his art he has induced a sense of height that leads the eye upward far beyond the proscenium’s limit, and creates a loftiness that seems to dwarf the figures grouped about the floor. Even more remarkable is the form and colouring of the decorations. Crude is the word that first presents itself, but crudity ill suggests the ultimate harmony of this astounding tableau. Violence is rather the note--violence of colour, violence of form: meet setting for such deeds of violence as are soon to be enacted. And as with the chamber, so with the dress of its occupants--the splendid, violent trappings of æsthetic barbarism. Nothing is subdued; it is the very occasion, as the spectator thrills to feel, for passions to be loosed, unbridled and untamed. Something of the same inspiration seems to have prompted Balakirev’s music, which not only hurries the swift drama to its impending climax, but seems charged with a sensuous violence of its own that enhances, to a point of fascination almost dreadful, the orgy of passionate intoxication on the stage. Thamar is an exciting experience. In the first few bars of the short prelude which precedes the rising of the curtain the note of mystery, of eerie phantasy, is struck. The listener is transported from reality to the region of legendary lore. To such strains would one choose to read of witchcraft and of magic spells; at least, the music has that degree of kinship with those voices of the elements which raise the hair with unfelt breath, and send a shiver through the stoutest heart. The curtains, lifting silently, disclose that striking tableau just referred to--a _coup d’œil_ in a very special sense. Upon a divan at the back, sinuous, a panther in repose, lies Thamar. At one side, flooding the head of the couch with evening light, a huge casement gives outlook, over the river’s turbulent flood, upon the wild snow-covered slopes that surround the mountain fastness of the Queen. In groups about the chamber are scattered Thamar’s women, some close in attendance upon their mistress, others reclining on low cushions, a few watching intently the distant prospect through the open window. Guarding the door, tall henchmen. A steadfast immobility has transfixed all. So, statuesque, stood the guards and retinue of the Sleeping Beauty. This much the spectator is permitted, at the lifting of the curtain, to apprehend. The stillness is noted, lasting for just that brief but appreciable moment which invests it with significance, and makes dominant that note of phantasy, of unreality, which the opening strains of music sounded. The illusion achieved, the spell of stillness is broken. A woman, one of those whose watchful gaze has been directed through the window, stirs. It is the merest gesture, but a gesture eager, alert: and on the instant, though none other yet moves, the scene becomes instinct with life.