“Yes, and I admire a clever prostitute, if she is honorable. Honor demands that she pay for the favors she obtains. That is where you err, Pierre Grigorievitch. What does your patron demand? Friendship? Fealty? Attention? What does Boris Vassilievitch demand of you?”
“I do not know,” Pierre said. All at once he fell back upon the stool and mopped his brow. “I do not know,” he repeated. “Maybe that is the key to my resentment. If only he would make things clear between us, I would know if I wanted to continue this odd relationship. I would gladly be his friend—though why a man such as Boris would want it is beyond my comprehension. He possesses countless friends, all more intelligent, cultured, and cosmopolitan than I. His serf, you ask? No, never that. The one who listens to his ideas? Perhaps. Or maybe he simply enjoys raising others to heights to which he himself aspires. It is his sardonic humor that I cannot bear. I cannot help thinking that somehow he is using me, although I cannot tell how. It is maddening!”
She stood up and picked up her cloak. “I am tired,” she said. She looked once more around the room, at the streaks and stripes of color. Somehow it seemed unreal after this conversation. The young man in front of her, with his chaotic emotions, seemed unreal. Her leg muscles hurt. For the first time since arriving at this impoverished little flat, she remembered that she had danced that night. “I must leave now,” she said.
Pierre rose too, a flicker of sadness in his eyes. She regarded him with a momentary fear, threatened by his overwhelming physical presence. She was so small and slight, he so imposing in his height and stature. When he had touched her at the dîner de têtes…. Yet now he was like a wounded panther. She found it difficult to empathize with him, to feel for him. “Do not bother to find me a coach,” she said. “I can find one myself. I think I’d like to be alone now.”
His magnificent black eyes held her, pleading. “Why must you go? Don’t you trust me?”
“I have never trusted anyone,” she replied seriously. “But dancers must rest, or we get cramps in our limbs. Good night, Pierre Grigorievitch.”
With elfin swiftness she disappeared from the apartment, and he went to the window to watch as she left. There she was, a billow of blue velvet, frail and tiny …evanescent. He shut his eyes and uttered one anguished, guttural cry. Over the city the winter stars blinked their indifference.
Pierre had to admit that nothing in his life brought him the joy for which he had hoped. He thought again about Natalia’s question: Did he, in fact, regret leaving the Caucasus? He had never been more miserable nor in greater turmoil than now. Petersburg had caged him, tamed the savage pride of his people from his heart, and turned him into a despicable excuse for a man—a sniveling little boy whose talent, as she had said with such cruel justice, was threatened by burial under the burden of his weakness.
Yet he could not change the contradictions in his nature. He resented the decadence of this glamorous capital, but he admired its beauty, its imperial splendor. He disliked Boris Kussov, yet at the same time he was exhilarated by the man’s intelligence and by the company he kept. He hated himself for yielding to his patron’s superior will but was intrigued by the privilege of this friendship. Paris had been glorious, but especially because of the attentiveness of Boris, who knew it well and had escorted Pierre, a callow provincial, to the places that were dearest to him. Together they had visited the various museums, and Pierre had reveled in Notre Dame and lost his head at Versailles. They had gone to the Opéra, and dined at the most fashionable restaurants: Larue, Diaghilev’s lair; Weber; Sirdar; La Coupole, with its wall frescoes. They had fed pigeons near the Arc de Triomphe and watched children’s puppet shows in the park. Boris had taken Pierre to meet his Parisian friends and had not left him alone for one minute. The young man could not speak French, as did the better-educated Russians in their entourage; and, upon their return, Boris had begun to teach him the language, taking infinite patience to clarify its Latin rules. Yet this friendship was not the same easygoing one that he saw Boris sharing with Walter Nouvel, Diaghilev, or Alexander Benois. Was it because, as his patron first and foremost, Boris still “patronized” him?
