Encore (20 page)

She was sitting by her vanity brushing out her hair. “What happened?” she asked quietly. Boris did not usually share the problems of the committee with her; she knew he wanted her to dance without concerns. It was one of his ways of “taking care of her.”

“It's Mala Kchessinskaya, no doubt. She isn't really the sort of dancer we've had in mind to dazzle Paris. She's been there before and was received rather tepidly. This is our chance to show Fokine's new works, and she is not suited to them. Nevertheless, how could we leave her out?”

“But she's to dance Armida,” Natalia countered. “Surely that's a large role?”

“She wanted several ballets, so that the Grand-Duke Andrei influenced the Tzar to abandon the project.”

Natalia looked at Boris carefully. He was nervous and angry, but alive and brimming with energy. “You thrive on chaos that needs to be sorted through,” she told him. “Remember how you saved the season of Russian art in ‘06?”

“Ah, yes, the season of art.” Both were silent, sobered by memories—the painting of the Sugar Plum Fairy, Pierre Riazhin. “For starters,” Boris said, “I am going to write a check to Serge for twenty-five thousand rubles.”

Natalia raised her fine eyebrows but did not reply. She was thinking: How much of this is for me, and how much for
him?
Pierre's involvement in the season was considerable: He and Bakst had been making the set designs and costume preparations for the revised version
of Egyptian Nights,
to be called
Cleopatra.
But she merely remarked: “Your father will be appalled.”

“My father is used to this. Besides, my dear, he likes you. He likes it when I take proper care of you.” They smiled in tacit understanding, then sadly remembered Grand-Duke Vladimir, who had been similarly fond of his own son's mistress, Kchessinskaya.

Grand-Duke Vladimir had been able to obtain imperial permission for the dancers to rehearse in the Little Hermitage Theatre, where performances were put on solely for members of the court. Those who had been asked to participate in the Paris season met there, in the small white theatre with its columns of roseate marble.

The Paris repertory was to be a medley of Fokine ballets and adaptations. He was to be the
premier danseur
of the enterprise, as well as its choreographer. But other male dancers, particularly young, sloe-eyed Vaslav Nijinsky, would share the limelight. Moscow's elite would mingle with that of the Mariinsky in a perfect blend of styles and physical characteristics.

Natalia was exhausted from double rehearsals for Paris as well as for her regular Mariinsky roles. But she felt honored: Pavlova was a
prima ballerina
and Karsavina a soloist of the first degree, yet, though she only had a junior position, Diaghilev and Fokine had awarded her parts in three of the proposed ballets. She would be one of the witch Armida's confidantes, was a leading sylph in
Les Sylphides,
and would play the heartrending role of Tahor, the abandoned fiancée, in the opulent production of
Cleopatra.
When Pavlova arrived in Paris at a later date, because of another engagement elsewhere, she would take over the Egyptian role from her younger colleague. For after all, Natalia had to accept the proprieties of hierarchy in the Ballet. But with two other coveted parts, how could she complain of fatigue? She was only nineteen and filled with strength and health.

At the Hermitage Theatre, the dancers practiced and the painters worked. Natalia felt smothered in this proximity, for she could not avoid seeing Pierre frequently. His eyes sought her face, and there was tragedy in them. Well, he has made his bed, but I shan't share it with him, she thought harshly. She would not speak to him or read the notes that he persisted in sending. After a while he stopped sending them.

The Moscow contingent was not able to practice at the Hermitage, since their own engagements were keeping them in that city until the end of the spring season. But Ida Rubinstein, who was not a ballerina and did not belong to a company, joined them. She was the daughter of a well-to-do businessman who had catered to her desire for the stage by taking the advice of their friend Bakst and enlisting Fokine's services in teaching Ida to dance. Still, she did not perform classical ballet. She mimed and moved in indescribable ways, languorous and sensual. She was sultry and tall, and, although her bones showed, she made her thinness an asset and danced to show it off. The costumes that were being designed for her by Bakst and his young protégé, Pierre, were alternatively loose or clinging, and altogether revealing. Natalia watched her from the corner of her eye and thought: Here is a girl who loves herself and wants every man to do the same. In each movement she invites lovemaking. Apparently, Pierre was responding.

