My mother’s death changed everything for me, but in some ways it changed nothing. She had long before decided how I would be raised: she would show me how to hold myself and move and would tutor me in French; Mme Strachkov would teach me to play the piano; and Papa would spoil me, as she expected him to. After she was gone, Madame and Papa carried out her wishes faithfully. Within several weeks, Madame was helping me with my French as well as teaching me piano.
Madame was a sturdy, squarish woman with a no-nonsense manner and a wooden leg. “Papa,” I’d ask, “what happened to Mme Strachkov’s leg?” He never told me, and I never found out.
Madame could be harsh, even while giving a compliment. When she first met me, she’d said, “I saw your mother perform before your father stole her from the world of dance.” I’d thrown a fit. My father was not a robber. He was a respected man—I knew this by the way men tipped their hats when we met them on the streets. Only years later, when I was old enough to start my own career as a dancer, would I understand what Madame had meant.
Every day I conversed with Madame in French and practiced conjugating my verbs. Subjunctive was the hardest. Either way, my French lessons always segued to the piano. By the time I was nine, I had played Chopin for so many hours I thought he lived with us. Placing her hand on the small of my back, she’d beat out the time—a one and two and three and four and one and two—until I developed an internal clock. I don’t remember which I disliked more, playing the piano with her pounding on my back or learning to speak formal French correctly.
I wasn’t always kind to Madame. Curious to see if she would react, occasionally I’d kick her wooden leg. She’d pretend not to notice and continue our lesson as always. “Slowly, Donatalia,” she would say. “You must feel Chopin run through your veins, and then, maybe, you’ll be able to dance half as well as your mother did.” But sometimes a shadow would cross her face.
Recently a memory came back to me. My mother and Madame were sitting at our kitchen table together. My mother was talking quietly to Madame, who was sobbing, her head buried in her hands. Madame, who hadn’t seen me, cried, “It was only for some sausage and gingerbread, and a little enamel cup!”
I asked my mother later why Madame had been so upset. There’d been a grand banquet at Khodynka Field outside Moscow, she explained, to celebrate the coronation of Nicholas II. The people were promised gifts of food and commemorative cups. When rumors spread that the food might run out, and that each cup held a gold coin, there was a stampede. A cousin of Madame’s was one of those who were trampled and died.
It was hard for me to imagine Madame having a cousin, or a mother or father for that matter. To me, she was just my Madame, always the same. For a few weeks I felt sad for her and did my best not to try her patience. But soon thereafter, I lost my mother, and all thoughts of other losses were swept away.
My father spent weeks sitting in his study, unable to face the world. But, finally, he began to think about his business again. The Bradleys were still in St. Petersburg exploring the culture of a city that must have seemed very exotic to them. Finally, in July, my father and Archie Sutton arranged to meet them at our house again, though this time the only flowers were a few I picked in my mother’s garden. The tulips were long gone by then, but my eyes filled with tears as I remembered them. Madame wiped my face, made sure the samovar was filled, and sent Alexi out to buy French pastries for our guests.
George Bradley was a tall man with sandy hair, bright blue eyes, and a long, distinguished nose. His wife, Mary, had soft dark curls and a sweet smile and was very kind. “You poor thing,” she said in her soft Southern voice, scooping me up in her arms.
The meeting went well, and an arrangement was soon reached: George Bradley would ship his cotton only to the Petrovsky & Sutton Spinnery. But as my mother had predicted, he was not very fond of the vodka my father proffered. Nonetheless, both men were happy that an alliance had been made between their two companies and the two men developed a genuine fondness for each other.
“A little strong for me,” I could hear Mr. Bradley in the other room. “Give me a nice Sazerac any day, the way they make them in New Orleans.”
“Now that’s a lively place.” Soon my father was being regaled with stories of that city—“my favorite, only after Savannah,” George Bradley said. “Many’s the friendly game of poker I’ve had there.”
