The Master's Muse, page 25
And yet when I knew he had spoken his last words to me, I frantically scanned the room as if to find him and pull him back.
It was late March and outside black pitted banks of snow, shoved to curbs and petrified after a heavy storm, had begun to break off in chunks and New Yorkers, exhausted by winter, were grumpy as hell. In the room the cherry scent of lotion Ida rubbed into his skin to keep it supple offended me. Cherry cream just didn’t work. I’d brought a bottle of the cologne he used to wear to the hospital and rubbed the scent from my hands to the sheets. Today I had forgotten and left it at home.
Five days ago we had read a little. Prince Andrei was dead, Moscow burned, and the French were about to be driven from Russia. George had fallen asleep and, awakening, asked me to read him the death of Petya, a boy falling sideways off his horse, and a man, Petya’s companion, recalling the boy’s love of raisins, turning away and gripping a fence in his grief.
Today I read on alone, and at the part where Pierre comes home from the war and finds Natasha, I knew George would never speak to me again. I panicked, felt gagged on the cherry lotion, and, my old sense of physical entrapment returning, I started to cry, my elbow on Lenore’s arm, my forehead pressed to my hand. I knew that George might be able to hear and I should control myself, but I couldn’t help it, I’d held back too long and how could this be?
I heard myself cough. I looked at the bed and he had opened his eyes. Fool. Bringing him back. I was at a loss about what to do. I could stay at a distance and hope he hadn’t heard me.
He’d heard. I went close. I took his hand. I felt the slight pressure of his hand talking to me.
“I’m fine, George. Really. I’ll be fine.”
He did not open his eyes again. I read silently to the end of the novel and then, sitting with him, I reread his favorite passages. Finally I put away the book and imagined his dreams. I believed they were good ones: Telling Lincoln that with twenty girls and five men he could accomplish wonders. He dreamed of his ballerinas, Maria in her prime and Suzanne, and the young Tamara, and the girl who had drowned, Lidia Ivanovna, dancing and free. He heard the rattle of droshkies’ wheels on the wooden Petersburg streets, saw the circus pony his father had purchased by mistake, uninformed of the pony’s illustrious background; the poor lost fellow, pulling a cart, reared up in an attempt to perform and tossed out the cart riders. He heard the church bells of High Russian Easter, the rushing fountains tumbling water down the steps of Aurora’s palace under the rapturous hot lights where he’d been enchanted and realized what he would do with his life. He was back at the piano with his mother in the family dacha in Finland before the money was gone and the children were sent off to state-supported schools. His mother put him to bed without supper if he failed to practice. He wanted to run outside all day and night through the trees. But one day at the piano, picking out a Beethoven sonata that was beyond him, he perceived in a flash of apprehension and joy the shape of the music he couldn’t yet grasp, and it never bored him to practice again after that flash, which prefigured all he would do.
In the dream catalogue of his life he came to the day I decided enough was enough, I would have him and have him now. I appreciated that he was a gentleman, but I was ready and this was it. I knew he would keep me after rehearsal. I was disastrously distracted, my solo was a shambles, and the partnering was a wreck because I was too tense.
He kept me alone. He knew. He knew it all. My love reached him in beams across rooms, heated the air between us as he came near so that it thickened and seethed and coiled around him like a rope.
Come to me.
Again. Outside the heavy snow started but we were oblivious, I traveled across the smooth floor and he counted out beats, just the tap of his foot and the numbers until I was dizzy, hung limp, hands gripped on my strong thighs, head dumped to the boards. I flipped back my hair and a sweaty mess smiled at him in triumph.
Better.
Wasn’t it grand?
You want to go someplace with me?
Later, I said. I wanted to dance with him. I held out my hand. He came to me, full of desire.
We went into motion, and it began.
Author’s Note
Tanaquil Le Clercq lived to be seventy-one years old. She retired from teaching shortly before or after Balanchine’s death but remained an advocate of his work in her position on the board of directors of New York City Ballet. She never remarried. Her close friendships and the time spent in Weston, Connecticut, were constant pleasures. In 1998, New York City Ballet held a 50th Anniversary Celebration Tribute to Tanaquil Le Clercq, which she attended. She passed away two years later.
