After the main course, the train slowed down. The other diners parted the curtains at their table to look out. Nozière did so as well and announced that the train was pulling into the little station of Epernay. The train came to a stop with a hiss at the bright platform. The three of them saw a conducteur overseeing the loading of mailbags into a coach further up the train. He hurried the men up; then they heard the closing of doors. After a few minutes, the train crawled out of the station and into the night once again. A waiter appeared and left with their empty plates. The train picked up speed.
‘Before you arrived, Oleg and I were talking about the Dreyfus affair,’ Nozière said, taking a sip.
‘Dreyfus?’ she asked.
‘Alfred Dreyfus.’
She looked blankly at him.
‘Oh, perhaps because you are from the East, you do not know who Alfred Dreyfus is?’
‘No, monsieur, I do not.’
Nozière looked at Jankovsky. ‘Well,’ Nozière said, ‘he was an artillery officer in the French army. A Jew. He was found guilty of passing on documents to the Germans and sent to Devil’s Island eleven years ago. But then, a man called Picquart, who was head of counter-espionage, declared that Dreyfus was innocent. There were all sorts of ridiculous trials organised by the army to convince the public that Dreyfus was guilty, but the public refused to believe it. Dreyfus was brought back to France seven years ago and given a new trial, but they still found him guilty. It dragged on and on, and then President Loubet finally pardoned him. It was only a few months ago that his guilty verdict was finally quashed and he was fully exonerated.’
‘Why was he treated so?’ she asked.
Nozière fidgeted in his seat. ‘Well, because he was a Jew.’
‘Pierre is a journalist with L’Aurore,’ Jankovsky said.
‘Yes, that’s right. We published the famous letter by Zola.’
‘Pierre is also a republican,’ Jankovsky said.
‘And I fear Oleg is a monarchist!’ Nozière laughed too loudly.
‘Was he innocent all along?’ she asked.
‘Oh God, yes!’ Nozière said.
The waiter arrived with an assortment of cognac, cheeses and fresh fruit. The colours of the cheese and the plums complemented each other, she thought. ‘And what is Dreyfus doing now?’ she asked.
‘He’s been restored to the army, with the rank of major,’ Nozière said.
Jankovsky poured some cognac for himself. ‘Do you like the theatre, madame?’ he asked.
‘Very much,’ she smiled. ‘I would like to try my hand at the theatre.’
‘Which actress do you most admire?’ he said.
She considered his question. ‘Lillie Langtry, I think.’
Both men concurred.
‘I saw her once,’ Jankovsky said, ‘some years ago in London. The play was called The Degenerates. It was terrible, but she was superb. I do believe she is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Until tonight, that is.’
A warmth suffused her stomach. Everything became sharper and brighter for a moment.
Nozière poured some cognac into his glass. ‘Do you remember when she dropped a spoonful of strawberry ice down King Edward’s back? She was ostracised by society for a week. How absurd the English Royalty is!’
Jankovsky laughed and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the spirit of the lady!’
‘Is she still the king’s mistress?’ Nozière asked.
‘Yes,’ Mata Hari said.
Jankovsky shrugged. ‘Who can blame him? If I were king, I’d do the same!’
‘I think the English are lucky to have a Royal Family,’ she said. ‘I wish France still had a monarchy.’
‘I quite agree,’ Jankovsky said and produced a cigar from inside his grey jacket.
Back in her compartment, she watched the train pull out of Châlons-sur-Marne. She had left the dinner table when Jankovsky and Nozière began arguing about the French Revolution. She idled on her bed and thought about Lillie Langtry. She had seen photographs of her in society magazines, reclining on a chaise longue, dressed in red crushed velvet and diamonds, with rose petals strewn about her feet. She had never seen such a beautiful woman. She thought about King Edward. What would it be like to be the king’s mistress? She often dreamed of marrying into nobility. MacLeod used to call her an upstart, which had upset her more than anything else he said. Lola Montez had King Ludwig I and Cléo de Merode had King Leopold II, so why not her?
