All The World's A Stage

by Boris Akunin

  ‘Are we going to be “just friends”? Well, that is the kind of answer I expected. I give you my word that I shall never burden you again with my sentimental c-confessions.’

  ‘But I didn’t mean it in that way at all!’ she exclaimed in alarm, fearing that this dry stick would keep his promise, that would be just like him. ‘I have friends without you. Vasya Gullibin, Sima Aphrodisina, Georges Nonarikin – he’s a ridiculous man, but selflessly devoted and noble. But all that’s not the thing … I can’t be absolutely candid with them. They’re actors too, and actors are a special kind of people …’

  He listened without interrupting. But the way he looked sent an ecstatic tremor through her, like at the most exalted moments when she was onstage. Tears welled up in her eyes, and elation filled her breast.

  ‘I’m tired of playing parts all the time, of always being an actress! Here I am talking to you and I think: a dialogue like Elena Andreeva’s with Dr Astrov in the third act of Uncle Vanya, only better, much better, because almost nothing breaks through to the outside. That’s the way to keep things from now on: fire on the inside, and on the outside – a crust of ice. My God, how afraid I am of turning into Sarah Bernhardt!’

  ‘I b-beg your pardon?’ His blue eyes opened wide in surprise.

  ‘My perpetual nightmare. They say that the great Sarah Bernhardt is never natural. That is the principle of her existence. At home she walks about in a Pierrot costume. She lies down to sleep in a coffin, not a bed, in order to imbue herself with the tragic spirit of existence. She is entirely feigned passion, entirely affectation. That is the terrible danger lying in wait for every actress – to lose oneself, to turn into a shadow, into a mask!’

  And she burst into tears, putting her hands over her face. She wept bitterly and in earnest – until her nose turned red and her eyes puffed up – but she still kept glancing through her fingers to see how he was looking at her.

  Oh, and how he was looking! She wouldn’t barter a look like that for an ovation from a full house!

  Of course, the relationship could not remain at this stage for long. Friendship with a handsome man is something out of a romantic ballad. Such things don’t happen in real life.

  On the third day, following the regular rehearsal, Eliza went to his house, to a small annexe hidden away in an old, quiet side street. The pretext for the visit was a respectable one: Erast had suggested that she choose a kimono for her role, as well as some fans and some other Japanese trinkets, of which he had a huge number at home. She didn’t have anything of that sort in mind at all, word of honour. She was simply curious to take a look at how this mysterious man lived. A house can tell a great deal about its inhabitant.

  And the house did, indeed, tell her a great deal about Erast Petrovich – almost too much, in fact, she couldn’t make sense of all of it at once. There was ideal order everywhere here. You could even say there was lifeless order, as is often the way with inveterate, pedantic bachelors. There were no traces at all of permanent female inhabitation, but here and there Eliza’s keen glance spotted little bits and pieces that looked like keepsakes from previous passions: a miniature of a young blonde in the depths of a bookcase; an elegant comb of the kind that was fashionable about twenty years ago; a little white glove, seemingly forgotten under a mirror. Well, so he had not lived like a monk all his life, that was only natural.

  There were no awkward silences. Firstly, in the company of this man, it was not uncomfortable in the least to say nothing. Erast Petrovich had a quite fantastic mastery of the difficult art of the pause; he simply looked at her and she no longer felt bored. And secondly, there were so many interesting things in the house, she wanted to ask him about everything, and he gladly started telling her, after which the conversation moved on of its own accord, in any direction.

  Eliza felt absolutely safe – even with just the two of them alone in an empty house, a gentleman like Erast Petrovich would not stoop to doing anything improper. There was only one thing she had failed to take into account: intelligent conversations with an intelligent man always had an arousing effect on her.

  How did it all happen?

  It began with an absolutely innocent thing. She started examining some prints and asked about an outlandish creature: a fox in a kimono, with a tall hairstyle.

