Choreographic Drama by LÉon Bakst and Michel Fokine.

Music by Rimsky-Korsakov.

Scenes and Dances by Michel Fokine.

Scenery and Costumes Designed by LÉon Bakst.

SENSUOUSNESS is the note of “Scheherazade” throughout—a sensuousness that is next-of-kin to sensuality. It is an unbridled affair altogether, and for this very reason the ballet is among the most completely successful performances which the Russians have given. It contains nothing that strains the limitations of their art, its essential motive is simple, even crude, and the condition necessary to its vitality—that all concerned should let themselves go—has been faithfully observed. Human passions, if sufficiently elementary, being identical in all men, there is a sympathy between the methods by which the various authors of this ballet have treated its twin themes of lust and cruelty which produces an harmonious whole. The music of Rimsky-Korsakov, though not composed for the special purpose, has essential qualities which made easy, and amply justified, the task of adaptation. As an artistic exposition of violence “Scheherazade” is perhaps unique.

The ballet is of the same genre as “Thamar,” with which it has many points of similarity. The latter, however, has the advantage of an elusive charm derived from its legendary basis. One might expect that an excerpt from “The Arabian Nights” would also possess this magic, but “Scheherazade” lacks the indefinable something which “Thamar” has. The distinction, arising out of a difference of treatment, is slight, though real—a mere matter of emphasis, of heaviness of touch. “Scheherazade” is the sheer, brute realism of fact, “Thamar” rather the vivid embodiment of fancy.

Scheherazade, it will be recalled, was the teller of the famous tales which for a thousand and one nights beguiled the moody Sultan Schariar. The action of the ballet which bears her name is derived from the incident which according to tradition led up to the Sultan’s savage determination to slay every morning a wife newly-wed overnight,—a practice only ended by the story-telling art of one of the intended victims. Scheherazade herself does not, therefore, figure in the ballet. The title of Rimsky-Korsakov’s symphonic suite has been borrowed.

Reclining upon a divan in the sybaritic apartments of his women, we see the Sultan Schariar taking his ease. His wife ZobÉide is beside him, soliciting attention with caresses which he scarcely deigns to heed. The other women, of lesser estate than the Sultana, are grouped around, sedulous in the flattery of watchful eagerness to forestall their lord’s least wish. At the monarch’s other elbow sits Schah-Zeman, his brother, recipient in only lesser degree of similar ministrations.

But the Sultan Schariar is in gloomy mood; his brow is clouded, and the blandishments of ZobÉide elicit no response. Distraction must be sought. Obedient to a summons, the chief eunuch presents himself, profuse of service, officious of advice. Fussily he hastens to execute the commands which he receives, and in response to his signals three odalisques make graceful entry. They dance before the court, now moving swiftly in a lively measure, now posing lithe bodies and entwining arms as only long training in the arts of seduction could teach.

The women of the harem look on jealously, fearing a skill that threatens rivalry with their own. But the Sultan takes little notice of the dancing figures before him, and ZobÉide, watchfully intent upon his face, notes with vague premonitory fears his gloom deepening into sullenness. From clouds so heavy lightning may presently flash. Ever and anon the Sultan mutters a secret word into his brother’s ear. They whisper like conspirators.

The dancing girls are presently dismissed, and Schariar rises to pace the floor in moody thought, while the women eye him anxiously askance. Schah-Zeman, too, not without some knowledge of the thoughts which occupy his brother’s mind, keeps watchful eye upon him, and is quick to answer the gesture which soon summons him. Increasing uneasiness runs through the harem, as the royal brothers confer apart, which rises to a climax as the chief eunuch is sent off upon an errand whose purport is not overheard.

But the tension is relieved when the Sultan, with an effort to lighten his brow, turns to ZobÉide, and announces his intention of setting forth upon a hunting expedition. Such a plan inevitably implies an absence from the palace, and at the intimation sidelong glances of meaning are covertly exchanged amongst the women. But incipient smiles of anticipatory pleasure are suppressed, and under a mask of disappointment and regret, the harem makes as though to turn its master from his purpose. Is he not their sun? Must the light of his presence be so soon removed, and joy and happiness thereby eclipsed?

ZobÉide alone refrains from this cajolery. Flinging herself upon the piled-up cushions, she broods darkly upon this whim her husband so suddenly proposes to indulge. Half hopeful that petulance may succeed where blandishments have failed, she ignores the glances which the Sultan casts towards her. Plainly he is loth to go, but the poison which his brother has instilled works actively within him, and he makes no sign of condescension to her.

