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  Count Boris Kussov’s landau came again for her. She had spent more time preparing herself for this occasion than for any previous one, a knot of fear having gathered at her throat. Natalia had always tried to hide her flaws and weaknesses from those who might hurt her—but this time she had gone a step beyond, and granted more importance to her appearance as well. She had purchased peach-colored silk, and the old nurse had made her a gown of her own design, admirable in its bold simplicity. The slim skirt sheathed her hips and legs and widened at the ankle, and the neckline went straight across her collarbone, showing the rounded tops of her shoulders. A ruffle fell over her breasts and shoulders, so that her bust appeared larger than it really was. She had parted her hair in the center and puffed out the sides, bringing it up into a topknot decorated with a single coral rose. She wore the pearls in her ears and at her throat.

  The elegant apartment was filled to capacity with men and women about whom Natalia would not have dared to dream during her Crimean childhood. She could not help but feel awestruck. She wished Pierre Riazhin would come to speak with her, but he was in a corner with a woman bedecked in diamonds and emeralds. Boris came. He lifted her small hand to his arm and kissed her lightly on the cheek. “I have a surprise,’ he told her. “In fact, I will show it to you at once. The others can wait to see it later.”

  Silently Natalia permitted her host to lead her to his study. The memory of Pierre flashed vividly before her, and for a rash moment she wondered whether Boris might not want to make love to her, too. But when he opened the door, she stood hypnotized on the threshold. Four large trunks lay open, with brocades, muslins, satins, and rich velvets spread around the room. “Come in,” he commanded. “Touch my little treasures!”

  She did so, gingerly. The materials had been fashioned into ancient robes, and shoes—men’s exotic apparel such as she had never seen anyone wear, even in Petersburg. There was also burnished jewelry with encrusted semiprecious stones. Boris held a tunic of gold threads intertwined with bright purple strands across her neckline. “True loveliness,” he commented. There was irony in his blue eyes, but also, she thought suddenly, a tinge of real appreciation.

  “What is all this, Boris Vassilievitch?” Natalia asked. “Where does it come from?”

  “India, Egypt. If you wondered what kept me from your last performances, it was a voyage that I undertook for the Imperial Ballet. I have taken a great liking to Fokine—and it is difficult for him to be duly recognized by our conservative balletomanes. Also Pierre is designing—has designed, now—the set for Nuits d’Egypte. This is his first effort at set design. Teliakovsky has taken an interest in developing our Russian painters in this direction, but, being a Muscovite, had been employing men from his city, Korovin and Golovin. Now it’s Pierre’s turn, thank God. But, to return to my part in this: I thought that this opulent Egyptian production needed something extra—so I took Pierre up the Nile to find genuine costumes.”

  Natalia blinked. She looked at Count Boris’s fine features, at his exquisite nose and eyes, and thought: To love artists so much! “I am sorry,” she said. “My own impoverished childhood is still too close for me to fully comprehend the extravagance of such a gift to the Ballet. The trip alone! It makes me think of The Thousand and One Nights. Did Pierre enjoy the new worlds to which you introduced him?”

  “Pierre needed to see the Orient. An artist must understand and participate in other cultures, other vistas. Yes, he was wide-eyed, much as you are now simply hearing about it, Natalia Dmitrievna.” Boris had caught the quick rush of color into her cheeks at the mention of his protégé, and now he examined her through half-closed eyes.

  But Natalia had abruptly thought: So that is why I received no word between that night in November and my birthday. She met Boris’s look and said: “You must have great affection for Pierre, to do so much for him.”

  Boris stiffened. “Indeed,” he replied. “Pierre is a genius of sorts, but he is young and provincial. If I can help—then of course I am glad to do so.” He looked toward the door. “Shall we go now, Natalia Dmitrievna?”

  Panic rose in her. “Please,” she said in a small voice, “would you allow me to remain here for a little while longer? I am to dance Tahor—and if I could just look around ...”

  Formally Boris nodded, “Very well. Suit yourself. When you are ready, look for me. I have seated you on my right and should like to take you in to dinner.”

