He waved a hand to Tchaikovsky at the piano, and they all began to dance again, Stana feeling at once lighter and more purposeful than she had before.
She knew that she must have danced well, because Anna would hardly speak to her after they had finished, and flounced out of the room without waiting for her. Anna always wanted to be the best at everything, and she could not bear anyone else to be the centre of attention – not even her best friend. Anna liked to be the star, and there was no doubt that she danced very gracefully, although the truth was she was not really the ideal build for a dancer, being small and slight. Nina and some of the other girls in their class made fun of her for it, calling her ‘Anna the broom’ because she was so skinny, and laughing at her when she could not achieve the proper ‘turned out’ position that was expected of all dancers. But Anna held her head high and ignored them. She worked hard, and even dosed herself with disgusting cod-liver oil to try and make herself stronger. Stana knew no one who was more fiercely determined to dance.
In that way, Anna often reminded her of Olga. Olga might be three years younger than Stana, but she had always been intent on keeping pace with her big sister. She wanted to do whatever Stana did: to walk as far, to jump as high, to read the same books, to play the same pieces on Mama’s old piano, even if she did have to sit on two extra cushions so that she could reach the keys. And just like Anna, she was fierce as a tiger, flaring out into a fiery temper when she could not keep up. She had long been impatient to come to study at the Imperial Ballet School, like Stana. That had been before she was ill, of course. Students at the Imperial School were always expected to be in the most perfect health. Stana knew that there would be no ballet for Olga now.
That thought had only just crossed Stana’s mind when she realized, rather to her astonishment, that Mr Tchaikovsky himself was standing before her, a sheaf of sheet music tucked under his arm. For a moment she felt alarmed by his sudden appearance. Was he going to criticize her – or scold? But when he spoke, his voice was hushed, unexpectedly gentle:
‘You answered Pepita’s question well,’ he said. ‘Tell me, are you fond of music?’
She stared up at him, too surprised to know quite how to answer. ‘Very,’ she said at last.
‘You said the music made you think of Christmas and that you imagined your little sister safe at home,’ he went on. ‘Where is your sister now?’
‘She is in the hospital. She is very ill,’ Stana managed to reply.
He contemplated her for a moment. His eyes were large and sad, his expression quizzical, rather like an owl’s. ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he said, then he bowed and turned away, following Pepita and Ivanov out of the room.
No one said any more to her about The Nutcracker that day, but a week later, Stana was told that she had been given the part of Clara. The other girls made a tremendous fuss about how envious they were. They talked of her costume – a frilly white frock with a blue ribbon sash. ‘And just think – you’ll be able to wear your hair curled,’ sighed Nina, who loathed the way they had to wear their hair at school, parted in the middle and combed tightly back. They chattered about how Stana would now be excused from dull mathematics lessons and dancing practice for rehearsals in the glorious surroundings of the Marinsky Theatre. She would get to know all the star dancers – like the beautiful Italian ballerina, Antoinetta Dell’Era, who would be dancing the part of the Sugar Plum Fairy. ‘And you’ll get to dance with Vassily!’ exclaimed Nina. Anna stood a little to one side, her arms folded, saying nothing at all.
But Stana did not care so very much about her costume or her hair, or even Antoinetta Dell’Era. It was the music that filled her with delight – the music and the wonderful story of Clara, who is given a Nutcracker doll by her godfather, Drosselmeyer, on Christmas Eve. After night falls, the doll comes to life, and whisks her away on a magical adventure. When Stana played Clara, dancing to Tchaikovsky’s music, she became someone else – the heroine of a marvellous fairy tale. Her worries about Olga; Anna’s sour face; it all faded away.
Instead, she found herself inhabiting a world of dancing sweets and flower-fairies. Spending day after day at the theatre, she looked on, entranced, as the spectacle came to life. She stood in the wings and watched as the men constructed the great Christmas tree, hung all over with stars and coloured candles. She saw them build the magical Kingdom of Sweets – a masterpiece of glittering electric light and gold paint and real working fountains. She saw them painting scenery with pine trees and snow for her favourite sequence of all – the Waltz of the Snowflakes, in which almost sixty ballet dancers would perform in snow-white tutus, decorated all over with tiny white pompoms. Dancing together under the soft shimmer of the lights, they looked like a snowstorm that had come to life. As Stana watched them from the side of the stage, it was not in the least difficult for her to conjure up Clara’s sense of enchantment – and delight.
