Eva Ibbotson - A Company of Swans

‘Merde,’ said Marie-Claude, giving the traditional first-night greeting but without much hope that the expected good luck would follow. The première of Nutcracker was upon them and backstage the atmosphere was tense. Masha Repin was not popular. Her ambition was so violent, it had not yet acquired the cloak of good manners and while Maximov might dislike Simonova, he felt secure with her as he did not with the Polish girl. The tension filtered through even to the corps. Lydia, finding her head-dress too tight, burst into tears. A limping boy rubbing his calves showed that Olga, too, was not immune to the general stress — and the temperature stood at 101 degrees.

Harriet, reaching for her snowflake costume, was forestalled by Marie-Claude, who held it out, ready to help her slip it on.

‘Marie-Claude, you mustn’t! I can manage, honestly.’

During the two days since the banquet, Marie-Claude’s gratitude had been a heavy cross to bear. She insisted on tidying Harriet’s locker, fetched coffee for her during rehearsal breaks and commandeered her dancing shoes in order to shellac the linings and darn the toes.

‘But you have to take half the money,’ she had cried when Harriet returned from the Sports Club. ‘You ought to have all of it, you know that.’

Harriet’s refusal had been steadfast. ‘I don’t want it; it’s for the restaurant.’ And as Marie-Claude continued to look at her beseechingly: ‘I must have somewhere really special to sweep into with my admirers when I am a prima ballerina assoluta , you must see that!’

Her little joke had fallen flat; neither Kirstin nor Marie-Claude had smiled. Harriet’s work was becoming very good; she was beginning to be talked about.

Out front, Simonova sat very straight in Verney’s crimson-lined box on the bel étage. He had left his key for them before he went up-river and now Dubrov — letting things go hang backstage — was beside her and lending silent support. She was looking splendid and formidable in a jade green silk dress and turban and the ear-rings he had bought her after her first Giselle. Only her hands, clenching and unclenching on her lap, showed the ordeal this occasion was for her.

The curtain rose to sighs of appreciation from the audience. Stifling in evening clothes, living in a land without seasons, they were enchanted by the great Christmas tree, its spire reaching almost to the proscenium arch. The children arrived at Councillor Stahlbaum’s party; little Clara — played by Tatiana, the prettiest of the Russian girls — received her nutcracker. No tension, so far — Masha Repin as the Sugar Plum Fairy did not appear until the second act.

The transformation scene next. The ornaments dropped from the tree, the councillor’s drawing-room vanished… and the snow began to fall. Snow and snow and still more snow, turning the tree into a miracle of white… They loved that, the Brazilians, many of whom had never seen this strange substance, and applause ran through the house.

The snowflake fairies entered and Simonova leaned forward intently to look at the corps.

‘She grows strong,’ she whispered. ‘Grisha is right.’

There was no need for Dubrov to ask of whom she spoke. A strange friendship had grown up between the ageing ballerina and the newest, youngest member of the corps. Harriet never put herself forward, but she could not conceal her avid interest for everything that touched Simonova’s life. To pass on memories and experiences to the young is a great longing — if the young will listen. Harriet listened.

Act Two now, and Simonova’s hands were gripping the edge of the box like talons. The Kingdom of the Sweets — and there was Masha with her dreaded youth, her smile, her blonde hair and little crown, sitting on her throne… descending.. looking very beautiful… executing her little dance en pointe…

Excuting it damnably well and getting a roar of applause from the audience, who were very much taken by this ballet which demanded so little of them and produced such a festive atmosphere. And she was pretty, this Sugar Plum Fairy, in her pale pink tutu covered in delicate, sugar-plum lace, her crown of stars. Here was a heroine much to the Brazilian taste.

The ensemble nonsense which followed gave Simonova a chance to compose herself. Spanish dances, Arabian dances, dances for marzipan shepherdesses… The ‘Valse des Fleurs’ next, the most loved of all Tchaikovsky’s waltzes, and it was Dubrov’s turn to notice how well Harriet was dancing. Whatever happened to her off-stage seemed to send her further into her work.

But now came the moment of high drama when the Prince leads out the Sugar Plum Fairy for possibly the most sensational and difficult duet in all Tchaikovsky’s works: the grand pas de deux to music that is the apotheosis of ballet.

Oh, God, thought Dubrov; she’s a bitch, but she can dance — those arabesques, those sweeping attitudes… the speed, the dazzle! And Maximov was partnering her well, unselfishly. He too was on his mettle against the usurper, youth.

Her solo now — and how the audience loved it: the tinkling bells, the sugary music, the pretty ballerina untouched by agony or time.

Maximov was back, lifting her… She soared, smiled. Smiled too much for Dubrov’s taste, but not for the audience.

And Simonova sat beside him with that unnatural, contained stillness, very upright, watching, watching.. for mistakes, for human frailty.

There were no mistakes, no frailty.

It was only as the dancers came together for the final tableau that Dubrov perceived the danger.

Stumbling from the box, running down the corridor, choked by his collar, he heard the clapping begin — the stamping, the cries of ‘Bravo!’ and ‘Bis!’ That would be one curtain call already… two, three… Oh, God damn the fools who could not distinguish between a technically competent dancer and the flawed, true artist Simonova was!

He had reached the heavy door that led backstage and now pushed against it.

It did not open.

All doors between the auditorium and the stage had to be open by law in case of fire, but this door would not move. Someone had locked it.

Cursing, perspiring, the portly little man ran back again, up the stairs to the next floor… And still the applause came undiminished, and the roars.

The upstairs door was open, but there was a twisting iron staircase to negotiate before he reached the level of the stage.

A group of people were standing in the wings, among them Harriet with a towel over her shoulder, and her face creased with anxiety as she watched the curtain rise once more.

‘How many?’ panted Dubrov.

‘Eighteen,’ said Harriet miserably. ‘Grisha tried to stop them, but they wouldn’t listen.’

She motioned to the stage-hand still turning the winch-handle to let Masha — as loaded with flowers as a hearse — curtsey ecstatically to her audience.

‘That’s the nineteenth now,’ said Harriet.

Nineteen… Four more than Simonova. Dubrov shook his weary head. No good intervening now; the damage was done. And still the curtain rose and fell… Twenty… twenty-one… twenty-two… Until at last it was over and with a triumphant smile, Masha Repin swept away.

Dubrov had expected Simonova to rage and stamp and make a scene, but it was worse than that. She came backstage to congratulate her rival; she insisted that they drink champagne.

‘She is good, Sashka,’ said Simonova quietly when they were back at the Metropole. ‘She is young and she is good, and the public loved her.’

‘Idiots!’ raged Dubrov. ‘She’s a balletic clothes-horse, all tricks and glitter.’