  When he had left, she sat down, stunned. On his right? But the Grand-Duke Vladimir was here—and Kchessinskaya—and Lady Buchanan, the wife of the British ambassador! She found Boris a most bewildering man, and her own part in this gathering even less understandable. She thought of Pierre and remembered that he had not greeted her at all. Had she offended him? Yet she had sent him a most gracious letter of thanks for his marvelous woodland scene—a sincere letter of admiration. She had thought—what had she actually thought? That he would call upon her in her home to see the painting in its new haven. But what did his indifference matter? Why was she hot and flushed in this room filled with exotic fineries, some of which she herself would wear at the Mariinsky?

  “Borya is a rogue, keeping this from us!” trilled a voice from the corridor. Natalia quickly rose and touched her topknot. It was Matilda Felixovna Kchessinskaya and the critic Skalkovsky. The prima ballerina assoluta tripped into the room, her dark hair a mass of attractive curls, her small, well-shaped body resplendent with magnificent jewels. “Ah—Natashenka,” she said. There was a curious tone of displeasure in the greeting. “What are you doing here all alone?”

  “Boris Vassilievitch brought me here moments ago,” the girl replied.

  “Oh? What attentiveness, don’t you think? You have quite charmed the gentleman. But oh! What beauties lie here! So like a miracle. Don’t you agree?” she asked, turning to the critic.

  “Frankly, Matilda Felixovna, I find all this excessive. The Fokine ballet is only for a single charity night, and he is not an official choreographer. I do not like his work—it reminds me of Duncan. What we need today is more of your virtuosity, ma chère. The newfangled ballets fail to employ the full resources of our dancers’ training.”

  “And Michel Fokine is a slave driver,” added Matilda Felixovna. “An ambitious young hothead with no due respect for those of us who have paid our dues. I did not like Teliakovsky’s putting on Nuits d’Egypte for this benefit. I think I shall have a talk with the Grand-Duke Vladimir. It is time he wielded his influence to have us put on La Fille Mai Gardée instead, which allows me to perform my special variations. The public comes primarily for me—does it not?”

  “Naturally, Matilda Felixovna. You are the Ballet. I myself follow you to Moscow every time you dance there,” Skalkovsky said, touching his mustache with a careless finger.

  Natalia stood listening, the muscles in her body tense and taut. “But, Matilda Felixovna, Nuits d’Egypte has been rehearsed, the sets are ready, and publicity has been made. Surely you would not have it changed at this late date?” she asked.

  Kchessinskaya breathed deeply. “Coryphées should not have an opinion,” she intoned.

  “We have all made valiant efforts for the new ballet,” Natalia continued. “Fokine deserves a chance, even if he does lose his temper and treat us all badly, like naughty schoolchildren. Please! Boris Vassilievitch and Pierre Riazhin took a special trip to India and Egypt. Would you have had them travel in vain?” Natalia’s pulse raced. She would not think of the consequences of speaking up like this. These things must be said!

  Matilda Kchessinskaya looked away from Natalia around the room. Her fine eyes landed on Pierre’s picture of the girl as the Sugar Plum Fairy. “I see,” she said. “Your boldness is a display of your protected status. I did not realize that Boris had included you under the mantle of his patronage. Or is it more, my partridge?”

  “It is nothing like that,” Natalia replied, her brown eyes clear and wide with defiance. Words came tumbling out of her: “I do not require a we
ll-placed man’s protection before professing an opinion.” It was too late to swallow back the implication.

  Matilda Felixovna took two steps toward Natalia. Without speaking, she raised her right hand and slapped the young girl on the cheek, where the red imprint of her fingers remained etched in pain. Then, proudly, Kchessinskaya took Skalkovsky’s arm, and, without looking back, they strode from the study.

  Natalia stayed prostrated on the chair, her face in her hands. She felt the hot tears spill from between her fingers onto her gown, her lovely apricot gown. The room with its brocades and jewels lay about her small misery, oddly clashing with it. She heard footsteps but did not heed them. Then two strong hands were laid upon her shoulders, and she looked into the dark face of Pierre Riazhin, kneeling in front of her. She attempted to draw away, but in urgent gasps, he said: “It isn’t worth it! Stop crying, my darling. She does not matter, only you matter—you and I!”

  “Wh-what do you mean?” Natalia asked, startled. Her panic was returning.

