few brief moments the gloomy forest clearing, now brilliantly illumined,
is filled with this astonishing rout. On the steps behind the gates,
too, and upon the sloping bank to which they lead, the fantastic
assembly is massed. At one side, guarded by his strange captors, and
overwhelmed by the unexpected turn of events, the rash Prince regards
the scene in stupefied amazement.
The riot of senseless movement which the crowd of figures has maintained
continuously from the moment of entry ceases suddenly, and those lining
the bank above the clearing suddenly prostrate themselves. In a moment
all are grovelling flat, with faces turned abjectly to the ground. Their
lord and master, Kostchei Live-for-Ever, approaches--an unclean, hairy
monster, with claw-like avaricious fingers, embodiment of malice and
all evil. Queer hunchbacks, in motley garb and bearing wands of office,
attend him.
[Illustration]
The ogre’s restless eye lights upon Ivan, and the latter is dragged
forward to confront him. Seeing no trace of pity in that evil
countenance, the dismayed Prince makes an effort to fly. But the Indians
and the bent-legged deformities fling themselves upon him and he is
overcome before he can escape. A ray of hope sustains him as at this
moment he sees the beautiful Tsarevna and her maidens hurrying to the
scene. Imploringly the girls intercede on behalf of Ivan, but the ogre
thrusts them aside, determined to add one more to his tale of victims.
He advances to where the Prince stands beside the group of melancholy
stone images.
Vindictively the ogre makes passes in the air. The Prince, bracing
himself to meet the attack, endeavours to resist the magic influence,
and for the moment is successful. But he reels under the strain of
effort, and when a second pass is made it is clear that he is within an
ace of succumbing. At his final gasp, however, Ivan bethinks him of the
feather bestowed upon him by the Fire Bird. He pulls it from his girdle
and brandishes it in his enemy’s face.
The ogre staggers back before the flashing token, his discomfiture
increasing at the apparition, in the same moment, of the Fire Bird,
against whom he knows his black arts to be of no avail. Baffled, he
totters to his hunchback retinue, while the Fire Bird usurps his power
of domination. With rhythmic gesture it stirs the supine crowd to
movement; and the movement it presently excites to a dance, the dance to
a frenzy. Now here, now there, flitting to and fro the dazzling creature
goads to fiercer efforts. Faster with every moment the pace increases,
till the whole mad throng is swept into a wild whirl, which oscillates
obedient to the Fire Bird’s waving arms. All at length collapse
exhausted upon the ground, and yielding further to the Fire Bird’s
mystic influence are presently sunk in slumber. Last to succumb is the
thwarted ogre, but even he is forced to give way to the drowsiness which
assails him.
Standing amongst the prostrate figures the Fire Bird points to the
sleeping figure of Tsarevna, and with signs directs the wondering Ivan
to remove her to a post of safety. The young man obeys, and gently props
the inert body of the Princess against the trunk of a convenient tree.
Then, further following the directions of his protector, he steps into a
hollow tree and fetches from it a casket. As he emerges with this in his
hand the sleepers stir uneasily, and as he places it on the ground and
lifts the lid their torpor swiftly leaves them. Excitedly they raise
themselves, while the ogre, starting from slumber, dashes forward in an
agony of fear.
[Illustration]
From the casket Ivan draws forth a monstrous egg, which he holds aloft.
The ogre’s terror is dire--for the egg contains his soul, and he is
Kostchei Live-for-Ever only so long as the egg remains unbroken. The
strange object exercises an almost equal fascination upon the victims of
the ogre’s malice. Every eye is fixed upon it. Ivan makes as if to drop
it, and a shudder runs through all; when sportively he throws it lightly
from hand to hand, there is pitiful consternation.
The ogre is in the last extremity of fright. Desperately he endeavours
to seize the precious thing, but Ivan is too quick, and raising the egg
above his head he dashes it to the ground. As it breaks in two Kostchei
Live-for-Ever falls dead at his feet. There is a loud crash, and black
darkness.
