creatures hasten to their lairs, and a band of Bœotian peasants gaily
troops on to the scene. Two and two, in merry pairs, young men and
maidens enter. All are in holiday attire, come to do honour to the
deities of woods and fields. They make procession round about the mossy
dell, they dance, and offer supplications to the gods. These duties
over, they disperse. Some fling themselves upon the ground to rest,
others gather round the pool, and laughingly splash the water about. The
joyous spirit of holiday animates them all.
There come others presently to the grove--a number of bacchantes who are
celebrating the goddess of the shrine. For these the peasants form
respectful audience while the due rites and ceremonies are observed.
Libations are poured, dances are performed. First the leader of the
bacchantes executes a solemn dance, which concludes with a prostration
before the shrine. Her companions then join her, the bacchic frenzy
begins to work, and a dance of wild energy ensues, which is not
concluded until a climax of intoxication is reached and the dancers,
from ecstasy or exhaustion, collapse.
While the bacchantes still lie prone a sound of distant singing is
heard. The voices draw nearer, the listeners in the dell turn their
heads expectantly. In another moment there enters running, gracefully
eluding the efforts to stay him of two pursuing nymphs, a young
shepherd. It is Narcissus--Narcissus the fair and cold: Narcissus of
whose beauty all are enamoured, but whom no dart of the blind god has
yet pierced.
[Illustration]
Careless of his charms, and of the tender woes which he inflicts,
Narcissus is in merry mood. He dances joyously while not only the two
pursuing nymphs, but every maiden present, hangs in adoration on his
every movement. Narcissus has no eyes for them, no thought of anything
but delight in his own fair limbs and the joy of movement. He is a young
man exulting in his grace and strength, with not a sentiment to dull the
keen edge of sheer enjoyment of the act of living.
But even while Narcissus is thus dancing in self-centred abstraction, a
female form, raven-haired and wrapped in a purple robe, is seen
advancing slowly across the bridge which spans the background. It is
Echo, mournful and lonely. Elusively she approaches, appearing now here,
now there, before at length advancing into the midst of the youths and
maidens. She prostrates herself imploringly before Narcissus. She too is
enamoured of the lovely youth.
Narcissus pauses in his dance, and looks inquiringly at the pleading
figure at his feet. For once his attention is distracted from himself.
He stoops and raises the drooping Echo, gazing into her face. She
returns look for look. The interest of Narcissus is aroused: he
continues to forget himself, as Echo stimulates his curiosity. He takes
pleasure in her, perhaps because in the ardent gaze which she fixes upon
him he finds himself reflected.
But the watching nymphs are quickly roused to jealousy. Though Echo
seeks to hold him, they tear Narcissus from his new-found pleasure.
Derisively they declare that Echo’s love is but a mockery. Incapable of
expressing any feeling of her own, she can but repeat the last words and
gestures of those who choose to challenge her. Narcissus listens,
astonished at so strange a tale. The nymphs, with jealous malice, urge
him to test the truth of what they say. Nothing loth, Narcissus advances
towards the sorrowful Echo. He dances a few gay steps, and pauses.
Falteringly poor Echo repeats the last of them. Again Narcissus dances:
again, on the instant that he pauses, the luckless nymph is constrained
to imitate his final movements. Narcissus tries her with gestures--and
unfailingly he sees, each time he pauses, his last motions repeated
before his eyes.
It is true, then--this odd circumstance which the other nymphs related!
Much amused, Narcissus breaks into a gleeful dance, and with all the
heartless merriment of a wanton boy, indulges the whim of the moment. As
he foots it round the hapless Echo he puts her, with unthinking cruelty,
to every test
[Illustration]
that his nimble wit can devise. In mute agony Echo responds to his
pranks. Does he interrupt the dance to pause before her on tip-toes? She
too, must raise herself into that attitude. Does he wave his arms around
his head? She must copy the very gesture. So the cruel play goes on
until at length Narcissus, wearying of the jest, merrily dances away in
quest of some new sport. With him trip the eager nymphs. The peasant
youths and maidens follow, and Echo is left to indulge her despair in
solitude.
