I
The dance is life, animal life, having its own way passionately. Part of
that natural madness which men were once wise enough to include in
religion, it began with the worship of the disturbing deities, the gods
of ecstasy, for whom wantonness and wine, and all things in which energy
passes into evident excess, were sacred. From the first it has mimed the
instincts; but we lose ourselves in the boundless bewilderments of its
contradictions.
As the dancers dance, under the changing lights, so human, so remote, so
desirable, so evasive, coming and going to the sound of a thin heady
music which marks the rhythm of their movements like a kind of clinging
drapery, they seem to sum up in themselves the appeal of everything in
the world that is passing and colored and to be enjoyed. Realizing all
humanity to be but a mask of shadows, and this solid world an impromptu
stage as temporary as they, it is with a pathetic desire of some last
illusion, which shall deceive even ourselves, that we are consumed with
this hunger to create, to make something for ourselves, if at least the
same shadowy reality as that about us. The art of the ballet awaits us,
with its shadowy and real life, its power of letting humanity drift into
a rhythm so much of its own, and with ornament so much more generous
than its wont. And, as all this is symbolical, a series of living
symbols, it can but reach the brain through the eyes, in the visual and
imaginative way, so that the ballet concentrates in itself a great deal
of the modern ideal in matters of artistic impression.
I am avid of impressions and sensations; and in the Russian Ballet at
the Coliseum, certainly, there is a new impression of something not
easily to be seen elsewhere. I need not repeat that, in art, rhythm
means everything. And there can be a kind of rhythm even in scenery,
such as one sees on the stage. Convention, even here, as in all plastic
art, is founded on natural truth very closely studied. The rose is first
learned, in every wrinkle of its petals, petal by petal, before that
reality is elaborately departed from, in order that a new, abstract
beauty may be formed out of these outlines, all but those outlines being
left out.
So, in these Russian Ballets, so many of which are founded on ancient
legends, those who dance and mime and gesticulate have at once all that
is humanity and more than is in humanity. And their place there permits
them, without disturbing our critical sense of the probability of
things, to seem to assume a superhuman passion; for, in the Art of the
Ballet, reality must fade into illusion, and then illusion must return
into a kind of unreal reality.
The primitive and myth-making imagination of the Russians shows a
tendency to regard metaphors as real and to share these tendencies with
the savage, that is to say with the savagery that is in them, dependent
as they are on rudimentary emotions. Other races, too long civilized,
have accustomed themselves to the soul, to mystery. Russia, with
centuries of savagery behind it, still feels the earth about its roots,
and the thirst in it of the primitive animal. It has lost none of its
instincts, and it has just discovered the soul. So, in these enigmatical
dancers, the men and the women, who emerge before us, across the flaming
gulf of the footlights, who emerge as they never did in any ballet
created by Wagner, one finds the irresponsibility, the gaiety, the
sombreness, of creatures who exist on the stage for their own pleasure
and for the pleasure of pleasing us, and in them something large and
lyrical, as if the obscure forces of the earth half-awakened had begun
to speak. And these live, perhaps, an exasperated life--the life of the
spirit and of the senses--as no others do; a life to most people
inconceivable; to me, who have traveled in Russia, conceivable.
In what is abstract in Russian music there is human blood. It does not
plead and implore like Wagner's. It is more somber, less carnal, more
feverish, more unsatisfied in the desire of the flesh, more inhuman,
than the ballet music in _Parsifal._ Even in that music, though shafts
of light sometimes pierce the soul like a sword, there is none of the
peace of Bach; it has the unsatisfied desire of a kind of flesh of the
spirit. But in Tchaikovsky's music the violins run up and down the
scales like acrobats; and he can deform the rhythms of nature with the
caprices of half-civilized impulses. In your delight in finding any one
so alive, you are inclined to welcome him without reserve, and to forget
that a man of genius is not necessarily a great artist, and that, if he
is not a great artist, he is not a quite satisfactory man of genius.
When I heard his music in _The Enchanted Princess_ I was struck by the
contrast of this ballet music with the overture to _Francesca da Rimini_
I had heard years before. The red wind of hell, in which the lovers are
afloat, blows and subsides. There is a taste of sulphur in the mouth as
it ends, after the screams and spasms. Scrawls of hell-fire rush across
the violins into a sharpened agony; above all, not Dante's; always
hell-fire, not the souls of unhappy lovers who have loved too well.
Lydia Lopokova is certainly a perfect artist, whose dancing is a delight
to the eyes, as her miming appeals to the senses. She has passion, and
of an excitable kind; in a word, Russian passion. She can be delicious,
malicious, abrupt in certain movements when she walks; she has
daintiness and gaiety; her poses and poises are exquisite; there is an
amazing certainty in everything she does. A creature of sensitive
nerves, in whom the desire of perfection is the same as her desire for
fame, she is on the stage and off the stage essentially the same; and in
her conversations with me I find imagination, an unerring instinct, an
intense thirst for life and for her own art; she has _la joie de vivre._
Her technique, of course, is perfect; and, as in the case of every
artist, it is the result of tireless patience. Technique and the artist:
that is a question of interest to the student of every art. Without
technique, perfect of its kind, no one is worth consideration in any
art. The rope-dancer or the acrobat must be perfect in technique before
he appears on the stage at all; in his case, a lapse from perfection
brings its own penalty, death perhaps; his art begins when his technique
is already perfect. Artists who deal in materials less fragile than
human life should have no less undeviating a sense of responsibility to
themselves and to art. So Ysaye seems to me the type of the artist, not
because he is faultless in technique, but because he begins to create
his art at the point where faultless technique leaves off.
Lubov Tchernicheva is a snake-like creature, beautiful and hieratic,
solemn; and in her aspect, as in her gestures, a kind of Russian
Cleopatra. Swinburne might have sung of her as he sang of the queen who
ruled the world and Antony:--
Her mouth is fragrant as a vine,
A vine with birds in all its boughs;
Serpent and scarab for a sign
Between the beauty of her brows
And the amorous deep lids divine.
And it is a revelation to our jaded imaginations of much less jaded
imaginations. These may be supposed to be characters in themselves of
little interest to the world in general; to have come by strange
accident from the ends of the world. Yet these are thrown into chosen
situations, apprehended in some delicate pauses of life; they have their
moments of passion thrown into relief in an exquisite way. To
discriminate them we need a cobweb of illusions, double and treble
reflections of the mind upon itself, with the artificial light of the
stage cast over them and, as it were, constructed and broken over this
or that chosen situation--on how fine a needle's point that little world
of passion is balanced!