THE RUSSIAN
B A L L E T

Printed in England.

CONTENTS.

INTRODUCTION.

THERE is no need to enlarge here upon the vogue which the Russian Ballet, or rather that company of dancers which has become familiar outside its own country under that title, has achieved in England, France, Germany, and America. Sufficient testimony to that is provided by the appearance of this book, which seeks to present a souvenir of the performances with which so many spectators have been delighted. It may be interesting, however, to sketch briefly the history of the ballet as a form of theatrical art, and suggest an explanation of the enthusiasm with which, after a long period of practical desuetude, at least in London, its revival by the Russians had been greeted.

The theatrical ballet is comparatively a modern institution, but its real origin is to be found in the customs of very early times. The antiquity of dancing as a means of expression is well known, of course, and concerted movements on the part of a number of dancers, which constitute the ballet in its simplest form, are recognised to have been a feature of religious ceremonial in the furthest historic eras. The evolutions of the Greek chorus occur at once to the mind, and there is evidence that among the Egyptians, Assyrians, and Phœnicians, the formal dance was a part of religious ritual. Representations occur, on early vases and other relics, of dancers revolving round a central person or object, standing for the sun, and it may reasonably be surmised that some such ceremonial occurred among the most primitive pagan peoples.

Rites of this kind, indeed, form the theme of “Le Sacre du Printemps,” the most remarkable of the Russian dancers’ more recent performances, which may be regarded as a deliberate attempt at reversion to type. That provocative ballet is discussed elsewhere in the present volume, but it may be remarked in passing that M. Nijinsky, who is responsible for the “choreography” of it, has endeavoured to restore to that word something more of its original significance than its use in modern times, to describe the general planning and arrangement of a ballet, ordinarily confers.

Choreography or orchesography amongst the Egyptians and the Greeks was the art of committing a dance to writing just as a musical composition is registered and preserved by means of musical notation. M. Nijinsky considers that music and the dance being closely allied and parallel arts—the one the poetry of sound, the other the poetry of motion—a ballet should be as much the work of one creative mind as a piece of orchestral music. The principle he has embodied in “Le Sacre du Printemps” is that the dancers shall execute only those gestures and movements pre-ordained by the “choreographist,” and in the particular manner and sequence directed by the latter. The polyphony of orchestral music is to be paralleled by the polykinesis, if such a phrase may be coined, of the ballet.

Leaving this digression, one may ascribe the immediate parentage of the modern theatrical ballet to the Court Ballets of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which in turn arose out of the mediæval mystery plays, pageants, and masques. Ballets were a favourite diversion of the French Court of the period, where they underwent a gradual refinement in style from the relative coarseness which at first distinguished them. The opera-ballet was the next stage of development; then, towards the end of the eighteenth century, singing was omitted, and the ballet attained a dignity of its own.

The founder of what may be termed the dramatic ballet, which is the form the Russians have developed so magnificently, was Noverre, a great celebrity of his day, who took London as well as Paris for his field. After the fashion of his time, Noverre went to the classics for his themes, and very banal, it would seem, were his efforts to interpret them in terms of the ballet. But though his ambition as a maître de ballet outran his perceptions as an artist, at least he initiated and firmly established a new form of art which was capable of being brought subsequently to a high degree of perfection.

Vestris and Camargo were among the more familiar names associated with the ballet, both before and at Noverre’s period. These were the great dancers of the eighteenth century, to whom succeeded Pauline Duvernay, the celebrated Taglioni, Carlotta Grisi, Fanny Ellsler, Fanny Cerito, and others of the nineteenth century. It is barely thirty years since Taglioni died at the age of eighty, and it is possible there are still persons alive who remember her at the zenith of her career. Pauline Duvernay died even more recently (in 1894), but she preceded Taglioni on the stage, and as her retirement took place at the time of Queen Victoria’s accession, there can be few, if any, who are able to recall her performances.

It is difficult to form a clear impression of what the ballet was like in Taglioni’s day. One imagines, however, that it was less the ballet in which she appeared than the individual art, or at least skill, of the dancer herself, which attracted the spectator. At all events the ballet, after Taglioni, steadily declined, and one suspects that in her the tendency towards specialisation, which is everywhere inevitable in a highly civilised state, had reached its climax. The ballet had become a mere background, of no great significance or importance, to the dancer, and there being no one to maintain the standard of virtuosity set by so skilled an executant, the result was inevitable. There have been other dancers since Taglioni, probably as fine and perhaps finer, but their distinction has been of a peculiarly personal and, of necessity, somewhat limited kind. The decay of the ballet as a vehicle of expression has bereft them of opportunities for the full display of their art; they have been in the situation of a singer who for lack of an operatic stage whereon to give vent to mature, full-blooded powers, would perforce have to be content with the comparatively limited opportunities of the platform.

For a long time before the Russian revival the ballet had been all but extinct in this country; it was scarcely better abroad, save in Russia itself, of course, where the existence of a State school of dancing since the end of the seventeenth century has produced a quite different state of affairs. It is to be noted that even now the art of Anna Pavlova has only been seen under restrictions of the kind just mentioned. Her perfect skill in technique has been abundantly demonstrated; to judge of her quality as an artist (though she has given more than one suggestive hint of it) it is necessary to see her in ballet—a privilege hitherto denied.

This lapse of the ballet into desuetude accounts very largely for the extraordinary success of the Russians, who burst dazzlingly upon the gaze of a listless public, and demonstrated that ballet, which had come to be synonymous with banality, could be made both a forceful and a beautiful vehicle of artistic expression. There had been forerunners of the “Russian invasion”—brief appearances of one or two of the most distinguished dancers in isolated performances at a London variety theatre; but it was not until the complete Russian Ballet, as organised by M. Serge de Diaghilev, made its bow, en grande tenue, at the Covent Garden Opera House, that the London public awoke to recognition. The descriptive power of music it knew, “wordless plays” were not unfamiliar, pas seuls and pas de deux it had seen performed in countless number by accomplished dancers of every nationality and style. But the art of the ballet, which combines music, pantomime and the dance, was a revelation, and its enthusiasm was great.

In Russia the ballet has never been allowed, as elsewhere, to die of starvation and inanition. Apart from State encouragement of the dancer’s art, an outlet has been provided for the musician and the decorative painter and designer. The result is that a ballet, as understood in Russia, is no mere excuse for the exploitation of individual talents, but a work of art in itself, to the achievement of which the energies and abilities of all concerned are subordinated. Undoubtedly it is the unity of purpose, the wonderful ensemble, which the Russian ballets exhibit that catches the imagination of the spectator. It is significant that their best performances are those which are wholly, or at least in chief part, of native production, and deal with native or closely kindred subjects. Indeed, for their success in attaining coherence and unity the Russians have to thank, perhaps, their comparative isolation and remoteness from Western European civilisation. Their art is strong because native. Endorsement of this suggestion is to be found in the virility of the Russian operas of Moussorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov, which made as profound an impression on their first performance in London as did the Russian ballets before them. Beside such works of art as “Boris Godounov,” “La Khovantchina,” and “Ivan the Terrible,” the modern French and Italian operas seem pitifully patched and thin, sadly lacking in balance and proportion.

Except for the framework on which it is constructed, the modern dramatic ballet, as evolved by the Russians, bears little resemblance to that in which Noverre delighted. The latter’s method, indeed, was fundamentally the opposite to that by which such a man as Michel Fokine proceeds. It was Noverre’s habit to lay impertinent hands on any theme, no matter how august, and twist it (regardless of mutilation) to his purpose—which was to exhibit his dancer’s skill. Not even the tragedy of Æschylus was safe if Clytæmnestra seemed to the complacent chevalier a rôle in which his latest pupil might agreeably air her graces. The Russian method is the converse; its aim is to interpret the theme by gestures and the dance, not forcibly adapt it to the irrelevant requirements of a dancer’s special repertoire. It would be ridiculous to suggest that this aim is always successfully achieved—there are occasions when it falls a long way short of accomplishment—but at least the principle is right, and under Fokine the Russian Ballet has brought dancing the nearest yet to a fine art.

That it should be their performance as a whole which has sealed the success of the Russians, is the more remarkable when the exceptional quality of the individual performers is considered. It is not merely that the standard of excellence, both in acting and miming, throughout the entire corps de ballet is so high: under ordinary circumstances (unfortunately) one would expect to see such performers as MM. Bolm, Cecchetti, Kotchetovsky, Mdmes. Karsavina, Federova, Astafieva, Piltz—to name but a few—each figuring as that abomination a “star”: probably supported by a company whose mediocrity would tend to mitigate rather than enhance the brilliance of the leading light. But the Russians know better than this, and though it may be difficult to imagine “L’Oiseau de Feu” without Karsavina, “Cléopâtre” without Federova, “Prince Igor” without Bolm, it is of the dancer’s association with the ballet, not of the ballet as a background to the dancer, that one thinks. “The play’s the thing.”

There are two personalities, however, which the performances of the Russian Ballet have thrown forward with especial prominence. The first is, of course, M. Nijinsky, than whom it may be doubted whether any more accomplished dancer has ever appeared. He excited the more astonishment, perhaps, on his appearance in London, because the male dancer was hitherto unknown—at least in any other than a grotesque or comic capacity. (Nothing, by the way, could be more eloquent of the debasement of the ballet in this country than the custom of having the male parts taken by women.) But the perfection of Nijinsky’s technical skill, extraordinary as this is, provides but the lesser reason for his triumph. He is an artist as well as a wonderful dancer. He appeals not only to the eye but to the imagination. Conceivably there might be found another dancer with equal command of movement, and another mime with equal subtlety of pose and gesture: but one who can so weld into a single faculty of expression the twin arts of pantomime and the dance is surely far to seek. Consider his dancing, and he seems to be less a dancer (as the word is ordinarily understood) than a mime who adds movement to gesture: regard him as a mime, and he seems rather a dancer who is acting while he dances. Nijinsky, in brief, is the true dancer: dancing is his proper medium of expression, in the use of which he shows himself an artist of fine perception. To watch him as Harlequin in “Le Carnaval” or as the Spectre of the Rose (in which rôles it was the present writer’s memorable good fortune to see him for the first time) is to receive a revelation of what the dancer’s art can compass. Let it be added that in the case of Nijinsky no more unfitting prominence is allowed to the dancer’s personality than in the case of his colleagues already named. One may shudder at the thought of “Le Spectre de la Rose” without Nijinsky as the Spectre, but it is the banality which a lesser artist might produce that is dreaded, not the loss of those wondrous leaps and bounds.

The second outstanding personality is that of M. Léon Bakst, to whose designs for scenery, costumes, and all that is summed up in the convenient word décor, many of the ballets in the Russian repertoire owe no small part of their success. The impression made by the scenic methods of Léon Bakst was a worthy parallel to that effected by the performance of the dancers—or perhaps one should say that the two were but inseparable parts of the same thing, since the services of Bakst to the Russian Ballet have been not less than the opportunities which the Ballet has furnished to Bakst. One scarcely thinks of the one without the other.

