When will the curtain rise for the first time to allow us to gaze down upon uplifting scenes? Will there be much that uplifts? I’d like to hope there will also be, now and again, something degrading to be seen, something shameless, so to speak, since it must after all be reckoned among the secret pleasures of a theatergoer to be permitted to find sufficient grounds to blush. Things should prick and prickle a bit, otherwise it might get dull, and after all, there are always people who enjoy this, as well as some who are swiftly inclined to find everything tedious. Did the stage-set painters give their brushes a proper cleaning during the vacation? Is there oil in the lamps? Are there innovations with regard to the lighting? But this is perhaps significantly less important than the breathless question of how things stand with the actors’ gestures. It’s to be hoped that one or the other of the individuals in question has smoothed his rough edges a little, and as for the noble dexterity of tongue, we are expecting miracles this year:
I wish the night would swallow me. Again
I have been wandering in the moonlight unawares.
Have the daggers been polished, buttons shined, stones hewn, benches cobbled together, curtains painted, moldings gilded, shirts pressed, manners scrubbed, heads washed, bodies steeled; are the senses fresh, the shoes free of holes, and all hearts in good fettle? Let’s assume so. How will the gentlemen make their entrances? Clad in armor or suit jackets? And the ladies? Will they wear velvet gowns or else dress-reform garments? In the end it’s a matter of complete indifference how they stand out, provided they know how to make a grand entrance — for this, I believe when I gaze innovatively into space as I am doing at this moment, is all that truly matters.
I crept into the garden here exhausted
And when the night enfolded me so sweetly—
Lovely, isn’t it?
1907
On the Russian Ballet
How ravishing, the Russian ballerinas from the Imperial Theatre in Petersburg. They dance very well, and now in Berlin they have garnered much acclaim and are enjoying great success that they are generally felt to deserve. Perhaps this is revealing, perhaps not, but in any case we were very satisfied, very pleased, and for the most part even enchanted. A few of the dancers dazzled us. Among these Russians there is one great artist, Anna Pavlova, a very conscious, very intelligent, and up to certain limits doubtless also brilliant artist. Local papers have dubbed her the queen of dance, and apparently that’s what she is. She’s just marvelous. Ah, this Berlin with its love and understanding of the arts, how peculiar it is in so many respects! And then success itself — how odd it often is! But enough of this. Let us speak of dulcet, dancerly things, and not of such foolish ones, such — I almost want to say — thickheaded, clumsy matters as success and its manufacture. Let us be merry, rich, light, earnest, courteous, virtuous, and well-mannered.
There’s no doubt a touch of parvenu effrontery in this desire on the part of someone of my ilk, who has never studied dance, to engage in scribbling and scrabbling on the theme, topic, and subject of dancing. And yet my sympathies are so vibrant that I cannot possibly bring myself to say: “No, I shall not write.” And what harm does it do, when one’s breast is filled with pleasurable sentiments, to make a bit of a fool of oneself? Yes, pleasurable sentiments, ravishing faces, lovely, beautiful gestures, dulcet memories, reasons for gratitude and veneration have all been bequeathed to us as a gift by the Russian ballet. There’s one perfectly ridiculous piece: Harlequin’s Millions. Anna Pavlova sits like a youthful regent upon a rickety, implausible, small balcony, gazing with wonderful gestures upon the crowd below — Italians apparently — who apparently are indulging in all manner of nocturnal, adventuresome, serenading, troubadourish pastimes. And perhaps daintiest, most dazzling, and loveliest of all was this magic spell of a balcony.
Clearly the play’s burden is the triumph of tender love over greed and the attempts of old age to act foolish and young. Or something of the sort. Item, we then see this balcony splendor glide to the ground, and now she begins to dance sweetness and greatness. “Now that is dance,” a highly enthused person said to me during intermission. “No doubt,” I replied, and this dissembling dryness pleased me. “Stupendous,” a second person said. I couldn’t help laughing. Oh, this Berlin when its enthusiasms are aroused. Naturally I am of the deeply felt conviction that it is quite nice, quite lovely to be capable of enthusiasm. Novelty enthuses. And these Russian dancers and danseuses struck us as utterly novel and unprecedented. Their traditional dances appeared bold, unique, and new. We were dazzled by an art that the mature and intelligent among us had believed dead and buried.
Is this ballet the future? For a dance to live on beyond the one tumultuous success, pieces must be written that correspond to our time and its spirit. As for the rest, it isn’t at all necessary to understand the art of dance. We don’t have to know what a certain delightful movement of the hand and arm signifies. All we have to do is feel it and see it, and for this reason thinking about the future of this dance that’s been passed down to us is rather philistine. But often it’s not a bad idea to practice a bit of philistinism.
Utterly marvelous and downright uplifting are the solo dances performed by these people from the realm of czars, the national and folk dances. Even just the costumes themselves. And then this beautiful wildness ennobled by discipline and tact. It’s enchanting, and here the dancer Eduardova must be mentioned. She represents sensual beauty, while Pavolva stands for spiritual enchantment.
It was clearly apparent that this tremendously, prodigiously modern Berlin no longer possesses a ballet audience. A ballet is the sort of spectacle that ought to be enjoyed coolheadedly or at any rate with a great deal of gentlemanly and gentlewomanly sophistication: fleetingly, poshly, coldly, elegantly, and solemnly — in the midnight hour, for example, between clever repartee and a rousing bottle of wine. After all, it’s not an Ibsen play, not a Wagnerian opera being performed. And since here in Berlin it’s been a long, long time since we’ve experienced “something of the sort”—in other words, since we are no longer used to seeing a ballet as something purely and delightfully pleasurable — we’ve been thinking of it as somehow anxiety-provoking and thus, I believe myself justified in saying, as almost too, too significant. Well, one ought not speak so philistinely. But it was profound to see how it enflamed us to witness this display of grace. Have we been thirsting for grace? It would seem so.
Beauty has caught us off our guard once more. A real ambush. And the detractors attended so as to blissfully, besottedly worship the objects of decades of surfeit. This is a sign of the age we live in: extreme wavering — in any case with regard to what is known as bon ton, our understanding of art, and taste. It all sends us whirling, and so we whirl! That we are still capable of feeling joy and the most heartfelt delight, and feeling them without warning, should give us a certain satisfaction. What blusterers we are! But perhaps this is necessary. And this too should be stated: We owe thanks to the people who had the idea of inviting these talented Russian dancers to try their luck once more in the capital of the Reich. After all, last year we virtually snubbed the noble Pavlova along with the rest of her band of artistes, or in any case heaped on them the frost of halfhearted accolades.