Neither Boris nor Natalia talked about Ida Rubinstein and Pierre Riazhin. Yet Natalia thought: He is doing this to defy us both. What can Boris do about it? But Boris was thinking: Pierre will never again come close to Natalia, and another woman must be a poor substitute. So be it.

The entire world was upside down. The new
régisseur,
Sergei Grigoriev, manager of the company, had his hands full, and Alexei Mavrin, Diaghilev's secretary, spent his time running back and forth delivering frantic messages. Natalia examined Mavrin closely whenever she could, for Lydia had told her that Diaghilev was “like Boris,” as Natalia now called it to herself. Mavrin was his constant companion. Yet the young man seemed quite ordinary to Natalia, as did Serge Pavlovitch himself.

On April 2, Natalia was nearly knocked over by a frenzied Mavrin, who seized her by the shoulders unexpectedly. “Natalia Dmitrievna!” he cried. “Get your belongings! We've been driven out of the Hermitage Theatre and have to move ourselves down to Catherine Hall on the opposite side of town!”

Shocked, Natalia hastened to the rehearsal room and gathered together her costumes, her dancing shoes, and her leg warmers. The dancers and painters stepped into a convoy of carriages. Somehow Natalia was thrown in beside Pierre. Jammed between his thigh and the door, she could hardly breathe. Goose bumps rose on her flesh. He whispered to her: “I didn't want any of this to happen. Don't you understand? I was drunk, I didn't know what he was doing.”

She felt a surge of bile rising in her throat. “Always blame someone else,” she hissed back sarcastically. “But I've long since stopped caring what you do.”

“I don't care what you do, either,” he said then, quite audibly. “Your biggest role is as his foil. The glitter that hides the filth.”

She faced him squarely, and there was such passionate hatred in her brown eyes that he recoiled. He would never forget the condemnation in her silent expression.

Catherine Hall was a large mansion, and when the carriages disbursed their passengers with their materials, Natalia rushed out into the confusion, grateful for its bustle and commotion. Boris was standing at the door, smiling. She came up to him quickly, with something like relief. Putting his arm casually around her shoulders, he said: ‘The Tzar does not like our self-sufficiency. Since he won't let you practice at the Hermitage, we had to find another location at once. This was the best I could come up with.”

“You? But how?” she asked.

“It's a German club. I simply went to the German ambassador. He's an old acquaintance. I told him that if this season is a success, I don't see why we couldn't go to Munich sometime soon.”

Natalia looked up at him, feeling tiny beside him. He was watching the members of the
corps de ballet
struggling with boxes. A sudden flame of anger shook her. Surely Pierre must realize and appreciate all the trouble, all the agony this man was going through to ensure the success of the ventures in which the young painter was involved. She bit her lower lip and shook her head slightly. “I am still a provincial fool,” she murmured. “I don't understand very much. I don't know if I shall ever forgive you, Boris. But I am grateful.”

“That's a step,” he admitted with a rueful grin.

N
atalia had dreamed
of Paris and pictured it in her mind, but still it was not as she had expected. She stepped into wide boulevards lined with graceful ‘plane trees, horse chestnuts, and maples. The sun shone over the white buildings, over the open-air cafés where elegant women drank tea and watched the passers-by. Paris was not golden and soaring like St. Petersburg with its spires and cupolas: It was simple and gracious, a serene yet gay city. Driving by the Seine, she saw the Île-St.-Louis and the Cathedral of Notre Dame and felt that Paris was the Middle Ages, the Sun King, romance and moonlight all rolled into one. Boris said: “I did not tell you that we have a home here. Everyone else is dispersing into various hotels, but you and I are moving to our own house.”

She was amazed. Boris was forever revealing surprising possessions; part of his character was always hidden beneath veneers and poses. She would never know the man, she realized. She was silent in the coach that took them through the majestic avenues. She looked out the window and marveled. Everything was quiet, reserved, and elegant. “We're in the sixteenth district,” he explained. “As befits the aristocracy,” he added with his satiric half-smile of self-deprecation.

They passed the Museum of Man and its twin, the Museum of the Navy, and Natalia saw the Eiffel Tower in the midst of the wide field called the Champs-de-Mars. It seemed out of place, a steel needle among graceful, low buildings. “It's a year older than you are,” Boris told her. “Don't you like it?”

“It's like Isadora's dancing; it takes getting used to,” she answered, amused.

Passing by the Bois de Boulogne, Natalia exclaimed out loud. The large lake, the islands, the small lake—the scene was peaceful, sun-filled, a dream. But the coach would not stop. She shut her mouth, feeling unsophisticated and childish. At nineteen, women of Petersburg society knew Paris as well as they knew their native city. Boris would find her excitement embarrassing. But he was laughing.

The car finally stopped not far from the Bois that had so captured Natalia's fancy. They were on a large avenue, the Avenue Bugeaud, in front of a two-storey mansion of white stone. “I'll show you the garden first,” Boris suggested. While their bags were being unloaded and brought inside, he led her around to the back of the house. There was a large square of trim lawn as deep as the house itself, bordered by begonias, poppies, and rose bushes and enclosed by a twelve-foot wall covered with ivy. Trees and manicured bushes were scattered over the lawn, and strolling to the farthest wall, which ran parallel to the house, Natalia discovered that it was adorned with a bronze high-relief.

Boris guided her toward some large, low steps that led from the garden to a terrace. “It's like the countryside,” she marveled in a hush tone. He was opening the glass doors into the salon. It was enormous, upholstered in delicate mauves and pale greens, the walls hung with ancient tapestries depicting unicorns and huntresses. “But we won't live in this room,” he told her, pushing her gently toward the right.

She passed ahead of him into a smaller parlor comfortably decorated in an English country style, airy and informal. The knickknacks on the tables and shelves were priceless. She noticed at once several black ashtrays and bowls adorned on the inside with real Brazilian butterflies of extraordinary hues. Across the hall was the dining room, designed in classical, symmetrical Louis XVI fashion.

On the way upstairs Boris took her past the entrance gallery, with its bronze statue and potted plants. On the second floor the rooms were smaller: a master bedroom, three smaller bedrooms, three baths, and the boudoir. Natalia could not believe her eyes: The latter was totally Chinese, with red-lacquered walls adorned with gold metal and black designs. Even the flowers were exotic: orchids and red camellias in low, bright bowls. “And so,” she said, turning to him, “where is my bedroom?”

“Pick any one,” he replied easily. She wondered if she had said something wrong, but no, he was appraising the boudoir with ironic nonchalance, his customary expression.

“It's beautiful, Boris,” she said. “It's like a museum, only one feels life here—one isn't afraid to touch. I must say I prefer it to our flat in Petersburg. When did you buy this—or have you always owned it? It seems to suit you so well that I can't imagine your father living here before you.”

His eyes were narrowed, his expression becoming withdrawn. “No,” he answered, “it's mine. I purchased it the summer of ‘06.”

For
him,
she thought, and felt momentary nausea. How could she ask “Where did he sleep?” so that she wouldn't pick the same bedroom? Oh, God, there was no escaping it, no avoiding it. “Put me wherever you prefer,” she said. “You know me best, my particular tastes.”

Without waiting for his reply, she turned and ran down the stairs, seeking the freedom of the garden.

There were only two weeks to prepare for Opening Night, with two different sets of dancers who had never before practiced together, the Petersburg and Moscow contingents needing time to meet and adjust. Vera Karalli, the leading dancer from Moscow, had replaced Kchessinskaya as Armida, after the latter had refused to participate in the Paris season. The old Châtelet, where they would perform, was like an aged Cinderella being fitted for the ball. Natalia got headaches from the constant clanging and banging of the carpenters who were transforming the pit into stalls. Fokine's nerves were even more frayed than they had been in Petersburg. He shouted at the dancers, upbraiding them for their deportment or lack of it, telling Natalia that she was a shame to this production, with her dangling arms.

Exuberant society people came to watch the rehearsals because they were friends of Diaghilev, Benois, or Boris. Misia Edwards, the young Polish-Belgian wife of the publisher of the daily newspaper
Le Matin,
was charming, feminine, and round, with upswept burnished hair and pouting lips, a woman with a romantic past. Natalia particularly liked her, because she was quick and open-minded. She gave receptions in her apartment on Quai Voltaire, where Natalia met Marcel Proust, ill and greenish-skinned, and the young artist and writer Jean Cocteau. Boris knew the Comtesse Elisabeth Greffuhle, Madame de Chévigné, and the Rothschilds. Sometimes they came to watch the rehearsals, too, upsetting Fokine. “We are here to work,” he would cry, “not to entertain bored members of the idle classes!” But since the critics also came, Diaghilev calmed him down. He did not wish to lose good publicity.

The Parisian press had been alerted, and the intelligentsia and nobility were expectant and excited. Natalia was tired, overworked, her nerves on edge. She had to keep in mind all the personalities around her and hold herself in check, accepting Fokine's abuse without breaking down. And Nijinsky—aloof, withdrawn—he was best kept at arms' length. Actually, he and Natalia got along quite well, for she too was reserved and did not mix well with the other dancers.

She enjoyed her colleagues but could not feel close to them because of Boris. Everyone knew of their relationship and understood that she was privileged because of his protection. With Pavlova not here yet, there were no vicious tongues. Natalia had learned that every creator had an ego, which was tender and easily bruised. She was considerate and cared only that the end result be good, that she perform her roles well.

There was also Pierre. He had settled into the same rooming house as Benois, on Rue Cambon, but he attended many of the same functions she did. He worked in the Châtelet, but they avoided each other. At Misia's open houses, it was more difficult. There were no set groups: Enclaves formed and reformed in a constant pattern, an ebb and flow of conversation and relationships. Misia took her aside one evening and said: “Natalia, my dear, do not go to the opposite side of the room when that young painter walks in. We all know that he painted you in ‘06. Be kind to him. He is a genius, and he adores you.”

Natalia had replied, quite coldly: “He is not my type. Besides, the painting was commissioned by Borya.” It was a convenient lie since the painting hung in Boris's study.

Misia had raised her eyebrows and changed the subject. Pierre was popular among the French. He was so Russian—dark, strong, bold and sometimes uncouth; besides, they had met him before, two summers in a row. The ladies whispered that he was painting Ida Rubinstein—in the nude. But Natalia thought: This year I am Boris's companion. What are the people thinking? Does anybody know about the two of them?

The night of May 18 was the
répétition générale
, a preview in full regalia of the premiere on the following night. This was to be as important, if not more so, than Opening Night. Diaghilev and the impresario Astruc had organized everything with such perfect showmanship that the result was nothing less than dazzling. In the front row of the first balcony, or dress circle, Astruc had placed the fifty-two most beautiful actresses of Paris, alternating blondes with brunettes so that the effect was of a basket of flowers. From then on, this area of the theatre would be called the
corbeille,
or basket, to commemorate Astruc's genius.

The
tout-Paris
—everyone who mattered—was represented: French diplomats and statesmen and all the aristocracy. The list was varied and long, not the least prominent figure being King Edward VII of England. Even Isadora Duncan was present. Diaghilev and Astruc had drawn the choicest spectators.

This first night there would be only three productions:
Le Pavilion d'Armide,
the Polovtsian Dances of
Prince Igor,
and
Le Festin.
Natalia's stomach twisted. This was different from Russian audiences, and even the refurbished Châtelet seemed unfamiliar. Nijinsky practiced offstage. He was simple and remote, an odd fellow, but no one with whom she had ever danced could master the air the way he did, floating upon it in fantastic leaps, undulating in a way that was neither masculine nor feminine, more spritely than human. He glanced in her direction and briefly nodded. She nodded back, gravely. They understood each other, the professionalism that allied them. They did not need to be friends to work well together.

The conductor for
Le Pavilion
was its composer, Tcherepnine, and when he rose to the podium to lead the Moscow orchestra, Natalia thought: It has begun, there's no going back. It was a dream to be here, to perform before an audience whose, singular composition could never be matched. The Armida story was unfolding, Mordkin and Karalli had taken over the stage, then the fantasy took shape. The diamonds of the women in the theatre blazed, their cheeks glowed. It was time for the pas de trois.

Natalia went onstage and felt the response as she had never felt it at the Mariinsky, in spite of the balletomanes and the claques. Paris was ready for Fokine, for the Russian dancers, for Benois's costumes of grace and lightness. She began her number: slow, then faster, with pauses for effect. She heard cries, applause, and a lump rose in her throat. Boris sat in his box, surrounded by elegant people: Misia, the comtesse Greffuhle, Diaghilev. Natalia gave herself up to her interpretation. There was gold inside her veins, wine and ambrosia. Karsavina and the sublime Nijinsky joined her, and their movements were filled with joy, three youthful bodies, three souls, mingling, joining, reaching the audience, making the supreme connection.

It was over. Natalia was bathed in perspiration, but, as Karalli and Mordkin went to take their curtain call, as the tumult in the stalls and rows resounded like a volley of gunfire exploding close at hand, Karsavina put her arm around her and they fell back, exhausted, laughing, triumphant. It was time for their own
encore.
They stood on either side of Nijinsky. The others would have to dance again, in
Le Festin,
but for Natalia it was over, the evening was finished. It was time to change and join the others in Boris's box.

Already people were pressing backstage, not even waiting for the next number. Natalia made her way to her dressing room, and before she could reach it she saw the bejeweled ladies with their tuxedoed escorts, forming a crowd. Someone touched her, grabbed her, hugged her.
“La jolie
Oblonova!” she heard, and grew dizzy, smelling the expensive scents, reeling from the refractions of sapphires and rubies. “
L'inoubliable
Oblonova! another cried, and then a strong male voice said:
“Laissez-la passer, laissez-la donc, nom de Dieu!”

It was Boris, it had to be; he seemed to turn up in places like these. She tried to reach his extended hand, found it, grasped the fingers. He was holding her, supporting her, almost carrying her, and then they were in the dressing room filled with roses and boxes of chocolate. She smiled at him, her lips trembling, and he said urgently: “You've won! All of you—the Russian Ballet, the designers, the musicians. It's the most marvelous success I've ever witnessed!”

She took his hands. “We wouldn't have reached Paris without you,” she reminded him. “It's your success too.” Her eyes were limpid and wide.

He kissed the top of her head.
“Les français t'adorent”
he said. And then, growing authoritarian, he added: “Hurry up. I don't want to miss the Polovtsi tribe in the throes of violence!”

Boris took the newspapers to her in the morning and made her read aloud from them, saying, “I didn't spend all my money on these French lessons for nothing, did I?” He sat on the small ottoman while she read. Praises for the Russian dances, for the choreography, for the ballerinas and Nijinsky. Praises for Diaghilev, praises for Benois and Tcherepnine. And then she came to it: a photograph of her, Natalia.

“Robert Brussel says that I am ‘a return to ancient Greece, where the women knew how to live, love, and feel,'” she exclaimed with a little laugh. “Oh, Boris—
'L'Oblonova est un oiseau immortel, une femme oiseau.'
An immortal bird! What a kind, generous thing to write, don't you think?” She was red with embarrassment and also with excitement and pleasure.