The vigour and impulse with which the Russian dancers showed that the ballet, as a means of artistic expression, could be endowed, Léon Bakst demonstrated could inspire the designing of scenery and costumes. Again one finds that a sense of unity and coherence has been the inspiration. Bakst’s broad method is the converse of the stage realist who seeks to counterfeit fact by a laborious building up of detail. He presents the essentials and little more, using colour rather than form to suggest the association of ideas which he wishes to produce. Compare the cool green setting of “Narcisse,” the violent riot of colour which forms a background to “Scheherazade,” the simplicity and dignity of the orange environment of “Cléopâtre,” with the fretful facsimiles of woodland grove, harem, and desert temple which a less original designer might have attempted. In his designs for costumes there is not less vigour and attack. While the conventional “costumier” is drawing a fiddling fashion plate or draping a lay figure, Bakst is portraying not only the clothing which befits the temperament and character of the dramatis persona under consideration, but the very way in which that clothing would by such a one be worn or carried. Especially has he an eye for form and colour in movement—few of his designs for costumes show the wearers in repose—a fact which obviously gives his work a peculiar value for this particular purpose.

It will be readily appreciated how vital a bearing the designs of Léon Bakst have upon that ensemble which has been so strongly emphasised as the outstanding feature, and the fundamental secret, of the Russian Ballet’s success. But it should be remembered that Bakst’s creations as seen upon the stage fall short by a good deal of what they really are. It is inevitable, unfortunately, that this should be so. It is no easy task for the actual scene painter to reproduce upon a large scale the artist’s design with that absolute fidelity to colour and tone which alone can do it proper justice: and that the wearers of the costumes should be able to sustain without relapse their impersonations of the characters so vividly depicted in essentials by the artist’s brush and pencil is more than can reasonably be expected from even the most accomplished corps de ballet. How much the designs of Léon Bakst suffer in translation, only those who have seen the wonderful originals can realise.

The music of the ballets is mostly the work of Russian composers, and the fact that, as a general rule, it has been specially written preserves the unity of purpose. In a few cases the Russians have ventured to lay hands on music to which they have no legitimate claim, and though their sense of the fitting has saved them from banality or desecration, it is notable that these are the occasions when they give the least complete satisfaction. Much may be forgiven for the beauty of the dancing, qua dancing, in “Les Sylphides,” but one doubts the propriety of the employment of Chopin’s music. As an “interpretation” of the latter, the dances are merely ridiculous, but in justice to the Russians it must be observed that they have never put them forward as such. The use made of Schumann’s “Carnaval” and Weber’s “Invitation à la Valse” is more legitimate—indeed the delicate romance of “Le Spectre de la Rose” confers almost a dignity upon the latter somewhat sentimental composition. More recently Debussy has been pressed into service, but the peculiar un-ballet-like nature of “L’Après-Midi d’un Faune” and “Jeux” makes comment in the present connection needless. The fact remains that the happiest results have been obtained from the co-operation of native composers like Nicolas Tcherepnin, Balakirev, and Igor Stravinsky. From the latter has come, in “L’Oiseau de Feu” and “Pétrouchka,” perhaps the most effective music in the whole repertoire of the Russian Ballet—a circumstance which makes it the more disappointing, at least to the simple-minded, that his third ballet, “Le Sacre du Printemps,” should be distinguished by such marked, not to say eccentric, characteristics.

It is regrettable to have to end these introductory words upon a note of disparagement. But the more recent performances of the Russian Ballet, while confirming the hold already established upon the public, have also indicated the way in which that hold may presently be lost. That abounding vitality with which the Russians have invested their work arises out of a devotion to, and enthusiasm for, their art. They have a zest which cannot fail of result. But a belief in the possibilities of an art must be balanced by a recognition of its limitations, or the result is chaos. It is needless to anticipate here the comments which are later made upon some recent additions to the Russians’ repertoire. It is enough for the moment to remark a tendency in them to chafe at what presumably seem to enthusiastic spirits, confident in their own cleverness, unnecessary bonds and restrictions. But discipline is the very essence of Art. To abandon discipline is to run riot, achieving nothing and arriving nowhere.

“PÉTROUCHKA.”

Burlesque Scenes in Four Tableaux by Igor Stravinsky and Alexandre Benois.

Music by Igor Stravinsky.

Scenes and Dances by Michel Fokine.

Scenery and Costumes Designed by Alexandre Benois.

THE Puppet has always exercised upon the human mind a curious fascination. There is a lure in the antics of the animated doll so reminiscent of, yet so unlike, ourselves which most find irresistible. Punch and Judy with their attendant satellites furnish, of course, a classic case in point.

The reason is that the puppet show discharges all the functions of the ordinary theatre, with this advantage—that it gives its spectators the privilege of feeling as the gods upon Olympus. With amused and tolerant eye they watch the petty strife of puny creatures who, but for the lack of high divinity, would be life-like effigies of themselves. It may be that “the proper study of mankind is man,” but the occupation is pleasurable only when it can be pursued with such detachment as, in the most complete form, the puppet show makes possible. The travesty of human passions which the mimic stage affords is near enough the truth to intrigue the fancy, while sufficiently remote from reality to leave equanimity undisturbed. No wonder all men show a kindly regard for the queer little figures that provide parodies of themselves which are shrewd, but not too apposite!

Pétrouchka, it is understood, is roughly the Russian counterpart of our familiar Punch, though he would seem to have really but little in common with the riotous Falstaffian character of the English hero. In the ballet named after him, however, Pétrouchka represents not so much certain human traits as himself, the essential puppet. In its trivial way the theme thus presented is a big one. A ballet woven round the puppet stage would have been in any case attractive. To take us behind the scenes and show the mingled comedy and tragedy of the puppet world was a true dramatic inspiration. In the result “Pétrouchka” is an achievement perhaps finer than even its authors had intended.

Not only in their miming, but in their scenery also, the Russians have a subtle art of suggesting local atmosphere. There is a bleak, grey quality about the background to the scene with which “Pétrouchka” opens that conveys an instant sense of Russian cold—a dull frigidity which not all the gay and vivid hues of the parti-coloured crowd thronging the stage can thaw, which, indeed, the latter merely enhance, as they in turn are intensified by contrast against so perfect a foil. One has a sense of opaque, leaden skies, of snow impending.

It is fair-time, the last few days of high revelry before the Lenten fast begins. Carnival is in full swing, and folk of every station are making merry amongst the booths and raree-shows that

have been set up in the market-place. A spirit of careless jollity prevails, and as the mingled nature of the moving throng betrays, the licence of carnival time has broken down all barriers of ceremonious restraint. Coachmen, Cossacks, nurse girls and grisettes rub shoulders freely with ladies and their escorts, smart officers and sober burgesses.

Itinerant vendors offer their wares among the promenaders, and an eager rogue sets up, for tempting of the revellers’ purses, the clumsy peep-show which he carries on his back. The coins begin to roll in as the gaping sightseers gather round, but his harvest is interrupted by the greater attractions of a dancing girl, who begins upon a strip of carpet laid with care upon the ground a posturing dance, to the accompaniment of strains from a hurdy-gurdy turned by her male companion. She likewise is not allowed to hold the field undisputed, for a rival—also attended by a portable organ—establishes herself hard by. The pair vie with each other in elegant poses and slow rhythmic movements, while the thin strains of the opposing hurdy-gurdies dolefully assail the ear.

Some coachmen, challenging each other to feats of agility, break into a dance. The crowd stays to watch them, paying but little attention to the frequent appeals for patronage of an old man stationed on the top of a booth, who beseeches consideration of his astonishingly lengthy beard. More likely to attract the eye are the pair of handsome gipsy girls who join him on his elevated platform. But it is not until the coachmen pause for breath in their vigorous saltations that the sirens overhead succeed in fastening their allurements upon a festive and inebriated merchant who has pushed his way, with uncertain gait, to the front.

The sudden beating of a tattoo by a couple of drummers, clad in gay livery, summons the crowd to a long booth standing in the background, of which the curtains have hitherto remained drawn. The people press forward with such eager curiosity that the drummers have some ado to keep them at a sufficient distance; but the apparition of a strange, antique head, which is suddenly thrust through an opening in the curtains of the booth, arrests the attention of all.

The head looks quaintly right and left: then the curtains are parted, and the figure of its owner is revealed. It is no ordinary showman or cheap-jack who steps forward and salutes the ring of attentive spectators. The cabalistic signs upon the long robe in which his lean figure is swathed, his cap of curious shape, his flowing beard and yellow parchment skin—these are all attributes which belong rather to a wise magician of the East than to a peripatetic showman. The spectators are evidently interested; there is a something about this queer personage which fascinates and holds them. When, after courtly obeisances, he puts to his lips the flute that he holds in his hand, they press forward with undisguised curiosity.

With gestures odd and unexpected the strange old man pipes forth a tune upon his flute—a jerky little air to which he jerkily sways and twists his lank body. The gaping onlookers follow his antics with half-mesmerised gaze, and when presently he takes the flute from his lips and steps down to the front of the booth they are all agog to learn what sequel to this prelude the drawn curtains will reveal.

When drawn at length the curtains are, an engaging spectacle greets the eye. Propped in a row upon slender rods are three life-size puppet figures. In the middle is the Dancer, most radiant of dolls, with the pinkest of waxen cheeks and the glassiest of stares, elegantly arrayed in a striped jacket and pantaloons. On one side of her is the Blackamoor, a fierce and swarthy fellow, resplendent in green and gold, with gorgeous turban on his head; on the other, poor Pétrouchka, a grotesque figure of fun tricked out in glaring and fantastic motley.

Such are the three puppets which the ancient showman presents to the enthralled spectators—and puppets only, mere things of tinsel and sawdust, they seem as the curtains are drawn aside. They hang limply upon their supports, not making even of lifelessness other than a puppet’s feeble travesty. There is occult power in the showman’s hand, however, and as he touches each in turn the figures are galvanised of a sudden into seeming life. With a quick spasmodic movement their limbs stiffen, their bodies are jerked upright upon the props, and a semblance of alertness is obtained. It is as though on the instant some hidden clockwork springs had been wound up tense and taut.

To a burst of lively music three pairs of legs start nimbly dancing. The bodies of the puppets, seemingly fastened to the supports so plainly visible, remain fixed and stationary. Heads and arms move jerkily and unfreely, but whatever the mechanical defects in other directions, at least the puppets’ legs are well and truly hung. They beat a merry tattoo in concert on the floor; they bend and straighten, kick, recoil and leap with such inspiriting and infectious gusto, that blithe and nimble feet are soon a-jigging in the crowd of admiring and applauding onlookers.

The giddy reel is at its height when, upon a mutual impulse, the puppets start from their supports, and tripping gaily from their little platforms in the booth, come forward and continue the dance in the midst of the astonished spectators. The latter, much excited by a manœuvre so unexpected, gather hurriedly round. The drummers strive to keep a clear arena for the puppets, while the antique showman, sardonically aware of the sensation which his dolls are making, rubs covetous and expectant palms.

The dance develops into burlesque pantomime, Pétrouchka making a grotesque attack upon the Blackamoor with a stick which the showman thrusts into his stiffly jointed arms. Captivated by this new feature of an entertainment already novel, the laughing onlookers press more closely round, and the curtain falls upon the hilarious crowd delightedly applauding the conclusion of the pantomime and dance.

When the curtain, after a short interval, rises again a very different scene is disclosed. You are to understand that the queer old showman has some acquaintance with the black arts. It is probable that from the moment when he first peered through the curtains of his booth you have suspected as much; indeed, if you share but a tithe of the superstitious instinct of the holiday-makers in the fair, you will have been at once convinced of it, and the sudden transformation of the sawdust puppets into the semblance of living, sentient beings (albeit a trifle odd and constrained in their movements) will have aroused little emotion in your ignorant mind except a gaping wonder.