When presently the light returns, Ivan finds himself still in the forest
clearing. But the Fire Bird has vanished; vanished, too, the ogre and
his strange court. Wonderingly he gazes round. Close at hand, on the
spot where previously was the group of stone effigies, a band of young
men, handsomely attired, is waiting to greet him: opposite there is a
bevy of maidens in whom he recognises the enchanted damsels of his late
adventure. Gladly his eye lights, too, upon the beautiful Tsarevna,
still wrapped in sleep in the place of safety to which he committed her.
The strange scene which lingers so vividly in his mind was not, then, a
mere dream.
But who are these gracious persons now advancing to pay him courtesies?
Gratefully the young men explain that they are victims of the ogre’s
sorcery now released by that monster’s overthrow--no other indeed than
the stones come to life. The maidens give him the joyous tidings that in
similar wise the spell which held them is also broken.
Even while these explanations are going forward, two servants descend
from the castle and fling wide the gates. Forth there comes a gallant
company of men and women, no longer full of grotesque antics or
clownishly bedizened, but clothed with dignity and in their proper
minds. These, too, pay courtesies to their deliverer, who presently
perceives that the Princess, awakened from her trance, has risen to her
feet. He approaches and salutes her; then before the assembled company,
she consenting, embraces her. Pages and attendants bring from the castle
a flashing crown and sceptre, and as the Prince is being invested with
these, the Fire Bird, its mission accomplished, soars upward in dazzling
flight. The joyous climax is reached, and upon the proud figure of Ivan
Tsarevitch, surrounded by a loyal court, the beautiful Tsarevna’s hand
in his, the curtain falls to triumphant strains of music.
There is not the least doubt that they lived happily ever afterwards.
[Illustration]
LE PAVILLON D’ARMIDE.
PANTOMIME-BALLET BY ALEXANDRE BENOIS.
MUSIC BY NICOLAS TCHEREPNIN.
SCENES AND DANCES BY MICHEL FOKINE.
SCENERY AND COSTUMES DESIGNED BY ALEXANDRE BENOIS.
One reason for the remarkable conquest which the Russian Ballet has made
of London is that for the first time the present generation--at all
events the stay-at-home portion of it--has been given an opportunity of
learning what a ballet really is. For the last few decades, at least,
the native ballet (if one can call it native) has been a poor, debased
thing, clinging to the faded traditions of Taglioni’s day: sadly in need
of a revival, but seeking new vigour from mistaken sources.
For a long time the ballet in London lingered moribund, feebly striving
to escape death by a gradual metamorphosis into a “revue.” Frequent were
the assertions of the wiseacres that neither ballet nor revue were
things which could exist in the peculiar atmosphere of London, the real
fact being that what was offered under either title was neither one
thing nor the other, but a stupidly attempted compromise between the
two. The advent of the Russians changed all that. The ballet proper was
received with instant acclamation, the revue sprang into popular favour
(even to the extent of being imported intact from Paris), and the
bastard entertainment which had previously been fostered under the name
of ballet was killed stone dead.
Yet this sudden change ought not to cause so very much surprise. That
London can claim for practically its own, over a long period, a dancer
so accomplished, an artist so genuine, as Adeline Genée, is surely not
without significance. If the latter was given poor opportunities for the
exercise of her art, that was assuredly no fault of hers. Were
impresarios as shrewd before an event as they invariably are after, they
might have taken a hint from the never-failing support given to Genée in
“Coppélia”--almost the only ballet worthy of the name which had been put
upon the London stage for many years before the Russians arrived. It is
fair to add, however, that even had the latent demand been recognised
(as possibly was the case) the supply would have been a difficult thing
to negotiate. The resources of the London _maître de ballet_ are
limited.
These reflections are prompted by a comparison of the best which London,
a little while ago, could offer with “Le Pavillon d’Armide,” which
approaches in its principal scene most nearly, of all the ballets in the
Russian repertoire, to the formal, somewhat stiff and conventional
pattern which was the vogue at the period when Taglioni, Duvernay,
Carlotta Grisi, and Fanny Ellsler held the stage, and to the faint
traditions of which the so-called ballet in London, of late years,
faintly clung. Although “Le Pavillon d’Armide,” with its succession of
individual dances, suffers by comparison with some of the more closely
knit, more consistently dramatic ballets, it is yet immeasurably above
the level to which London had become accustomed.
