Part 4
The costumes devised by Bakst are of the Victorian period--crinolines and peg-top trousers, of which the quaint prim style, so far removed from modern tendencies, exactly suits the dainty little puppets that flit magically across the stage. Pierrot, of course, appears as ever in voluminous white clothes, but Columbine and Harlequin, though instantly to be recognised, are dressed a little differently from the mode which the harlequinade, as it used commonly to be presented in this country, has stereotyped. But then, neither Columbine nor Harlequin in “Le Carnaval” are the stilted, meaningless creatures to which the base usage of the English so-called “pantomime” has degraded them. Their true characters are restored: they intrigue the eye as airy figments of irresponsible fancy--she the embodiment of freakish sentiment, he of freakish humour. Columbine is no longer a well-favoured wench attired in a scanty _tu-tu_, pirouetting with moderate skill upon her toes, but the incarnation of feminine mutability and charm: bespangled Harlequin has lost the silly wand with, which he was wont to slap about him indiscriminately, and has become Arlecchino, the spirit of unbridled mirth and mischief. The dance (in which general term one includes the supplementary art of pantomime) alone perhaps can express these conceptions of modern mythology, and the embodiment, the reality, which Karsavina and Nijinsky give to them is possible only through their perfection in that art. Than Nijinsky’s performance in “Le Carnaval,” no more complete exposition can be imagined of all that the dancer’s art comprises.
Three times have separate couples--fantastic, irresponsible figures--flitted lightly across the stage in arch retreat and gay pursuit, when the curtains at the back are parted and Pierrot’s white face protrudes. Dismally he glances left and right. No one is near, and with every motion of his dejected figure eloquent of suffering, he advances from his hiding-place. A few paces taken, he pauses, the victim not only of misery, but of indecision. Poor
Pierrot, “temperament “ personified, in everything it is all or nothing with him. Just now he finds himself deceived--and his abandonment to grief reaches the utmost limits of despair. He has no longer zest for anything in the world--and his vacillation is equally intense. Why should he go forward--or backward--to left or right? Why stand up--why sit down? Why do anything, _be_ anything? So he stands there, the picture of indetermination, his baggy clothes hanging anyhow about him, his very limbs so loosely jointed that they seem to be without definite control.
Sprightly and agile, extremity of contrast to nerveless, flabby Pierrot, there enters Harlequin. Mischief, all spry and self-contained, is ignorant of pity, and Folly becomes an instant butt for mockery and ridicule. Poor witless Pierrot, defenceless against the shafts of raillery, takes a few wild steps in blundering flight. But even that impulse fails him and he collapses in an inert heap upon the floor. And as he lies there, a huddled heap of misery, there passes before his dismal gaze all the mirth and gaiety in which he cannot pluck up heart, for all his longing, to join. He sees the sentimental pairs go by in elegant procession, each swain intent upon his mistress, and never a look, demure or bold, from bright eyes in his direction: he is witness of the pleasant melancholy of lovelorn youth, seeking and in ecstasy finding the object of its tender passion. He is present unobserved at a declaration of love, and it is this which spurs him at length to a spasmodic effort. For as the amorous pair, the declaration made and enchantingly accepted, trip gaily from the scene, Pierrot, with sudden zeal for emulation, dashes madly after them.
It is but a fitful flash of energy, however, and hardly has another sentimental passage ended betwixt a gallant and his fair, when Pierrot, disconsolate, returns. But even as he slouches mournfully in, he encounters Papillon, whose fluttering butterfly grace fills him with instant rapture. Gloom is banished on the instant: the fickle Pierrot is in a transport of delight. Clumsily he pursues her, hat in hand, seeking like a loutish boy to capture her. But her fluttering steps elude him; she leads him here and there in a dizzy maze and is gone, out of reach, at the very moment when the foolish oaf flings his hat down and thinks to have imprisoned her. With grotesque excess of cunning he lifts the hat’s brim, an eager paw ready to pounce upon the pretty captive. But nothing is there! The idiotic leer fades from his face, his whole figure sags as the momentary zest dies out, and plunged once more in the depths of despondency, he drifts aimlessly away.
