is the presentation of one little scene of no great purport, but the
methods adopted to portray the idle moments of a group of children
render merely eccentric what might be an engaging spectacle. The
intention seems to be, if there is any definite intention at all, to
reduce to their essential elements the characteristic movements of
childhood. The gestures and poses of Nijinsky the present writer
confesses to finding meaningless--at all events in no way suggestive of
unsophisticated childhood. But with those of Karsavina and Ludmila
Schollar there is a difference. There are occasions now and
then--notably when the two girls “make it up” after a tiff prompted by
jealousy over the favour of their boy companion--when there is a
something about their poise of body which evokes quite startlingly, for
all its stilted stiffness, a memory of childish movements sometime
noted. There is nothing, it will be understood from what has already
been said of the performers’ methods, of the unconscious grace of an
eager, impulsive child. But imagine a rapid photographic “snapshot” of
such an incident as the one just mentioned between two little girls--the
instantaneous plate would show, in its arrest of movement, just such
angularity and awkwardness, and also just such a poise, as Karsavina and
Schollar display.
No doubt this is all very clever and ingenious, but it seems likewise to
be a little futile. Even if essays of this sort come within the
legitimate province of ballet, there is very little pleasure, and not a
great deal of interest, to be obtained from so highly sophisticated a
performance. I do not know whether the music of Debussy was written for
the especial purpose of the ballet, or whether Nijinsky, as in
“L’Après-Midi d’un Faune,” devised the ballet to an existing
composition; in any case the music seems as little appropriate to the
theme as the methods of the performers. Debussy indeed is hardly a
composer from whom one expects _dance_ music, and his selection in
connection with these attempted developments of the art of the ballet
seems significant.
[Illustration]
The legitimacy--or, to put it more definitely, the feasibility--of these
new attempts is open to challenge. The methods adopted by the “dancers”
in “L’Après-Midi d’un Faune” have already been described. In “Jeux” the
principle seems to be to resolve movement into a succession of arrested
poses, and make an arbitrary selection of the latter for presentment.
This is as if one were asked to admire some of the individual pictures
which in series make up the film of a kinematograph. Granted that it is
interesting and amusing to be shown how the film is constituted, it is
nevertheless the animated whole which we really want to see.
[Illustration]
But an analogy can only be drawn between the kinematograph and the
dancer if the latter’s art is regarded as standing in the same relation
to the painter’s or sculptor’s as the kinematograph to the ordinary
camera. This indeed seems to be the idea upon which Nijinsky has founded
“L’Après-Midi d’un Faune” and “Jeux.” It was submitted in the
immediately preceding pages that “L’Après-Midi d’un Faune” was based
upon a fundamental misconception of the dancer’s art, and the same
criticism is prompted by “Jeux.” Even if the premises be granted that to
give movement to _poses plastiques_ is a sufficient end, the dancer’s
art, like any other, should conceal art; should build up, not take to
pieces. The human figure may be reducible to geometrical forms, but the
cubist painter would be better employed in proceeding _from_ that
principle, instead of _to_ it.
“Jeux,” in brief, in intention, if not altogether in execution, is as
clever as a parlour trick, and with a public which applauds cleverness
above all things, it would be as popular as “L’Après-Midi d’un Faune,”
if it were but equally obvious. But the cleverness is that of a monkey,
and as misapplied.
[Illustration]
LE SACRE DU PRINTEMPS.
PICTURES OF PAGAN RUSSIA BY IGOR STRAVINSKY AND NICOLAS ROERICH.
MUSIC BY IGOR STRAVINSKY.
CHOREOGRAPHY BY NIJINSKY.
SCENERY AND COSTUMES DESIGNED BY NICOLAS ROERICH.
When three such remarkable talents as those of MM. Stravinsky, Roerich
and Nijinsky form an alliance, something unusual may be confidently
expected as the result. The most eager anticipations can hardly have
been disappointed, on that score, by “Le Sacre du Printemps,” of which
the music is by the first named, the _décor_ by the second, and the
choreography by the third.
