THERE is no need to enlarge here upon the vogue which the Russian Ballet, or rather that company of dancers which has become familiar outside its own country under that title, has achieved in England, France, Germany, and America. Sufficient testimony to that is provided by the appearance of this book, which seeks to present a souvenir of the performances with which so many spectators have been delighted. It may be interesting, however, to sketch briefly the history of the ballet as a form of theatrical art, and suggest an explanation of the enthusiasm with which, after a long period of practical desuetude, at least in London, its revival by the Russians had been greeted.

The theatrical ballet is comparatively a modern institution, but its real origin is to be found in the customs of very early times. The antiquity of dancing as a means of expression is well known, of course, and concerted movements on the part of a number of dancers, which constitute the ballet in its simplest form, are recognised to have been a feature of religious ceremonial in the furthest historic eras. The evolutions of the Greek chorus occur at once to the mind, and there is evidence that among the Egyptians, Assyrians, and Phoenicians, the formal dance was a part of religious ritual. Representations occur, on early vases and other relics, of dancers revolving round a central person or object, standing for the sun, and it may reasonably be surmised that some such ceremonial occurred among the most primitive pagan peoples.

Rites of this kind, indeed, form the theme of “Le Sacre du Printemps,” the most remarkable of the Russian dancers’ more recent performances, which may be regarded as a deliberate attempt at reversion to type. That provocative ballet is discussed elsewhere in the present volume, but it may be remarked in passing that M. Nijinsky, who is responsible for the “choreography” of it, has endeavoured to restore to that word something more of its original significance than its use in modern times, to describe the general planning and arrangement of a ballet, ordinarily confers.

Choreography or orchesography amongst the Egyptians and the Greeks was the art of committing a dance to writing just as a musical composition is registered and preserved by means of musical notation. M. Nijinsky considers that music and the dance being closely allied and parallel arts—the one the poetry of sound, the other the poetry of motion—a ballet should be as much the work of one creative mind as a piece of orchestral music. The principle he has embodied in “Le Sacre du Printemps” is that the dancers shall execute only those gestures and movements pre-ordained by the “choreographist,” and in the particular manner and sequence directed by the latter. The polyphony of orchestral music is to be paralleled by the polykinesis, if such a phrase may be coined, of the ballet.

Leaving this digression, one may ascribe the immediate parentage of the modern theatrical ballet to the Court Ballets of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which in turn arose out of the mediÆval mystery plays, pageants, and masques. Ballets were a favourite diversion of the French Court of the period, where they underwent a gradual refinement in style from the relative coarseness which at first distinguished them. The opera-ballet was the next stage of development; then, towards the end of the eighteenth century, singing was omitted, and the ballet attained a dignity of its own.

The founder of what may be termed the dramatic ballet, which is the form the Russians have developed so magnificently, was Noverre, a great celebrity of his day, who took London as well as Paris for his field. After the fashion of his time, Noverre went to the classics for his themes, and very banal, it would seem, were his efforts to interpret them in terms of the ballet. But though his ambition as a maÎtre de ballet outran his perceptions as an artist, at least he initiated and firmly established a new form of art which was capable of being brought subsequently to a high degree of perfection.

Vestris and Camargo were among the more familiar names associated with the ballet, both before and at Noverre’s period. These were the great dancers of the eighteenth century, to whom succeeded Pauline Duvernay, the celebrated Taglioni, Carlotta Grisi, Fanny Ellsler, Fanny Cerito, and others of the nineteenth century. It is barely thirty years since Taglioni died at the age of eighty, and it is possible there are still persons alive who remember her at the zenith of her career. Pauline Duvernay died even more recently (in 1894), but she preceded Taglioni on the stage, and as her retirement took place at the time of Queen Victoria’s accession, there can be few, if any, who are able to recall her performances.

It is difficult to form a clear impression of what the ballet was like in Taglioni’s day. One imagines, however, that it was less the ballet in which she appeared than the individual art, or at least skill, of the dancer herself, which attracted the spectator. At all events the ballet, after Taglioni, steadily declined, and one suspects that in her the tendency towards specialisation, which is everywhere inevitable in a highly civilised state, had reached its climax. The ballet had become a mere background, of no great significance or importance, to the dancer, and there being no one to maintain the standard of virtuosity set by so skilled an executant, the result was inevitable. There have been other dancers since Taglioni, probably as fine and perhaps finer, but their distinction has been of a peculiarly personal and, of necessity, somewhat limited kind. The decay of the ballet as a vehicle of expression has bereft them of opportunities for the full display of their art; they have been in the situation of a singer who for lack of an operatic stage whereon to give vent to mature, full-blooded powers, would perforce have to be content with the comparatively limited opportunities of the platform.

For a long time before the Russian revival the ballet had been all but extinct in this country; it was scarcely better abroad, save in Russia itself, of course, where the existence of a State school of dancing since the end of the seventeenth century has produced a quite different state of affairs. It is to be noted that even now the art of Anna Pavlova has only been seen under restrictions of the kind just mentioned. Her perfect skill in technique has been abundantly demonstrated; to judge of her quality as an artist (though she has given more than one suggestive hint of it) it is necessary to see her in ballet—a privilege hitherto denied.

