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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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
[Illustration] 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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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,
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
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.”
[Illustration]
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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
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.