Granny Dan

“But Nikolai, you are married,” she said, with tears in her eyes, and a look of sorrow. “We cannot do this. We must not … we must forget it….”

“I am not married, except in name. You know that, even from the little I have told you. Surely, you must have sensed it. I have never done anything like this before. … I swear it … you are the first woman I have ever loved. I'm not sure Marie and I ever loved each other. Not like this. And certainly not now. Danina, I swear to you … she hates me.”

“Perhaps you're wrong, perhaps you do not truly understand her feelings, or her unhappi-ness being here in Russia. Perhaps you should move to England with her.” She was pacing now, and looking agitated and distraught, and he was more than ever afraid to lose her. And then she turned to him, and said the words he feared the most, other than if she had said she didn't love him. But the moment she kissed him, he knew she did. She felt the same way that he did, although she was deathly afraid to admit it. “I must go back to St. Petersburg. You must let me. I cannot stay here.”

“You can't go back. You're not strong enough to live in that freezing barracks, or to dance again. You will not be well enough for months, you'll fall ill again. It could be disastrous for you.” He was near tears as he said it. “I beg you, don't leave here.” He couldn't bear the thought of her being far away now.

“I cannot be near you … we will both know now that we carry in our hearts a terrible secret, a dreadful sin, for which we will be punished.”

“I have already lived my punishment for fifteen years. You cannot condemn me to that life forever.”

“What are you saying to me?” Her eyes leapt and she covered her mouth with her hands, as though in horror at what he was proposing.

“I am saying I will do anything for you. I will leave my wife, my family…. Danina, I will do anything to be with you.”

“You must not do that, or even say it. I can't bear thinking of your doing something so terrible…. Nikolai, think of your children!” She was in tears as she said it, but so was he when he answered.

“I have thought of them a thousand times, every day, ever since I met you. But they are not babies anymore. They are twelve and fourteen, in a few years they will be grown men, and I cannot live with a woman I cannot bear for the rest of my life in their honor … nor forsake the only woman I have ever loved. Danina, don't run away, please … stay here with me … we will talk about it. … I will not do anything you don't want me to do. I promise.”

“Then you must not speak of this again. Ever. We must both forget you ever said it, if we can. I cannot be anything more to you than I am. Your life is here, with the Czar, and your family. Mine is at the ballet. I cannot give myself to you, I have no life to give you. My life belongs to the ballet, until I am too old to dance, and then I will give it to the children, like Madame Mark ova.”

“Are you telling me you must be a nun to be a dancer?” It was the first he had heard of it, although he knew she had never been in love, or been close to men, because she had said so in one of their many conversations.

“Madame Mark ova says that an impure life, a life of men, is distracting. One cannot be a great dancer if one wants to be a harlot.” She said it bluntly and he looked startled.

“I was hardly suggesting you be a harlot, Danina. I was telling you I love you, and want to marry you, if Marie will divorce me.”

“And I'm telling you I can't do it. I belong at the ballet. It is my life, it is all I know, it is what I was born to. And I will not let you destroy your life for me.”

“You were born to love, and be loved, as we all were, and to be surrounded by a husband and children who love you, not to dance in drafty halls, breaking your back and risking your health until you die, or are too old and crippled to serve any longer. You deserve more than that, and I want to give it to you.”

“But you cannot,” she said, sounding distressed again. “You don't have it to give. And what if Marie would not agree to divorce you?”

“She would be happy to go back to England. She would gladly pay for her freedom by agreeing to divorce me.”

“And the scandal? The Czar could no longer have you near his family, nor should he. You would be an outcast, a disgrace. I will not let you do that. You must forget me.” The tears ran down her face as she said it.

“I will forget everything we said tonight,” he said with difficulty, “if you promise you will stay here. I will never mention it again. You have my solemn promise.” A promise it nearly killed him to offer.