Choreographic Tableau by Nijinsky.

Music by Claude Debussy.

Scenery and Costumes designed by LÉon Bakst.

IN the preparation of his part in “Le Dieu Bleu,” Nijinsky sought inspiration, it was remarked, from ancient Hindu art. One fancies him, with appetite whetted by this excursion, eager to explore another field of antiquity, and turning naturally to early Greek, Roman and Etruscan art. His interest already engaged by the strangeness (to modern eyes) of the Hindu forms, his perceptions having already fastened on their angular conventions as food for the dancer’s creative or recreative art, one supposes him readily attracted by the equal peculiarity of such archaic forms as are revealed on Greek and Roman pottery. The transition is easy to understand, for a superficial resemblance is apparent, however great the essential dissimilarity.

What prompted the student to ponder specially the figure of the faun or satyr it is quite impossible to guess. That he should do so, however, is scarcely surprising; for interpretation by the dance it is difficult to think of any conception of classical mythology more likely to appeal to an artist of Nijinsky’s temperament and talents. Type of what is animal in man, epitome of all his unsophisticated lusts and appetites, here is surely an ideal theme for the dancer’s art. Possibly Debussy’s music first suggested the faun; if not, the appropriate orchestral accompaniment—for Debussy would seem to be a composer with whose methods Nijinsky finds himself in close sympathy—was ready to hand; providing not only accompaniment but scenario and plot.

But this was not enough. In those antique urns and vases, with their oddly but vividly expressive figures, there was a potent fascination for the dancer, impelling him to translate into living movement their arrested grace. When that impulse hardened into a definite attempt, the result was “L’AprÈs-Midi d’un Faune,” as presented on the stage, with the assistance of Nelidowa (his partner, as the Goddess, in “Le Dieu Bleu”) and other ladies of the Russian troupe, and the services of LÉon Bakst as decorator—a performance which may be briefly described as an endeavour to bring to life an antique bas relief or ceramic painting.

Thus far, it is hardly necessary to confess, is pure surmise; let it be added that it is quite probably erroneous! But some such processes of thought, one imagines, must have attended the evolution of this curious “ballet.” It would be a mistake to take it too seriously, and discuss solemnly its daring transgression of all accepted canons. Too obviously it is a wholly individual affair—a freakish whim, if you like—on the part of its creator, though not the less interesting on that account.

In pursuance of the main idea, the movements of the dancers—or perhaps one should say the impersonators, for of dancing, in the ordinary meaning of the word, there is none—take place all in one plane, their figures are seen in profile, and when they move they do so with sidelong action, so as to preserve the semblance of flatness. Except for the mound upon which the faun is discovered and to which he returns at the close of the episode, the scene consists merely of a backcloth designed by Bakst—a riot of colour which however effective in itself as a piece of pure decoration, is scarcely suited to the peculiar exigencies of the moment. More successful is the outward characterisation of the faun, for which the same designer is responsible. The creature’s lithe young body is mottled with large blotches, dark red in colour, that alternate in bizarre contrast with the fairness of the rest of his skin. A knitted, wrinkled brow, beneath small horns that are curled round the top of his head, suggests a dubious quality of mind—the perplexity of a brain that hovers indeterminately betwixt mere instinct and a reasoning intelligence. The suggestion of character thus subtly conveyed is wonderfully sustained by Nijinsky. By look, by poise and carriage of his body, rather than by gesture (of which there is practically nought) he induces a perception of the vague stirrings of a brutish mind, groping vainly for a realisation of emotions dimly felt.

When the curtain rises the faun is discovered recumbent upon the top of a low eminence. The latter merely projects sufficiently in front of the backcloth to form a ledge, and does not detract from the flatness of the scene. One sees the creature sharply in profile, with head thrown back, playing idly on a long pipe. A bunch of grapes lies beside him, and between this and his woodland music he divides his attention. When he turns from one to the other his movements are quickly executed, so that a sharp profile is almost continuously presented to the spectator.

While the faun is thus engaged, there appears upon the scene below him three nymphs, advancing slowly with sideways gait, knees slightly bent, heads turned in profile, open palms upraised to shoulders. To them enters a fourth running swiftly, but in the same sidelong manner, and preserving the same stilted attitude as she moves. Another party of three is added, and the whole group of seven stand rigidly posed below, and a short distance from, the faun’s elevated retreat. They are garbed in flowing draperies, with hair dressed close and tightly bound with fillets, and as they stand stiffly, angularly posed, in an immobile row, they seem like figures detached from an antique bas relief and propped before the footlights.

The keen animal senses of the faun detect some strange presence near at hand, and peering from his coign of vantage he perceives the nymphs. Such beings are beyond his ken, but the sight of them awakens a vague interest. He yields to a subtle attraction, and descending from his perch approaches the intruders.

The pantomime, if such it can be called, between the nymphs and faun is quite impossible to describe. Such gesture as is sparingly used is strictly conventionalised, and the faces of the performers remain blankly expressionless. Nothing is allowed to detract from the stiff formality of their aspect. For all that, the pantomime is curiously expressive. In his uncouth way, prompted by impulses only dimly comprehended, the faun seeks to woo the nymphs. They are startled and flee, but return almost as soon as they are gone, only to dart off again in sudden alarm. Curiosity alternates with shyness and fear. Only once are the quaint, indeed laughable, angular movements varied, when the faun, with quite electrifying effect, makes a single bound into the air.

Eventually discretion overcomes the valorous curiosity of the nymphs. The last, and most attracted, flees away. The faun is left disconsolate and puzzled, his slow turbid brain striving to grasp the meaning and nature of the radiant creatures that so lately stirred his appetites. Nothing remains of them save a gauzy scarf, dropped in her flight by the last, at which he stares long and stupidly. At length he picks it up, and holding it wonderingly in his hands, slowly regains his rocky perch. A mysterious influence emanates from the scarf, and yielding himself to it, the faun sinks into voluptuous dreams.

“L’AprÈs-Midi d’un Faune” has earned a great popular success, but it is chiefly a success of curiosity. It is novel, it is quaint, it is amusing; but whether it is properly artistic depends upon the interpretation put upon that word. The whole thing is brilliantly clever, a tour de force on the part of Nijinsky, and considered as such one has nothing for it but praise. But as an attempt to vivify plastic art it fails, for it deliberately adopts conventions and restrictions which are proper to the latter, but were never intended to govern the moving human form. Merely to endow with movement a creation of plastic art seems a futile and superfluous purpose, even if possible of achievement; really to vivify is the province of the dancer’s art, which in this “ballet” is crippled by false limitations.

It has been said that Nijinsky, by this recourse to primitive forms, sought to strip off modern conventions and obtain a more forceful mode of expression. But in that case it is not enough merely to copy; he should have adopted the principle, but the treatment founded upon it ought to have been his own. As it is, the true interest of the piece lies in the characterisation of the faun, and one regrets all the more the unnecessary restrictions with which Nijinsky has hampered himself, when reflecting what his genius as a dancer, given proper scope, might make of such a rÔle. If he would but play one of Pan’s goat-footed progeny legitimately “in the round,” one might anticipate a creation to supplement, and rank alongside, his wonderful harlequin in “Le Carnaval.”