The fact remained that this relationship deeply disturbed Pierre. And now Natalia Oblonova disturbed him, too. He thought of her constantly these days, and after being with her tonight, he knew that she would become a veritable obsession for him. She had been here, in this very room, and he had insulted her, upbraided her on account of that necklace, that miserable pearl necklace that Boris had purchased as he might a pair of cufflinks for Pierre or another one of his friends. Boris loved to make magnificent, opulent, perfectly timed gifts to those around him. Yet little Oblonova was not around Boris to stimulate his impulse to give, and Pierre felt fresh resentment for his patron, because of the pearls. How could anything that he himself might offer her compare with Boris’s lavish present?
But surely Boris did not want her as he did. Surely the pearls had been symbolic, of admiration, encouragement, possible patronage. Pierre had known of other dancers whom Boris had patronized—yet no one would have doubted the purity of his intentions toward them. Why did Boris’s motives with Oblonova matter so much? Pierre knew the answer, of course: because he himself wanted her and considered Boris a rival. It had physically hurt Pierre to see the pearls around her neck tonight—as well as that first night at the dinner. She had worn them because she was poor and owned no other jewels—yet Pierre hated her for having accepted the gift and Boris for having offered it.
He found his desire to possess her bewildering, and unsettling. He had felt strongly attracted to many young women before her, and because of his physical charms, most had succumbed without second thoughts. He had never wakened thinking of them. Yet this girl troubled him, haunted him. She was far less beautiful than most of his passing fancies had been. There was no color in her thin cheeks, and her slender nose was too long for symmetry. She was too delicate, yet slightly thigh-heavy. Her brow was too large for her tiny chin, and her breasts were boyish in their smallness. What was it, then, that appealed so strongly to him?
He thought of her as a shaft of pure light, simple, straight, and proud, good but not virtuous, totally devoid of pettiness or frivolity—stripped bare. Did he like her? He was not sure. She saw through him, was more powerful than he was, more able to control her own weaknesses. Yet she was only seventeen, nearly eighteen—hardly what a sophisticate would call a woman. Boris had singled her out, too, and this in a certain ironic sense justified Pierre’s own feelings. Boris wasted no time upon mediocrities of character or accomplishments. If he was going to champion her among today’s fresh batch of talented dancers, then Natalia was worthy of attention—Pierre’s and other people’s.
Pierre was not good with verbal concepts, with organizing his thoughts. He merely felt them and sometimes wondered about the strength of his feelings afterward. Now, all at once, he pictured his mother in her youth. His father had been a Georgian, his mother born of the Tcherkess, a fierce and beautiful tribe of the Caucasus. Tall, with dark braids that reached below her knees, she had never wept in front of him. She had been loyal, passionate, and unafraid. He remembered having seen her dance the lezhinka among her people: a man in front of each woman, dancing in small rhythmic steps that grew more and more frenzied, the men hitting the floor with the heels of their boots. At last the men had unhooked their daggers and one by one had hurled them into the floor boards, while the women, still smiling, had continued dancing, unafraid. They had trusted their men’s aim. His mother had carried this philosophy of blind faith into her private life: She had never questioned his father, never opposed him. Yet she had been the strongest person Pierre had known. His father, who had raised grapes for wine, had spent his days riding, a splendid man welded to his white purebred. Yet Pierre had known that his mother, not his father, was the stronger person.
Was Natalia like his mother, who had accompanied him to the train station when he had left this final time and, as a farewell, had given hi
m a small icon to take with him to the city? He did not think the girl was religious, like his mother. She was strong, yes; indomitable, like the Tcherkess women; passionate, like the Tcherkess dancers. But not wise like his mother, not wise enough to place her man first, to obliterate herself for him. Natalia needed to shine, to triumph. She was an exhibitionist and an artist, as he was, in no lesser measure.
Without her dancing, Natalia would be another colorless provincial girl. Pierre was twenty-four, almost as young and inexperienced as she was. What could he offer her? What could Boris offer her? Everything, of course. Why should this lovely young woman be denied an ideal patronage? Why could she not accept Boris’s patronage as well as Pierre’s love?
