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.

Karsavina describes lessons in pantomime

Twice a week Guerdt gave us lessons in pantomime.  He taught us by his own example.  He first acted a scene himself, and then let us repeat it, correcting us as we did it.  We acted scenes from actual ballets in the repertoire and from the old ones that lived in the memory of our master through either the glory of their interpreters or because these scenes offered an opportunity of a highly dramatic or of a comic situation.  Few, if any, accessories were used.  The main features of the scenery were easily supplied by benches and chairs.  Two chairs with a space between would represent a door; a bench would be placed to be a couch, if absolutely required by the situation.  As for properties, they were imaginary.  We poured wine, plucked flowers, stabbed, span, knocked at the door -- all without accessories.  The movements necessary for these simple actions were to my mind the most difficult to find, the dramatic ones easy enough.  We were constantly corrected by the master.  "You don't write a letter by simply wobbling your hand.  Press, form the characters."  Or, "That is not the way to hold a rose."  Out of his pocket would come a handkerchief.  Folding it in imitation of a flower, he gazed lovingly at the piece of cambric, and rapturously inhaled the imaginary fragrance.  No theoretical explanation, no attempt to define a law determining the means of expression were given to us.  A purely intuitive actor, Guerdt was hardly conscious himself of the two quite different elements of the present ballet acting.  Mimed narrative had by now established itself firmly.  A scene acted in a past tense, in which the actor had to explain what took place off the stage, necessarily called for description or entirely conventional gestures.  In other ballets such as Giselle, La fille mal gardée, the action came spontaneously from the core of the plot.  It unfolded itself from the situation by means of emotional gestures or acts direct to the purpose.

Pantomime lessons as given by Guerdt were an admirable example, but not a teaching based on any clearly understood principle.  I think that consideration must have been in Wolkonsky's mind when he, frequently present at our lessons, set us some problems to work out.  The little plots he gave us were simple and circumstantial.  From a skeleton of a plot we had to imagine the situation and devise the action.  Without an example before us we often failed.  Here Wolkonsky would prompt us by suggestions:  "You see the villain going off the stage; his malignant smile convinces you of his villainy.  Turning to your mother you say -- 'it is him that has stolen my letter' -- how will you do that?  Look at the person you are addressing and point to one of whom you speak.  In a gesture of accusation, the palm of your hand must be turned down.  The contrary will imply invitation, demand, address."  By these remarks he made us depend on the understanding of a principle of acting and not merely on copying a demonstrated exercise.

Theatre Street: The Reminiscences of Tamara Karsavina. 1930. Page 113-4.

An aspect of production -- Giselle

It is not easy to arrange these two cottages so that the gamekeeper, Hilarion, can spy upon Albrecht and his squire going to the former's cottage, while remaining in concealment unseen either by them or by Giselle, should she chance to look out of the window of her abode.  Quite often, when the stage is small, Loys's cottage is omitted altogether, which must make the subsequent proceedings quite incomprehensible to anyone seeing the ballet for the first time.

It cannot be over-emphasised that the entire understanding of Act I depends upon the manner in which the episode of Hilarion's spying upon Loys is presented.  When the peasant girls have crossed in little groups from one side of the stage to the other, the scene is momentarily empty.  Then Hilarion enters and peers about him as if in search of someone.  He gazes at Giselle's cottage with tenderness and at its neighbour with anger.  Albrecht approaches, richly dressed, accompanied by his squire, Wilfrid.  They enter the hut to the right.  Hilarion, his suspicions aroused, hides and watches.  Presently, Wilfrid emerges and is seen conversing with Albrecht, now dressed as the peasant, Loys.  The former seems to be urging the latter to abandon some project.  He is dismissed, but bows low before taking his departure.  Hilarion, not unnaturally, is puzzled that so well-dressed a youth should pay homage to a peasant.  Few producers realise how vital is this incident to the understanding of the subsequent action, yet it is frequently regarded as a mere preamble to the ballet and presented so carelessly, that it either passes unnoticed or produces but the most fleeting impression.

The whole purpose of this short scene is to inform the audience that Loys, although dressed as a peasant, is really a nobleman in disguise.

The Ballet Called Giselle by Cyril W. Beaumount.1969.  Page 103-4.

Nijinsky and Diaghilev -- 1913

With Le Sacre du Printemps ballet crossed the threshold of modernism.  Yet Diaghilev, having expended untold sums and vast human resources, drew back from the revolution he had set in motion.  As early as the summer of 1913, Nijinska writes, Diaghilev appeared "disenchanted with Nijinsky's talent and disappointed in him as a choreographer."  That is, even before Nijinsky's departure for South America and his marriage to Romola de Pulszky, Diaghilev "had made it clear. . . that he did not want to entrust him with the choreography of any new ballets."  Indeed, the telegram dismissing him from the Ballets Russes reached the dancer even as word sped around St. Petersburg that Diaghilev and Fokine had reached complete agreement regarding the latter's participation in the 1914 season.  With their rapprochement, Nijinsky's position within the company became untenable.

Diaghilev's Ballets Russes by Lynn Garafola.  1989.  Page 73.

The Victorian Ballet-Girl in London

The Ballet-girl's day was a long one.  It began with a rehearsal at ten or eleven o'clock in the morning on a bare, uninviting stage with the flats and the wings drawn away and a few rays of sunshine penetrating the mass of ropes, pulleys and bridges in the flies.  To the accompaniment of a solitary violinist, the Ballet-master drilled the dancers, 'pretty trim-built girls, with sallow faces and large eyes -- the pallor that overspreads their features from cosmetics and late hours'.  Perhaps there was a general rehearsal, with orchestra and scenery, to follow.  Practice-costume was by no means the rule in those days of long, wide skirts.  'It is curious to see them rehearsing their grand pas in their walking dresses.  they divest themselves of their bonnets and shawls; and sometimes tie a handkerchief, gipsy fashion, over their heads.  Then they begin -- sinking down and crossing their hands on their breast; bending back almost to vertebral dislocation; wreathing their arms; and the like. . . .  You will observe, too, that they have all kept their gloves on: it appears to be a point of etiquette amongst them to do so.'

After the rehearsal, the Ballet-girl had two or three hours to herself before returning to the theatre by six o'clock to prepare for the evening performance.  With a nod to the stage-door keeper and a quick glance at the letter-rack, she ran up the stairway to the dressing-room, which she shared with five other girls, and where she had a compartment to herself on one of the dressing-tables, with her own looking-glass and wash-basin, powder-dabbers and pots of rouge.  When the call-boy's voice was heard through the door, there was a hurried rush to take up their positions.  Some climbed the staircase to be attached to the hooks of the 'travellers', some descended below the stage to make their entrances through trap-doors, some collected in groups in the wings, while others, not required until the next act, made their way leisurely to the Green Room.

