She stood on the threshold of the dancers’ dressing room, a very small, slight girl in a pink tutu, with a delicate, heart-shaped face and large almond eyes. Women were sitting at tables in front of mirrors, applying white powder and rouge to their faces and helping each other adjust wigs and climb into elaborate costumes of moiré silk and brocade. The heady odor of female sweat mingled thickly with that of musty clothes and cosmetics. Natalia watched, bemused, as large thighs gleamed before her, strong female thighs, less dainty than those of the younger students. Immodest bodices were exposed in ways that would have shocked the governesses of the school. Yet Natalia did not feel as though she were witnessing an improper sight. She felt, somehow, that here, and here alone, was reality. One pretty young woman whispered to a companion: “Are you being taken to Cubat for supper tonight, Marie?” And Natalia found herself yearning, from deep inside herself, for the privilege of being asked that question in such an easy manner. To belong!
So engrossed had she become in the women’s conversation that she did not notice the approach of a tall, black-haired
woman dressed as Clara’s mother. “Well,” the woman said in an undertone, “ ‘tis the spirit of the Sweet, I see.”
Natalia looked up and saw a long face with strong features, not at all beautiful but distinctive, unforgettable. The woman had black eyes and a Roman nose. Natalia smiled. “Not at all sweet. Only the costume,” she said.
“Ah. Good. I am allergic to sugar; it gives me indigestion.”
Natalia began to laugh. She wondered if this woman would also be going to supper at Cubat, and if she shared Natalia’s secret irritation with the symmetrical classicism of Petipa’s ballets, considered beyond criticism at the school; and also, had she seen the American prodigy, Isadora Duncan, who had danced for St. Petersburg in her bare feet the previous year? The stranger belonged to the hallowed halls of the Mariinsky, while she herself was less than nothing, still half-formed. Yet this tall woman made Natalia feel welcome and accepted. Presently she said: “This is my first big role, but I am not going to dance the Sugar Plum Fairy sweetly. I have to understand her, or else I won’t be able to be her. And I must enjoy myself.”
“You’re very self-confident for a student,” the woman replied.
Natalia opened wide her brown eyes. “Not at all. I’m terrified. That’s why I couldn’t stay with the others. I might have been ill.”
“No, you wouldn’t have, or they’d never give you another important dance. What’s your name?”
“Natalia Dmitrievna Oblonova. And you?” Suddenly Natalia felt shy. She would have preferred anonymity.
“I am Lydia Markovna Brailovskaya. I am a coryphée, and that, my dear, is what I shall remain to the end of my dancing days. Why I was ever raised from first line of the corps, I shall never understand. I loved it and performed adequately. Now I am allowed to dance in smaller groups, but I won’t ever rise beyond that to soloist of the second degree. But you will. If you’re to dance the Sugar Plum tonight, your teachers must already have singled you out. Whose class are you in? Guerdt’s? Cecchetti’s?”
“Guerdt’s. Maestro Cecchetti is next year. Was he your teacher, too?”
“He is old enough to have been everybody’s teacher. Now you must excuse me, Sugar Plum. The Party scene begins the action, and my wig is askew.”
Natalia watched her companion mingle with the other dancers. Someone bent over the loose tendril of Lydia Markovna’s wig and adjusted it, laughing. Natalia felt a pang of jealousy. Lydia could have asked her to do it, but who, after all, was Natalia Oblonova? Not even the lowliest member of the corps de ballet. And then she thought: But in five years, I shall be more than all these women; I shall be a soloist of the second degree. And with this thought to console her, she pushed aside the pain of being excluded.
Pierre Riazhin sat uncomfortably in the elegant stall overlooking the stage of the Mariinsky. His stiff back was hurting him. The tuxedo fit him too snugly, and the side part in his curly hair caused a bang to sweep over his brow, annoying him. He felt acutely ridiculous and resentful of Boris. Why had he listened to this dandy, and why had he allowed him to purchase this costly outfit as a gift? To be aided in one’s career, when one possessed talent but no funds, was one thing; but to accept personal favors was quite another. It went totally against his grain.
