‘Flighty, emotional creatures,’ responded her friend disapprovingly, ‘Did you see her crying? And in a public place!’
‘Poor soul,’ chided the first woman, ‘Perhaps she loved him.’
Perhaps she did. Certainly it became her chief comfort, as the passing days seemed to bring her no nearer to her dream, to come and stand before the Master’s statue, to speak of her longing in words only he might hear, and so find a measure of peace. Other dancers came, also, singly, respectfully for the most part, though it soon became necessary for a constable to safeguard the blossoms on the rose bush. And even with all his vigilance, dancers would find a way to pluck one before a performance, to bring luck; so that by autumn the bush was completely bare.
It was on a night in September, when chill winds began to whistle about the rooftops of the city, that Rasveta was passing by the Royal Theatre as the crowds were lining up for the first ballet of the season. She tried not to look—why had her steps carried her here, tonight of all nights?—imagining the bustling preparations now taking place backstage, the nervous anticipation, the last minute adjustments of make-up and costume . . . and then, with a shiver Rasveta saw on a poster the face of Sonja, prima ballerina, the proud disdainful face standing like a wall between her and all she desired on earth. ‘I shall never, never, dance before the world,’ said a voice of despair in her heart. And she turned and walked away through the crowded streets, hearing the gay voices of the first night audience fade away behind her.
She walked for hours, while the lamps were lit and shops became shuttered and silent, and finally, as she had known she would, she found herself standing before the statue of the Master.
The bare, plucked branches of the rose bush trembled in a gust of wind, and in the flickering yellow lamplight his face was shadowed, seeming in her distress to look down in silent greeting. And then, as if from an immense distance, she heard his voice, and it whispered, ‘Dance for me.’
In anguish she fell to her knees, and tears wet her cheeks. ‘But I cannot, they will never let me. I will never dance before the world, never.’ And the faraway voice seemed to answer, and it said, ‘Then dance for me now, tonight.’
Incredulously, Rasveta raised her head and looked about her. The square was deserted, the shops locked and barred. It seemed madness, and yet . . . her heart beating, she rose to her feet.
Far above, in a penthouse belonging to one of the wealthiest patrons in the city, a party was in progress. Beneath the glittering chandeliers champagne corks popped and toasts were proposed in ringing voices, while a group of musicians in royal livery played the popular airs of the day. And close by the great window overlooking the square stood Gregor Mikailovitch himself, in the triumph of a successful first night, and by his side stood Sonja, proud as an empress, accepting the congratulations of the throng as her rightful due.
Then someone called out, ‘Look! It is a gypsy, come to entertain us!’ And everyone who could clustered at the window, laughing, to see the tiny figure, her back to them, bow before the statue in the square as to a great audience, and begin to dance.
‘Bravo!’ cried a portly gentleman, who had had a bit more champagne than he needed, as he opened a window to fling down a handful of coins. Gregor angrily struck his arm, causing the coins to ring and scatter over the balcony.
‘Be still, all of you!’ he commanded, ‘That is no gypsy.’
Sonja came close to the open window and gasped. ‘I know her, the impudent baggage,’ she whispered fiercely, ‘I had her expelled from the Academy.’
Gregor Mikailovitch spoke without turning, a small pair of opera glasses before his eyes. ‘You expelled her? A dancer such as this?’ he exclaimed incredulously. Sonja caught his arm.
‘Gregor Pavelovski, soul of mine, don’t you see? She has learned of this party and hopes to arouse your pity. A cheap vagabond’s trick.’
Slowly Gregor turned and stared at Sonja, at the hard, bitter face and hatred filled eyes it seemed he was seeing for the first time. ‘No, Sonja,’ he said softly, ‘she does not even know we are here. She is dancing for . . . someone else.’ Suddenly, with both hands he flung back the balcony doors, making the candle flames flutter and leap. ‘Play!’ he commanded the startled musicians. ‘From the ballet! Play!’