  ‘That’s a kitsuné, a Japanese werewolf,’ Fandorin explained. ‘A supremely guileful creature.’ She said that the kitsuné looked terribly like Xanthippe Vulpinova, and indulged herself by passing several pejorative comments about that rather unpleasant individual.

  ‘You speak of M-Madam Vulpinova with bitterness,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Is she your enemy?’

  ‘But surely you can see? That malicious, petty creature simply hates me!’

  And then he delivered one of those little speeches, of which she had heard so many in the last three days and to which, although she thought of them ironically to herself as ‘sermons’, she had already become accustomed. She had even come to like them. They were, perhaps, even the most charming thing about talking to the ‘traveller’.

  ‘Never make that mistake,’ Fandorin said with a very serious air. ‘Don’t denigrate your enemies, don’t call them offensive names, don’t describe them as paltry and contemptible. By doing that, you demean yourself. Who are you in that case, if you have such a despicable enemy? If you respect yourself, you will not be the enemy of those who are not worthy of respect. If a stray dog barks at you, you won’t go down on all fours and b-bark back at it. Furthermore, if an enemy knows that you regard him with respect, he will respond in kind. This does not s-signify reconciliation, but it helps in avoiding mean tricks in the course of the struggle, and it also makes it possible to conclude the war with a peace, instead of killing.’

  He was remarkably handsome when he talked this charming nonsense.

  ‘You are a man of genuine culture,’ Eliza said with a smile. ‘At first I took you for an aristocrat, but you are a classic member of the intelligentsia.’

  Fandorin immediately launched into a diatribe against the intelligentsia – he was unusually talkative today. It was probably her nearness that affected him in that way. Although there was another possible explanation (it occurred to Eliza later). As an intelligent man and connoisseur of psychology, Erast Petrovich might have noticed how powerfully his ‘sermons’ affected his listener and deployed this weapon to the full. Ah, she still hadn’t learned to understand him!

  The oration in the course of which Eliza finally melted completely was this:

  ‘I do not regard that as a compliment!’ Fandorin exclaimed heatedly. ‘The “classic member of the intelligentsia” is a b-being who is harmful, even ruinous, for Russia! The estate of the intelligentsia might seem likeable enough, but it possesses a fatal flaw, which was noted so accurately and mocked by Chekhov. A member of that estate is capable of bearing hardships with dignity, he is capable of maintaining his nobility in defeat. But he is absolutely incapable of winning in a battle with a boor or a blackguard, who are so numerous and so powerful here. Until such time as the estate of the intelligentsia learns to f-fight for its ideals, there will never be anything decent and worthwhile in Russia! But when I say “fight”, I do not mean a fight according to the rules of the boor and the blackguard. Or else you will become exactly the same as they are. It has to be a fight according to your own rules, the rules of an honourable individual! It is customary to think that Evil is stronger than Good, because it places no limitations on its means – it ambushes slyly, strikes furtively and below the belt, it attacks with odds of ten against one. So it would seem that if you fight Evil according to the rules, it is impossible to win. But assertions like that result from stupidity and, b-begging your pardon, impotence. The intelligentsia is a thinking estate, and that is where its power lies. If it loses, that is because it has made poor use of its main weapon, the intellect. One need only apply the intellect for it to become clear that the noble man has an arsenal more powerful and armour far more im
pregnable than those of even the most adroit conspirators from the Okhrana or revolutionary leaders who send altruistic young boys to their deaths. You will ask what they consist of, this arsenal and the armour of the noble m-man, who does not stoop to base means of struggle …’

  Eliza had no intention of asking about anything of the sort. Erast Petrovich’s excitement as he spoke and his tone of voice affected her more powerfully than any aphrodisiac. She finally gave up trying to resist the weakness flooding through her body, closed her eyes and laid her hand on his knee with a gentle sigh. Eliza never did find out what the arsenal and armour of the honourable individual consisted of. Fandorin stopped speaking in mid-phrase and, naturally, drew her towards himself.