Usually they were all dressed exactly alike, but if one were singled out to wear some additional decoration on her costume, or to perform slightly different steps, with what rapture was this mark of favour received!  For it was a sign of progress in a career that was a ceaseless struggle.  'If the management permits her to wear a wreath of her own purchasing whilst her sister fays go without one, she has achieved another great position, and dreams of one day equalling Carlotta Grisi.  For upon enquiry you will find that Carlotta is the real pet of the ballet.'

Between the acts, there was a great flurry and bustling, a swarm of scene-shifters coming on with the wings and the flats for the next scene, the stage-manager giving his last-minute instructions ('with the addition of a little swearing'), the property-man busily seeing that all was in order, and a few privileged well-dressed gentlemen lounging in the wings and flirting with the coryphées.

When the performance was over, if no watchful mother or attentive sweetheart was waiting for her, the Ballet-girl stole quietly out of the stage-door and, her shawl drawn closely about her, made her way quickly homeward, stopping perhaps at the late shop for a bottle of ginger beer and one of those tempting pies that lay steaming in the open window.  And once home, she undressed quickly and climbed into her bed, for the day had been long and exacting and there was another rehearsal the next morning.  'With the music, the stage, and the lights still haunting her senses, she falls asleep; and perhaps dreams that she is a second Taglioni, and that foreign gentlemen, the likes of which have never been seen in Leicester Square, are dragging her from the theatre to the hotel, in her own carriage.'

Victorian Ballet Girl: the Tragic Story of Clara Webster by Ivor Guest.  1957.  Pages 35-7. [With quotes from Albert Smith's The Natural History of the Ballet-Girl. 1847.]

A memory of Le Spectre de la Rose with Nijinsky and Karsavina

As I have already said, my sister, four years my senior, was with me.  She had come to the capital partly to see me, partly to visit family friends, who were entertaining her with all the lavishness of Russians of position in the Imperial régime.  It was through one of these friends that the tickets for the special performance of Le Spectre de la Rose came -- and we were asked if we would care to go to it.  My sister's hostess and her husband apparently did not wish to see Fokine's work -- they said something about not liking new-fangled things, which I did not understand.

Of course we accepted joyously.  It was the accepted thing that if one was in Petersburg one missed no possible opportunity of seeing the ballet -- especially when one normally lived, as my sister and I did, in an inaccessible province in the far south.  I could not understand why anyone should decline to go; it was like refusing cream cakes or those delicious sugar candies that were sold in the wonderful shops on the Nevsky Prospekt.  That was the childish thought that sprang to my mind, and I remember it with astonishing clarity.  It is an indication of my boyish normality and of my utter immaturity.

The performance was given in a small semi-private theatre, which a rich landowner had built for his own amusement, and began with some divertissement that I cannot recall, beyond that it was of the type I had seen even at my age, a hundred times before.  And then at last came Le Spectre de la Rose.  The small orchestra played the opening bars of Weber's Invitation to the Waltz, a piece that was unknown to me though it was famous all over Europe.  The curtains slid back.

As though drawn by some magnetic force, I leant forward and glued my eyes to the stage.  Bakst's décor fascinated me.  The tall window with its lace curtains tied back with ribbons, the canary in its cage, the furniture that was like nothing I had ever seen before and looked as though it had come from some other, remote world -- all this was a miracle, and I experienced an odd feeling of fear that the curtains might close and I should never see it again.

But fear vanished, even the décor grew dim, when Karsavina appeared, the rose in her hand.  It was impossible to believe that she was flesh-and-blood.  She was a feather, and the stage was there not to support her but to limit her movement so that the audience could see her.  I do not pretend that I knew what she was trying to express -- or, rather, was expressing with the utmost conviction to older and more formed minds; I knew nothing at my age of the poignancy of a young girl returning from a ball bewildered by her first encounter with love and gallantry, of which the rose she carried was a souvenir.  That did not matter.  Karsavina danced as I had seen no one dance before.  I was enthralled, absorbed, barely aware of myself any longer.

She sank into the chair and fell asleep.  My trance was momentarily over and I wanted to cry out and tell her that she must never, never stop dancing . . . but already I was too well schooled in the discipline of the ballet.  I waited, expectant, eager.

For what seemed to me eternity, the stage was occupied by none but the sleeping Karsavina.  Then, magically, Nijinsky was there.  He had entered by that famous leap which caused so much controversy and was opposed by some on the grounds of "athleticism in the ballet" so that, for a time, the superbness of Karsavina and the glory of the ballet as a whole were forgotten, and people went to see Le Spectre de la Rose for the leap alone.

I could add nothing to that discussion if I wished to stir again the old embers, which I do not.  No doubt, as a boy, I should have remembered that before all else.  But I was barely conscious of it.  All I knew was that Nijinsky was on the stage, wafted there by some magical aid that had nothing to do with everyday human muscles.  Nijinsky danced, as lightly as Karsavina, yet differently.  This time, perhaps because of his costume of rose petals, I had no difficulty in following the book.  He was the rose itself come to life and dancing just like fallen rose petals dance when the soft summer breeze lifts them into the air.

Before I had been entranced.  Now I was bewitched.  My whole world was that small stage on which spirits moved.  Karsavina awoke and joined the spirit of the Rose.  The pain of my delight was almost unbearable.  And at last Nijinsky left.  Out of a memory more than forty years' old, a memory based on a child's experience, I defy all the books and all the critics.  He did not leap.  He was wafted out of that open window by a zephyr.  Since that time, in Italy, in France, in English gardens, in a hundred places where roses grow, I have seen petals caught by a small eddy of wind and gently borne aloft out of sight; and never have I failed to think of Nijinsky and the Spirit of the Rose.  If others assert that Nijinsky leapt, then for them, to their eyes, he did; but for me, the middle-aged man who looks back on it through the eyes of a small boy, Nijinsky was puffed away by the slightest, most caressing of winds.

Charm of Ballet by George Borodin [George Sava]. 1955.  Pages 30-2.

The self-sacrifice of dancers

As long as we continue to regard dancers as special beings, a breed apart, we condemn them to the status quo -- to their eternal childhood.  If we insist on their childlike charm and innocence at the expense of an adult relationship to the world of work, love, family, and friendship, it is they who will pay for our pleasure.  And as long as dancers accept this self-image, forfeiting the rights most professionals fight for and enjoy -- the right to respect, to financial remuneration, and to have at least some outside fulfillment -- the price they pay will be inordinately high.

In Europe, dancers fare better because ballet is forced to play by society's rules.  Ballet may create a magical world on stage, but dancers know that there is nothing magical about low pay and poor working conditions, sacrifice and injury.  They've learned how to fight to protect themselves.  There are some American dancers who have also learned that lesson.  They are the superstars who insist upon high salaries, a measure of control over their working lives, a great deal of security, and even more respect.  The difference between Europe and America is that across the Atlantic star dancers are not singled out:  When dancers are truly protected, all are protected equally.