There, now, was the word, the word that Pierre had been avoiding. Love! He hardly knew Natalia, and she was not attracted to him, or she would not have left his flat so easily. She was probably a virgin, and proud of it. But this did not disturb Pierre. She had been alone with him in this very room, and he had not touched her. Why? Why did he fear Boris—and his interference?
She is not what I need, Pierre thought. She is not a gentle woman. She is too selfish and not supportive enough. She could never give me the attention I receive from Boris, for example. Boris plays with me, but he also cares deeply about my paintings, the progress of my work, because there is nothing in his life to take precedence over this. But Natalia? She would not play games, and that is good; but she also might not care, or care less than she would about her own dancing. Damn! Can I never stand alone, without needing others to reflect my own worth?
He left the window and sat down, his head in his hands. To marry Natalia Oblonova. Someday—quite soon, in fact—he would become well known. Riazhin would become like Serov and Bakst. Then he would have a life to offer this girl, a life that would tame the selfishness out of her. To be the wife, the companion, of a famous painter! She would meet interesting, cultured individuals, and she would not need to place him below herself. But would he still love her if she gave up her own ambitions so easily? Did he really admire his mother beyond all women? Or had his mother’s hardness created an overwhelming need for female softness and gentleness? He wanted Natalia because she was strong and talented, but also because of her hidden vulnerability. He did not know her background, but he instinctively understood that they were both nobler and more savage than city people, yet oddly deprived of affection and nurturing. They were alike in that regard, and this was good.
Pierre felt exhilarated: to marry the girl! But he hardly knew her. She did not like him. She was still so young. He thrust his fingers into his thick hair, overwhelmed. It would never work. He would have to exorcise her from his mind—and from his heart, too. He had never felt such bittersweet yearnings for anyone, such creative stirrings, such a need to combine his essence with that of another person. Natalia, Natalia, he thought. I shall never let you go, though you do not yet know that I have captured you.
Chapter 5
At the New Year Natalia was unexpectedly summoned to the office of General Teliakovsky, director of the Imperial Theatres. He motioned her to ‘take a seat, and smiled paternally. “We are pleased, ma petite” he announced. “And so, before your contract is to be renewed, we are promoting you to the rank of coryphée.”
This was a tremendous, unprecedented honor. Natalia was elated, but contained the joy inside her, for she did not wish to appear arrogant to the senior dancers. Tamara Karsavina came to her, and, putting her arm around her, said: “Congratulations, Natalia.” But Anna Pavlova clenched her small, delicate fists and screamed: “You have little talent, and fewer looks! You’ll see, nothing will last! Svetlov will write bad things about you—and you will be finished before you ever become a ballerina!” Natalia looked away, her profile haughty and dignified. It did not matter. She had learned long ago that nothing anybody said really mattered.
The coryphées danced in small groups, smaller than those of the corps. Sometimes one was asked to perform a solo role. Natalia danced another fairy, the Lilac Fairy in The Sleeping Beauty. It was a small but charming part, and she appeared at strategic moments, if not for long. Then she danced one of the three main Shades in La Bayadère, a Petipa ballet about an abandoned, betrayed fiancée who dies and enters the ghostly Kingdom of Shades. Natalia’s ethereal ghost was a single fluid line, and Valerian Svetlov wrote that young Oblonova danced “like magic quicksilver.” She enjoyed the role: It was sad and haunting and as different from any of her previous ones as sorrow can be from joy.
Natalia was no longer an unknown dancer. In February she turned eighteen. In a single year so much had happened! She received a small corsage of roses from Teliakovsky and chocolate creams from Karsavina. When she arrived at the flat, Lydia’s old nurse, Manya, gave her two packages. One was small and flat, and when she opened it, Natalia found a pair of pearl earrings to match her necklace, each one a pearl teardrop with a ruby. Her heart seemed to race into her throat: It was impossible not to guess who had sent them. She read the message: ‘Terpsichore is a woman now. Your admiring B.V.K.” Ah, she thought, and what does that mean? What should be different now?
The second package was larger, but also flat. She tore the paper in an effort to get around its unwieldiness, and saw the back of a painting. Canvas and wood—Why? she thought, suddenly anguished. Why can he not leave me alone? What does he think I owe him? She placed the canvas down and tore the wrapping from its front.