  After that, in the way that things happened with her in such cases, she remembered snatches and separate images – mostly touches and smells, rather than visual impressions. The world of love was magical. In that world she became a completely different being, she did unimaginable things and was not even slightly embarrassed. Time altered its pace. Reason blanked out benignly, ineffably beautiful music played and she felt like a classical goddess, soaring on a cloud.

  But then there was a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder. Quite literally – a storm had blown up outside. Eliza raised her head, glanced towards the window and saw that it was completely black. Darkness had already fallen, and she hadn’t even noticed. But when the darkness was illuminated by a flash of sheet lightning, Eliza’s reason returned instantly, bringing with it its constant companion, the fear that she had completely forgotten about.

  What have I done? Oh, egotist! Criminal! I’ll destroy him, if I haven’t already.

  Pushing her beloved’s head, which glimmered silver in the faint light, off her shoulder, she jumped up, rummaged about on the floor and started getting dressed.

  ‘What’s wrong? What’s happened?’ he asked in astonishment.

  Eliza shouted frantically, with tears in her eyes:

  ‘This must never, do you hear me, never happen again!’

  He gaped at her open-mouthed. But Eliza ran out of the house, straight into the lashing downpour.

  Oh, horror! Horror! Her very worst fears were confirmed: there under the awning of the gates was a dark, thickset figure. Someone had been lurking opposite the open window and spying …

  ‘Oh God, save him, save him!’ Eliza pleaded, running along the wet pavement with her heels clattering. Running with no idea of where she was going.

  A HEART ON A CHAIN

  Afterwards, of course, she calmed down a bit. Probably a chance passer-by had simply been sheltering from the storm under the arch of the gates. Genghis Khan was a terrifying man, but not a ubiquitous devil.

  But what if it really had been him? Should she not warn Erast about the danger?

  She hesitated for a while before deciding not to. If she told Fandorin everything, as a man of honour, he would start watching over his beloved, and would refuse to leave her alone. And then Iskander would be certain to find out about their relationship. Eliza would never survive yet another loss, especially one like this.

  She allowed herself one indulgence: she dreamed a bit about how everything could have worked out for them, if it weren’t for her bad karma (she had gleaned that croaking Japanese word from the play). Ah, what a couple they would have made! A famous actress and a dramatist who, though no longer young, was insanely talented. Like Olga Knipper and Chekhov, only they wouldn’t have parted, but lived together happily for a long, long time – until they were old. Eliza didn’t go on to dream about old age, though. Oh, bother that!

  That was another reason why she couldn’t put Erast’s life at risk: her responsibility to literature and the theatre. A man who had never taken up the pen before and then suddenly created a masterpiece – yes, yes, a masterpiece! – could become a new Shakespeare! Let Mephistov pull a wry face and whisper that this little play was convenient for Stern’s theory, but there was nothing else interesting about it. He was simply furious that he had been handed a skimpy little role, the most disagreeable of all. A play that was dictated by love could not help but be great! And there was no greater homage for a woman than to be an artist’s inspiration, his muse. Who would remember a girl called Laura, that little girl Beatrice or the frivolous Anna Kern if not for the great works dedicated to them? Thanks to Eliza Lointaine, a glorious new name would shine in the firmament of dramatic art. So how could she allow it to be extinguished because of her?

  She took a grip on herself and chained up her poor heart. The next day, when Fandorin came rushing to see her in order to discover what was wrong, Eliza was reserved and even cold with him. She pretended not to understand why he addressed her in such a familiar manner. She made it clear that what had happened the day before had been cancelled out. It quite simply had not happened – and that was all there was to it.

  She only had to hold out for the first two minutes. Eliza knew that as a proud man he would not start trying to clarify their relationship, let alone pursuing her. And she was right. After two minutes Fandorin turned deadly pale, lowered his eyes and chewed on his lips as he struggled with himself. When he looked up again, the expression of his eyes was completely different – as if someone had closed the curtains tightly.

  ‘Well then, goodbye,’ he said. ‘I shall not trouble you again.’ And he left.

  God only knew how she managed not to burst into tears. She was only saved by an actor’s habit of controlling the external expression of her feelings.

