Pictures of Pagan Russia by Igor Stravinsky and Nicolas Roerich.

Music by Igor Stravinsky.

Choreography by Nijinsky.

Scenery and Costumes Designed by Nicolas Roerich.

WHEN three such remarkable talents as those of MM. Stravinsky, Roerich and Nijinsky form an alliance, something unusual may be confidently expected as the result. The most eager anticipations can hardly have been disappointed, on that score, by “Le Sacre du Printemps,” of which the music is by the first named, the dÉcor by the second, and the choreography by the third.

One imagines the three collaborators—one had almost said conspirators—assembling in council. Perhaps they find themselves, in their several ways, prompted by a common impulse: perhaps they merely itch to apply their cleverness to something new. Whichever way it is, a happy notion strikes them. “Let’s be primitive!” They talk it over, make plans and agree. They will be primitive—starkly primitive. Stravinsky proceeds, with his practised sleight of hand in the manipulation of an orchestra, to invent music which shall defy all accepted canons, and thus presumably be eloquent of a time when “music,” in any conventional sense, was not; Roerich picks all the primary colours out of his paint-box and sets to work to devise a mise-en-scÈne so crude that it must represent the furthest possible degree of unsophistication; while Nijinsky, fresh from his meditations on a primitive phase of art, hails with enthusiasm this new opportunity to apply the principles of expression by gesture and movement which he believes himself to have divined.

The result is a sort of “post-impressionism” on the stage. Expression, it has been said, not beauty, is the aim of the modern school of painters who, for convenience’ sake, have been dubbed “post-impressionists”; and this being also the avowed purpose of Nijinsky and his colleagues, the ballet might not unreasonably be expected to show some kinship with the products of that recent art “movement.” Certainly it is ugly—at the least, unpleasing to the normal modern eye: whether, by compensation, it is expressive, is obviously one of those matters of individual taste about which dispute is idle.

“Le Sacre du Printemps” consists of two tableaux, which are ostensibly representative of pagan Russia, but might equally serve as pictures of primitive civilisation anywhere—or nowhere! The theme is suitably simple. The season of spring is at hand, and mankind is occupied with worship of the two great forces apprehended by the primitive mind—the Earth and the Sun.

The first act shows the Adoration of the Earth. The joy of humankind in the advent of spring finds expression in the dance, and in the performance of due rites, in the ceremony of uniting the Sire of all the Sages to the newly fecund earth. What actually happens is that sundry groups of persons, attired in picturesque but by no means prehistoric garb, are discovered prostrating themselves in various peculiar poses amidst an expansive landscape which is very green, but not much else. One group, under the instruction of “an old woman of 300 years,” begins a ceremonial dance, which is to say that the younger members stamp their feet and jerk their bodies about in an odd, rhythmic fashion, while the triple centenarian hops spasmodically amongst them. Other groups in turn spring up from their postures of obeisance and do the same, with variations. A number of young girls enter, and join the young men in the performance of the rites ordained. One is to understand that the strange antics which ensue are the primitive types of those folk dances and games which peasant children perform to this day in Russia: but it is doubtful whether even to a spectator familiar with modern rustic life in the remotest parts of that country, the connection would be apparent between the traditional games of feast days and the eccentric contortions of the performers on the stage. A feature of the games, the only one definitely recognisable (because the only one specified in the printed synopsis of the ballet) is a simulated abduction of some of the girls by a number of the young men, which is premonitory of the sacrifice to Iarilo, god of light—i.e., the Sun—depicted in the second act.

After the games have been in progress for some time there enters a procession of elders of this primitive tribe, escorting an old man with a long beard—the Sire of all the Sages, high priest and venerable interpreter of the omens. His entry is a signal for everyone present to be seized with a violent tremor, which sets each figure quivering like an agitated table jelly. With due form and ceremony the ancient one pronounces a blessing on the Earth’s unfailing fruitfulness, accomplishing this act by spreadeagling himself, with the aid of assiduous helpers, face-downwards in the middle of the stage. If only the happy thought had occurred to M. Nijinsky to have the beard of the venerable one pulled forward the latter would have presented a very interesting travesty of a starfish.