One imagines the three collaborators--one had almost said
conspirators--assembling in council. Perhaps they find themselves, in
their several ways, prompted by a common impulse: perhaps they merely
itch to apply their cleverness to something new. Whichever way it is, a
happy notion strikes them. “Let’s be primitive!” They talk it over, make
plans and agree. They will be primitive--starkly primitive. Stravinsky
proceeds, with his practised sleight of hand in the manipulation of an
orchestra, to invent music which shall defy all accepted canons, and
thus presumably be eloquent of a time when “music,” in any conventional
sense, was not; Roerich picks all the primary colours out of his
paint-box and sets to work to devise a _mise-en-scène_ so crude that it
must represent the furthest possible degree of unsophistication; while
Nijinsky, fresh from his meditations on a primitive phase of art, hails
with enthusiasm this new opportunity to apply the principles of
expression by gesture and movement which he believes himself to have
divined.
The result is a sort of “post-impressionism” on the stage. Expression,
it has been said, not beauty, is the aim of the modern school of
painters who, for convenience’ sake, have been dubbed
“post-impressionists”; and this being also the avowed purpose of
Nijinsky and his colleagues, the ballet might not unreasonably be
expected to show some kinship with the products of that recent art
“movement.” Certainly it is ugly--at the least, unpleasing to the normal
modern eye: whether, by compensation, it is expressive, is obviously one
of those matters of individual taste about which dispute is idle.
“Le Sacre du Printemps” consists of two tableaux, which are ostensibly
representative of pagan Russia, but might equally serve as pictures of
primitive civilisation anywhere--or nowhere! The theme is suitably
simple. The season of spring is at hand, and mankind is occupied with
worship of the two great forces apprehended by the primitive mind--the
Earth and the Sun.
The first act shows the Adoration of the Earth. The joy of humankind in
the advent of spring finds expression in the dance, and in the
performance of due rites, in the ceremony of uniting the Sire of all the
Sages to the newly fecund earth. What actually happens is that sundry
groups of persons, attired in picturesque but by no means prehistoric
garb, are discovered prostrating themselves in various peculiar poses
amidst an expansive landscape which is very green, but not much else.
One group, under the instruction of “an old woman of 300 years,” begins
a ceremonial dance, which is to say that the younger members stamp
their feet and jerk their bodies about in an odd, rhythmic fashion,
while the triple centenarian hops spasmodically amongst them. Other
groups in turn spring up from their postures of obeisance and do the
same, with variations. A number of young girls enter, and join the young
men in the performance of the rites ordained. One is to understand that
the strange antics which ensue are the primitive types of those folk
dances and games which peasant children perform to this day in Russia:
but it is doubtful whether even to a spectator familiar with modern
rustic life in the remotest parts of that country, the connection would
be apparent between the traditional games of feast days and the
eccentric contortions of the performers on the stage. A feature of the
games, the only one definitely recognisable (because the only one
specified in the printed synopsis of the ballet) is a simulated
abduction of some of the girls by a number of the young men, which is
premonitory of the sacrifice to Iarilo, god of light--_i.e._, the
Sun--depicted in the second act.
[Illustration]
After the games have been in progress for some time there enters a
procession of elders of this primitive tribe, escorting an old man with
a long beard--the Sire of all the Sages, high priest and venerable
interpreter of the omens. His entry is a signal for everyone present to
be seized with a violent tremor, which sets each figure quivering like
an agitated table jelly. With due form and ceremony the ancient one
pronounces a blessing on the Earth’s unfailing fruitfulness,
accomplishing this act by spreadeagling himself, with the aid of
assiduous helpers, face-downwards in the middle of the stage. If only
the happy thought had occurred to M. Nijinsky to have the beard of the
venerable one pulled forward the latter would have presented a very
interesting travesty of a starfish.
The tremor which has so persistently agitated the tribe now ceases. All
eyes are upturned towards the Sun, whose envious wrath, it is feared,
may be excited by these attentions to the Earth, and to the renewed
thudding of stamping feet the curtain comes down.
The second tableau shows the Sacrifice, by which the Sun’s jealousy is
to be appeased. The scene is a lonely plateau, on which the “Sacred
Stones” are set. There are also three grim-looking poles, on which are
hung what seem to be votive offerings of hides and horns. It is night,
and past the witching hour. The sun has vanished and ere he rise again
the rite of propitiation must be performed. The young girls are
discovered going through the mazy evolutions of a ceremonial dance, the
object of which is the choice by hazard of the destined victim. (Such is
the origin, the authors would presumably have us believe, of the “he” of
the traditional games of childhood all the world over.)