As I began research into Le Clercq’s life and her relationship with George Balanchine, I quickly saw that the basic facts were corroborated across a wide variety of sources. But because Tanny never wrote a memoir, unlike Balanchine’s other wives, I had to imagine the private drama the public record implied. Tanaquil Le Clercq, George Balanchine, Jerome Robbins, Diana Adams, Maria Tallchief, Suzanne Farrell, and other people who actually lived or are living appear in this novel as characters who are inspired by the public record.
It was, however, my goal to stay as close to the true story as possible. I used available resources for jumping-off points, from which my imagination took over. Only a few of the secondary characters are entirely fictional. I occasionally reordered timelines of events and slightly altered aspects of how the story occurred for clarity’s sake, and I created the dialogue among the characters. I did not include some of the relationships in Tanny’s life, in order to maintain the focus on her relationship with Balanchine. Otherwise, I was informed by my sources—books, films, videos, articles, and what people said who were there.
Shaun O’Brien danced with Le Clercq and was present during the fateful 1956 tour. He was among the group who went out on the canal with Tanny in Venice, and I depended on what he told me about what happened that night. His stories of backstage life at New York City Ballet in the 1950s were also invaluable.
Virginia Johnson, who is currently artistic director of Dance Theatre of Harlem, shared her stories of taking class with Le Clercq at the DTH school in the 1970s, and she described the glittering parties Tanny threw at the Apthorp.
Many books were helpful. Of the biographies, I should cite Balanchine: A Biography, by Bernard Taper; All in the Dances: A Brief Life of Balanchine, by Terry Teachout; George Balanchine: The Ballet Maker, by Robert Gottlieb; Somewhere: The Life of Jerome Robbins, by Amanda Vaill; and The Worlds of Lincoln Kirstein, by Martin B. Duberman. Of the memoirs: Maria Tallchief: America’s Prima Ballerina, by Maria Tallchief with Larry Kaplan; Holding On to the Air, by Suzanne Farrell with Toni Bentley; and In Balanchine’s Company: A Dancer’s Memoir, by Barbara Milberg Fisher.
For anecdotal material, two other dance books were fascinating and useful. Striking a Balance: Dancers Talk About Dancing, edited by Barbara Newman, contains a transcript of Le Clercq talking about dance and Balanchine. I Remember Balanchine: Recollections of the Ballet Master by Those Who Knew Him, edited by Francis Mason, contains many poignant observations not only of Balanchine but also of Le Clercq. The comments in the latter book range from those by Balanchine’s earliest dancers to doctors who cared for him in his final illness.
Balanchine’s Tchaikovsky: Conversations with Balanchine on His Life, Ballet and Music, by Solomon Volkov, translated from the Russian by Antonina W. Bouis, increased my knowledge of Balanchine’s youth in St. Petersburg and opened a window into his state of mind during his last days. Balanchine’s Complete Stories of the Great Ballets, by George Balanchine and Francis Mason, was an essential reference.
The Dance Division of the New York Public Library was a resource for video and for print in the form of reviews of Le Clercq’s dancing, newspaper accounts of her illness in 1956, and articles about her, including many photographs of her in all stages of life: in childhood, in costume and rehearsal clothes, with Balanchine, in the pages of fashion magazines, and in Weston, Connecticut and New York after the polio. The collection holds prints of her portraits of Balanchine. Of the articles I read, those in Ballet Review were especially helpful. The writing of Holly Brubach, Nancy Lassalle, and Pat McBride Lousada, three people who knew Le Clercq well, greatly enhanced my understanding of her connection to Balanchine.
Jane Klain at the Paley Center for Media in New York helped me find tape of Le Clercq on television, including the complete television play A Candle for St. Jude, in which Le Clercq danced and acted.
