Encore

by Monique Raphel High

  My dearest one,

  Surely by now you are furious with me, and also surprised. That I should have left so abruptly, coldly, and not sent any word till now ...I am sorry. I simply could not—cannot—face you. You represent a part of me that I did not know existed. Joy and love—these things were never in my life before, and above all, I want you to know that I love you. But I shall not marry you and cannot continue to see you alone. It is you, or myself. In your arms or in your heart, I could not remain myself, a woman standing unafraid. You see, this is even more important to me than that new, that lovely part of myself that I so recently discovered. You will think it is my ambition to be a great dancer that stands in our way. But you see, dance is the best way I know of expressing myself—this self of which I write to you now. I do not deserve your love, for I am too self-centered, as you can see, but still, this one last time, I send you the kisses of my heart.

  NATALIA

  She raised her head, swallowing her unshed tears. Then she folded the note and began another.

  “Dear Boris Vassilievitch,” this one read,

  Your generous intervention has brought me back to grace. However can I thank you? I am not adept with words, but I shall dance for you, that you may know for whom you pleaded. Your most grateful Natalia Oblonova.

  The sun gleamed copper on the horizon, and she rolled down the top of her secretary. Slowly she went into the little drawing room and fetched a hard backed chair. She removed her shoes, then stepped on the seat of the chair and reached up to the wall. Her frail fingers closed around the edges of a painting frame, and she took it down, turned the canvas to the wrong side, and wedged it between a bookcase and the door.

  I have never been a dreamer, she thought, and went out, carrying the letters.

  Chapter 6

  Natalia did not receive an answer from Pierre. His anger upon receiving the note was profound and violent, like an unleashed deluge. He uttered a wild cry land tore the paper in half, then hurled dish after dish of his inexpensive plate ware against his bedroom wall. His j face was congested, purple, and the muscles in his neck stood out, taut and ‘swollen. As much as he had loved her, he now hated her—with passion and abandon. At the gala of Nuits d’Egypte he saw her. His black eyes bored into her face, mesmerizing her, so that she could not look away from the pure hatred in them. All his humanity, all his gentleness, seemed to have been drained away and replaced by untold bitterness.

  She had spent the first few days fighting the hope that he would disregard her words and come to her. She had known the persistent, insistent lover Pierre. She had not guessed at the implacability of the vindictive, rejected Pierre. Now she finally encountered him and shuddered: She had done this to him. But even then, at the back of her mind, she thought: There is still time. If I go to him now, he will accept me again, he will forgive me. But she could not. Her dramatic, pathetic Tahor, betrayed by Amoun for Cleopatra, was magnificent. Why must men make me suffer so in my roles? she wondered, and did not go to Pierre. In her dancing, part of the pain in her own heart showed through, and she felt sublimated, almost whole again. Later she asked herself whether her frenzied desire to achieve had not removed her from the very pulse of life—but her answer always confirmed the Tightness of her decision. She could accept love, revel in it, but it would kill her if she did not then retreat from its total immersion, to protect her innermost self.

  One night late in April Count Boris Kussov invited her to dine with him at the restaurant Medvyed, in one of the private rooms off the elegant gallery. This was not the first time she had supped with him. He was a gracious, witty host, and his attentions were flattering to a woman as young and unworldly as Natalia. She sharpened her own mind on his, and he appeared to take pleasure in teaching her the finer points of culture that endowed life with a softer, gilt-edged finish. She questioned him freely. He was a cynic and thus appreciated her own view of the world, her unabashed distrust in Providence, her boundless curiosity, her keen intelligence. They talked. That these were never personal talks did not detract from the agreeable quality of their conversations.

  Yet each was wary of the other. She sensed that a game was being played, recalling Pierre’s statement of months before, that his mentor lived by controlling the souls of others. Boris realized that Natalia was not merely a good dancer, a provincial girl whose head could be turned in an instant. He could understand now why Pierre had loved and wanted her. She was bright, sensitive—and strangely wise. If he were to manipulate her for his own purpose, he would have to use the utmost finesse. And in so doing, he was prepared to enjoy himself.

