Encore

by Monique Raphel High

  Pierre’s mouth worked silently. The hand that he had raised fell on the coverlet. “Damn it!” he cried. He glared at Boris, then seemed to remember something and searched the room with his squinting eyes. “How long have you been here?” he asked.

  “Ten minutes. I told you, she’s not here. She hasn’t been here since we arrived. Little Oblonova?” Boris raised one fine golden brow and smiled.

  Pierre’s black eyes halted upon his friend’s face. Boris read in them pain, bewilderment, love. The nakedness of this expression hurt him. Pierre shrugged. “No, someone—inconsequential. But still, damn it, if she’d been here—”

  Boris started to laugh. “Go on, get up and conquer the world. Ivan is preparing coffee—though I wouldn’t want to guess with what! Did you also forget that Fokine and Benois wanted to see you today? At Serge’s flat.”

  Pierre stood up, tall, massive, golden brown, and reached for a dressing gown. For a moment he hesitated, sensing eyes upon him, but when he wheeled about, Boris was idly examining the cufflink in the palm of his hand. Pierre thought: I shall think about you later, Natalia—when I am alone once more. But he did not understand where she could have gone, or why.

  Count Vassily Arkadievitch Kussov stared at his son from beneath his bushy brows, and puffed on his pipe. “Why?” he asked. “Why is it so difficult for me to reach you these days? Your behavior troubles me, Borya. Believe me, I understand about Marguerite. They were not truthful with us. Even the Tzar understands now and has taken your side. Giving back part of the dowry has not hurt you much, I can see that. But still—there are other reasons why a young man should marry. It almost seems as though you were relieved that Marguerite possessed a flaw, instead of outraged, as any bridegroom should have been! But all that is past history. Today, you should be planning to leave heirs. You are thirty-three now.”

  “That is young enough, Papa,” Boris replied. He was sitting on a love seat in the magnificent living room, with its chandelier of Venetian crystal and its delicate rose lamps and tapestried walls. His massive parent occupied a large armchair across from him.

  “Perhaps. But Borya, there are other things that disturb me. Your friends. All fine young men, all aristocrats, except for Bakst, the Jew. But some of them have reputations. Teliakovsky tells me that several years ago when Diaghilev worked for Volkonsky, his predecessor at the Imperial Theatres, there was quite a scandal. Some of his colleagues gave the young man a powder puff to show contempt for his sexual preferences. And Lvov—Pavel Dmitrievitch—how well I know that family! There is none better in Petersburg. But the parties he gives—all for his male friends, his lovers! I find this very distressing. Why do you associate with men such as these?”

  Boris sighed, then smiled and shook his head. “Really, Papa! I am certain that some of Nina’s friends, or Nadia’s and Liza’s, may be committing adultery. One continues to see one’s friends because they are interesting, talented, or simpatico. Besides—today homosexuality is not seen as the great shame it was once considered in Petersburg. Truly, it has become—like adultery. One knows homosexuals and adulterers, and while one may not approve of what they practice behind closed doors, one pretends one doesn’t know. It’s that simple.”

  “For lower echelons of the nobility maybe, or for those who do not dwell among their kin. Diaghilev’s family is from Perm. But Lvov has brought pain to his people, that is a certainty. And while we may not be like the English, who condemn outright, we have our standards, nevertheless. Your proximity with men of dubious morals has brought me sleepless nights. If you were married, tongues would not wag.”

  “And my other friends? Benois is a happily wed father, and Nouvel, too. Bakst adores women. Why are the majority of my companions forgotten for the marginal minority? You are not making sense, Papa. Should a man marry in order to move freely among talented men who amuse him, simply because not all of them conform?”

  Count Vassily sat up, suddenly stern and imposing. “Boris, you are glib with me, and satirical! Keep whatever friends you wish. I do not question your own integrity or your morals, only your well-being. Is there a reason why you do not pay court to any particular woman of society? Are you afraid she may turn out to be like Marguerite? Tell me about yourself. I am your father, and you shut me out! Talk to me. You are my own comfort in life. Talk to me!”