Armed retainers enter, attendants bring habiliments of the chase. With these the Sultan is invested by the deft fingers of the women, who make what use they can of such opportunity as this service offers to exercise their fascinations. Schah-Zeman is attended by the eunuchs, who buckle his armour upon him and hand him the long hunting spear. Thus equipped, the Sultan’s brother makes towards the door. Schariar follows him, but pauses to bestow a last curious glance at ZobÉide. The latter makes no sign, and the Sultan, brushing aside the last fawning attentions of the women, strides moodily forth. As he passes out of the chamber, ZobÉide, repenting of her petulance and simulated coldness, since they seem to have failed in their object, springs quickly from her cushions and hurries after him in a belated effort at detention.

Among the other women, however, no further sign of regret, real or simulated, is to be seen. On all sides faces are wreathed in smiles. Excitement seethes in the harem. The violence of suppression which the presence of their lord demands, on pain of dire and instant punishment, is the measure of the almost childish glee with which, that menace momentarily out of mind, the women fly to the illicit pleasures their appetite for intrigue, unduly nurtured, has devised. On the tiptoe of expectation they scamper one to another, but ever returning to the three doors which stand in the background, hiding one knows not what. Before these mysterious portals the women cluster in chattering groups, while two of their number are sent upon some urgent errand. Anon the latter return dragging with them, in hysterical mirth, the clumsy, grotesque person of the chief eunuch. In the bunch of metal which jingles at the latter’s side are the keys which alone will open

the doors so eagerly besieged, and the women, swarming round him like busy flies, begin at once to pester him, with arch and fawning supplications, to turn them in the locks.

But the old janitor refuses. He pretends amazement—is horrified at the bare idea, and will none of it. The women press coaxingly upon him, lavishing endearments. But of what avail the whole battery of female charms against such as he? With knowing leer upon his unctuous, smooth face, he wags his head and still says them nay. But though he fancies himself immune from women’s wiles, he has reckoned without the full measure of feminine cunning. He has his vulnerable point; whatever else he lacks he has at least male vanity. Is he not chief of the eunuchs? are not the keys he loves to jingle a visible symbol of the power which he wields? Look you, he is a person of no small authority and importance.

With quiet change of tactics the women shift their attack to a different angle. In place of supplication they heap compliments upon him. They slaver him with blandishments, flattering him to the utmost of his bent. The fatuous old fool swallows their fulsome praises with avidity, his flabby cheeks puffed out with complacency and self-conceit. But then the women change their tune. Mockingly one hints that his vaunted power is but a sham; others are quick to press the suggestion home. Plainly it can be no real authority which he is feared to exercise. They challenge him with jeers to prove his power; they dare him to use the keys of which he is so proud.

The poor fool is not proof against this insidious assault. Lacking real respect, he clings fondly to its shadow; rather than sacrifice that his vanity will endure any risk. His fat face, but now wreathed in gratified smiles, grows glum and peevish as praise gives place to irony. He hesitates, and is lost. The women press their advantage, and their victim yields. Determined at all costs to demonstrate his power, he thrusts a key into the first door and petulantly turns it.

The door swings open, and from the corridor behind emerges a band of negroes, supple swarthy minions clad in copper-ornamented robes. With stealthy tread they glide among the waiting women, and quickly each finds a consort, eager for her favourite’s embraces.

Futile the eunuch’s protestations that now he has done enough to vindicate his authority; impatiently the women who remain demand that having done so much he shall complete his work. Already repentant of the rash betrayal of his master’s trust, the wretched janitor would stay his hand, but the mischief is done, and bowing to the logic of his own folly, he unlocks the second door. Forth troops a second band of negroes, decked in ornaments of silver, to be received with not less complaisance than the others.

No longer assailed by the insistent beseechings of his charges, the janitor fearfully surveys the scene. Everywhere, dispersed throughout the chamber, amorous couples meet his eye. With sudden terror in the realisation of the frightful risk he has incurred, he turns to go. At least let him make sure that watch is set for his master’s return. But as he turns he is confronted by the imperious figure of ZobÉide, who has been leaning, observant, during all that has passed, beside the third door—the door as yet unopened. Avidly she demands the unlocking of this last, with fierce insistent finger pointing her order.

