Words were exchanged between Prince Naryskin and his son. It seemed that Prince Sergei was being directed to take his fiancee in hand. An anticipatory thrill set the assembly abuzz, for it was clearly felt that to do so would provoke further, perhaps greater, scandal.
All eyes were turned on Prince Sergei as he approached Yelena.
His words to her were not heard. But Yelena’s laughter, the brittle laughter that was her last defence, crashed over them all like splinters from a fallen chandelier. For a second time, she had silenced the room. Those who had predicted a greater scandal were proven right. There was in this laughter, in its abandon, something far more shocking than a mere physical blow. What made it seem more callous still was that Prince Sergei was known to have a pronounced stammer.
Maria’s impressions of what happened next were confused. She was certain that she saw the second blow, the one that fell with a dull knuckle-crack across Yelena’s cheekbone; certain too that she heard Yelena’s scream, and her terrible masochistic cry to Sergei: ‘Yes, beat me! Beat me like a dog!’
But all this was engulfed in a greater commotion. Everything seemed to be happening in a dream, one pervaded by an atmosphere of violence and foreboding. Yelena, Prince Sergei and the officer Mizinchikov, vanished, to be replaced by other, even stranger figures. The entrance of the Tsarevich was announced. The next in line to the throne strode into the room with a premeditated swagger, but his over-bullish stare communicated an aggressive uncertainty, and although he was physically imposing, he possessed bulk rather than stature. He had the air of a man destined to be out of his depth. Maria recognised the sleek, watchful man accompanying him as Count Dmitri Andreevich Tolstoy, the Minister of National Enlightenment. His greater natural authority served only to diminish the Tsarevich further.
The unseemly hysteria of the gathering was turned upon the new arrivals. They, of course, could not comprehend what they had walked into; their confusion quickly turned to rage. Prince Naryskin ran over to soothe their affronted dignity, which only seemed to be aggravated by his intervention. For some reason, Maria felt herself to be the object of the three men’s indignant gaze, as if she had been singled out for blame.
All at once, the press of people eased around her, as if it had been universally agreed to keep her at a distance. Aglaia Filippovna was nowhere to be seen. Maria did, however, at last catch sight of Apollon Mikhailovich. He was standing to one side with a preoccupied air, dressed uncharacteristically in a swallow-tailed evening suit. As always, the sight of him was calming. He seemed untouched by what had happened, as he teased away at his great shovel beard. Apollon Mikhailovich Perkhotin had a marvellous ability to cut himself off from his surroundings and remain focused on his mental processes. Perhaps he was preparing himself for his role in the forthcoming entertainments: he had taken it upon himself to open the proceedings with an extemporised talk on educational theory, which she had every confidence would be far more entertaining than the subject promised.
Prince Naryskin continued to keep her in his sight. Then, with a brisk nod in answer to something Count Tolstoy had said, he began to move towards her. All his earlier agitation seemed to have left him. His steps were precise and measured. She felt each sharp click of his heels resonate in the base of her skull.
‘Maria Petrovna, I suggest we begin the evening’s entertainment immediately.’
She nodded her agreement with relief. Maria sensed a kind of panic take hold of some of those around her. Performers suddenly remembered themselves and dashed off backstage.This heightened the excitement of the others, prompting an unnecessary crush at the door leading to the theatre. Voices were raised.
Maria watched with dismay.
‘Really!’ said Prince Naryskin, his voice squeezed with exasperation. ‘What is the matter with these people? They are behaving like children.’
‘My children do not behave so badly,’ said Maria.
‘You have children?’
‘The children at my school.’
This reference to the cause they were supporting did nothing to improve the prince’s temper. ‘This is what happens when you begin to educate the labouring classes.’
‘With the greatest respect, Nikolai Sergeevich, I do not follow your argument. There are no members of the labouring classes here tonight.’
‘But there are the classless ones, aren’t there? The raznochintsy. The new intelligentsia. They do not know how to behave.’
‘I do not believe what you say is true. There may be some among the music students and literary gentlemen who conform to your description. But as for the audience, I would say that they are from good families, for the most part.’
‘There are Jews here. Financiers and industrialists. And their whores. New money.’ The prince had his eye on the man Aglaia Filippovna had identified as Bakhmutov.
‘Mr Bakhmutov is Jewish?’ Maria watched as Bakhmutov approached the Tsarevich and Count Tolstoy. He addressed them with ease, familiarity even. They seemed to regard him with polite suspicion.
Maria glanced at the prince, his face touched by distaste. ‘He may have converted to Orthodoxy but that was purely pragmatic. You might even call it a business decision. Like all his decisions.’ The hint was edged with a precise bitterness. ‘Where has that woman gone now?’
Maria remained neutrally silent.
‘Let us hope that she has taken herself out of our lives for good.’
Her gaze spun instinctively towards where Apollon Mikhailovich had been standing but he was gone.
*
The theatre in the Naryskin Palace was decorated in a full-blown baroque style, giving it a comically stunted appearance. The tiny auditorium simply wasn’t up to bearing the rampant encrustations of gilt mouldings and marble reliefs. One man, presumably never having set foot in it before, was moved to ridicule, declaring loudly: ‘It’s like a dwarf in a cavalry officer’s uniform!’ Maria thought of Mizinchikov. The remark seemed intended to bring the earlier incident to mind. It provoked widespread and careless hilarity.
Four boxes projected on either side, almost meeting in the middle. Maria couldn’t help thinking that the theatre seats ought to have been scaled down. This was a toy theatre. Surely it was meant for children to sit in? The plush, adult-sized seats seemed intrusive, an effect that was exacerbated when they were occupied. The theatre made giants of them all.
The proscenium arch was oddly out of proportion. It was imposingly high, but severely narrow, as though squeezed in. The stage was concealed by layers of artfully hung crimson drapes, which on closer examination turned out to be a trompe l’oeil design painted onto a screen. Real drapes, of a similar colour, hung around the boxes, partially shielding the occupants from view. The impression made was of a multiple of stages, each capable of holding its own drama. Looking up, Maria saw a roundel painted into the white and gold ceiling, a depiction of putti looking down on the audience, as if they themselves were the spectacle.
The musicians hurriedly took their places in the cramped pit, keeping their elbows in and their instruments high. The volubility of the audience increased at their arrival. There was a brutal edge to the anticipation, which was not so much for them as for what would come after. No one said as much, but they were all waiting for the next appearance of Yelena Filippovna. The sound of the instruments tuning, the wavering note becoming quickly firmer, failed to quell the chatter. A few among the audience, Maria included, hissed for silence. The band waited to begin, their faces incredulous. Accepting that absolute silence was an impossible ideal, they took the decision to impose their music on the audience, whether they would have it or no. They played loudly and wilfully, which was precisely what was needed. Something in the music, something new and until now unheard, startled the audience into listening. As the band played, the painted screen covering the stage was raised upon an arrangement of real drapes identical to those depicted on the rising screen. Maria felt that perhaps the mood was turning and the evening might be salvaged. When the piece was over, the applause was slow in coming, as if the audience needed a moment to absorb what they had heard, but when it came it was enthusiastic, excessively so.