Off Balance: the Real World of Ballet by Suzanne Gordon.  1983.  Page 215.

The power of Mathilde Kschessinska

 On April 15th I appeared in the other ballet I had inherited from Legnani, La Camargo, a work in three acts and five tableaux in Louis XV style, by Saint-Georges and Petipa.  It was responsible for another clash between Prince Volkhonsky, Director of the Imperial Theatres, and myself.  Legnani had performed the Russian dance in a Louis XV style costume, whose billowing skirts, supported by hoop petticoats, hindered her movements and robbed the dance of all its charm.  Legnani was certainly an excellent dancer, but she paid far less attention to costume than I did.  I knew perfectly well that in these clothes I would look ugly, on account of my small size, and that I would also find it quite impossible to execute the Russian dance in the way I wished to do it.  It consists of imperceptibly subtle touches, which contribute its value.  I had therefore given my reasons to the wardrobe-keeper, adding that I would naturally put on the presribed costume, but without the tiresome hoops, whose absence would anyway not be noticed under the billowing skirts.  My remarks, wholly justified as they were, were doubtless misrepresented to the Director to appear a mere whim.  In any case, my observations were disregarded and I was again told that I must put on the hoops without fail.  I then received the impression that someone was trying to pick a quarrel with me on a trifling excuse.

Just before the performance began Baron Koussov, Theatre Manager in the Imperial Theatres, entered my dressing-room and insisted once more in the Director's name that I should put on the hoops.  The disagreement had now gone on for some time, and the public, who knew all about it, was impatiently waiting the outcome of  "the affair".  The outcome was that I categorically refused to put on the hoops and danced without them!  If it had not been for the publicity given to the quarrel, nobody could ever have known if I was wearing the hoops or not.

The next day when I arrived at the theatre for rehearsal I read on the Administration's notice board: "The Director of the Imperial Theatres fines the ballerina Kschessinska [so many rubles] for an unauthorised change in the costume prescribed by regulation for the ballet La Camargo".  Bearing in mind my salary and position, the fine was so small that it was clearly meant to provoke and not to punish me.  I could not submit to such an insult without taking steps to put it right.  I had no other resource but to apply once more to the Tsar, begging him to have the fine remitted through the same channel.  And now a notice went up on the board:  "The Director of the Imperial Theatres hereby orders a remission of the fine imposed on the ballerina Kschessinska for an unauthorised change in the costume prescribed by regulation in the ballet La Camargo."  Following this incident, Prince Volkhonsky felt that he should not remain at his post and handed in his resignation  However, his prestige and independence did not suffer as a result..  He left in July 1901 and was succeeded by V. A. Teliakovsky.

Dancing in Petersburg: the Memoirs of Mathilde Kschessinska. 2005. Pages 81-2.

Karsavina speaking of Nijinsky

He [Nijinsky] was very musical and we felt. . . I should say we were tuned together, knowing each other, never bothering, sometimes even slightly improvising the movement.  But off-stage he was uncommunicative, and not very articulate.  I remember we had once a misunderstanding and that was in Giselle when we revived it on the stage of the Paris Opéra, where it hadn't been given for a very long time, and Diaghilev attached very great importance to it.  I remember he came to fetch me in my dressing room and, as Russians do, made the sign of the cross on me and led me from my dressing room on to the stage, and said, 'Let's go and re-create Giselle in the Paris Opéra.'   At rehearsals I did it as others did it before me, taking the style in which the gestures were not quite conventional but the old kind of pantomime.  and when we rehearsed, Nijinsky just stood and did nothing and it was very disconcerting, it put me off.  So I talked to Diaghilev about it and he said to me, 'Now leave him, he will get it right, you will come to understand each other.  He doesn't talk much, but he writes reams and reams of paper just on that part.  He thinks it.  He was just thinking the part in his head.' And finally at the performance it did come together very well, in harmony.

Speaking of Diaghilev by John Drummond.  1997.  Pages 93-4.

Leighton Lucas speaking of Diaghilev

Tell me about discipline in the company.  Was it strict?

Oh, very strict, very strict indeed.  There was one thing that always amused me very much.  I noticed that when after a rehearsal or a class we'd all change, the last man out always bowed to the room before we shut the door.  This I liked very much.  It's a formal gesture.  Every time Diaghilev came in to visit a rehearsal or a class, we all had to stand up, and mistakes were not only frowned upon, they were verboten.  We were not allowed to make mistakes, although I must quote an example of this.  Pulcinella, Stravinsky-Pergolesi.  The most beautiful, beautiful work.  We did the first performance of that at the Paris Opéra and we had been rehearsing, as the ballet used to rehearse for months and months on this one work.  There were four little Pulcinelli, of whom I was one, and we were all dressed in huge white gowns with black wooden masks over our faces, so we were completely anonymous, and little red hats designed by Picasso.  By the first performance of this work we knew it, we were bored, we knew it so well, and came the moment we four little Pulcinelli were doing our dance, and for the briefest second I hesitated.  My mind wandered -- is it right or left turn -- and before I had thought about it I had done it the right way and forgotten it.  And when I left the theatre that night, my name was on the board.  Lukin rehearsal tomorrow morning, Pulcinella.  And for two hours the next morning I had to go through this dance until I went screaming mad, to make perfectly sure I never did such a thing again.  Diaghilev was in front of every performance, and he had seen this and his ire worked to such an extent to think that anybody in his company could make a mistake.  This was the sort of standard we were set.


Speaking of Diaghilev by John Drummond.  1997.  Page 209.

Balanchine and story ballets

Then too, without story ballets he [Balanchine] didn't have to buy scenery, which was good because he didn't have any money.  He was kind of a free man.  He could do what he wanted.  I always had the feeling that he wanted to choreograph with nobody bothering him.  He decided to do his style and didn't care about scenery and costumes.  When he came to New York he changed everything.  He was smart when he saw he could do this.  Balanchine made a tremendous revolution.

Roman Jasinski: a Gypsy Prince from the Ballet Russse by Cheryl Forrest and Georgia Snoke.  2008.  Page 235.

Preparation for a role

Great singers and dancers have approached the actual manner of presentation differently.  Some had to get inside the skin of the character, to prepare internally before going on stage.  Chaliapin could stand in the wings smoking and chatting one minute and stun the audience with his tragic figure of Tsar Boris the next.  For Maria Callas, full control meant that a performance must be linked to personal identification with the role, whether it was Norma, Violetta, or Medea.  The same was true of Anna Pavlova.  Maya Plisetskaya could dash about the shops right up to the beginning of a performance, then, barely warming up, go out on stage as the dazzling Odette.  Nijinsky is said to have seemed sleepy before the curtain went up.  He would wake up in his role, giving rein to his complexes, then retreat again behind his indifferent mask when the curtain fell.

