Chapter II: Part 2

The woman looks again at the distant scene; then turns to another with a whispered word. At the movement heads are turned, figures that seemed indolent lose their sloth. Something is toward; the whispers are pregnant with meaning. Thamar alone, recumbent on her couch, gives no sign of life. One might suppose she slumbered, but for the cat-like swiftness with which, at a word from one of her attendants, she turns towards the window. Half raising herself, as a stalking leopard lifts shoulders and neck to watch its distant prey, she takes a wisp of gauze from her pillow and slowly waves it above her head. A stranger, errant among the lonely mountain sides, has espied the castle, and approaches. Even now he stands below the walls gazing at the fateful casement. Twice and again the seductive signal is repeated. Its purpose then appears to be achieved, for the scarf is dropped and Thamar, springing from the couch, turns to her expectant court.

Orders are issued, but of these there scarce seems need, with such accustomed readiness do the Queen’s minions set about their tasks. Without ado the guards stationed at the doors prepare to sally forth, wrapping themselves in voluminous black cloaks. A subtle touch, those cloaks. They suggest the bleak, inhospitable wilderness without, emphasising the warmth and luxury of the brilliant scene within--an emphasis which is enhanced by the decorative value, considering the scene pictorially, of the black irregular masses which the shrouded high-capped figures present against the general riot of colour. When presently the stranger is led in, likewise cloaked and muffled, that contrast is again insisted upon. The stranger, it is instantly apparent, is travel-weary: one divines the curiosity and wonder with which he finds himself led into an atmosphere of ease and luxury which his tired senses, despite the bandage over his eyes, must gratefully apprehend.

Meanwhile, the Queen has been preparing for the advent of her guest. As the escort departs to bring him in, the women busy themselves with Thamar’s person. Deftly and swiftly she is robed, and ere the door opens to admit the doomed stranger, she is ready and awaiting her prey.

Wonderful mime that she is, I doubt whether Karsavina in any _rôle_ excels her impersonation of the feline Thamar. Her every movement, under its sinuous grace, has that suggestion of stealth which fascinates while it affrights. From the moment that the guileless stranger is brought before her--for there is that in her attitude, as she awaits his coming, which proclaims him not guest, but victim--till the fierce climax, she never relaxes the tension under which his apprehension of her close-pent, volcanic energy places the spectator. It is as though one watched a panther sporting with some innocent creature that mistakes the play for mere kittenish frolic: as beautiful, as horrid, and as certain in its

ending is Thamar’s way with her victim. The final pounce one awaits as inevitable: the interval is filled with the exquisite agony of suspense.

Embodiment of action in arrest is Queen Thamar as, for a brief moment, she regards the figure of the unsuspecting stranger. Then, loosing suddenly her restraint, she springs upon him, and reaching up a slender arm with eager fingers tears the bandage from his face. Fiercely she scans him: he is fair to see. So, too, is Thamar, and if in that swift interchange of searching looks the wild blood courses more hotly through the siren’s veins, be sure that passion scarce a whit less fiery kindles in the youth, so strangely and suddenly confronted by the glowing, sinister beauty of the Queen.

At a sign from Thamar attendants come forward to relieve the stranger of his travelling gear. Disengaging herself from his grasp, the Queen retires to a table at the side, on which stands a wine cup and flagon. From the background she watches avidly while her women are busy. The stranger’s cloak and high-crowned hat are removed, and he stands revealed--handsome, well-favoured, a very proper figure of a man. He gazes about him rapt in admiration and delight, but ere he can espy again the figure of the arch enchantress, a group of dancing girls advances and encircles him. The graceful measures which they tread distract his attention as he stands, pleased and diverted, in their midst.

The bevy of girls gives way to a more potent allurement. Thamar herself, darting forward, now begins a dance of fascination before the stranger’s eager eyes. With her first lithe movements she asserts her mastery over his enraptured senses. As the moth round the flame of the candle, he hovers on the outskirts of her mazy dance, the reviving blood within him gaining warmth as he feasts his quickening senses on her beauty and grace.

As Thamar continues to dance, so increasingly wavers the young man’s hold upon himself. She saps his power of restraint to the very verge; then on a sudden interrupts the dance, and runs to the table. Ere the stranger can collect himself she is before him, offering with regal courtesy a brimming wine cup. He hesitates to drink, but held by the fascination of her eye he suffers her to lead him, unresisting, to the couch. As they gain the steps of the divan a troupe of dancers enters. Musicians, with quaint stringed instruments, are already seated along the walls, and forthwith, a joyous revel is begun.