To Rasveta, lost within her dancing, the music, echoing from the towering walls of the surrounding buildings, seemed to come from the same remote distance as had the Master’s voice. She did not pause to wonder, but let the notes lift and carry her, like the fragile leaves that rustled at her feet, finding as if by magic secure footing on the rounded cobbles, ’til it seemed to those watching as if she barely touched the ground at all. And she saw the Master’s face, watching, appearing at the end of each pirouette and urging her on.
The music brought her at last to the final adagio, and as Rasveta knelt, breathless at the feet of the bronze statue, the people above on the balcony saw her reach out, trembling, and pick up something from the pavement. Then applause broke out, which even Gregor could not contain, but Rasveta showed no sign that she heard, staring down at what she held in her hands.
‘Why it’s a rose,’ said a woman, peering through her opera glasses.
‘Which of you threw it?’ exclaimed Gregor angrily. But no one answered. And Sonja, haughty Sonja, beat her fist suddenly against the balustrade and turned away, angry tears streaking black trails of mascara down her cheeks.
‘His rose! To her . . . his rose! To me he never . . . and now to her . . . !’ And she flung herself down on a couch, weeping bitterly. The other guests exchanged startled glances, but Gregor took no notice.
‘Shall I go down and fetch the young lady, master?’ said a servant at Gregor’s elbow.
‘No,’ said Gregor, still gazing entranced at the slender figure kneeling below. ‘Does anyone know where she lives?’
‘I have heard,’ said Monsieur Peotrvitch, coming up to stand beside him, ‘she studies with Madame Nashova.’
‘Then tomorrow,’ began Gregor, but his voice trailed away as Rasveta, with the rose held cupped in her hands like a sacred candle, turned and walked slowly away into the silent streets.
THE BEGINNING
The mist drifts over the city, like the smoke from its many fires, down across rooftops to curl, unseen and unnoticed past windows like stages, each one a separate drama played to an empty hall. There is no peeking through curtains here, for this city offers to all the gift prized, perhaps, only by the few: that of uncaring anonymity. Yet the mist pauses, curling around one particular window as if curious to view what passes within.
This window is high in a stately old mansion and the gas lights are turned up, revealing a room well appointed in the style of this era, all plush velvet and dark polished wood. The man and the woman within reflect a lifestyle rich in comforts and benefits.
Yet it seems some discord mars their gentility. Indeed, they argue, and the sound of their voices comes faintly through even the expensive heavy glass of the window. Ah! He has struck her! Open handed, it is true, but a blow is a blow . . . now what will she do? For a moment she stays half crouching by the divan where the blow has driven her, her eyes wide and disbelieving. One slim hand goes to her ankle, then pauses frozen as if in the midst of searching for some weapon that ought to be there but is not. Her bosom, half revealed in the fashion of the day, rises and falls spasmodically in the heat of her passion, but heavily corseted as she is, it must be difficult to catch her breath.
The mark of his five fingers stands out livid upon a face a good deal duskier than the feminine ideal of this time, and the dark hair drawn back in an elaborate coiffure looks as if, were it released from its discipline, it would coil with a decidedly unusual vigour.
Now she gets to her feet, having to haul on the velvet arm of the divan to achieve this, for the corset and stays fashion demands make it difficult to move if one is not accustomed to them from childhood. Still, she manages it and faces her tormentor, a word thrown as an epithet
at him which is not in the language of the city.
The man’s face darkens in renewed anger and he grips the table before him as if to restrain himself. The gesture seems to work, for his voice is level as he says, coldly, ‘I have told you I do not wish to hear that beggar’s speech in this house ever again. You will not speak it to me, and above all you will not speak it to the child.’
The woman’s dark eyes narrow and she smiles now, her voice bitterly mocking as she says, ‘Yet there are words you once loved to hear, are there not, Husband? Spoken in the night, in the dark, words such as. . . .’
