OF THE BALLET DANCED BY THE SERVANTS OF VENUS
After the fruits and fresh wines had been brought in by a troop of
woodland creatures, decked with green leaves and all sorts of Spring
flowers, the candles in the orchestra were lit, and in another moment
the musicians bustled into their places. The wonderful Titurel de
Schentefleur was the chef d'orchestre, and the most insidious of
conductors. His baton dived into a phrase and brought out the most
magical and magnificent things, and seemed rather to play every
instrument than to lead it. He could add a grace even to Scarlatti
and a wonder to Beethoven. A delicate, thin, little man with thick
lips and a nez retroussé, with long black hair and curled moustache,
in the manner of Molière. What were his amatory tastes, no one in the
Venusberg could tell. He generally passed for a virgin, and Cathos had
nicknamed him "The Solitaire."
To-night he appeared in a court suit of white silk, brilliant with
decorations. His hair was curled into resplendent ringlets that
trembled like springs at the merest gesture of his arm, and in his ears
swung the diamonds given him by Venus.
The orchestra was, as usual, in its uniform of red vest and breeches
trimmed with gold lace, white stockings and red shoes. Titurel had
written a ballet for the evening's divertissement, founded upon De
Bergerac's comedy of "Les Bacchanales de Fanfreluche," in which the
action and dances were designed by him as well as the music.
I
The curtain rose upon a scene of rare beauty, a remote Arcadian valley,
and watered with a dear river as fresh and pastoral as a perfect fifth
of this scrap of Tempe. It was early morning, and the re-arisen sun,
like the prince in the "Sleeping Beauty," woke all the earth with
his lips. In that golden embrace the night dews were caught up and
made splendid, the trees were awakened from their obscure dreams, the
slumber of the birds was broken, and all the flowers of the valley
rejoiced, forgetting their fear of the darkness.
Suddenly, to the music of pipe and horn, a troop of satyrs stepped out
from the recesses of the woods, bearing in their hands nuts and green
boughs and flowers and roots and whatsoever the forest yielded, to heap
upon the altar of the mysterious Pan that stood in the middle of the
stage; and from the hills came down the shepherds and shepherdesses,
leading their flocks and carrying garlands upon their crooks. Then a
rustic priest, white-robed and venerable, came slowly across the valley
followed by a choir of radiant children.
The scene was admirably stage-managed, and nothing could have been more
varied yet harmonious than this Arcadian group. The service was quaint
and simple, but with sufficient ritual to give the corps-de-ballet an
opportunity of showing its dainty skill. The dancing of the satyrs was
received with huge favour, and when the priest raised his hand in final
blessing, the whole troop of worshippers made such an intricate and
elegant exit that it was generally agreed that Titurel had never before
shown so fine an invention.
Scarcely had the stage been empty for a moment, when Sporion entered,
followed by a brilliant rout of dandies and smart women. Sporion was a
tall, slim, depraved young man with a slight stoop, a troubled walk, an
oval impassable face, with its olive skin drawn tightly over the bone,
strong scarlet lips, long Japanese eyes, and a great gilt toupet. Round
his shoulders hung a high-collared satin cape of salmon pink, with long
black ribands untied and floating about his body. His coat of sea-green
spotted muslin was caught in at the waist by a scarlet sash with
scalloped edges, and frilled out over the hips for about six inches.
His trousers, loose and wrinkled, reached to the end of the calf, and
were brocaded down the sides, and ruched magnificently at the ankles.
The stockings were of white kid, with stalls for the toes, and had
delicate red sandals strapped over them. But his little hands, peeping
out from their frills, seemed quite the most insinuating things, such
supple fingers tapering to the point, with tiny nails stained pink,
such unquenchable palms, lined and mounted like Lord Fanny's in "Love
at all Hazards," and such blue-veined, hairless backs! In his left hand
he carried a small lace handkerchief broidered with a coronet.
As for his friends and followers they made the most superb and insolent
crowd imaginable, but to catalogue the clothes they had on would
require a chapter as long as the famous tenth in Pénillière's history
of underlinen. On the whole they looked a very distinguished chorus.
Sporion stepped forward and explained with swift and various gesture
that he and his friends were tired of the amusements, wearied with the
poor pleasures offered by the civil world, and had invaded the Arcadian
valley hoping to experience a new frisson in the destruction of some
shepherd's or some satyr's naïveté, and the infusion of their venom
among the dwellers of the woods.