There were other spectators in the Kussov stall, but Pierre refused to join their airy conversation about entrechats and Trefilova. He gathered that the ballet critic, Valerian Svetlov, was most fond of this ballerina, but that Boris preferred somebody called Egorova. Svetlov was seated on Boris’s left, while Pierre was on his right. Boris was so engrossed in his talk with Svetlov, who sported a tuft of white hair that glistened from the chandeliers of the theatre, that he had carelessly thrown his right leg over his left, so that his right knee touched Pierre’s thigh. Pierre attempted to move his own leg, but Boris’s stubborn knee would not budge. Pierre yielded, annoyed. Everything was conspiring to prevent his relaxation.
The Mariinsky pleased him with its blue and silver decor, and Pierre was not above enjoying the luxury surrounding him. He could scoff at it when it was out of his reach, but when able to sample its splendor, he found it quite wondrous. He loved all that was beautiful, and with his opera glasses he scanned the other booths, relishing the sight of unknown ladies in décolletés, their diamonds ablaze. Pierre forgot his discomfort and his boredom with Boris and Svetlov by shutting out all but his sense of sight. He conjured up a vision of this assembly in parody: the ladies less dignified, their tiaras tilted on their lascivious heads, holding out sweets from delicate fingers to gentlemen who ate them on their knees. But Boris was speaking to him now, in low tones: “The Nutcracker is a delightful piece of fluff choreographed by Lev Ivanov. It’s meaningless and sweet and a good beginning for you. The first woman with whom you dance should be like this ballet: utterly beautiful, marvelously synchronized, and not too intelligent. Good practice.”
“I have seen other ballets,” Pierre replied defensively.
“Well, so you have. But from a stall one can define the ballerina’s movements in a totally different fashion. Valerian says that a student is dancing the Sugar Plum tonight. Rather an honor for her, I should say. I have never heard of her: Natalia Oblonova.”
Trefilova, Egorova, and now Oblonova. Pierre smiled, but Boris misinterpreted the expression and patted him on the knee. The lights dimmed. The curtain went up, and Pierre sat transfixed. The stage setting glared back at him: Christmas tree, fireplace, sturdy furniture of the Biedermeier genre. He would have done this differently, with lighter touches denoting the fairy tale elements of the story. His tree would have spread out in delicate branchings and been covered with minuscule balls of colored foil, giving the impression of a myriad of diamond chips. His furniture would have been totally un-Germanic: ottomans of bright silks and velvets, matching vivid wall hangings and exotic curtains.
In spite of himself, Pierre was fascinated. The Party scene glittered, and the small children pirouetting before the assembled guests made him feel strange. Christmas had always been so simple in the Caucasus! This was a Hoffman fairy tale, but it also suggested the wonder of the Russian capital in its excessive sophistication. Contrary to the spontaneity of life itself, ballet was the most sophisticated art form, and it drew him by its perfect development, by its harmony. Yet the young man knew that these well-heeled gentlemen and perfumed ladies of
Petersburg had not come merely for the pleasure of watching children parading before a Christmas tree. His expectation grew, and he leaned forward, waiting.
All during the first act Pierre Riazhin waited. He began to fret. “The decor is heavy, like a burgher’s wife,” he finally whispered to Boris Kussov. He had rehearsed his words and was upset when the other laughed with easy irreverence. “What do you know of burghers and their spouses, my dear Khadjatur?” his elegant host murmured. “Have you ever visited Germany?”
“No, and you know I ha
ven’t,” Pierre retorted, his pride stung. After that, he would not look at Boris and held himself aloof, while his impatience quickened. Children! Had he come merely to witness a battle between dressed-up mice and a giant nutcracker, to watch a small girl hurl her slipper at the Mouse King? And then, almost taking him by surprise, the curtain came down and the brilliant lights of the Mariinsky bloomed overhead. Pierre blinked, disillusioned.
During the intermission Boris, resplendent in his well-tailored tuxedo, his gray spats shining and his ruby and black pearl stud lending a strange distinction to his stock, rose rapidly and scanned the amphitheatre for familiar faces. “My sister is here,” he said to Pierre. “My sister Nina, and her husband, Prince Andrei Stassov. I am going to Dumas, the French confiserie in the square, to purchase some candied fruit to take to her in their loge. Will you come with me?”
“If you don’t mind,” Pierre replied somewhat rudely, “I should like to stay here and watch the audience. There are so many interesting faces. ...”
