Flight of the Swan Read Online Free

with her. She bourréed next to me during Chopin’s lyric arpeggios, and suddenly she leaned forward during an arabesque and her hand brushed my breast. It could have been unwittingly, but I felt a shudder of delight rush through me. Madame always made it a point not to touch any of us or let us touch her; it was part of her discipline when she gave classes. She usually carried a slender baton in her hand and would introduce it under an arm or a leg when it needed lifting, or tap us lightly in the back if our posture was deficient. To touch her on the shoulder or attract her attention plucking at her dress would have been considered a sacrilege. Her inaccessibility was part of her mystique, and we accepted the taboo without questioning it. For some reason, on the day of our rehearsal she broke her own rule.
    The caress surprised me. Maybe I was wrong all along and Madame could love me! But I didn’t say anything. I told myself I had to be careful, or I could end up like Maria Volkonsky.

4
    F OR MR. DANDRÉ BALLET was a business venture like any other. He never closed a deal with an impresario without first demanding half the money on the table as an advance. Even with Bracale we were never at his mercy, because Dandré demanded a good amount for our performances. Madame, on the other hand, never danced simply for the money. She wanted to give everyone the opportunity to enjoy the beauty of ballet, even those who had no money.
    We were living in troubled times. More than ten million people had died in Europe and twice that many were wounded. Sixty million men served in the various armies, and now, with the United States having recently joined the conflict, there would be even more devastation. Europe was being torn apart, but compassion and love were still possible; that was Madame’s message. The Dying Swan , the solo piece that made her famous all over the world, was a prayer for peace. Our beloved St. Petersburg was the swan, torn by strife and civil war, its churches smoldering to heaven, its golden domes now sheltering atheists who murdered priests as they tended to the devout.
    Madame’s relationship with Dandré was, after twelve years of living together, understandably more filial than anything else. Desire had long since run its course between them. I was sure of that, because I put clean sheets on their separate beds every morning. Dandré understood Madame and was content to serve her because he was making a good profit. He was like a huge punching bag, absorbing her explosions and always bouncing back when the crisis she had provoked was over. Dandré was one-dimensional, what you saw was what you got. Which was more than you could say of Madame.
    Madame would say to her followers: “If you want to be an artist you must remain free.” And at other times: “When you dance, you must dance for someone. Art is always a reaching out, an effort to meld with the beloved.” How to interpret these blatant contradictions? During our tours, the girls often met rich, good-looking gentlemen who became infatuated with them and came knocking at their dressing-room doors. (Not me—I never considered leaving Madame for a minute; she was my sun and moon; my North Star.) If the gentlemen offered them diamonds or pearls it was fine; but if they came asking for the girls’ hands in marriage, Madame would lock herself up in her room and begin to smash cups and saucers against the wall. Most of the girls didn’t have the courage to cause her so much pain, and they would break off their engagements. One day she asked us to kneel before the holy icon of the Virgin of Vladimir and made us take a vow: “A career and love are impossible to reconcile. That’s why, when you dance, you must never give yourself to anyone,” she told us, as she lit a ruby-red votive candle in front of the Virgin with a long taper. And we kissed the holy icon and gave her our promise.
    Had Madame ever fallen in love? Did she know what such a promise