While the infatuated youth is thus occupied, Echo returns. Her mood of bitterness has passed, and at sight of the object of her passion all her love wells up anew. Pleading once more, she runs towards him with outstretched hands. But Narcissus pays her no heed. He has eyes only for the watery depths below him, and Echo’s distracted appeal falls unregarded on deaf ears.
Willingly would Echo now recall her prayer to the goddess. But wishes are in vain, and vain her efforts to distract Narcissus from his fate. Once she succeeds in drawing him, reluctant, from the margin of the pool, but the youth seems scarce aware of her existence. Too evidently preoccupied to listen to her pleadings, he is back at the water’s edge, rapturously gazing, as soon as her hold upon him is released. Inexorably it is borne in on Echo that fate is too strong for her. Sorrowfully she turns and goes.
Alone in the gathering gloom, Narcissus continues in rapt adoration of his own fair image. As presently appears, he is rooted, literally, to the spot. For as he stands there gazing he slowly sinks downward into the mossy soil, and in his place there rises a tall narcissus flower, whose pale petals glimmer luminously in the dusky twilight. From nooks and crannies the sylvan sprites creep silently forth, to pry with timid, curious eyes upon this strange apparition. Upon this ghostly scene, and the forlorn figure of Echo, passing sadly across the leafy bridge, the curtain gently descends.
One regrets to end this account of what is in many ways a charming ballet upon an adverse note. But a protest must be entered against the Brobdingnagian flower, so evidently a thing of paint and paste-board, which is thrust up from the trap-door cavity by which Narcissus makes his escape. The whole business is so monstrously crude and childish that one can scarcely credit its occurrence. In conception the conclusion of the ballet is admirable, but if trap-doors and cardboard flowers (popping up from the soil in full bloom and fresh with the property master’s paint) are the only means by which such an ending can be accomplished, it seems amazing that such ordinarily nice taste as the Russians display should tolerate these enormities. There is a sense of proportion lacking here, as at the opening of the ballet when a clumsy heaviness of hand, seeking to make the most of the elfin creatures of the wood, effectually reduces them to nothing. The poignant final passage between Echo and Narcissus, eloquently expressed by Karsavina and Nijinsky, is spoilt by this grotesque termination.
Happily these blunders are as rare as they are inexplicable. Only perhaps in “Le Dieu Bleu,” with its similar resort to the artifice of the trap-door, its matter-of-fact demons, and impossible flight of aerial steps, is there a parallel to these which mar the beauties of “Narcisse.” Too close an attention to the cult of the body is perhaps the cause of this material, ultra-realistic touch.
“Narcisse” would be best appreciated if one could ignore its blemishes and enjoy its many excellences individually. The dresses of bacchantes, nymphs and peasants embody some of Bakst’s most splendid designs, but these are seen to better advantage in the artist’s original drawings than on the figures of the wearers in the ballet. (This is the case, of course, with all Bakst’s decorations—not excepting scenery, which necessarily loses much in execution from the original scheme—but is especially applicable to those of “Narcisse.”) The music of Tcherepnin has a charm and distinction which would lose nothing by an isolated hearing, while the joyous dancing of Nijinsky is independent of the environment in which it takes place. Possessed of many charming features, “Narcisse” yet lacks a something to make it, as a whole, convincing. The deficiency, one must suppose, is a lack of real sympathy with their subject on the part of the performers.