The gay and sentimental revelry goes on. Columbine appears, with Harlequin dancing attendance. Hardly have they come upon the scene when they encounter Pantalon--an odd little figure of fun with yellow coat, green gloves, and a preposterous stripe down the length of his trouser. Concealing her roguish escort behind her petticoat, Columbine makes an easy victim of the senile Pantalon, only to hold him up to ridicule when he plunges into fervent protestations. Heartlessly she mocks her unfortunate dupe as, whirled off his feet by the agile Harlequin, he is made to beat an ignominious retreat.
There follows not only an enchanting _pas de deux_ by Columbine and Harlequin, but some delicious pantomime between the two. Harlequin makes as if to lay his heart at Columbine’s feet (he verily seems to pluck it from his bosom and place it before her): she receives the tribute with becoming favour, and retiring to one of the sofas in the background, continues the flirtation. Whilst the pair are still seated, there trip on to the stage some score of couples, and amongst them Pierrot, once more animated, and again seeking vainly to capture Papillon. His new attempt is no more successful than his first, and in the dance to which all abandon themselves he alone is partnerless.
In some degree inspired out of his melancholy, however, Pierrot capers awkwardly amongst the rest, till Harlequin and Columbine spy a chance for further mischief. They join him in the dance, one on either side, and seizing an opportunity when Pantalon, as undeterred by his first rebuff as a moth whose wings are only singed, is hovering near, they throw the two into collision, deftly envelop them with Pierrot’s long sleeves, and secure the grotesque partnership with a hasty knot. As the curtain descends the two victims of their gay malice are seen stumbling in each other’s clutch amidst the mockery of the dancing throng.
CLÉOPÂTRE.
CHOREOGRAPHIC DRAMA IN ONE ACT BY MICHEL FOKINE.
MUSIC BY ARENSKY, TANEIEV, RIMSKY-KORSAKOV, GLINKA AND GLAZOUNOV.
SCENES AND DANCES BY MICHEL FOKINE.
SCENERY AND COSTUMES DESIGNED BY LÉON BAKST.
It is the supreme merit of “Cléopâtre” that it is of an even and sustained excellence throughout. All concerned in its production and performance have surpassed themselves, but since each has risen equally to the occasion there are no outstanding features to distract the balance of the whole. The result is merely the elevation of the latter to a very high artistic level.
It will be agreed that few subjects more suggestive and inspiring could be found than Cleopatra. For colour, movement and dramatic intensity the legend of the Egyptian queen affords opportunities which have in no wise been allowed to slip. Léon Bakst has done nothing more largely fine than the spacious temple in the desert by the Nile, the deep tawny grandeur of which, broad and simple, provides a proper setting for the splendid, gem-like brilliance of Cleopatra’s train. Here is enacted, against a background of choric dances that have more than a conventional significance, one of those fierce passionate episodes which the Russians so vividly present.
Beyond the tall columns which enclose the sacred precinct we see the desert sand and the waters of the Nile. Hither, as the dusk of an Eastern night is enveloping the scene, comes Ta-hor, a young princess, in quest of her lover Amoûn, to whom she has been promised by the high priest of the temple. She is first at the tryst, but in a moment Amoûn comes leaping to meet her. The bow he carries in his hand seems symbolic of his manly youth and virile strength. The lusty vigour of his agile bounds, the impetuous onrush of his approach to his beloved, are eloquent of his careless abandon to the joy of life and love.
But their tender intercourse is broken by the entry of the high priest, who announces to them the approach of Cleopatra and her train. The great queen is come to accomplish a vow made to the deity of the temple, and already is at hand. Soon the head of the royal procession appears, and to the music of lutes and pipes there files into the precinct a glittering retinue.
Attended by slaves and guarded by soldiers, a large object, having the appearance of a painted sarcophagus, is borne in shoulder high, and set down with ceremony and care upon the temple pavement.
