The Russian Ballet

After the games have been in progress for some time there enters a procession of elders of this primitive tribe, escorting an old man with a long beard—the Sire of all the Sages, high priest and venerable interpreter of the omens. His entry is a signal for everyone present to be seized with a violent tremor, which sets each figure quivering like an agitated table jelly. With due form and ceremony the ancient one pronounces a blessing on the Earth’s unfailing fruitfulness, accomplishing this act by spreadeagling himself, with the aid of assiduous helpers, face-downwards in the middle of the stage. If only the happy thought had occurred to M. Nijinsky to have the beard of the venerable one pulled forward the latter would have presented a very interesting travesty of a starfish.

The tremor which has so persistently agitated the tribe now ceases. All eyes are upturned towards the Sun, whose envious wrath, it is feared, may be excited by these attentions to the Earth, and to the renewed thudding of stamping feet the curtain comes down.

The second tableau shows the Sacrifice, by which the Sun’s jealousy is to be appeased. The scene is a lonely plateau, on which the “Sacred Stones” are set. There are also three grim-looking poles, on which are hung what seem to be votive offerings of hides and horns. It is night, and past the witching hour. The sun has vanished and ere he rise again the rite of propitiation must be performed. The young girls are discovered going through the mazy evolutions of a ceremonial dance, the object of which is the choice by hazard of the destined victim. (Such is the origin, the authors would presumably have us believe, of the “he” of the traditional games of childhood all the world over.)

Precisely how the lot falls is not very apparent, but presently one girl starts forward from the rest and seems, from the curious motionless attitude which she assumes, to fall into a cataleptic trance. Her companions gather round, and do her honour in a dance described, for no clear reason, as “heroic.” They presently depart, leaving her to her fate.

While the Chosen Victim still stands transfixed in a posture of extreme ugliness and (one imagines) excessive discomfort, the

elders of the tribe make their appearance, come to evoke the spirits of their ancestors and perform the final rites of this mystic bridal dedication to the Sun. They achieve this by partially covering themselves with black bearskins, the limp forelegs of which, waggling at their elbows, give them the appearance of immense grotesque penguins as they strut solemnly round the object of their scrutiny. After this lengthy peripatetic inspection is concluded, they seat themselves in groups, and the Chosen Victim suddenly breaks into a dance—if dance can be called a series of agonised movements not less ugly and contorted than the immobile posture in which she has been for so long rigidly stationed.

It is quite impossible to describe this “dance,” which it is an uncomfortable experience to watch—not for any offence that it contains, but for a feeling of sympathy with the unfortunate dancer who has to indulge such misplaced agility. Suffice it to explain that it “expresses” the last ecstasy of the Victim—a transition from exaltation to frenzy, from frenzy to exhaustion. At the moment of expiry, the watching elders leap to their feet, and seizing the Victim in their hands, hold her rigid corpse at arms’ length above their heads.

It is thus, we are told, that sacrifice is made to Iarilo, the flaming, the superb. The ribald will be inclined to retort that it is to be hoped Iarilo likes it.

In fairness, it must be added that this account of the eccentric happenings on the stage is quite inadequate to convey any proper impression of these two tableaux—which are, in fact, quite indescribable by words. It would be a mistake to suppose that this extraordinary performance is as wearisome as its unintelligible character might lead one to infer. According to all ordinary standards the whole business is completely mad—the music is mad, the dancers are mad. Yet it does not bore, and the interest which it excites must be something more than that of mere curiosity to endure through two whole acts. One suspects this to be merely a tribute to the unquestionable cleverness of the ballet, though the generous spectator may like to suppose a more solid reason.

