Encore

by Monique Raphel High

  Nina ignored the clutter, the room’s dust, grime, and sadness. Galina moved closer to her, her small nose wrinkling. “My husband and I have been searching for the proper portraitist to commit our daughter to canvas,” Nina offered gently. “I remember your vivid oils, Pierre Grigorievitch. I should like you to paint Galina.”

  “I don’t think so, Princess,” he replied harshly. “I don’t paint children. They can’t sit still.”

  Nina smiled nervously, fingering the lace on her cuffs. The small girl stepped forward, right up to Pierre’s thigh, and stopped abruptly, rearing her golden head. “You were rude to my mama,” she said in a high, clear voice. “I don’t like you. Besides, I’ll bet I can sit quietly better than you can!”

  Stricken with embarrassment, Nina said nothing. She was thinking: Poor man, how bad luck makes one bitter sometimes! But still, at that moment she wanted to return home to her clean boudoir and her lady’s maids. Then she looked at Pierre and found a curious expression on his dark face, which had appeared to her animalistic and harsh. He was staring down at the child in wonder. Now she thought: Why, that man is handsome, in a brutal sort of way! She felt a small thrill of fear and pleasure run up her spine. She was remembering. Hadn’t there once been a famous painting, of a ballet—of a ballerina—years ago? By this man, Riazhin? The painting Boris had hung in his study—

  But Galina was saying in her singsong voice: “Sit down so I can climb on your lap. You smell of resin, like the forest.”

  “I smell of turpentine because I’ve been painting.” Pierre retorted, reddening. “And you can’t sit on my lap. I’m full of oils.” But in his eyes there was a new lustre, a certain softness. He was not seeing Boris anymore, or thinking with hatred of Natalia. He was remembering his own childhood in the Caucasus. And Galina was not at all afraid.

  Several weeks later Nina said to Natalia: “I wanted to ask a favor of you. Andrei will not be going away this summer. There’s been a business crisis—nothing serious, only he can’t leave the city for a few months. I should like to remain here with him, but there’s Galina. We’d been planning to go to Switzerland this year, and Petersburg in summer is no place for a youngster.”

  “Then I shall take her with me to Rome,” Natalia answered. “Don’t give it another thought. Boris adores her and so do I. Will you come with me, Galina?”

  The small girl’s face became flushed with crimson, and her blue eyes shone suddenly. “Oh, Aunt Natalia!” she cried. “May I, really?”

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Nina was murmuring, wrapping her sister-in-law in a warm embrace. Natalia smelled the soft flowery scent of her hair, felt the slight moistness of her cheek, and thought with a sudden surge of panic: What have I done, bringing a child into my life? I’m going to Europe to dance, not to play house! But the words died in her throat.

  During the voyage to Italy, Natalia wondered why she had panicked at the idea of taking a child along. Galina was easy to handle; besides, her governess, Fräulein Weisskopf, had helped with some of the more complex travel arrangements. Natalia admired her little niece’s inbred refinement, her lack of wildness, and something painful stirred in Natalia’s consciousness: She could not relive her own childhood through Galina’s, for worlds stretched between the child she herself had been and this cherished, well-tended little princess. For an instant a preposterous thought flashed through her mind: If ever she were to bear Boris a son or daughter, her own heredity would show through and he would find this offspring wanting, not quite on a level with Galina. Natalia found this a jarring, painful thought.

  Boris was awaiting them in Rome with the Ballets Russes. Once settled at the hotel, Natalia felt the city beckon to her in the splendor of its historic contrasts. Renaissance palaces of marble spread their ornate façades next to crumbling ruins from the days of Caesar. Such an easy comradeship bewildered and delighted her senses. She felt dwarfed by history, yet somehow part of it. Roman matrons and their bustling children congregated in bright daylight around the alabaster Fontana di Trevi, where one could throw coins to make wishes come true. In the moonlight Boris took her there and she threw in a Russian kopek. “What did you wish for?” he asked. But she shrugged; she didn’t know what to wish for anymore.

