All The World's A Stage

by Boris Akunin

  As he had intended, Fandorin first made his way to the playbill, in order to acquaint himself with the membership of the company. It was most likely, since it seemed to be quite customary in the close little world of actors, that the harrowing torments of the leading lady were the result of scheming by one of her colleagues. In order to solve the appalling mystery and be done with this idiotic business as quickly as possible, he had to make a note of the names of individuals relevant to the case.

  The title of the show finally ruined the reluctant theatregoer’s mood completely. He gazed with a gloomy eye at the foppish poster with its ornamental flourishes, thinking that this evening would prove to be even more distressing than had been expected.

  Erast Petrovich very much disliked Karamzin’s novella Poor Liza, which was regarded as a masterpiece of literary sentimentalism, and for this he had extremely serious, personal grounds of his own, which had nothing at all to do with literature. It was even more painful to read that the production was dedicated ‘to St Elizaveta’s Remembrance Day’.

  It will be precisely thirty-five years ago this month, Fandorin thought. He closed his eyes for a moment and shuddered, driving away the appalling memory.

  In an attempt to rouse himself to action, he gave free rein to his irritation.

  ‘What an idiotic fantasy – staging old-fashioned trash in the t-twentieth century!’ he muttered. ‘And where have they found a plot for an entire “tragedy in three acts”, even if there is no interval? And the seat prices have been increased!’

  ‘Interested in a seat, sir?’ asked a little man with a cap pulled down over his eyes, who had popped up under Fandorin’s elbow. ‘I’ve got a ticket for the orchestra stalls. I was dreaming of attending the performance myself, but have been obliged to abandon the idea, owing to family circumstances. I can let you have it. I bought it from a third party, so I’m afraid it’s a bit pricey.’ He ran a quick glance over the London dinner jacket, the geometrically perfect lapels, the black pearl in the tie. ‘Twenty-five roubles, sir …’

  The sheer gall of it! Twenty-five roubles for a seat, and not even in a box, but simply in the stalls! One of the newspaper stories about the Noah’s Ark tour, a highly venomous one, entitled ‘Prices Increased’, had been devoted to the incredibly high cost of tickets for a performance by the company from out of town. Its manager, Mr Stern, was a remarkably gifted entrepreneur and he had invented a highly effective way of selling tickets. The prices of seats in the boxes, orchestra stalls and dress circle were twice or even three times the usual cost; but tickets for the tiered stalls and the gallery never even reached the box office, they were allocated for purchase by students – through the medium of a cheap lottery. The lottery tickets were distributed among the young men and women for fifty kopecks each and one out of every ten won a ticket for the theatre. Any lucky winner could either attend the production that everyone was writing and talking about, or sell the ticket just before the performance, thereby obtaining a rather handsome return on his fifty kopecks.

  This device, which had outraged the author of the newspaper article so profoundly, had seemed ingenious to Fandorin. Firstly, it meant that Stern sold even the very cheapest seats for five roubles each (as much as the price of a good seat in the orchestra stalls in the Bolshoi Theatre). Secondly, the entire student community of Moscow was all agog over Noah’s Ark. Thirdly, a lot of young people came to see the show, and it is their enthusiasm that contributes most to ensuring a theatre’s success.

  Without even condescending to answer the ticket tout, sullen Erast Petrovich made his way over to a door with a plaque that said ‘House Manager’. If Fandorin had needed to collect his pass inside, he would have turned round and walked away. Nothing could have induced him to squeeze his way through between so many backs and shoulders. But Olga Leonardovna had told him: ‘Five paces to the right of the door there will be a man with a green briefcase, standing on the steps …’

  And indeed, standing precisely five paces away from the crowd that was storming the door, lounging back against the wall, was a tall man with broad shoulders, wearing a striped American suit that contrasted rather noticeably with his coarse face, which seemed to be moulded out of reddish-brown clay. The man was simply standing there quite impassively, without even glancing at the clamouring votaries of Melpomene, and whistling; he had a flirtatious little green briefcase pressed against his side with his elbow.

