Choreographic Drama in One Act by Michel Fokine.

Music by Arensky, Taneiev, Rimsky-Korsakov, Glinka and Glazounov.

Scenes and Dances by Michel Fokine.

Scenery and Costumes Designed by LÉon Bakst.

IT is the supreme merit of “ClÉopÂtre” that it is of an even and sustained excellence throughout. All concerned in its production and performance have surpassed themselves, but since each has risen equally to the occasion there are no outstanding features to distract the balance of the whole. The result is merely the elevation of the latter to a very high artistic level.

It will be agreed that few subjects more suggestive and inspiring could be found than Cleopatra. For colour, movement and dramatic intensity the legend of the Egyptian queen affords opportunities which have in no wise been allowed to slip. LÉon Bakst has done nothing more largely fine than the spacious temple in the desert by the Nile, the deep tawny grandeur of which, broad and simple, provides a proper setting for the splendid, gem-like brilliance of Cleopatra’s train. Here is enacted, against a background of choric dances that have more than a conventional significance, one of those fierce passionate episodes which the Russians so vividly present.

Beyond the tall columns which enclose the sacred precinct we see the desert sand and the waters of the Nile. Hither, as the dusk of an Eastern night is enveloping the scene, comes Ta-hor, a young princess, in quest of her lover AmoÛn, to whom she has been promised by the high priest of the temple. She is first at the tryst, but in a moment AmoÛn comes leaping to meet her. The bow he carries in his hand seems symbolic of his manly youth and virile strength. The lusty vigour of his agile bounds, the impetuous onrush of his approach to his beloved, are eloquent of his careless abandon to the joy of life and love.

But their tender intercourse is broken by the entry of the high priest, who announces to them the approach of Cleopatra and her train. The great queen is come to accomplish a vow made to the deity of the temple, and already is at hand. Soon the head of the royal procession appears, and to the music of lutes and pipes there files into the precinct a glittering retinue.

Attended by slaves and guarded by soldiers, a large object, having the appearance of a painted sarcophagus, is borne in shoulder high, and set down with ceremony and care upon the temple pavement.

The doors of this strange litter are thrown open, revealing within what seems to be a mummy tightly swathed in voluminous

wraps. Delicately and reverently the muffled figure is lifted forth, and stood endwise upon a pair of raised sandals, or pattens, which have been placed in readiness. The outline of a human figure is faintly perceived under the gauzy wrappings, which slave girls now begin gently to unwind. Twelve veils in all, each of rare colour and design, are thus removed, and as their filmy texture is wafted aside, the contours of a female figure become more plainly discernible.

At last a single blue veil only interposes its thin curtain. The hidden figure, statuesque till now, with a sweeping motion of the hand waves aside the gauzy cloud, and Cleopatra stands revealed in all her dire beauty, her queenly dignity and splendour.

Imperiously she stretches forth a hand. Her negro slave, watchful at her side as any dog, darts forward and stoops to receive the pressure of her palm upon his head. Thus supported she moves slowly to the divan, which assiduous hands have placed in readiness at one side. As she declines upon the cushions, the great fans held above the couch begin rhythmically to oscillate. Slaves and attendants group themselves about her, eager to anticipate her lightest command.

AmoÛn, unnoticed in the background, has been observant of all that has passed. Less so Ta-hor, to whose quick feminine intuition the coming of Cleopatra has been a presage of evil. During all that has passed, her eyes have been fastened upon her lover in anxious solicitude; she has noted with a pang of terror the sudden passion with which the dazzling revelation of the awful queen smote him. Vainly she tries to hold him as he now strides forward, and approaches the royal couch.

The angry snarl of her negro slave, who bares his teeth like any cur at the bold intruder, gives warning to the queen of the stranger’s presence. But she makes no sign of cognisance, and ere AmoÛn can utter a word, or indeed collect his thoughts out of the stupor into which they have swooned, Ta-hor has seized him and is whispering passionately, insistently in his ear. For an instant the young man is recalled to himself, and suffers his betrothed to lead him away. With eyes that nought escapes, for all that they seem to stare fixedly into space, the sinister queen observes the lovers, and the yielding of AmoÛn to Ta-hor’s urgent pleading. But she gives no sign except to bid the ceremonial rites begin.

Ta-hor herself must needs lead the dance which now takes place. Perforce she leaves her lover, and with what heart she can muster enters upon her task. Motionless, prone upon her couch, the glittering queen reposes, and from a distance the fated AmoÛn feasts his eyes upon her beauty. An irresistible lure attracts him; ere he knows what he is doing he is pressing eagerly through the maze of dancers towards his doom. His movement is quickly seen by Ta-hor. Again she intervenes, and once more, though this time with reluctance, AmoÛn allows himself to be withdrawn. But for all Ta-hor’s devotion his destiny is plain.

