Ninette de Valois's memories of leaving her childhood home in Ireland

As a ripple on a quiet stream, we children began to realize that life was preparing a big change for us.  Our parents and grandmother spoke more often of England; we began to hear something of the needs of big houses, and the necessity of only rich people living in them.  Servants threw out hints, the younger ones spoke of emigration and the older ones were seen to weep.

A day arrived one very early spring when the last trunks were strapped and we were bidden to say our special good-byes.  We were taken down the avenue to visit Mrs. Roberts, the lodge keeper's wife; she followed us as we returned to the house, crying as if her heart would break and raising her white apron to cover her face; for her grief was pagan in its stark simplicity and too immense for the duties of a pocket handkerchief.

I have one more clear-cut vision to recall of that strange day.  I can recall it with all its undiminished and astonished sadness, for children can be astonished to find themselves sad.  Change, with all its confusing upheaval, is thrust on them and in such events they play no particular part.

I was left standing midst the bustle of departure, at the window of our old nursery.  My eyes looked on the lawns and paths of those gardens that I would play in no more.  On that early gentle day in spring the sun was already making long shadows.  A gardener was cutting a long strip of turf near the top of the centre lawn; slowly and quietly it was rolled.  I watched, weighed down with an unhappiness that I could not analyse; I found myself thinking that the turf resembled nothing more than a gigantic green Swiss roll.  I knew suddenly that never again, when such things happened to change the visual outlook of the gardens, would I be able to await the why and wherefore of it all, for the great sea was to come between us and the end of the Swiss roll would be someone else's concern.

I did not cry, nor did I ask any questions as to when we might be coming back; I knew the truth and I wanted no comforting grown-up lies.  There and then I deliberately tore my heart out and left it, as it were, on the nursery window-sill.

Come dance with me: a memoir, 1898-1956 by Ninette de Valois.  1957. Pages 17-8.

Fokine's early ideas about ballet

At the time I had no idea that I would stage ballets someday myself.  But the idea that the ballets should be staged differently from the way they were presented at the time took a firm hold of my mind.  I mailed my libretto of "Daphnis and Chloe" to the Director of the Imperial Theater, Vladimir Arkadievich Teliakovsky, with an accompanying introduction.  My main thoughts, described in this introduction -- what I could consider as my suggestions for ballet reforms -- consisted of the following:

The ballet should be stage in conformity with the epoch represented.

The dance pantomime and gestures should not be of the conventional style established in the old ballet "once and for all," but should be of a kind that best fits the style of the period.  The costumes also should not be of the established ballet style (short tarlatan tutus) but be consistent with the plot.  In this particular ballet, "Daphnis and Chloe," the costumes for the girls should consist of light tunics -- draped clothes such as were worn in Rome and in ancient Greece.  The footwear should match the costume in its authenticity, and copies from ancient Greek life.  There should be no ballet shoes, but soft sandals, or the dancers should appear barefoot.

The ballet must be uninterrupted -- a complete artistic creation and not a series of separate numbers.

In the interests of retaining the scenic illusion, the action must not be interrupted with applause and its acknowledgment by the artists.

The music should not consist of waltzes, polkas, and final galops -- indispensable in the old ballet -- but must express the story of the ballet and, primarily, its emotional content.

After receiving my libretto and suggestions for reforms, the Directors manifested no reaction to them, and probably forgot about my ballet and my plans.

Fokine, memoirs of a ballet master by Michel Fokine. 1961. Pages 71-2.

The Three Ivans in The Sleeping Princess

Diaghilev took an active part in the mise en scène, directing much of it himself, and though what he aimed at primarily was a reconstruction of this ballet in its original form, he was prepared, where it seemed advisable, to introduce fresh matter.  It was hence that Bronislava Nijinska came to take a hand in the choreography.  She had left the company at the same time as her brother, and had returned to Russia, where she had done some productions.  But she happened to arrive in London about the time of our starting rehearsals; and though he had not of course seen any of her compositions, Diaghilev invited her without more ado to arrange some new numbers in The Sleeping Princess.  She did this most successfully, the best know of these numbers being the afterwards celebrated Dance of the Three Ivans.  It was clear even from such modest creations that she was possessed of a certain knowledge and experience; and Diaghilev at once scented in Nijinska a possible choreographer in succession to Massine.

A propos of the Three Ivans, Diaghilev met with some criticism from his friends for introducing such a dance into this ballet at all.  Was not a Russian peasant dance incongruous, they said, at the court of a King of France?  But Diaghilev replied that in a ballet anything was possible; and in the event this dance of Nijinska's turned out one of the most successful in the whole divertissement with which the ballet closed.

Diaghilev Ballet, 1909-1929 by Serge Leonidovich Grigoriev.  1953.  Page 170.