The other members of the party all followed Boris Kussov from the stall. But Pierre was not bored. He had not found the first act inspiring. Russian folk tales appealed to him far more than German and French, for, he thought, they possessed more passion and originality. The costumes of the party guests had upset him. They were too staid. He now sat with a small pad of paper and a pencil, both of which never left him, and started to sketch. He imagined settings, scenery, costumes, then strange faces from the stalls. He had become so preoccupied that a deep voice surprised him. “Where has Borya disappeared to?” a man asked.
Pierre turned around and saw a tall, powerfully built man with black hair in which a single lock shone completely white. He was immaculately dressed and wore a monocle. “Boris Vassilievitch has gone to pay a call upon his sister, I believe,” Pierre said. He stood up awkwardly.
“Ah. I am Serge Pavlovitch Diaghilev. Why Boris wanted me to join him tonight is beyond me. I’ve seen a dozen Nutcrackers, and Teliakovsky’s productions are in the worst possible taste. Tell me, who are you?”
“Pierre Riazhin. I—am a guest of Boris Vassilievitch. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” Pierre regarded the other with a mixture of awe and pride. So this was Diaghilev, who led the group of artists known as the World of Art committee, named after the periodical which they had produced several years before. Diaghilev was a controversial man, a dilettante, a master of no single art yet able to pick out great artists in all fields. An opinionated man, he was the sworn enemy of Teliakovsky, director of the Imperial Theatres. Some said that he, not Teliakovsky, should be holding this position. Pierre had wanted to meet him almost more than he had wished to meet Leon Bakst and Constantin Somov, painters whom he admired and who were also part of the group to which Boris belonged. It was Diaghilev who welded all these artists together. Boris had been dangling the promise of this meeting before Pierre as though it were a golden apple to be earned: Though how Pierre was supposed to earn it, he had still not discovered. Boris was an enigma for the young Caucasian.
A thin young man had entered behind Diaghilev, and the older man said: “Alexei Mavrin, my secretary; Pierre Riazhin. Are you not that young painter about whom Borya has been telling me? Serov’s student?”
“I did not know that Boris Vassilievitch had mentioned me,” Pierre remarked. He appeared humbled.
“Now I know why Boris inveigled us to come tonight! A casual encounter. Truly, Borya must see some good in our meeting, and—we missed the first act. What do you think of what you’ve seen?”
Pierre sat down beside Diaghilev and began to tell him his impressions. As always, he was most confident where his work was concerned. He no longer felt ill at ease, or in awe of the other. This time his painter’s eye put him in charge. When Boris and Svetlov returned, laughing, Pierre was showing his sketches to Diaghilev. Boris looked pleased, but he said very little, merely taking his seat between Pierre and Svetlov. But Pierre was suddenly touched: With what finesse Boris had arranged this encounter, allowing Pierre to meet Serge Pavlovitch as a fellow guest, equal to equal, rather than in Diaghilev’s apartment in front of all the other members of the “committee”! He felt embarrassed and cleared his throat. “Boris Vassilievitch,” he murmured, his voice unusually melodic and gentle, “I want to thank you.”
Boris raised his fine golden eyebrows and nodded. He was holding a small box, which he now laid unobtrusively on the floor. But the curtain was rising once more, and silence descended moments before strains of Tchaikovsky’s music filled the theatre with sound. The Land of Sweets was displayed, a candy box wherein the Sugar Plum Fairy was queen and mistress.
Natalia came out among the small pupils, the various sweets that peopled this land of fantasy. All at once calmness diffused through her from head to toe. Her nervousness had stilled, after its first quick flare-up behind the scenes, and the lights blinded her view of the spectators. She felt at ease forming the familiar steps. The Nutcracker-turned-Prince arrived with small Clara, and she thought: I know him, he was a senior last year, but I can’t recall his name. The Prince did not smile at her; with singular sympathy she could understand why. She did not smile at him, either.
