to write with any detail. It is devised in the same pseudo-macabre
spirit as the rest of the ballet, and is more remarkable as a feat of
acrobatic agility and physical endurance than as an artistic
performance. One is told that the dance is “at first frantic and insane;
then more proud and sorrowful, more remote and ecstatic. It is the
expression and avowal of her sensual torment and of her atonement
through the very misery of her unassuageable desire.” Well, maybe it is
all that: perhaps something more, perhaps a very great deal less. For
myself, I should have been interested to learn at what point the
insanity died down and pride and sorrow took its place. Of ecstasy I
could find no real suggestion, though the counterfeit was plausible; and
the only remoteness was when the dance unexpectedly ended and the
curtain came down.
“La Tragédie de Salome” might serve, in company of those other
productions with which it was classed at the outset of these notes, as
an answer to the question, When is a ballet not a ballet? In all these
latter performances which the Russians have staged, they appear not only
to misconceive the functions of ballet, but to overlook its limitations.
This is the more remarkable since in the earlier productions those
limitations were plainly recognised, and the restraint which every art
exacts scrupulously observed. There is now a lack of perspective, which
one suspects to be the result of the dancer turned ballet-master. A
journalist may write brilliantly, yet be quite incapable of editing a
paper.
The sooner the controlling influence of Michel Fokine is restored to the
Russian Ballet the better. Otherwise there seems imminent danger that so
much fertility will merely run to seed.
[Illustration]
LE LAC DES CYGNES.
PANTOMIME BALLET BY M. TCHAIKOVSKY.
MUSIC BY P. TCHAIKOVSKY.
DANCES AND SCENES BY M. PETIPA.
SCENERY AND COSTUMES BY C. KOROVIN AND A. GOLOVIN.
The outstanding feature of “Le Lac des Cygnes” is undoubtedly the music
of Tchaikovsky, which is worthy of something better. For this is a
ballet which falls within the same category as “Le Pavillon d’Armide,” a
survival of the formality of an earlier day. It has a story, and a good
one; it is not, indeed, without dramatic passages; but mainly the ballet
is a mere background for a number of isolated dances having little
bearing on the real action. The “fairy tale” which forms its subject has
been treated much as the classic tragedies, one imagines, were treated
by Noverre towards the end of the eighteenth century. The dances are
imposed upon it, rather than made the means of unfolding it. As a result
“Le Lac des Cygnes,” regarded in its entirety, falls short of the level
achieved in such a ballet as “L’Oiseau de Feu,” though in the matter of
subject it has many points of familiarity with the latter. It lacks
proportion: the drama is nugatory, and the spectator retains in memory
rather a succession of dances, graceful, lively, and astonishing, than
an impression of a coherent and progressive whole.
This is the more to be regretted since the music, when occasion serves,
is splendidly dramatic. The occasions are only few, however, the real
purpose of the story being to provide, as in “Le Pavillon d’Armide,” a
court scene which can be made the appropriate setting of a series of
dances. Certainly the poses of Karsavina and the ladies of the _corps de
ballet_ in their guise as swans of the enchanted lake, in the opening
scene, and the astounding performance of Nijinsky in the court episode,
go far to compensate the loss of unity, but such dramatic moments as do
occur make the mostly protracted action seem very nearly tedious.
Incidentally the ballet presents Nijinsky in the kind of _rôle_ more
definitely associated with Adolf Bolm, and it is interesting to note the
emphasis which it lays upon the essential difference between the two
artists. Bolm is an actor who can dance when occasion demands; Nijinsky,
a dancer who seems almost ill at ease when constrained to limit his
movements to the actor’s pedestrian paces. One would prefer to see the
part of the Prince taken by Bolm, and an excuse found (as in “Le
Pavillon d’Armide”) for Nijinsky’s appearance, in his true function as
dancer, in the court scene.