At that, Archie perked. “All the rage in England, these days, poker is. Why don’t we have a hand? I’m sure Pelle will pick it up quick enough.” Pelle was my father’s first name in honor of his grandfather, Peter.
So while I took Mary Bradley out to the garden and showed her my mother’s favorite flowers, my bear of a father got his game of cards in after all.
The Bradleys stayed in St. Petersburg into September and visited us quite often. I grew very fond of Mary Bradley, who always brought me a little gift. But more than that, she worked with me in my mother’s garden and listened to me talk about her nonstop. And having a direct supplier of quality cotton, as my father had predicted, was a great boon to the factory, which prospered.
Actually, industry was booming all across Russia at the time, my father said, though these glory days were not without their shadows. The memory of the textile workers’ strikes still troubled my father, and now workers were demanding shorter hours and higher wages. Of course, I was too young to understand this, but I overheard and listened to my father talking about the factory’s troubles with Archie and George over cards.
At times, their conversation got a bit heated. “Well, it’s easy to see that it can’t go on the way it is,” I heard Archie say at one point, after he’d had a little more vodka than he was accustomed to. “The spinners here work much longer hours than anywhere else in Europe and for wages that hardly keep them fed. What do you expect?”
My father bristled and spoke somewhat shortly to Archie. I wasn’t used to hearing that tone of voice coming from my father, but I could tell that what they were discussing was on his mind and troubled him. It appeared that Archie was right; however, my father was not in a position to admit it and he was irritated. I could tell because he took out his pipe. This was the method he used to calm himself down. It was his coping mechanism.
¯¯¯
For my birthday that year, my father bought me a pony. His name was Sasha, and he had belonged to our gardener, Alexi, who used to bring him to the house and keep him with our horses while he did his work. Sasha pulled a little cart carrying shovels and mulch and other garden materials for Alexi. When I overheard Alexi talking to my father about selling him—he wanted to get married and needed the money—I was heartbroken. Madame must have told my father about it, because in the middle of November he called me to his office.
He smiled at me. “I can buy you any pony you want for your birthday, my dear.” He’d spoiled me even more ever since my mother’s death, and he could afford it in those days. “Lillya Vronsky was talking about a pretty little gray mare one of Vladimir’s friends has grown out of, much better bred than that shaggy little beast of Alexi’s. Wouldn’t you like to see her?”
But Sasha was the pony I had fallen in love with, I told him. I didn’t care what kind of pony he was or what family he came from. I knew what I needed to know.
Sasha’s eyes were so big and dark that I could see my reflection in them. The first time we met, I knew I could trust him. While Alexi turned the soil and planted our garden, Rosie and I would braid Sasha’s black shaggy mane and tie ribbons into it. I don’t think he liked it very much, but he tolerated it all the same.
Most Sunday afternoons, Archie and my father liked to kick a ball around in our garden.
Rosie, feeling a little left out, suggested we teach Sasha to play soccer, a big English sport that had made its way to Russia.
My father, of course, gave in and spent hours patiently schooling my pony. By the next weekend, Sasha knew how to bend
his head down and butt the ball with his nose. He was a clever boy, that Sasha. I’m sure he was the first and maybe only pony in Russia to learn this new game.
¯¯¯
St. Petersburg
It was my tenth birthday—today was the day, if I showed promise and talent, that I would begin to fulfill my destiny. Finally, I was old enough to apply to St. Petersburg’s famous Imperial Theatrical School. My father and I walked briskly through the busy streets, trying to stay warm, though that seemed impossible. The chill from the cold burned my face, and my nose was dripping little ice sculptures. We’d have been a little warmer in the buggy, but the streets were so congested and the buggy moved so slowly that I’d been afraid we’d be late. My father, worn down by my fretting, asked Alexi to stop and let us go on foot the rest of the way.
Even the sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians. Horses snorted and shied as a little horseless carriage rolled by slowly and fitfully, trailing popping sounds and a cloud of smoke. “A Benz Velo,” my father told me. “Our old friend Vitaly was one of the first in St. Petersburg to have one.”