Baryshnikov: from Russia to the West by Gennady Smakov.  1981.  Page 125.

Erik Bruhn and nerves

It is a hard illness to cure unless it is detected and checked from the start.  He [Bruhn] has reached the point of being a really great dancer.  He knows it, he feels it and people tell him so all the time.  He now finds it hard to live up to his own immense reputation and is consumed by fears.  His greatest fear is disappointing his public; that people will one day shrug after a performance and say, "So, that is the great Erik Bruhn?"

I was told once that it happens inevitably to all great bull fighters.  At the height of their fame and powers they develop tremendous fears they will disappoint the crowds; that they will fail to live up to their expectations.  And so they do something desperate, trying deliberately to repeat a previous successful feat that came spontaneously to them before.  In the end some of them get themselves killed.  Luckily our dear friends do not put their life at stake, but it's the same thing when nerves get in the way. . . .

Vera Volkova by Alexander Meinertz.  2007.  Page 129.

Baryshnikov as a child

'I got lucky,' he [Baryshnikov] adds.  'I fell in love with dance."  Every ounce of energy he had was channelled into ballet.  According to Juris Kapralis, who became his ballet teacher two months after his mother's death, he was a child workaholic.  'Very serious boy.  Perfectionist.  Even in free time, go in corner and practise over and over again.  Other boys playing, Misha studying.  And not just steps, but artistic, as actor.  He is thinking all the time what this role must be.  I remember, once, Nutcracker.  He was 13, perhaps.  I was prince, and he was toy soldier.  After Mouse King dies, Misha relax his body.  No longer stiff, like wooden soldier.  Soft.  Our ballet director ask him: 'Who says you should do this?'  He answer: 'When Mouse King dies, toys become human.  toys become boys.  Movements must change.'  He devise that himself.  Small boy, but thinking.'

"The reluctant prodigal" by Joan Acocella.  The Guardian.  28 February 1988.

Helgi Tomasson's ballet shoes

I want the sole to conform to my arch when I point my foot, so I order snug and flexible slippers.  Because of this fit, I am almost as sensitive to the floor in my slippers as I am in bare feet.  Quite often the stage is not flawless; even on linoleum the cracks in the wooden floor underneath can be dangerous, especially during a turning combination.  It's an advantage to be able to feel the problem spots so that you can avoid them.  However, I need the protection of slippers for classical ballet variations in which there are multiple turns and jumps.

It's possible to borrow tights, costumes, or make-up, but never ballet slippers.  My slippers must fit and belong to my own feet.  In fact, when I travel I never pack my shoes into the suitcase that will be stored in the baggage compartment; I always carry them on the plane with me for safety.  Wearing another dancer's shoes would be a disaster -- probably more psychologically than physically.

Dancershoes by Daniel and Stephanie Sorine.  1979.  Page 72.

A dancer's fame

The highly concentrated nature of ballet tends to turn most dancers into very nervous people.  It is almost constitutionally impossible to be calm and relaxed when the successes or failures in your career depend on a few minutes of intense dancing, and when your artistry is constantly put to the test.  A dancer's fame is ephemeral, and leaves no lasting mark, except in the spectator's memory.  A dancer's fame is fluid, because it depends on the sum total of his or her performances, never on a single perfect moment.  Finally, a dancer's fame is intangible, because it reflects a highly personal, yet harmonious, unity of movement, technique, maturity, musicality and "soul."

Ballet as body language by Joan McConnell.  1977.  Page 129.

The tragedy of Chodinsky Field -- the coronation of Tsar Nicholas II

And then as though it had been a signal, the whole aspect of that vast throng changed.  It was instantaneous and complete.  Men, women, and children charged  forward in a solid mass, for all the world like a stampede of the cattle that, in their stolidness, they so closely resembled.  They swept forward relentlessly, oblivious of obstacles, indifferent to the dangers they were creating for themselves and their fellows . . .

On the fringes of the throng, police and military exchanged sharp and anxious glances.  No words were necessary to point out the risks of disaster that mounted every minute.  The blind, unreasoning panic of a crowd -- especially one such as this -- is terrifying and terrible enough at any time, certain to lead to injury and probably death.  But it was not this danger that was uppermost in the minds of those whose unenviable responsibility it was to endeavour to ensure safety.  The field was a veritable death trap.  No planks, however strong, could withstand the load imposed by that tumultuous charge.

A captain of police stepped forward and shouted, trying to halt or turn the mob.  He was swept aside, and his body trampled underfoot.  All around him others were sharing his fate, as the rushing people stumbled into the ditches, in which they were pressed down by the weight of those who fell on top of them.

It was a horrifying sight that remained for ever sharply photographed in Ivan's mind.  Often I heard him, in after years, tell the story of the coronation tragedy, and I seemed to see the scene with the same vividness as he.

"Never before or since," he said, "have I been so overwhelmed by a sense of tragedy and helplessness.  I had soldiers -- several hundred of them -- at my disposal.  All round the field there were other detachments, as well as the police.  But what could we do?  We were powerless to stem that rush, which swept forward like some mountain torrent.  Panic was everywhere.  Yet the crowd crashed forward as though it was impelled by a single desire which must be satisfied at any cost -- to gain possession of those cheap, glittering tin cups and the pathetic little bags of food that were the Tsar's gifts to his people.  We could have fired, perhaps, but the risk was too great.  A single shot even into the air would have turned that pressing mob into a horde of raging beasts who would have torn at each other's throats and brought greater disaster where there was already disaster enough.

"All we could do was to keep on the fringes, trying to contain the mob and reduce in whatever way we could its mad momentum.  That was difficult enough.  Two of my men stepped forward trying to protect and rescue a middle-aged muzhik woman who carried a small child in her arms and had another, perhaps five or six years old, by her side.  They were swept away like small logs tossed into a cascade.  The woman, too, disappeared beneath the thousands of trampling feet.  Later, when it was all over, we found the woman, children, and our two men . . . they were unrecognizable.

One Russian's story by George Sava. 1970. Pages 91-2.

The mirror and self-scrutiny

. . . this self-scrutiny is hardly narcissistic because it holds so little pleasure.  Yet one understands why dancers are so often considered hopeless narcissists, so absorbed in their own images that they do not connect, not even when they dance together.  One of the oddest experiences I've had was watching Natalia Makarova and Alexander Godunov rehearse a lyrical, romantic pas de deux to the strains of Tchaikovsky.  I imagined them melting into one another, yet for these two dancers merging was hardly the order of the afternoon.  Coupling to the music, they stared past each other, through each other, over each other, straining for a glimpse in the mirror, making this lyrical dance an almost comic parody.

Off balance: the real world of ballet by Suzanne Gordon. 1983. Page 26.

