Chapter V: Part 5

Having got this climax over, the music is now breathing more easily, and Salome slowly comes down the staircase. It is seen that the robe with which she is covered has an immense train--black with glittering embroidery of gold. As she descends the steps the train drags magnificently behind her. One suffers an uncomfortable anxiety lest it should topple down before its time and sweep its hapless wearer off her feet. But MM. Soudeikine and Romanov have seen to this, and it is not until Salome has reached the stage, and is already advancing across it, that the enormous garment, with proper effect, comes flashingly tumbling after.

Salome with her grotesque retinue circles in solemn procession round the central column, and the train makes the most of its opportunities. Then the negroes leap forward, fastenings are loosened, and as the robe falls into her attendants’ outstretched arms, Salome steps forward for the dance.

Regard Beardsley’s drawings as fashion plates, and the reader will arrive at a very fair idea of Karsavina’s appearance as Salome. Her costume is exiguous--even allowing for the lace-edged undergarment which appears round one thigh but not round the other. Her legs and arms are bare, but with a blood red heart and other devices stencilled on them. A high head-dress surmounts the tiny

face of one of Beardsley’s women, with blue smudges for eyes and wee vermilion lips.

Of Karsavina’s dance, in the character of Salome, it is quite impossible to write with any detail. It is devised in the same pseudo-macabre spirit as the rest of the ballet, and is more remarkable as a feat of acrobatic agility and physical endurance than as an artistic performance. One is told that the dance is “at first frantic and insane; then more proud and sorrowful, more remote and ecstatic. It is the expression and avowal of her sensual torment and of her atonement through the very misery of her unassuageable desire.” Well, maybe it is all that: perhaps something more, perhaps a very great deal less. For myself, I should have been interested to learn at what point the insanity died down and pride and sorrow took its place. Of ecstasy I could find no real suggestion, though the counterfeit was plausible; and the only remoteness was when the dance unexpectedly ended and the curtain came down.

“La Tragédie de Salome” might serve, in company of those other productions with which it was classed at the outset of these notes, as an answer to the question, When is a ballet not a ballet? In all these latter performances which the Russians have staged, they appear not only to misconceive the functions of ballet, but to overlook its limitations. This is the more remarkable since in the earlier productions those limitations were plainly recognised, and the restraint which every art exacts scrupulously observed. There is now a lack of perspective, which one suspects to be the result of the dancer turned ballet-master. A journalist may write brilliantly, yet be quite incapable of editing a paper.

The sooner the controlling influence of Michel Fokine is restored to the Russian Ballet the better. Otherwise there seems imminent danger that so much fertility will merely run to seed.

LE LAC DES CYGNES.

PANTOMIME BALLET BY M. TCHAIKOVSKY.

MUSIC BY P. TCHAIKOVSKY.

DANCES AND SCENES BY M. PETIPA.

SCENERY AND COSTUMES BY C. KOROVIN AND A. GOLOVIN.

The outstanding feature of “Le Lac des Cygnes” is undoubtedly the music of Tchaikovsky, which is worthy of something better. For this is a ballet which falls within the same category as “Le Pavillon d’Armide,” a survival of the formality of an earlier day. It has a story, and a good one; it is not, indeed, without dramatic passages; but mainly the ballet is a mere background for a number of isolated dances having little bearing on the real action. The “fairy tale” which forms its subject has been treated much as the classic tragedies, one imagines, were treated by Noverre towards the end of the eighteenth century. The dances are imposed upon it, rather than made the means of unfolding it. As a result “Le Lac des Cygnes,” regarded in its entirety, falls short of the level achieved in such a ballet as “L’Oiseau de Feu,” though in the matter of subject it has many points of familiarity with the latter. It lacks proportion: the drama is nugatory, and the spectator retains in memory rather a succession of dances, graceful, lively, and astonishing, than an impression of a coherent and progressive whole.

