Opening Night of a Faun - Part 4

By Senya Jo Bruskin

Diaghilev stepped out in front of the curtain, as always his coat with the dense, rich brown lamb collar balanced on his shoulders, his silk hat in his stubby hands, his streak of white hair catching the light. The audience quieted in an instant.

"My friends," he said, "I am surprised at your shouts. What has become of Paris?" His speech was choppy, as if he were short of breath. "Paris is known the world over as both the womb and the crucible of great art. This is our third season at the Théâtre du Châtelet, where we have always been most welcome, and yet, I hear this uproar.... You, who live on the banks of the River Seine have always been the first to see the greatest art, including the works that we of ancient Russia have traveled for thousands of miles to bring to you. You of all people should comprehend how this piece, 'L'Apres-midi d'un faune,' by the greatest of all dancers, Vaslav Nijinsky, contains the future of all dance. This work you must appreciate." He paused and looked around. "Maestro," he said bowing curtly to the conductor, "we shall begin again."

Vaslav could not believe this was happening for a second night even as he heard Diaghilev order that the piece be repeated. He didn't care about being tired; he was used to being exhausted. Serge made him work as hard as a farm horse throughout each tour, so much so that his mother, who sometimes came with them and stayed with Bronia, was angry, and felt he should go back to the Imperial Theater. Now, however, he was more tired from trying to flick off the remarks of the dancers: "What's the matter, Vaslav, have you forgotten how to jump?" Anger flared within him for a moment as he remembered his father jumping. No one could jump that high: from Warsaw to Kiev, everyone knew it. Thomas Nijinsky was the one who had the truly strong legs. It was he who flew across the stage, without touching the floor, not Vaslav.

Even when Vaslav was five years old, he would watch his parents dance and copy them. His mother sewed him a small sailor costume, and his father choreographed a short piece for the three of them when Bronia was a baby. Every time he would imitate his father's jump, the older man would mock him, saying "Why don't you try to reach the moon, little one? You'll touch that before you're ever as good as I am." His mother would say, "Thomas, stop tormenting him, you know he worships you. And besides, he's just a boy. Look how well he is doing in our performance. The audience always loves him."

A few months ago, just when they had finished setting the piece on the other six girls, he and Bronia got a letter from their mother saying that Thomas had died. The news sent Vaslav into a rage, as if his father had abandoned them all over again. He thought, "Maybe he didn't want to see my piece, or he's ashamed that I am supported by Diaghilev. At least that way I can feed my mother and my sister, and he never did as much. Maybe he heard people talk about my leap in 'Le Spectre de la Rose,' which he did not see. No, he never came to see me dance, and he never ever heard the applause I get each night." He had felt released, free to do as he pleased. But now there was no hope that Thomas would ever see what he could create without leaving the ground.

Diaghilev strode back behind the curtain and said, "Places, everyone." He walked back to Vaslav and said even more quietly than the first time, "You will remember what I said just before, and what I said to you last night, won't you?"

He was alone once more in the grove. Grigoriev looked at him, eyebrows raised, to ask if he was ready. No, he closed his eyes and gave a brusque wave to his dresser, who came with water to carefully dab his face and neck once again. He walked to the rock and climbed the stairs. As he stretched into the reclining position that began the ballet, Diaghilev's words came to him: "a mistake." He had insisted, argued, even fought with Sergei over this ending for weeks already. He felt that he could not even acknowledge, much less acquiesce to Diaghilev's point of view, that it was too strong a gesture for the audience; too dangerous for the Company. But the shouts were distressing. He knew he was taking choreography and movement to a new level; that no one before him had insisted on such absolute adherence to line, especially a line so new to ballet. He wanted to excite and impress people, to bring them into this astounding new world, but he did not wish to anger them, or, for that matter, to anger Diaghilev and his friends. He would be alone, destitute, without a place to dance, and that was most important. "No," he said to himself, "I cannot show this part of myself again. It must be disguised even more carefully." He stretched out on top of the rock, pulled his left knee up, drew the flute to his mouth and signaled with his eyes to Grigoriev.

When the curtain came down again, the audience was united in its approval. Sergei beamed as he ushered Leon and the conductor onto the stage, where the performers were assembled to bow. They stood in a line, frozen, with formal, gracious smiles as Grigoriev furiously waved to three of the stage hands to raise the curtains and to others to start getting the next set ready. The curtain rose for their calls, and the women put one foot delicately behind the other and bent their front knee, lowering their bodies and their heads a reverence.

Bronia could see that suddenly Nelidova realized how alien a traditional bow would be to her character, finally understanding what Vaslav had been asking of her all along. She wistfully thought of their father, wishing he could have been proud of his son. She let her gaze settle on Vaslav, who, instead of the traditional bow, let his glance sweep across the line of women, touched his left shoulder with his right hand, and simply turned from one side of the house to the other looking nowhere, seeing nothing.

Photos courtesy of the author

© 2006 Senya Jo Bruskin

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