The old rascal is, in truth, something of a magician. But though he has the power to endow his puppets with a certain degree of humanity, there is a limit to his skill, and the poor objects of his mischievous arts are but partially humanised—a kind of apish mockery of human flesh and blood. At bottom they are puppets still.

In worst case, because the most gifted with humanity, is the luckless Pétrouchka. More nearly does the texture of his rag approximate to flesh, the thin sawdust of his stuffing to red and pulsing blood. Vaguely there stir within him the passions and emotions of a man—blind feelings to which he strives mutely, ineffectually, to give expression. He has learned to suffer—and no more.

The black rectangular chamber which the newly rising curtain shows us is that portion of the squalid puppet-box which forms Pétrouchka’s home. Through the door that flies open the showman’s clumsy boot is seen, and the flimsy figure of the hapless doll, ridiculous in his pied and motley clothes, is impelled through the opening by a cruel kick.

For a time he lies in a huddled heap upon the floor, then woefully picks himself up, striving to collect his feeble wits. His pitiful frame is fired by yearnings which he does not comprehend. Aimless impulses stir him to spasmodic, inconclusive movements. He is the sport of he knows not what. In a sudden access of panic he darts to the door, seeking escape from his prison-like box to the life and gaiety of the outer world, from which he has been so rudely torn. There, but a moment ago, he was dancing, and if the applause was mingled with laughter at his ungainly antics, at least it was applause such as the ears of even a half-witted doll can greedily drink in.

But the door is shut. It lies flush, lacking handle or latch, with the wall, and Pétrouchka’s puppet hands, with fingers stiffly glued together and muffled in black babyish gloves, fumble at it in vain effort. Pathetically he totters the length of the walls, groping wildly with his futile arms for an outlet. At last he finds one—a portion of the wall collapses—but it is only a hole pasted over with paper, into which the rickety figure of Pétrouchka nearly disappears. It is no real outlet, it leads nowhere, and dimly the poor puppet realises that even here his hopes and aspirations are baulked. He is a prisoner, close pent. Mournfully he bemoans his wretched lot, his bitter discontent not lightened by ignorance of what he truly wishes in its stead.

Lacking the initiative, the constructive power, which full intelligence alone can give, Pétrouchka can yet perceive his shortcomings. He passes himself in review, and finds satisfaction in nothing. His motions, gestures—who could admire such awkward angularity, such jerky, jumpy movements? Thus he reflects dolefully, as he strives experimentally to move his limbs with easy grace and rhythm. As to his clothes, such gaudy, parti-coloured gear is fit only for buffoons and clownish oafs, not for one who possesses (in how limited degree, poor fellow! he does not realise) the finer instincts. His motley shames him, his involuntary gaucherie moves him to anger with himself. Nothing is right; and with a travesty of emotion which excites a smile while it moves to pity, Pétrouchka abandons himself to despair.

It is Pétrouchka’s crowning agony that he believes himself in love. The object of his adoration is the Dancer, the radiant creature who occupies (in striped pantaloons and the sauciest of caps) the middle compartment of the puppet-box. Beyond lies the Blackamoor, a feared and hated rival. How vie with the latter’s rich and handsome dress, his dashing, martial bearing? The Blackamoor carries a sabre, and though it is Pétrouchka’s exquisite privilege at periodic intervals to belabour his dusky rival with the stick he borrows from their mutual master, the attack (for all the feeble spite with which it is delivered) is but a mimic one—a mere comic interlude in the dance with which the trio are wont to entertain the grinning public. Of what avail in private such brief and sham ascendancy against the subtle, meretricious attractions of his competitor for the fair one’s favour!

Momentarily Pétrouchka’s gloom is lightened by the unexpected advent of the Dancer, come upon a visit to the apartment of her love-sick swain. At sight of her Pétrouchkas fears and doubts are dissipated on the instant. No deepening of the rosy patches on her cheeks encourages the extravagant demonstration of delight with which he greets her; nor does even a momentary softening relax the fixity of her stare. But Pétrouchka, poor fool! takes no

note of this. He has learnt no art of restraint, and in the sudden revulsion of feeling effected by the apparition of his beloved, he rushes from one extreme to the other. Forgetful now of that gaucherie he was deploring but a moment earlier, unconscious of the ridicule his foolish garb excites, the hapless creature is betrayed, by the ill-disciplined vehemence of his rudimentary emotions, into ludicrous and preposterous behaviour.

The Dancer stands affrighted at the ecstatic transports of her would-be lover. Not in this antic fashion had she expected to be wooed. Deficient in the graces and allurements of a suppliant, Pétrouchka lacks equally the masterful methods of the bolder kind of suitor.

He can but give an incomplete expression to the incomplete emotions with which his puppet’s breast is charged. The result is ludicrous, a mere fiasco. Where Pétrouchka thought to excite admiration he arouses only contempt; he repels where he hoped to attract. The object of his passion, startled at first, but soon disgusted, retires in dudgeon, and as the hapless lover throws himself forward in a despairing effort to detain her the door is slammed to in his face. The curtain, descending, hides his pitiful fumbling as he tries the door anew.

At the other end of the puppet-box, as we see when the curtain next rises, lives the Blackamoor. A more expensive puppet than Pétrouchka, despite less sensibility to the showman’s magic arts, the Blackamoor’s apartment has some pretensions to comfort. A wall-paper of violent hue and florid design (everyone who has played with a doll’s house will recognise it) serves as background to the oriental divan on which the Blackamoor reclines in luxurious ease.

Indolent and stupid, the rival of Pétrouchka is happier than he. Less responsive to the showman’s baneful influence, the swarthy doll has been invested with but little more than the lowest of human appetites and instincts. No dim perceptions of romance are his; his brutish wits have not been sharpened, like Pétrouchka’s, to the point of suffering. Lolling in his gaudy chamber, he passes the time in idleness and folly.

We see him, as the curtain rises, intent upon some clownish trifling with a coconut. Prone upon his back, with legs in air, he shows a doltish pleasure in juggling his toy with hands and knees. Presently tiring of this, his vacuous mind casts round for fresh amusement. A happy thought strikes him, and flinging himself off the divan he rolls over and over across the floor, clutching the precious nut, till suddenly he finds himself, with idiot leer, in sitting posture.

He begins anew his juggling, but the silly game has lost its savour. He drops the coconut upon the floor and stupidly blames his clumsiness upon the toy. Angrily regarding it, he flies into a rage, and fetching his sabre, slashes furiously at the object of his wrath. Failing to hit it, he next finds fault with his weapon, and flings it pettishly into a corner. The coconut still lies at his feet, and a superstitious notion creeps into his turbid brain. Retiring a few paces, he prostrates himself before this fetish that has defied his wrath and violence.

He begins a series of elaborate obeisances designed at once to propitiate the ire which he supposes the inanimate coconut to nurse, and cover the stealthy approach which he nevertheless makes towards it. He grins facetiously as his silly antics gradually bring him nearer the object of his desires. With a final prostration he achieves his purpose, and sprawls delightedly over the nut, just as the Dancer, fresh from her rejection of Pétrouchka’s fervent but ill-proffered advances, enters the apartment.

Coquettishly in her hand the Dancer carries a toy trumpet, and with this to her lips, sounding a lively gallop, she foots it merrily to and fro. The Blackamoor, who took but little notice of her entry, is distracted from his fervent occupation with the coconut. Beguiled by the inspiriting strains of the trumpet, he watches her movements with increasing interest, rolling his goggle eyes from side to side as she trips it up and down.

With sudden ardour the Blackamoor starts up, and flinging away his wretched plaything, seizes and embraces his fascinating visitor. The latter seems nothing loth, and gratified by this easy conquest the Blackamoor seats himself to receive the homage of a further dance. The lady, eager to make the most of opportunity, exerts herself in even livelier fashion than before, and finds occasion to fall provocatively into her admirer’s arms. The Blackamoor is now entirely captivated, and when the Dancer begins, to a sugary, sentimental strain, a pas de fascination of which his sluggish wits at length realise himself to be the object, his fondness is grotesquely manifested. From the edge of his divan he fatuously ogles the fair one, and is thrown into transports of delight when she accepts a rapturous invitation to sit upon his knee.

The flirtation receives unwelcome interruption by the unexpected arrival of Pétrouchka. Fired by jealousy, and impelled by his infatuation for the Dancer, he has escaped at last and come to seek her in the hated rival’s domain. But the poor fellow is so ineffectual that he cannot make even a passably impressive entry. In his blundering haste he gets caught in the swinging door and hangs there, half in the room, half out, an object of derision to his inamorata and her dusky swain.

Even when he has struggled free of this embarrassment and confronts the guilty pair, Pétrouchka is pathetically at a loss. Tortured by vague fears, he has yielded to a vague impulse, only to find himself unable to deal with the situation he has so rashly sought.

Not so the Blackamoor, whose lower type of intelligence is beset by neither doubts nor fears. While the Dancer, with nice sense of propriety, goes off into a genteel swoon, he bounces angrily off the divan, and advances threateningly upon the intruder. Pétrouchka, half urged by passion, half intimidated by force, and wholly at a loss, takes refuge in a futile demonstration, which has not the least effect. Gloating, like a true bully, over the discomfiture of his rival, the Blackamoor hustles him to the door, and with a vicious kick sends him flying across the threshold. Boastfully jeering at his defeated enemy, he executes, as the curtain comes down, a loutish dance of triumph.

Meanwhile the fair, to which the action of the ballet returns in the concluding scene, is still in progress. But evening is approaching, and the revels are beginning to take on a noisy, riotous turn. To swinging, pulsing music there is a dance of nursegirls and coachmen, which sets the feet of all who watch it sympathetically a-stamping. The advent of a performing bear, walking gingerly upright at the end of the chain which his owner holds, creates a small diversion; a more lively one is produced by the reappearance of the tipsy merchant, who scatters bank notes promiscuously among the crowd. The horseplay which has already begun receives a fillip from the inrush of a group of masqueraders (a devil with horns and tail among them) whose hideous disguises cause pretended alarm among the women and girls. Snow begins to fall, and under the play of flickering coloured lights, which spasmodically illumine the gathering dusk, the fun waxes fast and furious.

Of a sudden the crowd becomes aware of a great commotion inside the puppet booth. The curtains are drawn across the front, but their violent agitation, now at this end, now at that, indicates that something untoward is happening within. The passers-by pause and look curiously at the booth. In a moment the curtain at one end is flung back and Pétrouchka dashes forth. Close on his heels the Blackamoor, brandishing his sabre, strides vindictively. The Dancer (agitated, but as pink and white of cheek, as glassy of stare, as ever) brings up the rear.

Fleeing in panic down the length of the booth, Pétrouchka vanishes behind the curtain at the other end. The Blackamoor and Dancer follow. A wild commotion of the curtain at its middle part suggests a fearful struggle within. A moment later the three puppets dash forth again, Pétrouchka still in front and seeking vainly to escape the uplifted sabre. In the middle of the market-place the Blackamoor overtakes his rival, and with a vicious blow fells him to the ground.

The spectators, up to this point too taken aback to interfere, crowd round in consternation. Hapless Pétrouchka lies huddled on the ground, and though they seek to succour him, no sound but a painful squeaking comes from him. He strives to rise, but cannot; ineffectual to the last, he can compass nothing more dramatic at his end than a few indeterminate jerky motions and a last pitiful squeak.

An alarm has been given, and at this juncture a policeman approaches with the ancient puppet-showman, an odder figure than ever, wrapped in a voluminous black coat with a tall hat upon his head. The crowd, bewildered by the strange events just witnessed, draws back and watches the showman with puzzled curiosity as he bends over the prostrate figure of Pétrouchka. Can it be they have been spectators of a tragedy?