The lilt of the music, the throbbing rhythm of the dance, complete the spell which Thamar’s beauty has begun. With eyes intent only upon the face of his enchantress, the stranger puts the potion to his lips. As he sets the wine cup down, Thamar eludes the embrace he proffers and glides away. The youth pursues her through the whirling ranks of dancers, but at a sign from Thamar the women take him by the hand and lead him from the chamber. Reluctant to go, he yet submits to be escorted thus, since the purpose is but to attire him more fitly for the night-long revel.

Left alone amidst her court, Thamar draws inspiration for her approaching deeds of lust and violence from the savage frenzy of her followers. Her henchmen crowd around her, goading her willing spirit with the vigour of their dance. Rapidly the frenzy of that dance increases; the armed men draw their daggers, hurling them points downward to the floor in the midst of their whirling evolutions. Thamar, aloof, looks on with heaving breasts. As she watches her excitement grows, till at length with an imperious gesture she bids her attendants bring the stranger in once more. The women fly at her behest, and Thamar, with sudden resolution, masters her outward evidences of passion, and gains the divan just as the stranger, in rich gala attire, is ushered in.

The dance of armed men has ceased, and the entering youth is greeted by a bevy of girls, each with a tabor in her hand, who dance before him, and presently lead him to the royal couch. The youth advances gladly; but Thamar, stealthily immobile, affects to ignore him. Spurred thus to ingratiate himself, the stranger essays a dance before the object of his passion. He is tall, he is shapely, he is active; his leaps and nimble movements display to advantage his virile elegance and grace. Thamar, watching him intently, is swept past all restraint and casts dissimulation aside. Swiftly she darts upon him, and joins him in the dance. The swaying measure which they foot in concert sets their pulses throbbing to the point beyond endurance. As the music swells in volume, the women are caught by the intoxication of the moment, and as the armed men in their turn join the dance, the stranger finds himself supporting the form of Thamar in their midst. The moment of ecstasy, of abandon, is reached. A pregnant pause--then Thamar has flung herself upon the stranger, fastened her lips upon his, and fleeing from the chamber, drawn him in pursuit.

The disappearance of the two protagonists is the signal for resumption of the revels. Violently and yet more violently throbs the music, wilder and yet wilder rages the furious dance. The casement which earlier admitted the sunset rays has long been closed, and one may believe the night to be far spent ere the revels have reached this pitch of bacchic frenzy. The orgy is at its height when the stranger, alone, re-enters the chamber. His breath is laboured, his gait unsteady, as he staggers under the heady influence of overmastering passion. At sight of him the dancers pause, eyeing him askance, curious but aloof. The wretched youth, at grips with his passion, pays no heed to them, but even as he yields and turns again towards the door, the object of his thirsting desire confronts him. The Queen takes him by the hand and fawns upon him, savagely seductive. The youth is wax beneath her fierce caress, and though the watching eyes of all the court are upon him, he can but gaze, spell-bound, upon his Circe.

Thamar, not less than her victim, is in the clutch of over-whelming passion. The hour is at hand, and as the fateful moment approaches, she thrills with fearful expectancy. Bemused, the luckless stranger sees not the dagger which Thamar with stealthy motion of the hand withdraws from her girdle; neither does he note the yawning abyss, revealed through a panel in the wall a watchful guard has rolled noiselessly aside, towards which his unheeding steps are being surely and relentlessly guided. There comes at last the climax. Even as the infatuated youth leans towards her, with a tigerish spring the Queen stabs him to the heart. He is already on the brink of the open precipice; and as he reels backward under the blow, a push from the minion at his elbow sends him hurling to the rushing torrent far below. Thamar with outstretched neck watches, in gloating ecstasy, the consummation of her fell design.