The rites proceed, and Ta-hor, with aching heart, must resume her place amongst the dancers. AmoÛn, feeding the fires of passion in the shadowy background, is forgotten as the dance goes on its way. Suddenly, on a strident note, an arrow quivers in the ground beside the queen’s divan. The dancers cease abruptly, soldiers dart forward, consternation and amazement seize the whole court. Cleopatra alone remains unmoved. Not a muscle of her body twitches, not a flicker of emotion is discernible in her face. She is inscrutable as fate, and as patient.

In a moment the guards re-enter, bringing with them AmoÛn, the tell-tale bow in his hand. He shows no fear, but rather eagerness, as they hale him before the queen, on whom he fixes his fascinated gaze. Already the arrow has been plucked out of the ground, and a message, writ on papyrus, found attached to it. As Cleopatra rises to confront the prisoner, her slave girl reads out the ardent profession of love. Unabashed, AmoÛn awaits his answer or his doom.

With secret smile the queen surveys this latest victim of her fatal charms. But here Ta-hor, agonised witness of her lover’s self-destruction, flings herself passionately between them. Cleopatra, unmoved even to disdain, turns aside while Ta-hor strives to regain her hold upon AmoÛn. This time her pleading is in vain. The die is cast; AmoÛn, no longer master of his own will, has eyes and ears only for the siren to whom his whole being is surrendered. Though Ta-hor clings about his feet, he but tramples her underfoot and presses for sentence from his more than queen.

From under the low brow, the basilisk eyes of Cleopatra fasten on their prey. Narrowly she scans her would-be lover, who meets her gaze frankly and undismayed. He is young, he is brave, he is fair to see. An eternal night of love, says the queen, shall be his, if he choose to take it. This night he shall share her couch; at dawn he must drink oblivion from a poisoned cup. AmoÛn hears unflinchingly, unflinchingly accepts.

Slaves busy themselves with preparation of the royal couch. Ta-hor, in a last frenzy of despair, casts herself upon AmoÛn. Love gives her strength, and by the sheer fury of her onslaught she bears her lover away from the dreadful presence of the queen. But AmoÛn recovers himself, and with equal fury resists the efforts of Ta-hor to drag him from the temple. Against his male strength the utmost force of her weak arms is unavailing; he bursts from their clutch and dashes eagerly forward to where his implacable enchantress awaits him. Ta-hor, the last resource of her devotion spent, creeps forth, broken-hearted, to the desert.

Within the temple music and dance provide voluptuous accompaniment to AmoÛn’s dedication—nay, immolation—of himself. The whirling forms of the dancers half conceal him as he yields to the seductive embraces of the queen. Released for the while from their attendance on her person, slave boy and slave girl of Cleopatra celebrate the amorous triumph of their mistress in a dance of wild abandon, which gives place to a bacchanale into which a band of Greek dancers, with attendant satyrs, fling themselves in an orgy of frenzied movement.

The riot of dance and music has risen to a climax, when the tall figure of the high priest approaches Cleopatra’s couch. In his hand he bears a cup, and his gaze is upturned to the stars now

paling before the coming dawn. The appointed hour is nigh. The queen rises, and as her lover, hanging on her every motion, gains his feet, he is confronted by this gaunt minister of fate, death in his outstretched hands. Memory with sudden shock sobers AmoÛn’s intoxicated senses. He recalls his doom. For a single moment he hesitates, seeking a ray of hope in Cleopatra’s face. But the queen is adamant, a figure turned to stone. Resolutely the young man receives the cup from the high priest’s hand, but never taking his eyes from his mistress’ face. Resolutely he puts it to his lips, and with his gaze still fixed upon the queen, drains it to the lees.

A spasm contorts the victim’s body. He reels, staggers, and clutching horribly at the empty air, falls writhing at the queen’s feet. The poison is swift, potent; and though the agony seems long-drawn-out and dreadful,

in a few moments only a lifeless corpse remains of what had been so full of vigorous, ardent life. Silently the train of musicians, dancers and the rest look on at this dire climax to the night’s fierce drama.

Motionless above the prostrate body stands Cleopatra, with arms upraised and outward bent palms. Her countenance, inscrutable as ever, betrays no sign of the ecstasy in which her strange being now exults; more eloquent is the tension to which her supple limbs are strung. Some moments thus she remains, then with a gesture summons her slaves, and leaning her weight upon them departs from the temple. Silently her retinue follows, none heeding the body of AmoÛn save the high priest, who casts a black cloth over it as he passes.

Empty save for the dark object lying on the pavement, the sacred precinct glimmers in the growing light of dawn. A small figure appears at the back, enters, and looks eagerly around. It is Ta-hor come to seek traces of her lost betrothed. With hurried steps she advances, looking fearfully from side to side. The dark object arrests her eye; she runs forward and stoops above it. She seizes a corner of the cloth, but fears, for an agonising moment of suspense, to lift it. At last she drags it aside, and finds herself peering into the glazed eyes of her beloved. She casts herself down, chafing the limp hands, kissing the still warm lips. But her tender ministrations are in vain. The awful truth flashes blindingly upon her, and she falls, stricken, across the inert body.