David Dickinson - Death Comes to the Ballets Russes

‘That is correct, Monsieur Diaghilev.’

‘I suspect my relations are more difficult with her than yours.’

‘And why would that be?’

Down on the stage, the dancers seemed to be protesting very loudly about some move they were meant to make. Powerscourt noticed that M. Fokine was nowhere to be seen. Nijinsky himself was acting as choreographer for the day.

‘I feel trapped,’ said Diaghilev, leaning forward for a better view of the stage. ‘On the one hand Lady Ripon is very successful at raising money to sponsor the Ballets Russes. But then she makes such unreasonable demands. We are to appear and dance for our lunch or our supper at her house and at the houses of her friends. Sometimes I think we shall never have any time off at all. Dancers need time to rest or they cannot give their best on stage. But I cannot say no to her, or the money may be withdrawn and the Ballets Russes may be unable to pay the bills.’

‘I can see the difficulty, Monsieur Diaghilev.’

‘I presume that in your case Lady Ripon is endlessly asking why the case has not been solved, why you failed to prevent that second murder in the palace?’

‘You are absolutely right.’

‘I know you are going to ask me again about the murders. I repeat what I said before. I have nothing to say to you on that score. I live for my art. Nothing more, nothing less. I have asked my colleagues to cooperate with you. I was deeply moved by Blenheim Palace, I have to say.’

‘Really?’

‘I have arrived at the ballet by a roundabout route, Lord Powerscourt. I began with a minor role at the Imperial Theatre at St Petersburg. That didn’t work out. My friends and I collaborated on a journal called the World of Art . About ten years ago I organized an exhibition of Russian painting, particularly portraits, at the Tauride Palace in the capital. To collect the portraits I travelled all over the country, deep into the interior, where nobody before had ever arrived asking for paintings of the ancestors. If you can imagine a run-down Blenheim Palace, its grand interiors left to rot slowly through the seasons, a couple of aged retainers and a part-time steward all that’s left to look after the place, trying to hang on to the past and to hold back the future. Well, I must have visited hundreds of such places. After a while they can get under your skin.’

‘How is that?’

‘Well, when I thought about it, and it is a lonely business criss-crossing the whole length and breadth of Russia, I thought that all these palaces meant the end of a world. The end was there in front of me. Remote, boarded-up family estates with great houses frightening in their dead grandeur, inhabited by people who were no longer able to bear the weight of their past splendour. It wasn’t just the men and women who were ending their lives here, it was a whole way of life. You could see it in their eyes. The eyes of the ancestors said that they were happy in their world, in a fully functioning estate like your Blenheim Palace, if you like. They were part of something living. The eyes of those remaining are dead; they have nothing to look forward to. I felt sure that we are living through a period of enormous upheaval, that there must be a new culture to replace the old one which is dying, if it is not already dead.’

‘Was your exhibition a success, Monsieur Diaghilev?’

‘It was a success of sorts, I think. People were fascinated by all these remote ancestors. People flocked to see them, many of them no doubt curious to see portraits of some of their grandparents; all of them agreed that it was a great thing to have assembled such a great many portraits. But I had not wanted it to be a clarion call for the past. I wanted people to see that it is up to our generation to build something new, something to replace all these fossils, their houses and palaces gradually falling down around them.’

‘And is the Ballets Russes part of this new wave to replace the old, Monsieur Diaghilev?’

Diaghilev laughed and peered down at the stage where the dancers were still complaining about Nijinsky’s teaching methods.

‘I think the Ballets Russes are bringing ballet into a new world, a ballet very different to the one they teach at the Imperial Theatre School in St Petersburg. And ballet means so much more in Russia than it does here in London. Perhaps you could say we have made a start.’

Diaghilev picked up his cane and began twirling it round in his hand. ‘I hope you can see one thing clear, Lord Powerscourt. Whether it was the magazine about art, or the exhibition of the ancestors, or my work here, I live for my art. It is everything to me. Nothing must be allowed to get in the way. That is why I have not taken as much interest as perhaps I should in the unfortunate incidents that have marked our stay in London. To me they are like brushing a fly off my face. We shall have to find replacement dancers. I have written to one or two people back home already. I say home, but it remains my greatest regret that we are not able to bring my ballets to St Petersburg. I hope you do not think me heartless, that is all. Even now, in the splendour of Imperial London, we all miss our homeland. Now, if you will forgive me, I have to go to another meeting. I shall leave my principal calling card behind.’

‘Your principal calling card?’

‘I have to go to see Lady Ripon at her house in Coombe. Nijinsky is my principal calling card. Don’t think me so vain that I believe all the society ladies want to see me. They all want to see Nijinsky. He would be welcomed by every society hostess in London.’

‘I say, look here, I can’t talk to you now.’ Mark Butler, the last of the cousins who might inherit the earth, had been tracked down to the croquet lawn of Trinity College, Oxford. ‘This is a key match, you know, Trinity versus Balliol. Matches don’t get much more important than that.’

With great difficulty, Johnny Fitzgerald managed to drag the young man away from his crucial game to answer a few questions about Alexander Taneyev and his uncle’s will.

‘Uncle Richard and his money?’ he said a little wearily. ‘Yes, Mama warned me that you were coming. No, I don’t know how much money there is to come when the old chap pops off. And No, I don’t know if I am now the chosen one or not. Is that enough for you? Can I get back to my game? My substitute doesn’t seem to be doing very well.’

‘No, you can’t,’ said Johnny, ‘not yet. Believe me, I shall be as quick as I can. Did anybody talk to you about what you should do if you, Mark Butler, were to inherit all the money in the old man’s will?’

The young man’s eyes were still locked on the croquet game. A red ball, a Trinity ball apparently, had just been deposited with some force into a flower bed.

‘Mama and her sisters had all that worked out. There was talk that Uncle Richard was going to insist that the money only went to one person and that it would be impossible to share it out. They had some legal scheme afoot to make sure that didn’t happen. The three sisters had decided that the money should be divided out four ways, one quarter to each nephew. Sorry, that should be three ways now, shouldn’t it? Sorry about that.’

‘Did everybody know that was the plan?’ asked Johnny, remembering that Mark’s mother had definitely not told him about this scheme.

‘No, they didn’t,’ said Mark Butler, ‘it was meant to be a secret.’

He took his eyes off the croquet game for a moment. ‘Oh God, have I said the wrong thing? I have a feeling I wasn’t meant to tell anybody that. Will I get into trouble, do you think?’

‘Well, I for one have no intention of telling your family any of what you just told me.’

‘That’s very decent of you. Is there anything else?’