  The old count’s strong voice reverberated in the delicate room. Boris sucked on his upper lip. At length he said: “There is someone I care for, enough so that I do not want to marry another woman. Marguerite—what a disaster that marriage was! I admit that I gained from it, financially. My part of the dower settlement can support several years of artistic endeavors without my needing to touch the balance of my personal income. There is no further need for me to form an alliance based on greed, shall we say. So I shall not marry at all.”

  “But why can you not marry this woman? Is she already married?” his father asked.

  Boris looked at a painting of a Madonna and Child by Raphael. The Madonna was young, with enormous soft brown eyes that reminded him of someone, and the picture was round, encased in a frame of blue lacquer. He stared at it pensively, then appeared to make up his mind. “No, she isn’t married,” he said. “But she isn’t of our sort. She is lovely, gifted, brave, but not a gentlewoman, as you would say.”

  His father’s eyes rounded. He smiled. “I see. In other words, marriage to her would bring nothing more to you than you already have. I can understand that, Borya. A mésalliance would surely be wrong. I pity you in your predicament. And yet—what if a child should come?”

  “I would not worry if I were you, Papa,” his son replied. “However, should the unexpected occur, I would do right by her. I would certainly recognize the child and make it my heir. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Naturally. You are an honorable man. Shall I ring for tea now?” The older man bent toward his son and patted his hand. “Still,” he added, “the whole affair’s a damned shame. I would have preferred it otherwise. But then, so should you, so should you.”

  Boris nodded, but he thought: How could I have permitted him to trap me into a corner like this? Now what am I to do? The Madonna was looking at him, and now he fancied her mocking. He welcomed the tea tray because food and warm liquids always relieved the burning in the pit of his stomach. But his fingers on the glass shook slightly.

  Ivan cleared his throat and repeated: “The young lady is in the salon, Your Excellency. I took the liberty of bringing some fruit and tea. She seems at her wits’ end.”

  Boris stood in his bathrobe, drying himself. “You did well, as always, Ivan. Please tell Natalia Dmitrievna that I shall come out as soon as I can.” He waited as his servant removed the empty pitcher and the bowl of sudsy shaving water. Then he poured some toilet water into his hand and splashed it over his neck, into his hair. He was smiling. There was a silk dressing gown ready for him on the small settee, and he put it on. She had come unexpectedly: Let her, too, be surprised! When he stepped out, he resembled a splendid bridegroom on his way to the bedchamber.

  He found her in the living room, eating an apple. She was very small, ensconced in the large Louis XV armchair. Her brown hair was in disarray, strands escaping from her topknot. There were purple circles beneath her large eyes. Her attire was, if not shabby, then certainly hastily chosen and donned. She seemed like a waif from the pages of Dickens, and he smiled. Then he felt a flash of cruelty: He knew where she had been this morning, and if she was now suffering, so be it. He took a deep breath: “Natalia Dmitrievna! I thought you would have been rehearsing today!”

  She jumped to her feet, and his anger diminished. She was a pathetic little bird. “I—” Her eyes took in his dressing gown, his still wet hair. Suddenly, she laughed. “Truly, I’m sorry,” she said. “My timing . . .”

  “Your timing was off. You should have come sooner. I would have received you during my bath. Quite an enjoyable experience.” He twinkled at her, taking delight in his shameless speech. He wa
nted to say: There now, don’t be embarrassed. After all, I know all about you. But even in his meanness he felt a flash of compassion. “What is it?” he asked, sitting down near her.

  She looked away and blushed. “I should not have come,” she began. “I should not—but I did, for there is no one else who might help me. Boris Vassilievitch—General Teliakovsky has suspended me. I am still not certain whether Nuits d’Egypte will be shown at all. You see—it’s Kchessinskaya. She wants to dance La Fille Mai Gardée instead, and she is angry with me, angrier than I ever thought she would be, because of the argument we had in your study.”

  Boris’s eyes had widened. “No Nights? Now that’s absurd! Surely you are exaggerating, my dear.”

  Natalia’s face crumpled like used tissue paper. “I don’t know what to do!” she cried, wringing her hands. She took a deep breath, composed her face, and added more quietly: “Forgive me, Boris Vassilievitch. This outburst—”

  “This outburst is sincere. But Natalia—I may call you Natalia, may I not?—this is petty and childish on Mala’s part. What would you have me do?”

