Eva Ibbotson: A Company of Swans

‘Perhaps this earl’s grand-daughter to whom he goes in England no longer loves him?’ suggested Kirstin. ‘Perhaps she has met someone else?’

‘And then when he has recovered from his broken heart, he can put you into a villa in some suitable district with your own carriage. In Paris it would be somewhere near the Bois… or in St Cloud, perhaps, but in London I don’t know…’

‘St John’s Wood, I think,’ said Harriet, recalling the novels she had dipped into while doing her homework in the public library. ‘Somewhere near the Regent’s Park Canal. A Gothic villa with a wisteria in the garden.’ Her eyes grew bright at the thought that she might after all have a future as a kept woman, awaiting Rom’s visits twice a week in a violet tea-gown. No, that was greedy. Once a week. Once a fortnight , because the trains were dreadful from Stavely and the roads even worse. It was ridiculous of course. Isobel would not have met someone else — no one who had ever loved Rom could possibly stop — and a man married to a woman as beautiful as Isobel would scarcely trouble to travel to London to visit his mistress in St John’s Wood. Moreover, Rom, once he married, would be faithful, Harriet was sure of that. But the daydream had done her good and trying to work out how many days she would see him if he came every other week for, say, five years… wondering if that was what the pomegranate seeds had meant… she fell asleep.

In the morning there was an unexpected development. Grisha and some of the Russian girls, going down before breakfast to meet the Bernadetto as she docked, returned to say that Olga had not been aboard, nor had the crew any idea of her whereabouts.

‘It is extremely strange,’ said Grisha, returning to the Metropole dining-room where the rest of the company sat at breakfast. He turned to Harriet. ‘Monsieur Verney sent some men to fetch her from the Gregory , I think?’

‘Yes, he did,’ said Harriet, and beamed at the ballet master because he had pronounced Rom’s name. ‘I’m sure of it.’

Grisha shrugged. ‘I suppose she has decided to wait for us in Belem,’ he said, and instructed Tatiana to pack Olga’s things and see that they were put on board.

The rest of the day passed in a bustle of last-minute shopping, packing, promises and plans. Harriet bought farewell presents for her friends: a deceptively demure nightgown for Marie-Claude and a blouse for Kirstin. She also bought a record of ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ for the Indians and found for Rom, in a dusty shop full of maps and oleographs, a book with pictures of the tapestry of ‘The Lady and the Unicorn’ — a wonderful stroke of luck, for above the golden-haired virgin and her obedient beast were embroidered the words: Mon seul désir — and these were the words which Rom had whispered to her two nights ago as she lay in his arms.

By the time she returned with her purchases, the preparations for Simonova’s removal were already under way. Two orderlies were coming from the hospital to lift her on to the stretcher and carry her to the ambulance; a nurse had just arrived and was sterilising her instruments in the kitchens prior to giving the ballerina the pain-killing injection which would enable her to endure the unavoidable jolting as they drove to the quay.

Under these circumstances Harriet would not have attempted to seek out Dubrov, to whom she had not yet said goodbye, but as she made her way across the hall she was waylaid by the harassed stage manager. ‘If you’re going past his door, could you give this to the boss? It’s just arrived at the theatre, sent on by the London office, and looks as though it might be important,’ he said, handing Harriet a letter with a Russian stamp and a massive and elaborate seal.

Dubrov was not in his own room, but Harriet’s quiet knock brought him at once to Simonova’s door.

‘I came to bring this letter, Monsieur, it’s just arrived. And to say goodbye — and thank you.’

He put up a hand to pat her cheek. ‘There’s no need to thank me. You have worked hard and could have been—’ He paused, the blue eyes suddenly sharp, took the letter and quickly broke the seal. ‘Wait!’ he threw over his shoulder at Harriet, and carried the heavy embossed paper over to the window.

‘Well, what is it?’ came Simonova’s fretful voice from the bed.

Dubrov, however, was unable to answer. It was necessary for him to mop his eyes with his handkerchief several times before he could trust his voice. Then: ‘It is from St Petersburg,’ he said. ‘From the Maryinsky.’ Another sniff, another dab at his watering eyes… ‘From the director, the man who dismissed you.’

‘And?’

‘He asks… he invites you… to dance at a gala for the Romanov Tercentenary! To dance Giselle before the Tsar!’ Dubrov abandoned the effort to check his tears, which now ran unhampered down his cheeks. ‘The honour! The incredible honour! Now, at the end of your career! We will keep it always, this letter. We will frame it in gold and hang it on the wall and when we sit in our armchairs in Cremorra—’

‘Armchairs? Cremorra?’ Simonova’s voice pierced like a gimlet. ‘What are you talking about? Give the letter to me!’ And to Harriet, tactfully edging her way out of the door: ‘You will remain!’

The letter which caused Dubrov to weep, overcome by pride and the tragedy of its timing, had an entirely different effect on Simonova.

‘Let me see,’ she murmured in a businesslike manner. ‘March the fifteenth… Nine months. Ha! Only two other ballerinas are invited — that will teach Pavlova to desert her native land. Think of it — all Russia will be en fête for the Tercentenary! The Grand Duke Andrei asked for me specially — he remembered!’

‘Ah, dousha , the honour! The distinction of having been asked!’ Dubrov was still awash with emotion. ‘We shall never forget that you were invited… that you could have—’

‘What do you mean, could have? Why are you always so pessimistic? Just because I have wrenched my back a little — I have done it a hundred times — and I have told you already that I will not mulch! Now let me see, we will go to Paris, yes, but not to that idiot specialist — to buy clothes! There will be a reception at the Winter Palace without a doubt and several balls. Then straight on to Petersburg to work with Gerdt. No performances, just work, work, work!’

‘Galina, I beg of you, be reasonable.’ Dubrov was aghast at this new turn of events. ‘You are severely injured. The doctors—’

‘The doctors? Do you think I care about the doctors?’ This woman who had not lifted her head from the pillow since her fall had now propped herself up on her elbow and was — incredibly — sitting up! ‘Send Grisha to me at once, and the masseuse. Chort! I’m as weak as a kitten and no wonder, lying here for two weeks. After Gerdt I shall work with Cecchetti on my port de bras , and if he’s with Diaghilev he must leave him and come to me.’ She had pushed back the sheet, put her long, pale legs to the ground. ‘Ah, to see Masha Repin’s face when she hears of this!’

‘Your back!’ cried Dubrov in desperation, rushing forward, for she was pulling herself up on the arms of the chair, was actually standing !

‘We will no longer discuss my back,’ said Simonova regally. Still needing the support of the chair she showed, however, no signs of serious discomfort. ‘For heaven’s sake, stop fussing, Sasha, and take that stupid stretcher away. How the devil am I supposed to move with it lying there? Now listen, you must immediately send a cable to the Maryinsky to say we accept. And then come back here quickly, because I have had a new idea about the Mad Scene. You know where I bourrée forward and pretend to pick up the flower? Well, I think it would be better if—’ She broke off, her charcoal eyes now focused on Harriet. ‘Ha!’ she said. ‘Those shoes I gave you yesterday — there is a lot of wear in them still and they are perfectly broken in. Go and get them, please. At once!’