But rehearsals for The Nutcracker were not always easy. The days in the theatre were long and tiring. Pepita was ill, and after the first few rehearsals, the second ballet master had to take his place. Ivanov was so much more uncertain, always worrying about this dance or that one, changing a step here or a step there until Stana felt she did not know where she was to go or what she was to do.
She felt very small among the company of grown-up dancers, and often, she wished that Anna was there with her. Before, they had always done everything together: they walked together in the garden, in their matching coats with the fox-fur collars; they practised together at the barre; even their beds were side by side in the dormitory. Now she was by herself, and even back at school, Anna was giving her the cold shoulder. She would not walk with Stana in the garden; she no longer whispered to her after lights-out, but instead closed her eyes in offended silence. Stana lay awake in the dark, cold and alone.
It was Mr Tchaikovsky, at the piano, who was a reassuring constant. Day after day, wonderful music flowed from his fingers. He was far too busy to speak to Stana, but she liked to know he was there. Sometimes, he would nod to her from behind the piano, or give her a little bow; and once or twice he paused, as he hurried past in the echoing maze of passages, backstage at the Marinsky, to ask: ‘And how is your little sister? Is she getting well?’
Stana would curtsey and say: ‘She is still in the hospital, sir.’ She found it difficult to say any more, even to the great composer himself. She hated even thinking of Olga, as she had seen her when she had gone to visit, so small in the little hospital bed. Her skin looked pale and waxy, like a doll’s; she could not even smile. All of the fire seemed to have burned out of her; she was a stranger, someone else’s sister. Mama had told Stana that she should not come to the hospital again, ‘for fear of spreading infection’, she said, but Stana knew that truthfully, Mama did not want her to know how sick Olga really was. Instead, Mama sent letters, full of happiness about Stana’s success in The Nutcracker, though behind her soft words, Stana could see the truth as clearly as if it had been spelled out in plain black ink. Her sister was sicker than ever; hospital bills were terribly expensive; Olga needed good food and medicine that they could ill afford.
And there was nothing for Stana to do except dance. She practised harder than ever, grimly determined that she would be a success. There was a sort of logic to it at first: after all, if she was to be noticed as Clara, it was sure to help her dancing career. It would not be many years now before she could leave school and join the company, and then she would be a real dancer, earning money to help take care of Mama and Olga. But soon it became simpler, a vow she made to herself. She whispered promises in her head. If I dance the first scene quite perfectly in the morning rehearsal, then Olga will be a little better. If Ivanov praises my dance with the Nutcracker doll tomorrow, that means that Olga will begin to get well.
Before long, Olga and The Nutcracker had become tangled – twisted together like the satin ribbons on Stana’s ballet shoes. Dancing as Clara was no longer an escape: it was a bargain, a pr
omise, a trial like those that princes must perform in the fairy stories Mama used to read them at bedtime. The relentless rhythm of the piano twined with the drum of the dancers’ feet on the boards of the stage. Stana worked hard, and then harder still. Her bones ached, and each night, she dreamed of dancing. She was more and more convinced that if she could only dance well, then Olga would be certain to get well, too – and they would all be able to have a happy Christmas.
Now, waiting for the curtain to rise on the first performance, Stana felt drawn tight, quivering like a violin string. Backstage at the Marinsky smelled of excitement, rouge and powder, the faintly metallic scent of silver tinsel: and around her, the other pupils were laughing and chattering, thrilled to be staying up so long after their usual bedtime, and to have the chance to dance on the great stage, where so many famous dancers had gone before them. Vassily, who played the role of Fritz, was noisy with pride; Nina and some of the other girls from her class were comparing their glittering fairy dresses in delight; a group of the children playing soldiers in the army of the Mouse King were shouting and waving their swords. Mademoiselle was ticking them off, telling them that they did not know the proper way to behave in a theatre. Stana envied them. She wished she could be loud and excited: instead, she felt only frightened and as cold as the snow that was falling outside.
