The Russian Ballet

by A. E. Johnson

Except for the framework on which it is constructed, the modern dramatic ballet, as evolved by the Russians, bears little resemblance to that in which Noverre delighted. The latter’s method, indeed, was fundamentally the opposite to that by which such a man as Michel Fokine proceeds. It was Noverre’s habit to lay impertinent hands on any theme, no matter how august, and twist it (regardless of mutilation) to his purpose—which was to exhibit his dancer’s skill. Not even the tragedy of Æschylus was safe if Clytæmnestra seemed to the complacent chevalier a rôle in which his latest pupil might agreeably air her graces. The Russian method is the converse; its aim is to interpret the theme by gestures and the dance, not forcibly adapt it to the irrelevant requirements of a dancer’s special repertoire. It would be ridiculous to suggest that this aim is always successfully achieved—there are occasions when it falls a long way short of accomplishment—but at least the principle is right, and under Fokine the Russian Ballet has brought dancing the nearest yet to a fine art.

That it should be their performance as a whole which has sealed the success of the Russians, is the more remarkable when the exceptional quality of the individual performers is considered. It is not merely that the standard of excellence, both in acting and miming, throughout the entire corps de ballet is so high: under ordinary circumstances (unfortunately) one would expect to see such performers as MM. Bolm, Cecchetti, Kotchetovsky, Mdmes. Karsavina, Federova, Astafieva, Piltz—to name but a few—each figuring as that abomination a “star”: probably supported by a company whose mediocrity would tend to mitigate rather than enhance the brilliance of the leading light. But the Russians know better than this, and though it may be difficult to imagine “L’Oiseau de Feu” without Karsavina, “Cléopâtre” without Federova, “Prince Igor” without Bolm, it is of the dancer’s association with the ballet, not of the ballet as a background to the dancer, that one thinks. “The play’s the thing.”

There are two personalities, however, which the performances of the Russian Ballet have thrown forward with especial prominence. The first is, of course, M. Nijinsky, than whom it may be doubted whether any more accomplished dancer has ever appeared. He excited the more astonishment, perhaps, on his appearance in London, because the male dancer was hitherto unknown—at least in any other than a grotesque or comic capacity. (Nothing, by the way, could be more eloquent of the debasement of the ballet in this country than the custom of having the male parts taken by women.) But the perfection of Nijinsky’s technical skill, extraordinary as this is, provides but the lesser reason for his triumph. He is an artist as well as a wonderful dancer. He appeals not only to the eye but to the imagination. Conceivably there might be found another dancer with equal command of movement, and another mime with equal subtlety of pose and gesture: but one who can so weld into a single faculty of expression the twin arts of pantomime and the dance is surely far to seek. Consider his dancing, and he seems to be less a dancer (as the word is ordinarily understood) than a mime who adds movement to gesture: regard him as a mime, and he seems rather a dancer who is acting while he dances. Nijinsky, in brief, is the true dancer: dancing is his proper medium of expression, in the use of which he shows himself an artist of fine perception. To watch him as Harlequin in “Le Carnaval” or as the Spectre of the Rose (in which rôles it was the present writer’s memorable good fortune to see him for the first time) is to receive a revelation of what the dancer’s art can compass. Let it be added that in the case of Nijinsky no more unfitting prominence is allowed to the dancer’s personality than in the case of his colleagues already named. One may shudder at the thought of “Le Spectre de la Rose” without Nijinsky as the Spectre, but it is the banality which a lesser artist might produce that is dreaded, not the loss of those wondrous leaps and bounds.

The second outstanding personality is that of M. Léon Bakst, to whose designs for scenery, costumes, and all that is summed up in the convenient word décor, many of the ballets in the Russian repertoire owe no small part of their success. The impression made by the scenic methods of Léon Bakst was a worthy parallel to that effected by the performance of the dancers—or perhaps one should say that the two were but inseparable parts of the same thing, since the services of Bakst to the Russian Ballet have been not less than the opportunities which the Ballet has furnished to Bakst. One scarcely thinks of the one without the other.