Maya Plisetskaya's memories of Agrippina Vaganova

Her first meeting with Vaganova made such a profound impression on her that she wrote this date down in her diary as one of the most important in her life: August 25, 1943. Her lessons with Vaganova lasted only four months, but, as she emphasized later, she learned more in these months than in years of previous study.

"I am grateful to Vaganova for many things. She revealed to me many secrets of classical dancing. But above all she taught me how to love your daily training. Prior to meeting her, I loved only dancing. Now I realized how interesting, exciting, and creative my work might be and how close this daily training could be to real dancing. Her system of training gave me the opportunity to dance without apparent effort, so that the dance seemed nonchalant. Like a first rate surgeon, she knew every muscle and knew how to work each one. And her explanation seemed so simple that I would wonder why I had never guessed it myself. But then, simplicity is a trait of genius."

"Maya Plisetskaya: Childhood, Youth, and First Triumphs, 1925-59" by Azary Messerer in Dance Chronicle, Vol 12, No 1, Pages 22-3.

"Drosselmayer was no mere conjurer"

It should be recalled that Drosselmayer, as we know him in Hoffmann, not only manipulates time; he has escaped sequential time. We may assume, therefore, that all aspects of time - past, present, and future - are to Drosselmayer the present. He perceives as one thought - one duma - what requires an act-and-a-half to present on stage. In Act II of the ballet, we are simply given the opportunity to share in Drosselmayer's thought. But Drosselmayer's very timelessness (one might wish to call it 'timefulness') implies a vast human experience, and the sense of sorrow that comes with it; a sorrow that Tchaikovsky no doubt felt on the ship taking him to America. 'Be sure,' wrote Alexandre Benois to his son, who was preparing a new production of Nutcracker, 'that the actor of Drosselmayer's part is well-acquainted with sadness.' It is not a sinister Drosselmayer whose thoughts are brought before us on stage, but a pensive or sad Drosselmayer, whose sadness is born not of a specific event, but of being too much of this world.

Confiturembourg, in short, may be construed as Drosselmayer's duma. That it happens to be a nostalgic, childlike vision should not lead us to misinterpret his thoughts as meaningless or childish.

"On Meaning in 'Nutcracker'" by Roland John Wiley in Dance Research, Vol 3, No 1, Page 3-28.

Cows and the corps de ballet in 1899

But in 1899 everything was changed. An excellent ballet master, and conductor and fine dancers and designers were found for the company. Muscovites began attending ballet performances with considerable pleasure.

The life of the Moscow ballet troupe was truly patriarchal. The company contained a number of married ladies and members of the corps de ballet on meagre salaries, who supplemented their
income by taking up a variety of domestic pursuits, including even the keeping of cows and the selling of milk. On one occasion I asked after an absent dancer, and was told that she could not
attend the rehearsal through illness. When I asked what precisely was the illness, it transpired that she was not ill herself, but it was her cow who was on the point of giving birth and could not be left.

"Memoirs" by V. A. Telyakovsky, Nina Dimitrievitch, and Clement Crisp in Dance Research, Vol 8, No 1, Page 40.

Dangerous Decisions for Conductors in early 20C Russia

There was even more to the balletomanes' discussions in the Smoking Room. Having talked about the ballerinas, they would touch on the activities of ballet administration, including those of theatre's director. There was discussion of ballet production, decor, costumes as well as music. The conductor's work was touched on, and his skill in accompanying the dancing, and his readiness to repeat a certain ballerina's solo. The balletomanes especially valued the conductor's discretion and his ability to guess their intentions. Occasionally, the balletomanes were unruly, demanding with loud applause that a dancer repeat her number: the dancer, for whatever reason, they deemed worthy of an encore. It often happened that the leading ballerina, not wishing to let her young rival repeat her solo, would come out of the wings, and as the young soloist was completing her number, the ballerina would take up position for her first steps. In such a difficult situation, the conductor's position became untenable -- he would be blamed by both sides, whatever he did. If the balletomanes could force him by loud shouts and applause to stop the orchestra and repeat the music for the young artist's variation, then the ballerina would curse him for his lack of tact, his insufficient respect for her personally, and for undermining the public's impression of her dancing. If the conductor did not play an encore, in spite of ovations, then this brought on the balletomanes' anger, while the object of their enthusiasm, providing she felt sufficiently influential, would attack the conductor in the interval, asserting that he did not pay enough attention to her and her talent, and that he intended to destroy her career.

"Memoirs" by V. A. Telyakovsky and Nina Dimitrievitch in Dance Research, Vol 12, No 1, Page 46.

Clement Crisp on the role of the critic

Not a prophet, not a missionary, and certainly not the publicist that some managements quaintly suppose him to be, the critic is a recording eye, and even in these days of technological gadgetry, sometimes the only one. We meet here an arrière pensée that must occur to a writer on dance: that his words may be - as the past has proved - all that remains of a work of art; that his parasitic comment will outlive the creative body on which it fed.