The lake to which the title of the ballet refers is an enchanted mere,
beside which a number of swans dance nightly by the light of the moon,
in the semblance of young girls. The birds are the victims of the evil
sorcery of a wicked genie of the place, from whose clutches they are
powerless to escape. The opening scene discloses the wooded margin of
the lake, the shining surface of which stretches before the eye to a dim
further shore. The swans are seen upon the water, and while the
orchestral prelude is in progress, they pass slowly across the gap in
the trees, through which the shimmering lake is visible. At their head,
more stately than her fellows, and distinguished by the tiny crown upon
her head, swims the Queen Swan.
The birds vanish. The ripples of their passage subside. Moonlight floods
the still lake and its wooded bank. There enters a young man, armed for
the chase, whose dress and mien proclaim him noble. Retainers follow
him. They cast searching glances around, and scan the placid surface of
the lake. But whatever it is they seek eludes their vigilance. A second
young man joins them--the Prince of the realm--who has been benighted in
the course of a hunting expedition. He, too, looks eagerly about him,
but is no more successful in his quest than the companion who preceded
him. They take counsel together, and in the very midst of their
conference are startled by a distant apparition. They peer anxiously
into the heart of the wood which fringes the lake’s edge, and obedient
to the Prince’s order, all retire stealthily into hiding. The Prince
himself, cross-bow in hand, follows his men.
A moment later there enters a young maiden. She is fair to look upon,
with a beauty that has a fatal quality of fascination. She is indeed the
Queen Swan, wearing her temporary human guise, and only to be associated
with her true form by the fillet of swan’s-down in her dark hair, and
the snowy plumage with which her dress is adorned. This is the
mysterious apparition which the Prince and his men have seen, lost, and
now again discovered.
Lightly the fair creature flits across the glade, and as she nears the
spot where he lies concealed, the Prince starts forth and confronts her.
The Queen Swan would fly, but is held back. The Prince, already a
willing victim to his captive’s beauty, would fain have the mystery of
her appearance explained. Who is she? What does she here, and at this
hour? Reluctant at first to confess her true nature, the Queen Swan
yields to the passionate emotion which she, too, feels stirring within
her, and relates a part, at least, of her strange history. She tells of
the machinations of the evil genie by whose enchantment she and all her
companions are bound, of their alternation between human guise and that
of birds. The prince listens in horror, jumping too readily to the
conclusion that his captive is a maiden doomed to periodic metamorphosis
into the semblance of a swan, rather than a bird permitted now and
again to assume a human shape. At mention of the ogre by whose spells
this strange tyranny is maintained, he fingers his weapons menacingly,
eager for an opportunity to attempt deliverance.
Such a chance presents itself with startling suddenness. In the midst of
her narration the Queen Swan clutches her captor’s arm, and points
upward into the trees. Peering down upon them, from a branch overhead,
is some strange object, only half visible amidst the foliage. The Prince
seizes his cross-bow and makes as if to shoot. But ere he can be sure of
his aim, the apparition moves stealthily, and is gone.
The young man lowers his weapon and turns to expostulate with his
captive. Again the colloquy is interrupted, this time by the invasion of
a grim, gaunt monster, which silently regards them from a mound upon
which it has suddenly emerged. Again the Prince seizes his bow and
strives to launch a bolt at the intruder. But he is powerless to release
the trigger. The genie’s magic paralyses him. The monster recedes
unharmed into the woody depths, and the Prince, perturbed by this
discovery of unseen influences encompassing him, impetuously urges his
captive from the scene.
Hardly has the Queen Swan fled when her companions enter--a score of
maidens in similar attire, scarcely less fair than their leader. As is
their nightly practice, they dance in the moonlit glade, but have scarce
begun when the Prince’s friend, followed by the huntsmen and attendants,
break in upon these mystic revels. The swan-maidens, frightened, fly to
one another for mutual protection, while the intruders, scarce knowing
what to make of such unexpected objects of the chase, finger their
weapons hesitatingly. Some, indeed, are fitting bolts to the cross-bows,
but the hasty return of the Prince, who bids them stay their hands,
prevents the wanton slaughter. Even as he gives his orders, two more
swan-maidens join their frightened sisters, and with them comes the
Queen Swan herself, who has sped the Prince from her side to avert the
threatened disaster, and now comes herself to lead the petition for
mercy which the hapless maidens pleadingly urge.
