Part 7
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 the ardent 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 all evil. 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 and her 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 against the 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 his soul, 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 of grotesque 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.
LE PAVILLON D’ARMIDE.
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 a long 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 London _maître de ballet_ are 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 a wayside 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 at first reclining on the dais, from which she descends to give expression to her mood of _ennui_. 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 long _pas seul_ in 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--a _rôle_ intended 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 the _valse 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 a _dream_? He turns impetuously, expectantly, to the tapestry, but all is still. It _was_ a 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.
POLOVTSIAN DANCES FROM “PRINCE IGOR.”
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 forth a 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.
Prince Igor is shown much deference by his captor, who presently suggests that he should purchase liberty at the price of an undertaking never again to take up arms against the Polovtzi. The Prince, scorning the offer, maintains an indignant silence, from which he refuses to be drawn. In the hope of distracting him the Khan summons the tribe and orders a dance to be begun.
It is at this point that the curtain rises, on occasions when only the dances are presented. The stage picture disclosed is effective in the extreme. The camp is crowded with figures, and the gorgeous colours of the Tartar dresses glow brilliantly in the warm
light. When singers are available the chorus is massed round the arena cleared for the dancers, and the added numbers greatly enhance the general effect.
A long-drawn chant is the signal for the beginning of the dance, in which a troupe of slave girls, splendidly attired, first perform. They presently seat themselves, and are joined by a group of warriors. To these more are added, and at the head of the band their captain places himself.
A tall, stalwart figure, the captain shakes his bow aloft and leads his men in the dance with all the furious _bravura_ with which, one fancies, he would lead them into battle. There is first an amorous passage--a simulated courtship (or at least abduction!) when the braves steal softly up behind the expectant damsels, seize them, and lift them shoulder high in their arms. Then the Tartar girls mingle with the warriors, and as the dance proceeds it grows more fierce and animated, spurred on by the exultant war song defiantly chanted by the chorus of onlookers.
The appetite for vehemence increases, and a knot of young men dash impetuously forward, slapping their thighs resoundingly as they hurl themselves about with all the skill and daring of a practised acrobat. After them the bowmen dart once more into the fray--for fray by this time it has almost become. Their captain leaps and bounds before them, tossing his bow high into the air, catching it as it falls in mid-career, making as if to loose an arrow from the twanging string. The chanted chorus swells in a triumphant _crescendo_. The warriors, in strenuous emulation of their leader, goad themselves to still fiercer transports, until with a succession of mad rushes, rank upon rank of prancing legs and brandished arms, this wild barbaric display is brought to its terminating climax.