From a Poem by ThÉophile Gautier, Adapted by J. L. Vaudoyer.

Music by Weber, Orchestrated by Berlioz.

Scenes and Dances by Michel Fokine.

Scenery and Costumes Designed by LÉon Bakst.

NOTHING is more eloquent of the Russians’ art than the distinction they are able to give to a theme which, less sensitively treated, would be merely commonplace, if not banal. In no ballet is this refining instinct more delicately employed than in “Le Spectre de la Rose,” which Nijinsky and Karsavina dance to the familiar strains of “L’ Invitation À la Valse.”

It might not be just to call Weber’s music commonplace; but sentimental it certainly is, and with such a “plot” (if an incident so slight can thus be termed) as the Russians, inspired by a dainty poem of ThÉophile Gautier, have devised for the music’s accompaniment, the faintest excess would have turned it sugary—and sickly. In the nice restraint which they display, the two artists vie with each other—Karsavina as a picture of youth and innocence, of unsophisticated sentiment: Nijinsky as a phantom, conveying the suggestion of being verily the mere figment of a dream, without recourse to that note of the bizarre by which one of less subtle perceptions might seek to insinuate a spectral character.

To the restraint of the dancers is added that of LÉon Bakst, whose setting for this sentimental idyll has that simplicity which the situation requires. It is a quaint, almost queer, little bedroom which is disclosed after the opening bars have been played by the orchestra—an apartment daintily decked, and arranged with a kind of prim formality as engaging as the crinoline and flounces of Victorian girlhood: a completely unsophisticated chamber, in short.

Long windows, open to the summer night, show a garden beyond, flooded with romantic moonshine, and at one of these stands a young girl, loth to break the reverie in which her thoughts are held. Her backward glance drinks in the beauty of the night, her pulses more than faintly stirred by the glamour of the dance so lately ended, her whole self thrilling to a potent magic but half understood.

Reluctantly she turns her head from the moonlit garden and passes from the window. She lifts her hands abstractedly to remove the wrap from her shoulders, and in so doing touches the rose that droops upon her bosom. Her fingers close upon it: she plucks it from her dress, presses it to her lips, and though its first fresh fragrance has gone, lingers tenderly over the faint aroma which remains. The crimson rose gives form and colour, deep colour, to the vague sentimental imaginings of the young girl’s mind. She clasps it tightly as she crosses the room, keeping her gaze upon it as she presently sinks into a chair. It is the heart and focus of her thoughts. But lassitude overcomes her, her eyelids droop, and the rose, slipping through her loosened fingers, falls from her lap to the floor.

Allegro Vivace.—A spectral form leaps swiftly into the pale moonbeams, and alights at the threshold of the open window. The visitant thus lightly appearing, like a leaf before the fitful eddy of a

summer’s evening breeze, is seen to have the semblance of a comely youth, but strangely garbed in rose leaves of crimson-purple hue. It is, indeed, the spectre of the fallen rose, the embodiment of the young girl’s sentimental impulses and imaginings. An image more material would be too gross for maiden meditations so innocent and youthful: it needs must be fantastically that the gentle sleeper’s dream takes shape before our eyes.

It would be as vain to describe the movements of the phantom visitant, as to seek to convey the sound of language without regard for the meaning it expresses. Movements may have an intrinsic grace and beauty, as words that utter no meaning may possess a splendour of sound. But the dance is to movement what language is to words: it implies selection and co-ordination for the purpose of expressing something—in this case the very essence of the sentimental emotions which the vibrant music of the strings evokes. Never was the ecstasy of the valse so irresistibly expressed. Leaping, swaying, its whole being abandoned to the intoxicating rhythm, the dancing phantom seems to draw the very power which animates it from the music’s throbbing pulse.

Deep in her romantic dream the young girl slumbers passive in her chair, till presently the spectral visitant pauses by her side. It leans towards her, while its hands make gentle passes that subdue her utterly to the magic rhythm. Obedient to the spell she rises to her feet and, yielding herself to the tender guidance proffered, she joins her phantom partner in the dance.

It is a scene of exquisite beauty, this vision of a young girl’s innocent dream of love and joy. Abandoning herself to the allurement of the moment, she dances long and joyously until, at length exhausted, she sinks once more upon her cushions, with her fantastic ideal—climax of ecstasy—prostrate at her feet. She has but to stretch forth her hand.

But the throbbing rhythm has died away: the dream is nearing an end. Swiftly the phantom rises, and makes as if to go. Tenderly it stoops over the fair face of the sleeper, and imprints a single kiss upon her brow. The music draws to a close, the appointed hour inexorably approaches. Longingly the phantom lingers, till a fear assails one, lest it tarry too long. But at the last moment it turns, and with a swift run, a magic leap through the open window, vanishes—is gone at the very instant when the music ends.

There is a brief pause. The sleeper stirs and wakes. She starts from the chair and casts a startled look towards the window through which her spectral visitant has fled. But no form, however shadowy, intercepts the moonbeams which lie athwart the garden. Dazed, she turns her eyes towards the floor. There lies the crumpled rose which dropped from her grasp as she fell asleep. At sight of it she recollects her thoughts: full memory of her dream so lately passed comes flooding into her mind. She picks the rose from the floor, and as she presses it to her lips, turns wonderingly to the open window and the still garden beyond.