This is the more to be regretted since the music, when occasion serves, is splendidly dramatic. The occasions are only few, however, the real purpose of the story being to provide, as in “Le Pavillon d’Armide,” a court scene which can be made the appropriate setting of a series of dances. Certainly the poses of Karsavina and the ladies of the _corps de ballet_ in their guise as swans of the enchanted lake, in the opening scene, and the astounding performance of Nijinsky in the court episode, go far to compensate the loss of unity, but such dramatic moments as do occur make the mostly protracted action seem very nearly tedious. Incidentally the ballet presents Nijinsky in the kind of _rôle_ more definitely associated with Adolf Bolm, and it is interesting to note the emphasis which it lays upon the essential difference between the two artists. Bolm is an actor who can dance when occasion demands; Nijinsky, a dancer who seems almost ill at ease when constrained to limit his movements to the actor’s pedestrian paces. One would prefer to see the part of the Prince taken by Bolm, and an excuse found (as in “Le Pavillon d’Armide”) for Nijinsky’s appearance, in his true function as dancer, in the court scene.

The lake to which the title of the ballet refers is an enchanted mere, beside which a number of swans dance nightly by the light of the moon, in the semblance of young girls. The birds are the victims of the evil sorcery of a wicked genie of the place, from whose clutches they are powerless to escape. The opening scene discloses the wooded margin of the lake, the shining surface of which stretches before the eye to a dim further shore. The swans are seen upon the water, and while the orchestral prelude is in progress, they pass slowly across the gap in the trees, through which the shimmering lake is visible. At their head, more stately than her fellows, and distinguished by the tiny crown upon her head, swims the Queen Swan.

The birds vanish. The ripples of their passage subside. Moonlight floods the still lake and its wooded bank. There enters a young man, armed for the chase, whose dress and mien proclaim him noble. Retainers follow him. They cast searching glances around, and scan the placid surface of the lake. But whatever it is they seek eludes their vigilance. A second young man joins them--the Prince of the realm--who has been benighted in the course of a hunting expedition. He, too, looks eagerly about him, but is no more successful in his quest than the companion who preceded him. They take counsel together, and in the very midst of their conference are startled by a distant apparition. They peer anxiously into the heart of the wood which fringes the lake’s edge, and obedient to the Prince’s order, all retire stealthily into hiding. The Prince himself, cross-bow in hand, follows his men.

A moment later there enters a young maiden. She is fair to look upon, with a beauty that has a fatal quality of fascination. She is indeed the Queen Swan, wearing her temporary human guise, and only to be associated with her true form by the fillet of swan’s-down in her dark hair, and the snowy plumage with which her dress is adorned. This is the mysterious apparition which the Prince and his men have seen, lost, and now again discovered.

Lightly the fair creature flits across the glade, and as she nears the spot where he lies concealed, the Prince starts forth and confronts her. The Queen Swan would fly, but is held back. The Prince, already a willing victim to his captive’s beauty, would fain have the mystery of her appearance explained. Who is she? What does she here, and at this hour? Reluctant at first to confess her true nature, the Queen Swan yields to the passionate emotion which she, too, feels stirring within her, and relates a part, at least, of her strange history. She tells of the machinations of the evil genie by whose enchantment she and all her companions are bound, of their alternation between human guise and that of birds. The prince listens in horror, jumping too readily to the conclusion that his captive is a maiden doomed to periodic metamorphosis into the semblance of a swan, rather than a bird permitted now and again to assume a human shape. At mention of the ogre by whose spells this strange tyranny is maintained, he fingers his weapons menacingly, eager for an opportunity to attempt deliverance.

Such a chance presents itself with startling suddenness. In the midst of her narration the Queen Swan clutches her captor’s arm, and points upward into the trees. Peering down upon them, from a branch overhead, is some strange object, only half visible amidst the foliage. The Prince seizes his cross-bow and makes as if to shoot. But ere he can be sure of his aim, the apparition moves stealthily, and is gone.

The young man lowers his weapon and turns to expostulate with his captive. Again the colloquy is interrupted, this time by the invasion of a grim, gaunt monster, which silently regards them from a mound upon which it has suddenly emerged. Again the Prince seizes his bow and strives to launch a bolt at the intruder. But he is powerless to release the trigger. The genie’s magic paralyses him. The monster recedes unharmed into the woody depths, and the Prince, perturbed by this discovery of unseen influences encompassing him, impetuously urges his captive from the scene.