This lapse of the ballet into desuetude accounts very largely for the extraordinary success of the Russians, who burst dazzlingly upon the gaze of a listless public, and demonstrated that ballet, which had come to be synonymous with banality, could be made both a forceful and a beautiful vehicle of artistic expression. There had been forerunners of the “Russian invasion”—brief appearances of one or two of the most distinguished dancers in isolated performances at a London variety theatre; but it was not until the complete Russian Ballet, as organised by M. Serge de Diaghilev, made its bow, en grande tenue, at the Covent Garden Opera House, that the London public awoke to recognition. The descriptive power of music it knew, “wordless plays” were not unfamiliar, pas seuls and pas de deux it had seen performed in countless number by accomplished dancers of every nationality and style. But the art of the ballet, which combines music, pantomime and the dance, was a revelation, and its enthusiasm was great.

In Russia the ballet has never been allowed, as elsewhere, to die of starvation and inanition. Apart from State encouragement of the dancer’s art, an outlet has been provided for the musician and the decorative painter and designer. The result is that a ballet, as understood in Russia, is no mere excuse for the exploitation of individual talents, but a work of art in itself, to the achievement of which the energies and abilities of all concerned are subordinated. Undoubtedly it is the unity of purpose, the wonderful ensemble, which the Russian ballets exhibit that catches the imagination of the spectator. It is significant that their best performances are those which are wholly, or at least in chief part, of native production, and deal with native or closely kindred subjects. Indeed, for their success in attaining coherence and unity the Russians have to thank, perhaps, their comparative isolation and remoteness from Western European civilisation. Their art is strong because native. Endorsement of this suggestion is to be found in the virility of the Russian operas of Moussorgsky and Rimsky-Korsakov, which made as profound an impression on their first performance in London as did the Russian ballets before them. Beside such works of art as “Boris Godounov,” “La Khovantchina,” and “Ivan the Terrible,” the modern French and Italian operas seem pitifully patched and thin, sadly lacking in balance and proportion.

Except for the framework on which it is constructed, the modern dramatic ballet, as evolved by the Russians, bears little resemblance to that in which Noverre delighted. The latter’s method, indeed, was fundamentally the opposite to that by which such a man as Michel Fokine proceeds. It was Noverre’s habit to lay impertinent hands on any theme, no matter how august, and twist it (regardless of mutilation) to his purpose—which was to exhibit his dancer’s skill. Not even the tragedy of Æschylus was safe if ClytÆmnestra seemed to the complacent chevalier a rÔle in which his latest pupil might agreeably air her graces. The Russian method is the converse; its aim is to interpret the theme by gestures and the dance, not forcibly adapt it to the irrelevant requirements of a dancer’s special repertoire. It would be ridiculous to suggest that this aim is always successfully achieved—there are occasions when it falls a long way short of accomplishment—but at least the principle is right, and under Fokine the Russian Ballet has brought dancing the nearest yet to a fine art.

That it should be their performance as a whole which has sealed the success of the Russians, is the more remarkable when the exceptional quality of the individual performers is considered. It is not merely that the standard of excellence, both in acting and miming, throughout the entire corps de ballet is so high: under ordinary circumstances (unfortunately) one would expect to see such performers as MM. Bolm, Cecchetti, Kotchetovsky, Mdmes. Karsavina, Federova, Astafieva, Piltz—to name but a few—each figuring as that abomination a “star”: probably supported by a company whose mediocrity would tend to mitigate rather than enhance the brilliance of the leading light. But the Russians know better than this, and though it may be difficult to imagine “L’Oiseau de Feu” without Karsavina, “ClÉopÂtre” without Federova, “Prince Igor” without Bolm, it is of the dancer’s association with the ballet, not of the ballet as a background to the dancer, that one thinks. “The play’s the thing.”

There are two personalities, however, which the performances of the Russian Ballet have thrown forward with especial prominence. The first is, of course, M. Nijinsky, than whom it may be doubted whether any more accomplished dancer has ever appeared. He excited the more astonishment, perhaps, on his appearance in London, because the male dancer was hitherto unknown—at least in any other than a grotesque or comic capacity. (Nothing, by the way, could be more eloquent of the debasement of the ballet in this country than the custom of having the male parts taken by women.) But the perfection of Nijinsky’s technical skill, extraordinary as this is, provides but the lesser reason for his triumph. He is an artist as well as a wonderful dancer. He appeals not only to the eye but to the imagination. Conceivably there might be found another dancer with equal command of movement, and another mime with equal subtlety of pose and gesture: but one who can so weld into a single faculty of expression the twin arts of pantomime and the dance is surely far to seek. Consider his dancing, and he seems to be less a dancer (as the word is ordinarily understood) than a mime who adds movement to gesture: regard him as a mime, and he seems rather a dancer who is acting while he dances. Nijinsky, in brief, is the true dancer: dancing is his proper medium of expression, in the use of which he shows himself an artist of fine perception. To watch him as Harlequin in “Le Carnaval” or as the Spectre of the Rose (in which rÔles it was the present writer’s memorable good fortune to see him for the first time) is to receive a revelation of what the dancer’s art can compass. Let it be added that in the case of Nijinsky no more unfitting prominence is allowed to the dancer’s personality than in the case of his colleagues already named. One may shudder at the thought of “Le Spectre de la Rose” without Nijinsky as the Spectre, but it is the banality which a lesser artist might produce that is dreaded, not the loss of those wondrous leaps and bounds.