The Pavilion of Armida is an adjunct to the castle of a wicked
magician--an elderly Marquis in outward seeming--whose hospitality is
sought by an unsuspecting young man. The Vicomte de Beaugency (the
period of the ballet is that of Louis XIV.) is on his way in a
postchaise to visit his future bride, but is overtaken by a heavy storm
and prevented, through stress of weather, from continuing his journey.
He finds himself in the grounds of a wayside mansion, at which he begs
for shelter. He is courteously received by its owner, the sinister
Marquis, who places at his disposal for the night the Pavilion of
Armida.
This apartment takes its name from an ancestress of the host, as the
latter explains to his guest. A feature of its decorations is the
Gobelin tapestry, whereon the lovely Armida is depicted, surrounded by
her court, and on this the young man gazes long, his curiosity and
interest aroused. His host presently departs with polite wishes for a
restful night, and the Vicomte composes himself to sleep.
It is the witching hour of midnight. Hardly has the young man closed his
eyes when the figure of Cupid, on the clock which marks the hour, begins
to fight with Saturn. The latter, vanquished, disappears--the signal for
the Hours to troop forth and make a mischievous escape. Time, therefore,
is in suspense and nought can challenge Cupid’s sway. The great tapestry
comes to life, the figures move and breathe, and the Vicomte, starting
from his slumber--or is he still only in a dream?--finds himself in the
midst of the fair Armida’s glittering court.
All about him are fair women and brave men, splendidly attired. But
despite the pomp and magnificence of the scene, its lovely mistress is
distraught. Gallant knights attend her, but one who should be of the
number is missing. Armida weeps, seemingly disconsolate, for the absent
Rinaldo. The Vicomte, feasting his eyes upon her beauty, is smitten by
her fatal enchantment. Forgetting all save the glamour of the moment, he
presses forward and devotedly offers himself as candidate for the vacant
place. Armida smiles upon him, grants the favour he desires, and leads
him by the hand, a willing victim, to the dais whereon her aged sire is
enthroned.
It is this scene--the animated court of Armida--which is sometimes
performed as an isolated excerpt. Armida is seen at first reclining on
the dais, from which she descends to give expression to her mood of
_ennui_. The appearance of the Vicomte puts her boredom to instant
flight--at prospect of another victim she is quickly alert to exercise
her age-old fascinations. The old seigneur, her pretended father, who is
in reality none other than the wicked Marquis, joins the company, and
the hapless Vicomte is led to a place upon the dais beside his
enchantress. There enters a master of the ceremonies, with attendant
heralds, and a fanfare of trumpets announces the beginning of the
revels.
These revels provide an opportunity for a series of dances which exhibit
the resources of the Ballet in this purely formal aspect of their art.
At the outset of the scene, before the entry of the master of
ceremonies, there is a long _pas seul_ in which Karsavina displays
something of that almost ceremonial grace which was the delight of
amateurs of the dance of long generations ago. There comes, too, upon
the scene Nijinsky, as Armida’s favourite slave--a _rôle_ intended to
afford him opportunities for dancing rather than miming--while as
confidants of Armida the leading ladies of the company appear.
The composer of “Le Pavillon d’Armide” is Nicolas Tcherepnin, who has
been much associated with the Ballet, and from whom, therefore,
peculiarly appropriate music for the dance is to be expected. Charming
in itself, it lacks nothing requisite to show the dancers at their best.
It would be wearisome to enumerate the several dances which this central
scene of the ballet introduces. The more memorable are perhaps the
_valse noble_, performed by the entire court, the nimble drollery of the
seven jesters, and of course the wonderful efforts of Nijinsky, a superb
exposition of the famous “ballon” style of dancing. Not the least
delightful number is the valse duet between Nijinsky and Karsavina
towards the ending of the scene.
As the revels proceed, Armida leaves the dais to mingle in the throng of
courtiers. The enraptured Vicomte follows at her elbow, and eagerly
submits to be invested with the golden scarf which the fair one casts
about him. Wearing this fateful badge, he suffers himself again to be
led to the dais, this time to receive the blessing of the aged seigneur
on the ardently sought betrothal. Nuptial garments are brought in by
slaves, and as Armida herself knots the scarf upon his breast the young
man swoons in ecstasy.
