12, at the Metropolitan Opera House. The pieces in which he appeared on
that day were _Le Spectre de la Rose_ and _Petrouchka_. Some of us
feared that eighteen months in a detention camp would have stamped their
mark on the dancer. As a matter of fact his connection with the Russian
Ballet had been severed in 1913, a year before the war began. I can say
for myself that I was probably a good deal more nervous than Nijinsky on
the occasion of his first appearance in America. It would have been a
cruel disappointment to me to have discovered that his art had perished
during the intervening three years since I had last seen him. My fears
were soon dissipated. A few seconds after he as the Rose Ghost had
bounded through the window, it was evident that he was in possession of
all his powers; nay, more, that he had added to the refinement and
polish of his style. I had called Nijinsky's dancing perfection in years
gone by, because it so far surpassed that of his nearest rival; now he
had surpassed himself. True artists, indeed, have a habit of
accomplishing this feat. I may call to your attention the careers of
Olive Fremstad, Yvette Guilbert, and Marie Tempest. Later I learned that
this first impression might be relied on. Nijinsky, in sooth, has now no
rivals upon the stage. One can only compare him with himself!
The Weber-Gautier dance-poem, from the very beginning until the end,
when he leaps out of the window of the girl's chamber into the night,
affords this great actor-dancer one of his most grateful opportunities.
It is in this very part, perhaps, which requires almost unceasing
exertion for nearly twelve minutes, that Nijinsky's powers of
co-ordination, mental, imaginative, muscular, are best displayed. His
dancing is accomplished in that flowing line, without a break between
poses and gestures, which is the despair of all novices and almost all
other _virtuosi_. After a particularly difficult leap or toss of the
legs or arms, it is a marvel to observe how, without an instant's pause
to regain his poise, he rhythmically glides into the succeeding
gesture. His dancing has the unbroken quality of music, the balance of
great painting, the meaning of fine literature, and the emotion inherent
in all these arts. There is something of transmutation in his
performances; he becomes an alembic, transforming movement into a finely
wrought and beautiful work of art. The dancing of Nijinsky is first an
imaginative triumph, and the spectator, perhaps, should not be
interested in further dissection of it, but a more intimate observer
must realize that behind this the effect produced depends on his supreme
command of his muscles. It is not alone the final informing and
magnetized imaginative quality that most other dancers lack; it is also
just this muscular co-ordination. Observe Gavrilow in the piece under
discussion, in which he gives a good imitation of Nijinsky's general
style, and you will see that he is unable to maintain this rhythmic
continuity.
Nijinsky's achievements become all the more remarkable when one
remembers that he is working with an imperfect physical medium. Away
from the scene he is an insignificant figure, short and ineffective in
appearance. Aside from the pert expression of his eyes, he is like a
dozen other young Russians. Put him unintroduced into a drawing-room
with Jacques Copeau, Orchidee, Doris Keane, Bill Haywood, Edna Kenton,
the Baroness de Meyer, Paulet Thevenaz, the Marchesa Casati, Marcel
Duchamp, Cathleen Nesbitt, H. G. Wells, Anna Pavlowa, Rudyard
Chenneviere, Vladimir Rebikow, Henrie Waste, and Isadora Duncan, and he
probably would pass entirely unnoticed. On the stage it may be observed
that the muscles of his legs are overdeveloped and his ankles are too
large; that is, if you are in the mood for picking flaws, which most of
us are not in the presence of Nijinsky in action. Here, however,
stricture halts confounded; his head is set on his shoulders in a manner
to give satisfaction to a great sculptor, and his torso, with its
slender waist line, is quite beautiful. On the stage, Nijinsky makes of
himself what he will. He can look tall or short, magnificent or ugly,
fascinating or repulsive. Like so many interpretative artists, he
remoulds himself for his public appearances. It is under the electric
light in front of the painted canvas that he becomes a personality, and
that personality is governed only by the scenario of the ballet he is
representing.
