Encore (22 page)

Boris remarked acidly: “Not quite. But perhaps, Gabriel, I might be able to do something to help you. I was not at all happy with the way he treated my wife. She was unwell for several months after being dismissed.”

“And how is Natalia now?”

Boris smiled. “She dances
La Fille Mal Gardée
this week at the Mariinsky, an old Kchessinskaya role. This little talk is giving me ideas, in fact. But Natalia is fine. I shall be sorry to miss her performance.”

With a sparkle in his eyes, Astruc retorted: “She will doubtless be sorry to miss yours. What exactly do you have in mind?”

Boris placed his elbows on the table and leaned forward. “Listen to me,” he urged quietly.

When Boris returned from Paris, the winter season was in full swing. He surprised Natalia by announcing that they would give an important dinner, and that the guests of honor would be Kchessinskaya and Chaliapin. “You are not to concern yourself with this,” he told her. “Ivan will help you plan it, and the seamstress will make you up a splendid new gown. I would have brought one back from Pacquin, or Worth—they still have your measurements to make to order—but this time I did not want you to outdo Mala. It is of utmost importance that she feel the star of the evening.”

Natalia said nothing. This strange man was her husband now, but she was still not certain what to make of him. She had agreed to marry him—for only this way would she impose the final check on her instincts, barring even the possibility of Pierre's interference in her career plans. Boris would not force himself upon her sexually, leaving her magically untouched. But what of him? How had she possibly been able to add to his life? He had actually been prepared to defy his father in order to marry her, although that had proven unnecessary. She could feel his protectiveness, his respect—but she also knew he did not love her. Yet she had been chosen over women with family and funds—and there were times when she could not comprehend it.

Reflecting upon her marriage made her think how her life had changed because of a single official ceremony. Now she was the Countess Kussova. She was received at court. But she knew better than to mention this within the ballet company. Among the artists tempers flared, jealousy erupted at the slightest provocation. Kchessinskaya, not yet a married woman herself, treated her affectionately and had even helped to train her for her own favorite role in
La Fille Mal Gardée,
a classical comedic ballet of the eighteenth century. Pavlova seemed less openly hostile. Why, even General Teliakovsky, still paternal, found a nice word here and there when he encountered her in the passageways of the Mariinsky. Natalia thought: They are hypocrites. To them I've become a passageway to Boris.

Now there was this dinner. As usual, Ivan and Boris had outdone themselves, leaving very little up to her. But, she thought with a certain amount of pride, she was learning. She was learning how to place her guests, how to speak to them in the finest French. That was a bitter pill to swallow: her perfect French, for which Boris had provided the lessons, and which she had learned for Paris. She braced herself: She would not allow self-pity to destroy her. Diaghilev was already hard at work planning a second season for that summer, in 1910.

On the night of the dinner Natalia looked around her, surveying guests and servants from her hostess's vantage point at the head of the long table. The supper was delicious: clear consommé with meat-filled
pirozhki
pastries, followed by salmon in a thick velouté sauce, with white wine. Chaliapin sat on her left, and, laughing at one of his innumerable funny anecdotes, she wondered: I am at ease with him. He can tease me and I no longer wish to die of embarrassment, as I did two years ago. Then her thoughts returned to the pork roast with prunes, baked apples, and an enormous salad of exotic greens and fresh vegetables. If she concentrated, she could hear strains of conversation at Boris's end of the table. Drinking her Bordeaux wine, Kchessinskaya was saying, in her melodic but rather loud voice, which carried effectively: “He told everyone in Paris at the Châtelet and the Opera that he was a representative of the
Tzar?
Why, the gall of him, the nerve of that despicable man! Wait until I tell Andrei. What an impostor!”

Boris was replying quite seriously for a spirited dinner conversation: “Perhaps it was only a misunderstanding, Mala, darling.”

A gigantic duckling, piquant with grated lemon peel and a lemon sauce, with roasted onions and potatoes and baked tomatoes
â la provençale,
was being served, with a rich Madeira wine. Natalia barely sipped it; her head was beginning to reel, and she did not wish to consume excessive amounts of food and wine because of her dancing weight and fitness. Boris was saying, “Poor Astruc does not know what to do. It seems so unjust, after all his hard work.”

