D.V. (3 page)

In 1909 Diaghilev brought Ida Rubinstein to my parents' house on the avenue du Bois. He thought my mother had wonderful taste. It was very important to him. If my mother approved, Ida Rubinstein, a great beauty and a totally unknown dancer who was being championed by Fokine and Bakst, would play the title role in
Cléopâtre
, and Lord Guinness would help to pay for the entire season of the Ballets Russes at the Châtelet. Now Lord Guinness was one of the great keepers of Paris women. Perhaps he liked the boys as well. Therefore, to protect his reputation, so to speak…Ida Rubinstein would act as a kind of front.

My sister and I, you know, missed nothing. No children do—unless you keep them locked up in a padded cell. I was behind a screen. And Ida Rubinstein came in….

She was all in black—a straight black coat to the ground. In those days, you kept your coat on indoors because you never knew what the temperature would be. At the bottom of the coat was a wide band of black fox to
here
; at the collar and cuffs were wide bands of black fox to
here
and
here
; and she carried an
enormous
black fox muff—it was almost like sleeves—that she put her hands in as she came in the door. Under the coat she wore high black suede Russian boots. And her
hair
was like Medusa's—these great big black curls, draped in black tulle, which kept them in place and
just
veiled her eyes. Then her
eyes
, through the veil…I'd never seen kohl before. If you've never seen kohl before, brother, was that a time to
see
it! These long, slow eyes—black, black,
black—
and she
moved
like a serpent. But there was no danger. She was long, lithesome, sensuous, sinuous…it was all line, line,
line
. She wasn't a trained dancer, but she wanted to be in the ballet. I think she came from quite a rich family in St. Petersburg—a sexy Jewish girl with quite a lot of money.

My mother was fascinated by her. She gave her approval to Diaghilev. I can remember her saying to him, “She may not be a trained dancer, but after all she has nothing to do but lie there with a look of
complete pleasure
on her face.”

As you probably know, in this spectacle she was carried in on the backs of four Nubians, who naturally were dressed in solid seed pearls. She had practically no clothes on. She had one big turquoise ring on her toe…so pretty. There was a terrible orgy where everyone
consumed
everyone else…but she didn't have to do a thing.

Diaghilev was more than pleased, because he knew that the entire season at the Châtelet would be supported by Lord Guinness. Lord Guinness was also pleased as punch, because he had his front. And that's where everything happened, and 1909, that's the year it happened, and they say that's
how
it happened.

In retrospect, I adore the way I was brought up. I adore the amount I knew before what I know today and I adore the way I got to know it. My experiences were so innocent and so easy and so charming. I grew up in the springtime of so many things. There was still the British Empire. I'm a product of the empire. I don't think anyone realizes what the riches were like.

I've had no formal education; I'm the first to say it. But my family did think of the most wonderful things for my sister and me to do. They sent us from Paris to London with our nurses and we sat in the bleachers and watched the coronation of George V in 1911. The excitement lasted three days and three nights, so you can imagine what I could say about
that
. You could say a child of my age wouldn't have taken it all in. But you have no idea what I
did
take in, what I did see….

Everything was horses. There were skewbald horses, piebald horses, and there were tiger horses, roans, greys—those beautiful prancing animals bred in Hanover especially for the equipages, the carriages, and the liveries. Terribly big-time stuff.

Everything was a principality, you see. Don't forget how many states, for instance, there were in Germany. I can't even remem
ber the names anymore—Hanover (they were the ones who bred the horses), Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, Saxony, Prussia, Bavaria, Württemberg, Schaumburg-Lippe. There was the King of the Belgians with all his equipage. The Kings and Princes of all those Balkans—Albania, Bulgaria, Greece, Montenegro, Serbia—with their equipages. And the Czar of all the Russias—I mean
all
the Russias—with
his
equipage. The Hungarians. The Rumanians. And the Turks. And the
Chinese
. And the
Japanese
. We really had to know our geography then and, what's more, we really did. The mélange was something so incredible. I love a mélange. That is still Europe to me—a mélange of bloods, races, chemistry….

Don't forget how bizarre it all was. I mean, the King of Serbia
—that's
bizarre! And don't forget that King George and Queen Mary were Emperor and Empress of India. The maharajahs were a dime a dozen, and they put jewels on their elephants—their
elephants!
They all had elephants if they were any good! Do you realize what an elephant is today? They're even hard to find in
India
. During the coronation in London, my sister and I saw them go by like taxis on Park Avenue. Until the night was black. It was so exhausting. I was so sleepy and so
bouleversée
.