From the day of Nijinsky's arrival, the ensemble of the Ballet improved;
somewhat of the spontaneity of the European performances was regained;
a good deal of the glamour was recaptured; the loose lines were gathered
taut, and the choregraphy of Fokine (Nijinsky is a director as well as a
dancer) was restored to some of its former power. He has appeared in
nine roles in New York during the two short seasons in which he has been
seen with the Russian Ballet here: the Slave in _Scheherazade_,
Petrouchka, the Rose Ghost, the Faun, the Harlequin in _Carneval_,
Narcisse, Till Eulenspiegel, and the principal male roles of _La
Princesse Enchantee_ and _Les Sylphides_. To enjoy the art of Nijinsky
completely, to fully appreciate his genius, it is necessary not only to
see him in a variety of parts, but also to see him in the same role many
times.
Study the detail of his performance in _Scheherazade_, for example. Its
precision alone is noteworthy. Indeed, precision is a quality we see
exposed so seldom in the theatre that when we find it we are almost
inclined to hail it as genius. The role of the Slave in this ballet is
perhaps Nijinsky's scenic masterpiece--exotic eroticism expressed in so
high a key that its very existence seems incredible on our puritanic
stage, and yet with such great art (the artist always expresses himself
with beauty) that the intention is softened by the execution. Before
the arrival of this dancer, _Scheherazade_ had become a police court
scandal. There had been talk of a "Jim Crow" performance in which the
blacks were to be separated from the whites in the harem, and I am told
that our provincial police magistrates even wanted to replace the
"mattresses"--so were the divans of the sultanas described in court--by
rocking chairs! But to the considerably more vivid _Scheherazade_ of
Nijinsky no exception was taken. This strange, curious, head-wagging,
simian creature, scarce human, wriggled through the play, leaving a long
streak of lust and terror in his wake. Never did Nijinsky as the Negro
Slave touch the Sultana, but his subtle and sensuous fingers fluttered
close to her flesh, clinging once or twice questioningly to a depending
tassel. Pierced by the javelins of the Sultan's men, the Slave's death
struggle might have been revolting and gruesome. Instead, Nijinsky
carried the eye rapidly upward with his tapering feet as they balanced
for the briefest part of a second straight high in the air, only to fall
inert with so brilliantly quick a movement that the aesthetic effect
grappled successfully with the feeling of disgust which might have been
aroused. This was acting, this was characterization, so completely
merged in rhythm that the result became a perfect whole, and not a
combination of several intentions, as so often results from the work of
an actor-dancer.
The heart-breaking Petrouchka, the roguish Harlequin, the Chopiniac of
_Les Sylphides_,--all were offered to our view; and _Narcisse_, in which
Nijinsky not only did some very beautiful dancing, but posed (as the
Greek youth admired himself in the mirror of the pool) with such utter
and arresting grace that even here he awakened a definite thrill. In _La
Princesse Enchantee_ he merely danced, but how he danced! Do you who saw
him still remember those flickering fingers and toes? "He winketh with
his eyes, he speaketh with his feet, he teacheth with his fingers," is
written in the Book of Proverbs, and the writer might have had in mind
Nijinsky in _La Princesse Enchantee_. All these parts were
differentiated, all completely realized, in the threefold intricacy of
this baffling art, which perhaps is not an art at all until it is so
realized, when its plastic, rhythmic, and histrionic elements become an
entity.
After a summer in Spain and Switzerland, without Nijinsky, the Russian
Ballet returned to America for a second season, opening at the Manhattan
Opera House October 16, 1916. It is always a delight to hear and see
performances in this theatre, and it was found that the brilliance of
the Ballet was much enhanced by its new frame. The season, however,
opened with a disappointment. It had been announced that Nijinsky would
dance on the first night his choregraphic version of Richard Strauss's
tone-poem, _Till Eulenspiegel_. It is not the first time that a press
agent has made a false prophecy. While rehearsing the new work, Nijinsky
twisted his ankle, and during the first week of the engagement he did
not appear at all. This was doubly unfortunate, because the company was
weaker than it had been the previous season, lacking both Miassine and
Tchernicheva. The only novelty (for America) produced during the first
week was an arrangement of the divertissement from Rimsky-Korsakow's
opera, _Sadko_, which had already been given a few times in Paris and
London by the Ballet, never with conspicuous success. The second week of
the season, Nijinsky returned to appear in three roles, the Faun, Till
Eulenspiegel, and the Slave in _Scheherazade_. Of his performance to
Debussy's lovely music I have written elsewhere; nor did this new vision
cause me to revise my opinions.