Earlier that year, MacLeod had sent his lawyer, Mr Heijmans, to Paris to secure an agreement for a divorce. MacLeod had asked several times via his lawyer, and each time she refused. Heijmans was clever: it was several days after their first meeting that he even bothered to bring up the subject of the divorce. She had declined once again, at which point he sighed and put his briefcase on his lap. He opened it and, with reluctance, handed her a piece of paper.
It was a photograph of her naked body. She remembered it had been taken a year or so after she had arrived in Paris. She’d been paid very well for her poses – three in all. She knew such photographs exchanged hands for a great deal of money in Parisian salons.
Heijmans smiled. The picture, he explained, had been sent to her husband by a friend of his. She looked at him. He shrugged his shoulders and said that not even a liberal judge in Amsterdam would allow her to have custody of Non or remain married to MacLeod in the light of this photograph. If she agreed to a divorce without any fuss, she could have the photograph back. She realised she had little choice. A month later, Heijmans sent her the final papers.
She was still lying on her bed when there was a knock at her door. She knew very well who it would be. She looked at her clock: 11:55. She stood up and opened the door. It was Jankovsky, reeking of cigar smoke.
The train shunting into motion woke her with a start. She slipped out of the bed and peeked through the curtains. It was just daylight. Cold and grey. She saw a sign pass slowly by: MÜHLACKER. A few people stood motionless on the platform, watching the Orient Express draw out of the station.
‘Where are we?’
She turned and saw Jankovsky stretch. ‘Mühlacker,’ she said. ‘You have to go now. We’ll be arriving at Stuttgart in an hour.’
‘I went to Mühlacker once. It’s an awful town.’ He yawned.
The train clacked across points and picked up speed. She stood for a few moments by the window, looking out. She wondered what Vienna was like – if it was as cold as they said.
‘Oleg, you have to go now.’
He looked at her, in her peach silk nightdress, and nodded.
When he was dressed, he took out his wallet. For a moment, she thought he was going to give her money, but he gave her a card. It had his name and address in Paris on it. He seemed about to say something, but instead he just looked directly at her for a few moments and then left. Before the door had closed, she knew she would never see him again.
Vienna was indeed very cold. A heavy snow was falling on the city as Mata Hari alighted from the train at Westbahnhof. She found a porter, who arranged her three trunks on his trolley and took her to a taxi.
Outside the station she stood with her hands in a muff, watching the large snowflakes fall through the morning air. There was no wind. Two children, in coats and gloves, were laughing and gathering the snow up into piles.
The city seemed quiet. There was little traffic and any noise was deadened by the snow. A little black taxi pulled up beside her. When the porter had unloaded her luggage, she tipped him and got in. The taxi pulled away, slipping at times along the deep ruts.
She gazed out of the window at the long lines of tall buildings. Each had a lead roof, with rounded corners, and an ornate entrance. Snow had collected on the balconies and window sills. A man walked through the snow with his head down. A lady with a small child disappeared into a doorway. Mata Hari recited the German street names, trying to familiarise herself with this strange language. The driver smiled and corrected her pronuncia
tion.
At the Hôtel Bristol, the car pulled over. A doorman appeared from nowhere and supervised the unloading of her luggage. She paid the taxi driver, who waved as he drove away. The doorman showed her through a revolving door into a plush green foyer. When she had checked in, the receptionist confirmed her interview with the Neue Wiener Journal for three o’clock. She decided to rest till then.
In her room, she sat on the bed and took out Jankovsky’s card from her purse. She turned it over in her hands. In bed with him the night before, his eyes had been two points of light, his teeth flashing in the darkness. She could still feel his hands on her skin. She stood up and walked over to the full-length mirror, where she took off her dress and underwear. When she was naked, she stood in front of the mirror and placed her hands on her stomach, then her breasts. A shiver passed down her spine.