All at once they were performing their pas de deux, the short piece that was this ballet’s dessert. In the Kussov stall, Pierre Riazhin suddenly came alert. He focused his opera glasses on the small billow of pink tulle swept into the air, horizontal above her partner, who was holding her by the thighs. Her tiny, boneless arms were like wings, her head reared up as though poised for flight. This was a teasing, impish fairy: translucent, ethereal, yet conspiratorial. Pierre began to smile. Next to him Boris had stiffened, and in the absolute stillness even Svetlov and Diaghilev seemed to have stopped breathing. Pierre’s heart soared, as it had when he had ridden his beloved stallion bareback in the Caucasus. Through the glasses he could define her face, the face of a figurine, with disproportionately large eyes, chin too small, and the nose perhaps too long. He wanted to cry out, but instead he bit his lip and regarded Boris. His patron had risen in his seat and was now flinging something from the stall, his features concentrated on the stage and the little ballerina.
Natalia saw nothing of her public, for the stage lights separated her from them, but at the back of her mind she was aware that flowers were being cast from the loges to the dancers’ feet. She had been told that the dowager empress, Maria Feodorovna, was present, but this fact was meaningless to her moving limbs. She had blended with the air, created a momentum that made her magic. During the playing of Tchaikovsky’s favorite instrument, the delicate celesta, Natalia even ceased being aware of her partner: He had become as separate from her as an icicle from red-hot fire—odorless, sexless, ageless, as distant as an angel from the human heart. This feeling of separateness created a disorientation that, added to the lights, made her dance with yet a stronger appeal to the unseen public. She seemed to say: Play with me, believe in me, but don’t think that I am made to last!
It was over with the abruptness of an awakening. She curtsied to the bejeweled people in the stalls. Looking up briefly, she was startled to recognize the tall blond stranger whom she had encountered in the corridor of the Mariinsky. More luminous than the others, radiant as a bright bird, he could not be missed. Through a blur, she saw his raised arm; something was floating through the air over the heads of the orchestra players. It landed at her feet. Her Prince had seen it, too, and was now bending with infinite grace to retrieve it. He handed it to her with a courtly, sweeping gesture, and she executed her final révérence and disappeared as swiftly as a frightened doe, her face tingling, her limbs trembling. Behind the stage she did not stop, continuing her steps to allow the momentum to decrease naturally. Then it was over, truly over. She could hear the ovations from the theatre but already she had blanked them out.
No one had found her yet behind the scenes, and she crouched down, touching the bouquet of rosebuds that the stranger had hurled to her. They lay nestled among soft leaves
. She counted fifteen rosebuds, white, pink, red, and yellow. And then, curled between two sprigs of baby’s breath, she saw a stiff card. Surprised and intrigued, she pulled it out, and saw a family crest embossed with a calligraphic name: Count Boris Kussov. Was the name familiar? He had scrawled below it: “May these herald full-blooded roses at the peak of their bloom.” Suddenly she felt the presence of someone behind her and turned abruptly to face Lydia Markovna Brailovskaya.
“All alone, our Sugar Plum?” Lydia asked. “Finished with the encores?”
“Did you like it?” Natalia broke in hastily. “The way I danced her?”
“Infinitely better than I liked Clara,” Lydia said and laughed. “You were adequate, lovey.”
Natalia said nothing, but the color drained from her face. Lydia’s eyes softened. “You were much more than that, and I think you know it. You were the most spirited Sugar Plum I have ever watched.” Then, quickly looking away, she noticed the roses. “What’s this?” she cried. “Your first admirer?”
“I’m not sure,” Natalia responded hesitatingly. She handed Lydia the bouquet with its card. The other read it carefully, then raised her eyebrows quizzically and gave the flowers back to the young girl.
“The praises of Boris Vassilievitch are worth a mountain of roses,” she commented wryly. “He is a true balletomane. He follows his favorite dancers to Moscow when they go. They say he organizes claques to applaud his pets, but I don’t believe it. He’s Svetlov’s friend—you know, the ballet critic.”
“Do you know him?” Natalia queried.
“I’ve met him. He’s a magnificent man, yet I’ve never heard his name linked with a woman’s. Perhaps he is discreet. He is much coveted in society. The Kussovs are an old aristocratic family, friends of the court ever since there’s been one in Russia. But none of the Kussov men has ever worked to increase the fortune. Oh, there is a great deal of wealth—but I have heard that Count Vassily, Boris’s father, is becoming worried. He is marrying off his two younger daughters, and Boris spends more money than any man in Petersburg. Soon, he will have to find a wife.”
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