Inside the foyer Asmatov found Matriona, as usual, tickling with a feather duster the marble bust of Melpomene which stood on a plinth to the right of the great staircase which led up to the Grand Tier and his office. Asmatov and Matriona exchanged cordial greetings and he told her, as he often did, that she reminded him of Shakespeare because, like him, she served Melpomene, the Muse of Tragedy, so faithfully and well. It was a pleasantry which never failed to please.
Having mounted the stairs he turned to his right and opened a door, thereby leaving behind the gilded plaster and marble of the main building. The corridor he entered was panelled in wood and lit only by a window at one end. About halfway down this corridor was the entrance to his office, but Asmatov never called it ‘his’ office, always ‘The Manager’s Office’, as if he were only its temporary occupant. He had inherited from his itinerant Jewish forbears a sense of impermanence, of being a ‘passer-by’. This feeling, far from troubling him, was, he felt, his natural condition and defined his peculiar sense of self.
A figure was standing in the corridor just outside the office. Despite the dimness he recognised the figure of old Sivorin standing, cap in hand. Asmatov wondered if he was about to hand in his resignation. Sivorin had been paid—Asmatov had seen to that—but his duties had become both more onerous and increasingly menial as his underlings had been dismissed.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ said Sivorin.
‘Come in to the office, my dear fellow.’
‘No, I have only this to say, honoured sir. There is a gentleman called who wishes to see you. He came earlier when you were out and left his card.’
Sivorin handed him the card with a quick movement as if he had been anxious to be rid of it. Asmatov felt the pasteboard and noted that the words on it had been engraved not printed. He felt the slight roughness as the ink from the lettering stood proud of the card, black and shiny. He studied the words.
COUNT BELPHAGORE
And his Company of
Apocalyptic Comedians
Notable for Tragedy, Comedy,
Tragicomedy, Farce and Operatic Mime.
What on earth was ‘operatic mime’? thought Asmatov. The man was clearly a charlatan. ‘Did he say what he wanted?’ he enquired.
‘No, master, only that he would call again once you were here.’
‘I see.’
Sivorin shuffled off towards his own territory back stage. He had almost welcomed the diminution of the theatre’s staff, being one of those people who are quite content to work harder provided that they can work alone.
Asmatov entered the office, sat down heavily in his chair, and contemplated the prospect of entertaining a possible lunatic for the rest of the morning. Then he reflected ruefully that at least it was preferable to staring at the ceiling or the ever mounting pile of unpaid bills on his desk.
Five minutes later there was a sharp knock at Asmatov’s door. Asmatov gave the abrupt order to enter and rose to greet his visitor.
Anyone familiar with the theatrical world at the beginning of the twentieth century would have instantly guessed the profession of the man who stood in the doorway. He seemed to be the very archetype of the impresario, as depicted in the illustrated magazines. There was the Homburg hat, the coat with the astrakhan collar draped with apparent nonchalance over the shoulders, the pair of lemon-coloured kid gloves flapping in his right hand, the silver-topped ebony cane, the diamond stick pin. The man was dressed with the kind of opulence that is deliberately calculated to demonstrate wealth and success, and can therefore be deceptive. Asmatov felt a glow of familiarity: he knew how to handle such men; it was his business.
‘Count Belphagore?’ he enquired. The man nodded.
Yet, even as Asmatov helped to relieve the Count of his astrakhan coat, he began to feel some slight prick of doubt. It was as yet nothing that he could define to himself, but his unease was no less real for that. The nearest he came to an articulate objection—though it was hardly rational—was in the matter of hair.
Count Belphagore had red hair, and a great deal of it. He had a full head of it though its redness was relieved by a curious white streak just above the left temple. Was this a conscious homage to the famous ‘white flash’ of the great Diaghilev, Asmatov wondered? The Count sported substantial side whiskers too, of the kind that had been the fashion twenty or thirty years before, but were now rarely seen, other than on the cheeks of elderly military men. Red hair almost like fur sprang from the man’s immaculate white cuffs and stretched its fine orange tendrils across the back of his hands. Count Belphagore’s complexion was pink and white, his green eyes under bushy eyebrows brightly protuberant; he might have been in his mid-thirties, or a little older. He had the look of a fresh-faced satyr. For all his smartness, there was something disconcertingly antique about the Count’s appearance.
After the initial courtesies had been exchanged the Count explained that his company was in the vicinity, having been stranded by the vagaries of war and was anxious to secure a temporary engagement at a theatre. He said that Mr Asmatov’s Opera House had been highly recommended to him.
Asmatov, who was used to this kind of self-serving flattery, merely nodded and enquired of the Count what kind of entertainment he had to offer the citizens of Petropol. Asmatov added that while the Petropolitans valued high culture; they were particularly fond of the latest fashion for English musical comedy. A production of The Geisha had recently enjoyed considerable success there. The Count nodded.
‘My little company,’ he said, ‘is, I dare venture to say, one of the most variedly talented in Europe. I am surprised that a man of wide culture and theatrical expertise such as yourself, Signor Asmatov, has not heard of us.’ Asmatov made a little deprecating gesture and urged the Count to continue.
