The Girl with the Peacock Harp

by Michael Eisele

  THE GIRL WITH THE PEACOCK HARP

  Michael Eisele

  Tartarus Press

  First published 2016 by Tartarus Press at

  Coverley House, Carlton-in-Coverdale, Leyburn,

  North Yorkshire, DL8 4AY, UK

  All stories © Michael Eisele, 2016

  ISBN 978-1-905784-89-9

  The publishers would like to thank Jim Rockhill

  for his help in the preparation of this volume

  CONTENTS

  An Old Tale

  The Beginning

  The Music

  The Lighthouse

  The Eyes

  What Dreams May Come

  Gloria and the Selchie

  Frogs

  Milosh

  Sanity

  Kelpie

  Monkey

  The Girl with the Peacock Harp

  Change

  Rolf

  AN OLD TALE

  Long ago, in faraway Russia, there was a great academy of ballet. Every year, many pupils applied, from the richest and noblest families in the land. To be accepted by the Academy was a great honour, and then, who knew, one might dance before the Tsar and Tsarina, and receive the Royal bouquet.

  But for the dancers who trained at the academy there was a greater honour still. Flowers there might be, from wealthy patrons and gentleman admirers, and sometimes from the Tsar; but every dancer waited for the night—and it might happen once, or perhaps never—when upon the stage would be brought a single perfect rose. It was this every student dreamed of, the legendary tribute from the Master himself, whose judgment was as sure as God’s, for he could see (so it was said) not only a dancer’s body, but into her very heart and soul.

  Now it happened that on a certain day of the year, parents were allowed to present their children at the Academy, so that those with promise might be selected. Anyone could apply, that was the law, but as a rule only the wealthy and noble families did so, for the peasants and small merchants depended on the labour of their children to help earn the family bread, and a dancer, even at the Academy—well, that was a fine thing to be sure, but it brought little silver into the house.

  So there was surprise, and some laughter, when among the richly dressed little boys and girls, with their servants and nurses in attendance, appeared like a sparrow among peacocks a little girl, pale and delicate, wearing a frock ‘little better than a patched-over rag’, accompanied by an equally shabby young woman ‘obviously the mother, and probably consumptive . . . whatever is the Academy coming to, in my day these creatures knew their place’. All of which was said behind politely gloved hands in an undertone, and the other children, who as children will, had learnt their prejudices before their manners, began to laugh and point at the little girl’s patched and faded dress. The mother endured patiently, her eyes down, but the child, oblivious to the taunts and snickering, gazed wide-eyed about her as if she were seeing a fairy tale brought to life.

  Far above, from a darkened alcove, the Master looked down, observing, as was his custom, the new candidates before fear or the desire to please should make their movements stiff or unnatural. He saw the child, poised weightlessly as though a breath could carry her off, and frowned. At that moment, the woman raised her flushed face for an instant, and the Master caught his breath.

  Down in the crowded hall, there was a stir and an excited murmur as a tall figure in black entered: Ivor Ivaneski Peotrvitch, first among the Academy’s teachers and the Master’s personal assistant. Mothers hissed at their children like so many geese, poked shoulders straight, lifted chins, and arranged clothes to best advantage, as Monsieur Peotrvitch walked slowly down the hall to where the raggedly dressed woman stood with her child. Those nearby saw him beckon, and murmur something, and the mother bow respectfully, taking her daughter’s hand. Then it seemed Monsieur Peotrvitch would say something further, but she stopped him with a gesture, and for an instant it was as if she commanded, and he obeyed. But then, her head again bowed meekly, she followed him from the hall, while the voices buzzed after her with the sound of bees whose hive has been overturned.

  Down long corridors they walked, and sometimes one could hear a voice counting, and the music of a violin or piano, and sometimes the sound of many feet, and the squeak of rosin on polished wood. At length they came to an open door, and here Monsieur Peotrvitch stood aside, and motioned the mother and child to enter.

  The Master rose from behind his desk and bowed. ‘It has been many years, Natalia,’ he said.

  ‘Seven years, Master,’ replied the woman quietly.

  ‘And your husband, what of him?’

  ‘He left soon after the child was born.’ There was no bitterness in her voice; she sounded tired.

  The Master sighed and shook his head. ‘You should have come back to us.’

  ‘There was the child to care for,’ she smoothed the little girl’s hair tenderly, ‘and my husband left many debts.’

  The Master looked at the rounded shoulders that had once been so straight, and at the red, chapped hands. ‘How have you lived, Natalia?’

  ‘As one can. I sew, I take in washing.’

  The master nodded in silence. He turned to the little girl.

  ‘What is your name, child?’

  ‘Rasveta,’ she answered shyly.

  ‘And how old are you?’

  ‘In December, I shall be six,’ she declared proudly.

  ‘And do you like the Circus?’

  ‘I’m sure I would,’ replied the child with a note of longing. ‘Once I saw the parade pass our window.’

  ‘If you go to my window, at the end of the room, you will see a circus performing.’

  ‘May I Mama?’ cried Rasveta, her face shining. And at her mother’s nod, she flew across the room like a windblown leaf, seeming barely to touch the floor. ‘Oh, Mother!’ she called presently from the window. ‘There is a bear that dances! And a funny man who rolls himself up into a ball!’