Nijinsky as choreographer

The experiment of appointing Nijinsky as chief choreographer seems to have been generally regarded at the time as disastrous.  Diaghilev's motive was to find a talent responsive to new ideas, and one which he could mould according to his own theories, which at the time included an inordinately high regard for the music-visualization theories of Dalcroze and his method of eurhythmics.  Curiously, there seems little evidence of the effect of these theories in Nijinsky's one surviving work, L'Après-midi d'un Faune; and curiously also, that work shows an exceptionally strong plastic and atmospheric sense, suggesting that maybe Nijinsky was a better choreographer than he gets credit for.  Massine in his autobiography expressed great admiration for the meticulous way Nijinsky explained each small detail when rehearsing Faune and said categorically that in different circumstances Nijinsky would have been a great choreographer.  His Sacre du Printemps also, although difficult and unappreciated, was thought by some to have a quality of pathos which Massine's later, better-organized version lacked.

World of Diaghilev by John Percival.  1971. Pages 62-4.

Ashton and dancing

I have know Frederick Ashton from his first years as a student in the ballet world.  I can remember him in the 'twenties, first as a pupil of Leonide Massine and later with Marie Rambert.  Small, nervous and touchingly eager to please, is the picture that I recall of him.  Like so many artists, he was more in love with his second best talent: for at one time he appeared to want to dance more than anything else in the world.  When a member of Madam Rambert's Ballet Club, he would dance sometimes with me as an 'extra in the early Old Vic Christmas Ballets -- before Sadler's Wells was rebuilt.  The Ballet Club gave its first performance at the Mercury Theatre about three months ahead of the opening of the Sadler's Wells Theatre.

Ashton joined the Vic-Wells Ballet the year that Markova left us in 1935.  From that autumn, until the outbreak of war, we had the benefit of his first group of ballets.  He was exceptionally prolific -- always working with a great facility.  He has never cared to wander far from his native ballet company, and when he has done so, he has always appeared to be profoundly miserable until he has returned home again.

Ashton has an intensely ephemeral attitude towards his ballets -- I doubt if he has any notes of reference on any of them. . . he would prefer to re-compose rather than endeavour to remember.

He always says that his idea of happiness is to be in the corps de ballet.  Some years ago I was standing next to him during a rehearsal of Purcell's Faerie Queen at the Royal Opera House.  He was directing the choreography: an unconsciously humorous (to balletic minds anyway) rendering of a song was in progress, and although the corps de ballet were in a group on the stage, their faces were turned away from the auditorium.  Suddenly a faint shaking was discernible -- a ripple that increased in vibration as it noticeably passed through the bodies of the dancers.  'Look,' said Fred, 'they are having such a wonderful giggle -- Oh, I wish I was still in the corps and able to giggle like that. . .'

Ashton's giggling days were spent in the Ida Rubinstein Company in the last years of the 'twenties.  He and William Chappell were humble members of the Company.  I can imagine them: two small English boys -- inexperienced, half-trained and underpaid.  He has told me of the economic embarrassment that was caused when the two of them had a quarrel, and might not be on speaking terms for some days: finances demanded the sharing of the tooth paste, the cake of soap and the hair oil; silence made all requests for such mundane possessions a matter of acute, though momentary, lost of dignity. . . .

In his early days Ashton might be lethargic about his choreography, but there was never as much as a hint of lethargy about his dancing.  When young, his weakness lay in a difficulty in keeping time with the music -- and the clock.  Eagerness and intense nervous energy (his natural reaction to movement) made him deaf to sound; one would hold on to him grimly and at the same time experience something of the trouble encountered by anyone involved in the capture of a wild Dartmoor pony.

Come dance with me: a memoir, 1898-1956 by Ninette de Valois.  1957. Pages 180-1.

The foot

To most balletgoers, the aristocratic foot of the dancer is the distinguishing feature of classical ballet.  Strong and supple, and as sensitive as a hand, the foot is used by the dancer in a manner that, to the eye of the observer, departs distinctly from the ordinary mechanics of movement.

To a dancer the feet are servants of the first rank.  Like the tiny feeder roots of a tall strong tree, on which the health and well-being of every leaf and branch depend, the feet are a source not only of strength and support, but also of propulsion and shock absorption and, most importantly, of perception.  Sensations relayed from the foot inform the rest of the body of the level of its support, its trajectory, its orientation to space, and countless subtleties that are reflected instantly in every movement.  It is no exaggeration to say that the quality of a dancer's movement is directly related to the level of sensitivity in the use of the feet.

Inside Ballet Technique: separating anatomical fact from fiction in the ballet class by Valerie Grieg. 1994.  Page 95.

Arthur Saint -Léon's last years

So Saint-Léon came back to Paris in 1870 to savour his last and greatest triumph, Coppélia, which was created at the Opéra at the end of May.  No doubt he, and others too, looked forward to a long and fruitful association with the Opéra, but that was not to be.  For some years his health had been disintegrating, and it was a miracle that in his physical condition he could still produce a masterpiece so light-hearted and charming.  In his younger days he had enjoyed good health, suffering only from minor ailments such as rheumatism, for which he took the waters at Bath in 1847, and this had given him more than a fair share of energy.  As well as dancing and devising ballets, he concerned himself with all details of the production as well as musical matters, he coached his ballerinas, and he was capable of managing his own company.  If he grumbled about his "position of a galley slave", it was his life and he would surely have had it no other way.  But in 1866, exhausted by the demands made on him in Russia and frustrated at being unable to supervise the final rehearsals of La Source in Paris, his health began to fail.  It was a moral as well as a physical crisis.  "How I loathe my profession," he confessed to Nuitter.  Assailed by rheumatism, headaches and stomach trouble, he began to find his duties a burden.  By the winter of 1868-69 he was enduring "unbelievable pain" from "a complicated disease of the kidneys and the intestines," and for two and a half months he was able to sleep only for short periods crouched up in an armchair.  Depression and fatigue took a heavy toll, and in the last summer of his life, 1870, he was a man grown old before his time.

Two weeks after the first night of Coppélia he went, on doctor's advice, to Wiesbaden to take the waters.  The Franco-Prussian War broke out shortly after his return to Paris, and as the time for his return to St. Petersburg approached, news of heavy defeats and withdrawals was reaching Paris.  The end came with merciful suddenness.  He collapsed with a heart attack in the Café du Divan, in the Passaage de l'Opéra, on the evening of 2nd September 1870, and was dead before his friends could bring him back to his home in the rue de Laval, where he lived with Louise Fleury.

It was the end of an era in more sense than one.  The Opéra had just closed for the duration of the war, and would not reopen until the following year, after France's defeat, the fall of the Second Empire, and the holocaust of the Commune.  The great flowering of ballet, which had reached its peak under the influence of Romanticism in the 1830s and 1840s but had continued, with diminishing strength, until 1870, had passed.  The repertory of those years was to disappear as its ballets, with only one exception, were forgotten.  The exception was Coppélia, which has survived to enchant us still, one of the last brilliant flames of the Second Empire, reflecting all the confident gaiety of that vanished age, and a lively and fitting memorial to its creator, Arthur Saint-Léon.

from the introduction to Letters from a Ballet-Master: The Correspondence of Arthur Saint-Léon edited by Ivor Guest. 1981. Pages 33-5.

