The curtains, lifting silently, disclose that striking tableau just referred to—a coup d’œil in a very special sense. Upon a divan at the back, sinuous, a panther in repose, lies Thamar. At one side, flooding the head of the couch with evening light, a huge casement gives outlook, over the river’s turbulent flood, upon the wild snow-covered slopes that surround the mountain fastness of the Queen. In groups about the chamber are scattered Thamar’s women, some close in attendance upon their mistress, others reclining on low cushions, a few watching intently the distant prospect through the open window. Guarding the door, tall henchmen.
A steadfast immobility has transfixed all. So, statuesque, stood the guards and retinue of the Sleeping Beauty. This much the spectator is permitted, at the lifting of the curtain, to apprehend. The stillness is noted, lasting for just that brief but appreciable moment which invests it with significance, and makes dominant that note of phantasy, of unreality, which the opening strains of music sounded. The illusion achieved, the spell of stillness is broken. A woman, one of those whose watchful gaze has been directed through the window, stirs. It is the merest gesture, but a gesture eager, alert: and on the instant, though none other yet moves, the scene becomes instinct with life.
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.