THE RUSSIAN BALLET
[Illustration]
THE RUSSIAN
BALLET
BY A. E. JOHNSON WITH
ILLUSTRATIONS BY RENÉ
BULL
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON & NEW YORK 1913
_Printed in England._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
PÉTROUCHKA 13
THAMAR 35
LE CARNAVAL 51
CLÉOPÂTRE 63
LES SYLPHIDES 77
SCHEHERAZADE 85
LE SPECTRE DE LA ROSE 105
NARCISSE 115
L’OISEAU DE FEU 127
LE PAVILLON D’ARMIDE 145
PRINCE IGOR (POLOVTSIAN DANCES) 153
LE DIEU BLEU 163
PRELUDE À L’APRÈS-MIDI D’UN FAUNE 179
JEUX 189
LE SACRE DU PRINTEMPS 199
LA TRAGÉDIE DE SALOME 213
LE LAC DES CYGNES 223
ANNA PAVLOVA 235
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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
“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
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THAMAR.
CHOREOGRAPHIC DRAMA BY LÉON BAKST
MUSIC BY BALAKIREV.
SCENES AND DANCES BY MICHEL FOKINE.
SCENERY AND COSTUMES DESIGNED BY LÉON BAKST.