_Till Eulenspiegel_ is the only new ballet the Russians have produced in
America. (_Soleil de Nuit_ was prepared in Europe, and performed once at
the Paris Opera before it was seen in New York. Besides, it was an
arrangement of dances from an opera which is frequently given in Russia
and which has been presented at the Opera-Comique in Paris.) The _chef
d'orchestre_, Pierre Monteux, refused to direct performances of this
work, on the ground that the composer was not only a German, but a very
much alive and active German patriot. On the occasions, therefore, that
_Till_ was performed in New York, the orchestra struggled along under
the baton of Dr. Anselm Goetzl. In selecting this work and in his
arrangement of the action Nijinsky was moved, no doubt, by consideration
for the limitations of the company as it existed,--from which he was
able to secure the effects he desired. The scenery and costumes by
Robert E. Jones, of New York, were decidedly diverting--the best work
this talented young man has done, I think. Over a deep, spreading
background of ultramarine, the crazy turrets of mediaeval castles leaned
dizzily to and fro. The costumes were exaggerations of the exaggerated
fashions of the Middle Ages. Mr. Jones added feet of stature to the
already elongated peaked headdresses of the period. The trains of the
velvet robes, which might have extended three yards, were allowed to
trail the full depth of the Manhattan Opera House stage. The colours
were oranges, reds, greens, and blues, those indeed of Bakst's
_Scheherazade_, but so differently disposed that they made an entirely
dissimilar impression. The effect reminded one spectator of a Spanish
omelet.
In arranging the scenario, Nijinsky followed in almost every detail
Wilhelm Klatte's description of the meaning of the music, which is
printed in programme books whenever the tone-poem is performed, without
Strauss's authority, but sometimes with his sanction. Nijinsky was quite
justified in altering the end of the work, which hangs the rogue-hero,
into another practical joke. His version of this episode fits the music
and, in the original _Till Eulenspiegel_ stories, Till is not hanged,
but dies in bed. The keynote of Nijinsky's interpretation was gaiety. He
was as utterly picaresque as the work itself; he reincarnated the spirit
of Gil Blas; indeed, a new quality crept into stage expression through
this characterization. Margaret Wycherly, one of the most active
admirers of the dancer, told me after the first performance that she
felt that he had for the first time leaped into the hearts of the great
American public, whose appreciation of his subtler art as expressed in
_Narcisse_, _Petrouchka_, and even _Scheherazade_, had been more
moderate. There were those who protested that this was not the Till of
the German legends, but any actor who attempts to give form to a folk
or historical character, or even a character derived from fiction, is
forced to run counter to many an observer's preconceived ideas.
[Illustration: WASLAV NIJINSKY IN DEBUSSY'S _JEUX_ (1913)]
"It is an error to believe that pantomime is merely a way of doing
without words," writes Arthur Symons," that it is merely the equivalent
of words. Pantomime is thinking overheard. It begins and ends before
words have formed themselves, in a deeper consciousness than that of
speech. And it addresses itself, by the artful limitations of its craft,
to universal human experience, knowing that the moment it departs from
those broad lines it will become unintelligible. It risks existence on
its own perfection, as the rope-dancer does, to whom a false step means
a down-fall. And it appeals democratically to people of all nations....
And pantomime has that mystery which is one of the requirements of true
art. To watch it is like dreaming. How silently, in dreams, one gathers
the unheard sounds of words from the lips that do but make pretence of
saying them! And does not every one know that terrifying impossibility
of speaking which fastens one to the ground for the eternity of a
second, in what is the new, perhaps truer, computation of time in
dreams? Something like that sense of suspense seems to hang over the
silent actors in pantomime, giving them a nervous exaltation, which has
its subtle, immediate effect upon us, in tragic and comic situation. The
silence becomes an atmosphere, and with a very curious power of giving
distinction to form and motion. I do not see why people should ever
break silence on the stage except to speak poetry. Here, in pantomime,
you have a gracious, expressive silence, beauty of gesture, a perfectly
discreet appeal to the emotions, a transposition of the world into an
elegant accepted convention."