Hardly has the Queen Swan fled when her companions enter--a score of maidens in similar attire, scarcely less fair than their leader. As is their nightly practice, they dance in the moonlit glade, but have scarce begun when the Prince’s friend, followed by the huntsmen and attendants, break in upon these mystic revels. The swan-maidens, frightened, fly to one another for mutual protection, while the intruders, scarce knowing what to make of such unexpected objects of the chase, finger their weapons hesitatingly. Some, indeed, are fitting bolts to the cross-bows, but the hasty return of the Prince, who bids them stay their hands, prevents the wanton slaughter. Even as he gives his orders, two more swan-maidens join their frightened sisters, and with them comes the Queen Swan herself, who has sped the Prince from her side to avert the threatened disaster, and now comes herself to lead the petition for mercy which the hapless maidens pleadingly urge.

The Prince needs little persuasion to grant the boon, and the swan-maidens resume their dancing before the enraptured eyes of the Prince and his friend. In the midst of her companions the Queen Swan, unchallenged in the supremacy of her charms, completes the fascination she has already exercised upon the too susceptible Prince. With infatuated gaze he hangs upon her every movement, drinking in her beauty, the grace of her dancing, the elegance of her form. Every moment that she pauses, while her companions continue the movement of the dance, he woos her passionately, urging his suit with an eagerness that increases as the reluctance which she strives to maintain appears to give way.

The throbbing valse rhythm of the music hurries the young man’s hectic passion to a climax. Inspired by the ardour which the Prince’s impetuous wooing kindles in her, the Queen of the Swan-maidens surpasses herself in a dance which turns passion into ecstasy. She abandons herself to her lover’s arms.

But at this fateful moment the dreaded hour has struck. The swan-maidens are seized with nervous apprehension. They beckon their Queen, and as they see her recalled to her surroundings, hurry timidly away. The huntsmen watch them go, too much surprised by this sudden flight to attempt to intercept it. Not so the Prince. As the Queen Swan strives to release herself from his embrace, he seeks to detain her. Reluctant to go, yet fearful to stay, she persists in the effort to disengage herself. Ardently the Prince implores her to remain, but just as he would enforce the entreaty by strength she slips from his grasp and gains the bank that leads into the wood. Her lover would dash forward and restrain her, but she motions him back, waves a tender farewell, and is gone from his sight.

Mystified, the Prince and his men peer wonderingly across the enchanted mere. And as they look there glides across their vision a number of snow-white swans, swimming in stately procession toward the further shore. In advance of the rest moves one, which bears upon its head, so delicately poised on the slender sinuous neck, a golden crown. Upon the agonised Prince and his astounded retinue, watching in silence this strange portent, the curtain swiftly falls.

* * * * *

One sees next an apartment in the royal palace, where festivities are in progress, to celebrate the coming nuptials of the Prince with the heiress of a neighbouring realm. To the gay music of a festal march, the royal guests are marshalled to their appointed places by a master of ceremonies; there are stately greetings, and a formal interchange of courtesies. The Prince enters presently, accompanied by the Queen-mother, whom he escorts to the seat of honour. His betrothed has then to be greeted and similarly handed to her place.

These ceremonies the Prince duly observes, but with a formality of manner which indicates that his attention is perfunctory. He seems moody and abstracted, and when presently he seats himself beside the Queen-mother, the dances which begin fail to arouse in him more than a listless interest.

The first of these dances--a valse performed by eight couples--is scarcely ended when there is a stir at one of the entrances to the hall. From the press of courtiers the master of ceremonies emerges, ushering forward a tall man of sinister aspect, richly but strangely attired, who leads by the hand a fair lady. The Prince rises to welcome the strangers. Courtesies having been exchanged, the Prince raises his eyes--and finds himself looking into the face of the Swan-maiden to whom he lost his heart so lately. He cannot restrain a movement of surprise--the sudden embodiment of his very thoughts seems beyond credence. But the recognition, as he perceives, is mutual; the fair stranger, as she suffers her forbidding escort to draw her aside, displays not less agitation than he.

Deep in perplexity the Prince resumes his seat. The master of ceremonies signs for the festivities to proceed, but neither a dashing czardas, nor the brilliant mazurka which follows, can distract the Prince from the anxious meditation into which he is plunged. Only when the beautiful stranger is again led forward does he shake off his abstraction. Eagerly he offers attendance upon her while she performs a _pas seul_ before the court.