“I gather,” Kchessinskaya remarked with a pert toss of the head, her eyes glinting with mischief, “that you, my love, are not going to offer to pay the fifteen thousand francs? Not even out of compassion for Astruc?”

Boris took her hand and bowed over it with mock gallantry. “My dear,” he said, “I have a wife to support now. Remember?”

Across the yards of white linen spread with silver goblets and crystal bowls, and lined with hand-painted china from Sèvres, the
prima ballerina assoluta
caught Natalia's eye and waved gaily. Then another guest leaned across the table to ask something, and Kchessinskaya and Boris were obliterated from her view. Natalia was intrigued.

The servants came in with chocolate and orange ices. Champagne was presented. Then came the fresh fruit trays and the sweetmeats. At long last the supper was over. One by one, each man took the arm of his dinner companion, and in twos they came to congratulate Natalia on her splendid meal. This was a gracious tradition honored by all members of Russian society, but Natalia still felt awkward about receiving thanks, especially since she had had so little to do with planning the evening. But she was Boris's wife, and the hostess: There was no evading this ceremonial finale.

In the drawing room Ivan had set up the coffee table, and Natalia sat down to serve the hot black beverage to her guests. In France this, too, was handled by servants, but Natalia preferred the Russian custom of more personal hospitality. She liked to have something to do with her hands. Boris was dispensing liqueurs to the gentlemen, and Natalia listened to the conversation going on around her. She felt a pleasant afterglow from the meal.

To her right the man whom she still hesitated to call her husband was murmuring something in a low voice to the charming Chaliapin. “Feodor,” Boris was saying, “Caruso's reputation among the French—among all the Western Europeans—has been established for a long time now. Even if he's a tenor and you a
basso profundo
_,
he is your sole rival in the world of opera, in terms of attracting an audience. For you to try to challenge him so soon after conquering the French would be sheer folly! Wait several years. In the meantime, go to Paris as much as you want, but not at exactly the same time as he. Put some distance between you.”

“Yes, of course, Borya,” Chaliapin replied, thoughtfully. Here was another conversation with ominous undertones, Natalia thought.

When everyone had left, Boris seemed in extremely high spirits. What a handsome man he was, she had to admit. Blond and fine and priceless, like an antique. Joy made him buoyant, alive, and his skin seemed ruddier than usual. He put his arms around her waist from behind, and rocked her quickly back and forth, a strange, mesmerizing dance. “A perfect evening,” he commented.

When she turned around with a quizzical expression on her face, he shook his head. “This is not the time for explanations, my pet,” he told her, and touched the tip of her nose with a playful finger.

In the early part of December Diaghilev called on Boris at his Petersburg apartment on the Boulevard of the Horse Guard. Boris was in his study, perusing some first editions of artistic works on Christian iconography. He wore a maroon smoking jacket and was nonchalantly holding a pipe. A fire blazed in the hearth. His friend appraised him shrewdly and commented: “You are the very picture of comfort.”

Boris's eyes narrowed. “And you, Serge, look like a network of exposed nerves. Won't you have a cognac?”

Diaghilev shook his head, drew up an armchair, and sat down, rather heavily. “What game are you playing now?” he demanded.

“Game? Why, my dear fellow, life's too serious for games. I play for my share of flesh and blood, like Shylock.” Boris puffed on his pipe and reclined in his seat, his elegant, lanky body conforming to the cushions. He smiled slightly: “What's on your mind?”

The two men stared unabashedly at each other for a full minute. They were no longer smiling. Finally Diaghilev broke the silence. Dramatically, he burst out: “Years of devoted friendship! Years! You were still at the May Gymnasium when I met you—a boy of sixteen! That's half a lifetime ago, do you realize that? Nearly eighteen years of being your guide, your mentor—including you in all my endeavors! You needed me, for you do not possess one ounce of personal talent!”

Boris nodded. “Indeed. Neither do you, Serge. You find it, and I finance it. Two sides of the same coin. Symbiosis. It seems you've needed me too in your time.”

