action, and the statuary his model, all from the truth of
nature. They are all respectively professors of imitative arts;
and the dancer may well presume to take rank among them, since
the imitation of nature is not less his duty than theirs; with
this difference, that they have some advantages of which the
dancer is destitute. The Painter has time to settle and correct
his attitudes, but the dancer must be exactly bound to the time
of the music. The actor has the assistance of speech, and the
statuary has all the time requisite to model his work. The
dancer's effect is not only that of a moment, but he must every
moment represent a succession of motions and attitudes, adapted
to his character, whether his subject be heroic or pastoral, or
in whatever kind of dancing he exhibits himself. He is by the
expressiveness of his dumb show to supplement the want of
speech, and that with clearness; that whatever he aims at
representing may be instantaneously apprehended by the
spectator, who must not be perplexed with hammering out to
himself the meaning of one step, while the dancer shall have
already begun another.
In the half-serious stile we observe vigor, lightness, agility,
brilliant springs, with a steadiness and command of the body.
It is the best kind of dancing for expressing the more general
theatrical subjects. It also pleases more generally.
The grand pathetic of the serious stile of dancing is not what
every one enters into. But all are pleased with a brilliant
execution, in the quick motion of the legs, and the high springs
of the body. A pastoral dance, represented in all the pantomime
art, will be commonly preferred to the more serious stile,
though this last requires doubtless the greatest excellence:
but it is an excellence of which few but the connoisseurs are
judges; who are rarely numerous enough to encourage the composer
of dances to form them entirely in that stile. All that he can
do is to take a great part of his attitudes from the serious
stile, but to give them another turn and air in the composition;
that he may avoid confounding the two different stiles of
serious and half-serious. For this last, it is impossible to
have too much agility and briskness.
The comic dancer is not tied up to the same rules or
observations as are necessary to the serious and half serious
stiles. He is not so much obliged to study what may be called
nature in high life. The rural sports, and exercises; the
gestures of various mechanics or artificers will supply him with
ideas for the execution of charracters in this branch. The more
his motions, steps, and attitudes are taken from nature, the
more they will be sure to please.
The comic dance has for object the exciting mirth; whereas,
on the contrary, the serious stile aims more at soothing and
captivating by the harmony and justness of its movements; by the
grace and dignity of its steps; by the pathos of the execution.
The comic stile, however its aim may be laughter, requires
taste, delicacy, and invention; and that the mirth it creates
should not even be without wit. This depends not only upon the
execution, but on the choice of the subject. It is not enough to
value oneself upon a close imitation of nature, if the subject
chosen for imitation is not worth imitating, or improper to
represent; that is to say, either trivial, indifferent,
consequently uninteresting; or disgustful and unpleasing.
The one tires, the other shocks. Even in the lowest classes of
life, the composer must seize only what is the fittest to give
satisfaction; and omit whatever can excite disagreeable ideas.
It is from the animal joy of mechanics or peasants in their
cessations from labor, or from their celebration of festivals,
that the artist will select his matter of composition; not from
any circumstances of unjoyous poverty or loathsome distress. He
must cull the flowers of life, not present the roots with the
soil and dirt sticking to them.
Even contrasting characters, which are so seldom attempted on
the stage, in theatrical dances, might not have a bad effect;
whereas most of the figures in them are simmetrically coupled.
Of the first I once saw in Germany a striking instance; an
instance that served to confirm that affinity between the arts
which renders them so serviceable to one another.
Passing through the Electorate of Cologne, I observed a number
of persons of all ages, assembled on a convenient spot, and
disposed, in couples, in order for dancing; but so odly paired
that the most ugly old man, had for his partner the most
beautiful and youngest girl in the company, while, on the
contrary, the most decrepid, deformed old woman, was led by the
most handsome and vigorous youth. Inquiring the reason of so
strange a groupe of figures, I was told that it was the humor of
an eminent painter, who was preparing a picture for the gallery
at Dusseldorp, the subject of which was to be this contrast; and
that in order to take his draught from nature, he had given a
treat to this rustic company, in the design of exhibiting at one
view, the floridness of youth contrasted to the weakness and
infirmities of old age, in a moral light, of exposing the
impropriety of those matches, in which the objection of a
disparity of years should not be duly respected.
I have mentioned this purely to point out a new resource
of invention, that may throw a pleasing variety into the
composition of dances; and save them from too constant a
simmetry, or uniformity, either of dress or figure, in the
pairing the dancers: by which I am as far from meaning that that
simmetry should be always neglected, as that it should be always
observed.
The comic dance, having then the diversion of the spectator,
in the way of laughing, for its object, should preserve a
moderately buffoon simplicity, and the dancer, aided by a
natural genius, but especially by throwing as much nature as
possible into his execution, may promise himself to amuse and
please the spectator; even though he should not be very deep in
the grounds of his art; provided he has a good ear, and some
pretty or brilliant steps to vary the dance. The spectators
require no more.
As to the grotesque stile of dance, the effect of it chiefly
depends on the leaps and height of the springs. There is more of
bodily strength required in it than even of agility and flight.
It is more calculated to surprize the eye, then to entertain it.
It has something of the tumbler's, or wire-dancer's merit of
difficulty and danger, rather than of art. But the worst of it
is, that this vigor and agility last no longer than the season
of youth, or rather decrease in proportion as age advances, and,
by this means, leave those who have trusted solely to that vigor
and agility deprived of their essential merit. Whereas such as
shall have joined to that vigor and agility, a proper study of
the principles of their art; that talent will still remain as a
resource for them. Commonly those dancers who have from nature
eminently those gifts which enable them to shine in the
grottesque branch, do not chuse to give themselves the trouble
of going to the bottom of their art, and acquiring its
perfection. Content with their bodily powers, and with the
applause their performances actually do receive from the public,
they look no further, and remain in ignorance of the rest of
their duty. Against this dissipation then, which keeps them
always superficial, they cannot be too much, for their own
advantage, admonished.
