If there is a man I really and truly hate it is the Russian impresario, Serge Diaghilev. Why couldn’t he have kept his glamorous ballerinas and exotic designers in St. Petersburg? Why bring them to Europe to torture poor hardworking dressmakers like me?
At ten o’clock this morning, the wife of the City Parks Superintendant handed me a magazine and said she wanted to look like Karsavina in “The Firebird.”
“Something diaphanous, I thought,” she said. “Shimmering . . . in flame or orange.”
She is healthy; she is muscular; she is sportif and athletic. A small glacier in the High Tatras has been named after her, and of this one must be glad. But oh, God! Karsavina?
— From “Madensky Square” by Eva Ibbotson. A frothy Sachertore of a book about Viennese dressmaker with a secret lover, a tragic past, and an irrepressibly funny outlook on life. Read my review of “Madensky Square” this Friday.