The panel in the wall slides back again. The guards resume their posts of duty. The courtiers, grouped about the chamber, relapse into immobility. The appointed doom is achieved. What was to be, is. Once more the sense of fantastic unreality asserts itself in the spectator’s mind. Mere ghouls, dread phantoms in human form, this dazzling throng of courtiers--not creatures of warm flesh and blood as in the midst of their simulated revelry he had almost deemed them. Thamar alone exhibits emotion. It is not remorse, however, which sets her shivering as with an ague, and turns her knees to water. Reaction must follow action, and the hideous spectre that treads so close upon the heels of indulgence has her in its grip. The hour has passed, the supreme moment has gone; and Thamar, like every true artist, is plunged in depths that are measurable only by the heights she has erstwhile scaled.

The court, regarding her attentive but impassive, is dismissed with a gesture, and the great chamber is cleared of all save Thamar and her women, by whom she is now unrobed. As the festal garments drop from her, the Queen’s exhaustion, physical and mental, seems to verge upon collapse. Slowly she gains the head of her couch, as the arras is drawn from before the window. Night has fled and the purple rays of the dawn pour into the room. The Queen steps into the midst of this luminous flood, drinking deep of the morning glory. Her senses revive, she imbibes new vigour, the black shadows are lifted from her. As presently she lays herself upon the couch, her women sink to rest upon their cushions.

Thus from supreme climax the action of the ballet subsides gradually to statuesque immobility once more. Stillness broods over the quiet figures of Thamar and her women. Realisation comes suddenly to the spectator that the scene is now identical with that which the lifting curtain first disclosed. And at that moment of quick apprehension--a woman stirs! In a flash of inspiration the spectator’s eye, outrunning the action on the stage, foresees the inevitable happening. Is not the whole ghastly round yet fresh and vivid in his mind? The woman looks again, whispers to another. A third bends to the Queen’s ear, and as the curtain slowly descends the treacherous scarf is being once more lightly tossed into the air.

LE CARNAVAL.

PANTOMIME-BALLET BY MICHEL FOKINE.

MUSIC BY ROBERT SCHUMANN,

ORCHESTRATED BY RIMSKY-KORSAKOV, LIADOV, GLAZOUNOV AND TCHEREPNIN.

SCENERY AND COSTUMES DESIGNED BY LÉON BAKST.

“Le Carnaval,” which has been built upon Schumann’s well-known music, is a ballet of the type which defies pedestrian description. If one may term “incident” so trifling an affair as, let us say, a butterfly’s flirtation with a flower, then “Le Carnaval” is full of incident. But it has no story, no dramatic development of a plot, to give a theme for narrative. The very characters bear relation to each other only as the _personæ_ of a carnival.

The characters, indeed, are scarcely to be regarded as actual men and women. Harlequin, Columbine, Pierrot and the rest who flit across the scene, are no mere impersonations of those traditional figures of fancy by gay revellers at a _bal masqué_, but themselves--living embodiments of different phases of irresponsible humanity. The spectator is conscious of an atmosphere of unreality, a sense almost of illusion. On the wings of fancy he is transported far from the realm of adamantine fact, and in a region of pure sentiment sees materialised the whole idea of Carnival.

It is to the appearance of unreality, perhaps, that the ballet owes its peculiar appeal and charm. Elsewhere some explanation has been attempted of the fascination which the puppet exercises on the human mind, and similar comments apply in the present case. For though the figures of “Le Carnaval” are not, as in “Pétrouchka,” poor dolls aping humanity, in essence they are puppets just as much--embodiments in miniature of various human traits at which we can afford to laugh without offended vanity. Watching “Le Carnaval,” indeed, we are verily in puppet-dom; so completely is a severance from matter-of-fact reality achieved.

This note of fantasy is maintained in chief by the exceeding deftness of the performers, and the sensitive lightness of their touch. But not a little is owed to the bold simplicity of Bakst’s _décor_. There is no scenery; merely an immense green curtain for background, and for furniture a couple of odd little striped sofas. The bareness of the stage, the great height of the curtain behind, have the effect of dwarfing the figures of the dancers; the elimination of all superfluous detail produces a needed concentration of attention on their movements. There being no dramatic action to unfold, sentiment rather than passion--and that of the most artificial kind--being the matter for portrayal, gesture and the dance are here submitted to the severest test as means of expression. Artificiality demands, in representation, the most deft and polished art--of course, of a strictly conventional and academic kind. That formal perfection the Russians achieve in “Le Carnaval”--a perfection so absolute that formality is forgotten, eclipsed in its own apotheosis. So nicely do the performers exploit, while never transgressing, the conventions by which the ballet is conditioned, that for once artifice seems natural, and sentiment as real as passion.

