The Model Read online

  Bábaba had at least noticed their costume, where Elena’s Father probably had not. However, it was the first time, as far as Elena could remember, that anyone had specifically said she was too old for anything. Bábaba had been the first to break all important news since Elena had occupied the cramped cot.

  “I had to be rescued,” explained Elena, who always told Bábaba everything, or nearly everything. “We’re prepared to change now.”

  “I have nothing to change into,” said Anna Ismailova, who was quite the wrong shape for any of Elena’s dresses, and the wrong coloring also, being darker than a prune, whereas Elena was fair as an apple blossom.

  “I’m so sorry,” said Elena.

  “I don’t mind,” said Anna, smiling.

  “You’re both too old for jokes,” said Bábaba calmly, and without ceasing to patch for a single moment.

  All the while Tosha’s hand had been flitting from one pocket or another to her mouth. Her legs must have been cold inside her dress, which was not very thick, but now she rose upon them, and approached the young warriors with two papier mâché pokes in each of her hands, even though her hands were very small.

  “Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Rhubarb. Metheglin.”

  Elena selected one of each, but Anna accepted only the nutmeg, and that for the sake of former times, even though her own former times had not been passed in this particular house.

  All through the evening meal (how else could one define it?), Elena’s Father continued to speak of the troubles that had descended upon all of them. Again, Anna Ismailova seemed to be included, perhaps out of courtesy to a guest. Even the foodstuffs were of the kind most readily obtainable, and often of the kind most easily prepared. Do what she could, Elena could not but endure the most detailed recollections of the fare in the house of the woman called Angel. After all, she had consumed so much of it. Had it been only four nights previously?

  “Who cooked this, Papa?” enquired Elena, extending her fork, and rudely interrupting her Father’s pensées, even though they must have been all the more difficult for him to hold on to, in that one by no means descended logically or naturally from another.

  Papa broke off, which previously he had seemed unable to do. He began to arrange his posture as if for conventional intercourse. He drew in some new breath.

  Elena pressed on. “It can’t have been Bábaba, Papa?” She twirled her fork like a dervish.

  But all her distracted Father said was, “Eat what is put before you, Elena. Many would find it luxury. Soon there will be nothing.”

  He could identify Elena more easily now that she was again wearing a mended dress.

  He appealed with agonized eyes to Anna Ismailova, the guest in the house.

  “I find everything perfectly de rigueur, sir,” responded Anna gravely.

  “You must share my room,” said Elena, clutching Anna’s arm, “or I shall be frightened.” They were standing in pitch darkness at the foot of the staircase. Elena’s Father had removed the one lighted lamp and in his study could be heard circling round it like a moth.

  Moreover, no particular room had been offered to Anna Ismailova. Bábaba seemed to have relinquished control over everything except the patching and hemming. The house had come to illustrate the theories of the Anarchists. Madame’s obsession with hygiene had become quite passé and irrelevant.

  “I’m not sure that I can rescue you a second time, Elena Andreievna,” said Anna, still gravely, in the dark.

  “What nonsense!” cried Elena. “Of course you can. Every time.”

  They stumbled upstairs, hitting things with their feet and hands. Anna was momentarily involved with a device that had no business to be there: it was used by Gregori and Boris for catching kingfishers.

  Elena lighted her bedroom lamp, as she often did, from the short, fat candle before the icon, though it was supposed to be an impropriety.

  “Now I should like to see the model,” said Anna Ismailova.

  Elena hesitated for several seconds.

  She might have reached another turning point or revelation. But the suggestion had not come as a complete surprise.

  She pulled herself together, chilly though the room was. “So should I,” she said. “I’ve never set eyes upon it in the dark.”

  Elena lighted the way as best she could up the further stairs, much as the black pages lighted the officers to the higher boxes.

  Even outside the closed attic door, the two of them could hear the hubbub.

  “Anna Ismailova,” said Elena in a voice which, though very low, was far now from being cold or new. “Anna Ismailova, it’s going to be gorgeous.” She did not even seize hold of Anna, but, for a moment, stood proudly, solitarily, with arms upraised, like the arms of the Woman from Samothrace, though when that Woman had been younger.

  Then Elena threw back the door, causing a thump that would never have been endured below in the old days, certainly not by Bábaba, let alone by Gregori and Boris, though least of all by Elena’s Father as he used to be.

  An improvised workroom was full of people seated at different levels upon fauteuils. Even from the back, one could see how well dressed they all were: some of the ladies wore aigrettes, which they had not removed or abbreviated. At the directions of the Imperial Chamberlain upon such matters these ladies merely laughed delightfully on almost all occasions.

  The orchestra was tinkling and rippling delightfully too, and Elena saw at once, even from the rear, that it was Irash who conducted it. There were few limits to that man’s capacities: had not Lexi said something of the kind? Elena also saw that seated not in the Imperial Box (which was apparently unoccupied), but in the sinister box opposite, almost equal in dimensions, though of course not quite equal, was Angel, aureoled by her semi-simian footmen, some dangling from the cartouches. Elena knew at once, if only by intuition, that Angel always, always occupied the box opposite the Imperial Box. Elena unobtrusively crossed herself.

