Petrushka and the Fairground

Few things are as colourful and charming as a fairground at full tilt, overwhelming every sense with blaring music, deafening mechanical squeals, lurid colours and lights and the mingled smell of fast food and recently dried varnish. The Russian funfairs, though less elegant (it was said) than their Italian or French counterparts, were every bit as appealing. The sensual impressions they made, as Ivan Shcheglov, an activist in the People's Theatre movement, recalled in the late nineteenth century, were unforgettable:

But inside the circle [of the fairground] -- good heavens, what goes on inside the circle! You can hardly take it in, let alone describe it. First, the music -- truly, the music alone could deprive someone who'd just arrived of his senses, because the point is that it's not the music, it's all sorts of music -- several kinds together, and your ears are deafened simultaneously by a satanic compound of wind and strings, steam and barrel organs, accordions, with the classic squeal of 'Petrushka' rising above all, in place, as it were, of a tuning fork . . .  And then there are the cries of the men and women selling things . . .  They are shouting now quite differently from the way they usually shout in streets and markets, with a sort of special frenzy, until tears come into their eyes and they go hoarse.

The Russian fairgrounds offered a range of entertainments equal to any in Europe: swings, roundabouts, roller-coasters, puppet shows, dancing bears, acrobatics and clowns inside wooden booths and on the street, Harlequinades and sleigh rides, stalls with drinks and gingerbread. Between the late eighteenth century and the Revolution a visit to these fairs was a nearly obligatory item on the itinerary of foreign visitors to Russia, and many of them have left vivid accounts of what they saw there. A German visitor wrote in the 1840s:

There are booths with clever horses and stupid people doing tricks, with bears and boxers, apes and actors; there are big and little roundabouts, Russian swings and ordinary ones, and two ice hills as well, if the weather is still cold enough at Easter; sellers of brandy, nuts and gherkins, Prenniks [ = pryaniki, spiced gingerbread], and kvas [small beer made from fermented bread and water], kislie shchi [fizzy kvas] and spun sugar, apples and sausage, spice cakes and pig's tripe, carob, pickled herrings and rotten apples  -- and bread and cakes and music here, there and everywhere. You can see trick riding and beheadings followed by resurrections, giantesses and dwarfs, boring transformation scenes with a Taglioni look-alike; and lately entrepreneurial nterests have brought in roundabouts with steam-boats and steam-trains, which have done very well despite the simple naivety of the general public.

Petrushka, The Russian Carnival Puppet Theatre by Catriona Kelly. 1990.  Pages 18-9.

Russian Court Balls -- 1865

Court festivities followed one another with unparalleled luxury and magnificent pageantry.

The former English ambassador, Lord Loftus, an eyewitness of this gorgeous period, wrote in his Diplomatic Reminiscences that the Court was very brilliant and admirably maintained; its pomp almost Oriental. The balls, with the romantic setting of the Circassian Guard, the picturesque variety of the uniforms, the beauty of the dresses, the fairy-like sparkle of the jewels, surpassed in splendour and magnificence anything he had seen in other countries.

Théophile Gautier, who visited Russia at. this precise period, 1865, and was granted the privilege of being present at a Court Ball, has exhausted the resources of his vocabulary to describe this brilliant occasion for us. To obtain a better view of the scene as a whole, he took up his position in the gallery which commands a view of the Hall of Saint George:

"Leaning over this gulf of light one's first feeling is a sort of vertigo. At first nothing can be distinguished through the waves of perfume and light, the gleam of candles, mirrors, gold, diamonds, gems and rich stuffs. A shimmering radiance prevents the eye from defining any individual form, Then in a little while the sight grows accustomed to the glare, and grasps as a whole this vast hall, of white marble and stucco. . .  It is one mass of uniforms faced with gold, epaulettes studded with diamonds, jewelled orders, clusters of enamel and precious stones glistening on the breasts of the men. The uniforms are so brilliant, so rich, so varied, that the women, with their modern elegance and the light grace of present-day fashion find it difficult to compete with their massive splendour. Unable to be richer, they are more beautiful: their uncovered throats and shoulders are worth all the gold facings."

The Tragic Romance of Alexander II of Russia by Maurice Paléologue.  1926. Pages 46-7.

Nijinsky's Dismissal from the Imperial Theatres

Telegram from Diaghilev in Petersburg to Astruc in Paris, 10.2.11

After triumphant début presence all Petersburg Vestris was dismissed within twenty-four hours.  Reason costume Carpaccio designed Bakst.  Monstrous intrigue.  Press indignant this morning.  Interview director announcing willing take back Vestris who refuses.  Appalling scandal.  Use publicity.  Acknowledge receipt.  Serge


Nijinsky by Richard Buckle. 1971. Page 193.

Pierre Monteux, the first conductor of The Rite of Spring

"In the summer of 1912 Diaghilev came to me one day, as I was working in the theatre, and in a rather secretive manner whispered, 'Stravinsky has written an extraordinary new work that I want you to hear with me this afternoon.'

