Encore (54 page)

Sir Oswald Stoll regarded the check in Natalia's hand and smiled delicately. “I'm sorry to say that this won't cover my expenses,” he said in a tone of deep regret. “I am truly sorry, Madame Riazhina, but your Serge Pavlovitch has been intractable. He's been refusing to pay the tradesmen, and his credit is nil. What can I do? I told you, I am a businessman, not a high-spirited creator.”

Natalia sighed. “I understand. But it will have to do, Sir Oswald. This is as far as I am willing to go. I own two houses and am supporting, in effect, two daughters—my own and my niece. I do not want the Ballets Russes to disband. But I cannot be the dishrag that cleans up every spill.”

“Then I shall have to seize the properties, the costumes, and the scenery,” the impresario said in a dull voice.

Natalia looked at him carefully. “Do that,” she said.

Diaghilev was irrepressible, and, like a small boy in search of allowance money, he was soon in contact with former backers on whose resources he had not drawn in recent months. Like the boy whose father is annoyed by his spendthrift habits, he went to one of his godmothers—this time the Princesse de Polignac, in Paris. But the sets of
The Sleeping Princess
could not be recovered. The best that Diaghilev could hope for was the possibility of another season—which in light of his bankruptcy had seemed out of the question. Natalia had predicted this outcome and thought: At least this time he has had to face some of the consequences himself.

Shortly after the debacle in London Diaghilev met with the Riazhins in Paris. “I have a project for both of you,” he announced, his cold eyes appraising them from behind the facade of his smiling countenance. “It originated as a score by Igor Stravinsky—
Les Noces.
Massine and Nijinsky both wanted to produce it during the war. But I can't see their work in this, my dears. It bears Natalia's stamp. A Russian peasant wedding without pageantry. Instead of joy, there is the heaviness, the sadness of a prearranged ceremony—the couple as objects. Come—we must listen to the music together.”

The impresario noted the spark of interest in Natalia's eye, a quickening of color in her cheeks. He turned to Pierre, whose face was already lit with inner passion. They were sitting in the Riazhin salon, and now Diaghilev rose, and, withdrawing some sheets of annotated music from his coat pocket, he settled himself at the shining grand piano. The strains that emanated from his fingers brought rural Russia to Natalia's mind. The percussive notes, the asymmetrical bars evoked the traditions of the Russia of her childhood, where one merely survived, with little individual freedom of choice. But now and then something gay pierced through—a wedding, after all, was one of the events at which a peasant could relax, dance, and revel.

“I see it in four scenes, each delineated by Igor Feodorovitch's music,” Diaghilev said when he had finished and was rolling down the piano cover. “The benediction of the bride; the benediction of the groom; the departure of the bride from her parents' home and her resultant despondency; and finally, the wedding celebration. What I'd like to see first of all, Pierre, are some sketches. Then we can set Natalia to work and unite you both with Stravinsky.”

Natalia's lips parted, and a spark of defiance flashed through her eyes. But she nodded. “Very well,” she agreed. “I see something very stark, very simple. I'd like to have an idea of what to expect—I could work with Pierre—”

Diaghilev's eyes narrowed, and he shook his head. “No. Pierre must think through his own ideas, Natalia. Think about the choreography, but give him the chance to reach his own conclusions. Husbands and wives can sometimes impede one another's progress—it isn't a usual sort of collaboration. The ballet is of primary importance—not your feelings, or his.”

He knows, Natalia thought. He knows about Sir Oswald Stoll. He must know, or suspect, that I allowed him to seize the costumes and sets. He is threatening me with this—threatening my marriage. If Pierre knew I had let him take his favorite decor—his beloved models of
The Sleeping Princess
—he would never forgive me. But Diaghilev and Pierre were wrong about the ballet! Both of them, in their own selfishness, are seeking to push me down.