The vigour and impulse with which the Russian dancers showed that the ballet, as a means of artistic expression, could be endowed, Léon Bakst demonstrated could inspire the designing of scenery and costumes. Again one finds that a sense of unity and coherence has been the inspiration. Bakst’s broad method is the converse of the stage realist who seeks to counterfeit fact by a laborious building up of detail. He presents the essentials and little more, using colour rather than form to suggest the association of ideas which he wishes to produce. Compare the cool green setting of “Narcisse,” the violent riot of colour which forms a background to “Scheherazade,” the simplicity and dignity of the orange environment of “Cléopâtre,” with the fretful facsimiles of woodland grove, harem, and desert temple which a less original designer might have attempted. In his designs for costumes there is not less vigour and attack. While the conventional “costumier” is drawing a fiddling fashion plate or draping a lay figure, Bakst is portraying not only the clothing which befits the temperament and character of the dramatis persona under consideration, but the very way in which that clothing would by such a one be worn or carried. Especially has he an eye for form and colour in movement—few of his designs for costumes show the wearers in repose—a fact which obviously gives his work a peculiar value for this particular purpose.

It will be readily appreciated how vital a bearing the designs of Léon Bakst have upon that ensemble which has been so strongly emphasised as the outstanding feature, and the fundamental secret, of the Russian Ballet’s success. But it should be remembered that Bakst’s creations as seen upon the stage fall short by a good deal of what they really are. It is inevitable, unfortunately, that this should be so. It is no easy task for the actual scene painter to reproduce upon a large scale the artist’s design with that absolute fidelity to colour and tone which alone can do it proper justice: and that the wearers of the costumes should be able to sustain without relapse their impersonations of the characters so vividly depicted in essentials by the artist’s brush and pencil is more than can reasonably be expected from even the most accomplished corps de ballet. How much the designs of Léon Bakst suffer in translation, only those who have seen the wonderful originals can realise.

The music of the ballets is mostly the work of Russian composers, and the fact that, as a general rule, it has been specially written preserves the unity of purpose. In a few cases the Russians have ventured to lay hands on music to which they have no legitimate claim, and though their sense of the fitting has saved them from banality or desecration, it is notable that these are the occasions when they give the least complete satisfaction. Much may be forgiven for the beauty of the dancing, qua dancing, in “Les Sylphides,” but one doubts the propriety of the employment of Chopin’s music. As an “interpretation” of the latter, the dances are merely ridiculous, but in justice to the Russians it must be observed that they have never put them forward as such. The use made of Schumann’s “Carnaval” and Weber’s “Invitation à la Valse” is more legitimate—indeed the delicate romance of “Le Spectre de la Rose” confers almost a dignity upon the latter somewhat sentimental composition. More recently Debussy has been pressed into service, but the peculiar un-ballet-like nature of “L’Après-Midi d’un Faune” and “Jeux” makes comment in the present connection needless. The fact remains that the happiest results have been obtained from the co-operation of native composers like Nicolas Tcherepnin, Balakirev, and Igor Stravinsky. From the latter has come, in “L’Oiseau de Feu” and “Pétrouchka,” perhaps the most effective music in the whole repertoire of the Russian Ballet—a circumstance which makes it the more disappointing, at least to the simple-minded, that his third ballet, “Le Sacre du Printemps,” should be distinguished by such marked, not to say eccentric, characteristics.

It is regrettable to have to end these introductory words upon a note of disparagement. But the more recent performances of the Russian Ballet, while confirming the hold already established upon the public, have also indicated the way in which that hold may presently be lost. That abounding vitality with which the Russians have invested their work arises out of a devotion to, and enthusiasm for, their art. They have a zest which cannot fail of result. But a belief in the possibilities of an art must be balanced by a recognition of its limitations, or the result is chaos. It is needless to anticipate here the comments which are later made upon some recent additions to the Russians’ repertoire. It is enough for the moment to remark a tendency in them to chafe at what presumably seem to enthusiastic spirits, confident in their own cleverness, unnecessary bonds and restrictions. But discipline is the very essence of Art. To abandon discipline is to run riot, achieving nothing and arriving nowhere.