Opening Night of a Faun - Part 3

By Seyna Jo Bruskin

Grigoriev watched him move onto the set. He too recalled the silence after last night's dress rehearsal. As always, Diaghilev had made sure that all the young artists and writers were there, along with some of his coterie. But before much could be made of their confusion about the new piece, Diaghilev sent the theater manager on stage to announce that the audience needed to see it again, and that caviar and champagne would be served during the interlude. Naturally, they appreciated it a bit more the second time. He himself didn't care for it, and he guessed it was the same for the other dancers in the company, from the whispers he heard. He was furious to learn about the ballet, just two months ago, when the Company was in Germany. Vassilieva had let it slip that she had to leave one of Mikhail Folkine's rehearsals to go to Bronia's apartment. Vaslav had set the whole ballet on Bronia in private, and with her was showing it to the other dancers.

Grigoriev was more than angry; he felt bitter because he sensed that Sergei was already pushing Folkine out of the Company so that no one could take away any glory from his prodigy. But which one of those two had created masterpiece after masterpiece for him? No one questioned that Diaghilev had the keenest eye for talent, but what made him think that this dancer, great though he was in his art, was also a choreographer? He had never shown the slightest sign of creativity, or even responsiveness around other people. But Diaghilev had given Vaslav complete freedom; now pulling dancers from Folkine's rehearsals and postponing the piece that Mikhail had been working on for so long. And for what? For twelve minutes of stiff walking. No partnering. No turns. No pointe shoes. No jumps. No ballet, as far as he was concerned.

Thank god for Bronia thought Vaslav; it was she who conveyed his thoughts to the dancers, and if there was to be a triumph tonight, much would be hers; she had made it possible for him to open up a new form of movement, to flatten the lines, to draw energy from the earth and not leave it. Now he would expose to them what silly tricks they had made him do for so long. He had felt like a monkey doing those leaps, those turns; they had no root; no core. He had returned to the essence, the animal hunger of movement. He nodded to Grigoriev, and slowly crossed the stage climbing the rocks on the other side. In a few moments, he heard the audience respond as the conductor took his place.

As Grigoriev prepared to signal the big men who pulled the curtain ropes he thought, "Ah, maybe I'm not suited for this touring life after all. It is hard to see my friend, Folkine, treated this way. Loyalty was never a strong point for the managers at the Imperial Theater, but at least you had your contracts, and your pension." He again looked at Vaslav, to watch him mount the platform in front of the lush backdrop, until he appeared to be reclining on the top of a cliff. Vaslav put the flute to his lips. Grigoriev swiftly brought down his hand and the curtain went up.

Vaslav called with his flute as the curtain rose. He stretched and threw his bead back, laughing with his entire body; a four-legged creature rearing up towards the sky. Looking around at his beautiful glen, the water glistening as it tumbled down the rocks in the late afternoon sunlight, he rejoiced in his body, in his flute, his hilltop, his brook, his waterfall, his tree. He sniffed the air: something was approaching. Warily he stepped back as six young women appeared, moving towards the pool of water at the base of the falls. Who were they that they thought they could drink from his water? They consulted each other, and then stepped back for a seventh woman to join them. She was taller, fairer. She, unlike them, wore golden sandals on her feet. Clearly she was the most high born, as well as the most beautiful, and the others were attending to her, preparing her bath. Longing filled him, lust filled him, loneliness and fear, all of these crashing together like waves, washing through him as he watched the women, busy together, talking and smiling. Should he approach them? Could he approach them?

But they spotted him first. For a moment they were still as young deer; then they drew back, shocked. Frantically they rushed about as if lost, wanting to hide from him, not knowing which way to run, not knowing what he was. He reached out in friendship but they backed away; he moved towards them, longingly, thinking that the beautiful one understood how much he needed her kindness, her love. For a moment they stood together, but as they quickly ran away she dropped her scarf; they all vanished.

He was alone again; they would never return. Gingerly, tenderly he moved towards the scarf -- her scarf, filled with her scent, her beauty. He touched it, let it cover his face and breathed it in: she was here with him now, he felt as if they were dancing together, and felt himself lifted above the brook in joy. Slowly, majestically, cradling her memory to his breast, he returned to his lair on top of the rock. If she were with me now, he thought, we would lie down together, like this, I would touch her here, I would caress her, and thrust myself into her this way, he thought, as he moved his body with such force that he released all his desire at once.

The curtain fell, and Vaslav heard thunderous noises behind it as he climbed down the wooden stairs behind the cut-out rock profile. As he walked off the stage where his dresser was waiting with water and a wet cloth, he heard Sergei ordering the stage hands to hold the curtain down for one more moment, until he was sure that they could safely lift it. He saw the conductor standing alongside Leon, Leon Bakst, who had designed the set. They were waiting for Sergei to signal them to come on-stage for the bows. Leon was quivering with satisfaction; he had brought to life the colors and the lines that had haunted his dreams since he saw Crete. But Sergei disappeared through the door connecting the back stage to the front of the house.

Vaslav came back onto the stage with Bronia and the others who had come to join him for this first curtain call. Bronia could see the intensified flush in his cheeks, hear his breathing from low in his abdomen. She tried again to catch his eye, but he was distracted more than usual, and his eyes darted back and forth as if he was a captive thrush, trying to escape. Sergei reappeared; what he had seen in the audience out front in that split second filled him with pride and fear. He had taken a tremendous risk in letting Vaslav have his way, but he had been equally bold with other work before this one; he had not known if many of Folkine's pieces would be appreciated. But Vaslav! My god, the ideas he had! Sergei was terrified that not only would the critics deride him, but that the Company wouldn't be permitted to perform it because of the way Vaslav insisted it end. But he, Sergei de Diaghilev, who could charm the rubies off the fingers of his patrons, could do nothing to change the mind of the man he loved so helplessly. Any time he crossed Vaslav in the least bit, the dancer threatened to stop performing, or worse, to leave him. Sergei had been reduced to tears in front of his friends more times than he wanted to remember.

Slowly he walked over to Vaslav and said, so quietly that no one could hear, "I think you made a mistake in the ending. We are going to have to repeat the performance." He whirled around and walked towards the curtain before Vaslav had a chance to reply, and ordered the stagehands not to raise the curtain for curtain calls, and gave the word to have the conductor return to the orchestra pit.

"Mistake!" thought Vaslav, "I did not make a mistake. What can he be saying?" Diaghilev parted the curtains and walked out in front of them. It was then that Vaslav heard the uproar from the audience, and realized that the thunder was a mix of applause and angry shouts. Why were they not pleased at the beautiful scene he had brought forth?

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