Unhappy Echo! Better to be dumb than condemned in this fashion to play
the empty mime, a sport for idle moments. In gloomy abandonment to grief
the hapless nymph unbraids her hair. The long black tresses fall about
her shoulders, and thus, distraught in spirit, disordered in her looks,
she flings herself in abasement before the shrine of the goddess. The
mockery of her companions still rings in her ears, and in the first fury
of a woman slighted she calls upon the deity to avenge her wounded
pride. From the depths of her tortured soul she prays that Narcissus may
learn something of the agony to which she is doomed, by giving his love
where it can never be returned. The sacred grove darkens, the lightning
flashes, and Echo, the bitterness with which her heart is overburdened
thus discharged, goes mournfully forth.
The light returns, the cool recesses of the leafy glade invite
retirement from the heat of afternoon. Narcissus, weary of his sportive
play, returns alone to rest his tired limbs. He is thirsty, and the
shining surface of the pool is grateful to his eye. He approaches,
stretches his limbs in lassitude upon the sloping bank, and stoops to
drink.
But his lips do not touch the water. He remains poised above the glassy
surface, staring intently downwards. Out of the limpid depth he sees
regarding him a fair and radiant face. Narcissus had never thought that
such beauty existed on earth. He cannot remove his eyes, he is
entranced. He raises his head--the beautiful image retreats. He
stoops--and it comes nearer. He stoops lower--he would kiss the vision.
But at the very moment when his lips meet those others, a ripple breaks
across the still surface of the pool, the image is distorted, almost
vanishes.
The prayer of Echo has been answered. The doom of Narcissus has been
pronounced, and he loves where his love can never be returned. He
scrambles to his knees, he stands erect. Out of the again placid mirror
of the pool his own image smiles upward at him. He makes passionate
protestations of love: his image answers him gesture for gesture. He
seeks to fascinate by his grace and beauty: grace and beauty not less
than his fascinate him in turn. Yet the vision, to his dismay, remains
remote. It will not come to him, and though when he seeks to approach,
it draws near in welcome, the moment of union brings catastrophe.
While the infatuated youth is thus occupied, Echo returns. Her mood of
bitterness has passed, and at sight of the object of her passion all her
love wells up anew. Pleading once more, she runs towards him with
outstretched hands. But Narcissus pays her no heed. He has eyes only for
the watery depths below him, and Echo’s distracted appeal falls
unregarded on deaf ears.
Willingly would Echo now recall her prayer to the goddess. But wishes
are in vain, and vain her efforts to distract Narcissus from his fate.
Once she succeeds in drawing him, reluctant, from the margin of the
pool, but the youth seems scarce aware of her existence. Too evidently
preoccupied to listen to her pleadings, he is back at the water’s edge,
rapturously gazing, as soon as her hold upon him is released. Inexorably
it is borne in on Echo that fate is too strong for her. Sorrowfully she
turns and goes.
[Illustration]
Alone in the gathering gloom, Narcissus continues in rapt adoration of
his own fair image. As presently appears, he is rooted, literally, to
the spot. For as he stands there gazing he slowly sinks downward into
the mossy soil, and in his place there rises a tall narcissus flower,
whose pale petals glimmer luminously in the dusky twilight. From nooks
and crannies the sylvan sprites creep silently forth, to pry with timid,
curious eyes upon this strange apparition. Upon this ghostly scene, and
the forlorn figure of Echo, passing sadly across the leafy bridge, the
curtain gently descends.
One regrets to end this account of what is in many ways a charming
ballet upon an adverse note. But a protest _must_ be entered against the
Brobdingnagian flower, so evidently a thing of paint and paste-board,
which is thrust up from the trap-door cavity by which Narcissus makes
his escape. The whole business is so monstrously crude and childish that
one can scarcely credit its occurrence. In conception the conclusion of
the ballet is admirable, but if trap-doors and cardboard flowers
(popping up from the soil in full bloom and fresh with the property
master’s paint) are the only means by which such an ending can be
accomplished, it seems amazing that such ordinarily nice taste as the
Russians display should tolerate these enormities. There is a sense of
proportion lacking here, as at the opening of the ballet when a clumsy
heaviness of hand, seeking to make the most of the elfin creatures of
the wood, effectually reduces them to nothing. The poignant final
passage between Echo and Narcissus, eloquently expressed by Karsavina
and Nijinsky, is spoilt by this grotesque termination.