‘Be silent!’ shouts the man, cutting the air between them with a chopping motion. ‘Have you no decency?’ He breathes heavily now, and his voice lowers with an habitual glance to the door to see if there are servants present. ‘You swore to leave all that behind you when you became my wife, Kisaiya.’ The way he speaks this name shows that it is an intimate one, perhaps only used between the two of them, and perhaps this is an attempt at reconciliation, or as close to an apology as this stern young man is likely to get.
In any case the reference to her vow seems to strike the woman harder than the blow. Wearily she lowers her head. ‘Indeed, yes, I swore. Have I your leave to withdraw, Husband?’
The man makes as if to speak, but the grip of class and social status, a confinement more implacable than the woman’s corset, reasserts itself, and his face is once again expressionless as he bows formally in dismissal.
The woman named Kisaiya hurries through the corridors of the silent house to her own room, one hand pressed to hide her bruised face. She need not have worried about encountering any of the servants, however, for this is an old household, and the servants here learn discretion above all things. There are hidden stairways and passageways used only by the various domestics, so that the high born need never encounter them. Now, sensing discord, they have withdrawn like mice into the woodwork.
Kisaiya pauses in her headlong flight . . . flight? Is it possible? She who had been bravest in all her tribe of rootless wanderers, most adventurous, breaker of customs and taboos, she . . . to run in shame because a man had slapped her face? Worse still, a gaje (she permits herself the word, that in her language means outsider, stranger), she who had been whipped by her mother until she could barely stand for crossing of forbidden barriers, now to be running away from a single blow?
It is these cursed clothes, she tells herself, her chest still aching from the effort to breathe. In her childhood, in the loose blouse and manifold petticoats under the full skirt, she had run barefoot beside the wagons all day if need be, the hot dust of the endless road rising about her and the familiar scent of the gry, the great plodding wagon horses, filling her nostrils. For a moment the memory blots out her surroundings and then she feels for the first time fully her separation from a world, a life to which she can never return. ‘It was my choice,’ she castigates herself bitterly, ‘my vow.’
Now with the silent corridor stretching before her, shut up in this great house like a fox walled up in its den, she allows herself to remember how it all began.
To the vast estate, with its forests and winding streams, her folk had come every year at about the same time, for the great Graf who owned the land was kindly disposed to them, and allowed them the freedom to camp where they would, and to stay as long as they might. In the language of the Rom (which simply meant ‘The People’) such men were called Rei, or Lord, and the favour of such a one was greatly prized and jealously guarded in times such as these when it seemed every man’s hand was against them. This one would even himself visit their fires, and sit long, staring into the flames, listening to the tales and the music, and it was whispered that a great sadness lay upon him for his wife who had died bearing a dead child, and he seemed to find solace for his grief in this way. Some words of their language, even, he could both speak and understand, a great rarity, and he became as much a treasure to the People as the strings of gold coins their women kept hung about their necks.
Then it came to pass that the Graf was to be wedded for the second time, and there was rejoicing for him around the fires and in the tents and the wagons, and as the year turned word came to them that a child had been born, a male heir, and the Graf when he came to the fires was melancholy no more, and the People danced the old dance, and sang the old songs for him and rejoiced in his good fortune. Years passed, the seasons came and went, and then there would be two coming down to sit at the fires, father and son, the boy staring wide-eyed around at the colourful strangers who came, and sang, and played their wild music, and then one day would be gone, leaving only wheel ruts and ashes to mark their passing.
He was a well favoured lad, this Lord’s son, with dark hair and eyes as deeply brown as his father’s, and there was some sighing among the young unmarried girls of the tribe, for young girls would dream of wedding the moon as in the old stories, and no harm to any if they dreamed so.
Yet there was one who did more than dream, one who had marked the dark eyed boy as her own, even when they were both as yet children. Kisaiya the proud and wilful one, who had recognised no law but her own since she was old enough to lisp ‘I won’t’ when commanded to do anything she did not wish to. Heads were shaken when the two children, Kisaiya and the great Lord’s son, began to go about together hand in hand. Seeing them together you might almost have taken them for brother and sister, but it was not so, and for all the endless wanderings of the People the more they clung to laws and customs as immovable and deeply rooted as they were not, and the greatest of these was that the People should keep to themselves, and go with none but their own. Let the Graf smile indulgently, let his wife and other women of the household exclaim over the two children lost in each other’s eyes, allowances were made for the Rei of the gaje who was such a great and valued friend; but in the tents and wagons heads were shaken, and Kisaiya had to endure many stern reproaches.