  That evening Natalia appeared more striking than usual. She wore a very simple gown of emerald green, which heightened the delicacy of her features and figure. Boris thought, If only Marguerite had resembled her. The tiny breasts, the firm body. There was nothing loose-skinned, flaccid, or colorless about her except her pale complexion. He remembered his first impression of her in the corridor of the Mariinsky: She had brought to mind a young boy, a proud Athenian youth. She wore pearls—his pearls—at the throat and ears. “I shall have to give you some emeralds,” he said lightly.

  “Oh, no, Boris Vassilievitch. People already exchange naughty thoughts about us. Everyone in the Ballet seems to be observing us.”

  He laughed, throwing back his graceful, golden head. “And this disturbs you?”

  “I would much prefer being linked to your name than to be thought the illegitimate daughter of a country servant,” she said, smiling. “But some people are envious. In a sense you have become my unofficial patron. You spoil me. Your other friends in the Ballet feel that you are forgetting them because of me. I am only an upstart, you see.”

  The waiter entered, bearing an enormous platter covered with a silver dome, which he removed. “Pheasant!” Natalia cried.

  “Yes. I am to leave Petersburg soon, and so I thought we should celebrate before then.” He smiled at her, his odd half-smile that meant that in some manner he was making fun—of her, or of himself. They were silent while the waiter served them. A wine steward entered during the proceedings and wheeled in a small tray with a bucket and champagne. “Always take the brut, Natalia,” Boris advised paternally. “When you give your first reception, don’t forget that. Dry champagne is cloying to the palate and not really ‘dry’ at all!”

  “And besides, it’s déclassé,” she added impishly.

  They were alone again. “Well, yes,” he agreed, pretending bashfulness. “But look—I was telling you about my trip. I am going with the opera singers to Paris. Diaghilev is exporting Boris Godunov and Chalapin. The painting exhibit was so well received that he and Nouvel wanted to bring Russian music to France this season.”

  She looked into the translucent champagne glass in her hand. Of course, she is wondering about Pierre, Boris thought. “It is stupid to pine for him,” he commented acerbically.

  Her head flew up, startled. For a moment she said nothing, blood rushing to her cheeks in embarrassment. How did he know? Had Pierre told him? Then she shrugged, admitting defeat. “I was thinking, he will be accompanying you, won’t he?” she murmured simply. “I can’t help it,” she added. “Sometimes, I do think of him.”

  “I don’t know what happened between you, but I do know this: He certainly is not wasting his time thinking of you!”

  Natalia started. She looked at Boris with amazement. Her fork, laden with roast pheasant and truffles, remained in mid-air between the table and her parted lips. “What a cruel man you can be, Boris Vassilievitch!” she said at length.

  “Not cruel, realistic. You and Pierre Riazhin would be ridiculous together, with nothing to add to each other. Let’s face it, sweet girl: You are both immensely talented in your own fields, but apart from that, c’est tout. Neither one of you possesses sufficient clout to help the other. Both of you need rich patrons, people of influence. If he can make a princess fall in love with him, it will boost his career. As for you, the upward climb will be easier. Soc
iety dandies adore ballerinas. You must simply learn how to take advantage of that. You are a Crimean nobody, and Pierre, the son of an obscure vine grower in the Caucasus. Your decision not to pursue this relationship—”

  “How did you know that the decision was mine?” she asked.

  “I guessed it. Pierre does not discuss you with me. I regret to tell you that there are other matters on his mind these days.”

  “You make everything sound so ugly, Boris Vassilievitch!” she cried. “But there was never any relationship. He is free to consort with whomever he pleases. Why should I care? I do not want a binding union with any man. Perhaps you are right: Pierre Riazhin and I would not bring each other good luck. But still, you make talent seem so unimportant compared with connections. I don’t agree. A woman does not need a famous lover to be lifted to fame. That is an antiquated notion.”

  “As you wish,” Boris replied lightly. “You had wanted to learn whether Pierre would go to Paris with us: Yes, naturally. For him it will be a vacation this time. Perhaps one day soon, I shall take you to France. It is a sublime country, filled with charm, though not a grand country, such as our own, or a precious, intricate, fragile one, such as Italy. France is beauty, France is grace. I suppose that sums her up: grace inherent. You must enjoy her wine country, her châteaux, her rivers—and Paris, of course.”