  The blue curtain must have gone up some time ago because a few of the gentlemen in the audience were breathing heavily; some of them young gentlemen. Perhaps they were among those more interested in the opera than in the ballet, as many are. Nonetheless the coryphées looked convincing, hardly at all wooden. At the center of it all the ballerina, in her red dress, spun round and round, without ceasing, upon the unassailable top pinnacle of her sunbeam fame: la Gitana to the life. At first glance, only the scenery was in need of much further thought.

  “It’s still beautiful, Anna Ismailova,” gasped Elena. “It’s still beautiful.”

  “In any case, it’s a beautiful theory, Elena Andreievna,” said Anna, smiling academically but not unkindly.

  And, in the morning, Anna was simply not there. It was as when Frau Barger von Meyrendorff had failed to appear upon her hour, having been whisked out of the house before midnight by Elena’s Mamma.

  Such was the breakdown and disorder in the establishment that it was Elena’s Father himself who announced to Elena at about half-past eleven in the morning that a gentleman wished to see her. He was awaiting her in her Father’s study.

  “It’s not Count Wilmarazov-Totin?” Elena asked at once, before taking one step. She was keeping her voice down, and diligently remustering all her forces. Already she had had to hunt about for her own breakfast. The guinea fowls had either been killed and eaten, or, in most cases, had escaped from the slaughterers and, it was to be hoped, found someone else to look after them.

  Elena’s Father simply shook his head, with the saddest smile imaginable. Needless to say, he should long ago have been at work and properly in pursuit of the sums properly owing.

  “It’s not—?” asked Elena with a gulp.

  Again her Father shook his head, this time more seriously. Would Elena ever know with any precision what had happened to the entity in both their minds? She hoped not.

  She followed her Father into his den. The room looked more downtrodden every time she entered it.

  “This is Count Oplotkin,” s
aid her Father. A middle-aged gentleman in a long frock coat rose from the Sportsman’s Chair. Elena curtsied.

  “You know who he is?” inquired her Father.

  Elena shook her head. His very fair hair would have emitted attractive gleams in the light from the window, if it had been a different time of year.

  “I am from St. Petersburg,” said the gentleman. “From the Imperial Opera.”

  “You see!” said Elena’s Father, drawing himself together like a jack-in-the-box about to expel itself.

  “I have a proposal to make to you, mademoiselle.”

  “A proposal?” asked Elena doubtfully.

  “You must not expect too much.”

  “Of course not,” said Elena, without really thinking, because she was so relieved by the implication of the words as to the type of proposal.

  “We should be prepared to consider training you as a character dancer.”

  “There!” cried Elena’s Father, and began to pace elastically up and down, and around all obstacles.

  “What is that?” asked Elena. Oddly enough, all three of them were still in one way or another on their feet.

  “I must tell you quite plainly that it is not to be a ballerina, mademoiselle.”

  “Oh!” cried Elena.

  “Being a ballerina is more than just a matter of what one looks like.”

  Elena was unsure whether she ought to bow her head or raise it.

  “You are too old to start the training in that direction,” said Count Oplotkin primly, but with a gentle smile beneath his trimmed gray moustache.

  It was the second time Elena had been debarred as too old. Of course, it was bound to happen more and more often. Until—one day—in the end—

  “Are you sure?” she asked.

  “I am very sure, mademoiselle. But our offer remains a handsome one. Most of the character dancers are dancers who are no longer capable of anything else. We seldom provide a special training for character dancers. You might be wise to accept my proposal.”

  “Accept the Count’s proposal!” echoed and enjoined Elena’s Father from somewhere in the corner where the waste-basket stood. It was wonderful to see him still so agile.

  “I should like time to think,” said Elena, exactly as she had always been told to say, except by her Father and Mother.

  “I have to go, mademoiselle, and I must tell you that the opportunity may not recur. It almost certainly will not.”

  Elena collapsed onto the divan which had been brought from Peshawar. “May I sit down?” she said.

  But the Count remained standing, her Father pacing.

  “You will not lose touch with home, Elena,” said her Father. “Indeed, it will never be possible or acceptable for you to do that.” He accompanied the professional phraseology by jingling the coins in his pocket, such as they were. He was near the tiger skin, now so faded that it might well have been the skin of a snow leopard or a yeti.

  “It is right for me to tell you,” said the Count, “that your training will be under the direction of Irash, who is the greatest character dancer in the world. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

  “Irash!” exclaimed Elena’s Father, who plainly had not.

  Elena was very uncertain as to how far the Count’s statement ought to settle the matter. But she found that she had sprung to her feet, defying all complexities. She had heard Irash’s laugh, as if in the next room.

  She nodded. She suspected that the Count had asked his question a little in irony, a usage to which she was still less habituated than Anna Ismailova.

