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