  The ballets they gave in Rome were fitting to the spirit of the city: the fairy-tale romance of Le Pavilion d’Armide; the graceful, soulful Sylþhides; and the lustful, violent Polovtsian Dances from Prince Igor. Natalia performed in the first two, in her usual roles. She felt that one danced to the Italians, and to their Royal Family, with one’s heart rather than one’s brain or one’s feet. The Italians loved her, wanted to cherish her and protect her delicacy. She received a profusion of poetry from her admirers but did not laugh. Unsentimental by character, Natalia found the Italians lyrical in a way that touched her deeply.

  In the golden sunshine Boris took her and little Galina to the churches and museums. Sometimes, in the afternoon, Galina and the Fräulein would play on the Pincio, a steep hill topped by a park, the Villa Borghese. Their hotel garden had potted orange and tangerine trees, and Natalia and the little girl ran down to pick the fruit, for neither of them had ever seen it growing on trees before. In Russia oranges were only to be found in baskets!

  The Italian sojourn felt unreal to Natalia, tinged with pale rose and gold thread. Somehow performances seemed to be put on in slow motion. She awakened each morning to soft strains of a plaintive adagio that never left her brain. She felt at once very fluid and very slow, as though she had become a trickle of thick, golden honey. Only Galina forced her out of this mysterious trance, and then only for brief intervals, like intermissions. She thought of the Kingdom of Shades in La Bayadère.

  Perhaps it’s the city’s sheer beauty, she thought, picturing the vast enclave of the popes, the Vatican, and the stained-glass windows and mosaic floors of St. Peter’s Cathedral. Or perhaps it’s regret—I’m feeling old suddenly, without ever having been young. She glanced at Boris, who was regarding her with that shaded irony that saw through to her core. More and more frequently now, she found him examining her—undressing her emotions, she thought with swift, hot resentment and shame.

  One afternoon, near the Spanish Steps, the bright copper sun dappling the aged cobblestones, she turned to him and said: “Don’t you ever feel it—the days weaving into one another, without any joy except from one’s work? It’s wonderful here—but the people are happy, and I’m not. I’m on the outside of a pane of glass, and they’re all inside, celebrating.”

  A little boy, nut-brown and agile, handed Boris a red carnation, which he exchanged for a lira. Boris placed it among the cluster of curls at the back of Natalia’s head. They stood looking at each other, their shadows mingling on the pavement. If she had been afraid that he would laugh, his quietude surprised her. He touched her parted lips with the tips of his fingers, and her hand held them there for her to kiss. The touch, the kiss were as butterflies playing with the velvet petals of a pansy: gentle, hesitant, longing, and afraid. A breeze lifted a strand of her hair, the sunlight shone through his, yet they remained strangely intent upon each other, like glimmering statues.

  After Italy came the Paris season, and then the first official visit to Great Britain. King George V was being crowned on June 22, and the night before, the Ballets Russes were to perform at Covent Garden. This was the first time that an entire Russian company had come to England; the British had hailed Kyasht, Karsavina, and Pavlova separately, when each of the great ballerinas had come to display her individual talent. These dancers had broken their country’s noble tradition by performing in music halls, along with vaudeville acts and circus acrobats—and there they had been duly feted like their predecessor, the ballerina from Copenhagen, Adeline Genée.

  The British responded to the Ballets Russes with their personal brand of restrained enthusiasm, and Natalia smiled to herself after the performance of Opening Night. The following day, Coronation Day, the critics praised her for her “eloquent grace.�
�� There was no performance that day, June 22. Boris had driven back with her to Ashley Park, the lovely Cromwellian palace they had rented for their stay, after the celebrations had terminated the preceding night. In the old black Daimler that belonged to the owners of their mansion, the drive lasted only an hour; Brighton, the chauffeur, could make the vehicle glide more smoothly than a troika on ice.

  Natalia awakened very early and, parting the curtains of her bedroom window, looked out onto the pasture to the right, where Galina and the indomitable Fräulein Weisskopf were strolling among the animals. The small girl stopped to crouch by a cluster of flowers and picked a long-stemmed weed bursting with yellow petals. She ran toward a young colt and, unafraid, stuck the mongrel bloom right underneath his quivering nostrils. Natalia smiled. There was something elemental in this scene that struck a chord in her own breast: The animal, the child, the flower—they were, somehow, “right.”