Happily these blunders are as rare as they are inexplicable. Only
perhaps in “Le Dieu Bleu,” with its similar resort to the artifice of
the trap-door, its matter-of-fact demons, and impossible flight of
aerial steps, is there a parallel to these which mar the beauties of
“Narcisse.” Too close an attention to the cult of the body is perhaps
the cause of this material, ultra-realistic touch.
“Narcisse” would be best appreciated if one could ignore its blemishes
and enjoy its many excellences individually. The dresses of bacchantes,
nymphs and peasants embody some of Bakst’s most splendid designs, but
these are seen to better advantage in the artist’s original drawings
than on the figures of the wearers in the ballet. (This is the case, of
course, with all Bakst’s decorations--not excepting scenery, which
necessarily loses much in execution from the original scheme--but is
especially applicable to those of “Narcisse.”) The music of Tcherepnin
has a charm and distinction which would lose nothing by an isolated
hearing, while the joyous dancing of Nijinsky is independent of the
environment in which it takes place. Possessed of many charming
features, “Narcisse” yet lacks a something to make it, as a whole,
convincing. The deficiency, one must suppose, is a lack of real sympathy
with their subject on the part of the performers.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
L’OISEAU DE FEU.
BALLET IN TWO TABLEAUX BY MICHEL FOKINE.
MUSIC BY IGOR STRAVINSKY.
SCENERY AND COSTUMES DESIGNED BY GOLOVINE.
An element of unreality is of advantage in the theme of a ballet. It not
only excuses, but demands, the fantastic, for which the means of
expression at disposal--pantomimic action, illustrative or suggestive
music, for example--provide a suitable vehicle. It eases matters all
round, and converts what are obstacles to the convincing treatment of a
strictly realistic theme into positive aids.
It may be noted that this element of unreality, in varying qualities and
degrees, is present in nearly all the themes which the Russians have
chosen for presentation, and is most pronounced in those ballets which
achieve the greatest artistic effect. Indeed, these dancers and mimes
may be observed to introduce a suggestion of the fantastic,
subconsciously if not deliberately, even where such is not necessarily
required, seeming thereby to recognise tacitly the useful modification
of the restrictions of their art which a remoteness from literal fact
effects. “Le Carnaval” would not be the exquisite thing it is but for
the impersonal, fantastic character with which the gay, flitting figures
of the _bal masqué_ are so delicately endowed. Even when historical
tradition is drawn upon, as in “Cléopâtre,” the episode is treated with
an imaginative licence which removes it very nearly into the region of
fancy.
The plot of “L’Oiseau de Feu” is based upon a folk tale. At least, if
precisely such a story is not to be found in any known folklore, it is
obvious whence its inventor has derived inspiration. To watch a
performance of this ballet is to see one of Grimm’s Tales come to life
before one’s eyes--an experience as agreeably thrilling in these later
(but let us hope not entirely sophisticated) years, as was formerly a
perusal of pages in that immortal book. In some respects, perhaps, it is
an experience _more_ thrilling, for the story of the Fire Bird has the
advantage of being unfolded to the accompaniment of Stravinsky’s
music--an enhancement of its dramatic value which it would be difficult
to over-rate. Stravinsky’s orchestral methods, it may be remarked in
passing, have a special interest of their own, but it is enough here to
comment on the descriptive quality of his music for this ballet, which
is great.
The fantastic note is sounded at the very outset by the overture.
Strange mutterings and uncouth, unexpected harmonies attune the hearer
to an atmosphere of mystery and enchantment; he is ripe, when at length
the curtain rises, for adventure in the gloomy forest whose midnight
depths are disclosed. For the moment the eye takes in but little detail
of the darkened stage. Gradually an open space within the forest depths
is perceived, at the back of which stand high gates, giving upon a
flight of stone steps. Whither the steps lead, what lies beyond, is
hidden by the gloomy shadows. No friendly lamp surmounts the gates to
light and welcome the belated traveller. If not the disused portals of
some derelict demesne swallowed up by the encroaching forest, they must
surely guard the secret lair of sorcerer or ogre. Dimly the wall in
which the gates are set can be descried, but nothing else is visible
save a low tree upon which a pale moonbeam falls slantingly.
