Impressions of Africa (French Literature Series) by Raymond Roussel Page B
Authors: Raymond Roussel
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tableaux.
The stage was soon returned to view for the entrance of the aging ballerina Olga Chervonenkov, an obese, mustached Latvian who, dressed in a tutu ornamented with leafage, made her appearance on the back of the elk Sladki, which she crushed under her considerable weight. The good-natured beast trudged across the boards, then, relieved of its corpulent rider, plodded back toward the wings, while the performer assumed first position for The Nymph’s Dance .
Her lips set in a smile, the former prima ballerina began a series of rapid turns, still showing certain vestiges of her past talent; beneath the stiff folds of her tulle skirt, her monstrous legs, squeezed into clinging pink tights, performed their practiced task with enough agility and remnants of grace to inspire justifiable surprise.
Suddenly, crossing the stage with tiny steps, both feet raised onto the point of their big toes, Olga fell heavily and cried out in anguish.
Doctor Leflaive left our group and, rushing onstage, diagnosed the lamentable condition of the patient, who had been immobilized by a muscle cramp .
Calling Hector and Tommy Boucharessas to assist him, the able doctor carefully lifted the unfortunate ballerina, who was carried offstage to receive the necessary care.
The moment the accident occurred, Talou, as if to prevent any interruption in the proceedings, had discretely given orders to Rao.
An immense choir suddenly rang out, composed of deep, vibrant male voices that buried poor Olga’s distant wails.
At this sound, everyone turned toward the west side of the square, in front of which the black warriors, squatting near the weapons they’d laid on the ground, all sang the “Jeroukka,” a kind of proud epic written by the emperor, who had taken as subject the detailed narrative of his own exploits.
The melody, with its bizarre rhythm and tone, was based on a single, fairly brief theme, repeated ad infinitum with new words each time.
The singers chanted each couplet, clapping their hands in unison as if they were a single man, and this glorious lament, executed with a certain opulence and character, produced a rather grandiose impression.
Nonetheless, the constant repetition of the single, eternally unvaried musical phrase gradually gave rise to an intense monotony, accentuated by the inevitable opportunities for prolongation offered by the “Jeroukka,” a faithful and exhaustive record of the life of the emperor, whose notable deeds were many.
Completely inaccessible to European ears, the Ponukelean epic unfolded in garbled stanzas, no doubt relating many capital events, and night gradually fell without any indication that the tedious drone might be nearing an end.
Suddenly, just as we were despairing of ever reaching the final verse, the choir stopped short and was replaced by a lovely soprano—a marvelous, penetrating voice that echoed purely in the already opaque twilight.
All eyes, seeking the spot from which this new performance originated, lit on Carmichael, who, standing at left before the front row of the chorus, thus completed the “Jeroukka” by phrasing solo, without changing a note of the musical motif, a supplemental canto devoted to the “Battle of the Tez.”
His remarkable head-voice, which flawlessly reproduced a female pitch, soared delightfully in the limitless acoustics of the open air, apparently unimpeded by the difficult pronunciation of the incomprehensible sounds composing the song.
But after several moments, Carmichael, initially so self-assured, faltered in his recital, his memory refusing to recall one word in the series of unintelligible syllables that he’d conscientiously learned by heart.
From a distance, Talou loudly whispered the fragment forgotten by the young Marseillais, who, picking up the narrative thread, continued without further hesitation to the end of the final couplet.
Immediately the emperor uttered several words to Sirdah, who, translating into
The stage was soon returned to view for the entrance of the aging ballerina Olga Chervonenkov, an obese, mustached Latvian who, dressed in a tutu ornamented with leafage, made her appearance on the back of the elk Sladki, which she crushed under her considerable weight. The good-natured beast trudged across the boards, then, relieved of its corpulent rider, plodded back toward the wings, while the performer assumed first position for The Nymph’s Dance .
Her lips set in a smile, the former prima ballerina began a series of rapid turns, still showing certain vestiges of her past talent; beneath the stiff folds of her tulle skirt, her monstrous legs, squeezed into clinging pink tights, performed their practiced task with enough agility and remnants of grace to inspire justifiable surprise.
Suddenly, crossing the stage with tiny steps, both feet raised onto the point of their big toes, Olga fell heavily and cried out in anguish.
Doctor Leflaive left our group and, rushing onstage, diagnosed the lamentable condition of the patient, who had been immobilized by a muscle cramp .
Calling Hector and Tommy Boucharessas to assist him, the able doctor carefully lifted the unfortunate ballerina, who was carried offstage to receive the necessary care.
The moment the accident occurred, Talou, as if to prevent any interruption in the proceedings, had discretely given orders to Rao.
An immense choir suddenly rang out, composed of deep, vibrant male voices that buried poor Olga’s distant wails.
At this sound, everyone turned toward the west side of the square, in front of which the black warriors, squatting near the weapons they’d laid on the ground, all sang the “Jeroukka,” a kind of proud epic written by the emperor, who had taken as subject the detailed narrative of his own exploits.
The melody, with its bizarre rhythm and tone, was based on a single, fairly brief theme, repeated ad infinitum with new words each time.
The singers chanted each couplet, clapping their hands in unison as if they were a single man, and this glorious lament, executed with a certain opulence and character, produced a rather grandiose impression.
Nonetheless, the constant repetition of the single, eternally unvaried musical phrase gradually gave rise to an intense monotony, accentuated by the inevitable opportunities for prolongation offered by the “Jeroukka,” a faithful and exhaustive record of the life of the emperor, whose notable deeds were many.
Completely inaccessible to European ears, the Ponukelean epic unfolded in garbled stanzas, no doubt relating many capital events, and night gradually fell without any indication that the tedious drone might be nearing an end.
Suddenly, just as we were despairing of ever reaching the final verse, the choir stopped short and was replaced by a lovely soprano—a marvelous, penetrating voice that echoed purely in the already opaque twilight.
All eyes, seeking the spot from which this new performance originated, lit on Carmichael, who, standing at left before the front row of the chorus, thus completed the “Jeroukka” by phrasing solo, without changing a note of the musical motif, a supplemental canto devoted to the “Battle of the Tez.”
His remarkable head-voice, which flawlessly reproduced a female pitch, soared delightfully in the limitless acoustics of the open air, apparently unimpeded by the difficult pronunciation of the incomprehensible sounds composing the song.
But after several moments, Carmichael, initially so self-assured, faltered in his recital, his memory refusing to recall one word in the series of unintelligible syllables that he’d conscientiously learned by heart.
From a distance, Talou loudly whispered the fragment forgotten by the young Marseillais, who, picking up the narrative thread, continued without further hesitation to the end of the final couplet.
Immediately the emperor uttered several words to Sirdah, who, translating into
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