Precisely how the lot falls is not very apparent, but presently one girl
starts forward from the rest and seems, from the curious motionless
attitude which she assumes, to fall into a cataleptic trance. Her
companions gather round, and do her honour in a dance described, for no
clear reason, as “heroic.” They presently depart, leaving her to her
fate.
While the Chosen Victim still stands transfixed in a posture of extreme
ugliness and (one imagines) excessive discomfort, the
[Illustration]
elders of the tribe make their appearance, come to evoke the spirits of
their ancestors and perform the final rites of this mystic bridal
dedication to the Sun. They achieve this by partially covering
themselves with black bearskins, the limp forelegs of which, waggling at
their elbows, give them the appearance of immense grotesque penguins as
they strut solemnly round the object of their scrutiny. After this
lengthy peripatetic inspection is concluded, they seat themselves in
groups, and the Chosen Victim suddenly breaks into a dance--if dance can
be called a series of agonised movements not less ugly and contorted
than the immobile posture in which she has been for so long rigidly
stationed.
It is quite impossible to describe this “dance,” which it is an
uncomfortable experience to watch--not for any offence that it contains,
but for a feeling of sympathy with the unfortunate dancer who has to
indulge such misplaced agility. Suffice it to explain that it
“expresses” the last ecstasy of the Victim--a transition from exaltation
to frenzy, from frenzy to exhaustion. At the moment of expiry, the
watching elders leap to their feet, and seizing the Victim in their
hands, hold her rigid corpse at arms’ length above their heads.
It is thus, we are told, that sacrifice is made to Iarilo, the flaming,
the superb. The ribald will be inclined to retort that it is to be hoped
Iarilo likes it.
In fairness, it must be added that this account of the eccentric
happenings on the stage is quite inadequate to convey any proper
impression of these two tableaux--which are, in fact, quite
indescribable by words. It would be a mistake to suppose that this
extraordinary performance is as wearisome as its unintelligible
character might lead one to infer. According to all ordinary standards
the whole business is completely mad--the music is mad, the dancers are
mad. Yet it does not bore, and the interest which it excites must be
something more than that of mere curiosity to endure through two whole
acts. One suspects this to be merely a tribute to the unquestionable
cleverness of the ballet, though the generous spectator may like to
suppose a more solid reason.
When the present writer witnessed the first production of “Le Sacre du
Printemps” in Paris, the printed synopsis of its action presented to the
audience was of the briefest kind. The spectators were left to unravel
its meaning for themselves--and they signally failed to rise to the
occasion. Briefly, they hissed it. They would not listen to Stravinsky’s
music: the choreography of Nijinsky moved them to unkind laughter. On
the later production of the ballet in London, the management wisely
distributed an amplified synopsis, detailing the incidents (so far as
the ballet can be said to have any), and took the further precaution of
prefacing the performance by a short lecture, in which a distinguished
critic, of sympathetic leanings, endeavoured to expound the principles
upon which the authors of the ballet had proceeded in its creation.
Thanks to this forethought, the ballet received in London the attentive
hearing which was denied to it in Paris. It even received applause,
though how far this was due to the amiability of London
theatre-goers--less impulsive and more tolerant than the Parisian
public--it would be rash to guess. Undoubtedly the ballet, as presented
in London, was more easily followed than when seen in Paris. In part,
perhaps, the certain degree of familiarity helped; in part, the stronger
lighting of the stage during the second act of the London performance
was of assistance. But, chiefly, the greater intelligibility arose out
of the explanations, verbal and printed, with which the spectator was
forearmed. Antics which had been meaningless became invested with the
shadow, if not the substance of plausibility; it became apparent what
they were _intended_ to mean, even if the meaning still seemed to fail
of true expression.
But should such detailed explanations of purpose be necessary? Granting
the abandonment of all ordinary, accepted conventions, ought a work of
art, conceived upon whatsoever unfamiliar principles, to fail to grip
the imagination? It may be noted that in the introductory lecture, the
Japanese colour-print was cited as an example of a form of art scoffed
at, when first seen in this country, because its conventions were
unfamiliar and not understood. But one fancies that upon any mind not
utterly philistine, no matter how unable to _understand_ its peculiar
conventions, the work of a Japanese master made a very definite
impression. The Occidental mind had a sense of the Oriental achievement,
even if it failed to comprehend precisely what had been achieved. If
attempt is not to be confused with accomplishment, one fears that only a
partisan enthusiast could have a similar regard for “Le Sacre du
Printemps.”