The doors of this strange litter are thrown open, revealing within what seems to be a mummy tightly swathed in voluminous
At last a single blue veil only interposes its thin curtain. The hidden figure, statuesque till now, with a sweeping motion of the hand waves aside the gauzy cloud, and Cleopatra stands revealed in all her dire beauty, her queenly dignity and splendour.
Imperiously she stretches forth a hand. Her negro slave, watchful at her side as any dog, darts forward and stoops to receive the pressure of her palm upon his head. Thus supported she moves slowly to the divan, which assiduous hands have placed in readiness at one side. As she declines upon the cushions, the great fans held above the couch begin rhythmically to oscillate. Slaves and attendants group themselves about her, eager to anticipate her lightest command.
Amoûn, unnoticed in the background, has been observant of all that has passed. Less so Ta-hor, to whose quick feminine intuition the coming of Cleopatra has been a presage of evil. During all that has passed, her eyes have been fastened upon her lover in anxious solicitude; she has noted with a pang of terror the sudden passion with which the dazzling revelation of the awful queen smote him. Vainly she tries to hold him as he now strides forward, and approaches the royal couch.
The angry snarl of her negro slave, who bares his teeth like any cur at the bold intruder, gives warning to the queen of the stranger’s presence. But she makes no sign of cognisance, and ere Amoûn can utter a word, or indeed collect his thoughts out of the stupor into which they have swooned, Ta-hor has seized him and is whispering passionately, insistently in his ear. For an instant the young man is recalled to himself, and suffers his betrothed to lead him away. With eyes that nought escapes, for all that they seem to stare fixedly into space, the sinister queen observes the lovers, and the yielding of Amoûn to Ta-hor’s urgent pleading. But she gives no sign except to bid the ceremonial rites begin.
Ta-hor herself must needs lead the dance which now takes place. Perforce she leaves her lover, and with what heart she can muster enters upon her task. Motionless, prone upon her couch, the glittering queen reposes, and from a distance the fated Amoûn feasts his eyes upon her beauty. An irresistible lure attracts him; ere he knows what he is doing he is pressing eagerly through the maze of dancers towards his doom. His movement is quickly seen by Ta-hor. Again she intervenes, and once more, though this time with reluctance, Amoûn allows himself to be withdrawn. But for all Ta-hor’s devotion his destiny is plain.
The rites proceed, and Ta-hor, with aching heart, must resume her place amongst the dancers. Amoûn, feeding the fires of passion in the shadowy background, is forgotten as the dance goes on its way. Suddenly, on a strident note, an arrow quivers in the ground beside the queen’s divan. The dancers cease abruptly, soldiers dart forward, consternation and amazement seize the whole court. Cleopatra alone remains unmoved. Not a muscle of her body twitches, not a flicker of emotion is discernible in her face. She is inscrutable as fate, and as patient.
In a moment the guards re-enter, bringing with them Amoûn, the tell-tale bow in his hand. He shows no fear, but rather eagerness, as they hale him before the queen, on whom he fixes his fascinated gaze. Already the arrow has been plucked out of the ground, and a message, writ on papyrus, found attached to it. As Cleopatra rises to confront the prisoner, her slave girl reads out the ardent profession of love. Unabashed, Amoûn awaits his answer or his doom.
With secret smile the queen surveys this latest victim of her fatal charms. But here Ta-hor, agonised witness of her lover’s self-destruction, flings herself passionately between them. Cleopatra, unmoved even to disdain, turns aside while Ta-hor strives to regain her hold upon Amoûn. This time her pleading is in vain. The die is cast; Amoûn, no longer master of his own will, has eyes and ears only for the siren to whom his whole being is surrendered. Though Ta-hor clings about his feet, he but tramples her underfoot and presses for sentence from his more than queen.
From under the low brow, the basilisk eyes of Cleopatra fasten on their prey. Narrowly she scans her would-be lover, who meets her gaze frankly and undismayed. He is young, he is brave, he is fair to see. An eternal night of love, says the queen, shall be his, if he choose to take it. This night he shall share her couch; at dawn he must drink oblivion from a poisoned cup. Amoûn hears unflinchingly, unflinchingly accepts.