Here is a pretty dilemma for the luckless janitor, a searching test of his vaunted power and authority. His servile instinct quails before the regal mien of ZobÉide, her gesture of command and blazing eyes that brook neither prevarication nor delay. Like the slave that he truly is, he turns to do her behest; but even as he fumbles for the key the enormity of that to which he is accessory

strikes him with horror. The others—that is bad enough, and like to be paid for dearly if discovery—he trembles at the thought—should ensue. But the Sultana, his master’s wedded wife.... Panic seizes him, and with a frantic effort to assert the authority he has boasted, he refuses.

The fires of passion smouldering in the breast of ZobÉide leap forth on the instant. A woman scorned or a woman denied—her fury is a thing few men, and least of all an emasculate poltroon, can face. A frightful paroxysm shakes the panting queen. Like a tigress baulked of her prey, she turns upon the grovelling creature who dares to thwart her thus, hardly restrained from flinging herself upon him. To a contest of wills so unequal one ending only is possible. The wretched eunuch cringes before this awful apparition of his royal mistress, all other terrors swamped by the urgency of present fear. The long crescendo of the music rises to a blaring climax as he flings wide the remaining door.

Palpitating with the vehemence of her expectant desires, ZobÉide stands before the open portal, clutching her breasts, with eyes glued to the dim recesses beyond. There is a pause, which adds a new delicious torture to her thirsty cravings; then with agile bound, light-footed, there comes leaping towards her a young negro. Round his naked chest he wears a broad, gem-studded band of gold, that enhances the smooth and supple beauty of his dusky arms and neck. Great pearls are pendant from his ears, a golden turban is twisted round his head. His flowing pantaloons cover, but do not hide, despite voluminous folds, his perfect symmetry and grace.

ZobÉide feasts her gloating eyes upon her favourite, holding herself back, as children with a box of sweets reserve the most coveted tit-bit to the last. But when he turns towards her she can contain herself no longer. She springs upon him, and clutching his head in both her hands, peers fiercely into his face. The slave, with lascivious grin, submits unresistingly; though he is the queen’s paramour, he is not the less her slave, her chattel. It is she who is the lover, and the slave knows his place. The episode has no savour of romance.

Full length upon the divan ZobÉide flings herself, the dusky favourite usurping the place of her rightful lord. The hour for revelry has come, for reckless abandon to the impulse of the moment. Enters a retinue of youths and girls bearing fruits and other dainties upon gorgeous salvers. They pair among themselves, they dance, they bring a riotous infection into the atmosphere of languorous dalliance. The negroes and their fond mistresses are moved to join them, the silver and the copper ornaments gleaming amidst the whirl of multi-coloured draperies, as the fever of the dance increases. Springing from the couch, ZobÉide’s favourite precipitates himself into the moving throng. Before his wild Élan the utmost efforts of the others pale; with one accord they pause to watch with ecstasy the frenzied leaping of the peerless dancer. From her cushions ZobÉide, too, is watching, the fierceness of her momentary restraint giving place of a sudden to an equal fierceness of abandon as she darts upon the object of her desires, and submits herself with him to the music’s intoxicating rhythm.

At length exhausted, they decline once more upon the silken cushions. The slave, emboldened, ventures now upon solicitations. But he is wary in the liberties he takes, fearful lest he go too far ere he has rightly gauged the mood of his imperious mistress. Cunning tells him there is peril in presumption.

One may interrupt the narrative here, perhaps, to comment on the subtlety of Nijinsky’s impersonation of the negro favourite. This is not a rÔle in which his distinction as a dancer is revealed to its fullest, but in no other ballet is his genius as a mime more strikingly exhibited. One expects from Nijinsky originality in all

that he attempts, and his conception of ZobÉide’s favourite does not disappoint. The part is not one which, upon a first consideration, would seem to demand a very subtle art, but the emphasis, already alluded to, which the actor lays upon the minion’s servile character is only to be conveyed by very delicate shades of suggestion. The essential servility is most convincingly realised, and if Nijinsky’s conception of the part contains (in some eyes) elements of offence, it is at least a logical outcome of the premises from which the ballet starts, and in performance brilliant beyond praise. In Nijinsky’s hands the negro is, indeed, lasciviousness personified. His ingratiating leer, the furtive roll of his eyes, his whole insinuating aspect as he plies his shameful ministrations, impress a vivid picture on the mind. His ready, even eager, submission to the domination of his mistress, his base delight in her favour, wears a horrid air; one feels that in his different way the creature is as little of a man as the poor beardless janitor. He is lust reft of its virtue, and repels, like lechery, even while he attracts.