Darcey Bussell on Conductors

One of the hard things about dancing -- particularly in classical ballets -- is that the performance doesn't just depend on us, the dancers.  Conductors especially can affect us because they determine the speed of the music, and if they hear it differently from us it can throw our whole performance.

When we have a conductor like Victor Fedotov guesting from the Kirov it's a great luxury because he takes his speeds from the dancers, unlike many conductors over here who don't adjust their tempi at all -- they play the music as they would a concert score.  In Russia dancers seem to wield more power though, so conductors like Fedotov will speed up or slow down the orchestra to suit the dancing.

When we work with him it's wonderful to get so much attention, but it can be unnerving.  At first I couldn't get used to the way he'd virtually stop the orchestra whenever I took a balance, and wait for me to come down before he started up again.  Because I'm so used to having to keep time with the orchestra I kept on balancing longer and longer as he slowed down, and both the music and I nearly ground to a halt.

Since most Opera House conductors don't indulge us in the same way we have to adjust our speeds to them.  It's fine if everyone's rehearsed together but if a new conductor comes in or there hasn't been enough preparation time then the music may be played at an alarmingly different speed from the way we've rehearsed it.  It's a terrible feeling -- you're being forced off the music and you can't do the steps properly.  Dancers often come off the stage in tears because the conductor has spoilt their show.  Being tall, I generally prefer conductors to take speeds slightly slow.  If the music goes too fast I can't always fit in the steps and I'm in danger of tripping over myself.  If it goes too slow I can always save something,  I can always pull a phrase out longer -- except of course when I'm jumping.  I can't actually fly.

Life in Dance by Darcey Bussell. 1999. Pages 66-7.

Diaghilev conquers Paris

One truly beautiful day I had a visit from Diaghilev, who asked me if I would come to Paris with him, where he was planning to organize a number of symphony concerts, in order to acquaint the French public with Russian music and its historical development.  I agreed to take part in them since I knew how interested Europe was in Russian works.  I was most enthusiastic about his idea.  This for me was a new adventure, and I looked forward to it very much.

When we reached Paris I took up residence in the same hotel as Diaghilev.  I soon understood that what we had embarked upon was work of the greatest importance, and everybody concerned was throwing heart and soul into the task.  I will say this, that there was more life humming round Diaghilev than in all the streets of Paris. He told me that there was such an enormous interest in the forthcoming concerts that even the Grand Opera House would not hold the thousands who were already clamouring for tickets.  He said that Rimsky-Korsakov, Rachmaninov, Scriabin, and many other composers would be taking part in the concerts, and that Rimsky-Korsakov, Blumenfeld, and Nikish were to conduct.

We began the first concert with the first act from Russlan and Ludmilla, and it was very well received.  I myself sang excerpts from Sadko, Prince Igor, and Boris Godunov, as well as a number of ballads with pianoforte accompaniment.  The French are erroneously considered to be frivolous, but they were very much drawn to us, liking particularly the Mussorgsky music, and spoke of this composer with great enthusiasm.  The concerts were so successful that it gave us the idea of bringing Russian opera to France the following season.  And this we did.

The mere announcement that Diaghilev was putting on Boris Godunov was sufficient news for the Parisians to acclaim it as a gala season.  I shall never forget what feeling, what electrifying energy, the chorus and orchestra of the Grand Opera put into their work.  It was simply wonderful.  We produced the work in full, something quite impossible in Russia owing to the censorship.  The work was most impressive, and in all my twenty-five years in the theatre I have never witnessed such a magnificent production.

Chaliapin: an autobiography as told to Maxim Gorky.  1967. Page 164.

Michel Fokine -- Letter,"The Times", 6th July 1914

The Five Principles [of the New Ballet]

Not to form combinations of ready-made and established dance-steps, but to create in each case a new form corresponding to the subject, the most expressive form possible for the representation of the period and the character of the nation represented -- that is the first rule of the new ballet.

The second rule is that dancing and mimetic gesture have no meaning in a ballet unless they serve as an expression of its dramatic action, and they must not be used as a mere divertissement or entertainment, having no connection with the scheme of the whole ballet.

The third rule is that the new ballet admits the use of conventional gesture only where it is required by the style of the ballet, and in all other cases endeavours to replace gestures of the hands by memetic of the whole body.  Man can be and should be expressive from head to foot.

The fourth rule is the expressiveness of groups and of ensemble dancing.  In the older ballet the dancers were ranged in groups only for the purpose of ornament, and the ballet-master was not concerned with the expression of any sentiment in groups of characters or in ensemble dances.  The new ballet, on the other hand, in developing the principle of expressiveness, advances from the expressiveness of the face to the expressiveness of the whole body, and from the expressiveness of the individual body to the expressiveness of a group of bodies and the expressiveness of the combined dancing of a crowd.

The fifth rule is the alliance of dancing with other arts.  The new ballet, refusing to be the slave either of music or of scenic decoration, and recognizing the alliance of the arts only on the condition of complete equality, allows perfect freedom both to the scenic artist and to the musician.  In contradistinction to the older ballet it does not demand "ballet music" of the composer as an accompaniment to dancing; it accepts music of every kind, provided only that it is good and expressive.  It does not demand of the scenic artist that he should array the ballerinas in short skirts and pink slippers.  It does not impose any specific "ballet" conditions on the composer or the decorative artist, but gives complete liberty to their creative powers.

These are the chief rules of the new ballet.

Michel Fokine and his ballets by Cyril W. Beaumont. 1953. Pages 146-7.

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.

Christopher Gable on artistic integrity

You must be doing it for the people. That isn't to say you allow them to dictate artistic terms to you, or indeed, any terms at all. You are doing it for yourself and the person you're working with in that you are trying to find the deepest, richest truth you can. Oh, all these things sound so crappy. I'm sorry, but they are the facts. That truth is entirely for yourself and personal, because it has to do with your artistic integrity. But having found it, it's no use to anybody unless you can share it with the people who come to watch.

Ah, but the audience and the critics are quite, quite different. The critics are nothing whatever to do with the audience, and I never listened to them. I listened very carefully to a handful of people whose judgment I valued and whose artistic integrity I respected; primarily Lynn [Seymour], I suppose, but there were two or three others. But certainly not the critics -- last of all, them. Because if I spend three, four months preparing a ballet, as we did with Romeo, and then I spend two years refining it, changing it, adjusting, working, and thinking, I don't consider that somebody who walks into a theatre has the right -- with the price of that ticket -- to tell me how to do anything. They haven't put in anything like the thought, time, care, love, concern that I've put in. They have no voice at all.

