ian Ballet, as we know it, existed, indeed, before
Nijinsky had begun to dance in public, and he felt that the addition of
poetry and music to pantomime--the Wagner music-drama in other
words--brought about a perfect combination of the arts. Nevertheless,
there is an obvious application of his remarks to the present instance.
There is, indeed, the quality of a dream about the characters Nijinsky
presents to us. I remember once, at a performance of the Russian Ballet,
I sat in a box next to a most intelligent man, a writer himself; I was
meeting him for the first time, and he was seeing the Ballet for the
first time. Before the curtain rose he had told me that dancing and
pantomime were very pretty to look at, but that he found no stimulation
in watching them, no mental and spiritual exaltation, such as might
follow a performance of _Hamlet_. Having seen Nijinsky, I could not
agree with him--and this indifferent observer became that evening
himself a fervent disciple of the Ballet. For Nijinsky gave him, he
found, just what his ideal performance of Shakespeare's play might have
given him, a basis for dreams, for thinking, for poetry. The ennobling
effect of all great and perfect art, after the primary emotion, seems to
be to set our minds wandering in a thousand channels, to suggest new
outlets. Pater's experience before the _Monna Lisa_ is only unique in
its intense and direct expression.

No writer, no musician, no painter, can feel deep emotion before a work
of art without expressing it in some way, although the expression may be
a thousand leagues removed from the inspiration. And how few of us can
view the art of Nijinsky without emotion! To the painter he gives a new
sense of proportion, to the musician a new sense of rhythm, while to the
writer he must perforce immediately suggest new words; better still, new
meanings for old words. Dance, pantomime, acting, harmony, all these
divest themselves of their worn-out accoutrements and appear, as if
clothed by magic, in garments of unheard-of novelty; hue, texture, cut,
and workmanship are all a surprise to us. We look enraptured, we go away
enthralled, and perhaps even unconsciously a new quality creeps into our
own work. It is the same glamour cast over us by contemplation of the
Campo Santo at Pisa, or the Roman Theatre at Orange, or the Cathedral at
Chartres,--the inspiration for one of the most word-jewelled books in
any language--or the New York sky line at twiligh