The tremor which has so persistently agitated the tribe now ceases. All eyes are upturned towards the Sun, whose envious wrath, it is feared, may be excited by these attentions to the Earth, and to the renewed thudding of stamping feet the curtain comes down.

The second tableau shows the Sacrifice, by which the Sun’s jealousy is to be appeased. The scene is a lonely plateau, on which the “Sacred Stones” are set. There are also three grim-looking poles, on which are hung what seem to be votive offerings of hides and horns. It is night, and past the witching hour. The sun has vanished and ere he rise again the rite of propitiation must be performed. The young girls are discovered going through the mazy evolutions of a ceremonial dance, the object of which is the choice by hazard of the destined victim. (Such is the origin, the authors would presumably have us believe, of the “he” of the traditional games of childhood all the world over.)

Precisely how the lot falls is not very apparent, but presently one girl starts forward from the rest and seems, from the curious motionless attitude which she assumes, to fall into a cataleptic trance. Her companions gather round, and do her honour in a dance described, for no clear reason, as “heroic.” They presently depart, leaving her to her fate.

While the Chosen Victim still stands transfixed in a posture of extreme ugliness and (one imagines) excessive discomfort, the

elders of the tribe make their appearance, come to evoke the spirits of their ancestors and perform the final rites of this mystic bridal dedication to the Sun. They achieve this by partially covering themselves with black bearskins, the limp forelegs of which, waggling at their elbows, give them the appearance of immense grotesque penguins as they strut solemnly round the object of their scrutiny. After this lengthy peripatetic inspection is concluded, they seat themselves in groups, and the Chosen Victim suddenly breaks into a dance—if dance can be called a series of agonised movements not less ugly and contorted than the immobile posture in which she has been for so long rigidly stationed.

It is quite impossible to describe this “dance,” which it is an uncomfortable experience to watch—not for any offence that it contains, but for a feeling of sympathy with the unfortunate dancer who has to indulge such misplaced agility. Suffice it to explain that it “expresses” the last ecstasy of the Victim—a transition from exaltation to frenzy, from frenzy to exhaustion. At the moment of expiry, the watching elders leap to their feet, and seizing the Victim in their hands, hold her rigid corpse at arms’ length above their heads.

It is thus, we are told, that sacrifice is made to Iarilo, the flaming, the superb. The ribald will be inclined to retort that it is to be hoped Iarilo likes it.

In fairness, it must be added that this account of the eccentric happenings on the stage is quite inadequate to convey any proper impression of these two tableaux—which are, in fact, quite indescribable by words. It would be a mistake to suppose that this extraordinary performance is as wearisome as its unintelligible character might lead one to infer. According to all ordinary standards the whole business is completely mad—the music is mad, the dancers are mad. Yet it does not bore, and the interest which it excites must be something more than that of mere curiosity to endure through two whole acts. One suspects this to be merely a tribute to the unquestionable cleverness of the ballet, though the generous spectator may like to suppose a more solid reason.

When the present writer witnessed the first production of “Le Sacre du Printemps” in Paris, the printed synopsis of its action presented to the audience was of the briefest kind. The spectators were left to unravel its meaning for themselves—and they signally failed to rise to the occasion. Briefly, they hissed it. They would not listen to Stravinsky’s music: the choreography of Nijinsky moved them to unkind laughter. On the later production of the ballet in London, the management wisely distributed an amplified synopsis, detailing the incidents (so far as the ballet can be said to have any), and took the further precaution of prefacing the performance by a short lecture, in which a distinguished critic, of sympathetic leanings, endeavoured to expound the principles upon which the authors of the ballet had proceeded in its creation.