  “Yes. Someday I should like to travel. But Petersburg is probably as far as I shall go. From the Crimea, it seems like China!”

  They ate in silence after that. She was thinking: Surely for some women love can coexist with selfhood. But not for such a nobody from the Crimea. She thought of Paris, her dreams of it and paintings she had seen of it. Boris Vassilievitch possessed it all: the taste, the wealth, the connections. But for her—and for Pierre—life was a constant struggle.

  Boris went over bitterly what he had thought almost three years before: that his own soul was empty, bereft of the creative gift. This exquisite young girl would be remembered by posterity—but who would give due credit to the patron behind the scenes? Dear God, each time I hope to attain release, and lose it before ever finding it, he said inwardly.

  There was a gentle knock on the door of the intimate cubicle in which they sat. A maître d’hôtel appeared. “Someone to see you, Excellency,’ he announced, covertly examining Natalia. A man’s shape filled the doorway. He entered behind the maître d’hôtel. Natalia saw his tall, well-built frame, the monocle, the trim mustache, and the lock of white hair in the dark head. She had seen him before. As he strode to embrace Boris, she recognized him.

  “Join us for a cognac,” Boris said gayly. “Tell me, Serge, do you know Natalia? My dear,” he addressed the young woman, “this is Serge Pavlovitch Diaghilev. Serge, Natalia Dmitrievna Oblonova.”

  Diaghilev smiled and bowed gracefully over her hand. They were two of a kind, she said to herself, one blond, one dark, both with infinite charm. “But of course, I would know her anywhere,” he murmured to Boris. “I have been watching her since she danced the Sugar Plum Fairy. In fact,” he added, “it was she I first noticed tonight, when you both walked into the gallery. When somebody eclipses you, Borya—need I say more?”

  Natalia smiled, wanly. She still did not know how to receive a compliment with poise. Flattery sat ill with her. Never having received it as a child, it was still too new, too foreign. She watched Diaghilev and Boris. So this, then, was the man who had been Teliakovsky’s rival for the position of director of the Imperial Theatres. Pierre admired the man, found him alternately charming and harsh, encouraging and manipulative. He was a genius at putting together artistic endeavors, much as Boris was one at finding new talent.

  She listened to the two men, sitting in her chair, her back upright, her long neck straight and graceful. There was so little for her to say! Then she recalled something. “Serge Pavlovitch,” she said, “you have been planning this season of opera for a long time now, haven’t you? I can remember hearing Boris Vassilievitch talking about it months ago. Why has Russian music been so slow to spread to Western Europe? The Italian opera is well known here, and the French troupe comes every winter for a season of plays at the Mikhailovsky. Boris Vassilievitch says that countries, like people, are vain—that cultures want to conquer one another. Why have we Russians remained such an enclave unto ourselves?”

  “There was never a Serge Pavlovitch to bridge the gap,” Diaghilev replied, his eyes twinkling at her.

  Boris raised his glass to her. “Ma chère, how you have changed since that conversation! Imagine, Serge—Natalia was most angry with me. She assured me that Russian opera would do very well without spreading anywhere—that we did not need France. Now she wonders why we didn’t go there sooner!”

  Natalia blushed, suddenly feeling awkward and out of place. But Serge Diaghilev remarked, draining his own glass: “We were all like that in the beginning. Boris is cruel. He was a born and bred Petersbourgeois, whereas I only came here for law school—which, naturally, I abandoned for more interesting vistas! We are all parochial at first. I only enjoyed the music of Glinka and Glazunov! How mercilessly my better-rounded friends teased me! But, Borya, to a man or woman from a smaller province, the capital itself seems a foreign country. Doesn’t it, Natalia Dmitrievna?”

  She nodded. “Boris Vassilievitch was telling me about Paris. I do not think I shall ever go there. As you said, Serge Pavlovitch, St. Petersburg seems a cosmos in itself to someone like me. Still

  “Still,” Diaghilev said, “I would not close my mind to the West if I were you.”