  “I don’t know! Perhaps—perhaps you could reason with her, Boris Vassilievitch. You have been so kind to me in the past. I thought that maybe—Was it presumptuous? I would do anything, anything at all, to continue my career, to dance again as before. I am afraid that if no one intervenes, I will be allowed to return to the Mariinsky at the end of the month, but my progress will go no farther. Pavlova saw me and said some dreadful things—all untrue, but rumors do not help a sagging reputation. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

  Yes, he thought, I understand. His mind went back to his father. “My poor Natalia,” he said. “There may indeed be someone I can see. But not Mala Kchessinskaya. Only a member of the Imperial Family could influence her. I shall have to go to—yes, I believe that is whom I must see. Excuse me, ma chère. You stay here. Ivan will make you comfortable. I must go now but shall return later.”

  Impulsively, she took his hand and brought it to her lips. “Thank you!” she whispered. His eyes swept over her with amusement. It was essential that Nuits d’Egypte be saved, and if, in the process, he could also manage to indebt this girl to him . . .

  Yes, he thought as he tied his four-in-hand in front of his dressing table, it has to be this girl. His jaw tightened when he thought of Pierre and the tuxedo thrown haphazardly on the floor. He rang for Ivan. “Send a card to the Tzarina, please, with this message: ‘Your humble servant begs for a short audience with you, and so on, and so on.’ Have Yuri bring it over now, while I am dressing. Let him bring back her reply. This is not a special afternoon for her, as I recall.”

  To those who knew Boris Kussov well, nothing was a surprise, save, perhaps, his wedding to Marguerite Tumarkina. His impeccable appearance, his good taste, his generosity toward the artistic community of St. Petersburg—all these helped to create the impression of blond perfection, of intellectual and cultural nonpareil with which he clothed himself. But very few knew the inner Boris, what he thought and how he thought it. Now, in his carriage, he did not have to wonder what he would say to the Tzarina. He already knew. He had racked his brain for facts that might prove useful to him and had remembered Alexandra Feodorovna’s schedule. This afternoon she would have time to receive him. She was the single person most able to help him accomplish his aim.

  He was admitted to one of the smaller sitting rooms, for the Kussovs were received in court as friends. When he had first been introduced to her years before and seen her frigid, proud, and frightened profile, two thoughts had assailed him: That, as a foreigner who was not well liked by her father-in-law’s courtiers, she would doubly appreciate those of the aristocracy who did befriend her. Also, that as Queen Victoria’s granddaughter she would have a tendency toward harsh morality. She had condemned him, he knew, for his scandalous marriage. Had she had time to put it behind her?

  “Your Majesty was most kind to grant me these moments of audience,” he said, bending over her hand. “I am most grateful.”

  “Please sit down, Boris Vassilievitch,” she countered. “The pleasure is mine, I assure you.” She seemed stiff, but he knew that she was shy, and when she smiled he felt renewed confidence. “How is your father?” she asked politely.

  “Papa is fine, and begs to be remembered to you. He sends you a basket filled with compliments and eulogies, to be delivered by me.”

  “How charming, Boris Vassilievitch! Now tell me, what is troubling you? How can I be of help?” She leaned forward ever so slightly, and he thought, She cannot break through her reserve, but she tries.

  “I have come to Your Majesty on behalf of some friends of mine,” he said. “You have always been such a balletomane—so has the entire Imperial Family, of course.” He watched carefully as his innocent words registered on her. Then he proceeded: “There is to be a benefit performance at the Mariinsky, on the twenty-first of this month. It was to be a new ballet, Nuits d’Egypte, choreographed by young Fokine, with designs by some excellent people, among them a painter called Riazhin with whom you are probably not yet familiar. One of the dancers is a good friend, but she is eighteen and impetuous. In defending this ballet, she managed to insult Matilda Felixovna. It was all so innocent, I assure you! She feels absolutely miserable about it!”

  “Indeed.” Alexandra Feodorovna sat gravely looking at Boris. She did not betray her emotions. “Please continue, Boris Vassilievitch,” she simply said.