  Fandorin was not able to approach the striped gentleman immediately – someone was constantly pushing through to the front. In some elusive way these people resembled the rogue who had tried to fleece Erast Petrovich of twenty-five roubles for a ticket; equally shifty and shadowlike, with rapid, muted speech.

  The owner of the green briefcase disposed of them quickly, without saying a single word – he just whistled: briefly and mockingly to some, after which the individuals concerned immediately disappeared; menacingly to some, who backed away; and approvingly to others.

  The touts’ and hucksters’ handler, Fandorin decided. Finally wearying of listening to the artistic whistling and observing the incessant flickering of shadowy figures, he set one foot on the first step, holding back by the shoulder yet another shadow that had bobbed up out of nowhere, and said what he had been instructed to say.

  ‘From Madam Knipper.’

  The whistler had no chance to respond. Yet another third party pushed in between him and Fandorin. Erast Petrovich did not grab this one by the shoulder, or any other part of his body, out of respect for his uniform: he was an officer, a cornet of hussars and a guardsman to boot.

  ‘Sila Yegorovich, I implore you!’ the young man exclaimed, gazing at the striped gentleman with absolutely wild, staring eyes. ‘For the orchestra stalls! No farther than the sixth row! Your men have gone totally insane, they’re asking twenty roubles a time. All right, then, but on credit. I spent everything I had on a basket of flowers. You know that Vladimir Limbach always pays up. So help me, I swear I’ll shoot myself!’

  The scalper gave the desperate cornet an indolent glance and whistled indifferently.

  ‘There aren’t any tickets. They’ve run out. I can give you a complimentary pass without a seat, seeing as I’m so well disposed.’

  ‘Ah, but you know an officer can’t watch a performance without a seat.’

  ‘Well, take it or leave it … Just one moment, sir.’

  The last few words were addressed to Erast Petrovich, together with a polite smile, which required a serious effort from that physiognomy of clay.

  ‘There, if you please. A pass for box number four. My respects to Olga Leonardovna. Always glad to be of service.’

  Fandorin set off towards the main entrance, to the accompaniment of benign whistling from the tout and an envious glance from the hussar.

  ‘All right, give me the complimentary pass at least!’ a voice behind him exclaimed.

  A STRANGE WORLD

  Box number four turned out to be the finest of them all. If this had been an imperial theatre, and not a private one, it would probably have been called ‘the royal box’. The seven armchairs with gilded backs – three in the first row and four in the second – were all entirely at the disposal of a single spectator. All the more impressive, therefore, was the contrast with the rest of the auditorium, which was literally too cramped for an apple to fall to the floor. There were still five minutes left until the beginning of the performance, but the audience were all in their seats already, as if every one of them feared that another claimant to the same place might show up. And not without reason: in two or three places ushers were trying to calm down agitated people who were brandishing tickets. One scene was played out immediately below Fandorin’s box. A well-fleshed lady in an ermine boa almost wept as she exclaimed:

  ‘What do you mean, counterfeit? Where did you buy these tickets, Jacquot?’

  Red-faced Jacquot babbled that he got them from an extremely presentable gentleman, for fifteen roubles. The attendants, accustomed to such oc
currences, were already carrying over two additional chairs.

  In the tiered stalls they were sitting even more tightly packed, with some people even standing in the aisles. The area was dominated by the young faces of male students in pea jackets and female students in white blouses.

  At precisely eight o’clock, immediately after the third bell, the lights in the auditorium went out and the doors were firmly closed. The rule of starting a performance on time and not admitting anyone who came late had been introduced by the Art Theatre, but even there it was not observed with such meticulous strictness.

  Erast Petrovich heard a creak behind him.

  Turning round on the central armchair of the front row, where he was perched like a Padishah, he was rather surprised to see the hussar who had recently promised to shoot himself.

  Cornet Limbach – Fandorin thought that was his name – whispered:

  ‘Are you alone? Excellent! Don’t object if I take a seat, do you? Why would you need so many places?’