Standing unobtrusively at one side, the evil genie (for the Queen Swan’s escort is, of course, none other) watches from beneath his disguise the consummation of his wicked plan. With every attention that opportunity allows him to offer to the stranger, the Prince’s newly-fanned passion burns more ardently. And as with him, so with the luckless Swan-maiden. The dance but serves to melt the last icicle of her discretion, and when the Prince, remembering suddenly their situation, conscious of the gaze of all the court, would leave her and regain the composure he has lost, she holds and allures him with a beseeching look and gesture that is beyond resistance. Only when the dance is ended, and the Swan-maiden, herself awakening momentarily from her all but trance, retires hastily from the apartment, does the Prince resume command of himself.

The eyes of the courtiers are turned upon him expectantly, for the Prince himself is an accomplished dancer, and the moment has arrived when he should entertain the company with his skill. Fired by the ardour suppressed within him, he launches himself into a _pas seul_ which astounds by its vigorous grace, measured agility, and brilliant daring of execution. At the very climax of his performance the beautiful stranger re-enters. Obedient to the Prince’s entreaty she dances once again; then joins him in the crowning intoxication of a _pas de deux_.

As the infatuated pair thus yield to each other’s embrace an uneasy stir runs through the watching ring of courtiers. The Queen-mother is perturbed, the Prince’s betrothed is wrath to be thus publicly slighted. The climax is reached when the lovers, oblivious of all, abandon themselves to an impassioned kiss. The Prince’s mother starts indignantly from her seat, and plucks him by the sleeve; at the same moment the Swan-maiden’s grim escort strides forward and snatches her from her lover’s embrace. In vain the Queen-mother urges her son to recollect the duty he owes to his estate, in vain his betrothed demands reparation for the affront she has suffered. The Prince has no thought save for the object of his passion, and is convulsed by overpowering emotion. Not less is the agony of the fair stranger, who struggles helplessly in the genie’s evil clutch. Consternation seizes the courtiers, which is increased as the lights are suddenly dimmed. In the confusion that ensues, the genie throws the now fainting figure of the Swan-maiden upon his shoulder, and carries her off. The Prince, seeing his beloved thus torn away, is nearly bereft of reason, but recovering himself with violent effort dashes madly through the press in hot pursuit.

* * * * *

The scene changes to the dim night-enshrouded margin of the lake. With furious haste the genie enters, dragging relentlessly behind him the drooping figure of the Swan-maiden. Piteously she sinks upon the bank, as the wicked tyrant urges her onward. She turns a last entreating look backward, and at that very moment the flying figure of the Prince appears. He falls upon his knees before her and seeks to hold her with his hands. But the genie redoubles his force: the hapless Swan-maiden is wrenched from her lover’s grasp, and borne out of sight.

The despairing Prince bows his head in mute and helpless agony. And while he yet kneels there, a white swan glides serenely across the surface of the lake. The prince sees it, and a dreadful thought clutches his heart. As the swan nears him he looks again--and lo, about its head, so delicately poised on the slender sinuous neck, is a golden crown!

The young man staggers and falls dead. Smoothly the Queen Swan urges her placid way across the shining surface of the lake.

ANNA PAVLOVA.

Nothing can well be written about the Russian Ballet without some mention of Pavlova. For though that great dancer has not been associated with the troupe to whose performances the foregoing pages have been devoted, it is largely to her art that London owes the revived interest in ballet which paved the way for these later spectacles.

Much has been written in adulation of Pavlova. Comparisons and metaphors have been well-nigh exhausted in enthusiastic attempts to convey a full appreciation of her dancing, and the result has sometimes been ridiculous. This is almost inevitable, however, for if Pavlova’s praises are to be sung at all, it must be in a word or else redundantly. Art so nearly perfect as hers permits of no analysis, and stultifies all efforts at exposition.

So it happens that with Pavlova one can but state a bare opinion, and leave her art to speak for itself. Mere description is impossible, since her method is subjective rather than objective. London has had no opportunity of seeing her take part in a concerted ballet, at least of that dramatic type in which the art of the performers is subservient to the action in which they are involved; and the individual dances in which she is chiefly seen are to be regarded not so much as occasions for impersonation as opportunities and means of self-expression. As already has been said of Nijinsky, the art of Pavlova is something more than merely imitative; it is creative, her genius acting upon, shaping, and impressing with the stamp of her own individuality the material selected.

There is a close analogy between her method and that of the composer of music. Saint-Saëns, for example, in “Le Cygne,” and Pavlova in the dance which she has devised for the accompaniment of that composition, have both taken the curved and undulating grace of the swan for _motif_. Adorning, amplifying, and elaborating this initial theme, the dancer has achieved a result which in its complex beauty, yet fundamental simplicity, is an exact parallel with the composer’s.