During the weeks that followed, she did not see Pierre's work. He hid himself among his sketch pads and his paints, and she sat in her boudoir, thinking of the new ballet that would be the supreme challenge of her career. She drew on large pieces of cardboard massive formations that merged and reformed. Group dancing. Ritual heaviness. When at last Diaghilev called them together he looked first at the piles of designs that Pierre had prepared. ‘These are perfect,' he said. Only then did he allow Natalia to peer at them over his shoulder.

She saw the brilliant peasant headdresses, the colorful skirts, the gay costumes, and slow rage began to gather inside her chest. “You're not exhilarated by these boyar celebrants?” Diaghilev demanded. Her husband's beautiful black eyes were riveted on her face, and she saw in them expectation, joy, pride. She swallowed and held her hands together in front of her.

“Serge Pavlovitch,” she murmured softly, “what we have here is from the same genre as the exuberant dancer of
The Midnight Sun.
Or another Polovtsian Dance from
Prince Igor.
I can't work with these ideas. First of all, I want visual uniformity—this isn't a true celebration, it's a ritual, a rite. I want something more subdued. I want to be able to group and regroup, so that the eye is caught by the movements of the
corps
rather than by the flashy costumes. Oh, Pierre! They're beautiful, they're splendid! But this ballet demands something else—something simpler.”

Pierre stood up, and two of the drawings fell to the floor, fluttering down like dry autumn leaves in the light breeze. His cheeks scarlet, he exclaimed furiously: “You're doing this on purpose, aren't you, Natalia? To demean me in front of Serge Pavlovitch. To devalue me as an artist. You simply can't bear the thought of sharing credit for this production. It galls you! Ever since
The Sleeping Beauty,
you've criticized all my ideas—and yet one day, those very designs are what will be most remembered! Heavy or not, they were beautiful!”

“And none of us could move around in them! You had us weighted down as if we were construction workers! These”—and she pointed at his sketches on the table—“are just as heavy, just as impractical. You forget for whom you are working, Pierre! You're working for a ballet production! For men and women who need to move, above all! Don't you understand how well a dancer needs to know his own body—its weight, its leverage?”

“Well, I haven't forgotten that I'm not working for you!” Pierre retorted angrily, his eyes unfocused, his nostrils dilating. “We're equals, Natalia—equals, not boss and underling, for God's sake!”

“You are both working for me,” Diaghilev said in an even, sweet-tempered voice. His stare bored into Natalia, then into her husband. “And this time I shall make the final decision. Pierre's designs have enchanted me and will enchant Igor Feodorovitch Stravinsky. Perhaps,” he added coldly, “someone else should choreograph
Nes Noces, ma chère
Natashenka. I'll reserve another piece of work for you.”

Pierre's look of intense exaltation was the last thing she saw as she turned to leave the room, making certain that her head stayed tilted proudly upward. But when she had calmly shut the door behind her, she fled into the bathroom and stood shaking by the sink.

I
n the spring
of 1923 Tamara turned six, Natalia was thirty-three, Galina was not quite eighteen and Pierre had made the precarious jump to age forty. Diaghilev seemed to have abandoned the idea of producing Stravinsky's
Les Noces;
after a financially unstable season in London, the Ballets Russes had entered into a quasi-partnership with the Opéra of Monte Carlo, which was housed in the ornate Casino, its cupolas encrusted with turquoise and gilt. Every winter, beginning with the coming one, during Monaco's opera season, the Russian dancers were to provide accompaniment to the singers; and every spring, the Diaghilev Ballet was to play its own repertory in the sumptuous Salle Gamier, all golden curlicues and frescoed ceilings. The company became the Ballets Russes de Monte Carlo, under the direction of Serge Diaghilev. This left six months for holidays and any other engagements, in Paris or abroad, while also ensuring the dancers and artists time and space in which to compose and practice their new productions.