Balanchine, a documentary first aired in 1984 for the American Masters program, was an early resource and one to which I often returned. I was also inspired by a newer American Masters documentary, Jerome Robbins: Something to Dance About, and by the film Dancing for Mr. B: Six Balanchine Ballerinas. All of these are available on DVD from Kultur. Over and over again, I watched the Balanchine ballets telecast during his lifetime and supervised by the choreographer; these come as a pair of DVDs called Choreography by Balanchine, put out by Nonesuch.
Tanaquil Le Clercq’s books, Mourka: The Autobiography of a Cat and The Ballet Cook Book, gave me funny and valuable information, as did an article she wrote on becoming a ballerina, and her responses to interview questions. Although she was usually reticent on the subject of her private life, a few times she spoke quite frankly about her divorce. I often drew from her published comments for that part of the novel. Also, what she and others said about her mother and father provided the details out of which I created those characters in my fiction.
My portrayals of the other major players in the story grew out of research as well, whenever possible from their own writing.
My treatment of polio and disability had several sources. My late father was a polio survivor. I am indebted to his personal knowledge of the illness and its effects. In addition, he and my mother were active in post-polio support groups and shared with me what they knew about how polio may return in a survivor’s later years.
Joan Swain, who lost the use of her legs as a teenager in the 1950s—and who is also a fan of New York City Ballet and saw many of their early performances—generously explained what it is like to live with a disability similar to Le Clercq’s.
I was grateful for Black Bird Fly Away: Disabled in an Able-Bodied World, by Hugh Gregory Gallagher, and for Warm Springs: Traces of a Childhood at FDR’s Polio Haven, by Susan Richards Shreve.
Nearly all of my research attested to Tanaquil Le Clercq’s beauty, intelligence, and exceptional artistry; to the courage and verve with which she approached her life after polio; and to how she never stopped loving Balanchine. She called herself a “one-man woman” and died on the anniversary of their wedding.
Acknowledgments
I wish to thank the Department of English and the Division of Research and Sponsored Programs at Kent State University for their support during the writing of this book.
Thank you to my agent, Joy Harris, for her literary acumen and uncanny sense of what authors need. Thank you to my editor, Whitney Frick, who was perfect for the novel because of her dance background and editorial skill. Thank you to everyone at the Joy Harris Literary Agency and at Scribner and Simon & Schuster.
For their help I thank Maggie Anderson, Julie Barer, Risa Bell, John De Vito, Frederic Franklin, Anna French, Erika Goldman, Virginia Johnson, Jane Klain, David LaMarche, Phillip Lopate, Jerome Lowenstein, Norma Michaels, Shaun O’Brien, Jonathan Rabinowitz, Janyce Stefan-Cole, Daniel Stewart, Joan Swain, Louise Varley, and Lynn Varley.
For their enthusiasm and encouragement I thank Carol Dines-Rothenberg, Rhoda Huffey, Richard Millen, and Mary Morris.
And without Michelle Latiolais, Katherine Vaz, and Joel Wapnick there would be no book. Thank you, my brilliant, faithful dear ones.
The Master’s Muse
Varley O’Connor
Reading Group Guide
Introduction
It is often said, behind every great man, there is a great woman. In the case of celebrated and esteemed choreographer George Balanchine, there were several. The Master’s Muse is the spectacular reimagining of his fifth and final wife, Tanaquil Le Clercq. At just twenty-seven years old, Tanny’s brilliant career as a ballerina was ended and her entire world shattered when she contracted polio. She lost her ability to dance, and with that, feared the loss of her husband’s affection and desire. Varley O’Connor masterfully enters the mind of Tanny and delivers a first person perspective on life as a ballerina, polio victim, and muse to one of ballet’s most famous figures of the twentieth century.
Topics & Questions for Discussion
1. The Master’s Muse is broken up into three parts: “polio,” “Being Russian,” and “The Body.” Discuss the significance of these three part titles as they relate to the story, along with the quotes that open each one.
2. In the prologue, Tanaquil reflects on her marriage to George: “I didn’t realize to what extent dance, for George, was love.” How does this prove true throughout the rest of their story? How does their inability to dance or collaborate together after Tanny contracts polio affects their relationship?
3. When the polio paralyzes Tanny’s legs, it puts an end to her career as a ballerina and completely changes her life. She recognizes her loss, thinking: “my legs that were once everything . . . My legs: my weapons, my wings.” What do you consider your weapons or wings? What would be most difficult to have taken away from you?
4. Compare Tanny’s relationships with George, Jerry, and Carl. How does she love each of them and how does each of these men affect her life—for better or worse?
5. At a few different points in the narrative, Tanny reflects on the different versions of herself. On page 8, she says that the events of the 1956 tour “created a ‘me’ to posterity that superseded anything I had been before—and the ‘me’ inside of what happened.” Later, she discusses about waking up and remembering she has polio, at which point she “would have to decide all over again to get up and be who I was now”. How do you interpret her use of “me”? Have you ever felt you’ve become a new or different “you”?
6. After Tanny decides not to take her own life, she believes that George really would have helped her to end it if she wanted to. Do you agree? Do you think he ever even got the pills? Why or why not?
7. Tanny’s father tells her that he thinks “All men should have children. It’s an unrecorded fact that men need to have children more than women do.” Discuss the merit of this statement—do you agree? How would you apply this concept to the characters in The Master’s Muse? To people you know?
8. Discuss Tanny’s different reactions to George’s infatuation with other women. How do her feelings about Diana differ from the way she feels about Suzanne? Why do you think she’s able to be cordial with Suzanne and be friends with Diana?
9. Why do YOU think George doesn’t want to get divorced when Tanny first asks him to leave, and then later goes behind her back in Mexico? Why do you think George and Tanny stayed together as long as they did?
10. George said, “Energy’s endless . . . You think there isn’t anymore, and then there is.” How does the idea of resurgent energy recur as a theme throughout the book? How does it apply to George and Tanny’s relationship?
11. When visiting George in the hospital, Tanny confides in him that she should have married Carl because it was what he wanted; it was something she could have done for him. Is that enough of a reason to marry someone? Why do you think she was resistant to the idea when Carl first brought it up?
12. Who do you think is the master’s muse? Is it Tanny? What do you take away from this title having now read the book?
Enhance Your Book Club
1. Many of the characters in The Master’s Muse really existed. Learn more about them by picking up one of George Balanchine’s biographies, such as All in the Dances: A Brief Life of George Balanchine by Terry Teachout, George Balanchine: The Ballet Maker by Robert Gottlieb, or Balanchine: A Biography by Bernard Taper.
2. Tanny developed a passion for cooking, and even put together The Ballet Cookbook, which was published in 1966. Copies may be hard to find these days, but that shouldn’t stop you from incorporating some Russian treats into your book club discussion. Choose from dozens of authentic and delicious looking recipes at www.ruscuisine.com.
3. Luckily, the polio vaccine has made cases today almost nonexistent. To get a better understanding of the virus and its history, visit www.historyofvaccines.org/content/timelines/polio.
4. Check out YouTube to see an actual recording of Tanaquil Le Clercq dancing Afternoon of a Faun with Jacques d’Amboise at www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmnnhq_ZXlw. How did watching this video affect your idea of who Tanny was and your overall reading of The Master’s Muse?
A Conversation with Varley O’Connor
While a very different book, your last novel, The Cure, is also about the destructiveness of polio. What interests you about the topic and made you want to write about it in two separate books?
My father contracted polio as a child, when he was three. His entire childhood was about braces and surgeries and, finally, beginning to walk again. But the journey shaped his personality. His polio made me curious about how illness and disability determines who people become, in positive as well as negative ways. My father had a tremendous power of will, as Tanny does.
What attracted you to Tanaquil Le Clercq as a narrator for a novel?
She became a huge international star, married one of the most famous men of her time, and then she was suddenly crippled. I thought readers would be fascinated to hear what it was like to live a life of such extremes. I certainly was as I delved into research, especially interviews she gave and stories people told about her.
Describe the experience of creating a work of fiction about real people. What were the challenges and how was it different than the experience of writing any of your other novels?