  Fandorin shrugged as if to say: By all means, I can spare one. He moved one seat to the right, so that they would not be crowded together. However, the officer preferred to seat himself behind Fandorin’s back.

  ‘It’s all right, I’ll sit here,’ the cornet said, taking a pair of field glasses out of their case.

  The door of the box creaked again.

  ‘Damn him, what’s he doing here? Don’t give me away, I’m with you!’ the cornet whispered under his breath into Fandorin’s ear.

  A middle-aged man in tails and a starched shirt walked in, wearing a tie exactly like Erast Petrovich’s, only the pearl in it was not black, but grey. A banker or successful barrister, Fandorin speculated, casting a brief glance at the pampered beard and the triumphantly gleaming bald cranium.

  The man who had walked in bowed urbanely.

  ‘Tsarkov. And you are the incomparable Olga Leonardovna’s acquaintance. Always glad to be of service …’

  From these words it was possible to conclude that Mr Tsarkov was the owner of the miraculous box and he had been asked to provide a seat by the actress. It was not entirely clear what part in all this was played by the whistler with the green briefcase, but Erast Petrovich had no intention of racking his brains over that.

  ‘Is the young man with you?’ the amiable owner enquired, squinting sideways at the cornet (who was studying the decorative moulding on the ceiling through his field glasses).

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well then, he’s welcome …’

  During the few minutes that remained until the beginning of the show – while the spectators rustled, creaked and blew their noses – Fandorin’s new companion told him about Noah’s Ark, and with such expert knowledge that Erast Petrovich was obliged to revise his original opinion; Not a banker, not a barrister, but probably some important theatrical figure or influential reviewer.

  ‘Opinions differ regarding Stern’s talent as a director, but when it comes to business he is quite definitely a genius,’ Mr Tsarkov began loquaciously, addressing only Fandorin, as if the two of them were alone together in the box. Cornet Limbach, however, seemed glad that no one was taking any notice of him.

  ‘He began staging his performances a week before the opening of the season and he has exploited his monopoly right up to the hilt, to coin a phrase. The public has come pouring in, firstly because there is nowhere else for it to go, and secondly, because he has fired off in rapid succession three productions that the whole of St Petersburg spent all last season arguing about. First he put on Hamlet, then The Three Sisters, and now it’s Poor Liza. And what’s more, he announced in advance that each production is being performed just once, without any repetitions. Look at what’s happening now, on the third evening.’ The theatrical connoisseur gestured round the auditorium, which was crowded to overflowing. ‘And this also strikes an astutely cunning blow against his main competitor – the Art Theatre. This very year they were intending to astound the public with new productions of The Three Sisters and Hamlet. I assure you that after Stern any innovative interpretation will seem stale and insipid. And Poor Liza is perfectly outrageous. Neither Stanislavsky nor Yuzhin would have dared to present dramaturgical material of that nature on the modern stage. But I saw the show in St Petersburg. And I assure you, it really is something! Lointaine in the role of Liza is divine!’ The bald gentleman kissed his fingertips fruitily and an imposing diamond on one finger sparkled brightly.

  He can hardly be a reviewer, Erast Petrovich thought. Where would a reviewer get a solitaire diamond weighing a dozen carats?

  ‘But the most interesting part is yet to come. I’m expecting a great deal from the Ark this season. After this volley of three superb absolute sell-outs, they’re taking a break from performing for a month. The cunning Stern is giving the Art Theatre, Maly Theatre and Korsh a chance to display their novelties to the public – stepping aside, as it were. After that, in October, he promises to give his own premiere, and, of course, he will lure the whole of Moscow here.’

  Although Fandorin had little real understanding of theatrical practices, this seemed strange to him.

  ‘I b-beg your pardon, but surely the building is rented, is it not? How can a theatre exist for an entire month without any takings?’

  Tsarkov winked at him cunningly.