Looking at Natalia, Galina thought that for her, at least, the change would be beneficial. She admired her aunt tremendously: Natalia's compressed energy, her never-ending creative fire and discipline, her artistic vision that shone like a beam of pure light, unimpeded by outbursts and histrionics. She had seen Natalia at her worst, in London when
The Sleeping Princess
had failed so miserably, and memories of this haunted Galina as part of the kaleidoscope of nightmares from her past. It hurt her physically to remember Natalia's exhausted yielding to tears, the nakedness of her misery: she, a woman who was so reserved, so controlled in her emotions. Natalia was neat and whole, and her art was biting and satiric but never strident, never overdone. In the clean lines of her dancing, Galina saw the same form as in Natalia herself. Galina, tall and statuesque, with cascading waves of brilliant blond hair and eyes of an arresting sapphire blue, thought that there could be no greater loveliness, no finer elegance than that which was embodied in her aunt.

Galina's eyes followed Natalia round a room when she walked, always delicately poised and yet strong, ever a dancer. She envied the older woman's small stature, her sloping shoulders—her own shoulders were so straight, so imposing, almost square, and Galina was ashamed of them, finding her bearing masculine. Natalia's hair, soft and brown, was still bobbed, emphasizing the heart shape of her face, with its great deep eyes, eyes that missed nothing, eyes that expressed love and hate far more eloquently than did her words. Natalia's dainty carriage was ideal for the new fashions, the low-waisted tubular dresses that displayed her slim legs and boyish grace. Everything about Natalia was easy, lithe, airy, yet modern, whereas Galina felt big, awkward, overflowing into unfashionable generosities of breast, hair, and feet.

The move to Monaco would be a good one. Natalia had accepted it with a clearing of her brow, a relaxation of her features that had interested Galina. It was as though Diaghilev's announcement had relieved her, calmed her. She herself knew nothing of Monte Carlo, but in her heart there was a flutter of wistfulness for Paris, for the excitement of its cosmopolitan atmosphere. She had been taking drawing classes at the Académie des Beaux-Arts on the Left Bank, because Natalia had made her promise to “develop her technique” before allowing Pierre to teach her the intricacies of set and costume design. They had disagreed about this, he insisting that Natalia knew nothing about art but that Galina was already talented and capable, and that her interest should not be made to lie fallow for the sake of a conventional education. Natalia had argued that if Galina wished to be an artist, she should at least be given the option of choosing which sort of artist, even if today she had her heart set on the theatre. Galina had said quietly that this was her life and that Natalia had a point, but perhaps Pierre might, in his spare time, begin his coaching? She had started her lessons at the Académie the preceding year and had simultaneously begun to study with Pierre.

Galina loved Paris. She had to admit that Pierre's own love of this city had certainly been an inspiration to her. He had made himself her guide as well as her teacher, and in her heart Galina was both touched and amused. She had been told that Boris had introduced Pierre to the French capital many years ago, dutifully showing him how to appreciate this city. Maybe she was, then, a bit like her uncle. But Pierre took pride in reversing the situation and helping her along as Boris had once helped him. She thought: Everyone feels he or she has a debt to pay to this man, my mother's dead brother, and each one is attempting to do it through me.

“Why don't you want me to be a set designer?” she had once asked Natalia. The other woman had been startled. “No, really—I can tell,” she added. “For some reason, I'm disappointing you by choosing that profession.”

“It isn't that, lovey. It's simply that I know what sort of life theatre folk live, and it's so easy to starve. Pierre's career has gone up and down and then up again. In between the good times there were moments when he thought he would go mad—with boredom, and with poverty, and with humiliation. A woman can't be sure what will happen to her: You can't count on getting married or on marrying a wealthy man, Galina. In Paris today there are a hundred Russian princesses for every bourgeois nincompoop from Rheims. You need to find a career.”

“Such as what?” Galina interposed.

“I don't know. It has to be something meaningful to you. Dance was, to me. And we received good, solid contracts at the Imperial Theatres. Today dancers are not as lucky or as safe.”