Thanks to this forethought, the ballet received in London the attentive hearing which was denied to it in Paris. It even received applause, though how far this was due to the amiability of London theatre-goers—less impulsive and more tolerant than the Parisian public—it would be rash to guess. Undoubtedly the ballet, as presented in London, was more easily followed than when seen in Paris. In part, perhaps, the certain degree of familiarity helped; in part, the stronger lighting of the stage during the second act of the London performance was of assistance. But, chiefly, the greater intelligibility arose out of the explanations, verbal and printed, with which the spectator was forearmed. Antics which had been meaningless became invested with the shadow, if not the substance of plausibility; it became apparent what they were intended to mean, even if the meaning still seemed to fail of true expression.

But should such detailed explanations of purpose be necessary? Granting the abandonment of all ordinary, accepted conventions, ought a work of art, conceived upon whatsoever unfamiliar principles, to fail to grip the imagination? It may be noted that in the introductory lecture, the Japanese colour-print was cited as an example of a form of art scoffed at, when first seen in this country, because its conventions were unfamiliar and not understood. But one fancies that upon any mind not utterly philistine, no matter how unable to understand its peculiar conventions, the work of a Japanese master made a very definite impression. The Occidental mind had a sense of the Oriental achievement, even if it failed to comprehend precisely what had been achieved. If attempt is not to be confused with accomplishment, one fears that only a partisan enthusiast could have a similar regard for “Le Sacre du Printemps.”

It is difficult to discover unity of purpose. To mention a minor, but glaring inconsistency, the costumes designed by Roerich (though one is grateful for the vividly decorative groups which they produce) are scarcely consonant with his “primitive” scenery, and certainly not characteristic of ultra-primitive humanity. A people that had acquired such arts as the possession of this clothing postulates can scarcely be reckoned typical of “the Muscovy of dimmest antiquity,” and it is at least doubtful whether at their comparatively advanced stage of civilisation (accepting as historically accurate Nijinsky’s theory of primitive modes of expression) gesture and movement would be marked by such uncouth and awkward characteristics.

The fact would seem to be that the authors of this ballet have chosen to be a law unto themselves. No doubt it is possible under

such conditions to devise many curious things, momentarily engaging—the workshops of Bedlam are full of them—but they can hardly hope to give the satisfaction, or enjoy the permanence, of art. A work of art is governed, at bottom, by the laws of Nature: it must have its roots somewhere in reality, and grow upward and outward. One fails to detect out of what “Le Sacre du Printemps” arises, or whither it leads. Its tendency, if it has any at all, is retrograde, and there is something almost pathetic in the spectacle of such highly-cultivated men as MM. Stravinsky, Roerich, and Nijinsky applying their brilliant talents to this inversion. It is surely a little ludicrous that the utmost resources of a modern orchestra, comprising over a hundred complex instruments, should be taxed by what is reported to be some of the most difficult music ever scored, in order to “express” the impulses and emotions of man in his most primitive state. A fitting parallel to Stravinsky’s efforts is provided by those of Nijinsky, laboriously instructing a highly-accomplished corps de ballet in mimicry of the awkward poses exhibited in sculpture of pre-classical days, when the sculptor was not so much expressive as struggling for expression. It may be true that under modern accepted conventions in art, expression has been stifled by undue attention to form, but this is hardly the way to demonstrate it. Curtailment is not the same thing as simplification.

“Le Sacre du Printemps” certainly exacts a good deal from the ordinary spectator. The latter finds himself at sea from the very beginning, and quickly realises that if there is any solid meaning at all to be arrived at, he can only reach it by jettisoning all previous standards and conventions. Even when he has succeeded, by the aid of a detailed synopsis, an introductory lecture, and a strongly developed faculty of assimilation, in acquainting himself with the authors’ premises, it is a matter of opinion whether MM. Stravinsky, Roerich, and Nijinsky give him much in return for what he has abandoned.

If this astonishing ballet is to be taken seriously, one may compliment its authors on a very gallant attempt to embody a view of art which is arresting, if not convincing. If, on the other hand, it is merely a jeu d’esprit, they are to be congratulated on one of the most elaborate and cleverly sustained hoaxes ever perpetrated. There is possibly a third solution, that the authors have been imposed upon and mesmerised by their own sheer cleverness, and all too nimble dexterity of mind. In that case there must be laughter among the Muses.