A few minutes before three o’clock, Mata Hari entered the hotel bar, wearing a robe of sapphire-blue chiffon trimmed with chinchilla. Her pearl earrings bobbed as she walked and her hair shone under the clusters of bright lamps. Already seated at one of the tables was a young man in a dark suit and wire-frame glasses. He was so busy writing something that he didn’t notice her approach.
‘Are you from the newspaper?’ she said.
He looked surprised as he got to his feet. ‘Yes. Madame Mata Hari?’ He held out his hand.
She nodded and shook his hand.
‘Please sit down,’ he said.
She sat opposite him and leaned back in the green leather armchair. A waiter in a white jacket appeared.
‘Would you like some coffee? Or tea perhaps?’ the journalist asked.
‘I would like a mint julep with a little sugar.’
The journalist ordered another coffee and the waiter disappeared.
‘First of all, I’d like to welcome you to Vienna . . .’
His French was good. ‘Thank you, monsieur, you are too kind.’
‘And to say that I am looking forward very much to your performance tomorrow evening at the Secession Art Hall.’
‘You have a ticket?’
‘Oh yes, your agent Maître Clunet was prompt in supplying me with a seat in the front row.’
‘Good. Would you like another for a friend?’
‘No, that won’t be necessary, thank you,’ he blushed.
‘As you wish.’
‘I hope you won’t mind my taking notes?’
‘Not at all.’
‘Good. I’d like to begin our talk by clearing up the confusion surrounding your birthplace. Where were you actually born?’
‘I was born in the Indies, and lived there till I was twelve years old. My parents were of European extraction, but my grandmother was the daughter of a Javanese prince.’
‘And what about your upbringing?’
‘My childhood memories are very clear. I remember my first years amidst the marvellous tropical vegetation. At the age of twelve, I went to Wiesbaden. Later, I got married. With my husband, a colonel in the Dutch colonial army, I returned to my native country, where I spent my time horseback riding, gun in hand, and risking my life. I have Hindu blood in my veins. Dancing is in my blood. Although I have become a woman, my eyes still enjoy the sights of my youth.’
‘Could you tell me a little about your art?’
‘My art? It is really very simple – the most natural thing in the world. Nature itself is simple; only man complicates it. One does not need things that have been complicated to the point of being ridiculous; the sacred Brahman dances are symbols, and all their gestures must correspond to thoughts. The dance is a poem, and every gesture is one of its words. I have been taught from my earliest childhood the deepest meaning of these dances, which constitute a cult, a religion. In Batavia, I often came in contact with rich princes who would invite us, my husband and myself, into their homes. These men, who are very religious, have famous dancers whom they hardly show to anyone. These dancers know the most secret Brahman dances, which are executed around the altar, and I have been able to study with them for a long time.’
‘It’s been claimed that no one before you has been able to give such a complete impression of sacred art.’
‘In my dancing one forgets the woman in me, so that I offer everything and finally myself to the god – which is symbolised by the slow loosening of my loincloth, the last piece of clothing I have on – and stand there, albeit only for half a second, entirely naked. I have never yet evoked any feeling but an interest in the mood that is expressed by my dancing. I have travelled all over the East, but can honestly say that nowhere have I seen women dance while holding a snake or some other object. This I first saw when I came to Europe, and it struck me with dumb amazement.’
The waiter came holding a tray and served their drinks. She took a sip of her julep and set the glass down. The journalist stirred his coffee while he searched through his notes.
‘Is it true that you assisted Monsieur Guimet in the preparation of his lecture which preceded your dance at his museum last year?’
‘I have to confess, yes. I studied Orientalism, lived with it, thought in it and dreamt about it. I know the music of these countries, I could go through all the harp variations that accompany my dances, and I even compose. I helped him a lot.’
‘Why did you go to Paris, not anywhere else?’
‘I don’t know. I thought all women who ran away from their husbands went to Paris.’
‘I wonder what you would have done if, when you arrived in Paris, you had not succeeded?’