  “To shorten this tale of youthful woe, our young coryphée has been suspended for the duration of the month and fears that her brilliant career will stop before really beginning. She is talented, Your Majesty. She is as good as Karsavina—and such a considerate person, too. But Mala is adamant—her pride has been wounded. It also seems she may talk Teliakovsky into canceling Nuits d’Egyþte altogether.”

  He stopped, tactfully. Alexandra Feodorovna was pensive, abstracted. “Yes,” she said at length, “Nuits d’Egypte. Our uncle, the Grand-Duke Vladimir, told me that you had traveled to Egypt and India to purchase marvelous materials for the costumes and sets of this ballet. I should be distressed to learn that your trip was in vain. But tell me: Who is this young ballerina in whom you have taken such an interest? Have I seen her perform?”

  “You may have, Your Majesty. Her name is Natalia Oblonova. She—”

  “Why yes, Oblonova! Little Aspitchia! She is graceful and nervous as a springtime doe. I do remember her. She was also in Le Pavilion d’Armide, the pas de trois with that remarkable young man, Nijinsky. Two very unusual dancers, and both so very young.” She paused. “I shall speak with my husband and my uncle. Surely so great a dancer as Matilda Felixovna can choose to overlook such a peccadillo. I can promise nothing, of course. But I hope, Boris Vassilievitch, that Natalia Oblonova will be most grateful to you for intervening on her behalf. Not every dancer can boast of such a devoted patron.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. Not every patron can boast of the sympathy of such a gracious monarch.” He rose after her, and bowed once again over her proffered hand. She gave him a brief half-smile and accompanied him to the door of the receiving room.

  “Boris Vassilievitch,” she said clearly, “you behaved in a most cruel fashion toward your wife. I was disappointed in you. I would have thought that you, of all men, would have been kinder. Why, I have received Marguerite Stepanovna in my own chambers, and I do not believe that she is more than nervous, poor thing. I do not think she possesses the strains of insanity within her.”

  Boris bowed again. “I hope for her sake you are right in your charity, Your Majesty. But I had grave doubts, which disturbed me greatly, and I had to think of possible children. One can hardly bear to imagine the guilt incurred by those who pass on, or allow their spouses to pass on, bad blood.”

  The Tzarina inclined her beautiful head of gold-red hair. “I had not thought of the situation under such a light,” she remarked. She smiled. “I shall not forget our talk, Boris Vassilievitch.”
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  Natalia was summoned once again to General Teliakovsky’s office, but this time he smiled at her benevolently. “Matilda Felixovna tells me that in her concern she may have misinterpreted a momentary nervousness on your part and overblown it. You are a sweet girl, Natalia Dmitrievna, and a responsible member of the Ballet. I feel that if you tell me you are not suffering from strain, then I can trust your own evaluation. You will take two days’ rest, to make certain that all is well. Then, you will resume your rehearsals. Lopokhova and Pavlova will give you back the roles that were yours to begin with.”

  Healthy color rose to Natalia’s cheeks. “I am infinitely thankful,” she murmured. “I shall not disappoint your faith in me.”

  “Indeed not. But I shall not rescind your fine. After all, you cannot lose your head in my presence and question my fairness. I did what I thought was best, as I am doing now. The fine, you understand, is a matter of principle.”

  Natalia cried, “Yes, of course, and I am sorry!” but she thought: Who cares about the five rubles? Money is only money, but I am to dance, and that is everything to me! She bowed her head, curtsied, and left. How different today was from the last time she had been called to Teliakovsky’s office!

  On Natalia’s way out of the theatre, an elegant figure nearly collided with her. It was Matilda Felixovna Kchessinskaya. Natalia looked aside, but the other woman placed a cool hand on her arm. “Ah, Natashka, Natashka,” she said. “What a pretty child you are. Let us be friends, shall we? For I do admire you, I do!” Her beautiful eyes twinkled. “You are almost as good a dancer as I was at your age,’ she said, and then her gaze hardened. “But never forget that I am not your age.” She walked away, and Natalia shivered slightly in her shadow.

  Natalia closed the door of her small room and sat down at the secretary, tears in her eyes. She took out her pen, dipped it in the inkwell, and began to write on the crisp white paper: