such conditions to devise many curious things, momentarily engaging—the workshops of Bedlam are full of them—but they can hardly hope to give the satisfaction, or enjoy the permanence, of art. A work of art is governed, at bottom, by the laws of Nature: it must have its roots somewhere in reality, and grow upward and outward. One fails to detect out of what “Le Sacre du Printemps” arises, or whither it leads. Its tendency, if it has any at all, is retrograde, and there is something almost pathetic in the spectacle of such highly-cultivated men as MM. Stravinsky, Roerich, and Nijinsky applying their brilliant talents to this inversion. It is surely a little ludicrous that the utmost resources of a modern orchestra, comprising over a hundred complex instruments, should be taxed by what is reported to be some of the most difficult music ever scored, in order to “express” the impulses and emotions of man in his most primitive state. A fitting parallel to Stravinsky’s efforts is provided by those of Nijinsky, laboriously instructing a highly-accomplished corps de ballet in mimicry of the awkward poses exhibited in sculpture of pre-classical days, when the sculptor was not so much expressive as struggling for expression. It may be true that under modern accepted conventions in art, expression has been stifled by undue attention to form, but this is hardly the way to demonstrate it. Curtailment is not the same thing as simplification.
“Le Sacre du Printemps” certainly exacts a good deal from the ordinary spectator. The latter finds himself at sea from the very beginning, and quickly realises that if there is any solid meaning at all to be arrived at, he can only reach it by jettisoning all previous standards and conventions. Even when he has succeeded, by the aid of a detailed synopsis, an introductory lecture, and a strongly developed faculty of assimilation, in acquainting himself with the authors’ premises, it is a matter of opinion whether MM. Stravinsky, Roerich, and Nijinsky give him much in return for what he has abandoned.
If this astonishing ballet is to be taken seriously, one may compliment its authors on a very gallant attempt to embody a view of art which is arresting, if not convincing. If, on the other hand, it is merely a jeu d’esprit, they are to be congratulated on one of the most elaborate and cleverly sustained hoaxes ever perpetrated. There is possibly a third solution, that the authors have been imposed upon and mesmerised by their own sheer cleverness, and all too nimble dexterity of mind. In that case there must be laughter among the Muses.