From a Poem by Robert Humieres.

Music by Florent Schmitt.

Dances by Boris Romanov.

Scenery and Costumes Designed by Serge Soudeikine.

SALOME furnishes the theme of yet another ballet in the Russians’ later style. Though Nijinsky has no connection with it the influence of his example is evident throughout. “La TragÉdie de Salome” takes a place very fittingly in the same gallery as “L’AprÈs-Midi d’un Faune,” “Jeux,” and “Le Sacre du Printemps.” That is to say, it has no story to unfold by means of music and the dance. Salome is not so much the theme, as a mere central figure of a stage picture to which motion is imparted. Nijinsky in “Le Sacre du Printemps” went to Gauguin and the post-impressionists for inspiration. Boris Romanov and Serge Soudeikine, who are responsible respectively for the choreography and the dÉcor of “La TragÉdie de Salome” have singled out Aubrey Beardsley for attention.

“Pure Beardsley” was the popular phrase with which the ballet was summed up on its first production. It is, of course, nothing of the sort—at least, if the phrase is to be strictly interpreted. If it were pure Beardsley the ballet would be a good deal better than it is. One has some difficulty in imagining Aubrey Beardsley staging a ballet, and probably, if such a thing had happened, the result would have been very different from that which the Russians have imagined. But even supposing that Beardsley had produced on the stage something resembling what is shown us, it is perfectly certain there would have been a distinction which the present performance lacks. To put it shortly, “La TragÉdie de Salome” is nothing but an aping of Beardsley, a reproduction (or shall one say, a travesty?) of certain superficial aspects of that artist’s designs, entirely uninspired by any sympathy with, or apparently even understanding of, the peculiar genius of which they were expressions.

It is unfortunate, perhaps, that the assimilative Russians, when they play the sedulous ape, do so with such polished ease and aplomb. Their cleverness amuses, even if it fails to impress. In sheer theatrical effect this ballet of Salome is quite dazzling. Its bizarre decoration, and the eccentricity of the action, capture the eye, as the music captures the ear, by sheer audacity of assault. It is only when a conclusion is reached that the whole appears to have been a profitless, if dazzling diversion.

Soudeikine’s act-drop is beyond my comprehension. So also is the scene upon which it rises—a platform enclosed by giant foliage of formal design. Much exuberance is suggested, but exuberance of what is not so clear. In the middle of the stage is a tall column, upon the top of which an object, presumably the Baptist’s head, is dimly seen. Behind stands a curious pyramidal staircase.

Eight negro slaves are discovered grouped about the column and its grim burden. Their woolly pates are white, white ostrich plumes are girt about their middles, and round their ankles are clasped what look suspiciously like white spats. The limelight streaming on their naked bodies imparts a greenish tinge to the brown flesh, and gives them quite as nasty an appearance as one supposes their designers intended.

To strident music which one feels sure must be expressive of hectic passion and horror, the green and white negroes posture

and run about the stage. Their antics are engaging, and expressive of just whatever the spectator chooses to think. They are joined presently by four executioners who would do credit to any professional dreamer of nightmares. Like the negroes, these also have spats on their bare legs. They wear very little else, but carry large swords which obviously are meant for dark and bloody deeds. They are tall and lank, frightfully grim, and thoroughly sinister. And the business-like manner in which, having divested themselves of the awful weapons of their office, and completely eclipsed the efforts of the negroes in the game of Here-we-go-round-the-Baptist’s-head, they assume attitudes of terror-striking unexpectedness, indicates a praiseworthy determination to uphold the ghastliest traditions of their high calling.

The music now, with relentless importunacy, insists upon an impending climax. Negroes and executioners fall beautifully into place, a portion of the blackcloth drops swiftly, and Salome is seen standing on the top of the staircase-pedestal before a dim background of blue and mysterious starlit depth. She is shrouded in the voluminous folds of an immense cloak, and at first sight might be taken, as a witty observer remarked, for Mrs. Grundy come to put a stop to the proceedings.

Having got this climax over, the music is now breathing more easily, and Salome slowly comes down the staircase. It is seen that the robe with which she is covered has an immense train—black with glittering embroidery of gold. As she descends the steps the train drags magnificently behind her. One suffers an uncomfortable anxiety lest it should topple down before its time and sweep its hapless wearer off her feet. But MM. Soudeikine and Romanov have seen to this, and it is not until Salome has reached the stage, and is already advancing across it, that the enormous garment, with proper effect, comes flashingly tumbling after.

Salome with her grotesque retinue circles in solemn procession round the central column, and the train makes the most of its opportunities. Then the negroes leap forward, fastenings are loosened, and as the robe falls into her attendants’ outstretched arms, Salome steps forward for the dance.

Regard Beardsley’s drawings as fashion plates, and the reader will arrive at a very fair idea of Karsavina’s appearance as Salome. Her costume is exiguous—even allowing for the lace-edged undergarment which appears round one thigh but not round the other. Her legs and arms are bare, but with a blood red heart and other devices stencilled on them. A high head-dress surmounts the tiny

face of one of Beardsley’s women, with blue smudges for eyes and wee vermilion lips.

Of Karsavina’s dance, in the character of Salome, it is quite impossible to write with any detail. It is devised in the same pseudo-macabre spirit as the rest of the ballet, and is more remarkable as a feat of acrobatic agility and physical endurance than as an artistic performance. One is told that the dance is “at first frantic and insane; then more proud and sorrowful, more remote and ecstatic. It is the expression and avowal of her sensual torment and of her atonement through the very misery of her unassuageable desire.” Well, maybe it is all that: perhaps something more, perhaps a very great deal less. For myself, I should have been interested to learn at what point the insanity died down and pride and sorrow took its place. Of ecstasy I could find no real suggestion, though the counterfeit was plausible; and the only remoteness was when the dance unexpectedly ended and the curtain came down.

“La TragÉdie de Salome” might serve, in company of those other productions with which it was classed at the outset of these notes, as an answer to the question, When is a ballet not a ballet? In all these latter performances which the Russians have staged, they appear not only to misconceive the functions of ballet, but to overlook its limitations. This is the more remarkable since in the earlier productions those limitations were plainly recognised, and the restraint which every art exacts scrupulously observed. There is now a lack of perspective, which one suspects to be the result of the dancer turned ballet-master. A journalist may write brilliantly, yet be quite incapable of editing a paper.

The sooner the controlling influence of Michel Fokine is restored to the Russian Ballet the better. Otherwise there seems imminent danger that so much fertility will merely run to seed.