  Both men regarded her intently for a moment, and, embarrassed and confused, she glanced at her hands, at the roses on the table. She felt she had made a bad impression, that the emerald dress was too stark. She wished Diaghilev would go away now and that Boris would leave her alone. She did not belong with men like these.

  When the Mariinsky season ended, and Natalia was given her new contract for her second year, she received a shock: She had been promoted to solo dancer of the second degree. Old Enrico Cecchetti, who ran the classes for the soloists, said to her: “We shall have to work together on the port de bras, carina. Much, much work. Do not pay attention to your admirers—too much admiration is as bad for a young ballerina as excessive criticism. It dulls one’s perception of one’s own work.” She smiled at him: To be trained by him was in itself an honor. She was the youngest of the official soloists.

  The long, hot summer stretched before her. Katya graduated and would enter the corps de ballet in the fall. Meanwhile, there was little to do in the suffocating city. Lydia was going to Poland on tour with a small group of dancers. Natalia thought: I am betwixt and between. No one is offering me anything. I have gone beyond the corps but am not yet a soloist—and so, I fit in no touring company. No one knows me well enough to like me; they think I’m too reserved. I don’t fit in anywhere: I am not a lady, and I am not a star. Yet, I am no longer a nobody. She felt proud of that. There were times now when someone would recognize her—not yet by name, but from some previous role.

  She caught herself thinking of Pierre. The glow of her small successes, of her promotion, had heightened her awareness of life. She wondered if he would ever forgive her, if any other man would ever touch her. She wondered about Boris: What did he want with her? What was he doing in Paris? She felt small, inconsequential and unwanted. Boris was not really her patron. True, he had intervened in her behalf and escorted her to fashionable restaurants. But he was Pierre’s patron. He was taking Pierre, not her, to France—for the second time. Then the full weight of her nothingness fell upon her, staggering her. Perhaps, she wondered miserably, she would always be dull, ugly, strange little Natasha.

  Katya invited her to the summer house which her parents were renting in Imatra, just outside Petersburg in the Finnish countryside. There the air was cool, the breeze sang songs in the blue-green pines, and she felt momentary peace. But all the time she thought: He—they—are in Paris. Pierre is probably learning French, and visiting t
he château country with Boris. Oh, to be in the Loire Valley instead of Imatra! To listen to Boris, or to Serge Pavlovitch, discussing the poems of Verlaine, or the art of Vuillard, rather than hear Madame Balina extolling the virtues of cornstarch in kissel!

  She lay in her little bed at night, while Katya slept across the room, and clasped her hands together. Come back, come back! was the refrain which echoed in her mind. Come back, take me into your lives, into your wonderful world, which you have shown me from a distance. I want to learn, to touch, to feel comfortable in other surroundings besides the theatre. She was stupefied at the unexpected turn of her thoughts and at their vehemence.

  Then came the opening of the new season. Natalia no longer felt stabs of discomfort around Pavlova and other ballerinas. She was the youngest, the despicable beginner, and after new performances she was frequently greeted by a torrent of criticism. She was learning to sort through these volleys of words to discover what was valid and what was not. She no longer resented her admirers in the gallery. It was pleasant to receive ovations. But something was missing.

  Katya, in the corps, was her protégée. They had been equals, and best friends in school, but one year in the real world had separated them. Katya was so naïve. Lydia Markovna Brailovskaya did not like her and told Natalia: ‘That girl is a simpering child. What do you see in her?” Natalia smiled, remembering that only a single year ago Lydia’s own friends had wondered, too, why Lydia had put up with Natalia.

  She watched out for Katya warily, nervously, for Katya was indeed a rosy-cheeked child. She saw the young man from the male corps de ballet who made eyes at Katya, who sent her bonbons and fresh fruit. His name was Grisha Marshak, and he had dark hair and blue eyes, like a doll’s. She told Katya: “He’s distracting you. If you want to become a coryphée, don’t let him come to the house every night. He is stronger than you and does not seem to show the strain as you do. You need your rest.