‘We can offer you the most diffuse variety of material. Comical, musical, dramatic, balletic, pastoral, “scene individable or poem unlimited”, as the English bard Shakespeare has it. We accommodate all tastes from the trivial to the profound. One thing I must specify at the outset, however. All the material that we use is our own. It is devised entirely by and within my company. Our production in your theatre will be an altogether new drama entitled The Philosophy of the Damned. Then, if that enjoys success, we may return with other, even rarer divertissements.’
Asmatov remarked mildly that The Philosophy of the Damned did not appear to him to be a very appealing title for a play. The Count seemed quite indifferent to Asmatov’s objections. He merely smiled blandly.
‘We have the bill material prepared. We cannot change the title now. I can assure you of a first rate production in all particulars, full of course of the most astonishing effects. It is, I can assure you, a truly outstanding piece of theatre which has been admired by many of the crowned heads of Europe.’
‘There are a good deal fewer of those these days,’ remarked Asmatov drily.
‘And some of them might have retained both their crowns and their heads, had they paid heed to the voices of my actors, I assure you!’ said the Count. All Asmatov’s suspicions were now confirmed: the man was a charlatan, and not a very convincing one at that. But then, the theatre was a profession for charlatans, and, besides, what choice did he have?
‘I shall offer your theatre initially three performances on three successive nights. Shall we open on Thursday next? Would that be satisfactory?’
The Count rose and offered his hand, but Asmatov had not been shaken from his customary caution.
‘One moment, my dear Count! We have yet to discuss terms. You must understand that in these difficult times I am unable to offer you a guarantee. My best offer is a division of the box office takings: twenty percent for your company and eighty for the house, as we say.’
At this the Count seemed somewhat taken aback, as if he were unused to such mercenary transactions. Whether this was a pose or not was hard to tell. There then followed a long discussion at the end of which a seventy five, twenty five split in the theatre’s favo
ur had been agreed upon. Asmatov had been prepared to take only seventy, but he had maintained his firm yet courteous demeanour throughout and, he flattered himself, had outfaced his opponent. All the same, he reflected ruefully, he was still purchasing un chat en poche, as the French say, or ‘a pig in a poke’, as the English have it. Moreover Asmatov did not even know whether the animal in question would be a cat, a pig, or some other still more exotic creature.
‘I promise you signs and wonders, Signor Asmatov,’ said the Count as they finally shook hands on the deal. ‘Signs and wonders!’
On the Monday of the following week Asmatov woke to find the little town of Petropol in something of an uproar. Deep in the previous night Petropol had been invaded and every conceivable empty space or wall, or hoarding—even the pillars of the town hall, even the trunks of the exotic palms that were such a picturesque feature of the town’s elegant sea front—had been smothered in posters advertising: COUNT BELPHAGORE, and his Celebrated Company of Apocalyptic Comedians and their astonishing new entertainment The Philosophy of the Damned. As he walked across the square to the theatre after breakfast Asmatov was assailed by several outraged citizens, but he noticed that they stopped short of asking him to do anything in particular to assuage their indignation. He suspected that secretly these people were quite relieved by the onslaught. The ominous quiet in which Petropol had been enveloped for some months was over. The doldrums were passed and wind was beginning to flutter in her sails.
When Asmatov entered the theatre he found it full of restless movement. Matriona stood by the bust of Melpomene. Her duster was in her hand, but she was doing nothing with it. She was watching a pair of dwarves who were engaged in a mock battle with wooden swords up and down the grand staircase. Asmatov enquired politely who they were and what they were doing. They stopped, bowed low to him and informed him that they were in Count Belphagore’s company, then they resumed their battle.
Asmatov negotiated his way past them and up the stairs. When he entered his office he found it already occupied. The room was heavy with cigar smoke and the Count was at his desk and using his telephone.
Asmatov was too astonished to be indignant. He waited some time before the Count noticed him. When he did, he merely said: ‘Do not be afraid. I am here to help you,’ and then continued with his telephone conversation. Asmatov left the office and went to the pass door which led directly back stage. He drew out the key on his key ring to unlock it, but then tried the handle. It was unlocked.
Back stage he found Sivorin beside the prompt corner scratching his head while all around him men and women from Count Belphagore’s troupe thronged, some putting up or hanging scenery, others rehearsing scenes or snatches of song, others trying on costumes or tuning musical instruments. Asmatov looked on as puzzled as Sivorin. He had seen many companies come and go in his theatre, but none so ceaselessly energetic as this, and with so little apparent purpose. He saw a drop cloth depicting a heavy cloud-strewn sky with a castle on a hill in the distance being pulled up and down, up and down several times for no ostensible reason.
A couple of young boys—or possibly young girls—in tights and spangled jackets began a tumbling act. Asmatov watched them as if hypnotised until he felt a tap on his shoulder. It was Matriona.
‘Someone to see you. He waits outside the theatre.’
‘Then tell him to come in.’
‘He cannot. It is the Starets Afanasy.’
