The Russian Ballet

by A. E. Johnson

that he attempts, and his conception of Zobéide’s favourite does not disappoint. The part is not one which, upon a first consideration, would seem to demand a very subtle art, but the emphasis, already alluded to, which the actor lays upon the minion’s servile character is only to be conveyed by very delicate shades of suggestion. The essential servility is most convincingly realised, and if Nijinsky’s conception of the part contains (in some eyes) elements of offence, it is at least a logical outcome of the premises from which the ballet starts, and in performance brilliant beyond praise. In Nijinsky’s hands the negro is, indeed, lasciviousness personified. His ingratiating leer, the furtive roll of his eyes, his whole insinuating aspect as he plies his shameful ministrations, impress a vivid picture on the mind. His ready, even eager, submission to the domination of his mistress, his base delight in her favour, wears a horrid air; one feels that in his different way the creature is as little of a man as the poor beardless janitor. He is lust reft of its virtue, and repels, like lechery, even while he attracts.

But the music’s fevered pulse allows no long quiescence. Again the lithe figure, starting abruptly from Zobéide’s side, leaps madly into the dance—a point of focus to which all speedily converge, the centre of a giddy whirlpool into which the amorous pairs, swept from dalliance to their feet as by a surging wave, are irresistibly drawn. Intoxication grows to bacchic frenzy, as the urging music swells to an impending climax. The eye would reel before the blurr of brilliant moving figures but for that clue to the shifty mazy dance which the central figures of the libidinous Sultana and her paramour provide.

Suddenly into the chamber stalks the Sultan. The dancers stop in mid-career. For a moment they stand fascinated by the apparition of this grim figure of vengeance. The Sultan, too, speechless and paralysed with rage, seems rooted to the spot. Then panic seizes the culprits; helter-skelter they flee in abject terror.

Schah-Zeman, cynically smiling to see enacted once again the scene which so lately desecrated his own household, is at his brother’s elbow. Armed men with naked scimitars have invaded the chamber, and with them are others whose dress proclaims them eunuchs of the palace, underlings of the hapless janitor who is now to reap his folly. Women, slaves, young men, are striving pitifully, in the last extremity of terror, to hide themselves behind curtains, in alcoves—anywhere that seems to offer any possibility of concealment. Zobéide, alone of them all, scorns flight. She crouches apart, with heaving bosom, awaiting the anger of her lord. Her villainous paramour, like the slave that he is, has fled for safety.

With lowering glance the Sultan sweeps the scene, and signs furiously to the guards. At once the work of execution begins. Instant slaughter is the doom of all. The eunuchs seize their traitorous chief, and flinging his craven body to the floor, throttle him where he lies. To and fro dash the guards, dragging from vain hiding-places, beneath uplifted weapons, their helpless victims. The floor is strewn with corpses, and in very act of stumbling over such dreadful obstacles, some poor fugitives are caught by ruthless pursuers and put to the avenging sword. Silent, abashed before her husband’s stern gaze, Zobéide cowers amidst all the carnage. A violent tremor shakes her as the cowardly partner of her guilt, vainly seeking to escape his doom, is stabbed in mid-flight and expires convulsively at her feet; but without attempt at exculpation she continues to await her doom.

At length the bloody business is finished; or almost finished, for Zobéide remains. Her the eunuchs and the guards dare not touch without a further sign. Stealthily they advance to where she stands; scimitars are lifted, daggers poised. It needs only the Sultan’s signal for the fatal blow to be struck. But Schariar is torn by a conflict of emotions. Love for the cherished wife of his bosom urges pardon; jealousy, wounded pride, the outrage on his kingly dignity cry vengeance! To the dull minds of his attendants but one issue is possible—were it not for his restraining gesture the keen blades would fall at once.

Then Zobéide, snatching at a last hope, abases herself before her husband. She pleads, she implores, she summons all her wits, her arts, to help her in her dire necessity. Schariar is moved, and as he gazes at the fair form of the woman he has loved so ardently the sternness of his look relaxes. He wavers.

But Zobéide has to reckon with an enemy more dangerous, more implacable than her husband’s wounded pride. Schah-Zeman, self-appointed guardian of his brother’s dignity and honour, observes the scene with undisguised hostility. To him, as to the eunuchs, there appears but one conclusion fit and proper. By no consent of his shall there be any other. Scanning his brother narrowly, he sees the advantage which Zobéide is momentarily gaining. Disgustedly he confronts his brother, and, as Schariar turns his head, with contemptuous foot rolls the dead negro’s carcase on its back. The dusky face leers grinningly upward.

Livid with rage, the Sultan casts his faithless consort from him, and motions impetuously to the armed men. A dozen hands are stretched to seize the victim, but before the threatening blades can fall, Zobéide swiftly turns upon her executioners. Imperiously she waves them back, and snatching a dagger from the nearest hand, plunges it into her side. The thrust is truly aimed, and sinking to the floor before her husband, with a last vain effort to clutch the hem of his robe, she expires at his feet.