Encore by Monique Raphel High Read Free Book Online

There are so many interesting faces. ...”
    The other members of the party all followed Boris Kussov from the stall. But Pierre was not bored. He had not found the first act inspiring. Russian folk tales appealed to him far more than German and French, for, he thought, they possessed more passion and originality. The costumes of the party guests had upset him. They were too staid. He now sat with a small pad of paper and a pencil, both of which never left him, and started to sketch. He imagined settings, scenery, costumes, then strange faces from the stalls. He had become so preoccupied that a deep voice surprised him. “Where has Borya disappeared to?” a man asked.
    Pierre turned around and saw a tall, powerfully built man with black hair in which a single lock shone completely white. He was immaculately dressed and wore a monocle. “Boris Vassilievitch has gone to pay a call upon his sister, I believe,” Pierre said. He stood up awkwardly.
    â€œAh. I am Serge Pavlovitch Diaghilev. Why Boris wanted me to join him tonight is beyond me. I’ve seen a dozen Nutcrackers, and Teliakovsky’s productions are in the worst possible taste. Tell me, who are you?”
    â€œPierre Riazhin. I—am a guest of Boris Vassilievitch. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.” Pierre regarded the other with a mixture of awe and pride. So this was Diaghilev, who led the group of artists known as the World of Art committee, named after the periodical which they had produced several years before. Diaghilev was a controversial man, a dilettante, a master of no single art yet able to pick out great artists in all fields. An opinionated man, he was the sworn enemy of Teliakovsky, director of the Imperial Theatres. Some said that he, not Teliakovsky, should be holding this position. Pierre had wanted to meet him almost more than he had wished to meet Leon Bakst and Constantin Somov, painters whom he admired and who were also part of the group to which Boris belonged. It was Diaghilev who welded all these artists together. Boris had been dangling the promise of this meeting before Pierre as though it were a golden apple to be earned: Though how Pierre was supposed to earn it, he had still not discovered. Boris was an enigma for the young Caucasian.
    A thin young man had entered behind Diaghilev, and the older man said: “Alexei Mavrin, my secretary; Pierre Riazhin. Are you not that young painter about whom Borya has been telling me? Serov’s student?”
    â€œI did not know that Boris Vassilievitch had mentioned me,” Pierre remarked. He appeared humbled.
    â€œNow I know why Boris inveigled us to come tonight! A casual encounter. Truly, Borya must see some good in our meeting, and—we missed the first act. What do you think of what you’ve seen?”
    Pierre sat down beside Diaghilev and began to tell him his impressions. As always, he was most confident where his work was concerned. He no longer felt ill at ease, or in awe of the other. This time his painter’s eye put him in charge. When Boris and Svetlov returned, laughing, Pierre was showing his sketches to Diaghilev. Boris looked pleased, but he said very little, merely taking his seat between Pierre and Svetlov. But Pierre was suddenly touched: With what finesse Boris had arranged this encounter, allowing Pierre to meet Serge Pavlovitch as a fellow guest, equal to equal, rather than in Diaghilev’s apartment in front of all the other members of the “committee”! He felt embarrassed and cleared his throat. “Boris Vassilievitch,” he murmured, his voice unusually melodic and gentle, “I want to thank you.”
    Boris raised his fine golden eyebrows and nodded. He was holding a small box, which he now laid unobtrusively on the floor. But the curtain was rising once more, and silence descended moments before strains of Tchaikovsky’s music filled the theatre with sound. The Land of Sweets was