  ‘And the monkey who plays on the bagpipes?’ murmured the mother, glancing at the Master ironically.

  He smiled, watching Rasveta at the window. ‘She is your image, Natalia,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Then you will keep her?’

  ‘She will begin classes tomorrow. You, too, shall come to live here.’

  For the first time Natalia smiled, sadly. ‘No, Master. This is not a place for ghosts.’

  So began Rasveta’s new life. There was so much to learn, and so many new and wonderful things to see, that at first she hardly missed her mother. Mama became someone who visited her at weekends, someone to whom she could talk about everything she had done and learned during the week. Sometimes Mama seemed to be made a little sad by what Rasveta said, but always she would want to be told everything, and when, after several months, Rasveta was put in the front row of the class, Mama was very happy, and kissed her and told her how proud she was.

  The days passed, and the months, and when the year had grown old, and the first snow of winter sparkled on the rooftops, there came a Sunday when Mama did not visit. Instead there was a new practice costume she had made with her own hands, and a note which her teacher read, saying that Mama had a little cold and would come next week. But the next week, and the next Mama still did not appear, and one day the teacher took Rasveta aside, and told her that Mama had gone to live in a faraway land, where it was always pleasant and warm, and Mama would live in a beautiful castle, and never have to wash or sew again. Rasveta asked if Mama would not visit her still, sometimes, but her teacher replied that the land was too distant, but that Mama sent her love, and to tell Rasha that someday they would meet again, and in the meantime she must work very hard and become a great ballerin
a.

  So Rasveta continued to study, and worked harder than ever. By the time she was nine years of age she was first in the class, and in another four years she became the youngest student ever to enter the advanced class, where the best dancers in the Academy were taught.

  Now most people loved Rasha, students and teachers alike, for she was eager to please and hard working. But there were others who envied her, who whispered that she had been advanced unfairly, that she was the Master’s pet on account of her mother, of whom many stories were told. Chief among these others was Sonja, star pupil and prima ballerina in the Academy’s company. Sonja began to make many loud remarks about children who could barely see over the barre, which of course was not true, and to ask contemptuously if Madame thought she could turn a chicken into a swan by teaching it to swim, and one day when Madame Nashova made Rasveta demonstrate an exercise in front of the whole class, ‘. . . so that the rest of you may see what it looks like when done correctly . . .’ Sonja stormed out of the studio in a rage. After that things went from bad to worse, until finally, when the teachers reported that Rasveta’s progress was being affected, the Master ordered the advanced class to split into two sections, with Sonja in one and Rasveta in another, to be held in separate studios.

  So life went on, and Rasveta at fifteen had first place in her class, and there was even talk of a part in the next Royal production. Then one day came a summons from the Master.

  Rasveta entered the office nervously. Since that first day, the Master had never spoken to her directly, and she had seldom even seen him. He rose now courteously as she entered, and beckoned her to a chair. She noticed as he sat down again that the Master seemed tired, or in pain.

  ‘I hear that you are doing well,’ he began. ‘Madame Nashova tells me that she has never had such a pupil.’

  ‘Madame is very kind, Master,’ Rasveta murmured, embarrassed.

  ‘Madame, if you fell off pointe, would beat you to within an inch of your life,’ replied the Master calmly. ‘Do you see this vase?’ In the centre of the desk was a small vase with a single rosebud, not yet opened. ‘If this bud is cared for, and watered, it will bloom. Neglected, it will wither and die.’

  ‘Yes, Master,’ said Rasveta, staring wide eyed at the tiny flower.

  ‘You have a great talent. It is a heavy responsibility to hold such a gift. Not to care for it, to let it die undeveloped, is to deprive the world of the beauty you alone can give it.’ The Master frowned, looking old and sad. ‘The world is sometimes an ugly place, Rasveta. It needs that beauty.’ Rasveta sat silently, not knowing what to say.

  ‘Things may not always be as they are now,’ continued the Master after a pause. ‘But I want you to promise me, on the soul of your mother, that whatever happens you will continue to study and to dance.’

  Rasveta lowered her eyes. ‘I—I promise.’

  ‘Good. Now you may go.’

  Less than a month later, the Academy was draped in black and all classes cancelled for the Master’s funeral. It seemed there had been no warning; no one had even known he was ill. Rasveta never told anyone of her last interview with him.

  Classes resumed, but now there was speculation throughout the Academy about the future. There were rumours of financial difficulties, and of a wealthy nobleman, a great ballet enthusiast, who had assumed the directorship. It was whispered, too, that he was Sonja’s patron, and perhaps much more—certainly Sonia carried her head very high these days.

  And then one day Rasveta came to class, to find all the students clustered around a large notice, posted on the schedule board.

  ‘Examinations!’ it said in large letters at the top, and went on to explain that to correct any abuses and favouritism that might have existed under the previous director, a series of examinations would be held to evaluate the performance of present students. Signed, Gregor Pavelovski Mikailovitch, director of the Academy.

