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.

The tragic side of Nijinsky's immortality

But there is another side to Nijinsky's immortality, a tragic one.  This man will never die because he never lived.  From infancy on, his life was hemmed in by impediments.  Some of these he tried to leap over -- his father's abandonment, his mother's poverty, the exploitation of talent that is so often found in institutions, schools, and companies where artists work.  When he was young and supple, he had a phenomenal track record.  He danced all the great roles and created new ones.  He achieved stardom in only a few years.  He found love in the arms of men and women.  He became world famous.  Yet certain barriers Nijinsky could never surmount -- the depressiveness in his family, the isolative, malignant qualities in his own personality, and the psychosis that he shared with his brother.  As long as he was in the theater and pretending to be a slave, clown, lover, specter, puppet, half-animal, or whatever role he was dancing, the inner disturbances of mood could be kept under control.  Offstage, however, he remained childlike, helpless, and insecure, with but a single interest -- the art of ballet -- to give any meaning to his life.

Most of his relationships with people were grossly impaired by an irritable, tempestuous explosiveness.  Outbursts of rage would disrupt his sweet, affectionate, and childlike appeal.  Lovers could tolerate him only when there a a definite payoff -- sexual favors for Prince Lvov, dancing for Diaghilev, self-aggrandizement for Romola.  Handicapped by his utter perfectionism and a tendency to want to do everything in his own way, he finally became completely unsociable, an eccentric recluse.  Most of his ballets remained unfinished -- what a terrible loss.  Think of the marvelous things Nijinksy might have done with Mephisto Waltz, the Bach ballet, Papillons de la Nuit, or the improvisatory Dance of Life Against Death.  If only he had been able to work well with others and win the kind of support a man of genius needs.  The behavior of an artist may seem eccentric at times, but to succeed in the theater it is necessary to maintain a certain amount of sociability and be conciliatory.  A certain craftiness may also help, if one hopes to be a leader, to run a company, to form a school.  One must be able to bend to the will of others, and also know how to manipulate them.  These were qualities that Diaghilev and Romola Pulszky possessed.  But not Nijinsky.


Vaslav Nijinsky: A Leap into Madness by Peter Ostwald. 1991. Pages 339-40.

Nijinsky's Faune

. . . towards the end of April 1912, Nijinsky had finished his Faune.  The preparation had taken ninety rehearsals -- which may seem a lot for a ten-minute ballet.  Yet the number of rehearsals was not excessive if one takes into account the ballet's completely new technique of presentation, and if one also remembers the marvelous level of execution finally achieved by the artists.

It was the first time that a ballet had been mounted and rehearsed in the same way that a musical score is performed by an orchestra.  In this new technique Nijinsky truly demonstrated his choreographic genius: he conducted his ballet, seeing each choreographic detail in the same way that the conductor of an orchestra hears each note in a musical score.

Up to then the ballet artist had been free to project his own individuality as he felt; he was even expected to embellish it according to his own taste, possibly neglecting the exactness of the choreographic execution.  The artists simply had to comply with the following rules; keep a line straight or a circle round; preserve the groupings; execute the basic pas.

Nijinsky was the first to demand that his whole choreographic material should be executed not only exactly as he saw it but also according to his artistic interpretation.  Never was a ballet performed with such musical and choreographic exactness as L'Après-Midi d'un Faune.  Each position of the dance, each position of the body down to the gesture of each finger, was mounted according to a strict choreographic plan.

Bonislava Nijinska: Early Memoirs.  1981.  Page 427.