Slaves busy themselves with preparation of the royal couch. Ta-hor, in a last frenzy of despair, casts herself upon Amoûn. Love gives her strength, and by the sheer fury of her onslaught she bears her lover away from the dreadful presence of the queen. But Amoûn recovers himself, and with equal fury resists the efforts of Ta-hor to drag him from the temple. Against his male strength the utmost force of her weak arms is unavailing; he bursts from their clutch and dashes eagerly forward to where his implacable enchantress awaits him. Ta-hor, the last resource of her devotion spent, creeps forth, broken-hearted, to the desert.
Within the temple music and dance provide voluptuous accompaniment to Amoûn’s dedication--nay, immolation--of himself. The whirling forms of the dancers half conceal him as he yields to the seductive embraces of the queen. Released for the while from their attendance on her person, slave boy and slave girl of Cleopatra celebrate the amorous triumph of their mistress in a dance of wild abandon, which gives place to a _bacchanale_ into which a band of Greek dancers, with attendant satyrs, fling themselves in an orgy of frenzied movement.
The riot of dance and music has risen to a climax, when the tall figure of the high priest approaches Cleopatra’s couch. In his hand he bears a cup, and his gaze is upturned to the stars now
paling before the coming dawn. The appointed hour is nigh. The queen rises, and as her lover, hanging on her every motion, gains his feet, he is confronted by this gaunt minister of fate, death in his outstretched hands. Memory with sudden shock sobers Amoûn’s intoxicated senses. He recalls his doom. For a single moment he hesitates, seeking a ray of hope in Cleopatra’s face. But the queen is adamant, a figure turned to stone. Resolutely the young man receives the cup from the high priest’s hand, but never taking his eyes from his mistress’ face. Resolutely he puts it to his lips, and with his gaze still fixed upon the queen, drains it to the lees.
A spasm contorts the victim’s body. He reels, staggers, and clutching horribly at the empty air, falls writhing at the queen’s feet. The poison is swift, potent; and though the agony seems long-drawn-out and dreadful,
in a few moments only a lifeless corpse remains of what had been so full of vigorous, ardent life. Silently the train of musicians, dancers and the rest look on at this dire climax to the night’s fierce drama.
Motionless above the prostrate body stands Cleopatra, with arms upraised and outward bent palms. Her countenance, inscrutable as ever, betrays no sign of the ecstasy in which her strange being now exults; more eloquent is the tension to which her supple limbs are strung. Some moments thus she remains, then with a gesture summons her slaves, and leaning her weight upon them departs from the temple. Silently her retinue follows, none heeding the body of Amoûn save the high priest, who casts a black cloth over it as he passes.
Empty save for the dark object lying on the pavement, the sacred precinct glimmers in the growing light of dawn. A small figure appears at the back, enters, and looks eagerly around. It is Ta-hor come to seek traces of her lost betrothed. With hurried steps she advances, looking fearfully from side to side. The dark object arrests her eye; she runs forward and stoops above it. She seizes a corner of the cloth, but fears, for an agonising moment of suspense, to lift it. At last she drags it aside, and finds herself peering into the glazed eyes of her beloved. She casts herself down, chafing the limp hands, kissing the still warm lips. But her tender ministrations are in vain. The awful truth flashes blindingly upon her, and she falls, stricken, across the inert body.
LES SYLPHIDES.
ROMANTIC REVERIE BY MICHEL FOKINE.
MUSIC BY CHOPIN,
ORCHESTRATED BY GLAZOUNOV, LIADOV, TANEIEV, SOKOLOV AND STRAVINSKY.
SCENERY AND COSTUMES DESIGNED BY ALEXANDRE BENOIS.
In some respects the most beautiful, “Les Sylphides” is certainly the most difficult of the ballets to describe. It defies description, in fact. To quote the simple words of the Russians themselves: “Amidst a scene of ruins, a series of classical dances takes place with no purpose but their musical and choreographic interest.” The statement is bald, but accurate. The writer might have expressed himself a little less drily, however; and it may be added here that the choreographic interest of these beautiful dances is of a quality which more than compensates the absence of the dramatic. For once the trite definition of dancing as the poetry of motion acquires a real significance. The music to which these episodes have been set is Chopin’s, and the result is worthy of the inspiration.