The brilliant picture fades. Silently the Hours steal back, and Cupid
yields his sway to Saturn. The Vicomte de Beaugency awakes. Gone the
glittering court of Armida, and in its place only the dull tapestry that
hangs before his eyes. It is daylight--and with the memory of the night
still burning hotly in his brain, the young man starts to his feet. A
dream--could it have been a _dream_? He turns impetuously, expectantly,
to the tapestry, but all is still. It _was_ a dream! And yet, and
yet----
As he strives to steady his reeling thoughts, his fingers touch some
object at his breast. He glances down--it is Armida’s golden scarf! And
even as he fingers the fateful knot, there enters the Marquis, urbane
but sinister, come to inquire how his guest has passed the night. The
Vicomte turns distractedly towards his host, and with a flash of
intuition penetrates his disguise. An awful light breaks on him--he
sways, staggers, and drops dead at the magician’s feet. And as he falls
he clutches vainly at the golden knot which has sealed him yet one more
of the witch Armida’s victims.
[Illustration]
POLOVTSIAN DANCES FROM “PRINCE IGOR.”
MUSIC BY A. BORODIN.
DANCES BY MICHEL FOKINE.
SCENERY AND COSTUMES DESIGNED BY N. ROEHRICH.
The Polovtsian Dances which recur so frequently in the Russian
repertoire belong properly to an excerpt from the second act of
Borodin’s opera “Prince Igor.” But the passage at full length requires
the services of singers, and for this reason it is the usual custom to
present the dances detached.
The long orchestral prelude sounds the necessary warlike and aggressive
note, preparatory of the barbaric Tartar camp which is presently
disclosed. The huts of the nomad tribe are seen grouped about an open
space, round which men, women, boys and girls are lolling at their ease.
The smoke of fires ascends into the evening air; a dusky haze envelops
the distant steppe. This is the encampment of the Khan Kontchak, to
whom, as prisoners of war, after an encounter with the Slavs, have
fallen Prince Igor and his son Vladimir.
In the operatic excerpt which should precede the dances, a daughter of
the Khan, the lovely Kontchakovna, is seen reclining amidst her
companions, who beguile her with music. She herself sings her love for
the captive Vladimir, whose presence she sighs for. The night watch is
heard upon its rounds, and the love-sick maid’s companions retire. But
Kontchakovna, tarrying, hears the voice of Vladimir, who emerges from
his quarters and pours forth a declaration of his passion for her. The
lovers fly to each other’s arms, but are interrupted by the advent of
the Khan, who has come to visit his prisoners.
[Illustration]
Prince Igor is shown much deference by his captor, who presently
suggests that he should purchase liberty at the price of an undertaking
never again to take up arms against the Polovtzi. The Prince, scorning
the offer, maintains an indignant silence, from which he refuses to be
drawn. In the hope of distracting him the Khan summons the tribe and
orders a dance to be begun.
It is at this point that the curtain rises, on occasions when only the
dances are presented. The stage picture disclosed is effective in the
extreme. The camp is crowded with figures, and the gorgeous colours of
the Tartar dresses glow brilliantly in the warm
[Illustration]
light. When singers are available the chorus is massed round the arena
cleared for the dancers, and the added numbers greatly enhance the
general effect.
A long-drawn chant is the signal for the beginning of the dance, in
which a troupe of slave girls, splendidly attired, first perform. They
presently seat themselves, and are joined by a group of warriors. To
these more are added, and at the head of the band their captain places
himself.
A tall, stalwart figure, the captain shakes his bow aloft and leads his
men in the dance with all the furious _bravura_ with which, one fancies,
he would lead them into battle. There is first an amorous passage--a
simulated courtship (or at least abduction!) when the braves steal
softly up behind the expectant damsels, seize them, and lift them
shoulder high in their arms. Then the Tartar girls mingle with the
warriors, and as the dance proceeds it grows more fierce and animated,
spurred on by the exultant war song defiantly chanted by the chorus of
onlookers.
The appetite for vehemence increases, and a knot of young men dash
impetuously forward, slapping their thighs resoundingly as they hurl
themselves about with all the skill and daring of a practised acrobat.
