“To old times,” she conceded with a laugh. And they emptied their glasses.
When one experiences a profound setback in the course of an enviable life, one has a variety of options. Spurred by shame, one may attempt to hide all evidence of the change in one’s circumstances. Thus, the merchant who gambles away his savings will hold on to his finer suits until they fray, and tell anecdotes from the halls of the private clubs where his membership has long since lapsed. In a state of self-pity, one may retreat from the world in which one has been blessed to live. Thus, the long-suffering husband, finally disgraced by his wife in society, may be the one who leaves his home in exchange for a small, dark apartment on the other side of town. Or, like the Count and Anna, one may simply join the Confederacy of the Humbled.
Like the Freemasons, the Confederacy of the Humbled is a close-knit brotherhood whose members travel with no outward markings, but who know each other at a glance. For having fallen suddenly from grace, those in the Confederacy share a certain perspective. Knowing beauty, influence, fame, and privilege to be borrowed rather than bestowed, they are not easily impressed. They are not quick to envy or take offense. They certainly do not scour the papers in search of their own names. They remain committed to living among their peers, but they greet adulation with caution, ambition with sympathy, and condescension with an inward smile.
As the actress poured some more vodka, the Count looked about the room.
“How are the dogs?” he asked.
“Better off than I am.”
“To the dogs then,” he said, lifting his glass.
“Yes,” she agreed with a smile. “To the dogs.”
And so it began.
Over the next year and a half, Anna would visit the Metropol every few months. In advance, she would reach out to some director she’d known. Admitting with some relief that her days of appearing in films were behind her, she’d invite him to be her guest at the Boyarsky. Having learned her lesson in 1928, she no longer arrived at the restaurant first. By means of a small gratuity to the girl in the coatroom, she ensured that she would arrive two minutes after her guest. Over dinner, she would confess that she was one of the director’s greatest fans. She would recall favorite elements from several of his films and then dwell on a particular scene—one that was easily overlooked because it involved a secondary character and just a few lines of dialogue, but that had been rendered with such obvious nuance and care. And when Anna had walked her guest to the lobby, she would not suggest a nightcap in the Shalyapin; she certainly wouldn’t invite him for one in her room. She would say, instead, what a pleasure it had been to see him, and then bid him goodnight.
Donning his coat, the director would pause. Watching the elevator doors close, he would acknowledge that Anna Urbanova’s days of stardom were probably behind her—and yet, he would find himself wondering if she might not be perfect for that little role in the second act.
And having let herself into her room on the fourth floor, Anna would change into a simple dress (after hanging her gown in the closet), make herself comfortable with a book, and wait for the Count to arrive.
In the aftermath of one such dinner with an old director friend, Anna was cast for a single scene as a middle-aged worker in a factory that was struggling to meet its quota. With two weeks left in the quarter, the workers gather to compose a letter to the Party leadership that details the causes of their inevitable shortfall. But as they begin to enumerate the various obstacles they have faced, Anna—her hair drawn back in a kerchief—rises to give a short, impassioned speech in favor of pushing on.
As the camera draws closer to this unnamed character, one can see that she is a woman who is no longer young or ravishing, but who remains proud and unbent. And her voice?
Ah, her voice . . .
From the very first words of her speech, the audience can tell that here was no idler. For her voice was that of a woman who has breathed the dust of unpaved roads; who has screamed during childbirth; who has called out to her sisters on the factory floor. In other words, it was the voice of my sister, my wife, my mother, my friend.
Needless to say, it is her speech that prompts the women to redouble their efforts until they have exceeded their quota. But more important, when the film is premiered, there is a round-faced fellow with a receding hairline in the fifteenth row who’d once held Anna in awe; and while he’d only been the director of the Moscow Department of Cinematographic Arts when he had the pleasure of meeting her in the Shalyapin back in 1923, he was now a senior official in the Ministry of Culture and rumored to be the likely successor to its current chief. So moved was he by her speech in the factory that he would soon be asking every director within earshot whether they hadn’t seen her astounding performance; and whenever she was in Moscow, he would send an arrangement of lilies to her room. . . .
Ah, you may say with a knowing smile. So that is how it happened. That is how she regained her footing. . . . But Anna Urbanova was a genuine artist trained on the stage. What is more, as a member of the Confederacy of the Humbled, she had become an actress who appeared on time, knew her lines, and never complained. And as official preference shifted toward movies with a sense of realism and a spirit of perseverance, there was often a role for a woman with seasoned beauty and a husky voice. In other words, there were many factors within and without Anna’s control that contributed to her resurgence.
Perhaps you are still skeptical. Well then, what about you?
No doubt there have been moments when your life has taken a bit of a leap forward; and no doubt you look back upon those moments with self-assurance and pride. But was there really no third party deserving of even a modicum of credit? Some mentor, family friend, or schoolmate who gave timely advice, made an introduction, or put in a complimentary word?
So, let us not dissect the hows and whys. It is enough to know that Anna Urbanova was once again a star with a house on the Fontanka Canal and copper ovals nailed to her furniture; though now when she has guests, she greets them at the door.
Suddenly, at 4:45 in the afternoon, wheeling before the Count was the five-starred constellation of Delphinus.
If one drew a line with one’s finger through its two lowest stars and followed its trajectory across the heavens, one would reach Aquila, the Eagle; while if one drew a line through its uppermost stars, one would reach Pegasus, Bellerophon’s flying stallion; and if one drew a line in the opposite direction, one would reach what appeared to be a brand-new star—a sun that may have flared out a thousand years ago, but the light of which had just reached the Northern Hemisphere in order to provide guidance to weary travelers, sojourners, and adventurers for another millennia to come. . . .
“What are you doing?”
Anna rolled back toward the Count.
“I think you have a new freckle,” he said.
“What!”
Anna tried to look over her own shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” he assured. “It’s nice.”
“Where is it?”
“A few degrees east of Delphinus.”
“Delphinus?”
“You know. The constellation of the dolphin. You have it between your shoulder blades.”
“How many freckles do I have?”
“How many stars are in the sky . . . ?”
“Good God.”
Anna rolled flat on her back.
The Count lit a cigarette and took a puff.
“Don’t you know the story of Delphinus?” he asked, handing her the cigarette.
“Why would I know the story of Delphinus?” she replied with a sigh.
“As a fisherman’s daughter.”
. . .
“Why don’t you tell it to me.”
“All right. There was a wealthy poet named Arion. A great player of the lyre and the inventor of the dithyramb.”