The Russian Ballet

by A. E. Johnson

Some coachmen, challenging each other to feats of agility, break into a dance. The crowd stays to watch them, paying but little attention to the frequent appeals for patronage of an old man stationed on the top of a booth, who beseeches consideration of his astonishingly lengthy beard. More likely to attract the eye are the pair of handsome gipsy girls who join him on his elevated platform. But it is not until the coachmen pause for breath in their vigorous saltations that the sirens overhead succeed in fastening their allurements upon a festive and inebriated merchant who has pushed his way, with uncertain gait, to the front.

The sudden beating of a tattoo by a couple of drummers, clad in gay livery, summons the crowd to a long booth standing in the background, of which the curtains have hitherto remained drawn. The people press forward with such eager curiosity that the drummers have some ado to keep them at a sufficient distance; but the apparition of a strange, antique head, which is suddenly thrust through an opening in the curtains of the booth, arrests the attention of all.

The head looks quaintly right and left: then the curtains are parted, and the figure of its owner is revealed. It is no ordinary showman or cheap-jack who steps forward and salutes the ring of attentive spectators. The cabalistic signs upon the long robe in which his lean figure is swathed, his cap of curious shape, his flowing beard and yellow parchment skin—these are all attributes which belong rather to a wise magician of the East than to a peripatetic showman. The spectators are evidently interested; there is a something about this queer personage which fascinates and holds them. When, after courtly obeisances, he puts to his lips the flute that he holds in his hand, they press forward with undisguised curiosity.

With gestures odd and unexpected the strange old man pipes forth a tune upon his flute—a jerky little air to which he jerkily sways and twists his lank body. The gaping onlookers follow his antics with half-mesmerised gaze, and when presently he takes the flute from his lips and steps down to the front of the booth they are all agog to learn what sequel to this prelude the drawn curtains will reveal.

When drawn at length the curtains are, an engaging spectacle greets the eye. Propped in a row upon slender rods are three life-size puppet figures. In the middle is the Dancer, most radiant of dolls, with the pinkest of waxen cheeks and the glassiest of stares, elegantly arrayed in a striped jacket and pantaloons. On one side of her is the Blackamoor, a fierce and swarthy fellow, resplendent in green and gold, with gorgeous turban on his head; on the other, poor Pétrouchka, a grotesque figure of fun tricked out in glaring and fantastic motley.

Such are the three puppets which the ancient showman presents to the enthralled spectators—and puppets only, mere things of tinsel and sawdust, they seem as the curtains are drawn aside. They hang limply upon their supports, not making even of lifelessness other than a puppet’s feeble travesty. There is occult power in the showman’s hand, however, and as he touches each in turn the figures are galvanised of a sudden into seeming life. With a quick spasmodic movement their limbs stiffen, their bodies are jerked upright upon the props, and a semblance of alertness is obtained. It is as though on the instant some hidden clockwork springs had been wound up tense and taut.

To a burst of lively music three pairs of legs start nimbly dancing. The bodies of the puppets, seemingly fastened to the supports so plainly visible, remain fixed and stationary. Heads and arms move jerkily and unfreely, but whatever the mechanical defects in other directions, at least the puppets’ legs are well and truly hung. They beat a merry tattoo in concert on the floor; they bend and straighten, kick, recoil and leap with such inspiriting and infectious gusto, that blithe and nimble feet are soon a-jigging in the crowd of admiring and applauding onlookers.

The giddy reel is at its height when, upon a mutual impulse, the puppets start from their supports, and tripping gaily from their little platforms in the booth, come forward and continue the dance in the midst of the astonished spectators. The latter, much excited by a manœuvre so unexpected, gather hurriedly round. The drummers strive to keep a clear arena for the puppets, while the antique showman, sardonically aware of the sensation which his dolls are making, rubs covetous and expectant palms.

The dance develops into burlesque pantomime, Pétrouchka making a grotesque attack upon the Blackamoor with a stick which the showman thrusts into his stiffly jointed arms. Captivated by this new feature of an entertainment already novel, the laughing onlookers press more closely round, and the curtain falls upon the hilarious crowd delightedly applauding the conclusion of the pantomime and dance.

When the curtain, after a short interval, rises again a very different scene is disclosed. You are to understand that the queer old showman has some acquaintance with the black arts. It is probable that from the moment when he first peered through the curtains of his booth you have suspected as much; indeed, if you share but a tithe of the superstitious instinct of the holiday-makers in the fair, you will have been at once convinced of it, and the sudden transformation of the sawdust puppets into the semblance of living, sentient beings (albeit a trifle odd and constrained in their movements) will have aroused little emotion in your ignorant mind except a gaping wonder.