The Russian Ballet

by A. E. Johnson

elders of the tribe make their appearance, come to evoke the spirits of their ancestors and perform the final rites of this mystic bridal dedication to the Sun. They achieve this by partially covering themselves with black bearskins, the limp forelegs of which, waggling at their elbows, give them the appearance of immense grotesque penguins as they strut solemnly round the object of their scrutiny. After this lengthy peripatetic inspection is concluded, they seat themselves in groups, and the Chosen Victim suddenly breaks into a dance—if dance can be called a series of agonised movements not less ugly and contorted than the immobile posture in which she has been for so long rigidly stationed.

It is quite impossible to describe this “dance,” which it is an uncomfortable experience to watch—not for any offence that it contains, but for a feeling of sympathy with the unfortunate dancer who has to indulge such misplaced agility. Suffice it to explain that it “expresses” the last ecstasy of the Victim—a transition from exaltation to frenzy, from frenzy to exhaustion. At the moment of expiry, the watching elders leap to their feet, and seizing the Victim in their hands, hold her rigid corpse at arms’ length above their heads.

It is thus, we are told, that sacrifice is made to Iarilo, the flaming, the superb. The ribald will be inclined to retort that it is to be hoped Iarilo likes it.

In fairness, it must be added that this account of the eccentric happenings on the stage is quite inadequate to convey any proper impression of these two tableaux—which are, in fact, quite indescribable by words. It would be a mistake to suppose that this extraordinary performance is as wearisome as its unintelligible character might lead one to infer. According to all ordinary standards the whole business is completely mad—the music is mad, the dancers are mad. Yet it does not bore, and the interest which it excites must be something more than that of mere curiosity to endure through two whole acts. One suspects this to be merely a tribute to the unquestionable cleverness of the ballet, though the generous spectator may like to suppose a more solid reason.

When the present writer witnessed the first production of “Le Sacre du Printemps” in Paris, the printed synopsis of its action presented to the audience was of the briefest kind. The spectators were left to unravel its meaning for themselves—and they signally failed to rise to the occasion. Briefly, they hissed it. They would not listen to Stravinsky’s music: the choreography of Nijinsky moved them to unkind laughter. On the later production of the ballet in London, the management wisely distributed an amplified synopsis, detailing the incidents (so far as the ballet can be said to have any), and took the further precaution of prefacing the performance by a short lecture, in which a distinguished critic, of sympathetic leanings, endeavoured to expound the principles upon which the authors of the ballet had proceeded in its creation.

Thanks to this forethought, the ballet received in London the attentive hearing which was denied to it in Paris. It even received applause, though how far this was due to the amiability of London theatre-goers—less impulsive and more tolerant than the Parisian public—it would be rash to guess. Undoubtedly the ballet, as presented in London, was more easily followed than when seen in Paris. In part, perhaps, the certain degree of familiarity helped; in part, the stronger lighting of the stage during the second act of the London performance was of assistance. But, chiefly, the greater intelligibility arose out of the explanations, verbal and printed, with which the spectator was forearmed. Antics which had been meaningless became invested with the shadow, if not the substance of plausibility; it became apparent what they were intended to mean, even if the meaning still seemed to fail of true expression.

But should such detailed explanations of purpose be necessary? Granting the abandonment of all ordinary, accepted conventions, ought a work of art, conceived upon whatsoever unfamiliar principles, to fail to grip the imagination? It may be noted that in the introductory lecture, the Japanese colour-print was cited as an example of a form of art scoffed at, when first seen in this country, because its conventions were unfamiliar and not understood. But one fancies that upon any mind not utterly philistine, no matter how unable to understand its peculiar conventions, the work of a Japanese master made a very definite impression. The Occidental mind had a sense of the Oriental achievement, even if it failed to comprehend precisely what had been achieved. If attempt is not to be confused with accomplishment, one fears that only a partisan enthusiast could have a similar regard for “Le Sacre du Printemps.”

It is difficult to discover unity of purpose. To mention a minor, but glaring inconsistency, the costumes designed by Roerich (though one is grateful for the vividly decorative groups which they produce) are scarcely consonant with his “primitive” scenery, and certainly not characteristic of ultra-primitive humanity. A people that had acquired such arts as the possession of this clothing postulates can scarcely be reckoned typical of “the Muscovy of dimmest antiquity,” and it is at least doubtful whether at their comparatively advanced stage of civilisation (accepting as historically accurate Nijinsky’s theory of primitive modes of expression) gesture and movement would be marked by such uncouth and awkward characteristics.

The fact would seem to be that the authors of this ballet have chosen to be a law unto themselves. No doubt it is possible under