Nought is stirring in the forest, but the midnight stillness is pregnant
with mystery. Magic influences are abroad, there is a sense of something
untoward about to happen. Suddenly a queer little _motif_, already heard
in the overture, assails the ear; the music glows (if the image be
allowed) like an ember fanned; and shedding a golden effulgence all
around, the Fire Bird floats downward through the trees. The radiant
object vanishes almost as soon as it is seen; but hardly has it gone
when a stir among the trees attracts attention, and a young man is seen
looking over a low wall that adjoins the mysterious gates. He peers
eagerly in the direction taken by the Fire Bird, then vaults the wall
and dashes impetuously in pursuit. Such wondrous quarry was never seen
before by mortal hunter, and lured by its splendour Ivan Tsarevitch has
ventured far from beaten tracks, heedless in his infatuated quest of the
danger into which his careless steps have strayed.
But as he dashes across the clearing he is arrested by a faint gleam of
something in the moonlight. Wonder fills him as he sees that the tree,
which alone of all surrounding objects is illumined, bears golden fruit.
He is about to satisfy his curiosity by a closer inspection, when again
there is warning of the Fire Bird’s approach.
Quickly Ivan takes refuge beneath the clustered branches of the tree,
and from this place of concealment spies upon the glittering apparition
of the Bird of Fire. Unwitting of his near proximity the latter
disports itself gleefully in the open clearing. Twice it approaches the
tree, as if to seize the golden fruit, and each time Ivan, for all his
daring, is powerless to make the longed-for capture. The brilliant light
which emanates from the radiant creature dazzles and perplexes him. But
once more the Fire Bird nears the tree, and this time Ivan, with a
sudden impulse, springs forward and boldly seizes the coveted quarry.
There follows a passage between captive and captor, which can scarcely
be described as a dance, yet is something more than the mere acting of a
scene. Desperately and repeatedly the Fire Bird strives to escape from
the strong arms which imprison it; again and again the Prince, though
hard put to it to retain the elusive creature in his grasp, frustrates
these fluttering efforts. Though dancing, in the sense of rhythmic
movement, is not the precise descriptive term for these expressive
postures and motions, one needs it to convey the poetic sense of beauty
which Karsavina here reveals. It is no easy thing to suggest the panic
fears, the tremulous attempts at flight of a captured wild bird; yet by
look, by pose, above all by gesture and the motion of quivering,
restless arms and hands, the dancer subtly achieves that difficult
effect.
Frantically the Fire Bird struggles to escape; determinedly, at each new
effort, the strong arms renew their hold. Then the creature has resort
to guile, luring its captor to look full upon its dazzling countenance.
The ruse is nearly successful; half-blinded by his captive’s beauty the
Prince’s grip relaxes, but he doggedly keeps his advantage and release
is still denied.
A ransom only will suffice. With sudden gesture the Fire Bird plucks a
gleaming feather from its body and holds it forth--a talisman against
evil, and pledge of its owner’s aid in hour of need. The Prince,
abashed, accepts it, and as he places it for
[Illustration]
safety in his girdle, the Fire Bird, rejoicing with agile dance in its
regained freedom, vanishes into the recesses of the forest. As it flits
away a momentary compunction pricks the young man. That such a wondrous
quarry should elude him irks his hunter’s pride, and he snatches up his
cross bow with intent to shoot. But even as he draws the string he calls
to mind the compact made, and remembers that he is bound in honour to
abstain from new aggression. With petulant gesture he lowers the weapon
from his shoulder, and turns to go.
The darkness which has shrouded the forest depths is fading now. Through
the no longer impenetrable gloom a sloping bank is seen, to which the
steps behind the closed gates give access. Athwart this bank is now
discernible a castle tower, and through the archway of this, even as the
Prince, with astonished gaze, is wondering whither he should turn his
steps, a young girl suddenly appears. She pauses silently for a moment,
then slowly advances along the bank. Other maidens emerge behind her
from the tower. Flesh and blood, and very fair to look upon, they seem,
but in their long white gowns, so suddenly and strangely appearing, they
have an almost spectral aspect, and the young man, caution prompting,
hastily seeks a hiding-place from which he can watch unobserved.
