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criticism at the school; and also, had she seen the American prodigy, Isadora Duncan, who had danced for St. Petersburg in her bare feet the previous year? The stranger belonged to the hallowed halls of the Mariinsky, while she herself was less than nothing, still half-formed. Yet this tall woman made Natalia feel welcome and accepted. Presently she said: “This is my first big role, but I am not going to dance the Sugar Plum Fairy sweetly. I have to understand her, or else I won’t be able to be her. And I must enjoy myself.”
    â€œYou’re very self-confident for a student,” the woman replied.
    Natalia opened wide her brown eyes. “Not at all. I’m terrified. That’s why I couldn’t stay with the others. I might have been ill.”
    â€œNo, you wouldn’t have, or they’d never give you another important dance. What’s your name?”
    â€œNatalia Dmitrievna Oblonova. And you?” Suddenly Natalia felt shy. She would have preferred anonymity.
    â€œI am Lydia Markovna Brailovskaya. I am a coryphée, and that, my dear, is what I shall remain to the end of my dancing days. Why I was ever raised from first line of the corps, I shall never understand. I loved it and performed adequately. Now I am allowed to dance in smaller groups, but I won’t ever rise beyond that to soloist of the second degree. But you will. If you’re to dance the Sugar Plum tonight, your teachers must already have singled you out. Whose class are you in? Guerdt’s? Cecchetti’s?”
    â€œGuerdt’s. Maestro Cecchetti is next year. Was he your teacher, too?”
    â€œHe is old enough to have been everybody’s teacher. Now you must excuse me, Sugar Plum. The Party scene begins the action, and my wig is askew.”
    Natalia watched her companion mingle with the other dancers. Someone bent over the loose tendril of Lydia Markovna’s wig and adjusted it, laughing. Natalia felt a pang of jealousy. Lydia could have asked her to do it, but who, after all, was Natalia Oblonova? Not even the lowliest member of the corps de ballet. And then she thought: But in five years, I shall be more than all these women; I shall be a soloist of the second degree. And with this thought to console her, she pushed aside the pain of being excluded.
    Pierre Riazhin sat uncomfortably in the elegant stall overlooking the stage of the Mariinsky. His stiff back was hurting him. The tuxedo fit him too snugly, and the side part in his curly hair caused a bang to sweep over his brow, annoying him. He felt acutely ridiculous and resentful of Boris. Why had he listened to this dandy, and why had he allowed him to purchase this costly outfit as a gift? To be aided in one’s career, when one possessed talent but no funds, was one thing; but to accept personal favors was quite another. It went totally against his grain.
    There were other spectators in the Kussov stall, but Pierre refused to join their airy conversation about entrechats and Trefilova. He gathered that the ballet critic, Valerian Svetlov, was most fond of this ballerina, but that Boris preferred somebody called Egorova. Svetlov was seated on Boris’s left, while Pierre was on his right. Boris was so engrossed in his talk with Svetlov, who sported a tuft of white hair that glistened from the chandeliers of the theatre, that he had carelessly thrown his right leg over his left, so that his right knee touched Pierre’s thigh. Pierre attempted to move his own leg, but Boris’s stubborn knee would not budge. Pierre yielded, annoyed. Everything was conspiring to prevent his relaxation.
    The Mariinsky pleased him with its blue and silver decor, and Pierre was not above enjoying the luxury surrounding him. He could scoff at it when it was out of his reach, but when able to sample its splendor, he found it quite wondrous. He loved all that was beautiful, and with his opera glasses he scanned the other booths, relishing the sight