  “Who cares about Kchessinskaya? She is an old bag, passed from one grand-duke to another! I heard about what happened between you—she was telling everyone—but it doesn’t matter! I shall have a great future soon now. You must—you must marry me, Natalia Dmitrievna. Say that you will!”

  Natalia stared at him, totally devoid of feeling. Then a tickle began in the pit of her stomach and traveled inch by inch up her throat. It exploded, like a magic bubble—and she sat shaking with laughter, hysterical wails of laughter that could not be controlled. Pierre’s hands abruptly dropped from her shoulders. “I never expected this!” he said, rising.

  The bubbles of laughter died down at once. She looked away, embarrassed, ashamed, feeling ugly and naked. “Forgive me, Pierre Grigorievitch,” she whispered. “It was the tension . . .”

  He wet his wide, full lips. “Then, will you marry me?” he asked again. “I want this very much, Natalia Dmitrievna. I want you. But I shall not humiliate myself by having you mock me again.”

  They looked at each other, and her lips parted. She clasped her hands together, then shook her head, a tendril falling out of her topknot. “No,” she said. “I would not mock you. But I cannot become your wife—or any man’s. You see, I—marriage—it wouldn’t be the right way for me to live.”

  “I am not good enough? There is someone else?” The black eyes would not leave her face.

  She bit her trembling lower lip. “Please!” she cried. “Can’t a woman simply prefer to live alone?”

  His face had grown pale, and there were circles under his eyes. He looked suddenly much older, hurt, defeated, and rebellious as a result. She wanted to move to him but could not. “I do not believe you,” he said simply, and walked out of the room.

  Music reached her ears from the salon, strains of a waltz. She leaned against Boris’s boulle secretary and steadied herself. She did care. Something inside her had leaped with yearning when she had heard his voice, felt his hands upon her. It had been wonderful but terrifying, and now she had averted the danger. She felt sick, tired, and empty and sad. Was it Pierre, with his absurd proposal, or was it the scene with Kchessinskaya that had sapped the life from her?

  “You are going to take my arm like a good girl,” Count Boris was saying. “There now, that’s better. And remember this, Natalia Dmitrievna: I too possess influence at court. You are not going to shame me by not appearing beside me.”

  General Teliakovsky said: “I am sorry, Natalia Dmitrievna. The pressures upon you have undoubtedly been too strong to bear. You are very young. Varvara Ivanovna kept you very quiet at the school, and now—without a family—”

  “But I do not need a family!” she exclaimed. “Why? I have not been late to any rehearsals. I have been in wonderful health.”

  “That is what you fail to grasp. Your health is not so good. You are rapidly becoming hysterical here in my office, and the report was worded very strongly: You lost your temper and nearly went out of your mind, Matilda Felixovna said. She was most concerned. She should be able to recognize the first signs of strain. You are working too hard, and it has been my fault. Lopokhova can take over your role in The Little Humpbacked Horse—and Pavlova shall dance Tahor. You will go home and rest for the remainder of the month. Come to class, that is all.”

  Natalia took a step toward the great mahogany desk. “But none of this is true!” she cried. “I beg of you, General—let me explain!”

  “If you continue this, I shall have you forcibly removed,” the director interrupted her. He stood up, tall and imposing. “I mean it: One more word, and I shall fine you. Go home, Natalia Dmitrievna.”

  “You aren’t being fair with me,” she said evenly, not moving. “You are not allowing me to defend my own position. I am a good dancer and do not deserve this suspension. I have never disobeyed you. I have never been temperamental. Yet you have singled me out because of something that does not have anything whatsoever to do with the Ballet.”

  Teliakovsky sighed. “Oblonova, five rubles shall be withdrawn by the management from your next six months’ salary. I warned you, and you did not listen. Now are you satisfied?”

  Natalia did not tremble anymore. She nodded humbly and turned around. The door stood before her; she turned the knob and passed silently into the corridor. This was not real. No one could be so vindictive. Kchessinskaya was proud but not mean; petty, but not cruel. And kind, paternal General Teliakovsky? No, no, this was a farce, a Russian fairy story without fairies, a Hoffmann fantasy ending in ... God only knew how this would end! She went into the dressing room, which was empty, and began to gather her possessions. Almost a full month! It was incredible, farcical.