When the present writer witnessed the first production of “Le Sacre du Printemps” in Paris, the printed synopsis of its action presented to the audience was of the briefest kind. The spectators were left to unravel its meaning for themselves—and they signally failed to rise to the occasion. Briefly, they hissed it. They would not listen to Stravinsky’s music: the choreography of Nijinsky moved them to unkind laughter. On the later production of the ballet in London, the management wisely distributed an amplified synopsis, detailing the incidents (so far as the ballet can be said to have any), and took the further precaution of prefacing the performance by a short lecture, in which a distinguished critic, of sympathetic leanings, endeavoured to expound the principles upon which the authors of the ballet had proceeded in its creation.

Thanks to this forethought, the ballet received in London the attentive hearing which was denied to it in Paris. It even received applause, though how far this was due to the amiability of London theatre-goers—less impulsive and more tolerant than the Parisian public—it would be rash to guess. Undoubtedly the ballet, as presented in London, was more easily followed than when seen in Paris. In part, perhaps, the certain degree of familiarity helped; in part, the stronger lighting of the stage during the second act of the London performance was of assistance. But, chiefly, the greater intelligibility arose out of the explanations, verbal and printed, with which the spectator was forearmed. Antics which had been meaningless became invested with the shadow, if not the substance of plausibility; it became apparent what they were intended to mean, even if the meaning still seemed to fail of true expression.

But should such detailed explanations of purpose be necessary? Granting the abandonment of all ordinary, accepted conventions, ought a work of art, conceived upon whatsoever unfamiliar principles, to fail to grip the imagination? It may be noted that in the introductory lecture, the Japanese colour-print was cited as an example of a form of art scoffed at, when first seen in this country, because its conventions were unfamiliar and not understood. But one fancies that upon any mind not utterly philistine, no matter how unable to understand its peculiar conventions, the work of a Japanese master made a very definite impression. The Occidental mind had a sense of the Oriental achievement, even if it failed to comprehend precisely what had been achieved. If attempt is not to be confused with accomplishment, one fears that only a partisan enthusiast could have a similar regard for “Le Sacre du Printemps.”

It is difficult to discover unity of purpose. To mention a minor, but glaring inconsistency, the costumes designed by Roerich (though one is grateful for the vividly decorative groups which they produce) are scarcely consonant with his “primitive” scenery, and certainly not characteristic of ultra-primitive humanity. A people that had acquired such arts as the possession of this clothing postulates can scarcely be reckoned typical of “the Muscovy of dimmest antiquity,” and it is at least doubtful whether at their comparatively advanced stage of civilisation (accepting as historically accurate Nijinsky’s theory of primitive modes of expression) gesture and movement would be marked by such uncouth and awkward characteristics.

The fact would seem to be that the authors of this ballet have chosen to be a law unto themselves. No doubt it is possible under

such conditions to devise many curious things, momentarily engaging—the workshops of Bedlam are full of them—but they can hardly hope to give the satisfaction, or enjoy the permanence, of art. A work of art is governed, at bottom, by the laws of Nature: it must have its roots somewhere in reality, and grow upward and outward. One fails to detect out of what “Le Sacre du Printemps” arises, or whither it leads. Its tendency, if it has any at all, is retrograde, and there is something almost pathetic in the spectacle of such highly-cultivated men as MM. Stravinsky, Roerich, and Nijinsky applying their brilliant talents to this inversion. It is surely a little ludicrous that the utmost resources of a modern orchestra, comprising over a hundred complex instruments, should be taxed by what is reported to be some of the most difficult music ever scored, in order to “express” the impulses and emotions of man in his most primitive state. A fitting parallel to Stravinsky’s efforts is provided by those of Nijinsky, laboriously instructing a highly-accomplished corps de ballet in mimicry of the awkward poses exhibited in sculpture of pre-classical days, when the sculptor was not so much expressive as struggling for expression. It may be true that under modern accepted conventions in art, expression has been stifled by undue attention to form, but this is hardly the way to demonstrate it. Curtailment is not the same thing as simplification.

