to be in Paris for the art exhibition. In the meantime, I don’t believe he’ll go out of his way to appear at functions attended by the Tzar and Tzarina! Alexandra, especially, is very straight-laced, as was her grandmother, Queen Victoria.”

  Natalia yawned. Queen Victoria was definitely not a pet subject of hers.

  On Palm Sunday, the ballet school held its annual performance at the Mikhailovsky Theatre. Natalia had the most important role of the evening, although she had not been told that her masters intended to judge that very night whether she should be allowed to complete her schooling the following year, in May 1907, rather than a year later with the other girls in her class. She was sixteen now and would be young if they granted her this rare permission. Varvara Ivanovna, the school directress, was doubtful. She kept her girls under strict supervision and held praises at bay. Exceptions made her acutely uncomfortable, and she did not want little Oblonova to lose her levelheadedness.

  Natalia was to dance Aspitchia in an abbreviated version of The Daughter of Pharaoh, the ballet that had marked the start of Marius Petipa’s stint as choreographer of the Imperial Ballet. This ballet had also turned back the style of dance from the romanticism dominant in Europe during the twenties to that of classicism. Now the younger dancers criticized Petipa for his unwillingness to change to a more natural fashion of ballet; some had actually formed a coalition during the politically troubled end of 1905 in an attempt to break the rigid dominance of the French Petipa and his assistant, Lev Ivanov. But their efforts had come to nothing. Natalia had ardently supported them in her heart, but had been too sheltered at the school to aid them in person.

  Lydia had told Natalia all about it, for she had been involved in the committee meetings. She had told Natalia that much promise lay in the young premier danseur, Fokine, and that he should be watched; also, that Pavlova was keenly jealous of Karsavina, who was a gentle creature, and a lady.

  The Daughter of Pharaoh was an opulent Nubian drama that offered one of the best opportunities for miming that Natalia had ever encountered. The entire ballet revolved around Aspitchia; in fact, when it was shown in its entirety, this character did not leave the stage for the entire four acts. Petipa had provided an exercise in virtuosity, while transforming a Russian girl into a Nubian princess. Natalia loved the dramatic challenge of this character change and liked the Eastern abstract patterns of her long tutu embroidered in gold thread.

  The annual performance of the ballet school was not only attended by family and teachers, but also by the most ardent devotees of the dance, such as the critics Svetlov and Skalkovsky. Members of the court came as well, most frequently represented by Grand-Duke Vladimir. Among the students would be found future prima ballerinas and premier danseurs, and the connoisseurs wished to be the first to discover new talent. Natalia stepped out onto the well-watered floor of the little theatre and looked out to her public. The grand-duke was in the imperial box; but, to the girl s utmost surprise, next to him sat the Tzarina, her pale red hair setting off the milk-white features beneath it. Natalia was suddenly very apprehensive. She had never seen Alexandra Feodorovna from so close.

  Then again lights glared and Natalia ceased to see faces before her. She entered the body of the passionate Aspitchia, in love with Taon. Pugni’s music carried her like a wave. She had studied this part so long and thoroughly because she had to mime her story to the audience, and she liked Pavel Guerdt, who had coached her, and wanted him to be proud of her. She had forgotten the Tzarina but not Guerdt, whose watching eyes she could almost feel. Behind her danced the corps, Katya among them. They were Natalia’s own Greek chorus, underscoring her drama.

  In the third act she perspired a great deal, for this was a Petipa extravaganza to show off her skill on pointes. She could feel a muscle contracting strangely as she rose, leaped, and turned, but the cramp did not set in, as she had feared. She felt so relieved that sheer primal joy coursed through her: She was vanquishing the difficult piece, taming her recalcitrant body by the sheer strength of her will.

  Amid pyramids, palaces, and a fisherman’s hut, Natalia danced, her face red and glistening. At the end, when
she had successfully convinced the King of Nubia to allow her to marry her lover, exultation shone through her performance. She had triumphed. Aspitchia had won, and so had Oblonova. Natalia made her révérence and went offstage, her eyes tingling, stars shining before her. She stumbled. A gaping black hole sucked her inside it, and she collapsed at the feet of her teacher, Guerdt, who had come to give her his approval.

  She came to in a small room, and found herself on a narrow cot, surrounded by men and women whose faces she could not place but who spoke loudly in her ears so that their voices rang. Somebody was applying ice water to her temples. “It’s all right, ma petite,” Pavel Guerdt said, and, recognizing him, she closed her eyes again. Somebody fanned her. Then a female voice burst in excitedly: “Quick, get up, Natalia! The Tzarina is coming!”

  The next few minutes seemed like a collage of haphazard images to Natalia. The door swung on its hinges, and she saw the cold, clear features of the empress. Natalia sank down in a profound curtsy and did not rise until a thick hand tilted her chin upward. She gazed with consternation into the large face of Grand-Duke Vladimir. “So,” he remarked, as though he had been on speaking terms with her for many years, “the little flower wilts before we can see it.”

  “I am sorry, Your Excellency,” Natalia stammered.

  “Pah! Sorrow is for the dead.” His jovial laugh surrounded her as a warm blanket.

  “You were lovely, Natalia Dmitrievna,” the Tzarina said. “I wished to present you with this trinket in memory of today.” She handed the girl a small box decorated with her portrait in painted enamel. Natalia’s fingers shook as she received it, and she curtsied again, unable to utter a syllable. Then the door opened, other people entered, and the Tzarina and her husband’s uncle departed with Varvara Ivanovna. Natalia wished desperately to be alone, and in the tumult of voices in the room she slipped onto the floor, mingling with the legs of her well-wishers. She leaned her head against the post of the cot, and allowed the conversations to float above her. Nobody seemed to notice her there, and she felt better.