So the matter stood until the year when Kisaiya had seen nine summers and the Lord’s son barely more, and when the wagons had arrived in their accustomed place in the bend of the great river, and the tents were up and the horses let out to graze the sweet grass of the riverbank, the Grafin, as the young wife of the Graf was called, had what seemed to her a marvellous idea. Pageants with children playing the parts of adults were all the rage among the nobility of the day, and what could be more delightful than a mock wedding between her son Tomas and his little gypsy sweetheart? The Graf was away on business in the capital, and the estate was private, walled and gated with none to see; thus the Grafin and her ladies could do as they liked.
A day was spent in preparation, costumes were made or borrowed as needed, and then one fine morning the invitation was sent down to the campground, to the tents and wagons of the People, and carried by one of the young grooms. The young lady known as Kisaiya was invited to a party at the manor, to begin at noon this day, and she and only she was to come.
Now was there great consternation as all wondered what this might mean, and the mother of Kisaiya went for council to the great grandmother of the tribe, old Moriza Cannedai, and Moriza sucked on her pipe and spat into the cookfire, and said if the Rei wished it, there could be nothing but good to come of it, and belike it was only that she should dance for the great lords and ladies, and that was small payment for the use of his lands these many seasons. Thus she said, and it was a wise saying, for who among them could have known that the invitation came not from the Graf himself, but only from his silly young wife and her friends? So the young groom was sent back to his mistress, to say that Kisaiya would be there at the set time.
Then little Kisaiya was dressed in all her finery, in the red dress with the seven petticoats, all of different colours, and the white blouse that showed off her olive complexion, and ribbons in her long black curls, and gold in her ears. There were no shoes, for she had never owned a pair, much less worn any, and barefoot she went up the worn path that led to the great manor on the hill overlooking the park. Breathles
s with excitement she went, thinking only that she would certainly see the Graf’s son Tomas, and thinking of little else.
Indeed it happened that the first person she saw at the edge of the park was Tomas himself, dressed in his best suit and looking as beautiful to her as she had dreamed. They had not seen one another for a year, and as children will they simply ran to meet and embraced, laughing. They ran across the park to the great pavilion where in summer entertainments were given. The ladies of the manor had indulged themselves in the matter of lights and decorations, and all the children of the manor were present, dressed in their finest clothes, and Kisaiya of the wagons gasped in wonder at the splendid sight before her, as it seemed a tale of kings and queens and princes and palaces come to life.
The ladies clucked over her dress, and said it was not suitable, but the Grafin told them it would only make the spectacle more piquant, and someone found a lace shawl for the little gypsy girl to wear, that could do duty for a bridal veil. Then it was noticed that she had no shoes on her feet, but the Grafin laughed and said, all the better, and in any case her skirts would hide them. Then the children began the play, and all were set at table, and sweetmeats were given them, and Kisaiya and Tomas sat together in the place of honour, neither understanding in the least what it was all about except that they were together and everyone seemed delighted by them.
One by one the children got up and made a little speech as they had been taught, in praise of the couple shortly to be wed, and Kisaiya who had learned from Tomas the rudiments of his language understood perhaps a tenth part of it and cared little for the rest. Such great people could mean no harm, she told herself, and in any case she was where she most wanted to be, with Tomas whom she loved above all else.
When the speeches were done and applauded, and the appropriate toasts drunk in sweet fruit juice, it was time for the music master, with several of his best pupils, to strike up a version of the Wedding March from the opera Lohengrin, and urged on by the Grafin and her ladies the two children made their way to the flower bedecked altar which had been erected.
The Girl with the Peacock Harp Page 2