  ‘The Ark can afford such a luxury. The Theatrical and Cinematographic Company has granted them fully serviced rental at a rate of one rouble a month. Oh, Stern knows how to find himself a cosy spot! In a month or six weeks they’ll prepare a completely new production, starting from scratch. No one knows what the play will be, but people are already giving fifty roubles for a good ticket for the first performance!’

  ‘But what do you mean, no one knows?’

  ‘Precisely that! A deliberately calculated effect. Tomorrow there is a meeting of the company, at which Stern will announce to the actors what play they are putting on. The day after tomorrow all the newspapers will write about it. Et voilà: the public will start waiting impatiently for the premiere. No matter what they put on. Oh, trust my intuition, dear sir. Thanks to Noah’s Ark, there is a singularly fruitful season in store for Moscow!’

  This was said with sincere feeling, and Erast Petrovich glanced at the other man respectfully. Such sincere, selfless love of art could not help but inspire respect.

  ‘But shhhh! It’s starting. Now this will really be something – everyone will gasp,’ the theatre enthusiast chuckled. ‘Stern didn’t show them this trick in St Petersburg …’

  The curtain rose. The entire stage set was concealed behind taut white fabric. It was a screen! A carriage appeared on it, drawn by four horses hurtling along at full gallop.

  A combination of the cinematograph and the theatre? Intriguing, thought Erast Petrovich.

  The aficionado proved to be right – a rapturous gasp ran through the orchestra stalls and tiered stalls.

  ‘He knows how to capture the audience from the very first moment, the cunning devil,’ Tsarkov whispered, leaning forward – and then he smacked himself on the lips, as if to say: Pardon me, I’ll keep quiet.

  Pastoral music began to play and words appeared on the screen.

  ‘One day, towards the end of the reign of Catherine the Great, a young and brilliant guardsman was returning to his estate from his regiment …’

  The production proved to be innovative in the extreme, with a host of original ideas; it made playful and at the same time philosophical use of stage scenery and costumes created by a fashionable artist, a member of the World of Art group. The brief parable about a young ingénue, who drowned herself because of her beloved’s infidelity, was fleshed out with twists and turns of the plot. Additional characters appeared, some entirely new and others hinted at in passing by Karamzin, the author of the original story. The play dealt with a passionate love that violated all the prohibitions – after all, poor Liza surrenders to her Erast without any concern for rumour or consequences. The play told the story of a woman�
��s self-sacrificing courage and a man’s cowardice in the face of public opinion; a story of the weakness of Good and the power of Evil. The latter was personified in a most vivid and lively manner by the rich widow (played by the actress Vulpinova) and the card sharp (played by the actor Mephistov), who is hired by her to ruin the impressionable Erast and force him into marrying for money.

  Extensive use was made of the cinema screen in order to recreate historical Moscow and natural phenomena. There was a superlatively conceived scene with the ghost of Liza’s father (the actor Sensiblin), who was lit up by a blue beam of light from the projector. Also impressive were the monologue and dance performed by Death as he lured the young woman into the pond (this part was played by Mr Stern himself).

  But what the audience found most astounding of all was a trick with a piece of sculpture. Almost the entire second act unfolded beside a statue of Pan, symbolising the pastoral sensuality of the love theme. After a minute or so, of course, the audience stopped paying any attention to the statue, having accepted it as an element of the stage decor. Imagine their delight when, at the end of the act, the classical deity suddenly came to life and started playing his reed-pipe!

  It was the first time Erast Petrovich had seen a theatre company in which he was forced to admit that no unevenness could be detected in the quality of the acting. All the actors, even those playing the minor parts, were immaculate, and every entrance by each and every one of them was a genuine firecracker.

  However, the numerous merits of the production went almost unnoticed by Fandorin. From the moment when Altairsky-Lointaine first appeared on the stage, for him the play was divided into two parts of unequal value: the scenes in which she played and the scenes in which she was not present.

  The moment that delicate voice started singing its simple little song about the wild flowers of the fields, remorseless fingers seemed to squeeze the hitherto indifferent spectator’s heart. He recognised that voice! He thought he had forgotten it, but now it appeared that he had remembered it for all these years!