This impermanence of ballet suggests a certain scholarly function for the critic, one imposed upon him by the evanescence of the art he serves. A ballet dies at curtain fall. It is resuscitated at its next performance, but unlike music or drama that are securely fixed in a printed text, which is an undeviating matter for interpretation, dance is eroded as performer follows performer. Incrustations of misapprehension, incorrect muscular timing, even more incorrect emotional reading, barnacle the text. It can thus become part of a critic's duty to be guardian of a work's proprieties as he understands them. This may sound arrogant, but harsh experience in the theatre has shown how easily ballets are distorted by new interpreters, as by repetition, and how easily such change becomes accepted and sanctioned as correct. (I recall leaving a theatre with John Cranko after a performance of his Pineapple Poll when he had not supervised it in rehearsal for some years. He asked: "I wonder who choreographed that ballet?")

"The Nature of Dance Scholarship: The Critic's Task" by Clement Crisp in Dance Research, Vol 1, No 1, Page 6.

Fokine describes his teacher Johansson

Christina Petrovich Johansson was in his eighties when I began taking lessons from him. Tall, hunched with age, hardly able to move himself, he taught us how to dance. And how he taught! He was a living museum of choreographic art.

When Johansson arrived for lessons he was assisted up the three flights of stairs by the Legat brothers, each holding him by an arm. This was their special privilege as senior pupils. With their assistance he would reach the huge dance hall and would sit down, violin in hand, with his back to the mirror which ran the width of the wall. He would lightly strike a pizzicato on his violin, holding it in front of himself as if it were a guitar. He would hardly speak. With barely perceptible hand movements he would communicate to us the steps he wished us to do. It would seem that he was no longer able to see or understand what was going on about him. But actually he saw everything and would notice the minutest mistake. It was not an easy task to follow him. A moment of dead silence would follow every order for a combination of steps. Everyone would be thinking, trying to figure out the combination. Then one of us would attempt to dance it out. Usually it was not completely correct and Johansson would almost imperceptibly shake his white head. We would all gather in front of the maestro, bending over him, and with great concentration try to learn what detail had been omitted or incorrectly executed. This concentration added a special value to each lesson. When the combination was finally understood, we would all retire to the back of the hall to perform it. Then we would receive our corrections and the combination would be performed again in a more proper manner.

How sacred these lessons were to us!

Fokine, memoirs of a ballet master by Michel Fokine. 1961. Page 42.

Serge Nikolayvich Grigoriev

He was Diaghilev's right hand and, from what I have seen of him, I should say that no man was better served. His responsibilities were so vast and so all-embracing as to be almost illimitable. It may be said that short of actually composing the choreography of a ballet, he was responsible for the efficiency and smooth running of all future performances, once the details had been determined.

. . . .

He kept a watchful eye on the company's wardrobe, decided whether such and such a costume should be replaced or repaired, and to what extent, whether new embroidery or stage jewellery were to be purchased, or whether what was required could be adapted from a certain costume in store. He exercised a very strict economy upon all such expenditure and would not sanction the outlay of a shilling unless he deemed it necessary.

I remember just before a performance of L'Apres Midi d'un Faune, Mme. Chamie, who was one of the nymphs, approached Grigoriev with the entreaty that she might have a new costume.

"It is so ragged that I shall soon appear naked," she declared.

Grigoriev gave a swift glance at the costume and, turning away, observed:

"That will be charming, madam."

Diaghilev Ballet in London: a personal record by Cyril W Beaumont. 1940. Pages 238, 239-40.

Diaghilev and lighting

Another evening there would be a lighting rehearsal. I remember how thrilled I was when the curtain went up on the setting for the first scene, with its suggestion of the Palace of Versailles. Here was true grandeur and magnificence, without vulgarity or ostentation. Then began the business of lighting. Diaghilev would remain hunched in his seat with an electrician to relay his instructions to the stage, first, pink in this flood, amber in that, then the whole "washed" with white. He would spend hour after hour dimming this, "bringing up" that, until he was satisfied and the weary light-men could plot the lighting. Even then he would have the curtain lowered and, after a few minutes' interval to banish the memory of the lighting from his mind, would order the curtain to be raised again so that he might judge how the effect appealed to him, when revealed afresh.

Those who had never been present at one of Diaghilev's lighting rehearsals did not know what they were in for. The rehearsals went on half the night if need be. At such times he cared nothing for the mounting cost of overtime, the passing of the hours, or the fact that he had not eaten for a long period. If the men showed signs of revolt, he would grant a ten or fifteen minutes' rest interval. As soon as the interval was up, he would utter a curt, "Continuez, s'il vous plait". The men would glare and curse under their breath, but they did his bidding.

Diaghilev Ballet in London: a personal record by Cyril W Beaumont. 1940. Pages 195-6.