I listened to my family too, and to all kinds of totally arbitrary people I would meet at parties. I was always very interested in what they thought, because ordinary people aren't diffused by what they think is expertise or by what they think they ought to say. Neither are they concerned with projecting their own sensitivity and awareness onto what they're seeing, or displaying their own gifts.

Striking a Balance: Dancers talk about Dancing by Barbara Newman. 1982. Page 283-4.

Partnering insights

While it may be difficult for men to appreciate pointe work, they have a great advantage over women when it comes to understanding partnering. The man is usually standing behind the woman or in another position where it is easy to watch her. He can study various positions and the effects they create. As a woman, I have great difficulty understanding what a man does in partnering. I know what feels right, but that is all. When a man is partnering a woman, he can feel her weight and may have ideas about other possible movements. He sees how her body falls and constantly has to adjust or fix things that go wrong. His job is to react and relate to what he sees. The woman is in a more passive stance. this may be one of the reasons so few women choreograph classical ballet.

Dancing for Balanchine by Merrill Ashley. 1984. Page 183.

The importance of performing

Even in my gloomiest moments, however, I never lost hope. I always maintained my belief that some day I would be a principal dancer.

At the time, I only dimly understood that my woes were due both to my status as a senior corps member and to the fact I had been taken out of many of my corps roles in a show of confidence. In exchange, I expected to get some better roles, as had happened to others before me. But that didn't happen right away, and I remained for what seemed an eternity in this limbo. Cast infrequently, I watched and waited, wanting only to be on stage. Often I danced less than four times a week. If one dances too seldom, regardless of the level, the stage begins to seem like alien territory. After all, there is only so much one can do in a class or a rehearsal room. some of the most valuable learning happens on stage.

Dancing for Balanchine by Merrill Ashley. 1984. Page 115.

Petersburg, 21 July 1839

At the Opera I saw what is called a gala performance. The magnificently lighted hall was large and beautiful in form. Neither galleries nor balconies are known here. In Petersburg, there is no placing of the bourgeoisie to hinder the architects in their plans; thus the auditorium can be built on simple and regular lines like the theatres of Italy, where the women who are not of high society go to the parterre.

As a particular favour, I had obtained a seat in the first row of the parterre for this performance. On the days of gala performances these places are reserved for the highest nobility, that is to say the most important officials of the court. No one is admitted except in uniform, in the dress of his rank and station.

I did not particularly like the spectacle; I was more interested in the spectators. Finally the court arrived. The imperial loge is a brilliant salon which occupies the back of the hall; this salon is even more brilliantly illuminated than the rest of the theatre, which is itself very light.

The Czar's entry was impressive. When he approached the front of his loge, accompanied by the Czarina and followed by their family and the court, the entire audience rose.

Journey for Our Time: The Journals of the Marquis de Custine. 2001. Page 90.

The Claque

Success being the elusive quality that it is, the Paris Opera didn't rely entirely on its artistic merits to attract a fickle public. Like many other Parisian theaters, it employed the services of an organization known officially as La Societe d'Assurance des Succes Dramatiques, more commonly known as the claque. This was not today's informal band of enthusiastic opera buffs who applaud loudly and scream "Bravos" at the end of their favorite singer's arias. They were a strictly regimented group of forty to sixty professionals whose function, so they claimed, was to heighten the emotional impact of a performance. This could be accomplished in a negative way by hissing, booing, whispering out loud, stomping one's feet, or creating other forms of distraction. More often, though, the claque performed in a positive way by cheering, clapping, throwing bouquets (which were later collected and returned to them for the following act), weeping audibly throughout the heroine's death scene, or shrieking uproariously at the comic basso's clumsy pranks. During intermission they carried on their trade in the lobby or a nearby cafe, where they made loud remarks about the faults or merits of the performance. These members of the Opera's claque were considered masters of their art, each having his own particular specialty such as the well-timed faint or the ear-splitting whistle. The "weepers" were especially adept at their calling since many served as professional mourners during the day. Although the claqueurs' behavior was often boorish, the Parisian ones never went so far as their London colleagues, who sometimes urinated from the balconies onto the audience below.

Quite the contrary, the claqueurs at the Paris Opera were said to be "the most civilized. . . in the world." The man responsible for their model deportment was Auguste Levasseur, the city's ranking chef de claque. Considering the cultural and social status of the Opera, Auguste insisted that his claqueurs dress and behave in a suitable manner. Those who didn't conform were dismissed and forced to proffer their services to lesser institutions like the Comique or the Vaudeville. August himself purposely wore gaudy outfits so he could be spotted easily by his crew, who took their cues from him during a performance. Gloves were the one item strictly forbidden in a claqueur's dress code because they muted applause. Rumor had it, though, that Auguste's real reason for prohibiting gloves was the impossibility of finding a pair large enough to fit his enormous hands.

The efficiency of the Opera's claque was due to its excellent organization, which August structured along the lines of a Roman legion with its hierarchy of generals, brigadiers, lieutenants, sergeants, and so forth. Auguste, in fact, referred to his men as "Romans." On the day of a new performance, he met with them at a wine merchant's shop near the Opera to provide last-minute instructions on the timing and extent of their demonstrations -- for example, moderate applause for a first act entrance, a standing ovation with wild cries of delight at the end of the last act finale, noisy cheers to cover up Mme****'s shaky high C and frigid silence throughout Mlle****'s performance (because she was behind in her payments to the claque). These instructions represented weeks of preparation by August, who attended rehearsals and conferred with the composer, the librettist, the director of the house, and all the major artists. Although largely self-taught, August had gleaned enough knowledge of opera for Veron and Meyerbeer to alter a production at his suggestion.

Members of the claque, after being coached in their duties, would enter the theater around 5:00 in the afternoon and take up their positions before the audience arrived. The seats they occupied were made available through tickets given to Auguste by the management -- and often by the performers as well. Most of Auguste's income (estimated at 20,000 to 40,000 francs a year -- more than many opera singers earned) came from these tickets, some of which he distributed to his claqueurs before selling the rest for his own profit. In addition he received further "gifts" of money from singers as well as composers, especially on the night of a debut or a premiere. One prima donna paid him 50 francs a performance for the fifteen years she sang at the Opera. Others were reported to have bestowed lifetime pensions on him. Once Fanny Elssler, put off by his "fees," hired Santon, the chief claquer of the Gymnase theater, with such disastrous results that she quickly returned to Auguste's protection.

As his power grew, August exploited it to the point of trying to banish the public completely from certain performances on the grounds that its spontaneous reactions could destroy the "successes" he had programmed.

The Parisian worlds of Frederic Chopin by William G Atwood. 1999. Pages 208-10.

