My Conception of La Fille mal gardée
I have often been asked why I chose to do La Fille mal gardée instead of putting my ideas into an entirely new ballet. Of course I could have taken the subject and brought it up to date. Lise could have been Tottie, a farmer’s daughter refusing to work, dressed and made up as to her idea of a film star, making assignations with the American airmen from a nearby station, returning late to the farm, smelling of drink and in a giddy trance - a blue-jeans Beatnik young farmer strumming his guitar over the fence when Mum had put her to work and distracting her continually - and in the end, her taste for luxury and ease getting the better of her, rejecting the rock ‘n’ rolling young man and marrying the softie’s rich father! It happened, however, that at the time I was reading Dorothy Wordsworth’s Journals and I was swept by a longing for the country of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth century: the country of today seems a poor noisy thing by comparison. There has always been a cosy side to my nature which is reflected in the kind of decors I make for myself in my home life and in the objects around me. There exists in my imagination a life in the country of eternally late spring, a leafy pastorale of perpetual sunshine and the humming of bees - the suspended stillness of a Constable landscape of my beloved Suffolk, luminous and calm.
At some time or another every artist pays his tribute to nature: my La Fille mal gardée is my poor man’s Pastorale Symphony, for it was to Beethoven’s symphony that I constantly returned during the period of preparation. From him I got the accumulative waves of movement that I tried to put into my ballet, and the movements of serenity and noble simplicity were also derived from him and imposed on poor Hérold - the thrill of arrival in the country and the days of contemplation and distant, endless staring and dreaming to a “musique concrète” of farmyard noises, all to end in a storm. As I come from yeoman stock, I suppose it had to come out, the pipe-dream of life in the country. When in town I am constantly longing for the country, never having been put to the test of a really prolonged stay.
The background once set, the rest followed: many hesitations, the bored look on friends’ faces when asked what ballet I could do next - but in spite of it all, it had to be done. Malcolm Arnold threw the whole project back at me after having consented to tackle it, which was a big setback and left little time for Lanchbery to produce what proved to be an excellent arrangement. His enthusiasm was infectious. A chance meeting with The Goddess of Wisdom, Karsavina, did the rest. I begged her to give me some of her time. She willingly did; she fired me with enthusiasm. She explained the ballet’s historical significance; she expounded lucidly and enchantingly. I saw the whole thing. With her blessing she said, “There it is, take it and embroider on it.” There is no doubt that after my first visit to her I was able to go ahead clearly. The old puffer was on the right track. She said further, “The whole ballet should charm with innocence and should not be interrupted by any other mood.” It was great luck having this fount of knowledge, intelligence and charm to draw from, this link with the great Maryinsky days. Maybe I departed a long way from her idea of the ballet, she being Russian, and I being Peruvian English and never having seen any version of it before, but somewhere in spirit it must be the same. To have succeeded it must have the same truth.
The libretto I copied out the British Museum with my own hand and in French, a long morning’s work. In the Hérold score there is not one indication of action except “Lever du rideau.” That was distressing and meant much extra work. I made a rough draft of the action, broke it up into dance and mime sequences, made a minutage and set to work with Lanchbery. This was a great pleasure. He burst into my tiny house full of energy, practical good sense, and a will to work. Together we tugged, mutilated, contorted, twisted, pulled poor Hérold in all directions, altering tempi (it was mostly in 6/8), fitting his pliable little tunes to fit the action: the idea of the pauses in Nerina’s “variation” came from a piece by Spohr, which I heard on the wireless one evening. Lanchbery had a talent and a will of no mean order for twisting a tune to our purpose. Nothing would do till I was satisfied. He was ideal to work with; not since Constant Lambert had I had such pleasure in collaboration.
I was most lucky in my collaboration. Osbert Lancaster brought an enchanting new vision to the whole conception, giving great character to his costumes and a genuine French atmosphere to his sets, which are gay and charming. My cast is ideal. All are true, all became real before my eyes. They danced themselves into their roles. It was a pleasure to feel their joy as the ballet unfolded itself to its end. But do not let us forget Dauberval: his is a masterly balletic conception, his characters are rounded and his action carries through to the end. The piece displays the most lively “sens du théâtre” in the clever arrangement of effective situations and charming tableaux. The interest is kept up to the end: at the very last moment I added the re-appearance of Alain as a final coup.
The popularity of the ballet is certainly not due to any originality in the subject but rather that it lends itself to be infused with new life. I wanted to re-exploit the fun in my character, to give the ballet a frank open gaiety combined with an effortless lyricism, and to develop the theme of ribbons as a kind of leitmotif, or as themes are developed in a symphony. Our success astounded me. I have given more of myself to other ballets with less result. The next day the cocks crowed in jubilation, passing the good news from one to another throughout the countryside. Oh, what a heavenly morning!
Frederick Ashton
(The Dancing Times: London, 1960)