‘I had a gun ready and my decision was taken,’ she smiled. She sipped her julep. ‘I have a character which is always apt to follow a sudden impulse.’
‘And how did you come to arrive so suddenly in Paris?’
‘I arrived only a year and a half ago from Holland, with half a franc in my pocket. I went to the Grand Hôtel. It is quite a story, oh, not a very pleasant one!’
‘But very impressive. Please tell me something of it.’
‘I did some modelling for a time, and rode horses in a circus. But I felt I could do better, that the glow and the arts of my holy country were deep within me. Only those born and bred there become impregnated with their religious significance, and can impart to them the solemn note to which they lay claim.’ She laughed. ‘Now I am in Paris and mix with a thousand people every day.’
‘And what are your impressions of European society in general, and Parisian society in particular?’
‘My impressions are not flattering. Having remained close to Nature for so long, which is simultaneously innocent and simple, I look upon your worldly behaviour as if it takes place on a stage where everything is false and on the surface only. Women wearing make-up and false hair, compliments that are nothing but lies, all this inspires in me an amazement that borders on hilarity. I am astonished that your women do not have the customs of my country, where women may have to suffer inferior treatment like being whipped, but where at the same time we are superior, because we can sew, make our own clothes, are good cooks, can shoot straight, can ride horseback and are capable of doing logarithms and talking philosophy.’
‘I’ve read somewhere that four ministers of state invited you to supper, and that in the intimacy of their dining room you regaled them with your art.’
‘I differ from other artists. I am at one with my public; I am on the same social level. I not only dance in the best Paris salons, but am received there as an equal, and I myself at times entertain my hosts.’
‘I’m curious to know whether you don’t look forward to a time in your life beyond dancing in public – a return to the Brahman temples maybe?’
She nodded her head. ‘I fully agree. I do have such an ideal. I confess that I might say goodbye to my dancing career soon.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ She paused and looked at the journalist, who was writing quickly to keep up with her. ‘A better prospect has appeared on my horizon. I have been asked for my hand in marriage by Coun
t T–y, who is a Russian officer attached to Grand Duke Michael.’
He looked up. ‘Congratulations! You must be very happy.’
‘Thank you. I am.’
‘Can you tell me something about your plans?’
‘Plans? Well, for the moment, I have so many of them. I’ve had several offers from abroad, including London and St Petersburg, which pleases me enormously. I am preparing three new Brahman dances. I would like to get an apartment of my own, with my own furniture and bouquets of flowers. I adore flowers. The Eastern dances such as I have witnessed and learned in my native Java are inspired by flowers, from which they take their poetry. I would like to get away from the uninteresting atmosphere of the boarding houses I usually stay in – please don’t misunderstand me, the Hôtel Bristol is wonderful – I mean the pensions in Paris. But above all, I want to work, to work and study.’
‘What about the theatre?’
‘The theatre? I do not know yet, but I have had many proposals from impresarios.’
‘You’ve been received warmly here in Vienna. Is there anywhere else you would like to perform?’
‘Do you mean in Europe?’
‘Yes.’
‘As I said, I may go to London and St Petersburg. I would like to go to Spain; I have an idea that the landscape there would suit me. Maybe Buda-Pest. I’d like to visit the Gellert Hotel to try their spa baths.’
‘What about Berlin?’
‘Berlin? I wouldn’t dance in Berlin for any amount of money!’
‘Why not?’
‘My agent, Maître Clunet, has told me that they would not appreciate the nature of my performances there. No’ – she shook her head – ‘in Europe my affections reside in Paris.’
I wonder if these dances, in their oriental calm, are real – whether they have anything Indian at all. But even if they do not, there is much to admire, for this body, which is formed like a work of Art, and which moves with gestures of caressing charm and yet priest-like, is highly provocative. Whether it is provocative in the artistic sense only is a matter of taste.
Die Zeit, December 1906
I would have to lie if I were to say that the performance is more than that of an amateur.
The Red Dancer Page 8