One by one the maidens, in number twelve, gather upon the bank. The
gates fly open at their approach, and with girlish glee they trip forth
into the forest clearing. A moment later, hurrying to join her
companions, yet another damsel appears, whose mien and richer attire
seem to indicate a lofty rank. She hastens to the magic tree and gently
shakes its bough. Down falls a shower of gleaming fruit, to the delight
of the expectant maidens, who nimbly pursue, helter-skelter, the golden
apples as they roll.
[Illustration]
Sportively they dance and toss the apples to and fro, innocently
enjoying their hour of liberty, and unaware that any stranger’s eye
observes them. But Ivan, in his place of concealment, finds his
curiosity irresistible. Bursting impetuously forth, he appears before
the frolicsome, now startled, group. In dismay, the maidens drop their
playthings and flee in apprehension before the bold intrusion. Ivan
doffs his cap, and with a courtly salutation seeks to allay their fears.
Observing an apple that has rolled to his feet, he picks it up, and with
outstretched hand proffers it gently to the leader of the timid band.
She takes it shyly, obviously not insensible to the grace and handsome
bearing of the stranger; but upon Ivan seeking to improve this advantage
by a nearer approach, all fly from him in fresh alarm. Again he does
them reverence, endeavouring by his attitudes to reassure them, and
presently has the gratification of seeing their confidence return.
The prince-errant discovers now his whereabouts, and the strange peril
of his situation. He is before the castle, it seems, of Kostchei
Live-for-Ever, an ogre of monstrous villainy, who loves to practise
sorcery on such benighted travellers as may chance to ask his
hospitality. Some he bewitches and keeps immured within his dreadful
asylum: others he petrifies--as the stone figures looming in the
background bear grimly silent testimony. His fair companions, Ivan
learns further, are a luckless princess and her attendants, who have
fallen under the ogre’s spell, and though escaping malformation at his
evil hands, remain prisoners pent within his domain. A brief hour of
release nightly is all their respite--and already the moment is at hand
when they must retire into the enchanted castle.
Already between the gallant prince and the lovely Tsarevna tender looks
have been exchanged, and there follows a charming love passage between
the two. The chivalrous constraint of the ardent youth, the shy modesty
of the not less ardent maiden, and the climax of mutual surrender are
romantically portrayed in expressive pantomime.
[Illustration]
But the ecstasy to which the lovers, all intervening barriers broken
down, at last commit themselves is quickly interrupted. Warning sounds
are heard, and though for these the enraptured pair have at first no
ears, the attendants of the Princess are driven by fear to call
attention to them. Hurriedly the maidens pass through the magic gates,
the beautiful Tsarevna lingering for a last embrace. With difficulty she
tears herself from her lover’s imploring arms, and slips through the
already moving gates, only in the nick of time. Impetuously Ivan darts
forward, but the gates clang to in his face. Within, at the threshold of
the dark tower, which is to swallow her up, he has a glimpse of the
Princess’ last fluttering signal of farewell.
[Illustration]
It is light now. All around is plainly visible the fantastic foliage of
the enchanted forest. The stone images of hapless predecessors, who
perchance once found themselves in similar plight, are close at hand.
Prudence dictates an instant flight from the horrid spot. But the young
man is frantic. Warnings are forgotten, caution is ignored. With bold
determination he seizes the iron gates, and shakes them violently. They
yield to his wrench and fly suddenly open.
On the instant there is a loud clanging of bells, discordant music peals
through the air, and forth from the gloomy tower there rushes a
terrifying crowd of extraordinary persons--terrifying alike for the
suddenness of their appearance, the swift fierceness of their irruption,
and the strangeness of their aspect. A horde of savage Indians, leaping
wildly down the sloping bank, has pounced upon the wretched Ivan and
borne him to the ground, even while he recoils before the staggering
result of his temerity. Close upon their heels follow Turks and
Chinamen, clowns and dancers--an odd medley of grotesque figures garbed
in a glittering array of fantastic dresses. Some bear arms--lances,
swords, shields and poniards; others are studded with flashing gems; all
comport themselves in some freakish manner, which inspires horror even
while it moves to mirth. Here is a comic pair who advance with a kind of
jog-trot dance; there waddle a number of wretched creatures with bent,
distorted legs. No monarch of bedlam was ever surrounded by so wild,
incredible a court.