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

wraps. Delicately and reverently the muffled figure is lifted forth, and stood endwise upon a pair of raised sandals, or pattens, which have been placed in readiness. The outline of a human figure is faintly perceived under the gauzy wrappings, which slave girls now begin gently to unwind. Twelve veils in all, each of rare colour and design, are thus removed, and as their filmy texture is wafted aside, the contours of a female figure become more plainly discernible.

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.

The ballet is of the same _genre_ as “Thamar,” with which it has many points of similarity. The latter, however, has the advantage of an elusive charm derived from its legendary basis. One might expect that an excerpt from “The Arabian Nights” would also possess this magic, but “Scheherazade” lacks the indefinable something which “Thamar” has. The distinction, arising out of a difference of treatment, is slight, though real--a mere matter of emphasis, of heaviness of touch. “Scheherazade” is the sheer, brute realism of fact, “Thamar” rather the vivid embodiment of fancy.

Scheherazade, it will be recalled, was the teller of the famous tales which for a thousand and one nights beguiled the moody Sultan Schariar. The action of the ballet which bears her name is derived from the incident which according to tradition led up to the Sultan’s savage determination to slay every morning a wife newly-wed overnight,--a practice only ended by the story-telling art of one of the intended victims. Scheherazade herself does not, therefore, figure in the ballet. The title of Rimsky-Korsakov’s symphonic suite has been borrowed.

Reclining upon a divan in the sybaritic apartments of his women, we see the Sultan Schariar taking his ease. His wife Zobéide is beside him, soliciting attention with caresses which he scarcely deigns to heed. The other women, of lesser estate than the Sultana, are grouped around, sedulous in the flattery of watchful eagerness to forestall their lord’s least wish. At the monarch’s other elbow sits Schah-Zeman, his brother, recipient in only lesser degree of similar ministrations.

But the Sultan Schariar is in gloomy mood; his brow is clouded, and the blandishments of Zobéide elicit no response. Distraction must be sought. Obedient to a summons, the chief eunuch presents himself, profuse of service, officious of advice. Fussily he hastens to execute the commands which he receives, and in response to his signals three odalisques make graceful entry. They dance before the court, now moving swiftly in a lively measure, now posing lithe bodies and entwining arms as only long training in the arts of seduction could teach.

The women of the harem look on jealously, fearing a skill that threatens rivalry with their own. But the Sultan takes little notice of the dancing figures before him, and Zobéide, watchfully intent upon his face, notes with vague premonitory fears his gloom deepening into sullenness. From clouds so heavy lightning may presently flash. Ever and anon the Sultan mutters a secret word into his brother’s ear. They whisper like conspirators.

The dancing girls are presently dismissed, and Schariar rises to pace the floor in moody thought, while the women eye him anxiously askance. Schah-Zeman, too, not without some knowledge of the thoughts which occupy his brother’s mind, keeps watchful eye upon him, and is quick to answer the gesture which soon summons him. Increasing uneasiness runs through the harem, as the royal brothers confer apart, which rises to a climax as the chief eunuch is sent off upon an errand whose purport is not overheard.

But the tension is relieved when the Sultan, with an effort to lighten his brow, turns to Zobéide, and announces his intention of setting forth upon a hunting expedition. Such a plan inevitably implies an absence from the palace, and at the intimation sidelong glances of meaning are covertly exchanged amongst the women. But incipient smiles of anticipatory pleasure are suppressed, and under a mask of disappointment and regret, the harem makes as though to turn its master from his purpose. Is he not their sun? Must the light of his presence be so soon removed, and joy and happiness thereby eclipsed?

Zobéide alone refrains from this cajolery. Flinging herself upon the piled-up cushions, she broods darkly upon this whim her husband so suddenly proposes to indulge. Half hopeful that petulance may succeed where blandishments have failed, she ignores the glances which the Sultan casts towards her. Plainly he is loth to go, but the poison which his brother has instilled works actively within him, and he makes no sign of condescension to her.