Galina had remained quiet. It presented a delicate matter, this selection of Pierre's own field. Had she announced that she had chosen set design in order to emulate Benois, Larionov, Bakst, or Gontcharova, instead of their colleague Riazhin, would Natalia have shown the same reluctance to support her? But I enjoy drawing, Galina thought, and that's what's important. At least her forced exile at the age of eleven from the Russian capital had made one thing obvious to all: Her knowledge of ballet was so minimal that a career in dance was out of the question. She had not been compelled to choose between her aunt and her aunt's husband. Her choice had been made freely and not at all to please or flatter Pierre.

It would have been difficult to explain to Natalia that her world, that world she had so carefully created, composed of Firebirds and Sugar Plums and bold new steps, was so essentially her own world that no one else, least of all Galina, could have entered it without trespassing. Galina thought herself clumsy, and all she knew of dance was that it enchanted the spirit of its spectators while exerting impossible demands on the bodies and senses of its actors. She had been present at some of Natalia's rehearsals, had seen her create—and had found it magic. How could she have explained that Pierre's work was simply more understandable, that it involved the tangible: canvas, paint, materials, measurements? That for a person essentially earthbound, less visionary than literal, his art possessed the appeal of being grasped at once?

For Galina, Natalia was unattainable, a woman like herself but more than she could ever be—whereas Pierre had the simplicity of a man, the genius in him born of energy and color and space, his reactions those of a child who has not yet learned to assimilate and digest. They were equals, he and she—whereas Natalia stood above them, radiant in her clean, intellectual scope, in her ability to synthesize across media and through the bodies and ideas of other people.

Nineteen twenty-two had been a hard year for Natalia. She had ideas and a technique as well as the steady discipline to accomplish great works, but Diaghilev's financial fiascoes had robbed the Ballet of its security. By herself she could not bail it out. “You mistake me for Boris, because he left me his fortune,” she had told the impresario. “But Boris was much more than a wealthy man. He was a financier: He knew who else had available funds and how to trick money out of misers. I am only a dancer!” Galina had overheard this exchange, had caught the passion in Natalia's tone, the entreaty to be understood and accepted as she was and not as her first husband had been. She cannot live him down either, the young girl had thought.

But ‘22 had also been the year of
Renard,
which had held its première at the Paris Opéra on May 18. Men of intellect had praised Natalia's simple, sharp choreography of this short Russian burlesque folk tale about a fox intent on capturing and killing a cock. The vastness and splendor of the Théâtre de l'Opéra were not, however, conducive to this terse, ironic rendition of a popular farce. The cleverness of Natalia's fox, who disguised himself as a nun and was eventually outwitted by the cock's cohorts, a cat and a goat, could not be clearly discerned by all the spectators.

Natalia herself had danced the fox, her small, agile body ideal for the role. Pierre had worked on the scenery with Larionov and Gontcharova. Galina had gone to watch them, fascinated. The four characters they had designed were stark and simple, as befitted the rough, clear minds of the people who had passed this story down through the generations. The cat was blue, the goat yellow, the cock had slitty eyes above a V-shaped beak, and the fox had a huge snout, a black-visored cap and a nun's drooping black veil. The barn in which they attempted to outwit one another was a wooden A-frame of rough planks. Galina thought that she had entered a sideshow on the main street of a small village in the outlands of Podolia or in the Steppes.

On the whole, Natalia had been pleased. The production had been a good one, achieving what it had set out to do. If the spectators had been less responsive than to the pageantry of
Schéhérazade,
which had startled them and raped their very senses, nonetheless it had provided her with a proper introduction to the Parisian public as an innovative and intelligent choreographer. Galina had been struck then by the differences between Pierre and Natalia: He always expected the world to offer him its riches, and, when it failed to do so, his disillusionment was abysmal and self-punishing; whereas she expected life to be a never-ending struggle, with few if any gifts along the way, and none that was not earned. Each half-step upward constituted a grim victory for her. Why was it then that during the spring, Galina was afraid for her aunt? Afraid for all of them?

