Natasha's Dance (48 page)

    sacrifice; and the chosen maiden’s sacrificial dance, culminating in her death at the climax of the dance’s feverish energy.

    The evidence of human sacrifice in prehistoric Russia is by no means clear. Ethnographically it would have been more accurate to base the ballet on a midsummer rite (Kupala) in which Roerich had found some inconclusive evidence of human sacrifice among the Scythians - a fact he publicized in 1898.
¹⁴⁰
Under Christianity the Kupala festival had merged with St John’s Feast but traces of the ancient pagan rites had entered into peasant songs and ceremonials - especially the
khorovod,
with its ritualistic circular movements that played such a key role in
The Rite of Spring.
The switch to the pagan rite of spring (Semik) was partly an attempt to link the sacrifice with the ancient Slavic worship of the sun god Yarilo, who symbolized the notion of apocalyptic fire, the spiritual regeneration of the land through its destruction, in the mystical world view of the Symbolists. But the change was also based on the findings of folklorists such as Alexander Afanasiev, who had linked these vernal cults with sacrificial rituals involving maiden girls. Afanasiev’s
magnum opus, The Slavs’ Poetic View of Nature (1866-
9), a sort of Slavic
Golden Bough,
became a rich resource for artists like Stravinsky who sought to lend an ethnographic authenticity to their fantasies of ancient Rus’. Musorgsky, for example, borrowed heavily from Afanasiev’s descriptions of the witches’ sabbath for his
St John’s Night on Bald Mountain.
Afanasiev worked on the questionable premise that the world view of the ancient Slavs could be reconstructed through the study of contemporary peasant rituals and folk beliefs. According to his study, there was still a fairly widespread peasant custom of burning effigies, as symbols of fertility, in ritualistic dances marking the commencement of the spring sowing. But in parts of Russia this custom had been replaced by a ritual that involved a beautiful maiden: the peasants would strip the young girl naked, dress her up in garlands (as Yarilo was pictured in the folk imagination), put her on a horse, and lead her through the fields as the village elders watched. Sometimes a dummy of the girl was burned.
¹⁴¹
Here essentially was the scenario of
The Rite of Spring.

    Artistically, the ballet strived for ethnographic authenticity. Roerich’s costumes were drawn from peasant clothes in Tenisheva’s collection at Talashkino. His primitivist sets were based on archaeol-

    18.
Nikolai Roerich: costumes for the Adolescents in the first production of The
Rite of Spring,
Paris, 1913

    ogy. Then there was Nijinsky’s shocking choreography - the real scandal of the ballet’s infamous Paris premiere at the Theatre des Champs-Elysees on 29 May 1913. For the music was barely heard at all in the commotion, the shouting and the fighting, which broke out in the auditorium when the curtain first went up. Nijinsky had choreographed movements which were ugly and angular. Everything about the dancers’ movements emphasized their weight instead of their lightness, as demanded by the principles of classical ballet. Rejecting all the basic positions, the ritual dancers had their feet turned inwards, elbows clutched to the sides of their body and their palms held flat, like the wooden idols that were so prominent in Roerich’s mythic paintings of Scythian Russia. They were orchestrated, not by steps and notes, as in conventional ballets, but rather moved as one collective mass to the violent off-beat rhythms of the orchestra. The dancers pounded their feet on the stage, building up a static energy which finally exploded, with electrifying force, in the sacrificial dance. This rhythmic violence was the vital innovation of Stravinsky’s score. Like most of the ballet’s themes, it was taken from the music of the peas-antry.
¹⁴²
There was nothing like these rhythms in Western art music

    (Stravinsky said that he did not really know how to notate or bar them) - a convulsive pounding of irregular downbeats, requiring constant changes in the metric signature with almost every bar so that the conductor of the orchestra must throw himself about and wave his arms in jerky motions, as if performing a shamanic dance. In these explosive rhythms it is possible to hear the terrifying beat of the Great War and the Revolution of 1917.

    The Revolution found Stravinsky in Clarens, Switzerland, where he had been stranded behind German lines since the outbreak of war in 1914. ‘All my thoughts are with you in these unforgettable days of happiness’, he wrote to his mother in Petrograd on hearing of the downfall of the monarchy in 1917.
¹⁴³
Stravinsky had high hopes of the Revolution. In 1914 he had told the French writer Romain Rolland that he was ‘counting on a revolution after the war to bring down the dynasty and establish a Slavic United States’. He claimed for Russia, as Rolland put it, ‘the role of a splendid and healthy barbarism, pregnant with the seeds of new ideas that will change the thinking of the West’.
¹⁴⁴
But Stravinsky’s disillusionment was swift and emphatic. In the autumn of 1917 his beloved estate at Ustilug was ransacked and destroyed by the peasantry. For years he did not know its fate - though there were signs that it had been destroyed. Rummaging through a bookstall in Moscow in the 1950s, the conductor Gennady Rozh-destvensky found the title page of Debussy’s
Preludes
(Book Two) inscribed by the composer ‘To entertain my friend Igor Stravinsky’: it had come from Ustilug.
¹⁴⁵
Not knowing what had happened to the place for all these years could only have intensified Stravinsky’s sense of loss. Ustilug was where Stravinsky had spent the happy summers of his childhood years - it was the patch of Russia which he felt to be his own - and his profound loathing of the Soviet regime was intimately linked to the anger which he felt at being robbed of his own past. (Nabokov’s politics were similarly defined by his ‘lost childhood’ at the family estate of Vyra, a vanished world he retrieved through
Speak, Memory.)