Doubtless a _maître de ballet_ might have phrases at command which would convey, to the initiate at least, the bare sequence of poses and movements, as one musician could recount to another the main features of a composition. In neither case, however, would the hearer glean more than the merest rudiments; with the dance as with music, direct contact alone is of avail. Even a literary artist would encounter limitations as severe as those which beset the painter, who can show (witness John Lavery’s “Le Mort du Cygne”) but a single moment of a single phase in a thing of prolonged and continuous beauty.

In such a performance as this, Pavlova touches great heights. She is less happy when she indulges in some of those “interpretations” of music which of late years have become so fashionable. How, indeed, can the dancer’s art be expected to interpret music which was never written for the dance? It is as idle as the similar attempt so often made by the painter. One work of art may provide inspiration for another, but we cannot consider them simultaneously since they will not be in the same plane. To watch the dance, or rather series of poses, by which Pavlova “interprets,” let us say, Rubinstein’s “La Nuit,” is to delight the eye with an exhibition of rare grace. But only a very assimilative and accommodating mind will imagine that the composer’s intention has been made any clearer to him thereby--and probably it will

imagine quite erroneously. The critical mind receives no convincing impression of unity.

In the case of “Le Cygne,” Pavlova is not interpreting Saint Saëns. Musician and dancer have taken the same theme for treatment in their different ways, and the welding of their separate efforts is the legitimate art of the ballet. It may be said, perhaps, that this is the manner in which the so-called interpretations, to which objection has been made, have been evolved. But this is to ignore the distinction between so definite a theme as the graceful movements of a swan, known and accepted by all men, and such an abstraction as Night, of which the conception must be arbitrary, and for that reason probably different from the one upon which the musician, nominally interpreted, has proceeded.

Pavlova is at her best (inevitably) when limited to the true functions of her art. As with Nijinsky, the dance is her proper medium of expression, though perhaps not so wholly. In some of her performances she displays a facile power of extrinsic gesture suggestive of qualities as mime which whet the desire to see her in dramatic ballet. The distribution of her favours betwixt Pierrot and Harlequin, her jealous partners when she dances, as Columbine, in Drigo’s “Pas de Trois,” is inspired by coquetry as frivolous and mirthful as the airy gaiety which her nimble feet express. In “L’Automne Bacchanale” there is a passion and a fervour which owe something to the actress’ art as well as to the dancer’s. It may seem idle to attempt a discrimination between two things so nearly identical, but seeing the view so commonly held in this country of dancing--that it consists merely of the rhythmic movement of the limbs according to certain arbitrary rules, the greatest of dancers being no more than the exponent of a perfect technique--it is perhaps worth while to lay stress upon the part which temperament must play.

Possibly “L’Automne Bacchanale” is not the best illustration to cite of the dancer’s conscious art; no one of the least susceptibility, it may be supposed, certainly not Pavlova, could fail to respond to Glazounov’s tempestuous music. Who has been spectator of that brilliant episode that did not feel his pulses quicken, and thrilling through his veins an echo, however faint, of the pæan of youth and love and joy? Pavlova at all events, if not her compatriots, has been able to recapture something of the old Greek ardour.

But Pavlova’s sheer grace can never fail of appreciation. It would be an egregious philistine who could find her, even in most conventional and academic vein, other than a delight to the eye. Her superb mastery of technique, if nothing else, must command his admiration. But it is her distinction that she delights not merely the eye, but the intelligence; behind all that she does is the artist’s instinct of selection and co-ordination. Other dancers one has seen who moved prettily, took graceful poses, displayed a nice appreciation of rhythm--yet showed themselves no more than elegant dabblers, failing to achieve the unity which proceeds alone from a true artistic impulse. Pavlova does nothing meaningless. Her least step is full of intention, and an intention made convincingly apparent. It may be the lightest, airiest conceit--a butterfly’s capricious hovering, for example, so daintily suggested in “Les Papillons,” or the roguish mirth she reads into the well-known pizzicato passage of the “Sylvia” ballet music--but her art can make where a touch less sensitive would mar.

But in such a case as this it is idle to attempt description, and comparisons are equally futile. One must be content with a single word of highest praise, and say that Pavlova, like every true artist, is unique.