The Prince needs little persuasion to grant the boon, and the
swan-maidens resume their dancing before the enraptured eyes of the
Prince and his friend. In the midst of her companions the Queen Swan,
unchallenged in the supremacy of her charms, completes the fascination
she has already exercised upon the too susceptible Prince. With
infatuated gaze he hangs upon her every movement, drinking in her
beauty, the grace of her dancing, the elegance of her form. Every moment
that she pauses, while her companions continue the movement of the
dance, he woos her passionately, urging his suit with an eagerness that
increases as the reluctance which she strives to maintain appears to
give way.
The throbbing valse rhythm of the music hurries the young man’s hectic
passion to a climax. Inspired by the ardour which the Prince’s impetuous
wooing kindles in her, the Queen of the Swan-maidens surpasses herself
in a dance which turns passion into ecstasy. She abandons herself to her
lover’s arms.
But at this fateful moment the dreaded hour has struck. The swan-maidens
are seized with nervous apprehension. They beckon their Queen, and as
they see her recalled to her surroundings, hurry timidly away. The
huntsmen watch them go, too much surprised by this sudden flight to
attempt to intercept it. Not so the Prince. As the Queen Swan strives to
release herself from his embrace, he seeks to detain her. Reluctant to
go, yet fearful to stay, she persists in the effort to disengage
herself. Ardently the Prince implores her to remain, but just as he
would enforce the entreaty by strength she slips from his grasp and
gains the bank that leads into the wood. Her lover would dash forward
and restrain her, but she motions him back, waves a tender farewell, and
is gone from his sight.
Mystified, the Prince and his men peer wonderingly across the enchanted
mere. And as they look there glides across their vision a number of
snow-white swans, swimming in stately procession toward the further
shore. In advance of the rest moves one, which bears upon its head, so
delicately poised on the slender sinuous neck, a golden crown. Upon the
agonised Prince and his astounded retinue, watching in silence this
strange portent, the curtain swiftly falls.
* * * * *
One sees next an apartment in the royal palace, where festivities are in
progress, to celebrate the coming nuptials of the Prince with the
heiress of a neighbouring realm. To the gay music of a festal march, the
royal guests are marshalled to their appointed places by a master of
ceremonies; there are stately greetings, and a formal interchange of
courtesies. The Prince enters presently, accompanied by the
Queen-mother, whom he escorts to the seat of honour. His betrothed has
then to be greeted and similarly handed to her place.
These ceremonies the Prince duly observes, but with a formality of
manner which indicates that his attention is perfunctory. He seems moody
and abstracted, and when presently he seats himself beside the
Queen-mother, the dances which begin fail to arouse in him more than a
listless interest.
The first of these dances--a valse performed by eight couples--is
scarcely ended when there is a stir at one of the entrances to the hall.
From the press of courtiers the master of ceremonies emerges, ushering
forward a tall man of sinister aspect, richly but strangely attired, who
leads by the hand a fair lady. The Prince rises to welcome the
strangers. Courtesies having been exchanged, the Prince raises his
eyes--and finds himself looking into the face of the Swan-maiden to whom
he lost his heart so lately. He cannot restrain a movement of
surprise--the sudden embodiment of his very thoughts seems beyond
credence. But the recognition, as he perceives, is mutual; the fair
stranger, as she suffers her forbidding escort to draw her aside,
displays not less agitation than he.
Deep in perplexity the Prince resumes his seat. The master of ceremonies
signs for the festivities to proceed, but neither a dashing czardas, nor
the brilliant mazurka which follows, can distract the Prince from the
anxious meditation into which he is plunged. Only when the beautiful
stranger is again led forward does he shake off his abstraction. Eagerly
he offers attendance upon her while she performs a _pas seul_ before the
court.
Standing unobtrusively at one side, the evil genie (for the Queen Swan’s
escort is, of course, none other) watches from beneath his disguise the
consummation of his wicked plan. With every attention that opportunity
allows him to offer to the stranger, the Prince’s newly-fanned passion
burns more ardently. And as with him, so with the luckless Swan-maiden.