It is difficult to discover unity of purpose. To mention a minor, but
glaring inconsistency, the costumes designed by Roerich (though one is
grateful for the vividly decorative groups which they produce) are
scarcely consonant with his “primitive” scenery, and certainly not
characteristic of ultra-primitive humanity. A people that had acquired
such arts as the possession of this clothing postulates can scarcely be
reckoned typical of “the Muscovy of dimmest antiquity,” and it is at
least doubtful whether at their comparatively advanced stage of
civilisation (accepting as historically accurate Nijinsky’s theory of
primitive modes of expression) gesture and movement would be marked by
such uncouth and awkward characteristics.
The fact would seem to be that the authors of this ballet have chosen to
be a law unto themselves. No doubt it is possible under
[Illustration]
such conditions to devise many curious things, momentarily engaging--the
workshops of Bedlam are full of them--but they can hardly hope to give
the satisfaction, or enjoy the permanence, of art. A work of art is
governed, at bottom, by the laws of Nature: it must have its roots
somewhere in reality, and grow upward and outward. One fails to detect
out of what “Le Sacre du Printemps” arises, or whither it leads. Its
tendency, if it has any at all, is retrograde, and there is something
almost pathetic in the spectacle of such highly-cultivated men as MM.
Stravinsky, Roerich, and Nijinsky applying their brilliant talents to
this inversion. It is surely a little ludicrous that the utmost
resources of a modern orchestra, comprising over a hundred complex
instruments, should be taxed by what is reported to be some of the most
difficult music ever scored, in order to “express” the impulses and
emotions of man in his most primitive state. A fitting parallel to
Stravinsky’s efforts is provided by those of Nijinsky, laboriously
instructing a highly-accomplished _corps de ballet_ in mimicry of the
awkward poses exhibited in sculpture of pre-classical days, when the
sculptor was not so much expressive as struggling for expression. It may
be true that under modern accepted conventions in art, expression has
been stifled by undue attention to form, but this is hardly the way to
demonstrate it. Curtailment is not the same thing as simplification.
“Le Sacre du Printemps” certainly exacts a good deal from the ordinary
spectator. The latter finds himself at sea from the very beginning, and
quickly realises that if there is any solid meaning at all to be arrived
at, he can only reach it by jettisoning all previous standards and
conventions. Even when he has succeeded, by the aid of a detailed
synopsis, an introductory lecture, and a strongly developed faculty of
assimilation, in acquainting himself with the authors’ premises, it is a
matter of opinion whether MM. Stravinsky, Roerich, and Nijinsky give
him much in return for what he has abandoned.
If this astonishing ballet is to be taken seriously, one may compliment
its authors on a very gallant attempt to embody a view of art which is
arresting, if not convincing. If, on the other hand, it is merely a _jeu
d’esprit_, they are to be congratulated on one of the most elaborate and
cleverly sustained hoaxes ever perpetrated. There is possibly a third
solution, that the authors have been imposed upon and mesmerised by
their own sheer cleverness, and all too nimble dexterity of mind. In
that case there must be laughter among the Muses.
[Illustration]
LA TRAGÉDIE DE SALOME.
FROM A POEM BY ROBERT HUMIERES.
MUSIC BY FLORENT SCHMITT.
DANCES BY BORIS ROMANOV.
SCENERY AND COSTUMES DESIGNED BY SERGE SOUDEIKINE.
Salome furnishes the theme of yet another ballet in the Russians’ later
style. Though Nijinsky has no connection with it the influence of his
example is evident throughout. “La Tragédie de Salome” takes a place
very fittingly in the same gallery as “L’Après-Midi d’un Faune,” “Jeux,”
and “Le Sacre du Printemps.” That is to say, it has no story to unfold
by means of music and the dance. Salome is not so much the theme, as a
mere central figure of a stage picture to which motion is imparted.
Nijinsky in “Le Sacre du Printemps” went to Gauguin and the
post-impressionists for inspiration. Boris Romanov and Serge Soudeikine,
who are responsible respectively for the choreography and the _décor_ of
“La Tragédie de Salome” have singled out Aubrey Beardsley for attention.