An angry band of protestors was marching down the street, bringing the already slow traffic to a halt, carrying banners and shouting slogans about workers’ rights. My father reached for my hand; I could tell they worried him, but I had decided the night before that I was too old for that. So instead I distracted him with nervous conversation about the sun and clouds. I was the sun in my father’s life, and he had become my moon—not the scary moon, but the one that would safely cradle me through the world.
“Hurry, Papa. We’re going to be late!” Forgetting about being too old, I grabbed his hand and dragged him forward through Ostrovsky Square. Pigeons wheeled around the figure of Catherine the Great towering at the center of the square. I tugged again toward the gold-and-white facade of the Alexandrinsky Theater, with the four bronze horses on its roof. Beyond it lay the calm, elegant symmetry of Rossi Street. The Imperial Theatrical School stretched along its entire left side.
“Calm down,” said my father. “They’re not expecting you until nine.”
Inside, we stood in the high-ceilinged lobby, unsure what to do. Other children and their parents stood in line, waiting for their auditions; a girl about my age came out of the room they were waiting to go into in tears. I guessed that she’d been turned away. I thought we should join the line, but just then an elegant lady approached us.
“Are you Pelle Petrovsky?” she asked my father.
He nodded, at a loss for words.
“Follow me,” she said. “Maestro Enrico Cecchetti would like to interview your daughter himself.”
We followed her down a hall to an office, where an elegant balding man with a long, expressive mouth stood up and held out his hand to me. “So, you’re my little Katya’s daughter,” he said. “I hope I’ll teach you here one day, as I once taught her.” He turned to my father. “I’m sorry for your loss. Your wife was a lovely dancer, and a favorite student of mine. I’m happy to see her daughter following in her footsteps.”
He asked me to point my feet and do some stretches. I showed him some positions, the way my mother had taught them to me. Then he sent us along to the doctor’s office, where my measurements were taken. I also had to write a few pages and do some mathematical exercises; the Imperial School taught all the academic subjects as well as dance. Finally, we were told I’d been accepted. My father filled out some paperwork.
As we walked back along the hall toward the lobby, I saw a flicker of flame red disappearing through a doorway. I imagined a faint whiff of roses in the air. Surely my mother was near, watching as I embarked on the life we had chosen for me.
Chapter 6
Imperial Theatrical School
I climbed out of bed slowly, every muscle complaining. I was stiffest in the cold early morning, feeling every set of port de bras exercises and every battement tendu I’d done the day before. I’d stay under the covers until the last possible minute, then rush to throw on my school uniform, scrub my face, and pull my hair back neatly before I heard the jingle of harness bells and impatient hooves outside. Every morning, Alexi harnessed Chayka to the little buggy and drove me to Rossi Street through the dark, icy streets.
How my life had changed! No more idle hours reading fairy tales. My days revolved around the Imperial Theatrical School and the endless work of becoming a dancer. In the evening, I’d eat dinner and fall gratefully into bed.
Each morning, I thanked Alexi, patted Chayka, and turned toward the doors of the school. Coincidently, Bronislava Nijinska and her elder brother Vaslav seemed to arrive at the same time and were already pulling them open.
Bronia would smile when she saw me. We were both in Stanislav Gillert’s beginning dance class and immediately felt a connection. She was a year younger and looked small next to the other girls, but she had already been studying for a year with Enrico Cecchetti before she entered the Imperial Theatrical School. I found that a little intimidating, but after our first lesson she’d confided that it was hard for her to follow the French terminology. That made me grateful for all the grueling French sessions I had had with Mme Strachkov. It made me feel more like her equal.
We climbed the marble staircase together, Bronia and I, to the second floor while Vaslav headed up one more flight to the boys’ floor. Boys and girls were kept strictly apart except in school performances.
