concomitant novelties, were wallowing in a gaudy slough of despond ten years ago, Parisians had come to regard them as a highly improbable means even of amusement, leaving edification quite out of account.
The success of the Russians was assured from the first curtain. Here was something that conveyed a message of noble beauty, executed with the skill of the craftsman possessed of all that education can give, fired with enthusiastic genius. Above all, it was a thing that released thought from earth-bound conditions and, with the persuasion of its multiple beauty, invited it to roam the unlimited domain of poetry and magic.
Full appreciation required time, naturally. Here was a creation new in freedom of movement and pantomimic vocabulary: dressed in costumes never seen before; backed by scenery in colours never dreamed of, with a species of line-composition like an alien language; and accompanied by music of a type unfamiliar, to many individuals unknown. Wagnerian music to the unaccustomed ear is confusing as well as overpowering. The Russian ballet presented its equivalent in three different forms acting simultaneously.
The Russian ballet season is now one of the institutions of the French capital. The Russian government annually grants several months’ leave of absence to the necessary number of artists, and Paris for several months crowds their performances. The annual increase in quantity and depth of thought bestowed upon them, as measured in magazine writings, indicates that public satisfaction with the organisation and its work has not yet found its limits.