of sense. For certainly the beauty of Les Sylphides has little to do with the body, and in this respect partakes essentially of the nature of music, although as an actual visualisation of music (in the sense that Carnaval is such) it cannot be taken so very seriously. The less one thinks about Chopin, in fact, the more will one enjoy Les Sylphides. For Chopin's is the music of the velvet warmth of summer nights, and there is something sweet and scented in the air that is the breath of his dim, romantic world. But the country of Les Sylphides is cold and clear and fragile, a land of frozen moonlight, which, if you tried to reach it, would shimmer out into a thousand spangles at the first touch of your fingertips.
As a ballet Les Sylphides is perfectly simple, perfectly refined. The long, deep-
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