his hair. But lice can get away with it in Paris for two reasons. First, the copyists have a stake in protecting each other. Second, the French are amused by stunts in the name of art."
"Like what?" She was pleased to discover she had at least partly understood what he was talking about, unlike Ilona. Moreover, he wasn't like Figente who acted as if she never could understand.
Vermillion, in his tum, felt unexpected enjoyment in relating what no longer interested him. "Oh—there was a play The Mute Bluejay. A skinny guy with a gas-green wig got up on a stepladder and talked gibberish—like Broadway doubletalk—with a profound air, while a girl, flopped on the stage, went through swimming motions and yelled she was Electra, and a Negro walked in and out with a big club yelling he was Siegfried looking for Wagner."
"Did he find Wagner?"
"Unfortunately—no."
"Were these people serious?"
"In a way, yes. It's partly the despair and defiance young artists feel when they face what's been accomplished. It is hard to take when you come smack up against mountains like Rembrandt and Mozart. All the talk about new forms, true as much of it is, doesn't get rid of those overpowering mountains—so when you're beginning you try to mask your despair and awe with a jeer. Actually the new forms are part of the so-called old."
"But don't they do anything else in Paris but paint, and have those skits? Did you see any dancing?"
"Except for the German dancers I told you of, there's the Opéra ballet. Reminds me of Degas, only to me his drawings were more interesting. The Diaghilev crowd is still there. As I'm not a ballet addict, their only difference to me—from the Opéra bunch—are the a la mode trimmings of avant-garde music and décor—Picasso, Stravinsky—"
"I don't see how you can say that," Lucy said indignantly. "Why, the Russian Ballet is the highest standard for every dancer. I don't care what you say, the Russian Ballet is great art. Audiences are crazy about it, especially 'L'Apres-midi d'un Faune' which is Greek and very modern."
"Shall we say pseudo-Greek," Vermillion said mildly, "with girls pretending to be flat as vases and a—man—making love to a scarf. Perhaps I didn't catch fire because the first Diaghilev blaze was over before my time. I saw some of its last flickering stages and, except for Tetrouchka,' it was for me as dated as 'Phèdre' in a Victorian