The young girl found her answer when Natalia took her to Monte Carlo, hoping to rent a house for the family to live in during the approaching ballet season. During the first day Natalia had taken her niece to the quaint, yellow harbor, and to the Palais-Gamier, which was the Casino. They had sat at outdoor cafés and looked at the turquoise sea. Now it was evening and Galina was ready for dinner. She went to find her aunt.

When she opened the door to Natalia's hotel room, it was dark but for one lone light by the roll-top secretary. She saw the older woman, wreathed in the shadows of the spreading dusk, seated on a stool with her head in her hands, bending over something. Galina entered the room, and Natalia looked up. She was holding something crumpled in her hands. Galina swallowed, feeling like an intruder, and her blue eyes met Natalia's brown ones, and she licked her lips, ready to make a discreet exit.

But in a quiet voice Natalia said: “You can't forget, can you? Those dreams of yours, they still come, don't they?”

Galina nodded. “Sometimes. Less and less, but still.”

Natalia turned aside, and Galina could see her clear, delicate profile below the mesh of the bangs. “For me it's more and more.” She held out her hand, and Galina took the crumpled object and examined it with hesitant fingers. It was a tiny infant's woolen booty, dirty with age.

“Why here?” Galina asked.

“Because this is where we discovered we wanted him. I fought wanting him. I had always rejected motherhood, but when he came, it was different, somehow. I should have listened to my earlier self.”

Galina took a step forward, until she was facing Natalia. “But you can't live in the past!” she cried passionately. “Especially not you, of all people! You're a woman of today, one of those people who can create the future! Why are you destroying yourself, Natalia?”

“I am not destroying myself,” Natalia replied bitterly. “I am merely allowing the illusions to destroy themselves. We'd all be better off if we were born hopeless, as well as naked.”

She tossed the dirty woolen garment with a clean sweep of her arm out the open window, through which the scent of fruit trees had come wafting.

Galina watched, motionless, and then, holding her head up, she said: “If you're through caring, there isn't anything I can do. I can't help you anymore, Natalia.” She walked away while the other woman stared after her in stunned silence.

We have reached the end of this stage in our relationship, Natalia thought, suddenly afraid. She isn't my little sister anymore. Something has changed, in her, in me. Does she think I'm through caring for
her?
Anguish filled her chest, pushed up into her throat. Doesn't she understand that if I can let Arkady go, it's because of her, because of what she's come to mean in my life?

In the adjoining room Galina sat on her bed, her large eyes limpid and clear, but her breath quick and uncomfortable. There's nothing more that I can do, she thought. I can't try to merge with her, she's too independent, and so am I. I've tried to love her, more than my own mother. I don't know what she wants, what she needs. She's too complex for me. Her suffering is too much like mine; I can't live hers too as well as my own. There has to be a life here for
me,
for myself!

Abruptly, her heart constricted with hot pity. Poor Pierre, she thought, poor, simple, joyful Pierre, and poor Tamara.

Natalia and Galina returned to Paris shortly thereafter. They had found a pleasant house for rent in Monte Carlo, and it was time to go home. On Avenue Bugeaud, without its ever having been discussed, Natalia had taken to sleeping more and more frequently in her boudoir. At first Pierre had been bitterly resentful; then, half from spite and half as a practical measure, he had made the adjustment. Somehow the large master bedroom with its molded ceiling had evolved into his room, and he no longer felt apologetic about enjoying its size and decorations. She had always seemed to prefer the smaller chamber that she had occupied when she first came there in the summer of 1909—and her boudoir had become her personal enclave. Now she stepped into Pierre's room, her slight figure draped in a silver-toned dressing gown trimmed with Brussels lace, her soft hair like a cap around her young girl's elfin face. He was sitting on the large bed, removing a shoe.