The showman is in no wise disconcerted. Stooping, he takes hold of the bundle of gaily-coloured rags that lies so forlornly on the street, and lifts it up. It dangles limp and lifeless from his upraised hand before the astonished eyes of all. A corpse? Nothing of the sort—a doll! Incredulous hands are stretched out to touch, but there is no need of that. The showman begs the company to see for themselves. The head is wooden; the body (as a thin powdery stream falling to the pavement testifies) is stuffed with sawdust!

The crowd disperses. Satisfied that the tragedy was no tragedy, they yet feel a distaste for the scene of an occurrence so disturbing, and drift away to another part of the fair. The showman is left alone.

With a shrug the old magician moves towards his booth, trailing behind him the draggled figure of his puppet. As he nears the steps a shrill screech bursts upon his ears. He starts and looks fearfully about him, for he recognises the sound. Again the screech greets him, and looking up he espies, mopping and mowing above the cornice of the booth, the ghostly figure of Pétrouchka.

The trailing bundle of rags and sawdust drops from the sorcerer’s hands. Horror-struck, he turns and flees.

“Pétrouchka” is the joint work of MM. Igor Stravinsky and Alexandre Benois, of whom the former composed the music, while the latter designed the scenery and costumes. The restraint, the fine selective instinct, which Benois has shown in his manipulation of the wealth of material lying to his hand produces a most artistic result. The local colour is firmly, but without offending emphasis, insisted upon—that it is a Russian fair in which we find ourselves, there is no mistaking. Nor does he lack humour; nothing could be defter than the grotesque touches with which the rival puppets’ boxes are adorned, nothing more truly bizarre than the opera cloak and silk hat in which he garbs the fantastic showman for the dénouement.

In “Pétrouchka,” as in “L’Oiseau de Feu,” Stravinsky shows himself a master of the art of writing ballet music. Throughout the four scenes he displays not only a nice sense of dramatic fitness, but a shrewd appreciation of character. Whether his theme is the quasi-pathetic sufferings of Pétrouchka, the dollish coquetry of the Dancer, or the grotesque humours of the Blackamoor, he never fails to be expressive. In the treatment of such a subject as “Pétrouchka” (described by the authors as a series of “burlesque scenes”) his humorous perception is of large assistance. In the trumpet dance, for instance, by which the Blackamoor is first inveigled into the fair one’s toils, or in the slower pas de fascination by which the conquest of him is completed, Stravinsky’s sense of the ludicrous has turned two slender occasions to most diverting account. Conceive a tender, sentimental passage between two grotesque dolls, and in these engaging little melodies you have the exact expression of the absurd situation. Even more ingenious, as a piece of clever orchestration, is a passage at the outset of the opening scene, where the composer succeeds not only in reproducing (with the merest note of burlesque) the peculiar sounds of an antique hurdy-gurdy, but weaves the opposition between two such competing instruments into a most entertaining and harmonious discord. As to the music which hurries the revels of the carnival upon their riotous course, it has the true note of full-blooded vigorous enjoyment—a rhythmic pulsing quality which belongs to the fresh and unsophisticated pleasure of simple folk not too much hampered by conventions.

“Pétrouchka,” however, would fall short of its ultimate effect but for the subtle art of its interpreters. Kotchetovsky, as the Blackamoor, wonderfully realises the undisciplined temper and coarse appetites which are all of humanity that this puppet has acquired; and the Dancer, whether played by Karsavina or Nijinska, pirouettes or tiptoes with the exactitude of mechanical action. But to the presentation of Pétrouchka Nijinsky brings more than mere cleverness. There is a touch of diablerie in his impersonation of the luckless puppet which most poignantly conveys the sense of atrophied humanity. It is not merely that from his jerky half-mechanical motions one can deduce the exact anatomy of the doll, a joint here, a loosely hung limb there; he puts the whole character upon a plane above the level of mere grotesquery. Pétrouchka in his hands acquires a significance which places him amongst the centaurs and other half-brute, half-human creatures of mythology. That the ballet is thereby endowed with a meaning, an inwardness, which it might not otherwise possess, must be accounted as a tribute to the dancer’s genius.

THAMAR.

Choreographic Drama by Léon Bakst

Music by Balakirev.

Scenes and Dances by Michel Fokine.

Scenery and Costumes Designed by Léon Bakst.

IN no ballet, perhaps, are the resources of the Russians so characteristically and comprehensively displayed as in “Thamar.” In certain other spectacles particular aspects of their art receive more emphasis, are more acutely perceived. But in this barbaric legend from the far Caucasus their powers are revealed at their ripest and fullest. There is a “body,” a full-blooded vigour in this swift, fierce drama, and its vivid enactment, which bespeaks maturity. The miming, the dancing, the very mise-en-scène draw fire from quickened pulses, albeit so subordinated to controlling restraint, that of no ballet is it less possible to resolve into component elements the spontaneous, arresting whole. The ensemble is perfect. And what “Thamar” lacks in preciosity is compensated by abounding vitality.

It is possibly not mere fancy which suggests that in “Thamar” the Russians give peculiarly spontaneous vent to their artistic impulses. Western Europe has a proverb, which it would scarce be gallant to repeat here, anent the affinity between a Russian and a Tartar; and it would certainly seem as if to the presentment upon the stage of this old tale from the folk-lore of wild Georgia had gone a native appreciation—a relish—of all that it embodies, which must be wanting to the treatment of themes more conventional or exotic. Only in the wonderful exuberance of the crowded Moscow fair in “Pétrouchka” does one find again that subtle access of spontaneity and vitality which can derive from a national instinct alone.

For the story of “Thamar” it seems there is some warrant in history. At least tradition reports that the castle, now in ruins, which stands in the gorge of Dariol, had once a royal mistress, whose inhospitable custom it was to lure unsuspecting strangers into her toils, and presently cause them to be hurled to destruction from a secret door giving upon a precipitous face of the rocky crag on which the castle is perched. What measure of historical fact is foundation for the legend, who shall say? Certain it is that the tale has lost nothing by the telling, in the handing down from one generation to another; that the lurid colours in which Queen Thamar’s character has been painted have lost nothing—have gained, indeed—in intensity. Yet, if time has not mellowed their barbaric crudity, at least it has arranged them decoratively. Romance has been busy at her loom, from which at length has issued a legend so cunningly woven as needs only the gorgeous embroidery of the Russians’ art to reach an apotheosis.

The master hand of Léon Bakst has designed nothing more startling and impressive than the great chamber of the castle in which Queen Thamar holds perpetual court. By some wondrous trick of

his art he has induced a sense of height that leads the eye upward far beyond the proscenium’s limit, and creates a loftiness that seems to dwarf the figures grouped about the floor. Even more remarkable is the form and colouring of the decorations. Crude is the word that first presents itself, but crudity ill suggests the ultimate harmony of this astounding tableau. Violence is rather the note—violence of colour, violence of form: meet setting for such deeds of violence as are soon to be enacted. And as with the chamber, so with the dress of its occupants—the splendid, violent trappings of æsthetic barbarism. Nothing is subdued; it is the very occasion, as the spectator thrills to feel, for passions to be loosed, unbridled and untamed.

Something of the same inspiration seems to have prompted Balakirev’s music, which not only hurries the swift drama to its impending climax, but seems charged with a sensuous violence of its own that enhances, to a point of fascination almost dreadful, the orgy of passionate intoxication on the stage.

Thamar is an exciting experience. In the first few bars of the short prelude which precedes the rising of the curtain the note of mystery, of eerie phantasy, is struck. The listener is transported from reality to the region of legendary lore. To such strains would one choose to read of witchcraft and of magic spells; at least, the music has that degree of kinship with those voices of the elements which raise the hair with unfelt breath, and send a shiver through the stoutest heart.

The curtains, lifting silently, disclose that striking tableau just referred to—a coup d’œil in a very special sense. Upon a divan at the back, sinuous, a panther in repose, lies Thamar. At one side, flooding the head of the couch with evening light, a huge casement gives outlook, over the river’s turbulent flood, upon the wild snow-covered slopes that surround the mountain fastness of the Queen. In groups about the chamber are scattered Thamar’s women, some close in attendance upon their mistress, others reclining on low cushions, a few watching intently the distant prospect through the open window. Guarding the door, tall henchmen.

A steadfast immobility has transfixed all. So, statuesque, stood the guards and retinue of the Sleeping Beauty. This much the spectator is permitted, at the lifting of the curtain, to apprehend. The stillness is noted, lasting for just that brief but appreciable moment which invests it with significance, and makes dominant that note of phantasy, of unreality, which the opening strains of music sounded. The illusion achieved, the spell of stillness is broken. A woman, one of those whose watchful gaze has been directed through the window, stirs. It is the merest gesture, but a gesture eager, alert: and on the instant, though none other yet moves, the scene becomes instinct with life.

The woman looks again at the distant scene; then turns to another with a whispered word. At the movement heads are turned, figures that seemed indolent lose their sloth. Something is toward; the whispers are pregnant with meaning. Thamar alone, recumbent on her couch, gives no sign of life. One might suppose she slumbered, but for the cat-like swiftness with which, at a word from one of her attendants, she turns towards the window. Half raising herself, as a stalking leopard lifts shoulders and neck to watch its distant prey, she takes a wisp of gauze from her pillow and slowly waves it above her head. A stranger, errant among the lonely mountain sides, has espied the castle, and approaches. Even now he stands below the walls gazing at the fateful casement. Twice and again the seductive signal is repeated. Its purpose then appears to be achieved, for the scarf is dropped and Thamar, springing from the couch, turns to her expectant court.

Orders are issued, but of these there scarce seems need, with such accustomed readiness do the Queen’s minions set about their tasks. Without ado the guards stationed at the doors prepare to sally forth, wrapping themselves in voluminous black cloaks. A subtle touch, those cloaks. They suggest the bleak, inhospitable wilderness without, emphasising the warmth and luxury of the brilliant scene within—an emphasis which is enhanced by the decorative value, considering the scene pictorially, of the black irregular masses which the shrouded high-capped figures present against the general riot of colour. When presently the stranger is led in, likewise cloaked and muffled, that contrast is again insisted upon. The stranger, it is instantly apparent, is travel-weary: one divines the curiosity and wonder with which he finds himself led into an atmosphere of ease and luxury which his tired senses, despite the bandage over his eyes, must gratefully apprehend.

Meanwhile, the Queen has been preparing for the advent of her guest. As the escort departs to bring him in, the women busy themselves with Thamar’s person. Deftly and swiftly she is robed, and ere the door opens to admit the doomed stranger, she is ready and awaiting her prey.

Wonderful mime that she is, I doubt whether Karsavina in any rôle excels her impersonation of the feline Thamar. Her every movement, under its sinuous grace, has that suggestion of stealth which fascinates while it affrights. From the moment that the guileless stranger is brought before her—for there is that in her attitude, as she awaits his coming, which proclaims him not guest, but victim—till the fierce climax, she never relaxes the tension under which his apprehension of her close-pent, volcanic energy places the spectator. It is as though one watched a panther sporting with some innocent creature that mistakes the play for mere kittenish frolic: as beautiful, as horrid, and as certain in its

ending is Thamar’s way with her victim. The final pounce one awaits as inevitable: the interval is filled with the exquisite agony of suspense.

