the ballet, a rebel at the hundred=year=old tradition in vogue in the imperial theaters, who is ready to offer himself body and soul to the cause of the painters who take possession of the theater as masters. Into this renunciation of tradition he puts all the fervor of a neophyte and an infinite measure of talent. What was there that one could not dare to undertake with such a band of the élite?
What followed is well known: fifteen times the celebrated “Russian Seasons” have already borne in upon Paris like shining waves breaking into foam.
It is not for me here to trace in detail the fate of the “Seasons”,—the transformations which they underwent, their successes as well as their
FACING THE MONT-BLANC. DRAWING
failures, the latter oftentimes being more creditable than the successes. Whatever else may have been their mission, certain it is that they brought two men forth into fame and glory: Stravinsky the musician and Leon Bakst the painter.
“Cleopatra” had caused extraordinary surprise. “Sheherazade” in 1910 surpassed everything. In recalling the annals of the modern theater, it is scarcely possible to recollect any production that was given a similar reception.
I had intended to sum up the successive stages of the fifteen years of productive work accomplished. Yet here I find myself, as I face my sources and my documents, overwhelmed with the almost magic
A VERANDAH. DRAWING