The second outstanding personality is that of M. LÉon Bakst, to whose designs for scenery, costumes, and all that is summed up in the convenient word dÉcor, many of the ballets in the Russian repertoire owe no small part of their success. The impression made by the scenic methods of LÉon Bakst was a worthy parallel to that effected by the performance of the dancers—or perhaps one should say that the two were but inseparable parts of the same thing, since the services of Bakst to the Russian Ballet have been not less than the opportunities which the Ballet has furnished to Bakst. One scarcely thinks of the one without the other.

The vigour and impulse with which the Russian dancers showed that the ballet, as a means of artistic expression, could be endowed, LÉon Bakst demonstrated could inspire the designing of scenery and costumes. Again one finds that a sense of unity and coherence has been the inspiration. Bakst’s broad method is the converse of the stage realist who seeks to counterfeit fact by a laborious building up of detail. He presents the essentials and little more, using colour rather than form to suggest the association of ideas which he wishes to produce. Compare the cool green setting of “Narcisse,” the violent riot of colour which forms a background to “Scheherazade,” the simplicity and dignity of the orange environment of “ClÉopÂtre,” with the fretful facsimiles of woodland grove, harem, and desert temple which a less original designer might have attempted. In his designs for costumes there is not less vigour and attack. While the conventional “costumier” is drawing a fiddling fashion plate or draping a lay figure, Bakst is portraying not only the clothing which befits the temperament and character of the dramatis persona under consideration, but the very way in which that clothing would by such a one be worn or carried. Especially has he an eye for form and colour in movement—few of his designs for costumes show the wearers in repose—a fact which obviously gives his work a peculiar value for this particular purpose.

It will be readily appreciated how vital a bearing the designs of LÉon Bakst have upon that ensemble which has been so strongly emphasised as the outstanding feature, and the fundamental secret, of the Russian Ballet’s success. But it should be remembered that Bakst’s creations as seen upon the stage fall short by a good deal of what they really are. It is inevitable, unfortunately, that this should be so. It is no easy task for the actual scene painter to reproduce upon a large scale the artist’s design with that absolute fidelity to colour and tone which alone can do it proper justice: and that the wearers of the costumes should be able to sustain without relapse their impersonations of the characters so vividly depicted in essentials by the artist’s brush and pencil is more than can reasonably be expected from even the most accomplished corps de ballet. How much the designs of LÉon Bakst suffer in translation, only those who have seen the wonderful originals can realise.

The music of the ballets is mostly the work of Russian composers, and the fact that, as a general rule, it has been specially written preserves the unity of purpose. In a few cases the Russians have ventured to lay hands on music to which they have no legitimate claim, and though their sense of the fitting has saved them from banality or desecration, it is notable that these are the occasions when they give the least complete satisfaction. Much may be forgiven for the beauty of the dancing, qua dancing, in “Les Sylphides,” but one doubts the propriety of the employment of Chopin’s music. As an “interpretation” of the latter, the dances are merely ridiculous, but in justice to the Russians it must be observed that they have never put them forward as such. The use made of Schumann’s “Carnaval” and Weber’s “Invitation À la Valse” is more legitimate—indeed the delicate romance of “Le Spectre de la Rose” confers almost a dignity upon the latter somewhat sentimental composition. More recently Debussy has been pressed into service, but the peculiar un-ballet-like nature of “L’AprÈs-Midi d’un Faune” and “Jeux” makes comment in the present connection needless. The fact remains that the happiest results have been obtained from the co-operation of native composers like Nicolas Tcherepnin, Balakirev, and Igor Stravinsky. From the latter has come, in “L’Oiseau de Feu” and “PÉtrouchka,” perhaps the most effective music in the whole repertoire of the Russian Ballet—a circumstance which makes it the more disappointing, at least to the simple-minded, that his third ballet, “Le Sacre du Printemps,” should be distinguished by such marked, not to say eccentric, characteristics.

It is regrettable to have to end these introductory words upon a note of disparagement. But the more recent performances of the Russian Ballet, while confirming the hold already established upon the public, have also indicated the way in which that hold may presently be lost. That abounding vitality with which the Russians have invested their work arises out of a devotion to, and enthusiasm for, their art. They have a zest which cannot fail of result. But a belief in the possibilities of an art must be balanced by a recognition of its limitations, or the result is chaos. It is needless to anticipate here the comments which are later made upon some recent additions to the Russians’ repertoire. It is enough for the moment to remark a tendency in them to chafe at what presumably seem to enthusiastic spirits, confident in their own cleverness, unnecessary bonds and restrictions. But discipline is the very essence of Art. To abandon discipline is to run riot, achieving nothing and arriving nowhere.