Embodiment of action in arrest is Queen Thamar as, for a brief moment, she regards the figure of the unsuspecting stranger. Then, loosing suddenly her restraint, she springs upon him, and reaching up a slender arm with eager fingers tears the bandage from his face. Fiercely she scans him: he is fair to see. So, too, is Thamar, and if in that swift interchange of searching looks the wild blood courses more hotly through the siren’s veins, be sure that passion scarce a whit less fiery kindles in the youth, so strangely and suddenly confronted by the glowing, sinister beauty of the Queen.

At a sign from Thamar attendants come forward to relieve the stranger of his travelling gear. Disengaging herself from his grasp, the Queen retires to a table at the side, on which stands a wine cup and flagon. From the background she watches avidly while her women are busy. The stranger’s cloak and high-crowned hat are removed, and he stands revealed—handsome, well-favoured, a very proper figure of a man. He gazes about him rapt in admiration and delight, but ere he can espy again the figure of the arch enchantress, a group of dancing girls advances and encircles him. The graceful measures which they tread distract his attention as he stands, pleased and diverted, in their midst.

The bevy of girls gives way to a more potent allurement. Thamar herself, darting forward, now begins a dance of fascination before the stranger’s eager eyes. With her first lithe movements she asserts her mastery over his enraptured senses. As the moth round the flame of the candle, he hovers on the outskirts of her mazy dance, the reviving blood within him gaining warmth as he feasts his quickening senses on her beauty and grace.

As Thamar continues to dance, so increasingly wavers the young man’s hold upon himself. She saps his power of restraint to the very verge; then on a sudden interrupts the dance, and runs to the table. Ere the stranger can collect himself she is before him, offering with regal courtesy a brimming wine cup. He hesitates to drink, but held by the fascination of her eye he suffers her to lead him, unresisting, to the couch. As they gain the steps of the divan a troupe of dancers enters. Musicians, with quaint stringed instruments, are already seated along the walls, and forthwith, a joyous revel is begun.

The lilt of the music, the throbbing rhythm of the dance, complete the spell which Thamar’s beauty has begun. With eyes intent only upon the face of his enchantress, the stranger puts the potion to his lips. As he sets the wine cup down, Thamar eludes the embrace he proffers and glides away. The youth pursues her through the whirling ranks of dancers, but at a sign from Thamar the women take him by the hand and lead him from the chamber. Reluctant to go, he yet submits to be escorted thus, since the purpose is but to attire him more fitly for the night-long revel.

Left alone amidst her court, Thamar draws inspiration for her approaching deeds of lust and violence from the savage frenzy of her followers. Her henchmen crowd around her, goading her willing spirit with the vigour of their dance. Rapidly the frenzy of that dance increases; the armed men draw their daggers, hurling them points downward to the floor in the midst of their whirling evolutions. Thamar, aloof, looks on with heaving breasts. As she watches her excitement grows, till at length with an imperious gesture she bids her attendants bring the stranger in once more. The women fly at her behest, and Thamar, with sudden resolution, masters her outward evidences of passion, and gains the divan just as the stranger, in rich gala attire, is ushered in.

The dance of armed men has ceased, and the entering youth is greeted by a bevy of girls, each with a tabor in her hand, who dance before him, and presently lead him to the royal couch. The youth advances gladly; but Thamar, stealthily immobile, affects to ignore him. Spurred thus to ingratiate himself, the stranger essays a dance before the object of his passion. He is tall, he is shapely, he is active; his leaps and nimble movements display to advantage his virile elegance and grace. Thamar, watching him intently, is swept past all restraint and casts dissimulation aside. Swiftly she darts upon him, and joins him in the dance. The swaying measure which they foot in concert sets their pulses throbbing to the point beyond endurance. As the music swells in volume, the women are caught by the intoxication of the moment, and as the armed men in their turn join the dance, the stranger finds himself supporting the form of Thamar in their midst. The moment of ecstasy, of abandon, is reached. A pregnant pause—then Thamar has flung herself upon the stranger, fastened her lips upon his, and fleeing from the chamber, drawn him in pursuit.

The disappearance of the two protagonists is the signal for resumption of the revels. Violently and yet more violently throbs the music, wilder and yet wilder rages the furious dance. The casement which earlier admitted the sunset rays has long been closed, and one may believe the night to be far spent ere the revels have reached this pitch of bacchic frenzy. The orgy is at its height when the stranger, alone, re-enters the chamber. His breath is laboured, his gait unsteady, as he staggers under the heady influence of overmastering passion. At sight of him the dancers pause, eyeing him askance, curious but aloof. The wretched youth, at grips with his passion, pays no heed to them, but even as he yields and turns again towards the door, the object of his thirsting desire confronts him. The Queen takes him by the hand and fawns upon him, savagely seductive. The youth is wax beneath her fierce caress, and though the watching eyes of all the court are upon him, he can but gaze, spell-bound, upon his Circe.

Thamar, not less than her victim, is in the clutch of over-whelming passion. The hour is at hand, and as the fateful moment approaches, she thrills with fearful expectancy. Bemused, the luckless stranger sees not the dagger which Thamar with stealthy motion of the hand withdraws from her girdle; neither does he note the yawning abyss, revealed through a panel in the wall a watchful guard has rolled noiselessly aside, towards which his unheeding steps are being surely and relentlessly guided. There comes at last the climax. Even as the infatuated youth leans towards her, with a tigerish spring the Queen stabs him to the heart. He is already on the brink of the open precipice; and as he reels backward under the blow, a push from the minion at his elbow sends him hurling to the rushing torrent far below. Thamar with outstretched neck watches, in gloating ecstasy, the consummation of her fell design.

The panel in the wall slides back again. The guards resume their posts of duty. The courtiers, grouped about the chamber, relapse into immobility. The appointed doom is achieved. What was to be, is. Once more the sense of fantastic unreality asserts itself in the spectator’s mind. Mere ghouls, dread phantoms in human form, this dazzling throng of courtiers—not creatures of warm flesh and blood as in the midst of their simulated revelry he had almost deemed them. Thamar alone exhibits emotion. It is not remorse, however, which sets her shivering as with an ague, and turns her knees to water. Reaction must follow action, and the hideous spectre that treads so close upon the heels of indulgence has her in its grip. The hour has passed, the supreme moment has gone; and Thamar, like every true artist, is plunged in depths that are measurable only by the heights she has erstwhile scaled.

The court, regarding her attentive but impassive, is dismissed with a gesture, and the great chamber is cleared of all save Thamar and her women, by whom she is now unrobed. As the festal garments drop from her, the Queen’s exhaustion, physical and mental, seems to verge upon collapse. Slowly she gains the head of her couch, as the arras is drawn from before the window. Night has fled and the purple rays of the dawn pour into the room. The Queen steps into the midst of this luminous flood, drinking deep of the morning glory. Her senses revive, she imbibes new vigour, the black shadows are lifted from her. As presently she lays herself upon the couch, her women sink to rest upon their cushions.

Thus from supreme climax the action of the ballet subsides gradually to statuesque immobility once more. Stillness broods over the quiet figures of Thamar and her women. Realisation comes suddenly to the spectator that the scene is now identical with that which the lifting curtain first disclosed. And at that moment of quick apprehension—a woman stirs! In a flash of inspiration the spectator’s eye, outrunning the action on the stage, foresees the inevitable happening. Is not the whole ghastly round yet fresh and vivid in his mind? The woman looks again, whispers to another. A third bends to the Queen’s ear, and as the curtain slowly descends the treacherous scarf is being once more lightly tossed into the air.

LE CARNAVAL.

Pantomime-Ballet by Michel Fokine.

Music by Robert Schumann,

Orchestrated by Rimsky-Korsakov, Liadov, Glazounov and Tcherepnin.

Scenery and Costumes Designed by Léon Bakst.

“LE CARNAVAL,” which has been built upon Schumann’s well-known music, is a ballet of the type which defies pedestrian description. If one may term “incident” so trifling an affair as, let us say, a butterfly’s flirtation with a flower, then “Le Carnaval” is full of incident. But it has no story, no dramatic development of a plot, to give a theme for narrative. The very characters bear relation to each other only as the personæ of a carnival.

The characters, indeed, are scarcely to be regarded as actual men and women. Harlequin, Columbine, Pierrot and the rest who flit across the scene, are no mere impersonations of those traditional figures of fancy by gay revellers at a bal masqué, but themselves—living embodiments of different phases of irresponsible humanity. The spectator is conscious of an atmosphere of unreality, a sense almost of illusion. On the wings of fancy he is transported far from the realm of adamantine fact, and in a region of pure sentiment sees materialised the whole idea of Carnival.

It is to the appearance of unreality, perhaps, that the ballet owes its peculiar appeal and charm. Elsewhere some explanation has been attempted of the fascination which the puppet exercises on the human mind, and similar comments apply in the present case. For though the figures of “Le Carnaval” are not, as in “Pétrouchka,” poor dolls aping humanity, in essence they are puppets just as much—embodiments in miniature of various human traits at which we can afford to laugh without offended vanity. Watching “Le Carnaval,” indeed, we are verily in puppet-dom; so completely is a severance from matter-of-fact reality achieved.

This note of fantasy is maintained in chief by the exceeding deftness of the performers, and the sensitive lightness of their touch. But not a little is owed to the bold simplicity of Bakst’s décor. There is no scenery; merely an immense green curtain for background, and for furniture a couple of odd little striped sofas. The bareness of the stage, the great height of the curtain behind, have the effect of dwarfing the figures of the dancers; the elimination of all superfluous detail produces a needed concentration of attention on their movements. There being no dramatic action to unfold, sentiment rather than passion—and that of the most artificial kind—being the matter for portrayal, gesture and the dance are here submitted to the severest test as means of expression. Artificiality demands, in representation, the most deft and polished art—of course, of a strictly conventional and academic kind. That formal perfection the Russians achieve in “Le Carnaval”—a perfection so absolute that formality is forgotten, eclipsed in its own apotheosis. So nicely do the performers exploit, while never transgressing, the conventions by which the ballet is conditioned, that for once artifice seems natural, and sentiment as real as passion.

The costumes devised by Bakst are of the Victorian period—crinolines and peg-top trousers, of which the quaint prim style, so far removed from modern tendencies, exactly suits the dainty little puppets that flit magically across the stage. Pierrot, of course, appears as ever in voluminous white clothes, but Columbine and Harlequin, though instantly to be recognised, are dressed a little differently from the mode which the harlequinade, as it used commonly to be presented in this country, has stereotyped. But then, neither Columbine nor Harlequin in “Le Carnaval” are the stilted, meaningless creatures to which the base usage of the English so-called “pantomime” has degraded them. Their true characters are restored: they intrigue the eye as airy figments of irresponsible fancy—she the embodiment of freakish sentiment, he of freakish humour. Columbine is no longer a well-favoured wench attired in a scanty tu-tu, pirouetting with moderate skill upon her toes, but the incarnation of feminine mutability and charm: bespangled Harlequin has lost the silly wand with, which he was wont to slap about him indiscriminately, and has become Arlecchino, the spirit of unbridled mirth and mischief. The dance (in which general term one includes the supplementary art of pantomime) alone perhaps can express these conceptions of modern mythology, and the embodiment, the reality, which Karsavina and Nijinsky give to them is possible only through their perfection in that art. Than Nijinsky’s performance in “Le Carnaval,” no more complete exposition can be imagined of all that the dancer’s art comprises.