Arthur Symons wrote these words before he had seen the Russian Ballet,
before the Russian Ballet, as we know it, existed, indeed, before
Nijinsky had begun to dance in public, and he felt that the addition of
poetry and music to pantomime--the Wagner music-drama in other
words--brought about a perfect combination of the arts. Nevertheless,
there is an obvious application of his remarks to the present instance.
There is, indeed, the quality of a dream about the characters Nijinsky
presents to us. I remember once, at a performance of the Russian Ballet,
I sat in a box next to a most intelligent man, a writer himself; I was
meeting him for the first time, and he was seeing the Ballet for the
first time. Before the curtain rose he had told me that dancing and
pantomime were very pretty to look at, but that he found no stimulation
in watching them, no mental and spiritual exaltation, such as might
follow a performance of _Hamlet_. Having seen Nijinsky, I could not
agree with him--and this indifferent observer became that evening
himself a fervent disciple of the Ballet. For Nijinsky gave him, he
found, just what his ideal performance of Shakespeare's play might have
given him, a basis for dreams, for thinking, for poetry. The ennobling
effect of all great and perfect art, after the primary emotion, seems to
be to set our minds wandering in a thousand channels, to suggest new
outlets. Pater's experience before the _Monna Lisa_ is only unique in
its intense and direct expression.
No writer, no musician, no painter, can feel deep emotion before a work
of art without expressing it in some way, although the expression may be
a thousand leagues removed from the inspiration. And how few of us can
view the art of Nijinsky without emotion! To the painter he gives a new
sense of proportion, to the musician a new sense of rhythm, while to the
writer he must perforce immediately suggest new words; better still, new
meanings for old words. Dance, pantomime, acting, harmony, all these
divest themselves of their worn-out accoutrements and appear, as if
clothed by magic, in garments of unheard-of novelty; hue, texture, cut,
and workmanship are all a surprise to us. We look enraptured, we go away
enthralled, and perhaps even unconsciously a new quality creeps into our
own work. It is the same glamour cast over us by contemplation of the
Campo Santo at Pisa, or the Roman Theatre at Orange, or the Cathedral at
Chartres,--the inspiration for one of the most word-jewelled books in
any language--or the New York sky line at twilight as one sails away
into the harbour, or a great iron crane which lifts tons of alien matter
in its gaping jaw. Great music can give us this feeling, the symphonies
of Beethoven, Mozart's _Don Giovanni_, Schubert's _C Major Symphony_, or
Cesar Franck's _D Minor_, _The Sacrifice to the Spring_ of Strawinsky,
_L'Apres-midi d'un Faune_ of Debussy, Chabrier's Rhapsody, _Espanya_;
great interpretative musicians can give it to us, Ysaye at his best,
Paderewski, Marcella Sembrich in song recital; but how few artists on
the stage suggest even as much as the often paltry lines of the author,
the often banal music of the composer! There is an _au dela_ to all
great interpretative art, something that remains after story, words,
picture, and gesture have faded vaguely into that storeroom in our
memories where are concealed these lovely ghosts of ephemeral beauty,
and the artist who is able to give us this is blessed even beyond his
knowledge, for to him has been vouchsafed the sacred kiss of the gods.
This quality cannot be acquired, it cannot even be described, but it can
be felt. With its beneficent aid the interpreter not only contributes to
our pleasure, he broadens our horizon, adds to our knowledge and
capacity for feeling.
As I read over these notes I realize that I have not been able to
discover flaws in the art of this young man. It seems to me that in his
chosen medium he approaches perfection. What he attempts to do, he
always does perfectly. Can one say as much for any other interpreter?
But it is a difficult matter to give the spirit of Nijinsky, to describe
his art on paper, to capture the abundant grace, the measureless poetry,
the infinite illusion of his captivating motion in ink. Who can hope to
do it? Future generations must take our word for his greatness. We can
do little more than call it that. I shall have served my purpose if I
have succeeded in this humble article in bringing back to those who have
seen him a flashing glimpse of the imaginative actuality.
_January 16, 1917._
Epilogue
_as a substitute for a preface to the new edition_.