The chorus assented with languid but expressive movements.
Curious, and not a little frightened, at the arrival of the worldly
company, the sylvans began to peep nervously at those subtle souls
through the branches of the trees, and one or two fauns and a shepherd
or so crept out warily. Sporion and all the ladies and gentlemen made
enticing sounds and invited the rustic creatures with all the grace in
the world to come and join them. By little batches they came, lured by
the strange looks, by the scents and the doings, and by the brilliant
clothes, and some ventured quite near, timorously fingering the
delicious textures of the stuffs. Then Sporion and each of his friends
took a satyr or a shepherd or something by the hand, and made the
preliminary steps of a courtly measure, for which the most admirable
combinations had been invented, and the most charming music written.
The pastoral folk were entirely bewildered when they saw such
restrained and graceful movements, and made the most grotesque and
futile efforts to imitate them.
Dio mio, a pretty sight! A charming effect too was obtained by the
intermixture of stockinged calf and hairy leg, of rich brocaded bodice
and plain blouse, of tortured head-dress and loose untutored locks.
When the dance was ended, the servants of Sporion brought on champagne,
and, with many pirouettes, poured it magnificently into slender
glasses, and tripped about plying those Arcadian mouths that had never
before tasted such a royal drink.
* * * * * * *
Then the curtain fell with a pudic rapidity.
II
'Twas not long before the invaders began to enjoy the first fruits
of their expedition, plucking them in the most seductive manner with
their smooth fingers, and feasting lip and tongue and tooth, whilst
the shepherds and satyrs and shepherdesses fairly gasped under the
new joys, for the pleasure they experienced was almost too keen and
too profound for their simple and untilled natures. Fanfreluche and
the rest of the rips and ladies tingled with excitement and frolicked
like young lambs in a fresh meadow. Again and again the wine was
danced round, and the valley grew as busy as a market day. Attracted
by the noise and merrymaking, all those sweet infants I told you of,
skipped suddenly on to the stage, and began clapping their hands and
laughing immoderately at the passion and the disorder and commotion,
and mimicking the nervous staccato movements they saw in their pretty
childish way.
In a flash, Fanfreluche disentangled himself and sprang to his feet,
gesticulating as if he would say, "Ah, the little dears!" "Ah, the
rorty little things!" "Ah, the little ducks!" for he was so fond of
children. Scarcely had he caught one by the thigh than a quick rush was
made by everybody for the succulent limbs; and how they tousled them
and mousled them! The children cried out, I can tell you. Of course
there were not enough for everybody, so some had to share, and some had
simply to go on with what they were doing before.
I must not, by the way, forget to mention the independent attitude
taken by six or seven of the party, who sat and stood about with
half-closed eyes, inflated nostrils, clenched teeth, and painful,
parted lips, behaving like the Duc de Broglio when he watched the
amours of the Regent d'Orléans.
Now as Fanfreluche and his friends began to grow tired and exhausted
with the new debauch, they cared no longer to take the initiative,
but, relaxing every muscle, abandoned themselves to passive joys,
yielding utterly to the ardent embraces of the intoxicated satyrs, who
waxed fast and furious, and seemed as if they would never come to the
end of their strength. Full of the new tricks they had learnt that
morning, they played them passionately and roughly, making havoc of
the cultured flesh, and tearing the splendid frocks and dresses into
ribands. Duchesses and Maréchales, Marquises and Princesses, Dukes
and Marshalls, Marquesses and Princes, were ravished and stretched
and rumpled and crushed beneath the interminable vigour and hairy
breasts of the inflamed woodlanders. They bit at the white thighs and
nozzled wildly in the crevices. They sat astride the women's chests
and consummated frantically with their bosoms; they caught their prey
by the hips and held it over their heads, irrumating with prodigious
gusto. It was the triumph of the valley.
High up in the heavens the sun had mounted and filled all the air
with generous warmth, whilst shadows grew shorter and sharper. Little
light-winged papillons flitted across the stage, the bees made music
on their flowery way, the birds were very gay and kept up a jargoning
and refraining, the lambs were bleating upon the hill side, and the
orchestra kept playing, playing the uncanny tunes of Titurel.