The frame was ornate gold leaf, like the one hanging in Boris’s study. She was essentially a simple person, and was somewhat put off by this richness. Then she saw the subject: a woodland scene, with wild animals from mythology—unicorns, a white bull, a golden fish out of water, and a bird with fiery plumage. There was a nymph beneath a tree, and it was, of course, herself: Natalia with tresses flying, a veritable Botticelli’s Venus, yet scantily clad in forest leaves. Peeking from behind the tree was Pan. Examining him, Natalia saw he was Pierre. She started to laugh. The colors were of earth, wind, and fire, but the theme was amusing beyond words. “I shall hang you up in the drawing room,” she said. “He would have preferred the bedroom, no doubt. Still, he knows our sex: Every woman needs a reminder that she is at the root of mythology.”
The painting pleased her. In some small measure it proved to her that she had traveled long distances since her day as “ugly and strange little Natasha.” She had read enough about society to know that throughout the ages women larger than life had been immortalized by the pens of poets and the brushes of painters. She knew, inside, that she would one day become famous. But today? A small thrill burst within her. Someone had told her that Riazhin had sullenly refused to paint a portrait of the French ambassador’s daughter. Yet this was the second one he had done of her—obscure, impoverished Oblonova. She would hang it in the living room and stun Lydia’s guests—some of whom still treated her as her parents had done in the Crimea.
She could not sleep. Everything was happening at once—the praise of an outstanding critic such as Svetlov, this promotion, the gift of costly and incredibly beautiful jewels from one of the court’s most prominent members, a leading patron of the arts in St. Petersburg. Had Svetlov been at all swayed by Count Boris’s kind outlook toward her budding talent? And Pierre: However much he disturbed her, the fact remained that he was growing in stature as one of Russia’s developing young painters. He had been asked to help design the set of a new production at the Mariinsky, Nuits d’Egypte. But she was still the lowest dancer among the soloists, if she could even include herself among them. Pavlova still spoke about her rather than to her. And her pay was barely sufficient to provide her with the essentials of life. She was blessed with peaks of glory but still lived on a relatively barren plain. Mystified, Natalia found growing womanhood a mixture of inexplicable signals. Was her life progressing well? She did not possess sufficient experience to know the answer.
Nuits d’Egypte was to be given at the Mariinsky as a charity performance. It was a voluptuous Fokine fantasy of a
world that had collapsed centuries ago. Natalia was to be Tahor, another betrayed fiancée, to Michel Fokine’s own Amoun. Her role was secondary to that of the languid, sexual Cleopatra—but it was one of desperation and pathos, a good interpretive role.
A week before the show Natalia received an invitation to attend a supper at the home of Count Boris Kussov. As always, she hesitated. Her conversation with Pierre still rankled: She was angry with both men for assuming situations and for playing charades to her. Yet Boris had treated her with the utmost gallantry—as a kind patron. He interested her: She admired his quick mind, his rich culture, his perfect appearance. It was flattering to be included in the circle of his acquaintances. He knew all the ballerinas: Kchessinskaya was an old friend, and he had heard the confidences of Pavlova and Trefilova and boosted Karsavina’s sometimes sagging self-concept. Yet Pierre had said he was a man who lived as a vampire from the blood of others.
Was Pierre going to be there, too? Boris was Pierre Riazhin’s golden angel—everybody knew it. Pierre’s attentions toward Natalia were becoming more insistent—and this was a problem. A man had never cared for her before, and she did not understand. Did he like her? Did he want to sleep with her? Or did he admire her as an artist? Pierre was all tangled emotions, all darkness, while Boris was light and cool. But Pierre reached something deep inside her, so that sometimes she thought of him with strange poignancy. The feelings he inspired in her were fearful and odd, but sometimes she felt that if he were in the same room, her will would melt and she would turn into an animal and do strange things. She did not know what those strange things would be. She found the young painter unlike any human being she had ever met, and still she did not know if she liked him.
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