After them the bowmen dart once more into the fray--for fray by this
time it has almost become. Their captain leaps and bounds before them,
tossing his bow high into the air, catching it as it falls in
mid-career, making as if to loose an arrow from the twanging string. The
chanted chorus swells in a triumphant _crescendo_. The warriors, in
strenuous emulation of their leader, goad themselves to still fiercer
transports, until with a succession of mad rushes, rank upon rank of
prancing legs and brandished arms, this wild barbaric display is brought
to its terminating climax.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The detailed movements of this tribal dance are of no great moment. What
is of interest is the robust expression which they give to the virile
impulses of an untamed race, not yet sapped by civilisation of its
vigour. The movements, violent in themselves, are executed with a
vehemence and energy significant in its savage spontaneity. One has a
sense of latent joy in violence, of every shape and form, for violence’
own sake. Without the songs which should accompany them, the dances
suffer some detraction. They represent the furthest extreme from
formality to which the dance can go, and the tremendous exuberance which
inspires them seems to demand an extra outlet. As one watches the
violent gymnastics of Adolf Bolm, of Fedorowa and the rest, it seems
astounding (and inappropriate) that they should indulge such boisterous
vigour in _silence_. In fact, one wonders how they keep themselves from
shouting! Not even Borodin’s fiercely martial music supplies the
deficiency. If ever there was an occasion when dance and song should be
one, this is it.
[Illustration]
LE DIEU BLEU.
HINDU LEGEND IN ONE ACT BY JEAN COCTEAU AND DE MADRAZO.
MUSIC BY REYNALDO HAHN.
SCENES AND DANCES BY MICHEL FOKINE.
SCENERY AND COSTUMES DESIGNED BY LÉON BAKST.
It has been previously remarked, in comment on “Narcisse,” that for all
their sense of fitness, the Russians sometimes exhibit a curious
inability to recognise the limitations of the stage, and in considering
“Le Dieu Bleu,” the charge must be repeated. They are at fault usually
when they have to present the supernatural. The criticism applies not so
much to their impersonations of supernatural characters--the sense of
unreality is finely suggested by Nijinsky as the phantom rose, for
example, while nothing could be better than the bizarre characterisation
of the half-human puppets in “Petrouchka”--as to their representation of
the supernatural circumstances by which such characters must generally
be attended. It may seem ungenerous, perhaps, to carp at what are, after
all, mere matters of detail, but lapses from an harmonious _ensemble_
become glaring when judged by the high artistic standard which
disciplines the greater number of the ballets.
One is tempted to think that here and there the Russians have essayed a
task, not perhaps exceeding their powers of conception and intention,
but beyond the capacity of their medium of expression. “Le Dieu Bleu”
is a fair example of such an attempted flight. It does not fail, but
neither does it entirely succeed; and an explanation of the compromise
may be found in the synopsis of the ballet printed in the programme.
There is no need to quote this interesting passage of description; for
the present purpose it is enough to remark that the first thing arising
in the reader’s mind is a puzzled query: How are they going to do it?
The answer is simply that they do not! The mingling of fabulous or
mythical with the real or human is a dilemma upon the horns of which
many a stage producer has found himself impaled, and the Russians do not
escape the inevitable fate. Their realistic method of treatment consorts
ill with the supernatural element in the action of the ballet; and if
this is to be expected, and is deemed negligible for the sake of the
individual beauties of the performance, it is nevertheless regrettable
that, however faintly, a jarring note should be struck. There are
features in this ballet which one could spare not less gladly than the
miraculous flower in “Narcisse.”
Certainly “Le Dieu Bleu” has many beauties. It shows us, in a
multiplicity of radiant dresses massed against a background of daring
colour and design, a rich vein in the decorative art of Léon Bakst. It
shows us Karsavina in a part that gives full play to the fierce and
passionate quality in her miming. But chiefly it is an excuse for the
preciosity of Nijinsky. There is something more than the mere
accomplished dancer in that remarkable personality. Others there may be
(though one doubts it) as graceful, as agile, as versed in all the
_nuances_ of the dancer’s art; but over and above his technical
perfections Nijinsky possesses a selective intelligence. His is not a
merely imitative instinct; he draws inspiration from sources of his own
seeking, and that to which he gives bodily expression is the product of
his own original genius working under the afflatus.
[Illustration]