I
It was formerly the custom, in England at any rate, to publish one book
in two or three volumes. Judge, therefore, of my dismay and delight on
discovering, shortly after the first appearance of "Interpreters and
Interpretations," in 1917, that I, abetted by my always delightfully
agreeable publisher, had issued two books in one volume! Even the title
itself fell apart. This practical detail has made it a comparatively
simple matter to exhibit these twins separately in the future, and such
is my intention. This volume, then, contains the first half of the
longer book.
I have been asked occasionally why I devote so much attention in my
writing to interpreters. The answer is, of course, that I devote very
little attention to them, not enough, I sometimes think. This book,
indeed, says nearly all that I have said up to date on the subject. But
I am not at all in sympathy with those critics of music and the drama
who lay stress on the relative unimportance of interpreters. Sometimes I
am inclined to believe that interpreters, who mould their own
personalities rather than clay or words, are greater than creators. I
think we might have a more ideal theatre if interpreters could be their
own creators, like the mediaeval troubadours or the gipsies of Spain. For
there are many disadvantages about creative art. One of them is its
persistence. Beethoven and Dante wrote notes and letters down on paper
and there they remain, apparently forever. It is very annoying. Legends
hover round the names of these artists, and for centuries after their
deaths all the stupid creators in the world try to do something similar
to the work these men have done, and all the really inspired artists
have to pass a period of probation during which they strive to forget
the work these men have done. "You will find," remarks sagaciously one
Henry C. Lunn, "that people will often praise a bad fugue because Bach
has produced so many good ones." It would be much better for everybody
if a law were passed consigning all creative work to the flames ten
years after it saw the light. Then we would have novelty. If Beethoven
recurred again, at least nobody would know it. Any knowledge about books
or pictures or music of the past would have to be carried in the memory
and in a few decades all memory of anything that was not essential would
have disappeared. It must have been a thrilling experience to have
lived in Alexandria at the time the library was burned. Just think,
twenty years after that event, philosophers and professors probably
could be found in Alexandria who did not go round with long faces
telling you what had been done and what should be done. No references to
the early Assyrians and the Greeks until the papyruses were replaced.
The Renaissance and the Revival of Learning, on the other hand,
doubtless pleasant enough at the time, smeared a terrible blot on the
future of art.
Now interpretative art is different. It depends upon the contemporary
individual, and some of its most thrilling effects may be entirely
accidental. Any traditions which persist in interpretative art must be
carried in the memory. In exceptional cases, of course, a singer, a
dancer, or an actor is able to so stamp his or her personal achievement
into the flowing rhythm of artistic space that a _style_ does persist.
We have a very good example before us in the case of Isadora Duncan, who
has been followed by a long train of animated Grecian urns. The
deleterious effect of this persistence of an interpretative tradition
must be apparent to any one. For the imitator of an interpreter is a
thousand times more futile than the imitator of a creator. Fortunately,
on the whole, styles in acting, in singing, and in dancing frequently
change. The Catalani-Jenny Lind-Patti tradition, which God knows has
hung on long enough, is nearly exhausted. We live in the age of the Mary
Garden tradition.
There is another and even better reason why I find it pleasant to write
about interpreters. In looking over the books on music written in the
past I find that the books about singers are infinitely more fascinating
than the books about composers. I am enthralled by what H. F. Chorley
has to say about Pauline Viardot and Henrietta Sontag; I am delighted
with the Goncourt's books about Guimard, Clairon, and Sophie Arnould.
Auguste Ehrhard's "Fanny Elssler" is an extraordinary document and one
cannot afford to miss P. T. Barnum on Jenny Lind and Mapleson on Patti.
But I find that the old scribes on Mozart and Mendelssohn, Beethoven and
Schubert, quite bore me, and it is impossible to say anything new about
these men. Books about Beethoven are still appearing but I advise nobody
to read them. The authors have arrived at that fine point where they can
only compare authorities and quibble about details. Was Beethoven in a
cold sweat when he composed the _Ninth Symphony_ or was he merely angry?
The ink on the manuscript of such and such a work being blotted on a
certain page, interest naturally arises as to whether the fifth note in
the sixteenth bar is F sharp or G flat. Did Haydn or Prince H---- conduct
the first performance of the _Symphony in X major_? Did Weber arrive in
England on Thursday or Friday? And so on. It is all very tiresome.