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.
