The following argument is printed in the score of the suite to illustrate the significance of the sections in succession:
“No sound but the murmur of rivulets fed by the dew that trickles from the rocks. Daphnis lies stretched before the grotto of the nymphs. Little by little the day dawns. The songs of birds are heard. Afar off a shepherd leads his flock. Another shepherd crosses the back of the stage. Herdsmen enter, seeking Daphnis and Chloe. They find Daphnis and awaken him. In anguish he looks about for Chloe. She at last appears, encircled by shepherdesses. The two rush into each other’s arms. Daphnis observes Chloe’s crown. His dream was a prophetic vision: the intervention of Pan is manifest. The old shepherd Lammon explains that Pan saved Chloe, in remembrance of the nymph Syrinx, whom the god loved.
“Daphnis and Chloe mime the story of Pan and Syrinx. Chloe impersonates the young nymph wandering over the meadow. Daphnis as Pan appears and declares his love for her. The nymph repulses him; the god becomes more insistent. She disappears among the reeds. In desperation he plucks some stalks, fashions a flute, and on it plays a melancholy tune. Chloe comes out and imitates by her dance the accents of the flute.
“The dance grows more and more animated. In mad whirlings, Chloe falls into the arms of Daphnis. Before the altar of the nymphs he swears on two sheep his fidelity. Young girls enter; they are dressed as Bacchantes and shake their tambourines. Daphnis and Chloe embrace tenderly. A group of young men come on the stage.
“Joyous tumult. A general dance. Daphnis and Chloe.”
The scenario of the ballet was derived by Michel Fokine from the charming romance of Longus. There are stage pictures of Chloe carried away by robbers, rescued by Pan at the prayer of Daphnis, and of the lovers miming together the story of Pan and Syrinx. There are scenes in the grove of Pan and in the pirate camp, besides those mentioned above. The scenery and costumes were designed by Leon Bakst.
BOLERO
Bolero does not fare the better by repetition. It is the clever trick of a super-refined composer. The trick is amazingly well performed, but it is only a trick. The surprise of a first performance does not affect one a second time. Still, there is the expectation of something going to happen, of a final, thunderous proclamation of the inherently negligible tune. According to the old saw, surprise is the chief element of wit. Perhaps—but honest laughter follows the first cracking of a joke. After that, the laughter is only courteous.
This Bolero, dedicated to Ida Rubinstein, was brought out by her and danced by her at Paris in November, 1928. Alexandre Benois designed the settings and the costumes to represent a scene that Goya might have painted: a Spanish inn, with the dancer on a trestle table, men surrounding it. At first calm, the actors on the Parisian stage were little by little excited to frenzy as the dancer became more and more animated. Knives were drawn—the woman was tossed from arms to arms, until her partner intervened; they danced until quiet was restored. So was the scene described by French and English reporters.