Asmatov understood. It would have not have been suitable for a Starets to set foot inside a theatre. Starets Afanasy had been for many years the Abbot of the nearby monastery of St Basil, a man renowned as a spiritual teacher and for the harshness of his ascetic practices. Recently he had resigned his position as Abbot to become a hermit and was living in a cave a mile distant from the monastery, seeing only the novice who brought him his meagre rations of bread and water. His appearance in Petropol was therefore an extraordinary event.
Asmatov left the theatre by the stage door and came round to the front where he found the Starets standing erect under a pillar of the great portico. He was attired simply in the black robes of a priest with only a crucifix for ornament. His hair and beard were grey and straggling. There was something wild about him in the eyes and—what was that scent he gave off? Asmatov noted that all men and women, whether they be drunken derelicts or holy ascetics like the Starets, who spend most of their time alone, exude this same odour, the odour not of sanctity but of isolation. When Afanasy looked at Asmatov it was with the intensely curious but alien stare of a wild animal encountered on a mountain path.
Asmatov did not quite know what to say. He thought that extreme formality was the best course:
‘To what do I owe this honour?’
The Starets was not looking at Asmatov, but he was perfectly aware of his presence. ‘I have watched over this town long enough to know when disaster is coming to it.’
‘You mean the theatre company? You wish to forbid their performance?’
The Starets smiled. ‘I can forbid nothing. I am too old.’
‘Then why have you come to me?’
‘To awaken you if you wish to be woken.’
‘Woken? To what? What is your counsel to me?’
‘The same as I give to others: to keep your mind in Hell and despair not.’
With a little inclination of the head the Starets began to walk away from Asmatov across the square. Asmatov, knowing that the man had no more to say to him, remained for a while trying to make sense of the incident. When he had failed abjectly to do so he went back inside his theatre where in the foyer he met the Count furiously puffing on a cigar.
‘Where have you been, Signor Asmatov? Who have you been talking to?’
‘Why do you wish to know?’
‘I believe I am entitled to ask this of my theatre manager.’
‘Yours, Count?’
‘Mine.’
‘That is not how I see it.’
‘You very soon will.’
‘Perhaps so, Count, but until such time I would be obliged if you did not use my office and my telephone without permission.’
The Count appeared to ignore Asmatov’s last remark. He dropped his half smoked cigar on the marble floor of the foyer, but no move was made to crush its glowing end with his foot; he merely left it there to smoulder. Asmatov found himself staring at the Count’s face which was tilted upwards and wore an abstracted expression. He saw the Count’s nostrils dilate as if he were scenting the breeze.
Asmatov suddenly remembered how as a child he was taken by his parents for a picnic in the woods above Petropol one summer. In the somnolent aftermath of the feast he had wandered away to explore the forest for himself. He was eight at the time, just old enough to understand the meaning of danger and the consequences of solitary pleasure. Suddenly he broke into a clearing where stood a stag in a shaft of sunlight. For a moment the two stared at one another. Asmatov remembered the inscrutable look with which the stag had gazed at him, its casual, contemptuous curiosity, before it had raised its head to scent the air, as the Count had done, stamped its foot on the forest floor and ambled away into the shade of the trees. How was it that the Count was so like and so unlike the Starets he had just spoken to?
‘I have a right to know your intentions,’ said Asmatov.
‘My intention is to astonish.’
‘With what precisely? I demand to know.’
‘It is best you should not,’ said the Count suavely, ‘I do not deny your right, but you have to remember that the greatest weapon in our armoury is surprise. Let us do our best.’
From that moment Asmatov abrogated his responsibility towards the theatre, and it would seem that his services were barely needed. The company itself had seen to the publicity; they were even happy to relieve Matriona in the ticket office.
Several times during the three days that followed Asmatov was approached by some concerned citizen of Petropol and asked about Count Belphagore’s company. Was the theatrical fa
re that they were offering suitable for the delicate sensibilities of the young, the elderly, the ill-educated and unsophisticated? Asmatov noticed with some amusement that each of these persons was concerned not for his or her own morals or feelings but for those of some element in the community to which the enquirer did not belong. He concluded that the chief motivation behind their expressions of concern was curiosity. This he could understand because he was himself curious and, despite his best efforts, his curiosity remained unsatisfied until the performances began. Whenever he made an attempt to slip into the auditorium to witness rehearsals he found his efforts thwarted. Someone was always on hand to draw him away with a vital request for his services in another part of the building.
One curious incident occurred on the day before the first night. When he came into the theatre that morning Asmatov was informed by an agitated dwarf, one of the Count’s company, that a pig had escaped from the theatre.
‘A pig? What pig?’ said Asmatov indignantly. Had he known that the Count had brought pigs into the theatre he might have thought fit to object strenuously.
‘A small black pig which answers to the name of Ilyich,’ said the dwarf. ‘He must be found and returned at once.’
‘Why is that, pray?’ said Asmatov with a touch of irony in his voice.
‘He is a Learned Pig,’ said the dwarf, ‘a remarkable animal. He can identify and point out letters with his trotter, even the signs of the Zodiac!’
‘And what am I supposed to do about it, sir?’
Mrs Midnight and Other Stories Page 20