  “Life is far too short for uncertainty of any kind,” admonished Count Oplotkin in his gentle voice, again smiling his gentle smile, and amiably bristling his gentle mustachio.

  “Then I accept,” said Elena. “Thank you.”

  “Thank God!” said Elena’s Father, though less loudly than he usually said such things.

  The Count gallantly shook Elena by the hand, bowing gently over it. Elena could see how fond every single girl in the ballet must be of him.

  “I shall send directions,” he said. “Very soon. See to it that you keep up your full strength.”

  Only when the Count had gone did Elena’s Father reveal that Count Wilmarazov-Totin, after being distraught for days, had suddenly destroyed himself, and that Rurik had been carried off, once and for all, though still without details vouchsafed, at least to Elena.

  Farewells again! And now for longer! Or probably so!

  O poor Silke! Never would Elena forget him altogether!

  Never does anyone truly forget anyone or anything before the world has started its smudging!

  There was a little more time on this occasion, and Tatiana’s Mother offered a grand party with colored lights, snapdragon, ices, indoor fireworks, and a play in which everyone took part, entirely without preparation. Mademoiselle Olivier-Page had been asked to speak for all because she did it so purely and exquisitely, with never a word out of place. Clémence looked so proud of her elegant aunt that it was as if a nimbus shone round her small coiffure. Outside, the snow fell always.

  Then it was for Elena to speak.

  “I love you all,” she said. “I shall love you till I die. Remember that I shall never be a ballerina. I shall be dancing only hags and goblins, and later perhaps the Brockengespenst.” It was a second German word she seemed to have picked up somewhere.

  She held out both hands, and there was something in them.

  “I give you this book,” she said. “Remember me when you turn the pages.”

  Tatiana’s Mother accepted Baron de la Touque’s work on behalf of them all, in order that she might decide whether it was really suitable for everyone, especially as it had a bright green cover and a crimson silk marker and a wasp-colored band at the top edge.

  All present clapped for a minute or two, and Ismene shouted out “We shall come and see you”; Clémence, usually the most fluent, being still enraptured.

  No one had mentioned Anna Ismailova; not Tatiana, not Tatiana’s Mother, not Elena.

  In the end there was dancing: perfectly ordinary dancing, of course. Mikhail came in specially to play the balalaika, and brought his friend Tram, who possessed an accordion from Italy. Tatiana’s Mother brought out a tambourine from Spain. A friend had been given it on her lune de miel. Now Tatiana rattled it about as if it had been she who was la Gitana.

  The next morning Elena heard from Count Oplotkin’s secretary about the coach that would come to collect her. She knew that it would be a very long journey, but she knew also that the railroad had been torn up for more than two versts by Nihilists, taking advantage of the weather.

  She set out for the morning in no particular direction with Mikhail by her side. She was dressed in her own boots and furs, neither new nor à la mode.

  Mikhail gazed around. “You would never have reached Smorevsk, Elena Andreievna, if Prince Popelevski had not found you.”

  “Of course I should, Mikhail Mikhailovitch. It was destined. A bear I met told me so.” She was already falling into the way of such exaggerations. They everywhere are to be expected in and around a theater.

  “We said we were destined for one another, Elena Andreievna.”

  “I expect we still are, Mikhail Mikhailovitch.”

  “For a second time, you are going away without me.”

  “I may come back.”

  “And then, the third time, we go together?”

  “I am sure it will be like that, Mikhail Mikhailovitch. I am certain of it.”

  The freezing vapor that enclosed all things made playing upon a stringed instrument difficult, or even dangerous, so that once again Mikhail was without his balalaika. Even unaccompanied singing had its pulmonary perils, but Mikhail stood out for a stanza or two, unregarding.

  Adieu is the bitterest word there is.

  Come back to me.

  The trees, the flowers, the stones, all weep.

  Come back to me.

  Adieu is a word of mystery t
o us all.

  Come back to me.

  Such answer as there is, lies in your heart.

  Come back to me.

  Adieu is the loveliest word there is,

  When thought is not given to what it means.

  I think, I feel, I suffer, and I fail.

  Come back to me.

  In the boundless snowy waste, the two of them were never once at a loss. Mikhail had to return a little early because his Mother was exalted, and there was no one else to help his Father in their tiny house.

  The coach was calling very early the next day. The legs of dancers have far to go. Elena had told Mikhail, but no one else, as she had no wish to make things into a burden. Mikhail, therefore, was the only one to wave. He also doffed his worn fur hat as she passed in the snow, which she found a trifle chilling in more than the literal sense.

  However, within the coach everything possible was present that might keep her warm. She waved back to Mikhail, no longer as a ballerina, but assuredly as what the Baron called a real woman. The red dress was in her Mother’s reticule at her feet, even though it might seldom be needed.

  She observed that only just outside the small town the air was full of double-headed eagles, difficult birds to number.

  Copyright

  This ebook edition first published in 2014

  by Faber and Faber Ltd

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  All rights reserved

  © The Estate of Robert Aickman, 1987

  The right of Robert Aickman to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly