Music by A. Borodin.

Dances by Michel Fokine.

Scenery and Costumes Designed by N. Roehrich.

THE Polovtsian Dances which recur so frequently in the Russian repertoire belong properly to an excerpt from the second act of Borodin’s opera “Prince Igor.” But the passage at full length requires the services of singers, and for this reason it is the usual custom to present the dances detached.

The long orchestral prelude sounds the necessary warlike and aggressive note, preparatory of the barbaric Tartar camp which is presently disclosed. The huts of the nomad tribe are seen grouped about an open space, round which men, women, boys and girls are lolling at their ease. The smoke of fires ascends into the evening air; a dusky haze envelops the distant steppe. This is the encampment of the Khan Kontchak, to whom, as prisoners of war, after an encounter with the Slavs, have fallen Prince Igor and his son Vladimir.

In the operatic excerpt which should precede the dances, a daughter of the Khan, the lovely Kontchakovna, is seen reclining amidst her companions, who beguile her with music. She herself sings her love for the captive Vladimir, whose presence she sighs for. The night watch is heard upon its rounds, and the love-sick maid’s companions retire. But Kontchakovna, tarrying, hears the voice of Vladimir, who emerges from his quarters and pours forth a declaration of his passion for her. The lovers fly to each other’s arms, but are interrupted by the advent of the Khan, who has come to visit his prisoners.

Prince Igor is shown much deference by his captor, who presently suggests that he should purchase liberty at the price of an undertaking never again to take up arms against the Polovtzi. The Prince, scorning the offer, maintains an indignant silence, from which he refuses to be drawn. In the hope of distracting him the Khan summons the tribe and orders a dance to be begun.

It is at this point that the curtain rises, on occasions when only the dances are presented. The stage picture disclosed is effective in the extreme. The camp is crowded with figures, and the gorgeous colours of the Tartar dresses glow brilliantly in the warm

light. When singers are available the chorus is massed round the arena cleared for the dancers, and the added numbers greatly enhance the general effect.

A long-drawn chant is the signal for the beginning of the dance, in which a troupe of slave girls, splendidly attired, first perform. They presently seat themselves, and are joined by a group of warriors. To these more are added, and at the head of the band their captain places himself.

A tall, stalwart figure, the captain shakes his bow aloft and leads his men in the dance with all the furious bravura with which, one fancies, he would lead them into battle. There is first an amorous passage—a simulated courtship (or at least abduction!) when the braves steal softly up behind the expectant damsels, seize them, and lift them shoulder high in their arms. Then the Tartar girls mingle with the warriors, and as the dance proceeds it grows more fierce and animated, spurred on by the exultant war song defiantly chanted by the chorus of onlookers.

The appetite for vehemence increases, and a knot of young men dash impetuously forward, slapping their thighs resoundingly as they hurl themselves about with all the skill and daring of a practised acrobat. After them the bowmen dart once more into the fray—for fray by this time it has almost become. Their captain leaps and bounds before them, tossing his bow high into the air, catching it as it falls in mid-career, making as if to loose an arrow from the twanging string. The chanted chorus swells in a triumphant crescendo. The warriors, in strenuous emulation of their leader, goad themselves to still fiercer transports, until with a succession of mad rushes, rank upon rank of prancing legs and brandished arms, this wild barbaric display is brought to its terminating climax.

The detailed movements of this tribal dance are of no great moment. What is of interest is the robust expression which they give to the virile impulses of an untamed race, not yet sapped by civilisation of its vigour. The movements, violent in themselves, are executed with a vehemence and energy significant in its savage spontaneity. One has a sense of latent joy in violence, of every shape and form, for violence’ own sake. Without the songs which should accompany them, the dances suffer some detraction. They represent the furthest extreme from formality to which the dance can go, and the tremendous exuberance which inspires them seems to demand an extra outlet. As one watches the violent gymnastics of Adolf Bolm, of Fedorowa and the rest, it seems astounding (and inappropriate) that they should indulge such boisterous vigour in silence. In fact, one wonders how they keep themselves from shouting! Not even Borodin’s fiercely martial music supplies the deficiency. If ever there was an occasion when dance and song should be one, this is it.