The stage setting in which “Les Sylphides” is most familiar is simple enough--a sylvan grove, moonlit, revealing dimly a few fragments of pillars, walls, as it might be, of some ruined temple. The dancers wear the formal garb of the ballet, which may seem not quite in place in so romantic an environment. But the whole affair is frankly artificial; the conventions of the moment accepted, the scene has a charm and fascination of its own which perhaps only a Degas could render. The later scenery which the Russians have employed, though similar in general character, lacks the element of mystery which enhanced the value of the earlier setting as a background to the dances.
In all the troupe of dancers Nijinsky is the only man, and he is seen at first, an appropriate if somewhat effeminate figure with flowing locks and “æsthetic” attire, the centre of a bevy of female figures. The nocturne with which the sequence of musical passages begins is made the excuse for poses, and for the arrangement in harmonious groupings of the whole _corps de ballet_. It is the preface, as it were, a trifle stilted and formal, to an anthology of lyric verses.
The poetry begins with the valse executed by Karsavina, a glorious expression of abandonment to joy; no intricacy of mincing steps feebly pattering in the music’s wake, but a generous enlargement to the rhythmic influence abroad. More delicate and dainty, a thing of dactyls and trochees, one might say, is the following mazurka by Nijinska, flitting with the lightness of gossamer in and out the scattered groups of white-clad maidens.
A mazurka also is the _pas seul_ upon which Nijinsky in his turn launches himself. Launch is an appropriate word, for there is something suggestive of abandonment to a tumult of waters in the movements of the dancer’s limbs. He seems to cast himself loose upon the music’s tide, which bears him buoyantly, tossed now here, now there, until its ebb. He is the sport and plaything of the flood of melody; dancing not to it, but with it or by it--almost, indeed, _on_ it.
The intoxication of Nijinsky’s solo is succeeded more sedately by new groupings and posings of the _corps de ballet_, which serve as foil to the graceful movements of Ludmila Schollar. In the valse which follows Karsavina and Nijinsky are seen, if not in a display of such virtuosity as their previous dances have occasioned, in a partnership of conjoint motion most exquisitely attuned to the inspiring and directing strains. The passage includes a brief _pas seul_ by Karsavina, some charming poses, and a concluding duet which is, perhaps, the supreme perfection of the many perfect things the suite of dances has presented.
The end must needs be hastened after such a climax, and the valse brillante performed by the entire troupe of dancers ends the spectacle fittingly upon a lively note. Karsavina, Nijinska, Schollar--all the principals in turn are thrown into relief against the rhythmically moving background of the white-robed Sylphides, among whom, embodiment of a poet’s dream, leaping, swaying, rocking with a vigour no less than a grace of body to the music’s impelling lilt, “papillone le jeune Nijinsky.”
SCHEHERAZADE.
CHOREOGRAPHIC DRAMA BY LÉON BAKST AND MICHEL FOKINE.
MUSIC BY RIMSKY-KORSAKOV.
SCENES AND DANCES BY MICHEL FOKINE.
SCENERY AND COSTUMES DESIGNED BY LÉON BAKST.
Sensuousness is the note of “Scheherazade” throughout--a sensuousness that is next-of-kin to sensuality. It is an unbridled affair altogether, and for this very reason the ballet is among the most _completely_ successful performances which the Russians have given. It contains nothing that strains the limitations of their art, its essential motive is simple, even crude, and the condition necessary to its vitality--that all concerned should let themselves go--has been faithfully observed. Human passions, if sufficiently elementary, being identical in all men, there is a sympathy between the methods by which the various authors of this ballet have treated its twin themes of lust and cruelty which produces an harmonious whole. The music of Rimsky-Korsakov, though not composed for the special purpose, has essential qualities which made easy, and amply justified, the task of adaptation. As an artistic exposition of violence “Scheherazade” is perhaps unique.