Three times have separate couples—fantastic, irresponsible figures—flitted lightly across the stage in arch retreat and gay pursuit, when the curtains at the back are parted and Pierrot’s white face protrudes. Dismally he glances left and right. No one is near, and with every motion of his dejected figure eloquent of suffering, he advances from his hiding-place. A few paces taken, he pauses, the victim not only of misery, but of indecision. Poor

Pierrot, “temperament “ personified, in everything it is all or nothing with him. Just now he finds himself deceived—and his abandonment to grief reaches the utmost limits of despair. He has no longer zest for anything in the world—and his vacillation is equally intense. Why should he go forward—or backward—to left or right? Why stand up—why sit down? Why do anything, be anything? So he stands there, the picture of indetermination, his baggy clothes hanging anyhow about him, his very limbs so loosely jointed that they seem to be without definite control.

Sprightly and agile, extremity of contrast to nerveless, flabby Pierrot, there enters Harlequin. Mischief, all spry and self-contained, is ignorant of pity, and Folly becomes an instant butt for mockery and ridicule. Poor witless Pierrot, defenceless against the shafts of raillery, takes a few wild steps in blundering flight. But even that impulse fails him and he collapses in an inert heap upon the floor. And as he lies there, a huddled heap of misery, there passes before his dismal gaze all the mirth and gaiety in which he cannot pluck up heart, for all his longing, to join. He sees the sentimental pairs go by in elegant procession, each swain intent upon his mistress, and never a look, demure or bold, from bright eyes in his direction: he is witness of the pleasant melancholy of lovelorn youth, seeking and in ecstasy finding the object of its tender passion. He is present unobserved at a declaration of love, and it is this which spurs him at length to a spasmodic effort. For as the amorous pair, the declaration made and enchantingly accepted, trip gaily from the scene, Pierrot, with sudden zeal for emulation, dashes madly after them.

It is but a fitful flash of energy, however, and hardly has another sentimental passage ended betwixt a gallant and his fair, when Pierrot, disconsolate, returns. But even as he slouches mournfully in, he encounters Papillon, whose fluttering butterfly grace fills him with instant rapture. Gloom is banished on the instant: the fickle Pierrot is in a transport of delight. Clumsily he pursues her, hat in hand, seeking like a loutish boy to capture her. But her fluttering steps elude him; she leads him here and there in a dizzy maze and is gone, out of reach, at the very moment when the foolish oaf flings his hat down and thinks to have imprisoned her. With grotesque excess of cunning he lifts the hat’s brim, an eager paw ready to pounce upon the pretty captive. But nothing is there! The idiotic leer fades from his face, his whole figure sags as the momentary zest dies out, and plunged once more in the depths of despondency, he drifts aimlessly away.

The gay and sentimental revelry goes on. Columbine appears, with Harlequin dancing attendance. Hardly have they come upon the scene when they encounter Pantalon—an odd little figure of fun with yellow coat, green gloves, and a preposterous stripe down the length of his trouser. Concealing her roguish escort behind her petticoat, Columbine makes an easy victim of the senile Pantalon, only to hold him up to ridicule when he plunges into fervent protestations. Heartlessly she mocks her unfortunate dupe as, whirled off his feet by the agile Harlequin, he is made to beat an ignominious retreat.

There follows not only an enchanting pas de deux by Columbine and Harlequin, but some delicious pantomime between the two. Harlequin makes as if to lay his heart at Columbine’s feet (he verily seems to pluck it from his bosom and place it before her): she receives the tribute with becoming favour, and retiring to one of the sofas in the background, continues the flirtation. Whilst the pair are still seated, there trip on to the stage some score of couples, and amongst them Pierrot, once more animated, and again seeking vainly to capture Papillon. His new attempt is no more successful than his first, and in the dance to which all abandon themselves he alone is partnerless.

In some degree inspired out of his melancholy, however, Pierrot capers awkwardly amongst the rest, till Harlequin and Columbine spy a chance for further mischief. They join him in the dance, one on either side, and seizing an opportunity when Pantalon, as undeterred by his first rebuff as a moth whose wings are only singed, is hovering near, they throw the two into collision, deftly envelop them with Pierrot’s long sleeves, and secure the grotesque partnership with a hasty knot. As the curtain descends the two victims of their gay malice are seen stumbling in each other’s clutch amidst the mockery of the dancing throng.

CLÉOPÂTRE.

Choreographic Drama in One Act by Michel Fokine.

Music by Arensky, Taneiev, Rimsky-Korsakov, Glinka and Glazounov.

Scenes and Dances by Michel Fokine.

Scenery and Costumes Designed by Léon Bakst.

IT is the supreme merit of “Cléopâtre” that it is of an even and sustained excellence throughout. All concerned in its production and performance have surpassed themselves, but since each has risen equally to the occasion there are no outstanding features to distract the balance of the whole. The result is merely the elevation of the latter to a very high artistic level.

It will be agreed that few subjects more suggestive and inspiring could be found than Cleopatra. For colour, movement and dramatic intensity the legend of the Egyptian queen affords opportunities which have in no wise been allowed to slip. Léon Bakst has done nothing more largely fine than the spacious temple in the desert by the Nile, the deep tawny grandeur of which, broad and simple, provides a proper setting for the splendid, gem-like brilliance of Cleopatra’s train. Here is enacted, against a background of choric dances that have more than a conventional significance, one of those fierce passionate episodes which the Russians so vividly present.

Beyond the tall columns which enclose the sacred precinct we see the desert sand and the waters of the Nile. Hither, as the dusk of an Eastern night is enveloping the scene, comes Ta-hor, a young princess, in quest of her lover Amoûn, to whom she has been promised by the high priest of the temple. She is first at the tryst, but in a moment Amoûn comes leaping to meet her. The bow he carries in his hand seems symbolic of his manly youth and virile strength. The lusty vigour of his agile bounds, the impetuous onrush of his approach to his beloved, are eloquent of his careless abandon to the joy of life and love.

But their tender intercourse is broken by the entry of the high priest, who announces to them the approach of Cleopatra and her train. The great queen is come to accomplish a vow made to the deity of the temple, and already is at hand. Soon the head of the royal procession appears, and to the music of lutes and pipes there files into the precinct a glittering retinue.

Attended by slaves and guarded by soldiers, a large object, having the appearance of a painted sarcophagus, is borne in shoulder high, and set down with ceremony and care upon the temple pavement.

The doors of this strange litter are thrown open, revealing within what seems to be a mummy tightly swathed in voluminous

wraps. Delicately and reverently the muffled figure is lifted forth, and stood endwise upon a pair of raised sandals, or pattens, which have been placed in readiness. The outline of a human figure is faintly perceived under the gauzy wrappings, which slave girls now begin gently to unwind. Twelve veils in all, each of rare colour and design, are thus removed, and as their filmy texture is wafted aside, the contours of a female figure become more plainly discernible.

At last a single blue veil only interposes its thin curtain. The hidden figure, statuesque till now, with a sweeping motion of the hand waves aside the gauzy cloud, and Cleopatra stands revealed in all her dire beauty, her queenly dignity and splendour.

Imperiously she stretches forth a hand. Her negro slave, watchful at her side as any dog, darts forward and stoops to receive the pressure of her palm upon his head. Thus supported she moves slowly to the divan, which assiduous hands have placed in readiness at one side. As she declines upon the cushions, the great fans held above the couch begin rhythmically to oscillate. Slaves and attendants group themselves about her, eager to anticipate her lightest command.

Amoûn, unnoticed in the background, has been observant of all that has passed. Less so Ta-hor, to whose quick feminine intuition the coming of Cleopatra has been a presage of evil. During all that has passed, her eyes have been fastened upon her lover in anxious solicitude; she has noted with a pang of terror the sudden passion with which the dazzling revelation of the awful queen smote him. Vainly she tries to hold him as he now strides forward, and approaches the royal couch.

The angry snarl of her negro slave, who bares his teeth like any cur at the bold intruder, gives warning to the queen of the stranger’s presence. But she makes no sign of cognisance, and ere Amoûn can utter a word, or indeed collect his thoughts out of the stupor into which they have swooned, Ta-hor has seized him and is whispering passionately, insistently in his ear. For an instant the young man is recalled to himself, and suffers his betrothed to lead him away. With eyes that nought escapes, for all that they seem to stare fixedly into space, the sinister queen observes the lovers, and the yielding of Amoûn to Ta-hor’s urgent pleading. But she gives no sign except to bid the ceremonial rites begin.

Ta-hor herself must needs lead the dance which now takes place. Perforce she leaves her lover, and with what heart she can muster enters upon her task. Motionless, prone upon her couch, the glittering queen reposes, and from a distance the fated Amoûn feasts his eyes upon her beauty. An irresistible lure attracts him; ere he knows what he is doing he is pressing eagerly through the maze of dancers towards his doom. His movement is quickly seen by Ta-hor. Again she intervenes, and once more, though this time with reluctance, Amoûn allows himself to be withdrawn. But for all Ta-hor’s devotion his destiny is plain.

The rites proceed, and Ta-hor, with aching heart, must resume her place amongst the dancers. Amoûn, feeding the fires of passion in the shadowy background, is forgotten as the dance goes on its way. Suddenly, on a strident note, an arrow quivers in the ground beside the queen’s divan. The dancers cease abruptly, soldiers dart forward, consternation and amazement seize the whole court. Cleopatra alone remains unmoved. Not a muscle of her body twitches, not a flicker of emotion is discernible in her face. She is inscrutable as fate, and as patient.

In a moment the guards re-enter, bringing with them Amoûn, the tell-tale bow in his hand. He shows no fear, but rather eagerness, as they hale him before the queen, on whom he fixes his fascinated gaze. Already the arrow has been plucked out of the ground, and a message, writ on papyrus, found attached to it. As Cleopatra rises to confront the prisoner, her slave girl reads out the ardent profession of love. Unabashed, Amoûn awaits his answer or his doom.

With secret smile the queen surveys this latest victim of her fatal charms. But here Ta-hor, agonised witness of her lover’s self-destruction, flings herself passionately between them. Cleopatra, unmoved even to disdain, turns aside while Ta-hor strives to regain her hold upon Amoûn. This time her pleading is in vain. The die is cast; Amoûn, no longer master of his own will, has eyes and ears only for the siren to whom his whole being is surrendered. Though Ta-hor clings about his feet, he but tramples her underfoot and presses for sentence from his more than queen.

From under the low brow, the basilisk eyes of Cleopatra fasten on their prey. Narrowly she scans her would-be lover, who meets her gaze frankly and undismayed. He is young, he is brave, he is fair to see. An eternal night of love, says the queen, shall be his, if he choose to take it. This night he shall share her couch; at dawn he must drink oblivion from a poisoned cup. Amoûn hears unflinchingly, unflinchingly accepts.

Slaves busy themselves with preparation of the royal couch. Ta-hor, in a last frenzy of despair, casts herself upon Amoûn. Love gives her strength, and by the sheer fury of her onslaught she bears her lover away from the dreadful presence of the queen. But Amoûn recovers himself, and with equal fury resists the efforts of Ta-hor to drag him from the temple. Against his male strength the utmost force of her weak arms is unavailing; he bursts from their clutch and dashes eagerly forward to where his implacable enchantress awaits him. Ta-hor, the last resource of her devotion spent, creeps forth, broken-hearted, to the desert.