  She laughed at the ridiculous sentiment and got dressed. Boris had evidently not yet risen, and there were no guests. Natalia sat alone at the long dark table, and two servants appeared, ready to serve breakfast. A double Bunsen burner stood at the opposite end of the table on which lay a platter of hot porridge, and another of fried fish. With impeccable style the young male servants dished out the hot food and set out the white bread with its soft crust, which to Natalia’s robust Russian palate tasted strangely like rubber. Hiding her smile, she helped herself to the never-changing strawberry jam and orange marmalade. There was no fresh fruit, no fruit compote. Ivan would have been frankly aghast. “Will m’lady be wanting eggs?” the maître d’hôtel asked.

  “No, thank you, Lacey. But if my husband comes down, please tell him I’ve gone for a walk.”

  Since the advent of cars, the sole animals kept at Ashley, apart from the farm cattle and plow horses, were Galina’s colt and two dogs. The smaller of the two, a Seidenpincher resembling a terrier, came running out to greet Natalia at the door. “Ah, Dreadnought!” she said. “Are you restless too?” Together they went out onto the vast, flower-bordered lawn, the frail young woman in her long blue linen dress, and the small brown dog with his fringe of bangs and fluffy tail. Dreadnought had fallen in love with Natalia the first day. Or perhaps he sensed that they would naturally wend their way to Galina. There had not been a child at Ashley for many decades.

  Natalia and the dog walked first to the stables. There were no thoroughbreds there now, perhaps because the owners were too old to ride. The car was kept there instead, as well as the batteries and flat-wheel engine that made electricity for the large estate. Dreadnought was apparently old enough to remember other days, for he sniffed and yapped around the old Daimler with distaste. Natalia was as unfamiliar with house dogs as she was with children: in the Crimea she had known only mangy, functional farm dogs that helped with the animals in the pasture.

  They strolled out into the cool silver sunshine. She felt a pervasive contentment seeping through her. The life of an English homesteader had the appeal of down-to-earth reality. She was tired of fighting the eternal questions within her, that unabated search for who she was and why.

  Galina came hopping and skipping toward her, her blond curls flying behind her like gold streamers. “Aunt Natalia!” she called out. “We found a shortcut to the woods! Come see!”

  Behind her, gasping for breath, came Fräulein Weisskopf. Natalia started to laugh. “It’s all right. Dreadnought and I were getting bored. Why don’t you rest for a while, Fräulein? Galya can show me the way. I spent my childhood in wide-open spaces such as these. It will do me good.”

  “It isn’t indicated for dancers to run, Madame, the governess stated with misgivings. Natalia found her an annoying woman and felt a burst of pity for the child. She turned to Galina and took the small, plump hand that was stretched out to her.

  “This is fun, spending time with you and Uncle Borya,” Galina said as they clambered up a green hill, Natalia holding up her long skirt. “Papa is a nice man, but he isn’t like Uncle Borya. No one is quite like my Uncle Borya. He is like the Prince in the Sleeping Beauty. Have you ever danced the Enchanted Princess? Mama took me to see it last year at the Mariinsky! Oh, it was wonderful! Like my Uncle Borya.”

  Natalia smiled. How she talked on and on, the thoughts merging and then separating, the high voice lilting prettily with the effort of sorting out images and ideas in her six-year-old mind. She said to Galina, “You are like your Uncle Borya—a golden girl.” But Galina is happy, she thought, unlike Boris.

  Galina broke in upon her thoughts. “Aunt Natalia, the man who painted my picture—is he a very mean man? He didn’t seem to like me at all, when Mama first brought me to his house. Do you like him?”

  “I’m sure he’s a very nice man, Galina,” Natalia replied. Her pulse pounded in her throat. “Sometimes people are not well, or not very pleased with themselves. Sometimes something has happened to annoy them, something that has nothing at all to do with you. I’m sure he liked you, darling.” She added, seriously: “Galina, did your mama tell you that we must not tell Uncle Borya about the painting? It’s going to be a surprise for your papa’s birthday.”

  “And the man is poor, and Uncle Borya would feel bad if he knew. Yes, Mama told me. Maybe that is why the man is not well: He is poor.”