Diaghilev waved these words aside as though they were annoying flies buzzing around his head. “At first I thought it was a mistake, a network of impossible, unfortunate coincidences. The Tzar's final, unequivocal refusal to subsidize our enterprise, now and forevermore. Then Feodor's telling me he won't sing in Paris next year, when he's pivotal to our season. Then your lame excuses for not lending me funds with which to get that goat of an Astruc off my back. Bits and pieces of conversations came back to me. Kchessinskaya's sudden friendship with Natalia. And so it occurred to me that all this can be traced back to her—to Natalia and the scandal that I luckily averted in Paris last May. Yet somehow I believe there's more to the issue. You are trying to ruin me—but not just me. What is it, Borya?”

The insolent ease with which Boris had been listening to his friend was replaced by an alert tautness. Boris leaned forward. “You've used me before, Serge,” he said in a low voice. “Often. Flattering me, coddling me. You knew that I realized it was a ploy to obtain Kussov money. I played along, and you knew that I was playing along. I truly think we both enjoyed the game, and each other's cleverness. But there was no need to involve Natalia.”

“So you think, if Natalia is to be avenged, then the whole Russian season must be wiped out, discredited. Actually, I wanted Natalia for some very important roles in 10. Regardless of your role in her life, she is as fine a dancer as Karsavina, and while she was in Paris, the French adored her. I need Natalia! And Pavlova won't be back this year, so I shall need her even more. I also need you. Why should I deliberately alienate you? To make a display of authority? That would be childish, wouldn't it? No, there's more to this. You've been using me in an attempt to do something quite different.”

Boris burst out laughing. “What do you want, Serge?” he asked.

“The question is, what do
you
want? I am prepared to name you co-director of this enterprise if you could see fit to be part of it again. You—and Natalia, of course.”

“And in return? I am to pay Astruc?”

Diaghilev smiled. “That would be nice, yes. You might also speak to him about a reconciliation. We could go to Paris together to see him.”

Boris shook his head. “That is not enough. Natalia will be pleased, I'm sure. The money would have to be paid in smaller lumps, and as a legal loan, so that I could collect from you if you should default. You would have to find other financiers for this project, as I can certainly not be responsible for all of it on my own. My fortune is not inexhaustible, as my father has oft pointed out. There are the French Jews—the Deutsch de la Meurthe brothers, the Rothschilds, the Gunzburgs; we could certainly try to inveigle them to donate funds. I would be more than willing to help you, as your ability to wade through financial matters is nil. But, as I said, that won't be enough to tempt me back.”

Diaghilev scrutinized his friend and did not say a word. Presently Boris spoke, his tone offhand, casual. “How well our first encounter worked out,” he said. “Now all the Paris salons are wearing the wild colors of our friend Bakst—and all the
grandes dames
are undulating in vaporous gowns like Ida Lvovna Rubinstein's. And Benois—the delicate pastels of his
Pavilion d'Armide!
Our artists have outdone themselves.”

“Indeed,” Diaghilev asserted. He leaned forward and waited. Boris smiled.

“But artists are extravagant, Serge. Their montages always turn out to be more expensive than in the original proposals. We shall have to cut expenses somehow, my dear fellow.”

“You just said that Bakst and Benois have enriched both art and fashion with their confections,” Diaghilev countered. “How would you trim their budgets?”

“Oh, not theirs, exactly. I would trim ours. Why do we need hangers-on, not-quite-there young artists such as Pierre Riazhin? He's been disappointing, Serge. I expected him to make miracles, and instead he's merely tried to copy Léon Bakst—at his worst.” He paused. Then in a low, barely trembling voice, he added: “We can't afford him anymore, dear friend. Not anymore.”

Diaghilev raised his eyebrows and nodded ponderously while he took in this information. He looked at Boris, smiled briefly, and stood up. “And Feodor? Will you woo him back?” he asked.

Boris shook his head. “Fedya is best left out of this. Let's have a season of pure ballet this time. Besides, do you want to ruin him, pitting him against Caruso?”

A momentary flash of anger came into the eyes of Serge Pavlovitch. “We shall see,” he said.