For a long time the ballet in London lingered moribund, feebly striving to escape death by a gradual metamorphosis into a “revue.” Frequent were the assertions of the wiseacres that neither ballet nor revue were things which could exist in the peculiar atmosphere of London, the real fact being that what was offered under either title was neither one thing nor the other, but a stupidly attempted compromise between the two. The advent of the Russians changed all that. The ballet proper was received with instant acclamation, the revue sprang into popular favour (even to the extent of being imported intact from Paris), and the bastard entertainment which had previously been fostered under the name of ballet was killed stone dead.
Yet this sudden change ought not to cause so very much surprise. That London can claim for practically its own, over a long period, a dancer so accomplished, an artist so genuine, as Adeline Genée, is surely not without significance. If the latter was given poor opportunities for the exercise of her art, that was assuredly no fault of hers. Were impresarios as shrewd before an event as they invariably are after, they might have taken a hint from the never-failing support given to Genée in “Coppélia”—almost the only ballet worthy of the name which had been put upon the London stage for many years before the Russians arrived. It is fair to add, however, that even had the latent demand been recognised (as possibly was the case) the supply would have been a difficult thing to negotiate. The resources of the London maître de ballet are limited.
These reflections are prompted by a comparison of the best which London, a little while ago, could offer with “Le Pavillon d’Armide,” which approaches in its principal scene most nearly, of all the ballets in the Russian repertoire, to the formal, somewhat stiff and conventional pattern which was the vogue at the period when Taglioni, Duvernay, Carlotta Grisi, and Fanny Ellsler held the stage, and to the faint traditions of which the so-called ballet in London, of late years, faintly clung. Although “Le Pavillon d’Armide,” with its succession of individual dances, suffers by comparison with some of the more closely knit, more consistently dramatic ballets, it is yet immeasurably above the level to which London had become accustomed.
The Pavilion of Armida is an adjunct to the castle of a wicked magician—an elderly Marquis in outward seeming—whose hospitality is sought by an unsuspecting young man. The Vicomte de Beaugency (the period of the ballet is that of Louis XIV.) is on his way in a postchaise to visit his future bride, but is overtaken by a heavy storm and prevented, through stress of weather, from continuing his journey. He finds himself in the grounds of a wayside mansion, at which he begs for shelter. He is courteously received by its owner, the sinister Marquis, who places at his disposal for the night the Pavilion of Armida.
This apartment takes its name from an ancestress of the host, as the latter explains to his guest. A feature of its decorations is the Gobelin tapestry, whereon the lovely Armida is depicted, surrounded by her court, and on this the young man gazes long, his curiosity and interest aroused. His host presently departs with polite wishes for a restful night, and the Vicomte composes himself to sleep.
It is the witching hour of midnight. Hardly has the young man closed his eyes when the figure of Cupid, on the clock which marks the hour, begins to fight with Saturn. The latter, vanquished, disappears—the signal for the Hours to troop forth and make a mischievous escape. Time, therefore, is in suspense and nought can challenge Cupid’s sway. The great tapestry comes to life, the figures move and breathe, and the Vicomte, starting from his slumber—or is he still only in a dream?—finds himself in the midst of the fair Armida’s glittering court.
All about him are fair women and brave men, splendidly attired. But despite the pomp and magnificence of the scene, its lovely mistress is distraught. Gallant knights attend her, but one who should be of the number is missing. Armida weeps, seemingly disconsolate, for the absent Rinaldo. The Vicomte, feasting his eyes upon her beauty, is smitten by her fatal enchantment. Forgetting all save the glamour of the moment, he presses forward and devotedly offers himself as candidate for the vacant place. Armida smiles upon him, grants the favour he desires, and leads him by the hand, a willing victim, to the dais whereon her aged sire is enthroned.
It is this scene—the animated court of Armida—which is sometimes performed as an isolated excerpt. Armida is seen at first reclining on the dais, from which she descends to give expression to her mood of ennui. The appearance of the Vicomte puts her boredom to instant flight—at prospect of another victim she is quickly alert to exercise her age-old fascinations. The old seigneur, her pretended father, who is in reality none other than the wicked Marquis, joins the company, and the hapless Vicomte is led to a place upon the dais beside his enchantress. There enters a master of the ceremonies, with attendant heralds, and a fanfare of trumpets announces the beginning of the revels.
These revels provide an opportunity for a series of dances which exhibit the resources of the Ballet in this purely formal aspect of their art. At the outset of the scene, before the entry of the master of ceremonies, there is a long pas seul in which Karsavina displays something of that almost ceremonial grace which was the delight of amateurs of the dance of long generations ago. There comes, too, upon the scene Nijinsky, as Armida’s favourite slave—a rôle intended to afford him opportunities for dancing rather than miming—while as confidants of Armida the leading ladies of the company appear.
The composer of “Le Pavillon d’Armide” is Nicolas Tcherepnin, who has been much associated with the Ballet, and from whom, therefore, peculiarly appropriate music for the dance is to be expected. Charming in itself, it lacks nothing requisite to show the dancers at their best.