  After that he stopped coming to the rehearsals. In fact, there was no particular need for him to come. All the questions about the Land of the Rising Sun could be answered by the Japanese, who took his work with exemplary seriousness: he arrived before everyone else and left after everyone else, and proved to be exceptionally diligent. Noah Noaevich could not have been more delighted with him.

  All in all, getting rid of Fandorin had proved even easier that Eliza thought. She even felt rather annoyed about it. Arriving at the theatre at eleven, she kept waiting to see whether he would show up, and summoning up the inner strength to be firm. But Erast didn’t come and the effort of summoning was wasted. Eliza was suffering. She consoled herself with the thought that it was all for the best and the pain would be blunted in time.

  Working on her part helped her a lot. There were so many interesting things about it! It turned out that Japanese women, and especially geishas, walked differently from European women and bowed differently, and they spoke and sang and danced in special ways. Eliza imagined herself as a living embodiment of the most elegant of the arts, a devoted acolyte of ‘yugen’, the Japanese ideal of unmanifest beauty. It was not easy to grasp this concept: what was the point of Beauty if it concealed itself from sight and shrouded itself in veils?

  Noah Noaevich spouted new ideas every day like a fountain. He suddenly started restyling the already complete design of the play: ‘Since the play is written for a puppet theatre, let’s play it in puppet style!’ he declared. ‘The actors not involved in a scene put on black robes and turn into puppeteers. They seem to lead a character about, tugging on his strings.’ And he demonstrated a jerky style of movements. ‘The point is that the characters are puppets in the hands of karma, of implacable Fate. But at a certain moment, Eliza, your puppet suddenly snaps its strings and starts moving like a living person. That will be spectacular!’

  During the breaks, emerging from the enchanted onstage condition in which one feels neither fear nor pain, Eliza seemed to clench up tight as the appalling burden of reality descended on her with all its dead, dusty weight. The phantom of Genghis Khan hovered in the dark depths of the wings, murdered love scraped at her heart with a cat’s sharp claws, and if she went out into the corridor, there was a dead maple leaf sticking to the windowpane – autumn, probably the last autumn of her life …

  The only breath of air during these unavoidable intervals in work were her conversations with Fandorin junior. Naturally, Eliza didn’t dare to demonst
rate her interest in Erast Petrovich too clearly, she had to restrain herself, but even so, every now and then, between the discussions of Japanese bits and pieces, she managed to direct the conversation to more important matters.

  ‘But you have been married?’ Eliza asked one day when Mikhail Erastovich happened for some reason to mention that he was a bachelor.

  ‘No,’ the Japanese replied with a joyful smile. He smiled joyfully almost all the time, even when there was no apparent reason for it.

  ‘And your … stepfather?’ she went on casually. As a matter of fact, she still hadn’t discovered in what circumstances Erast had acquired such an unusual stepson. Perhaps as a result of marriage with a Japanese woman? She decided to investigate that subject later.

  Mikhail Erastovich thought for a bit, thought again and replied:

  ‘Not to my recorrection.’

  ‘Have you known him for a long time?’

  ‘More than cirty years,’ the Japanese said radiantly. Eliza had already grown accustomed to his imperfectly pronounced but entirely understandable and almost correct Russian.

  She cheered up a bit at that: so Erast (he was about forty-five, wasn’t he?) had never been married. For some reason she felt glad about that.

  ‘Why hasn’t he ever married?’ she asked, pursuing the theme.

  The round face of the Japanese took on a serious expression. He rubbed the stubble on the top of his head (Stern had ordered him not to shave his head for the show, it was unromantic).

  ‘He was unabur to find a woman worthy of him. That is what he tord me many times.’

  ‘Well, well, what high self-opinion!’ A caustic note crept into Eliza’s voice. ‘And did he try very hard?’

  ‘He tried very hard,’ Mikhail Erastovich confirmed. ‘Many women wished to marry him. He tried and he tried – he used to ask me: What do you cink, Masa? No, I said, she is not worthy. He agreed. He orways ristens to what I say.’