    19.
Stravinsky transcribes a folk song sung by a peasant
gusli
player on the

    Stravinsky did the same through his music. Cut off from Russia, he felt an intense longing for his native land. His notebooks from the war years are filled with notations of Russian peasant songs which reappeared in
Four Russian Songs
(1918-19). The final song in this quartet was taken from an Old Believer story about a sinful man who cannot find a path back towards God. Its words read like a lament of the exile’s tortured soul: ‘Snowstorms and blizzards close all the roads to Thy Kingdom.’ Stravinsky seldom talked about this brief and haunting song. Yet his notebooks show that he laboured over it, and that he made frequent changes to the score. The song’s five pages are the product of no fewer than thirty-two pages of musical sketching. It suggests how much he struggled to find the right musical expression for these words.
¹⁴⁶

    Stravinsky laboured even longer on
The Peasant Wedding (Svad-ebka),
a work begun before the First World War and first performed in Paris (as
Let Noces)
nine years later, in 1923. He worked on it

    longer than on any other score. The ballet had its origins in his final trip to Ustilug. Stravinsky had been working on the idea of a ballet that would re-create the wedding rituals of the peasantry and, knowing that his library contained useful transcriptions of peasant songs, he made a hurried trip to Ustilug to fetch them just before the outbreak of war. The sources became, for him, a sort of talisman of the Russia he had lost. For several years he worked on these folk songs, trying to distil the essence of his people’s musical language, and striving to combine it with the austere style which he had first developed in
The Rite of Spring.
He thinned out his instrumental formula, rejecting the large Romantic orchestra for the small ensemble, using pianos, cimbaloms and percussion instruments to create a simpler, more mechanistic sound. But his truly momentous discovery was that, in contrast to the language and the music of the West, the accents of spoken Russian verse were ignored when that verse was sung. Looking through the song books he had retrieved from Ustilug, Stravinsky suddenly realized that the stress in folk songs often fell on the ‘wrong’ syllable. ‘The recognition of the musical possibilities inherent in this fact was one of the most rejoicing discoveries of my life,’ he explained to his musical assistant Robert Craft; ‘I was like a man who suddenly finds that his finger can be bent from the second joint as well as from the first.’
¹⁴⁷
The freedom of accentuation in the peasant song had a clear affinity with the ever-shifting rhythms of his own music in
The Rite of Spring;
both had the effect of sparkling play or dance. Stravinsky now began writing music for the pleasure of the sound of individual words, or for the joy of puns and rhyming games, like the Russian limericks (
Pribautki)
which he set to music in 1918. But beyond such entertainments, his discovery came as a salvation for the exiled composer. It was as if he had found a new homeland in this common language with the Russian peasantry. Through music he could recover the Russia he had lost.

    This was the idea behind
The Peasant Wedding
- an attempt, in his own words, to re-create in art an essential ur-Russia, the ancient peasant Russia that had been concealed by the thin veneer of European civilization since the eighteenth century. It was

    the holy Russia of the Orthodox, a Russia stripped of its parasitic vegetation; its bureaucracy from Germany, a certain strain of English liberalism much in

    fashion with the aristocracy; its scientism (alas!), its ‘intellectuals’ and their inane and bookish faith in progress; it is the Russia of before Peter the Great and before Europeanism… a peasant, but above all Christian, Russia, and truly the only Christian land in Europe, the one which laughs and cries (laughs and cries both at once without always really knowing which is which) in
The Peasant Wedding,
the one we saw awaken to herself in confusion and magnificently full of impurities in
The Rite of Spring.
¹⁴⁸

    Stravinsky had hit upon a form of music that expressed the vital energy and spirit of the people - a truly national music in the Stasovian sense. Stravinsky had drafted the first part of
The Peasant Wedding
by the end of 1914. When he played it to Diaghilev, the impresario broke down in tears and said it was ‘the most beautiful and the most purely Russian creation of our Ballet’.
¹⁴⁹

The Peasant Wedding
was a work of musical ethnography. In later years Stravinsky tried to deny this. Immersed in the cosmopolitan culture of interwar Paris, and driven by his hatred of the Soviet regime, he made a public show of distancing himself from his Russian heritage. But he was not convincing. The ballet was precisely what Stravinsky claimed that it was not: a direct expression of the music and the culture of the peasantry. Based on a close reading of the folklore sources, and drawing all its music from the peasants’ wedding songs, the ballet’s whole conception was to re-create the peasant wedding ritual as a work of art on stage.

    Life and art were intimately linked. The Russian peasant wedding was itself performed as a series of communal rituals, each accompanied by ceremonial songs, and at certain junctures there were ceremonial dances like the
khorovod.
In the south of Russia, from where Stravinsky’s folklore sources were derived, the wedding rite had four main parts. First there was the matchmaking, when two appointed elders, one male and one female, made the first approach to the household of the bride, followed by the inspection of the bride, when by custom she sang her lament for her family and her home. Next came the betrothal, the complex negotiations over the dowry and exchange of property and the sealing of the contract with a vodka toast, which was witnessed by the whole community and marked symbolically by the singing of the song of ‘Cosmas and Demian’, the patron saints of blacksmiths