Maharajahs and maharanis, the Czar and the Czarina, the Kaiser and the Kaiserin…and Queen Mary and King George V! She passed by for just a few minutes, but to this day I would recognize her as I recognize you. Of course, later I lived there for many years of her reign. There was something about the way she sat and her proportions and the size of her hat which was immediately recognizable and never changed. A very, very good idea, hats—especially for queens. The toque was worn over a pompadour and fringe, giving Her Majesty
hauteur
and revealing the face. Queen Mary's hats tended to look like the head of a secretary bird, a sort of a brush of a thing; they looked as though they could be taken off and used for something—to dust the house.

Queen Mary was Edward VII's daughter-in-law, and she was an Edwardian. I'm mad about her stance—it was up, up,
up
, and so was she. The Edwardian influence in England lasted long after
Edward's death and blossomed like a cherry orchard in the best sun. Each period casts a long, long shadow. That's my period, if you really want to know. You might think it was my mother's period, but it's mine. One's period is when one is very young.

Actually, when I was brought to America from France in 1914, I didn't know any English. But what was worse, I didn't
hear
it. I was the most frustrated little girl. I was sent first to my grandmother's house in Southampton, Long Island, in the month of April (which is an odd month to go there, but never mind; it was never explained to me then, and I have no way of finding out now). Then the war broke out and we were stuck. And I still couldn't speak English.

My family moved from Long Island to a tiny little house on East Seventy-ninth Street, one door off Park Avenue. My sister had a floor with her nurse and I had a floor with my nurse. All I cared about was horses. I never had a doll. I only had horses—these little toy horses I kept in little stalls along one side of my room. I'd stroke them and talk to them in a curious language of my own. I can't remember much of it except that chickens were “uddeluddels” and elephants were “eggapatties.” I talked to them all night. The awful thing was that I adored my horses so much I'd get up in the middle of the night to see that they had water; then the glue on their manes and their tails would run. The room always smelled of glue, which is like dead fish.

My grandmother had a huge farm horse in the country outside of Katonah, New York, who wasn't used a great deal. He just stood in his stall. After lunch I'd run off, get on the horse. I had to use steps because he was
enormous
, and I'd sit there all afternoon, perfectly happy. It would get hot, the flies would buzz…occasionally he'd swat his tail because the flies were bothering him, and I'd just sit there. That's all I wanted—just to be with the
steam
and the
smell
of that divine horse. Horses smell much better than people—I can tell you
that
.

I was almost intuitive about horses. I can remember standing on the corner of Seventy-ninth Street and Park Avenue. I'd sud
denly say, “Horse, horse, horse!”—and a horse would come around the corner! Naturally, my fixation was practically over by then, but I could smell the oats and the hay coming around the corner. Because there's quite a steep slope there on the corner, many horses slipped, broke their legs in the snow and ice, and had to be shot. And of course it killed me. Children, you know, are so
tragically
dramatic. The death of a horse to me was something so
terrible—
because I didn't give a
damn
about anything else. Don't forget, I still couldn't speak any intelligible language.

I certainly didn't give a damn about school. I was sent to the Brearley School. It's one time in my life I've always regretted—fighting my way through the place…. And those goddamn
gongs!
Everyone knew where to go when the gong went off except me, but I didn't know whom to ask. I didn't know anybody, I didn't know anything—I couldn't
speak
. By this time, stuttering had started. You see, I wasn't
allowed
to speak French. But you have to talk. You have to say, “I want some bread” or “I want some butter” or “I want to go to the…bathroom”—but I couldn't
say
it!

I can remember a teacher named Mrs. McKiver who always used to say, “If you can't say it, you don't know it.” You can imagine what that did to me.

So this terrible stuttering began…several doctors were brought in. They said, “Mrs. Dalziel, either she speaks French or English, but right now she's totally confused. There's got to be a decision.” English was decided on, which is why I speak such terrible French to this day.

I can remember my mother coming to Mothers' Day at the Brearley School—you can imagine how much that interested her—and I can recall exactly what she had on. She wore a
bright
-green tweed suit and a little gold-yellow Tyrolean fedora with a little black feather, gilt at the end, that was short but sharp—I'm talking
sharp—
and she was
very
made up. Well, of course, this went around school: “She's got diphtheria,” or “She's dying of cholera.” Naturally, I was mortified.

My father was so much easier and closer to us. He was the
most wonderful, affectionate man—six foot
six…
well, by God, there was an Englishman! Six foot and a half. And when he'd meet us at the train station—in those days, of course, you'd travel by train—you'd see him easily in the crowds waiting at the gate, whether it was London, Paris, or New York. He had that
thing
about him, having to do with a sense of humor, which is the most cleansing thing in the world. He was a raring, tearing beauty, who lived to the age of ninety-three with all his brains and everything…but he really had nothing to do with the modern world at all.