Armed retainers enter, attendants bring habiliments of the chase. With these the Sultan is invested by the deft fingers of the women, who make what use they can of such opportunity as this service offers to exercise their fascinations. Schah-Zeman is attended by the eunuchs, who buckle his armour upon him and hand him the long hunting spear. Thus equipped, the Sultan’s brother makes towards the door. Schariar follows him, but pauses to bestow a last curious glance at Zobéide. The latter makes no sign, and the Sultan, brushing aside the last fawning attentions of the women, strides moodily forth. As he passes out of the chamber, Zobéide, repenting of her petulance and simulated coldness, since they seem to have failed in their object, springs quickly from her cushions and hurries after him in a belated effort at detention.

Among the other women, however, no further sign of regret, real or simulated, is to be seen. On all sides faces are wreathed in smiles. Excitement seethes in the harem. The violence of suppression which the presence of their lord demands, on pain of dire and instant punishment, is the measure of the almost childish glee with which, that menace momentarily out of mind, the women fly to the illicit pleasures their appetite for intrigue, unduly nurtured, has devised. On the tiptoe of expectation they scamper one to another, but ever returning to the three doors which stand in the background, hiding one knows not what. Before these mysterious portals the women cluster in chattering groups, while two of their number are sent upon some urgent errand. Anon the latter return dragging with them, in hysterical mirth, the clumsy, grotesque person of the chief eunuch. In the bunch of metal which jingles at the latter’s side are the keys which alone will open

the doors so eagerly besieged, and the women, swarming round him like busy flies, begin at once to pester him, with arch and fawning supplications, to turn them in the locks.

But the old janitor refuses. He pretends amazement--is horrified at the bare idea, and will none of it. The women press coaxingly upon him, lavishing endearments. But of what avail the whole battery of female charms against such as he? With knowing leer upon his unctuous, smooth face, he wags his head and still says them nay. But though he fancies himself immune from women’s wiles, he has reckoned without the full measure of feminine cunning. He has his vulnerable point; whatever else he lacks he has at least male vanity. Is he not _chief_ of the eunuchs? are not the keys he loves to jingle a visible symbol of the power which he wields? Look you, he is a person of no small authority and importance.

With quiet change of tactics the women shift their attack to a different angle. In place of supplication they heap compliments upon him. They slaver him with blandishments, flattering him to the utmost of his bent. The fatuous old fool swallows their fulsome praises with avidity, his flabby cheeks puffed out with complacency and self-conceit. But then the women change their tune. Mockingly one hints that his vaunted power is but a sham; others are quick to press the suggestion home. Plainly it can be no real authority which he is feared to exercise. They challenge him with jeers to prove his power; they dare him to use the keys of which he is so proud.

The poor fool is not proof against this insidious assault. Lacking real respect, he clings fondly to its shadow; rather than sacrifice that his vanity will endure any risk. His fat face, but now wreathed in gratified smiles, grows glum and peevish as praise gives place to irony. He hesitates, and is lost. The women press their advantage, and their victim yields. Determined at all costs to demonstrate his power, he thrusts a key into the first door and petulantly turns it.

The door swings open, and from the corridor behind emerges a band of negroes, supple swarthy minions clad in copper-ornamented robes. With stealthy tread they glide among the waiting women, and quickly each finds a consort, eager for her favourite’s embraces.

Futile the eunuch’s protestations that now he has done enough to vindicate his authority; impatiently the women who remain demand that having done so much he shall complete his work. Already repentant of the rash betrayal of his master’s trust, the wretched janitor would stay his hand, but the mischief is done, and bowing to the logic of his own folly, he unlocks the second door. Forth troops a second band of negroes, decked in ornaments of silver, to be received with not less complaisance than the others.

No longer assailed by the insistent beseechings of his charges, the janitor fearfully surveys the scene. Everywhere, dispersed throughout the chamber, amorous couples meet his eye. With sudden terror in the realisation of the frightful risk he has incurred, he turns to go. At least let him make sure that watch is set for his master’s return. But as he turns he is confronted by the imperious figure of Zobéide, who has been leaning, observant, during all that has passed, beside the third door--the door as yet unopened. Avidly she demands the unlocking of this last, with fierce insistent finger pointing her order.

Here is a pretty dilemma for the luckless janitor, a searching test of his vaunted power and authority. His servile instinct quails before the regal mien of Zobéide, her gesture of command and blazing eyes that brook neither prevarication nor delay. Like the slave that he truly is, he turns to do her behest; but even as he fumbles for the key the enormity of that to which he is accessory

strikes him with horror. The others--that is bad enough, and like to be paid for dearly if discovery--he trembles at the thought--should ensue. But the Sultana, his master’s wedded wife.... Panic seizes him, and with a frantic effort to assert the authority he has boasted, he refuses.

