Encore (7 page)

The annual performance of the ballet school was not only attended by family and teachers, but also by the most ardent devotees of the dance, such as the critics Svetlov and Skalkovsky. Members of the court came as well, most frequently represented by Grand-Duke Vladimir. Among the students would be found future
prima ballerinas
and
premier danseurs,
and the connoisseurs wished to be the first to discover new talent. Natalia stepped out onto the well-watered floor of the little theatre and looked out to her public. The grand-duke was in the imperial box; but, to the girl s utmost surprise, next to him sat the Tzarina, her pale red hair setting off the milk-white features beneath it. Natalia was suddenly very apprehensive. She had never seen Alexandra Feodorovna from so close.

Then again lights glared and Natalia ceased to see faces before her. She entered the body of the passionate Aspitchia, in love with Taon. Pugni's music carried her like a wave. She had studied this part so long and thoroughly because she had to mime her story to the audience, and she liked Pavel Guerdt, who had coached her, and wanted him to be proud of her. She had forgotten the Tzarina but not Guerdt, whose watching eyes she could almost feel. Behind her danced the
corps,
Katya among them. They were Natalia's own Greek chorus, underscoring her drama.

In the third act she perspired a great deal, for this was a Petipa extravaganza to show off her skill on
pointes.
She could feel a muscle contracting strangely as she rose, leaped, and turned, but the cramp did not set in, as she had feared. She felt so relieved that sheer primal joy coursed through her: She was vanquishing the difficult piece, taming her recalcitrant body by the sheer strength of her will.

Amid pyramids, palaces, and a fisherman's hut, Natalia danced, her face red and glistening. At the end, when she had successfully convinced the King of Nubia to allow her to marry her lover, exultation shone through her performance. She had triumphed. Aspitchia had won, and so had Oblonova. Natalia made her
révérence
and went offstage, her eyes tingling, stars shining before her. She stumbled. A gaping black hole sucked her inside it, and she collapsed at the feet of her teacher, Guerdt, who had come to give her his approval.

She came to in a small room, and found herself on a narrow cot, surrounded by men and women whose faces she could not place but who spoke loudly in her ears so that their voices rang. Somebody was applying ice water to her temples. “It's all right,
ma petite,”
Pavel Guerdt said, and, recognizing him, she closed her eyes again. Somebody fanned her. Then a female voice burst in excitedly: “Quick, get up, Natalia! The Tzarina is coming!”

The next few minutes seemed like a collage of haphazard images to Natalia. The door swung on its hinges, and she saw the cold, clear features of the empress. Natalia sank down in a profound curtsy and did not rise until a thick hand tilted her chin upward. She gazed with consternation into the large face of Grand-Duke Vladimir. “So,” he remarked, as though he had been on speaking terms with her for many years, “the little flower wilts before we can see it.”

“I am sorry, Your Excellency,” Natalia stammered.

“Pah! Sorrow is for the dead.” His jovial laugh surrounded her as a warm blanket.

“You were lovely, Natalia Dmitrievna,” the Tzarina said. “I wished to present you with this trinket in memory of today.” She handed the girl a small box decorated with her portrait in painted enamel. Natalia's fingers shook as she received it, and she curtsied again, unable to utter a syllable. Then the door opened, other people entered, and the Tzarina and her husband's uncle departed with Varvara Ivanovna. Natalia wished desperately to be alone, and in the tumult of voices in the room she slipped onto the floor, mingling with the legs of her well-wishers. She leaned her head against the post of the cot, and allowed the conversations to float above her. Nobody seemed to notice her there, and she felt better.

Slowly the room began to empty, the din to recede. The door opened once more, and Natalia, her feet tucked unceremoniously beneath her tutu, saw the blond man whom she had encountered months before in the darkened corridor of the Mariinsky. “Count Boris,” she intoned with amazement. It was not a greeting but rather an exclamation of surprise. The people in the room turned to him with interest, some executing curtsies. She did not move, her entire body as heavy as stone.

He bowed, his mocking smile for her alone. “I see you know my name,” he said.

“I couldn't help but know it.” The implication, impolite in the extreme, made him wince. She cleared her throat. “I should not have said that.”