  ‘It’s that Sonja,’ said one of the older girls. ‘He’s put the whole school in her hands.’

  ‘What happens to the ones who don’t pass?’ cried a boy.

  ‘Out, out in the street,’ answered someone darkly. At that everyone fell silent, for without the Academy, as they knew well, there were no roles. One might as well be a gypsy, dancing for coins in the city streets.

  As the date of the examinations drew near, the students seemed divided into two groups. There were those who were friends of Sonja, those she smiled at and greeted in the halls. These appeared calm and unworried. Then there were those, not a small number, who had in some way incurred her displeasure. These began to look pale and distraught, and indeed everywhere Sonja went now, one could see her accompanied by a group of anxious faces, hoping for a smile or a kind word.

  As for Rasveta, she spent her days in a kind of trance, not daring to look forward. Occasionally she found herself face to face with Sonja in the halls. Sonja would smile then, but it was not a kind or a friendly smile. Poor soul! All the warm praise of her teachers could not melt the cold icicle that seemed driven into her heart. And on the day of the examination, when she entered the studio, she understood what her heart had warned her of. For there, in the seat reserved for the judge, where she had expected to see Madame, or perhaps even Monsieur Peotrvitch, sat only—Sonja.

  At first, as always, the music and the dance lifted her out of herself, so that she forgot where she was. But little by little, the sight of Sonja’s cold smile intruded. It seemed to be saying that no matter what she did, she would fail the examination. ‘Out, out in the street,’ seemed to weave into the melody, over and over. Rasveta became desperate and danced harder and harder, to somehow penetrate and warm that face which as long as she could remember had hated her. ‘Why?’ she cried silently with each sobbing breath, ‘Why do you hate me so much?’ And then, ‘But please, let me dance. Do not take that away from me.’

  It was no use. Sonja’s cold smile did not change, and finally, in the middle of a frantic pirouette, Rasveta stumbled and fell. She fell as a leaf falls, graceful still. And Sonja stood up, and the musicians ceased playing, and as if in a dream she heard the hard voice telling her to pack her belongings, to leave the Academy.

  The other students who had failed left sadly enough, but they left in carriages, to be received and comforted by their families. Not Rasveta. For a few days she wandered the streets, until her little money, all that was left of the allowance she had received as a student, was gone. She was not afraid, for it seemed nothing worse could possibly happen to her. But finally there was nowhere to go, only to wander aimlessly until hunger and weariness should grant her oblivion. She stood at the railing of a bridge over the river, too weak to go a step further.

  Suddenly there was a warm hand on her arm and a voice she knew calling her name. She turned and-there was Madame Nashova. They embraced, weeping; Madame Nashova, whose warmest gesture had been a sharp tap with her cane to correct a faulty line!

  ‘Rasha, dear heart,’ said Madame, ‘I’d almost given up hope. No one knew where you had gone.’

  ‘I have been expelled from the Academy, Madame,’ said Rasveta sadly.

  ‘So have I! So have I!’ exclaimed Madame Nashova passionately, ‘When the best pupils are not good enough for the Academy, it becomes time for the teacher also to leave! At least,’ she continued grimly her eyes flashing, ‘I told Mademoiselle Sonja a few things she needed to hear before I left!’

  ‘But Madame! What will you do now?’ exclaimed Rasveta.

  ‘I have a little money. I will open a small school, and continue to teach. One must not let gifts be wasted.’

  This reminder of the Master’s last words to her brought back Rasveta’s own grief, and for a moment despair blotted out all else. She realised after a time, however, that Madame had asked her a question.

  ‘I was saying,’ repeated Madame, ‘that I shall certainly need an assistant. Why else do you think I’ve been searching for you everywhere? Come; we will have tea and talk of the future.’

&n
bsp; And so it happened. The old loft above the rug merchant’s shop, which was all they could afford, was certainly not the mirrored marble and polished floors of the Academy’s studios, but the floor was sound, and pupils came; not many at first, but gradually some of Rasveta’s old classmates heard, and began to attend the classes. They trained as they had trained all their lives, not now in the hope of the floodlit stage of the Royal Theatre, but simply because dancing was all they knew.

  About this time, in a square overlooked by sumptuous apartments and lined with the most exclusive shops, a statue was erected in memory of the Master of the Academy. It was in bronze, by a famous artist, and on the day of the dedication a rose bush in full bloom was planted, recalling the legendary token of his favour. And one quiet afternoon, soon after, Rasveta came to stand there. Passers-by stared in surprise to see the tall slim girl, in her faded black dress, standing before the rough-hewn bronze of the Master, her face lifted as if she were speaking. Those near enough might have heard, if they cared to, the words she was saying softly.

  ‘Yes, Master, every morning I take class with Madame, and in the afternoon I help with the other students.’ A pause, and she seemed to listen. ‘I will never forget,’ she said as if in answer, ‘someday I shall dance for you before all the world.’

  Two stately dowagers taking an afternoon stroll saw her turn away, the sunlight glistening on her cheeks as she walked blindly from the square.

  ‘She is certainly a dancer of some sort,’ said one in a tone of critical appraisal, ‘you can tell by the way she moves.’