  Someone had entered behind her, and she turned to see Anna Pavlova, her frail shoulders sloping delicately like angel’s wings. Natalia stiffened. “So,” the other woman said, “you did not think that your luck would hold out forever, did you? You are a nobody from the Crimea. Everybody knows all about you. I remember the day that you took the exam, when your mother brought you. The maid of Baroness Gudrinskaya. Hidden away on some Crimean farm! Tell me, love, who is your father?”

  Natalia stared at her with utter shock. She could not make a sound.

  “In any case,” Pavlova continued, “a girl must play her fair share of the old classics before being permitted to dance the modern ones. Michel Fokine did not really want you. Your bones show. How voluptuous is a bony Egyptian? You are audacious and impudent. Nobody likes you here. You are only tolerated because of Boris Vassilievitch. People are afraid to offend him, and for some bizarre reason he seems to like you.”

  Natalia folded a pair of leg warmers carefully, and placed them inside her bag. Since she refused to look up or reply, Pavlova shrugged and went to her own dressing table. Natalia walked out of the large room, holding her head rigid and doll-like. Pavlova ignored her exit and sat down, humming to herself.

  Outside the Mariinsky, Natalia stood uncertainly. Answers, retorts burned in her head. But of what use would they have been? She started to laugh, a small, trembling laugh filled with tears: the daughter of Masha, that sullen maid! It would all have been amusing, if it had not been coupled with the fine and the suspension. No one worked longer hours than she—nobody! Nobody sublimated all her desires in work, in strain. She had always known that the world was not a fair place, but to have come so far and lose it all—her only chance to make something of her life!

  For the first time since she was ten years old, Natalia Oblonova did not know what to do. There was no comfort anywhere. She began to walk, telling herself that it did not matter if she overstretched her leg muscles, since she could not dance anyway. It was a warm day in March, and the streets were thawing. Clouds of tiny mosquitoes rose from the ugly, oozing snow, but the Anitchkov Palace shone orange, the spire of the Admiralty white and gold. Natalia walked and walked, as she had not walked since living in the Crimea.

  Toward dusk she found herself in a side street, in front of a low, run-down building. Had
she intended to come here? She was exhausted, dazed. She knew this area, this apartment house. It was where Pierre lived, Pierre Riazhin. She was here, then, for a reason.

  She could not think things through; her mind refused to function. Hurt, angry, disbelieving, her thoughts remained blocked, obtuse. She knew that she was dirty—grimy from the streets, perspiration clinging to her neck—but still, she pushed open the large front door and walked laboriously up the ramshackle staircase. She knocked on the wooden panel beneath his name, but there was no answer. She sank to the floor, weeping soundlessly, settling helplessly on the floorboards.

  She did not notice the passage of time. At some point she realized she was hungry, but then the pains abated, and only weariness remained. The hallway light went out, fizzing and spurting before expiring in its ceiling socket. Horses’ hooves resounded on the pavement. Natalia propped her knees up and tucked her skirt beneath her feet because it was cold. She laid her arms upon her knees, and her head in her arms. Intermittently, she dozed.

  Then the front door was banging open. A carriage horse was being whipped into action outside and there were footsteps on the stairs. She raised her head and was taken aback. Pierre, in full evening regalia, his black silk top hat in one hand and an elegant silver-headed cane in the other, was bounding up the stairs, his ebony cape unfurling picturesquely behind him. He resembled a prince of darkness, Pluto returning from the cavernous depths in which he had imprisoned Proserpine. He did not belong in this building at all, but rather in a palace upholstered in black and crimson velvet, filled with large, baroque mirrors. She forgot her misery and cried: “How wonderful you look, riding the winds!”

  He halted, staring at her in amazement. Then his face became younger, gayer, lighter. He extended his hand to her, and pulled her up. “You came,” he said. “I hadn’t hoped—”

  She merely shook her head, turning up the palms of her frail hands. The misery and hopelessness of her situation came clear as her physical fatigue overwhelmed her. He unlocked the door, held it open for her, and she passed into the flat in front of him. He turned on a light. “If I had only known—” he stammered. “I wouldn’t have gone out. The opera. Sadko.”