But the music’s fevered pulse allows no long quiescence. Again the lithe figure, starting abruptly from ZobÉide’s side, leaps madly into the dance—a point of focus to which all speedily converge, the centre of a giddy whirlpool into which the amorous pairs, swept from dalliance to their feet as by a surging wave, are irresistibly drawn. Intoxication grows to bacchic frenzy, as the urging music swells to an impending climax. The eye would reel before the blurr of brilliant moving figures but for that clue to the shifty mazy dance which the central figures of the libidinous Sultana and her paramour provide.

Suddenly into the chamber stalks the Sultan. The dancers stop in mid-career. For a moment they stand fascinated by the apparition of this grim figure of vengeance. The Sultan, too, speechless and paralysed with rage, seems rooted to the spot. Then panic seizes the culprits; helter-skelter they flee in abject terror.

Schah-Zeman, cynically smiling to see enacted once again the scene which so lately desecrated his own household, is at his brother’s elbow. Armed men with naked scimitars have invaded the chamber, and with them are others whose dress proclaims them eunuchs of the palace, underlings of the hapless janitor who is now to reap his folly. Women, slaves, young men, are striving pitifully, in the last extremity of terror, to hide themselves behind curtains, in alcoves—anywhere that seems to offer any possibility of concealment. ZobÉide, alone of them all, scorns flight. She crouches apart, with heaving bosom, awaiting the anger of her lord. Her villainous paramour, like the slave that he is, has fled for safety.

With lowering glance the Sultan sweeps the scene, and signs furiously to the guards. At once the work of execution begins. Instant slaughter is the doom of all. The eunuchs seize their traitorous chief, and flinging his craven body to the floor, throttle him where he lies. To and fro dash the guards, dragging from vain hiding-places, beneath uplifted weapons, their helpless victims. The floor is strewn with corpses, and in very act of stumbling over such dreadful obstacles, some poor fugitives are caught by ruthless pursuers and put to the avenging sword. Silent, abashed before her husband’s stern gaze, ZobÉide cowers amidst all the carnage. A violent tremor shakes her as the cowardly partner of her guilt, vainly seeking to escape his doom, is stabbed in mid-flight and expires convulsively at her feet; but without attempt at exculpation she continues to await her doom.

At length the bloody business is finished; or almost finished, for ZobÉide remains. Her the eunuchs and the guards dare not touch without a further sign. Stealthily they advance to where she stands; scimitars are lifted, daggers poised. It needs only the Sultan’s signal for the fatal blow to be struck. But Schariar is torn by a conflict of emotions. Love for the cherished wife of his bosom urges pardon; jealousy, wounded pride, the outrage on his kingly dignity cry vengeance! To the dull minds of his attendants but one issue is possible—were it not for his restraining gesture the keen blades would fall at once.

Then ZobÉide, snatching at a last hope, abases herself before her husband. She pleads, she implores, she summons all her wits, her arts, to help her in her dire necessity. Schariar is moved, and as he gazes at the fair form of the woman he has loved so ardently the sternness of his look relaxes. He wavers.

But ZobÉide has to reckon with an enemy more dangerous, more implacable than her husband’s wounded pride. Schah-Zeman, self-appointed guardian of his brother’s dignity and honour, observes the scene with undisguised hostility. To him, as to the eunuchs, there appears but one conclusion fit and proper. By no consent of his shall there be any other. Scanning his brother narrowly, he sees the advantage which ZobÉide is momentarily gaining. Disgustedly he confronts his brother, and, as Schariar turns his head, with contemptuous foot rolls the dead negro’s carcase on its back. The dusky face leers grinningly upward.

Livid with rage, the Sultan casts his faithless consort from him, and motions impetuously to the armed men. A dozen hands are stretched to seize the victim, but before the threatening blades can fall, ZobÉide swiftly turns upon her executioners. Imperiously she waves them back, and snatching a dagger from the nearest hand, plunges it into her side. The thrust is truly aimed, and sinking to the floor before her husband, with a last vain effort to clutch the hem of his robe, she expires at his feet.

Averting his eyes, the stricken Schariar staggers from the fatal spot. In silence, his foot upon the golden corselet of the slave, Schah-Zeman lets him go.