“Le Sacre du Printemps” certainly exacts a good deal from the ordinary spectator. The latter finds himself at sea from the very beginning, and quickly realises that if there is any solid meaning at all to be arrived at, he can only reach it by jettisoning all previous standards and conventions. Even when he has succeeded, by the aid of a detailed synopsis, an introductory lecture, and a strongly developed faculty of assimilation, in acquainting himself with the authors’ premises, it is a matter of opinion whether MM. Stravinsky, Roerich, and Nijinsky give him much in return for what he has abandoned.

If this astonishing ballet is to be taken seriously, one may compliment its authors on a very gallant attempt to embody a view of art which is arresting, if not convincing. If, on the other hand, it is merely a jeu d’esprit, they are to be congratulated on one of the most elaborate and cleverly sustained hoaxes ever perpetrated. There is possibly a third solution, that the authors have been imposed upon and mesmerised by their own sheer cleverness, and all too nimble dexterity of mind. In that case there must be laughter among the Muses.

LA TRAGÉDIE DE SALOME.

“Pure Beardsley” was the popular phrase with which the ballet was summed up on its first production. It is, of course, nothing of the sort—at least, if the phrase is to be strictly interpreted. If it were pure Beardsley the ballet would be a good deal better than it is. One has some difficulty in imagining Aubrey Beardsley staging a ballet, and probably, if such a thing had happened, the result would have been very different from that which the Russians have imagined. But even supposing that Beardsley had produced on the stage something resembling what is shown us, it is perfectly certain there would have been a distinction which the present performance lacks. To put it shortly, “La Tragédie de Salome” is nothing but an aping of Beardsley, a reproduction (or shall one say, a travesty?) of certain superficial aspects of that artist’s designs, entirely uninspired by any sympathy with, or apparently even understanding of, the peculiar genius of which they were expressions.

It is unfortunate, perhaps, that the assimilative Russians, when they play the sedulous ape, do so with such polished ease and aplomb. Their cleverness amuses, even if it fails to impress. In sheer theatrical effect this ballet of Salome is quite dazzling. Its bizarre decoration, and the eccentricity of the action, capture the eye, as the music captures the ear, by sheer audacity of assault. It is only when a conclusion is reached that the whole appears to have been a profitless, if dazzling diversion.

Soudeikine’s act-drop is beyond my comprehension. So also is the scene upon which it rises—a platform enclosed by giant foliage of formal design. Much exuberance is suggested, but exuberance of what is not so clear. In the middle of the stage is a tall column, upon the top of which an object, presumably the Baptist’s head, is dimly seen. Behind stands a curious pyramidal staircase.

Eight negro slaves are discovered grouped about the column and its grim burden. Their woolly pates are white, white ostrich plumes are girt about their middles, and round their ankles are clasped what look suspiciously like white spats. The limelight streaming on their naked bodies imparts a greenish tinge to the brown flesh, and gives them quite as nasty an appearance as one supposes their designers intended.

To strident music which one feels sure must be expressive of hectic passion and horror, the green and white negroes posture

and run about the stage. Their antics are engaging, and expressive of just whatever the spectator chooses to think. They are joined presently by four executioners who would do credit to any professional dreamer of nightmares. Like the negroes, these also have spats on their bare legs. They wear very little else, but carry large swords which obviously are meant for dark and bloody deeds. They are tall and lank, frightfully grim, and thoroughly sinister. And the business-like manner in which, having divested themselves of the awful weapons of their office, and completely eclipsed the efforts of the negroes in the game of Here-we-go-round-the-Baptist’s-head, they assume attitudes of terror-striking unexpectedness, indicates a praiseworthy determination to uphold the ghastliest traditions of their high calling.

The music now, with relentless importunacy, insists upon an impending climax. Negroes and executioners fall beautifully into place, a portion of the blackcloth drops swiftly, and Salome is seen standing on the top of the staircase-pedestal before a dim background of blue and mysterious starlit depth. She is shrouded in the voluminous folds of an immense cloak, and at first sight might be taken, as a witty observer remarked, for Mrs. Grundy come to put a stop to the proceedings.

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.

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.

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.