The dance but serves to melt the last icicle of her discretion, and when
the Prince, remembering suddenly their situation, conscious of the gaze
of all the court, would leave her and regain the composure he has lost,
she holds and allures him with a beseeching look and gesture that is
beyond resistance. Only when the dance is ended, and the Swan-maiden,
herself awakening momentarily from her all but trance, retires hastily
from the apartment, does the Prince resume command of himself.
The eyes of the courtiers are turned upon him expectantly, for the
Prince himself is an accomplished dancer, and the moment has arrived
when he should entertain the company with his skill. Fired by the
ardour suppressed within him, he launches himself into a _pas seul_
which astounds by its vigorous grace, measured agility, and brilliant
daring of execution. At the very climax of his performance the beautiful
stranger re-enters. Obedient to the Prince’s entreaty she dances once
again; then joins him in the crowning intoxication of a _pas de deux_.
As the infatuated pair thus yield to each other’s embrace an uneasy stir
runs through the watching ring of courtiers. The Queen-mother is
perturbed, the Prince’s betrothed is wrath to be thus publicly slighted.
The climax is reached when the lovers, oblivious of all, abandon
themselves to an impassioned kiss. The Prince’s mother starts
indignantly from her seat, and plucks him by the sleeve; at the same
moment the Swan-maiden’s grim escort strides forward and snatches her
from her lover’s embrace. In vain the Queen-mother urges her son to
recollect the duty he owes to his estate, in vain his betrothed demands
reparation for the affront she has suffered. The Prince has no thought
save for the object of his passion, and is convulsed by overpowering
emotion. Not less is the agony of the fair stranger, who struggles
helplessly in the genie’s evil clutch. Consternation seizes the
courtiers, which is increased as the lights are suddenly dimmed. In the
confusion that ensues, the genie throws the now fainting figure of the
Swan-maiden upon his shoulder, and carries her off. The Prince, seeing
his beloved thus torn away, is nearly bereft of reason, but recovering
himself with violent effort dashes madly through the press in hot
pursuit.
* * * * *
The scene changes to the dim night-enshrouded margin of the lake. With
furious haste the genie enters, dragging relentlessly behind him the
drooping figure of the Swan-maiden. Piteously she sinks upon the bank,
as the wicked tyrant urges her onward. She turns a last entreating look
backward, and at that very moment the flying figure of the Prince
appears. He falls upon his knees before her and seeks to hold her with
his hands. But the genie redoubles his force: the hapless Swan-maiden is
wrenched from her lover’s grasp, and borne out of sight.
The despairing Prince bows his head in mute and helpless agony. And
while he yet kneels there, a white swan glides serenely across the
surface of the lake. The prince sees it, and a dreadful thought clutches
his heart. As the swan nears him he looks again--and lo, about its head,
so delicately poised on the slender sinuous neck, is a golden crown!
The young man staggers and falls dead. Smoothly the Queen Swan urges her
placid way across the shining surface of the lake.
[Illustration]
ANNA PAVLOVA.
Nothing can well be written about the Russian Ballet without some
mention of Pavlova. For though that great dancer has not been associated
with the troupe to whose performances the foregoing pages have been
devoted, it is largely to her art that London owes the revived interest
in ballet which paved the way for these later spectacles.
Much has been written in adulation of Pavlova. Comparisons and metaphors
have been well-nigh exhausted in enthusiastic attempts to convey a full
appreciation of her dancing, and the result has sometimes been
ridiculous. This is almost inevitable, however, for if Pavlova’s praises
are to be sung at all, it must be in a word or else redundantly. Art so
nearly perfect as hers permits of no analysis, and stultifies all
efforts at exposition.