“Pure Beardsley” was the popular phrase with which the ballet was summed
up on its first production. It is, of course, nothing of the sort--at
least, if the phrase is to be strictly interpreted. If it were _pure_
Beardsley the ballet would be a good deal better than it is. One has
some difficulty in imagining Aubrey Beardsley staging a ballet, and
probably, if such a thing had happened, the result would have been very
different from that which the Russians have imagined. But even supposing
that Beardsley had produced on the stage something resembling what is
shown us, it is perfectly certain there would have been a distinction
which the present performance lacks. To put it shortly, “La Tragédie de
Salome” is nothing but an aping of Beardsley, a reproduction (or shall
one say, a travesty?) of certain superficial aspects of that artist’s
designs, entirely uninspired by any sympathy with, or apparently even
understanding of, the peculiar genius of which they were expressions.
It is unfortunate, perhaps, that the assimilative Russians, when they
play the sedulous ape, do so with such polished ease and _aplomb_. Their
cleverness amuses, even if it fails to impress. In sheer theatrical
effect this ballet of Salome is quite dazzling. Its bizarre decoration,
and the eccentricity of the action, capture the eye, as the music
captures the ear, by sheer audacity of assault. It is only when a
conclusion is reached that the whole appears to have been a profitless,
if dazzling diversion.
Soudeikine’s act-drop is beyond my comprehension. So also is the scene
upon which it rises--a platform enclosed by giant foliage of formal
design. Much exuberance is suggested, but exuberance of _what_ is not so
clear. In the middle of the stage is a tall column, upon the top of
which an object, presumably the Baptist’s head, is dimly seen. Behind
stands a curious pyramidal staircase.
Eight negro slaves are discovered grouped about the column and its grim
burden. Their woolly pates are white, white ostrich plumes are girt
about their middles, and round their ankles are clasped what look
suspiciously like white spats. The limelight streaming on their naked
bodies imparts a greenish tinge to the brown flesh, and gives them quite
as nasty an appearance as one supposes their designers intended.
To strident music which one feels sure must be expressive of hectic
passion and horror, the green and white negroes posture
[Illustration]
and run about the stage. Their antics are engaging, and expressive of
just whatever the spectator chooses to think. They are joined presently
by four executioners who would do credit to any professional dreamer of
nightmares. Like the negroes, these also have spats on their bare legs.
They wear very little else, but carry large swords which obviously are
meant for dark and bloody deeds. They are tall and lank, frightfully
grim, and thoroughly sinister. And the business-like manner in which,
having divested themselves of the awful weapons of their office, and
completely eclipsed the efforts of the negroes in the game of
Here-we-go-round-the-Baptist’s-head, they assume attitudes of
terror-striking unexpectedness, indicates a praiseworthy determination
to uphold the ghastliest traditions of their high calling.
The music now, with relentless importunacy, insists upon an impending
climax. Negroes and executioners fall beautifully into place, a portion
of the blackcloth drops swiftly, and Salome is seen standing on the top
of the staircase-pedestal before a dim background of blue and mysterious
starlit depth. She is shrouded in the voluminous folds of an immense
cloak, and at first sight might be taken, as a witty observer remarked,
for Mrs. Grundy come to put a stop to the proceedings.
Having got this climax over, the music is now breathing more easily, and
Salome slowly comes down the staircase. It is seen that the robe with
which she is covered has an immense train--black with glittering
embroidery of gold. As she descends the steps the train drags
magnificently behind her. One suffers an uncomfortable anxiety lest it
should topple down before its time and sweep its hapless wearer off her
feet. But MM. Soudeikine and Romanov have seen to this, and it is not
until Salome has reached the stage, and is already advancing across it,
that the enormous garment, with proper effect, comes flashingly tumbling
after.
[Illustration]
Salome with her grotesque retinue circles in solemn procession round the
central column, and the train makes the most of its opportunities. Then
the negroes leap forward, fastenings are loosened, and as the robe falls
into her attendants’ outstretched arms, Salome steps forward for the
dance.
Regard Beardsley’s drawings as fashion plates, and the reader will
arrive at a very fair idea of Karsavina’s appearance as Salome. Her
costume is exiguous--even allowing for the lace-edged undergarment which
appears round one thigh but not round the other. Her legs and arms are
bare, but with a blood red heart and other devices stencilled on them. A
high head-dress surmounts the tiny
[Illustration]
face of one of Beardsley’s women, with blue smudges for eyes and wee
vermilion lips.