The Nutcracker, Op. 71, Act II: №14a, Pas De Deux
A dance much beloved by all, a timeless masterpiece. How many tears has it drawn from the audience, the moment its first notes caress the cinnamon-ginger air? The melody begins, and this time I cannot skip it in my Music shuffle. The curtain rises to the sides, like a lady swaying the skirts of her dress. The first sounds spill forth from an instrument that, upon hearing it, inspires a magical and fantastical sense in our creative memory, as if it were the hymn that invites one to take a step into the immersive experience of a fairy tale’s page. Yet, at the same time, the first violins seem to cry, singing not of joy but sorrow. Their strings weep, a little and delicate cry of agony that speaks of quiet longing, a poignant ache wrapped in resignation.
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The curtain continues to dance lightly in the background, just fluttering gently to not bother the dance of two. And suddenly, there’s a shiver in every chair, because other cries begin to accompany the violins: clarinets, violas, cellos, flutes. Together, they form a symphony of grief, pooling into a lake where swans once danced — the week before, before the Christmas season had truly begun. With their tears, the waters overflow. It is there that the music deepens. The laments continue, but passion also seeks expression. The violins, no longer merely mournful, now pulse with a yearning that threatens to consume them. I could name this an overwhelming climax (remember, we can moan in the same way out of pleasure or pain. Drums and trumpets announce the end, but the magic feels far too fleeting — so brief that the applause seems to last far longer than the dance itself.
I love it — as one loves a lover; romantically and faithful, until his love crushes my soul, not in a tragic way, but passionately. My heart is both tender and faithful, holding tight to the beauty of it all, the tutús, the pointe shoes, and the scenario, even as the poignancy of it threatens to shatter me. It is a devotion that doesn’t demand return, a love that never seeks to possess. I am faithful to it in the same way that I can only be faithful to my true self when I’m alone, although in theaters, I find myself surrounded by the audience. How blessed, how utterly wondrous, are the quiet, darkened theaters — those sanctuaries where the outside world disappears, where I can weep without shame, as the music strips me bare. I have no qualms about the masochism that compels me to buy a ticket every year to go see it and cry my eyes out. Or to break my heart anew, though no true harm is done. And what a blessing, what a wonder, that something so beautiful makes me cry so hard without actual pain. This is a different kind of pain, because Pas de Deux is about the beauty of ballet, of null terror, the sublime world of light and dark, between bliss and sorrow, and the beginning of my favorite time of the year.
© L. M. Pratdesaba, 2024