"I was elated all through luncheon thinking, Stravinsky no doubt has reverted to the lovely melodies of L'Oiseau de Feu or perhaps even farther.  Of course this 'reverting'; did not come until years later, in the Pulcinella Suite, Apollon Musagète and other lovely works.  So you see, chérie, I was little prepared for the music I was to hear that afternoon.

"The room was small and the music was large, the sound of it completely dwarfing the poor piano on which the composer was pounding, completely dwarfing Diaghilev and his poor conductor listening in utter amazement, completely dwarfing Monte Carlo, I might say.  The old upright piano quivered and shook as Stravinsky tried to give us an idea of his new work for ballet.

"I remember vividly his dynamism and his sort of ruthless impetuosity as he attacked the score.  By the time he had reached the second tableau, his face was so completely covered with sweat that I thought, 'He will surely burst, or have a syncope.'  My own head ached badly, and I decided then and there that the symphonies of Beethoven and Brahms were the only music for me, not the music of this crazy Russian!  I admit I did not understand one note of Le Sacre du Printemps.  My one desire was to flee that room and find a quiet corner in which to rest my aching head.  Then my Director turned to me and with a smile said, 'This is a masterpiece, Monteux, which will completely revolutionize music and make you famous, because you are going to conduct it.' And of course, I did.

It's All in the Music by Doris Monteux. 1965. Page 89.

The four stages of balletomania

The initial stage is a state of awestricken delight, when we thrill at everything we see and think it is all too marvellous but are much too humble to let ourselves rip.  We sit in numb delight, and envy those (we think) knowledgeable creatures who throw their weight about in the intervals and lead the cheering.  The next stage comes when we ourselves have consolidated our positions as regulars and have a season or two behind us.  Then it is our turn to make our presence felt, which we do in the most inordinate fashion, to our own intense satisfaction and, no doubt, the contemptuous amusement of the Old Guard.  After a time we develop into the Old Guard ourselves, and then the hoi polloi who are just beginning to find their feet and their lungs, are objects of our deep derision and dislike.  This is a stage when nothing is good enough for us.  We don't know what the Ballet is coming to, but really it was nothing like this in our young days; and where do all these frightful persons come from!  The last stage is finally reached.  We have acquired tolerance.  We no longer expect every member of the corps de ballet to dance like Karsavina or Nijinsky; we don't utter loud moans at any of the mistakes or slips which inevitably occur from time to time; we don't even mind much if a lot of silly people are making themselves ridiculous shouting for a favourite who, in our opinion, has just given a not very noteworthy performance.  In short, we are content to take Ballet as it comes; we know that no one on earth can dance as well as the ideal which we carry in our heads, and we are thankful for the enjoyment we get without expecting perfection all the time.


Vic-Wells; A Ballet Progress by P. W. Manchester. 1947. Page 83.

Costumes of the Ballets Russes

Like Diaghilev, who always looked immaculate, but sometimes had holes in his shoes, theatre costumes do not always bear close examination.  Displayed in glass cases, protected from dust and light, they are often perceived as tatty, tawdry and crude, perhaps only tolerated because of their association with an iconic artist.  Yet they were never conceived as 'art' objects, but rather as one element in a stage performance.  Redolent of the disreputable, ephemeral, hurly-burly of theatre, costumes reek of life and perspiration, of the nightly stress of performance, when they were thrown on and ripped off, struggled into by other bodies than those for which they were made, then packed into skips still soaked with sweat.  They bear honourable scars -- hasty repairs alongside more careful darns and patching, alterations for different dancers, the rotted fabric under arms and around belted waists, make-up ingrained into the necks, the names of the first casts neatly written on labels; those of later ones scrawled onto the lining.

Given the association with respectable artists and secondarily with Diaghilev's Ballets Russes (which is often treated as an offshoot of an art movement, not as theatre) costume and set designs were readily admitted into museums as art objects in their own right.  Meanwhile, the costumes for which they were the blueprints were overlooked, partly because of their poor condition, partly because boldness was confused with 'crudeness'.  Such an attitude has not completely died out and some still prefer to imagine a heavenly stage on which the animated designs dance forever.  Yet the success of a design lies not so much in its artistic worth, as in whether the drawing translate successfully into fabric and decoration, or works with the choreography on the dancer as part of the stage picture.

"Wardrobe" by Sarah Woodcock in Diaghilev and the Golden Age of the Ballets Russes 1909-1929 edited by Jane Pritchard. 2010. Page 129.

Diaghilev's death

In later years, Diaghilev’s close friend Misia Sert reminisced about the last time she saw him, on the eve of his death.  He was lying upon his bed dressed in his dinner jacket.  It was terribly hot: “We evoked old memories and you then said to me -- you who had discovered one after another all the composers who were to influence and shake up the music of our time that your secret favorites were Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique and Wagner’s Tristan and Isolde.”  Diaghilev’s temperature soared and he was only semi-lucid towards the end, but he hummed and sang snatches of these two favourite works.  He died as he had lived, celebrating music.

"Diaghilev’s Death" by Nina Lobanov-Rostovsky in Diaghilev and the Golden Age of the Ballets Russes 1909-1929 edited by Jane Pritchard. 2010. Page 207.