So it happens that with Pavlova one can but state a bare opinion, and
leave her art to speak for itself. Mere description is impossible, since
her method is subjective rather than objective. London has had no
opportunity of seeing her take part in a concerted ballet, at least of
that dramatic type in which the art of the performers is subservient to
the action in which they are involved; and the individual dances in
which she is chiefly seen are to be regarded not so much as occasions
for impersonation as opportunities and means of self-expression. As
already has been said of Nijinsky, the art of Pavlova is something more
than merely imitative; it is creative, her genius acting upon, shaping,
and impressing with the stamp of her own individuality the material
selected.
There is a close analogy between her method and that of the composer of
music. Saint-Saëns, for example, in “Le Cygne,” and Pavlova in the dance
which she has devised for the accompaniment of that composition, have
both taken the curved and undulating grace of the swan for _motif_.
Adorning, amplifying, and elaborating this initial theme, the dancer has
achieved a result which in its complex beauty, yet fundamental
simplicity, is an exact parallel with the composer’s.
Doubtless a _maître de ballet_ might have phrases at command which would
convey, to the initiate at least, the bare sequence of poses and
movements, as one musician could recount to another the main features of
a composition. In neither case, however, would the hearer glean more
than the merest rudiments; with the dance as with music, direct contact
alone is of avail. Even a literary artist would encounter limitations as
severe as those which beset the painter, who can show (witness John
Lavery’s “Le Mort du Cygne”) but a single moment of a single phase in a
thing of prolonged and continuous beauty.
In such a performance as this, Pavlova touches great heights. She is
less happy when she indulges in some of those “interpretations” of music
which of late years have become so fashionable. How, indeed, can the
dancer’s art be expected to interpret music which was never written for
the dance? It is as idle as the similar attempt so often made by the
painter. One work of art may provide inspiration for another, but we
cannot consider them simultaneously since they will not be in the same
plane. To watch the dance, or rather series of poses, by which Pavlova
“interprets,” let us say, Rubinstein’s “La Nuit,” is to delight the eye
with an exhibition of rare grace. But only a very assimilative and
accommodating mind will imagine that the composer’s intention has been
made any clearer to him thereby--and probably it will
[Illustration]
imagine quite erroneously. The critical mind receives no convincing
impression of unity.
In the case of “Le Cygne,” Pavlova is not interpreting Saint Saëns.
Musician and dancer have taken the same theme for treatment in their
different ways, and the welding of their separate efforts is the
legitimate art of the ballet. It may be said, perhaps, that this is the
manner in which the so-called interpretations, to which objection has
been made, have been evolved. But this is to ignore the distinction
between so definite a theme as the graceful movements of a swan, known
and accepted by all men, and such an abstraction as Night, of which the
conception must be arbitrary, and for that reason probably different
from the one upon which the musician, nominally interpreted, has
proceeded.
Pavlova is at her best (inevitably) when limited to the true functions
of her art. As with Nijinsky, the dance is her proper medium of
expression, though perhaps not so wholly. In some of her performances
she displays a facile power of extrinsic gesture suggestive of qualities
as mime which whet the desire to see her in dramatic ballet. The
distribution of her favours betwixt Pierrot and Harlequin, her jealous
partners when she dances, as Columbine, in Drigo’s “Pas de Trois,” is
inspired by coquetry as frivolous and mirthful as the airy gaiety which
her nimble feet express. In “L’Automne Bacchanale” there is a passion
and a fervour which owe something to the actress’ art as well as to the
dancer’s. It may seem idle to attempt a discrimination between two
things so nearly identical, but seeing the view so commonly held in this
country of dancing--that it consists merely of the rhythmic movement of
the limbs according to certain arbitrary rules, the greatest of dancers
being no more than the exponent of a perfect technique--it is perhaps
worth while to lay stress upon the part which temperament must play.
Possibly “L’Automne Bacchanale” is not the best illustration to cite of
the dancer’s conscious art; no one of the least susceptibility, it may
be supposed, certainly not Pavlova, could fail to respond to Glazounov’s
tempestuous music. Who has been spectator of that brilliant episode that
did not feel his pulses quicken, and thrilling through his veins an
echo, however faint, of the pæan of youth and love and joy? Pavlova at
all events, if not her compatriots, has been able to recapture something
of the old Greek ardour.