The fires of passion smouldering in the breast of Zobéide leap forth on the instant. A woman scorned or a woman denied--her fury is a thing few men, and least of all an emasculate poltroon, can face. A frightful paroxysm shakes the panting queen. Like a tigress baulked of her prey, she turns upon the grovelling creature who dares to thwart her thus, hardly restrained from flinging herself upon him. To a contest of wills so unequal one ending only is possible. The wretched eunuch cringes before this awful apparition of his royal mistress, all other terrors swamped by the urgency of present fear. The long crescendo of the music rises to a blaring climax as he flings wide the remaining door.

Palpitating with the vehemence of her expectant desires, Zobéide stands before the open portal, clutching her breasts, with eyes glued to the dim recesses beyond. There is a pause, which adds a new delicious torture to her thirsty cravings; then with agile bound, light-footed, there comes leaping towards her a young negro. Round his naked chest he wears a broad, gem-studded band of gold, that enhances the smooth and supple beauty of his dusky arms and neck. Great pearls are pendant from his ears, a golden turban is twisted round his head. His flowing pantaloons cover, but do not hide, despite voluminous folds, his perfect symmetry and grace.

Zobéide feasts her gloating eyes upon her favourite, holding herself back, as children with a box of sweets reserve the most coveted tit-bit to the last. But when he turns towards her she can contain herself no longer. She springs upon him, and clutching his head in both her hands, peers fiercely into his face. The slave, with lascivious grin, submits unresistingly; though he is the queen’s paramour, he is not the less her slave, her chattel. It is she who is the lover, and the slave knows his place. The episode has no savour of romance.

Full length upon the divan Zobéide flings herself, the dusky favourite usurping the place of her rightful lord. The hour for revelry has come, for reckless abandon to the impulse of the moment. Enters a retinue of youths and girls bearing fruits and other dainties upon gorgeous salvers. They pair among themselves, they dance, they bring a riotous infection into the atmosphere of languorous dalliance. The negroes and their fond mistresses are moved to join them, the silver and the copper ornaments gleaming amidst the whirl of multi-coloured draperies, as the fever of the dance increases. Springing from the couch, Zobéide’s favourite precipitates himself into the moving throng. Before his wild _élan_ the utmost efforts of the others pale; with one accord they pause to watch with ecstasy the frenzied leaping of the peerless dancer. From her cushions Zobéide, too, is watching, the fierceness of her momentary restraint giving place of a sudden to an equal fierceness of abandon as she darts upon the object of her desires, and submits herself with him to the music’s intoxicating rhythm.

At length exhausted, they decline once more upon the silken cushions. The slave, emboldened, ventures now upon solicitations. But he is wary in the liberties he takes, fearful lest he go too far ere he has rightly gauged the mood of his imperious mistress. Cunning tells him there is peril in presumption.

One may interrupt the narrative here, perhaps, to comment on the subtlety of Nijinsky’s impersonation of the negro favourite. This is not a rôle in which his distinction as a dancer is revealed to its fullest, but in no other ballet is his genius as a mime more strikingly exhibited. One expects from Nijinsky originality in all

that he attempts, and his conception of Zobéide’s favourite does not disappoint. The part is not one which, upon a first consideration, would seem to demand a very subtle art, but the emphasis, already alluded to, which the actor lays upon the minion’s _servile_ character is only to be conveyed by very delicate shades of suggestion. The essential servility is most convincingly realised, and if Nijinsky’s conception of the part contains (in some eyes) elements of offence, it is at least a logical outcome of the premises from which the ballet starts, and in performance brilliant beyond praise. In Nijinsky’s hands the negro is, indeed, lasciviousness personified. His ingratiating leer, the furtive roll of his eyes, his whole insinuating aspect as he plies his shameful ministrations, impress a vivid picture on the mind. His ready, even eager, submission to the domination of his mistress, his base delight in her favour, wears a horrid air; one feels that in his different way the creature is as little of a man as the poor beardless janitor. He is lust reft of its virtue, and repels, like lechery, even while he attracts.