Eva Ibbotson

Marie-Claude deliberated. “Perhaps if you undid the top button… and pushed up the sleeves, comme ça?”

“But I’m only going to bed.”

Kirstin, who had been rubbing methylated spirit into her slender feet, pushed back her straight pale hair and exchanged a glance with Marie-Claude.

“Only?” said Marie-Claude, speaking for them both.

But long after the other two were asleep Harriet, the top button of her nightdress obediently undone, sat up on her mattress recalling the day. She had escaped but she was not yet safe; a knock at the door could mean a policeman, recapture and the misery of a life which, now she had tasted freedom, she felt she could not endure again. Yet presently she found her fingers involuntarily marking out the steps in the snowflake waltz they had gone through at the last rehearsal, using instinctively the curious shorthand—a kind of deaf-and-dumb language—that dancers employ… And waking at dawn, she rose and in the deserted dining room of the hostel, among the stacked chairs, she practiced.

She practiced on the top of the Number 15 bus going to the theater, marking the steps with the tips of her toes beneath the seat; she practiced in the tea-shop to which the others dragged her, hanging on to the edge of the table until her doughnut came. She danced with her bruised and bleeding feet, with her fingers, inside her head… and on the third day Dubrov, encountering her as she walked backward up the iron stairs to the dressing room in order to ease the aching muscles of her calves, smiled happily. He liked that; he liked it very much.

There was everything to learn: how to put on makeup, how to allow space at rehearsal between herself and the others which later the costumes would fill… How to anoint and darn and squeeze and thump the ballet shoes which seemed to be as often on the girls’ hands as on their feet.

But it was class that made Harriet into a dancer. Class, that unfailing daily torture to which dancers come on every morning of their lives. Class in freezing rehearsal rooms, in foyers, on board ocean liners carrying them across the sea. Class with streaming colds, class after their lovers have jilted them, on days when women would give anything to be spared… Class for the prima ballerina assoluta as for the youngest member of the corps.

It was in class that Harriet saw what it cost Lubotsky, the aging character dancer, to get his muscles to warm up—yet saw too the marvelous authority he still carried. It was in class that she saw Maximov—the darling of the gallery—sweating, exhausted, crying out with the pain of a wrenched muscle… saw the grace and spirituality emanating from little Olga Narukov who ten minutes earlier had pinched a boy from the corps so as to draw blood.

And if Harriet watched the others, there were those who watched her. For even in class there are those who dance the notes and those who dance the music and, “A pity, yes, definitely a pity,” said Grisha with increasing emphasis when Dubrov inquired after his latest swan.

It was not until two days before they sailed that Harriet saw the prima ballerina of the Company, for Simonova had been attending class privately with an old Russian émigré in Pimlico. She arrived for her first rehearsal with the corps on a gray drizzly morning, sweeping onto the stage in a ragged practice tutu set off by purple leg-warmers with holes in them. Her cheek was swollen from the ministrations of her dentist, her complexion was sallow; a muffler of the kind that old gentlemen wear when running along tow-paths during boat races concealed her throat. Beneath her widow’s peak, with the center parting that is the hallmark of the ballerina, her black eyes with their pouches of exhaustion, her high-bridged nose and thin mouth gave her the look of a distempered bird of prey.

To Harriet, all this was quite irrelevant. “She is a true artiste,” Madame Lavarre had said and Harriet’s eyes shone with veneration.

Simonova raked the assembled girls and her eyes fell on Harriet.

“Who is that?” she demanded in her guttural and alarming voice.

Dubrov, who knew that she knew perfectly well who it was, introduced Harriet who curtseyed deeply. For a moment they gazed at each other—the ardent, worshipping girl and the weary, autocratic woman. Then, “There is nothing in the least unusual about her ears,” pronounced Simonova in Russian, to the mystification of those who spoke the language.

She went over to the piano, unwound her muffler, handed her medallion of St. Demetrius to the accompanist—and raised her eyebrows at Grisha.

“Act One, Giselle,” he confirmed. “From the entry of the hunting party…”

Everyone had expected Simonova simply to mark her steps. This was a routine rehearsal to give the corps their positions in relation to hers; she would rehearse seriously with Maximov later.