Within the temple music and dance provide voluptuous accompaniment to Amoûn’s dedication—nay, immolation—of himself. The whirling forms of the dancers half conceal him as he yields to the seductive embraces of the queen. Released for the while from their attendance on her person, slave boy and slave girl of Cleopatra celebrate the amorous triumph of their mistress in a dance of wild abandon, which gives place to a bacchanale into which a band of Greek dancers, with attendant satyrs, fling themselves in an orgy of frenzied movement.

The riot of dance and music has risen to a climax, when the tall figure of the high priest approaches Cleopatra’s couch. In his hand he bears a cup, and his gaze is upturned to the stars now

paling before the coming dawn. The appointed hour is nigh. The queen rises, and as her lover, hanging on her every motion, gains his feet, he is confronted by this gaunt minister of fate, death in his outstretched hands. Memory with sudden shock sobers Amoûn’s intoxicated senses. He recalls his doom. For a single moment he hesitates, seeking a ray of hope in Cleopatra’s face. But the queen is adamant, a figure turned to stone. Resolutely the young man receives the cup from the high priest’s hand, but never taking his eyes from his mistress’ face. Resolutely he puts it to his lips, and with his gaze still fixed upon the queen, drains it to the lees.

A spasm contorts the victim’s body. He reels, staggers, and clutching horribly at the empty air, falls writhing at the queen’s feet. The poison is swift, potent; and though the agony seems long-drawn-out and dreadful,

in a few moments only a lifeless corpse remains of what had been so full of vigorous, ardent life. Silently the train of musicians, dancers and the rest look on at this dire climax to the night’s fierce drama.

Motionless above the prostrate body stands Cleopatra, with arms upraised and outward bent palms. Her countenance, inscrutable as ever, betrays no sign of the ecstasy in which her strange being now exults; more eloquent is the tension to which her supple limbs are strung. Some moments thus she remains, then with a gesture summons her slaves, and leaning her weight upon them departs from the temple. Silently her retinue follows, none heeding the body of Amoûn save the high priest, who casts a black cloth over it as he passes.

Empty save for the dark object lying on the pavement, the sacred precinct glimmers in the growing light of dawn. A small figure appears at the back, enters, and looks eagerly around. It is Ta-hor come to seek traces of her lost betrothed. With hurried steps she advances, looking fearfully from side to side. The dark object arrests her eye; she runs forward and stoops above it. She seizes a corner of the cloth, but fears, for an agonising moment of suspense, to lift it. At last she drags it aside, and finds herself peering into the glazed eyes of her beloved. She casts herself down, chafing the limp hands, kissing the still warm lips. But her tender ministrations are in vain. The awful truth flashes blindingly upon her, and she falls, stricken, across the inert body.

LES SYLPHIDES.

Romantic Reverie by Michel Fokine.

Music by Chopin,

Orchestrated by Glazounov, Liadov, Taneiev, Sokolov and Stravinsky.

Scenery and Costumes Designed by Alexandre Benois.

IN some respects the most beautiful, “Les Sylphides” is certainly the most difficult of the ballets to describe. It defies description, in fact. To quote the simple words of the Russians themselves: “Amidst a scene of ruins, a series of classical dances takes place with no purpose but their musical and choreographic interest.” The statement is bald, but accurate. The writer might have expressed himself a little less drily, however; and it may be added here that the choreographic interest of these beautiful dances is of a quality which more than compensates the absence of the dramatic. For once the trite definition of dancing as the poetry of motion acquires a real significance. The music to which these episodes have been set is Chopin’s, and the result is worthy of the inspiration.

The stage setting in which “Les Sylphides” is most familiar is simple enough—a sylvan grove, moonlit, revealing dimly a few fragments of pillars, walls, as it might be, of some ruined temple. The dancers wear the formal garb of the ballet, which may seem not quite in place in so romantic an environment. But the whole affair is frankly artificial; the conventions of the moment accepted, the scene has a charm and fascination of its own which perhaps only a Degas could render. The later scenery which the Russians have employed, though similar in general character, lacks the element of mystery which enhanced the value of the earlier setting as a background to the dances.

In all the troupe of dancers Nijinsky is the only man, and he is seen at first, an appropriate if somewhat effeminate figure with flowing locks and “æsthetic” attire, the centre of a bevy of female figures. The nocturne with which the sequence of musical passages begins is made the excuse for poses, and for the arrangement in harmonious groupings of the whole corps de ballet. It is the preface, as it were, a trifle stilted and formal, to an anthology of lyric verses.

The poetry begins with the valse executed by Karsavina, a glorious expression of abandonment to joy; no intricacy of mincing steps feebly pattering in the music’s wake, but a generous enlargement to the rhythmic influence abroad. More delicate and dainty, a thing of dactyls and trochees, one might say, is the following mazurka by Nijinska, flitting with the lightness of gossamer in and out the scattered groups of white-clad maidens.

A mazurka also is the pas seul upon which Nijinsky in his turn launches himself. Launch is an appropriate word, for there is something suggestive of abandonment to a tumult of waters in the movements of the dancer’s limbs. He seems to cast himself loose upon the music’s tide, which bears him buoyantly, tossed now here, now there, until its ebb. He is the sport and plaything of the flood of melody; dancing not to it, but with it or by it—almost, indeed, on it.

The intoxication of Nijinsky’s solo is succeeded more sedately by new groupings and posings of the corps de ballet, which serve as foil to the graceful movements of Ludmila Schollar. In the valse which follows Karsavina and Nijinsky are seen, if not in a display of such virtuosity as their previous dances have occasioned, in a partnership of conjoint motion most exquisitely attuned to the inspiring and directing strains. The passage includes a brief pas seul by Karsavina, some charming poses, and a concluding duet which is, perhaps, the supreme perfection of the many perfect things the suite of dances has presented.

The end must needs be hastened after such a climax, and the valse brillante performed by the entire troupe of dancers ends the spectacle fittingly upon a lively note. Karsavina, Nijinska, Schollar—all the principals in turn are thrown into relief against the rhythmically moving background of the white-robed Sylphides, among whom, embodiment of a poet’s dream, leaping, swaying, rocking with a vigour no less than a grace of body to the music’s impelling lilt, “papillone le jeune Nijinsky.”

SCHEHERAZADE.

Choreographic Drama by Léon Bakst and Michel Fokine.

Music by Rimsky-Korsakov.

Scenes and Dances by Michel Fokine.

Scenery and Costumes Designed by Léon Bakst.

SENSUOUSNESS is the note of “Scheherazade” throughout—a sensuousness that is next-of-kin to sensuality. It is an unbridled affair altogether, and for this very reason the ballet is among the most completely successful performances which the Russians have given. It contains nothing that strains the limitations of their art, its essential motive is simple, even crude, and the condition necessary to its vitality—that all concerned should let themselves go—has been faithfully observed. Human passions, if sufficiently elementary, being identical in all men, there is a sympathy between the methods by which the various authors of this ballet have treated its twin themes of lust and cruelty which produces an harmonious whole. The music of Rimsky-Korsakov, though not composed for the special purpose, has essential qualities which made easy, and amply justified, the task of adaptation. As an artistic exposition of violence “Scheherazade” is perhaps unique.

The ballet is of the same genre as “Thamar,” with which it has many points of similarity. The latter, however, has the advantage of an elusive charm derived from its legendary basis. One might expect that an excerpt from “The Arabian Nights” would also possess this magic, but “Scheherazade” lacks the indefinable something which “Thamar” has. The distinction, arising out of a difference of treatment, is slight, though real—a mere matter of emphasis, of heaviness of touch. “Scheherazade” is the sheer, brute realism of fact, “Thamar” rather the vivid embodiment of fancy.

Scheherazade, it will be recalled, was the teller of the famous tales which for a thousand and one nights beguiled the moody Sultan Schariar. The action of the ballet which bears her name is derived from the incident which according to tradition led up to the Sultan’s savage determination to slay every morning a wife newly-wed overnight,—a practice only ended by the story-telling art of one of the intended victims. Scheherazade herself does not, therefore, figure in the ballet. The title of Rimsky-Korsakov’s symphonic suite has been borrowed.

Reclining upon a divan in the sybaritic apartments of his women, we see the Sultan Schariar taking his ease. His wife Zobéide is beside him, soliciting attention with caresses which he scarcely deigns to heed. The other women, of lesser estate than the Sultana, are grouped around, sedulous in the flattery of watchful eagerness to forestall their lord’s least wish. At the monarch’s other elbow sits Schah-Zeman, his brother, recipient in only lesser degree of similar ministrations.

But the Sultan Schariar is in gloomy mood; his brow is clouded, and the blandishments of Zobéide elicit no response. Distraction must be sought. Obedient to a summons, the chief eunuch presents himself, profuse of service, officious of advice. Fussily he hastens to execute the commands which he receives, and in response to his signals three odalisques make graceful entry. They dance before the court, now moving swiftly in a lively measure, now posing lithe bodies and entwining arms as only long training in the arts of seduction could teach.

The women of the harem look on jealously, fearing a skill that threatens rivalry with their own. But the Sultan takes little notice of the dancing figures before him, and Zobéide, watchfully intent upon his face, notes with vague premonitory fears his gloom deepening into sullenness. From clouds so heavy lightning may presently flash. Ever and anon the Sultan mutters a secret word into his brother’s ear. They whisper like conspirators.

The dancing girls are presently dismissed, and Schariar rises to pace the floor in moody thought, while the women eye him anxiously askance. Schah-Zeman, too, not without some knowledge of the thoughts which occupy his brother’s mind, keeps watchful eye upon him, and is quick to answer the gesture which soon summons him. Increasing uneasiness runs through the harem, as the royal brothers confer apart, which rises to a climax as the chief eunuch is sent off upon an errand whose purport is not overheard.

But the tension is relieved when the Sultan, with an effort to lighten his brow, turns to Zobéide, and announces his intention of setting forth upon a hunting expedition. Such a plan inevitably implies an absence from the palace, and at the intimation sidelong glances of meaning are covertly exchanged amongst the women. But incipient smiles of anticipatory pleasure are suppressed, and under a mask of disappointment and regret, the harem makes as though to turn its master from his purpose. Is he not their sun? Must the light of his presence be so soon removed, and joy and happiness thereby eclipsed?

Zobéide alone refrains from this cajolery. Flinging herself upon the piled-up cushions, she broods darkly upon this whim her husband so suddenly proposes to indulge. Half hopeful that petulance may succeed where blandishments have failed, she ignores the glances which the Sultan casts towards her. Plainly he is loth to go, but the poison which his brother has instilled works actively within him, and he makes no sign of condescension to her.

Armed retainers enter, attendants bring habiliments of the chase. With these the Sultan is invested by the deft fingers of the women, who make what use they can of such opportunity as this service offers to exercise their fascinations. Schah-Zeman is attended by the eunuchs, who buckle his armour upon him and hand him the long hunting spear. Thus equipped, the Sultan’s brother makes towards the door. Schariar follows him, but pauses to bestow a last curious glance at Zobéide. The latter makes no sign, and the Sultan, brushing aside the last fawning attentions of the women, strides moodily forth. As he passes out of the chamber, Zobéide, repenting of her petulance and simulated coldness, since they seem to have failed in their object, springs quickly from her cushions and hurries after him in a belated effort at detention.