My father had the English accounts for Post and Flagg stockbrokers. I never really knew what a stockbroker did; I'm not sure I do now. He was in business after World War I, so I mean…where was the money? He never had any money, never made any money, never thought about money; it killed my mother, who was American, though she was very European. She saw things rather square, which most women do. You know, women
are
squares. I mean, it's very important. Women do care that their children have something to eat. Husbands aren't so concerned. Supposing you were my husband: you might well say, “Oh, I'll see you in a couple of weeks, I'm off. I don't
quite
know where I'm going.”

Well, Brearley kept me for three months, and then they told my mother, “Mrs. Dalziel, she's not
…us
!” And I certainly wasn't. I was looking for something Brearley couldn't offer.

I discovered dancing. I was taken out of Brearley and sent to dancing school, and I
adored
it. It was the only school they could keep me in. I was with the Russians—first Michel Fokine, the only Imperial ballet master to ever leave Russia, and later with Chalif.

I did Pavlova's
Gavotte
at Carnegie Hall. In the Metropolitan Museum we have a delicious figurine by Malvina Hoffman showing Pavlova doing the
Gavotte
. I did it alone, on the great stage, but it certainly wasn't any
grand'chose
. Don't think the house got up and stormed the stage or anything—we were just the pupils of Chalif. But the
Gavotte
is so pretty. I remember coming forward in an
aigre pois
dress held out to here and a
deep
poke bonnet. I was
alone
doing this and I was terrified. I only wanted the joy of interpreting the dance
—the
Gavotte—
but realizing that I was being seen, I suffered, as only the very young can suffer, the torture of being conspicuous.

I was also taught
The Dying Swan
, which is the most extraordinary thing because of the
tremor
that goes through this creature. In the most extreme positions one leg goes out, out,
out
, and then the head comes down, down,
down
, and the body is moving,
quivering
, in a death spasm…oh, it's too beautiful! It's beauty that's leaving the world…. Of course, it was the most wonderful education for a young girl, because I had to interpret it for myself.

Someone once told me that Pavlova learned
The Dying Swan
from watching a swan die in Southampton. I've since learned that Pavlova came to the United States
after
the choreography of
The Dying Swan
. But it's a nice story, and I could very well believe it. I spent so many years of my life on that Southampton beach in the marvelous summer air. Every rainy day, when I couldn't be on the beach, I'd walk around the lake, where I used to watch the swans by the
hour
. The beauty of those swans! Of course, they're angry beasts, like peacocks; but where peacocks are common, there's nothing common about swans. The
silence
of their swimming…you don't hear it, but you feel it. All I'd hear would be the sound of the rain, but I'd feel that wonderful salt and brine that's as strong just inland as it is on the beach.

One day in 1917 my sister and I were playing on the beach, as usual, and then we were put to bed. During the night, there was an outbreak of infantile paralysis in Southampton. There was going to be an epidemic on the beach! So that same night we were awakened and dressed and with my mother's French maid—don't ask me why it wasn't an English-speaking nanny—motored for eight hours to Pennsylvania Station, where we were put on a train to Cody, Wyoming. Don't ask me why Cody was chosen. I suppose my mother had heard of it and it sounded remote and romantic. We didn't make it to Cody. In Butte, Montana, with a background of roaring copper mines, there was a railroad strike, so we were stuck.

Believe me, the West was still the West then. We were put to bed that night—the French maid, of course, was in hysterics in the
next room, not knowing where she was or quite what had happened to her—and we sat at the window, my sister up on a pillow, and looked out onto the street.
Everyone
was drunk. The men would say “Dance, dance, dance!” and they'd shoot bullets into the ground and dance around them and then they'd say “Dance, dance, dance!” The great thing was to jump. Then they'd shoot bullets through their
hats…
and sometimes they'd miss. Men were falling over
—dead
.

Don't think we were frightened. It was all so totally bizarre. It was a world of which we knew nothing, so it didn't affect us
that
much. To this day, anything physical or strange…I can usually pass it off by saying it was a very healthy experience.

Eventually we got to Cody, where my mother joined us. We were there in the wilds with the moose and the bears and the elks and…my
word
! It was so
lonely
. I remember lonely men, lonely spaces…I couldn't stand the loneliness of those cowboys. They weren't romantic to me. They were just lonely, ordinary guys who used to sing these sad songs around the fire…this may not be sensitive, but it's as sensitive as
I
care to get. It wasn't big-time stuff.