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of unknown ladies in décolletés, their diamonds ablaze. Pierre forgot his discomfort and his boredom with Boris and Svetlov by shutting out all but his sense of sight. He conjured up a vision of this assembly in parody: the ladies less dignified, their tiaras tilted on their lascivious heads, holding out sweets from delicate fingers to gentlemen who ate them on their knees. But Boris was speaking to him now, in low tones: “The Nutcracker is a delightful piece of fluff choreographed by Lev Ivanov. It’s meaningless and sweet and a good beginning for you. The first woman with whom you dance should be like this ballet: utterly beautiful, marvelously synchronized, and not too intelligent. Good practice.”
    â€œI have seen other ballets,” Pierre replied defensively.
    â€œWell, so you have. But from a stall one can define the ballerina’s movements in a totally different fashion. Valerian says that a student is dancing the Sugar Plum tonight. Rather an honor for her, I should say. I have never heard of her: Natalia Oblonova.”
    Trefilova, Egorova, and now Oblonova. Pierre smiled, but Boris misinterpreted the expression and patted him on the knee. The lights dimmed. The curtain went up, and Pierre sat transfixed. The stage setting glared back at him: Christmas tree, fireplace, sturdy furniture of the Biedermeier genre. He would have done this differently, with lighter touches denoting the fairy tale elements of the story. His tree would have spread out in delicate branchings and been covered with minuscule balls of colored foil, giving the impression of a myriad of diamond chips. His furniture would have been totally un-Germanic: ottomans of bright silks and velvets, matching vivid wall hangings and exotic curtains.
    In spite of himself, Pierre was fascinated. The Party scene glittered, and the small children pirouetting before the assembled guests made him feel strange. Christmas had always been so simple in the Caucasus! This was a Hoffman fairy tale, but it also suggested the wonder of the Russian capital in its excessive sophistication. Contrary to the spontaneity of life itself, ballet was the most sophisticated art form, and it drew him by its perfect development, by its harmony. Yet the young man knew that these well-heeled gentlemen and perfumed ladies of
    Petersburg had not come merely for the pleasure of watching children parading before a Christmas tree. His expectation grew, and he leaned forward, waiting.
    All during the first act Pierre Riazhin waited. He began to fret. “The decor is heavy, like a burgher’s wife,” he finally whispered to Boris Kussov. He had rehearsed his words and was upset when the other laughed with easy irreverence. “What do you know of burghers and their spouses, my dear Khadjatur?” his elegant host murmured. “Have you ever visited Germany?”
    â€œNo, and you know I haven’t,” Pierre retorted, his pride stung. After that, he would not look at Boris and held himself aloof, while his impatience quickened. Children! Had he come merely to witness a battle between dressed-up mice and a giant nutcracker, to watch a small girl hurl her slipper at the Mouse King? And then, almost taking him by surprise, the curtain came down and the brilliant lights of the Mariinsky bloomed overhead. Pierre blinked, disillusioned.
    During the intermission Boris, resplendent in his well-tailored tuxedo, his gray spats shining and his ruby and black pearl stud lending a strange distinction to his stock, rose rapidly and scanned the amphitheatre for familiar faces. “My sister is here,” he said to Pierre. “My sister Nina, and her husband, Prince Andrei Stassov. I am going to Dumas, the French confiserie in the square, to purchase some candied fruit to take to her in their loge. Will you come with me?”
    â€œIf you don’t mind,” Pierre replied somewhat rudely, “I should like to stay here and watch the audience.