Among the other women, however, no further sign of regret, real or simulated, is to be seen. On all sides faces are wreathed in smiles. Excitement seethes in the harem. The violence of suppression which the presence of their lord demands, on pain of dire and instant punishment, is the measure of the almost childish glee with which, that menace momentarily out of mind, the women fly to the illicit pleasures their appetite for intrigue, unduly nurtured, has devised. On the tiptoe of expectation they scamper one to another, but ever returning to the three doors which stand in the background, hiding one knows not what. Before these mysterious portals the women cluster in chattering groups, while two of their number are sent upon some urgent errand. Anon the latter return dragging with them, in hysterical mirth, the clumsy, grotesque person of the chief eunuch. In the bunch of metal which jingles at the latter’s side are the keys which alone will open

the doors so eagerly besieged, and the women, swarming round him like busy flies, begin at once to pester him, with arch and fawning supplications, to turn them in the locks.

But the old janitor refuses. He pretends amazement—is horrified at the bare idea, and will none of it. The women press coaxingly upon him, lavishing endearments. But of what avail the whole battery of female charms against such as he? With knowing leer upon his unctuous, smooth face, he wags his head and still says them nay. But though he fancies himself immune from women’s wiles, he has reckoned without the full measure of feminine cunning. He has his vulnerable point; whatever else he lacks he has at least male vanity. Is he not chief of the eunuchs? are not the keys he loves to jingle a visible symbol of the power which he wields? Look you, he is a person of no small authority and importance.

With quiet change of tactics the women shift their attack to a different angle. In place of supplication they heap compliments upon him. They slaver him with blandishments, flattering him to the utmost of his bent. The fatuous old fool swallows their fulsome praises with avidity, his flabby cheeks puffed out with complacency and self-conceit. But then the women change their tune. Mockingly one hints that his vaunted power is but a sham; others are quick to press the suggestion home. Plainly it can be no real authority which he is feared to exercise. They challenge him with jeers to prove his power; they dare him to use the keys of which he is so proud.

The poor fool is not proof against this insidious assault. Lacking real respect, he clings fondly to its shadow; rather than sacrifice that his vanity will endure any risk. His fat face, but now wreathed in gratified smiles, grows glum and peevish as praise gives place to irony. He hesitates, and is lost. The women press their advantage, and their victim yields. Determined at all costs to demonstrate his power, he thrusts a key into the first door and petulantly turns it.

The door swings open, and from the corridor behind emerges a band of negroes, supple swarthy minions clad in copper-ornamented robes. With stealthy tread they glide among the waiting women, and quickly each finds a consort, eager for her favourite’s embraces.

Futile the eunuch’s protestations that now he has done enough to vindicate his authority; impatiently the women who remain demand that having done so much he shall complete his work. Already repentant of the rash betrayal of his master’s trust, the wretched janitor would stay his hand, but the mischief is done, and bowing to the logic of his own folly, he unlocks the second door. Forth troops a second band of negroes, decked in ornaments of silver, to be received with not less complaisance than the others.

No longer assailed by the insistent beseechings of his charges, the janitor fearfully surveys the scene. Everywhere, dispersed throughout the chamber, amorous couples meet his eye. With sudden terror in the realisation of the frightful risk he has incurred, he turns to go. At least let him make sure that watch is set for his master’s return. But as he turns he is confronted by the imperious figure of Zobéide, who has been leaning, observant, during all that has passed, beside the third door—the door as yet unopened. Avidly she demands the unlocking of this last, with fierce insistent finger pointing her order.

Here is a pretty dilemma for the luckless janitor, a searching test of his vaunted power and authority. His servile instinct quails before the regal mien of Zobéide, her gesture of command and blazing eyes that brook neither prevarication nor delay. Like the slave that he truly is, he turns to do her behest; but even as he fumbles for the key the enormity of that to which he is accessory

strikes him with horror. The others—that is bad enough, and like to be paid for dearly if discovery—he trembles at the thought—should ensue. But the Sultana, his master’s wedded wife.... Panic seizes him, and with a frantic effort to assert the authority he has boasted, he refuses.

The fires of passion smouldering in the breast of Zobéide leap forth on the instant. A woman scorned or a woman denied—her fury is a thing few men, and least of all an emasculate poltroon, can face. A frightful paroxysm shakes the panting queen. Like a tigress baulked of her prey, she turns upon the grovelling creature who dares to thwart her thus, hardly restrained from flinging herself upon him. To a contest of wills so unequal one ending only is possible. The wretched eunuch cringes before this awful apparition of his royal mistress, all other terrors swamped by the urgency of present fear. The long crescendo of the music rises to a blaring climax as he flings wide the remaining door.

Palpitating with the vehemence of her expectant desires, Zobéide stands before the open portal, clutching her breasts, with eyes glued to the dim recesses beyond. There is a pause, which adds a new delicious torture to her thirsty cravings; then with agile bound, light-footed, there comes leaping towards her a young negro. Round his naked chest he wears a broad, gem-studded band of gold, that enhances the smooth and supple beauty of his dusky arms and neck. Great pearls are pendant from his ears, a golden turban is twisted round his head. His flowing pantaloons cover, but do not hide, despite voluminous folds, his perfect symmetry and grace.

Zobéide feasts her gloating eyes upon her favourite, holding herself back, as children with a box of sweets reserve the most coveted tit-bit to the last. But when he turns towards her she can contain herself no longer. She springs upon him, and clutching his head in both her hands, peers fiercely into his face. The slave, with lascivious grin, submits unresistingly; though he is the queen’s paramour, he is not the less her slave, her chattel. It is she who is the lover, and the slave knows his place. The episode has no savour of romance.

Full length upon the divan Zobéide flings herself, the dusky favourite usurping the place of her rightful lord. The hour for revelry has come, for reckless abandon to the impulse of the moment. Enters a retinue of youths and girls bearing fruits and other dainties upon gorgeous salvers. They pair among themselves, they dance, they bring a riotous infection into the atmosphere of languorous dalliance. The negroes and their fond mistresses are moved to join them, the silver and the copper ornaments gleaming amidst the whirl of multi-coloured draperies, as the fever of the dance increases. Springing from the couch, Zobéide’s favourite precipitates himself into the moving throng. Before his wild élan the utmost efforts of the others pale; with one accord they pause to watch with ecstasy the frenzied leaping of the peerless dancer. From her cushions Zobéide, too, is watching, the fierceness of her momentary restraint giving place of a sudden to an equal fierceness of abandon as she darts upon the object of her desires, and submits herself with him to the music’s intoxicating rhythm.

At length exhausted, they decline once more upon the silken cushions. The slave, emboldened, ventures now upon solicitations. But he is wary in the liberties he takes, fearful lest he go too far ere he has rightly gauged the mood of his imperious mistress. Cunning tells him there is peril in presumption.

One may interrupt the narrative here, perhaps, to comment on the subtlety of Nijinsky’s impersonation of the negro favourite. This is not a rôle in which his distinction as a dancer is revealed to its fullest, but in no other ballet is his genius as a mime more strikingly exhibited. One expects from Nijinsky originality in all

that he attempts, and his conception of Zobéide’s favourite does not disappoint. The part is not one which, upon a first consideration, would seem to demand a very subtle art, but the emphasis, already alluded to, which the actor lays upon the minion’s servile character is only to be conveyed by very delicate shades of suggestion. The essential servility is most convincingly realised, and if Nijinsky’s conception of the part contains (in some eyes) elements of offence, it is at least a logical outcome of the premises from which the ballet starts, and in performance brilliant beyond praise. In Nijinsky’s hands the negro is, indeed, lasciviousness personified. His ingratiating leer, the furtive roll of his eyes, his whole insinuating aspect as he plies his shameful ministrations, impress a vivid picture on the mind. His ready, even eager, submission to the domination of his mistress, his base delight in her favour, wears a horrid air; one feels that in his different way the creature is as little of a man as the poor beardless janitor. He is lust reft of its virtue, and repels, like lechery, even while he attracts.

But the music’s fevered pulse allows no long quiescence. Again the lithe figure, starting abruptly from Zobéide’s side, leaps madly into the dance—a point of focus to which all speedily converge, the centre of a giddy whirlpool into which the amorous pairs, swept from dalliance to their feet as by a surging wave, are irresistibly drawn. Intoxication grows to bacchic frenzy, as the urging music swells to an impending climax. The eye would reel before the blurr of brilliant moving figures but for that clue to the shifty mazy dance which the central figures of the libidinous Sultana and her paramour provide.

Suddenly into the chamber stalks the Sultan. The dancers stop in mid-career. For a moment they stand fascinated by the apparition of this grim figure of vengeance. The Sultan, too, speechless and paralysed with rage, seems rooted to the spot. Then panic seizes the culprits; helter-skelter they flee in abject terror.

Schah-Zeman, cynically smiling to see enacted once again the scene which so lately desecrated his own household, is at his brother’s elbow. Armed men with naked scimitars have invaded the chamber, and with them are others whose dress proclaims them eunuchs of the palace, underlings of the hapless janitor who is now to reap his folly. Women, slaves, young men, are striving pitifully, in the last extremity of terror, to hide themselves behind curtains, in alcoves—anywhere that seems to offer any possibility of concealment. Zobéide, alone of them all, scorns flight. She crouches apart, with heaving bosom, awaiting the anger of her lord. Her villainous paramour, like the slave that he is, has fled for safety.

With lowering glance the Sultan sweeps the scene, and signs furiously to the guards. At once the work of execution begins. Instant slaughter is the doom of all. The eunuchs seize their traitorous chief, and flinging his craven body to the floor, throttle him where he lies. To and fro dash the guards, dragging from vain hiding-places, beneath uplifted weapons, their helpless victims. The floor is strewn with corpses, and in very act of stumbling over such dreadful obstacles, some poor fugitives are caught by ruthless pursuers and put to the avenging sword. Silent, abashed before her husband’s stern gaze, Zobéide cowers amidst all the carnage. A violent tremor shakes her as the cowardly partner of her guilt, vainly seeking to escape his doom, is stabbed in mid-flight and expires convulsively at her feet; but without attempt at exculpation she continues to await her doom.

At length the bloody business is finished; or almost finished, for Zobéide remains. Her the eunuchs and the guards dare not touch without a further sign. Stealthily they advance to where she stands; scimitars are lifted, daggers poised. It needs only the Sultan’s signal for the fatal blow to be struck. But Schariar is torn by a conflict of emotions. Love for the cherished wife of his bosom urges pardon; jealousy, wounded pride, the outrage on his kingly dignity cry vengeance! To the dull minds of his attendants but one issue is possible—were it not for his restraining gesture the keen blades would fall at once.

Then Zobéide, snatching at a last hope, abases herself before her husband. She pleads, she implores, she summons all her wits, her arts, to help her in her dire necessity. Schariar is moved, and as he gazes at the fair form of the woman he has loved so ardently the sternness of his look relaxes. He wavers.

But Zobéide has to reckon with an enemy more dangerous, more implacable than her husband’s wounded pride. Schah-Zeman, self-appointed guardian of his brother’s dignity and honour, observes the scene with undisguised hostility. To him, as to the eunuchs, there appears but one conclusion fit and proper. By no consent of his shall there be any other. Scanning his brother narrowly, he sees the advantage which Zobéide is momentarily gaining. Disgustedly he confronts his brother, and, as Schariar turns his head, with contemptuous foot rolls the dead negro’s carcase on its back. The dusky face leers grinningly upward.

Livid with rage, the Sultan casts his faithless consort from him, and motions impetuously to the armed men. A dozen hands are stretched to seize the victim, but before the threatening blades can fall, Zobéide swiftly turns upon her executioners. Imperiously she waves them back, and snatching a dagger from the nearest hand, plunges it into her side. The thrust is truly aimed, and sinking to the floor before her husband, with a last vain effort to clutch the hem of his robe, she expires at his feet.