More than ever, she wished that Anna was here. She knew that Anna would never sit by herself, her stomach twisting itself into complicated knots. Anna would have been quite certain that she would dance well. But Anna had not been chosen to dance in The Nutcracker, and that had made things worse than ever. She still would not speak to Stana at all, and Stana missed her with an ache like the bitter December air against her face.
Anna’s strength made Stana strong, too; her fierceness made Stana feel cool and poised. Without her, Stana felt as though the edges of herself were being rubbed away. But most of all, Stana knew that Anna understood her. Unlike Nina with her expensive hats and pretty, lace-trimmed frocks, Anna was not well off. She had no papa, and her mama was only a washerwoman – not that she ever seemed to be ashamed of it. Stana knew that Anna could understand how she felt about Olga, and her worries over the hospital bills. But knowing that made Anna’s aggrieved silence seem cruel. She already dreaded losing Olga – it felt as though she was losing Anna, too.
Almost, she wished that she had never been chosen for the role of Clara, and that she and Anna were both getting ready to perform quite ordinary roles in the ballet – dancing as dolls or flower-fairies, or sugar candies, like Nina and the rest. Almost, she wished that she had never heard the enchanted words Le Casse-Noisette, nor heard Tchaikovsky’s haunting melodies. Almost, she wished that she could wave the Sugar Plum Fairy’s glittering wand and magic herself far away from the Marinsky Theatre – and back home, sitting with Olga on the rug in front of the fire, toasting their cheeks and drinking tea with jam.
Almost, but not quite. She could hear the stirrings of the overture: the shimmering of the strings, the bright piping of the flutes rising above them, and all at once, her feet longed to dance.
‘It’s time to go,’ said Mademoiselle.
Waiting in the wings beside Vassily, ready for their cue, Stana lost herself in the rise and fall of the music. Beyond the stage, she could see the haze of the footlights, and then little glimpses of the audience – elegant ladies in furs and jewels, smart gentlemen in uniforms, the gleam of chandeliers and brilliant gilding, and above them all, the Tsar himself in the grandly draped Imperial box. But as the music swelled, it seemed to lift her up, as though she was being carried on magic wings. She swept away, high above the gilt and velvet of the theatre, above the Imperial Ballet School on Theatre Street, above the frozen garden and Olga’s hospital bed. She soared above snow-dusted trees, above churches and palaces, fountains and canals. She saw the golden spires and coloured rooftops of St Petersburg; she saw the twisting shape of the ice-blue river, running out to the sea; she saw mountains and pine forests, glittering with snow. And then she ran out onto the stage, into the bright glare of the lights. It was time to dance.
It was not until after midnight that the ballet finally drew to a close. As she took her curtain calls, she heard the clamour of the audience’s applause, but all she could think was, Have I done it? Had she danced all right? Had her ankle trembled in that arabesque? Had she missed a step? Had she done enough to make Olga well again? Would it be a happy Christmas for them after all?
Backstage, the grown-up dancers were clapping each other on the back and shaking Ivanov by the hand; they would all go out to dinner at St Petersburg’s finest restaurant to celebrate, but Stana and the other ballet school pupils must return to school, and go to bed. Mademoiselle’s hand was already on her shoulder, though for a moment Stana lingered, frozen by the excitement of it all. Tchaikovsky hurried by, as usual clutching a sheaf of sheet music scribbled all over in his spiky black handwriting. Among the tumult, he alone paused to give her a quick nod and a smile. At least he thought she had done well, Stana realized, with relief.
‘Come along now – it is long past your bedtime,’ Mademoiselle was saying as she hurried her to the dressing room to change, and then into the carriage and back to school.
But once she was in the dormitory, Stana found she could not sleep. She lay awake, staring into the dark, hearing the soft, rustling breaths of the other girls sleeping around her. The notes of Tchaikovsky’s music were still racing around in her head. She heard the clock downstairs strike two, before at last she fell into a restless sleep – and when she slept, she began to dream.
She found herself back in the Marinsky Theatre in her Clara costume. Now the audience had gone, and the Imperial box was empty. The ladies in their furs and jewels, the gentlemen in their uniforms – they had all quite vanished. Instead, the theatre looked just as it had during rehearsals: the gallery was dark and empty, the formerly bright chandeliers shrouded, and brown covers were spread over the plush of the seats.
Then the music began – and Stana danced. She twirled and leaped with a springy lightness she had never experienced before; she felt she could dance forever. Her frothy white skirts flew out, as she soared across the stage. This time Anna was there too, wearing the glittering costume of the Sugar Plum Fairy, dancing more beautifully than Stana had ever seen her. Ivanov performed the role of the Nutcracker Prince; and Mr Tchaikovsky was Drosselmeyer, his owl-face looking down at her from up in the clock.
She danced to the tune of the Waltz of the Flowers, but all at once the music seemed to fracture, like ice shattering. The clock was striking again. Time is running out, she heard Drosselmeyer say, and somehow she knew that he was talking about Olga. All at once, she knew she had to find her little sister; that she was here, somewhere, among the dancers. But Stana could not find her. She was not among the gingerbread soldiers, nor the rowdy army of mice-children. The Mouse King tried to bar her way, but just as in the ballet, she hurled her satin shoe at him and he turned tail and vanished. Still she could not find Olga: she was not in the Palace of Sweets, nor among the dancers of chocolate and coffee and tea. She was not among the bonbons or the sugar candies, the hummingbirds or the flower-fairies.
At last, Stana thought she caught a glimpse of her, dancing with the snowflakes, wearing a white tutu and a crown decorated with white snowballs. She ran towards her, but even as she did so, the snowflakes seemed to whirl and blur before her eyes. At last, she stretched out her arms towards her sister, but her hands closed on nothing but air, as Olga fell away – not a dancer at all, but snowflakes, just the merest shape of a girl made of snow.
Stana woke up shivering and calling her sister’s name, her heart pounding and the bedclothes tossed all about her like a stormy sea.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ whispered Anna grumpily from the next bed.
‘I had a nightmare,’ Stana whispered, her heart beginning to slow as she realized she was back at school, in the darkness of the dormitory.
‘Th
ere’s no need to start getting so dramatic, just because you played the part of Clara,’ said Anna sniffily. But she sounded more like her usual self as she rolled over and said: ‘Shut up, Stana, for goodness’ sake, and let me go back to sleep.’
Stana slept dreamlessly after that, and was still sound asleep when the rising bell rang, jolting her suddenly awake. The first performance was over, and it was another day just like any other: the bell tolling solemnly at eight o’clock, washing under the cold tap, dressing in their practice dresses and blue fringed shawls, having their hair combed by the maids.
‘Stana had a nightmare last night,’ Anna reported to Lydia, who was known to be something of an expert on dreams, being the possessor of a dog-eared dream-book.
‘What was it about? Did you see a man in black? Were you running down a staircase?’ asked Lydia.
But already, the dream was fading. ‘No . . . I don’t remember anything like that. I just remember that it was snowing . . .’ said Stana uncertainly.
‘Well, bad dreams do sometimes mean a change in the weather,’ said Lydia with a shrug, as she pulled the comb through Stana’s hair, making the Clara curls disappear.
‘Hurry along now, girls, don’t chatter,’ scolded Mademoiselle, who was waiting by the door to check their teeth and hands and nails before she let them downstairs.
In every way, the morning was ordinary: the same stale smell of resin in the practice room, the jangle of the piano, the echo of footsteps on the stairs, the tap of the ballet mistress’s cane hitting the floor, beating out the rhythm as they practised the same string of pliés and battements. It was as if the ballet itself had been only a dream, melting away to nothing at the sound of the rising bell. But by lunchtime, the first reviews of The Nutcracker had been published, and all at once everyone was talking about them:
‘The St Petersburg Gazette said it was “tedious”,’ reported Nina, her eyes round. ‘Nothing to compare to The Sleeping Beauty!’
Winter Magic Page 14