ballet, which I finished at Beaulieu, where I spent the winter with my family. While there, I frequently saw Diaghileff, who was at Monte Carlo. By mutual agreement, Diaghileff entrusted the whole décor of the ballet, both the scenery and the costumes, to Benois. Diaghileff soon went off to St. Petersburg, whence he wrote at Christmas, asking me to join him there for a few days, bringing my music so that Benois and his other collaborators might see it. I went in some trepidation. The suddenness of the transition from the sunny warmth of Beaulieu to the fog and snow of my native city struck me with great force.

As soon as I arrived I let my friends hear what I had so far composed for Petroushka—namely, the first two scenes and the beginning of the third. Benois immediately began work, and in the spring he joined us at Monte Carlo, whither Diaghileff and I had returned.

I little thought then that I had seen my native town for the last time—St. Petersburg, the town of St. Peter, dedicated by Peter the Great to his great patron saint and not to himself, as was doubtless supposed by the ignorant inventors of the absurd name, Petrograd.

When I returned to Beaulieu, I resumed work on my score, but its progress was interrupted. I became seriously ill with nicotine poisoning, and was at the point of death, this illness causing a month of enforced idleness. I was terribly anxious about the fate of Petroushka, which had at all costs to be ready for Paris in the spring. Fortunately I recovered my strength sufficiently to enable me to finish my work in the ten weeks which remained before the beginning of the season. Towards the end of April I set out for Rome, where Diaghileff was giving performances at the Costanzi Theatre during the International Exhibition. There Petroushka was rehearsed, and there I finished its last pages.

I shall always remember with particular pleasure that spring in Rome, which I was seeing for the first time. I stayed at the Albergo d'Italia with Benois and the Russian painter, Serov, to whom I became greatly attached. In spite of my strenuous work, we found time to make various expeditions which were very instructive for me, as Benois was a learned connoisseur in matters of art and history and had a talent for making the past live, so that these expeditions provided a veritable education in which I delighted.

On our arrival in Paris, rehearsals started under the direction of Pierre Monteux, who was for several years the conductor of the Russian Ballet. From an instrumentalist in Colonne's orchestra he had attained the rank of assistant conductor. He knew his job thoroughly, and was so familiar with the surroundings from which he had risen that he knew how to get on with his musicians—a great asset for a conductor. Thus he was able to achieve a very clean and finished execution of my score. I ask no more of a conductor, for any other attitude on his part immediately turns into interpretation, a thing I have a horror of. The interpreter of necessity can think of nothing but interpretation, and thus takes on the garb of a translator, traduttore-traditore; this is an absurdity in music, and for the interpreter it is a source of vanity inevitably leading to the most ridiculous megalomania. During the rehearsals I had the great satisfaction of seeing that all my intentions with regard to sound effects were amply confirmed.

At the dress rehearsal at the Chatelet, to which the Press and the elite of the artistic world had been invited, I remember the Petroushka produced an immediate effect on everyone in the audience with the exception of a few hypercritics. One of them—it is true that he was a literary critic—actually went up to Diaghileff and said: “And it was to hear this that you invited us!” “Exactly,” replied Diaghileff. It is only fair to add that later on the celebrated critic, to judge by his praise, seemed to have forgotten this sally.

I should like at this point to pay heartfelt homage to Vaslav Nijinsky's unsurpassed rendering of the role of Petroushka. The perfection with which he became the very incarnation of this character was all the more remarkable because the purely saltatory work in which he usually excelled was in this case definitely dominated by dramatic action, music, and gesture. The beauty of the ballet was greatly enhanced by the richness of the artistic setting that Benois had created for it. My faithful interpreter, Karsavina, swore to me that she would never relinquish her part as the dancer, which she adored. But it was a pity that the movements of the crowd had been neglected. I mean that they were left to the arbitrary improvisation of the performers instead of being choreographically regulated in accordance with the clearly defined exigencies of the music. I regret it all the more because the danses d'ensemble of the coachmen, nurses, and mummers and the solo dances must be regarded as Fokine's finest creations.

As for my present opinion of the music of Petroushka, I think it will be best to refer the reader to the pages that I shall devote later to my own rendering of my works, which will necessarily lead me to speak of them.

And now for the Sacre du Printemps.

As I have already said, when I conceived the idea, immediately after L'Oiseau de Feu, I became so much absorbed in the composition of Petroushka that I had no chance even to sketch preliminary outlines.

After the Paris season, I returned to Oustiloug, our estate in Russia, to devote myself entirely to the Sacre du Printemps. I found time, however, to compose two melodies to the words of the Russian poet Balmont. Besides that, also to Balmont's words, I composed a cantata for choir and orchestra, Zvezdoliki (The King of the Stars), which I dedicated to Claude Debussy. Owing, however, to inherent difficulties involved in the execution of this very short piece, with its important orchestral contingent and the complexity of its choral writing as regards intonation, it has never been performed.

Although I had conceived the subject of the Sacre du Printemps without any plot, some plan had to be designed for the sacrificial action. For this it was necessary that I should see Roerich. He was staying at the moment at Talachkino, the estate of Princess Tenicheva, a great patron of Russian art. I joined him, and it was there that we settled the visual embodiment of the Sacre and the definite sequence of its different episodes. I began the score on returning to Oustiloug, and worked at it through the winter at Clarens.

Diaghileff made up his mind that year that he would spare no effort to make a choreographer of Nijinsky. I do not know whether he really believed in his choreographic gifts, or whether he thought that his talented dancing, about which he raved, indicated that he would show equal talent as a ballet master. However that may be, his idea was to make Nijinsky compose, under his own strict supervision, a sort of antique tableau conjuring up the erotic gambols of a faun importuning nymphs. At the suggestion of Bakst, who was obsessed by ancient Greece, this tableau was to be presented as an animated bas-relief, with the figures in profile. Bakst dominated this production. Besides creating the decorative setting and the beautiful costumes, he inspired the choreography even to the slightest movements. Nothing better could be found for this ballet than the impressionist music of Debussy, who, however, evinced little enthusiasm for the project. Diaghileff nevertheless, by dint of his persistence, wrung a half-hearted consent from him, and, after repeated and laborious