Encore by Monique Raphel High Page B

education. Other men had wives such as this one stashed away in elegant palaces on the Quays—and surely this little rodent of a girl would hardly be bold enough to impose her own predilections upon the furnishings, or bemoan his absences. Still, his entire being shied away from Marguerite Stepanovna, and it was with physical
    relief that he stepped outside the Briansky mansion and into his waiting victoria. He began to hum an aria from La Traviata, then stopped suddenly. He had committed himself to escorting her to hear the opera, and he would choke rather than bring the agony closer by association.
    He was going to meet Walter Nouvel and the painter Leon Bakst, friends who had been associated with the Diaghilev projects for many years. Boris had known Nouvel during their adolescence at the May Gymnasium, although the other man was five years his senior. Bakst had joined the group later. He was a red-haired, elegantly attired Jew who had been born “Rosenberg” and had adopted the name of his maternal grandfather; Bakst was nearsighted, and his small mustache matched the high color of his hair. His background was very different from that of any other member of the group. He did not possess a university degree, but not because, like Diaghilev, he had abandoned his studies; indeed, he had never begun them. As a Jew, he had not known the easy, aristocratic life of his companions during early youth; his social class was rooted in commerce. Young Pierre Riazhin had most attached himself to Bakst; not only did he admire the vivid tone of his work, but having begun as an outsider, too, Pierre felt drawn to him.
    They were to have met at Boris’s apartment, and now, because of Marguerite, he was late. Ivan had settled his friends in the sitting room, with a plentiful supply of tea and cakes. He joined them. Bakst had brought some samples of the gold brocades with which he planned to hang the icons in the Salon d’Automne of the Grand Palais during the exhibition of two hundred years of Russian painting, concerning which project Diaghilev was in Paris making further arrangements. “And is Pierre going to contribute anything?” Boris asked nonchalantly.
    â€œSeveral pieces,” Bakst replied. “One is most interesting—of a ballerina. Have you seen it? Nothing so dark as Degas’s works. This one is full of joy, incandescent. I have never heard of this girl, but after seeing Pierre’s rendition, I am much intrigued.”
    Boris regarded his friend with a level gaze. “I dare say,” he commented dryly. He was somewhat shocked: Pierre had never shown him the canvas in question. Yet Pierre always came to him first. If this was to hang at the Paris exhibition, then surely
    the boy must have known that Boris would see it then. Why then, and not now?
    Walter Nouvel, who was most knowledgeable in music and had straight, intelligent features, now said: “Boris, there is a slight problem. Serge’s calculations fell somewhat short, and the patrons—Grand-Duke Vladimir and the others—have already clinched their various contributions. We shall need a loan.”
    â€œOh? A Kussov loan, I presume?”
    Nouvel smiled. “We have all given what we could. You have more at your disposal than the rest of us.”
    Boris frowned. “But at this moment, I have less than usual. Damn it, Walter, you know it isn’t a loan that’s needed, but a donation. Do you remember my sister Nina’s wedding the Christmas of ‘04? Even the Tsar’s own marriage was no more extravagant. In any case, my own yearly income will be reduced because of it. I don’t begrudge my sister anything, of course, but Father would not understand the importance of our needs here.”

    M arguerite wore a cloak of pale blue velvet lined with white ermine, its hood covering her small head beneath its pompadour. It was really too cold for a walk, but Boris seemed to need the brisk