“No, indeed. But you did, so why retract it? My own reputation is much tarnished these days, I'm afraid. Yours, however, is on the rise. My friend Svetlov finds you quite marvelous, Natalia Dmitrievna.”

“Monsieur Svetlov has my profound gratitude.” She was still stunned and knew that her conversation, directed as it was from her position on the floor, contained an element of absurdity.

“Your Aspitchia was a most intelligent young woman,” Boris commented. “But I prefer your funny little Sugar Plum Fairy. In that ballet you were quite remarkable. Perhaps, when you finish with this nunnery, you will accept an invitation to have supper with me. I should like to toast you properly with the best champagne.”

“You are most generous, Count Boris. But I am not to graduate for a long time.” She could not help smiling at the idea of drinking wine with this elegant man suggestive of scandal. She said impulsively: “Your rosebuds have brought me good luck. Thank you.”

“And did you press them in your Bible?”

“I don't read the Bible,” she replied with some asperity. “But yes, I pressed them. I am not a sentimental fool—but I am a dancer, and they were a memento of my first serious performance. Even Satan's wife would have found something to save from such an occasion!”

In her confusion she had become angry, and he burst out laughing. “That is very good! Satan's wife. I shall have to remember that one and tell it to my friends. But here, I have brought you something this time, too, although as a nun you won't have much use for it, I'm afraid. But it was made by Fabergé—or rather, the oysters made it, and he put it together.”

He leaned toward her, extending his finely manicured hand in a mock courtly gesture. She shook her head, bewildered and a little frightened, opening wide her brown eyes to encompass the red velvet case he was holding. “Don't be silly,” he admonished. “Open the damned thing.”

She took it gingerly. The velvet felt softer than anything she had ever touched, like a rose petal. She moved the little gold button in the center, and the case opened. She was staring at a row of perfect pink pearls held by a ruby clasp. Her lips parted, and her breath stopped on a sudden intake. “I can't,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Because there is no reason for this. I have never seen anything like this necklace. It is exquisite, and I have done nothing to deserve it. I—” She reddened, swallowed, then plunged in, looking him in the eye: “I am not your mistress.”

This time he had to grasp the doorknob to keep from falling down with laughter. Natalia rose, holding out the box. He shook his head, no, but her eyes suddenly hardened with determination, and she did not slacken her arm. They had begun to draw the attentive glances of the others in the room. His blue eyes narrowed, became very cold. “Take it,” he ordered, and she shivered slightly. “Take it, little girl, and don't cause a scene. I can afford such a gift, and if you knew anything at all about me, beyond tawdry gossip, you would have learned that I love all the arts and all good artists. What is the difference between the roses bought with hours of toil by a poor man in the gallery and these pearls purchased by a Kussov? I assume you would accept the former.”

She remained speechless. He adjusted his cravat, and his expression changed back to one of mirth. “However—consider this, Natalia Dmitrievna: Many men will ask you to bestow your favors upon them. But before you decide to—shall we say—‘become a mistress' remember me. You owe me first priority.”

He walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. The red velvet case was still in her hand. Natalia could not think. The room began to spin, and she faltered toward the cot, falling upon it blindly. Tears filled her eyes, overflowed, and filled them again. A sob was wrenched from her chest, then a second, a third. Uncontrolled trembling passed over her body in great, tumultuous waves. A woman came to her and touched her hair. Natalia felt as though she were in the very eye of a tornado.

The pearls slipped from their case onto the floor, where the yellow light captured their myriad hues—blue, green, pink, gray. Natalia did not see them, for she was weeping. She wept as never before and did not know why. But her body seemed to warn her of a cataclysm before which she knew she possessed no power.

Later that night, Boris sat fingering his mustache. He would have given half of his fortune to have seen Pierre's portrait.

August in the Netherlands was not as suffocating as it would have been in Russia, Pierre Riazhin thought. It was such a small country, and so near France—but how different, how self-contained! A tiny paradise of clean, bright charm, with its planned canals, its varieties of tulips in bloom, and its neat redbrick houses with pots of colored flowers in every window. It might be the 1600s—except, of course, that I never lived then, Pierre reminded himself with sudden amusement. I remain solidly anchored in 1907.

He was strolling with Boris along the quiet streets of The Hague. Now his companion turned to him and, catching the smile, said, “I can see that this trip has done you some good, at least. You seem less bored than the diplomats, I must say.”

“The countryside is beautiful, Boris Vassilievitch—a place that could spawn the Great Masters and Vincent Van Gogh could hardly bore me. The peace is almost soporific—I could remain here forever. Though perhaps after some years I might grow restless.”

Boris stroked his mustache and idly contemplated the symmetrical perfection of a small town house. “You can dispense with the patronym, really now, Pierre. We are friends, aren't we? No need for formality. I shouldn't say this—God forbid that it should leak back to good old Nelidov!—but if it weren't for the refreshing atmosphere provided by your artistic appreciation of this little flatland, I, on the other hand, would wither away from lassitude. For the life of me, I cannot understand what possessed Nelidov to ask for me to join his delegation to the Peace Conference.”

Pierre looked at the blond count in his elegant gray suit with its stiff collar and stock, gaiters, and gold cufflinks. “You are the picture of a dapper diplomat,” he answered, smiling.

“It's all a front. Underneath, I couldn't care less.” Boris burst out laughing, his mirth so engaging that Pierre, although somewhat reluctantly, had to join him. The young man was still wary of his elder. Now Boris said pensively: “Nelidov and my father are friends. Nelidov, you know, doesn't believe in this second Hague Conference. Neither does the Tzar. Peace will not be accomplished by a lot of stuffy little men who purposely choose to skirt the very heart of the peace issue: a slowdown in armaments. Yet you mention the words and these men pale, cough with embarrassment, and change the topic very rapidly. Poor Nelidov did not wish to be president. I suspect that he did not know whom to bring along for pleasure and so chose me because I can amuse him between sessions.”

“Yes, and my role is the same, isn't it?” said Pierre. “You amuse Nelidov, and I amuse you. The men behind the scenes.”

Boris appraised the young painter shrewdly, thinking that he detected a note of bitterness in the repartee. “If I had to be pulled away from more interesting pursuits,” he replied, “and get stuck with two hundred fifty pedants inside a musty hall of the Dutch Parliament, surely your lot is not comparable. A pleasure trip to help broaden you in your field—now isn't that the traditional gift of a patron to a talented artist? Cheer up, or I shall regret my investment. Rembrandt wouldn't have complained.”

They walked along in silence for several minutes. Presently a man approached them, and Boris visibly paled. Pierre saw a middle-aged gentleman, tall and thin, with gray-blond hair parted in the center and pale blue eyes that squinted slightly. The man came up to Boris and bowed very stiffly. “You are Count Kussov, of the Russian delegation?” he asked. He spoke a guttural French, clipped and unmelodic.

Boris had regained his perfect composure. He smiled and inclined his head. “Baron von Baylen, am I correct?”

The other nodded. Switching to Russian, Boris said: “Baron, may I present Pierre Grigorievitch Riazhin? Pierre, Baron von Baylen is here with the German delegation, but he is the first secretary at the Petersburg embassy, where I met him several years ago. It's been a long time, hasn't it, Baron?”

“Indeed it has. You are taking a constitutional?”

Boris laughed. “Just enjoying the scenery. My young friend is a painter and has had a better time here than I. Than any of us.” They began to walk again, three abreast, and Boris commented: “A strange time for such a conference, don't you think? The Kaiser is not well disposed toward peace, is he now?”

“Unlike the Tzar
he
was not recently defeated, both abroad and at home. Not that the Tzar did not succeed in quelling the rebels in ‘05—but that was a close call, wasn't it? The Kaiser wants to be a friend to the Tzar—they are cousins by marriage, aren't they?”

Pierre thought: For gentlemen, smiling and bowing graciously, they are not mincing words. He wished he were back in his room, near his palette. Why had he agreed to come to the Netherlands with Boris?

Baron von Baylen said smoothly: “Ah, but there will be no war. Look at this world, at this European continent! Prosperity, everywhere prosperity! Right here, see that incongruous motorcar in this Renaissance town? Yet in several more years we shan't find a single coach to ride, I'll wager! Russia will always lag behind, I'm afraid, because of its icy winters. Motorcars won't properly invade it for a while . . .” He turned to Pierre: “And you young artists! Flourishing! The French Expressionists have captured my fancy, so bold and bright! You creative spirits will not permit war, will you?”