In the cloakroom, Bronia and I changed into the gray dance dresses all the students wore. Some of the girls complained about their color, finding them drab. But when I put mine on, I thought of that New Year’s at the Vronskys’ when we passed the young girl gliding and leaping on the frozen Neva, and I thought of how her gray cloak looked pale against the deep violet of the January dusk. Remembering how I’d ached to jump out of our carriage to join her that day, I spun around the dressing room. My dress flared out like hers did. And similar to the mysterious girl, the studio floor being my ice, I would glide and leap.
Later Bronia and I changed into the ankle-length brown skirt and long-sleeved blouse that was our school uniform. We’d eat in the lunchroom together and wash down our buns with hot tea and plenty of sugar.
We were very strictly supervised, and our manners had to be impeccable. Our forks and knives were lined up absolutely straight; later in life I could never get used to seeing forks and knives laid on a table any which way. At least, I thought, remembering that New Year’s dinner with the Vronskys, there were many less knives and forks to worry about. We bowed to our teachers when we were approached and were told we looked like peasants if we used our arms when we spoke.
After lunch—before we began our afternoon classes: writing, history, mathematics, and science—we were allowed to walk around for a while in the school’s small inner courtyard. This was when Bronia and I found time to talk. Walking side by side, we would go over our morning lessons and the exercises we had trouble with—Bronia was a great perfectionist and often worried when her leg or foot refused to behave exactly as she wished. At first, we didn’t speak much about our life outside the school, though she talked about her brother Vaslav occasionally. He was high-spirited and mischievous at home, chasing a wooden block around with a broom—a game that had resulted in more than one broken window. Bronia adored and fretted about her brother in equal parts. Although he was stronger and more talented than most, the other boys often teased him about his strong Polish accent and his Tartar features—high cheekbones and slanted eyes. Some of the boys called him “the little Japanese” and made his life difficult.
Bronia and I would gossip about our teachers or the older students. It was Bronia who told me that the great Cecchetti’s mother had given birth to him in a dressing room in Rome. I felt sorry for his mother, but it was hard not to giggle at the idea, too. Still, Bronia had the deepest respect, almost awe, for Cecchetti.
At the end of each day, Alexi came and fetched me and brought me ho
me. I’d hardly have energy for dinner before I fell into bed, exhausted, and each new morning I’d enter the studio wondering what the day would bring. I worked hard, and eventually I too graduated to Maestro Enrico Cecchetti’s class. Cecchetti was not only passionate about dance, but he knew how to pass that passion on to his students. When he guided me with his hands to show me a step, I could feel the electricity of his fervor running through my body, and I’d find myself breaking out in a sweat.
Cecchetti was a brilliant dancer himself with his leaps and multiple pirouettes. I remembered my mother telling me about the day she saw him dance as the Bluebird in Sleeping Beauty at the Mariinsky. “Oh, my little Donatalia, what a sensation he was! The crowd had never seen anything like it.” At that time, the men in dance had really just been props for the ballerinas. Enrico changed all that. How proud I was to be taught by such a man. “It was the hardest decision I ever made, to give my dancing up.” Looking at me, she seemed to recollect herself. “Oh, but then you came along. The moment I first saw you, I could never wish for anything else.” When it came to ballet, my mother and I had some very grown-up conversations.
Now, under the spell of Cecchetti’s teaching myself, I wondered if my mother had really been telling the truth. I dreamt of the day that he would teach only me, as he had my mother. Surely, she had sometimes mourned her dancing days, no matter how much she loved my father and me.
Cecchetti’s method was grueling, designed to work every muscle. He had a set of exercises for each day of the week so that every part of the body would be strengthened but not stressed by too much repetition. But even this system could not always prevent the cramps in my legs. At times, I felt like an old woman, barely able to climb the stairs, but then I would hear Enrico’s voice whispering in my ear, “Let none of the effort of your labor be visible,” and I would straighten myself up and move as if I had just started my day.
The Fortune Teller's Fate Page 3
