Boris Akunin - All the World's a Stage

Following the uproar at the performance of Poor Liza , the theatre was written and talked about so much that Stern changed his original plans and decided not to halt the performances. The scale of the furore over Noah’s Ark was quite unprecedented: speculators were selling on tickets, not for three times their price, but for almost ten times. Additional seats had been set out in the auditorium, at absolutely every point where it was possible. With every entrance she made, Eliza felt two thousand eyes peering avidly at her, as if they were waiting for something outlandish to happen to the prima donna. But she abandoned her former habit and tried not to look out into the hall. She was afraid to see that glance blazing with hatred from under those fused eyebrows…

They performed each of the old productions again once: Poor Liza , The Three Sisters and Hamlet . They were received very well, although Noah Noaevich was dissatisfied. During the analytical sessions after the performance, when everyone drank champagne, wrote entries in the ‘Tablets’ and made flattering or barbed comments to each other, the director complained that ‘the emotional intensity’ was falling.

‘Irreproachable, but vapid,’ he exclaimed. ‘Like Stanislavsky! We are losing all of our lead. A theatre without uproar, provocation and scandal is only half a theatre. Give me scandal! Give me the pulsing of blood!’

The day before yesterday there had been a scandal in Hamlet , and the object of it had once again been Eliza. It was less impressive than on 5 September, but it was hard to say which was more repulsive – to see that snake or to suffer Emeraldov’s despicable tomfoolery!

If there was one person Eliza simply could not bear, it was her primary stage partner. A pompous, unintelligent, petty, envious, vainglorious peacock! He simply could not accept the fact that she was indifferent to his chocolate-box charm and that the public appreciated her more. If not for the small group of hysterical young ladies who electrified the rest of the audience with their squealing, everyone would have noticed long ago that the king was naked! He couldn’t act properly, only shoot fire out of his eyes. And the brute actually tried to kiss her properly, on the lips. He even tried to thrust his tongue in!

The day before yesterday he had gone way beyond the limit. In the scene where Hamlet tries to woo Ophelia, Emeraldov had played the Prince of Denmark like some licentious ruffian. He had hugged her tight, squeezed her breasts and then, to the horror and delight of the audience, pinched her on the buttock, like an officer’s orderly pinching the maid!

Offstage Eliza had slapped him hard across the face, but Emeraldov had only smirked like the cat that got the cream. She was sure that at the critique the impudent scoundrel would get a real roasting, but Stern actually praised this ‘innovative discovery’ and promised that the next day all the newspapers would write about it. They did write about it, and moreover that yellow-press rag Kopeck Life went as far as to hint transparently at a ‘special relationship’ between Mme Altairsky-Lointaine and the ‘irresistible Mr Emeraldov’, putting in a comment on ‘the African passion that erupted so directly on the stage’.

If things went on like this, in order not to disappoint the public Noah Noaevich would have to come up with new tricks every time – in accordance with his own ‘theory of sensationalism’. Would he let crocodiles loose on the stage then? Or make the actresses perform naked? Vulpinova had already suggested that in The Three Sisters she should come out on stage in dishabille, supposedly to emphasise how slovenly and shameless Natalya became once she felt at home in the Prozorovs’ house. But who would want to feast his eyes on Xanthippe Petrovna’s bony ancient relics?

Rehearsals for The Cherry Orchard were in full swing – every morning, starting at eleven. But somehow the production wasn’t coming together. How much sensationalism could there be in The Cherry Orchard , even in a new interpretation? Noah Noaevich himself seemed to realise that he had shot wide of the mark with this play, but he didn’t want to admit his mistake. That was a pity. Eliza wanted so much to play something piquant, refined and unusual. She did not like the role of Chekhov’s seventeen-year-old ingénue in the least. The character was boring and one-dimensional, there was almost nothing to play. But discipline is discipline.

At a quarter to eleven she got into the automobile. The status of the leading man and the leading lady entitled them to an open car, while the others were given travel allowances for a cab, but today Eliza was travelling alone, thank goodness: Emeraldov had not spent the night at the hotel (that often happened with him).

Holding on to her wide-brimmed hat with the ostrich feathers, Eliza set off along Tverskaya Street. She was recognised – people shouted greetings after her and the driver hooted his horn as a sign of appreciation. Eliza enjoyed these rides, they helped to charge her with creative energy before the rehearsal.

All actors have a special ploy of their own, a cunning little trick that helps them get into the magical condition of Acting. Vulpinova, for instance, always had to quarrel with someone to raise her energy to the required level. Reginina deliberately dawdled and drew things out, so that she would arrive late and the director would shout at her. Plump Aphrodisina smacked herself on the cheeks (Eliza had seen this several times). Everyone knew that Lev Spiridonovich Sensiblin drained his little flask. And Eliza required a brief ride with the wind in her hair, accompanied by cries of greeting – or a walk along the street with a fleeting stride, so that people would recognise her and turn their heads.

With flushed cheeks and all a-jangle inside, she ran up the staircase, threw off her wrap, took off her hat, looked at herself in the mirror (rather pale, but it suited her face) and walked into the hall, punctual to the minute, at precisely eleven. All the others, except for Reginina and Emeraldov, were sitting facing the stage, in the front row. Stern was standing up above them, holding his watch, already prepared to explode. Nonarikin was hovering behind him, empathising with his feelings.

‘I don’t understand how it is possible to treat one’s colleagues, and one’s art, come to that, so disrespectfully,’ Vulpinova began in a honeyed voice.

Mephistov took up the refrain.

‘Would they have been late for the real Noah’s Ark too? The man who lays claim to the position of our company’s leading actor seems to regard all of us as menials. Including the director. Everyone has to wait, while he condescends to finish his breakfast! And these eternal late arrivals of Reginina’s! You work your way into the character, prepare yourself, put yourself in the mood to act, and then instead…’

At this point red-faced Vasilisa Prokofievna came running into the hall with her usual cry of: ‘I’m not late, am I?’ Vulpinova said: ‘Ha-ha-ha’, Stern grabbed at his temples, Nonarikin shook his head reproachfully. They could have started now, but Emeraldov had still not appeared. It wasn’t like him. No matter where he spent the night and with whom, Hippolyte always showed up for rehearsals on time, even when his hangover was so bad that he could barely stagger along.

‘Someone go and take a look in the changing room. Our handsome hero’s face is probably so puffy he can’t powder over the bags under his eyes,’ Sensiblin suggested.

‘You go yourself. There aren’t any servants here,’ his former wife snapped contemptuously.

Shiftsky made a joke.