Weeping Ballerinas -- 1938

. . . the general American public flocked to see the glamorous Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo and read eagerly of its endless backstage intrigues. Beyond his purely artistic duties, Massine had to deal with diva distemper on a daily basis. Collier's noted, "He has a weeping ballerina on his hands virtually every hour on the hour, and they weep in all languages and for any number of reasons."

Massine's most sensational personnel problems occurred during the first season at the Metropolitan in October 1938. When the cast list went up, Toumanova was livid to discover that Alicia Markova, not she, was slated to dance Odette on Swan Lake's opening night. By several newspaper accounts, Toumanova's father took revenge by storming backstage on opening night and landing a swarthy Russian fist on Massine's jaw. Massine responded by replacing Toumanova with Nathalie Krassovska as Odette Number Two. Krassovska and Massine rehearsed for two days and nights without sleep because "a sulking ballerina had to be taught a lesson."

Leonide Massine and the 20th Century Ballet by Leslie Norton. 2004. Page 196.

Monica Mason on learning to dance the Firebird

When I came to learn it a year or so ago, Michael Somes taught us. And then I said to Norman [Morrice], "I know the role now. I know how to dance the steps and I know what all the steps are. but I just have got to have a link with the past. You've got to get Margo or somebody to come and show us how it felt. You've got to show us what the ballet's about." This is not to knock Michael in any sense at all, but this I felt was the one role where you had to talk to somebody who'd danced it.

Margot had actually been coached by Karsavina, and I knew that Margot held the key for the Firebird because she had got it directly from Karsavina herself. And Margot of course, as always, was so busy and couldn't be reached and wasn't available and then couldn't do it and then she'd be in the building and couldn't stay and all this. But I just couldn't accept the fact that she was not available for half an hour at some point in her life. And eventually once day I appealed to Norman: I said, "You know, I have a feeling that if I can't get some time with Margot, I don't really want to do it, because I can't do it without that." I was passionate about it. And so he had another talk to her. and one day, I suppose literally she gave us about forty-five minutes or an hour. It was wonderful. From the moment she started, I knew that I'd been right -- I had really, really needed her.

She just used some of the words that Karsavina had used for her; what had been conveyed to her had really stayed. And they have stayed, they will stay, with me. On the very first entrance in Firebird, she said, "This is your territory, your domain, and you don't fly over it, you soar. You soar over your territory. Even a sparrow notices if another sparrow comes to perch on his tree, his branch. So imagine what it must be like for the Firebird to have a man invade her territory and actually capture her." And immediately one had a whole different picture. And then she talked about the viciousness of the bird. Apparently, according to Russian folklore, Firebirds actually ate men. She absolutely was a man-eater. So the Prince doesn't really know what he has caught, but the Firebird knows.

And she said that Karsavina had said that from the moment the Prince catches her, she hates him. She hates him for daring even to touch her. Nobody dares to touch her. And another thing Margo said was that when you plead with him to let you go, you still retain this hatred for him, that there's no softening in your feelings. You hate him, and you even hate the fact that you have to ask him to release you. You have to plead, but you plead without losing any of your dignity or your feeling of self-preservation. So all of that stirred one's imagination, which was really what I knew I needed for the role. Those were the things I latched onto and tried to understand. They all make it very fantastical, which the music is.

Striking a Balance: Dancers talk about Dancing by Barbara Newman.1982. Pages 300-1.

Sokolova's memories of Le Spectre de la rose

I enjoyed watching Fokine dance, and I loved to see him with Karasvina in Le Spectre de la rose. It was an entirely different sensation from watching Nijinsky. Nijinsky had been such a myth, and he had that miraculous elevation, so that one was dazzled by his performance and never thought of analysing or criticising it. Fokine danced with a complete understanding of the music and of the steps he had invented to go with it. Nijinsky had been sexless -- an elfin thing. Fokine dancing with Karsavina was very much the lover. When the beautiful Karsavina dance Le Spectre with Nijinsky, she seemed to show a certain detachment, as if he was merely a dream to her, and when he floated out of the window she really woke up. When she danced the same ballet with Fokine there seemed to be a secret affinity between them. I used to say to myself, 'He loves her. I know he does.' When he leaned over her as she slept in her chair and he brushed her forehead with a kiss, just before his exit leap, you could almost hear him think, 'Wake up and remember me.'

Dancing for Diaghilev by Lydia Sokolova. 1960. Pages 52-3.

Peter Martins on Balanchine

Dancers and writers often talk of Balanchine's stress on speed, speed and clarity. But my sense of his true priority, of what he is working for, is different. The word I'd give it is energy. Energy can be fast or slow, but, what Balanchine is demanding is that all parts of the dancing body be energized. There are no dead or resting limbs. Everything is active. Someone can be speedy and quick and still be dead. Speed in itself is not the point, although it is required. In adagio, Balanchine asks for energy that is slow, slow but intense, and full. Whenever you move your arm or your legs, you are saying this is my arm, these are my legs, and I am putting them there.

Far from Denmark by Peter Martins. 1982. Page 91.

Dame Ninette de Valois -- a memory of Nijinsky

After all of us settled into Merle's car, Dame Ninette related one more story from her infinite repertoire. She told us about the first time she saw the famous Nijinsky dance. Her mother had taken her to the theatre, when she was "quite a young girl" -- which meant this took place very early in the century.

"When I first saw him enter," she said, "I hid under my seat on the floor. My mother looked over and asked me, 'What are you doing down there?' I told her, 'I don't like that man!' He seemed more of an animal than a man. . . and he frightened me. . . I liked everyone else on stage, but Nijinsky scared me."

The Shape of Love by Gelsey Kirkland. 1990. Pages 167-8.

The Bow

It was my mother, the former actress, who, years ago, taught me the purpose of the bow was not to bask in praise or milk applause, but to conjure an image of sublime reverence for the theatre.

The Shape of Love by Gelsey Kirkland. 1990. Page 110.

Le Spectre de la Rose

This work, which Karsavina calls "blessed," was meant to be a trifling fill-in ballet, a brief contrast to the other works on the program, and its success took everyone by surprise. It was created spontaneously in two or three rehearsals, in what Karsavina remembers as a blissful mood, and even Diaghilev was calm about the entire production. The only moments of discord occurred when Bakst insisted on including a caged canary in the decor; wherever he hung it, it interfered with the dance--hence expediting its elimination. One fault found in this duet, which helped many audiences further understand and see Fokine's reforms, is that few of the many performers who have since attempted the roles have been able to achieve the fresh, spontaneous, dreamlike quality of Karsavina and Nijinsky. In writing of the poetic dancing of the latter, Fokine laments the apocryphal stories of his final leap and insists that this great artist needs nothing more than the truth told about his portrayal of "a spirit. . . a hope. . . a fragrance that defies description."

Michel Fokine by Dawn Lille Horwitz. 1985. Pages 30-1.