  Ah, so the child is wise, too, Natalia thought. But her temples ached from the flow of blood that rushed through them. She looked intently at Galina, but the little girl had already forgotten about the painting. “There we are!” she cried. “The shortcut!”

  Natalia was preparing herself for supper. She knew that she had shocked her British chambermaid, Crowley, by showing her figure in its small brassière, while the majority of proper British women still wore corsets. But the maid had adjusted the straight tunic gown, so simple and elegant in its shades of ashes of roses. She had pinned a single rosebud to her mistress’s hair and then left the room.

  Natalia could imagine Boris waiting for her. She felt a sudden need for his approval tonight. She needed to sense it. Now, as she descended the stairs to the long, formal dining room, her heart beat in her throat and at her wrists, and her mind was oddly cleared of thought. It was like living inside a dream, as if, since that day in Rome near the Spanish Steps, she had penetrated closer to that self-contained man who was her husband in name only.

  He stood at the foot of the winding staircase, looking up, and for a moment she closed her eyes, hoping he would not be in a flippant mood. It was so difficult to predict how he would act from one minute to the next, and she knew she would deal badly with his cruel cleverness tonight. But, slender in his close-fitting suit of blue-gray summer linen, he greeted her with a thoughtful expression on his face.

  “How charming you look!” he said, giving her his arm. “Like a long-stemmed lily.”

  She smiled up at him but fought an inward pang that made her wince. I have to look like a boy to please him, she thought, and was surprised that it hurt. In that odd way he had of appearing to read her mind, he remarked casually: “The styles are so much more feminine this decade, aren’t they? The couturiers are finally awakening to the fact that a woman’s form is decorative of its own nature, without needing contrived additions.”

  Slowly she blinked with self-consciousness. The blood was beginning to beat in her ears and throat, and she felt a moment of dizziness.

  The dining room was not comfortable. At least when Galina and her governess took their evening meal, it was still daylight and less gloomy. Natalia, at one end of the long oak table, was dazed by the cave like atmosphere of this room, with its dark walls hung with equally somber portraits of the owners in solemn expressions and high, stiff collars. The chandelier above the center of the table shimmered with reds and sapphire blues over an expanse or white linen and pewter candlesticks, the table stood out like a white jewel, leaving the edges of the room devoid of light. Far across this field of white Boris sat with his pompadour of golden hair and his brilliant blue eyes so grave and serious ton
ight; he seemed like an Olympian descended to earth for a brief visit.

  “You are so quiet tonight,” he said to her, and his voice in the magnificent gloom rang out to touch her.

  “I have nothing to say,” she replied simply.

  The first evening at Ashley they had been merry at dinner and exchanged amused glances over the well-done, unsalted roast beef with its mint sauce and boiled vegetables—children playing at being country squires, pretending so as not to shock the vigilant servants. It was a charade, really, this formality to be kept up in front of maids and butlers, this sanctity of upright decorum put on for the benefit of the hired help—as though the vast Cromwellian palace belonged to the servants and not to them. But this evening, over the enormous, tasteless leg of lamb, and later, over the chocolate-covered milk-and-rice pudding, they did not smile. They ate in virtual silence, and now and then she noticed that he was looking at her, and she quickly bowed her head, a sweep of blood pulsing to her cheeks. Her fingers trembled slightly.

  After supper they went as usual, arm in arm, to the morning room for coffee, but she did not look at him at all. Her eyes stung. The morning room was the most pleasant area of the house. Two sofas stood back to back in the center, one facing the fireplace while the other looked out toward the park. A single lamp illuminated the expanse of well-trimmed lawn, the gracious white gazebo. Boris’s presence unnerved her.

  She knew that he was watching her and felt confused and uneasy. His clever eyes took in every line, every fold of her gown, of the limbs outlined beneath it.

  How pure and lovely she is! he thought. How graceful, like a statue that moves and pulsates with life! He found himself unable to look away, mesmerized by her proximity, by her thigh, her arm, the soft gold hairs on her arm, the straight line of her nose. It was as though he had been afraid to look at her before. No, it isn’t that, he said to himself, passing his tongue over his dry lips; it’s that she’s changed, grown up, defined herself. Or maybe it’s I who have changed. As if I could!