Dances by Michel Fokine.
Scenery and Costumes Designed by Léon Bakst.
WITHOUT reference to “Hélène de Sparte” and “Daphnis et Chlöe,” two ballets in their repertoire which the Russians seem chary of presenting in London, it would be unfair to say that the Greek view of life baffles them. But their performance of “Narcisse,” despite its many beauties, suggests no very confident or happy exploration into classic mythology. One fancies their temperament is too restless, too sensuous, to appreciate the cool, almost austere, repose of Greek ideas. “Nothing in excess” is hardly a motto to appeal to the creators of “Scheherazade,” “Cléopâtre” and “L’Oiseau de Feu.” As a result their treatment is too florid, and at times clumsy. It is not so much that they do not know when to stop, as that they fail to strike the right note in starting.
The scene is a sylvan glade containing a shrine of the goddess Pomona. There is a spring beside the shrine which feeds a glassy pool and gives that cool humidity to the air which Léon Bakst has well suggested by the luxuriance of the green vegetation all around. The glade is shrouded in mysterious twilight when the curtain rises, and the queer forms of sylvan imps are dimly seen, frolicking to the woodland music of a flute. The orchestral accompaniment is charming, but it is unfortunate that the growing light should presently destroy illusion, and reveal what had seemed true elfin sprites as dancers clad in cloth overalls and wearing grotesque masks. One resents the needless clumsiness.
But there is a sound of approaching revelry and mirth. The woodland creatures hasten to their lairs, and a band of Bœotian peasants gaily troops on to the scene. Two and two, in merry pairs, young men and maidens enter. All are in holiday attire, come to do honour to the deities of woods and fields. They make procession round about the mossy dell, they dance, and offer supplications to the gods. These duties over, they disperse. Some fling themselves upon the ground to rest, others gather round the pool, and laughingly splash the water about. The joyous spirit of holiday animates them all.
There come others presently to the grove—a number of bacchantes who are celebrating the goddess of the shrine. For these the peasants form respectful audience while the due rites and ceremonies are observed. Libations are poured, dances are performed. First the leader of the bacchantes executes a solemn dance, which concludes with a prostration before the shrine. Her companions then join her, the bacchic frenzy begins to work, and a dance of wild energy ensues, which is not concluded until a climax of intoxication is reached and the dancers, from ecstasy or exhaustion, collapse.
While the bacchantes still lie prone a sound of distant singing is heard. The voices draw nearer, the listeners in the dell turn their heads expectantly. In another moment there enters running, gracefully eluding the efforts to stay him of two pursuing nymphs, a young shepherd. It is Narcissus—Narcissus the fair and cold: Narcissus of whose beauty all are enamoured, but whom no dart of the blind god has yet pierced.
Careless of his charms, and of the tender woes which he inflicts, Narcissus is in merry mood. He dances joyously while not only the two pursuing nymphs, but every maiden present, hangs in adoration on his every movement. Narcissus has no eyes for them, no thought of anything but delight in his own fair limbs and the joy of movement. He is a young man exulting in his grace and strength, with not a sentiment to dull the keen edge of sheer enjoyment of the act of living.
But even while Narcissus is thus dancing in self-centred abstraction, a female form, raven-haired and wrapped in a purple robe, is seen advancing slowly across the bridge which spans the background. It is Echo, mournful and lonely. Elusively she approaches, appearing now here, now there, before at length advancing into the midst of the youths and maidens. She prostrates herself imploringly before Narcissus. She too is enamoured of the lovely youth.