They will not otherwise get at the truth of their art, like him
who qualifies himself for making a figure in the serious, and
half-serious stiles, which also contribute to diffuse a grace
over every other kind of dancing, however different from them.
But though the grotesque may be a caricature of nature, it is
never to lose sight of it. It must ever bear a due relation to
the objects of which it attempts to exhibit the imitation,
however exagerated. But in this it is for genius to direct the
artist. And it is very certain that this kind of dancing, well
executed, affords to the public, great entertainment in the way,
if what may be called broad mirth; especially where the figure
of the grotesque dancer, his gestures, dress, and the
decorations, all contribute to the creation of the laugh. He
must also avoid any thing studied or affected in his action.
Every thing must appear as natural as possible, even amidst the
grimaces, contortions, and extravagancies of the character.
Of
SUNDRY REQUISITES,
for
PERFECTION OF THE
ART
of
DANCING.
I have already observed how necessary it is that all the steps,
in the theatrical dances, which have imitation for their object,
should be intelligible at the first glance of the eye. This
cannot be too much inculcated. The passions and manners of
mankind, have all a different expression, which cannot be
presented too plain, and too obvious. The adjustment of the
motions to the character must be observed through every stile of
dancing, the serious, the half-serious, the comic, and the
grotesque. The various beauties of these different kinds of
dances, all center in the propriety or truth of nature. Looks,
movements, attitudes, gestures, should in the dancer, all
have an appropriate meaning; so plainly expressed as to be
instantaneously understood by the spectator, without giving him
the trouble of unriddling them: otherwise, it is like talking to
them in a foreign language for which an interpretor is needed.
But to give a sentiment, a man must have it first: where a
pathetic sentiment is well possessed of the mind, the expression
of it is diffused over the whole body.
The theatre shows to advantage a well proportioned dancer.
A tall person appears the more majestic on it; but those of a
middling stature are more generally fit for every character;
and may make up in gracefulness what they want in size. The
remarkably tall commonly want the graces to be seen in those of
the more general standard.
A young dancer who displays a dawn of genius, cannot be too much
exhorted to deliver himself up to the power of nature; so that
acquiring a particular manner of his own, he may himself proceed
on original. If he would hope to arrive at any eminence in the
art, he must break the shackles of a servile imitation, and
preserve nothing but the principles and grounds of his art,
which will be so far from fettering him, that they will assist
his soaring upon the wings of his own genius.
Where a dancer undertakes to represent a subject on the theatre,
he must ground his plan of performance on the selecting all the
most proper situations for furnishing the most strikingly
pictures, prospects, and consequently, producing the greatest
effect.
This was doubtless the great secret of Pilades, the founder, at
least in Rome, of the pantomime art. It was on this choice of
situations, that the understanding whole pieces, both tragic and
comic, executed in dances, entirely depends.
And here, upon mentioning the pantomime art, be it allowed me
to defend it against the objections made to it, by those who
consider it only under a partial or vulgar point of view.
If any one should pretend that the pantomime art is superior to
the actor's power of representation in tragedy or comedy, or
that such an entertainment of dumb show ought to exclude that of
speaking characters; nothing could be more ridiculous or absurd
than such a proposition.
That indeed would be rejecting one of the most noble
improvements of nature, in favor of an art rather calculated for
the relaxation of the mind than for the instruction of it; in
which it can only claim a subordinate share.
Those subjects, whether serious or comic, which are executed by
dances, or in the pantomime strain, are chiefly intended for the
throwing a variety into theatrical entertainments, without
disputing any honors of rank.
The very same person who shall have at one time, taken pleasure
in seeing and hearing the noble and pathetic sentiments of
tragedy, or the ridicule of human follies in a good comedy,
finely represented, may, without any sort of inconsistence, not
be displeased at seeing, at another time, a subject executed in
dances, while the music, the decorations, all contribute to the
happy diversification of his entertainment. Ought he therefore
either to call his own taste to an account for his being
pleased, or to grudge to others a pleasure, which nature itself
justifies, in his having given to mankind a love of variety?
Nor is there perhaps, in the world, an art more the genuine
offspring of Nature, more under her immediate command, than
the art of dancing. For to say nothing of that dancing, which
has no relation to the theatre, and which is her principal
demonstrations of joy and festivity, the theatrical branch
acknowledges her for its great and capital guide. All the
motions, all the gestures, all the attitudes, all the looks, can
have no merit, but in their faithful imitation of Nature: while
man himself, man, the noblest of her productions, is ever the
subject which the dancer paints through all his passions and
manners.
The painter presents man in one fixed attitude, with no more of
life than the draught and colors can give to his figure: the
dancer exhibits him in a succession of attitudes, and, instead
of painting with the brush, paints, surely more to the life,
with his own person. A dance in action, is not only a moving
picture, but an animated one: while to the eloquence of the
tongue, it substitutes that of the whole body.
The art, viewed in this light, shows how comparatively little
the merely mechanical part of it, the agility of the legs and
body, contributes to the accomplishment of the dancer; however
necessary that also is. We might soon form a dancer, if the art
consisted only in his being taught to shake his legs in cadence,
to ballance his body, or to move his arms unmeaningly. But if he
has not a genius, susceptible of cultivation, and which is
itself far the most essential gift, he will make no progress
towards the desirable distinction: he is a body without a soul:
his performance will have more of the poppet moved by wires,
than of the actor giving that life to the character, which
himself receives from the sensibility of genius.
There are many young beginners, who, looking on this art as a
good way of livelihood, enter on the rudiments of it, with great
ardor. But this ardor soon abates, in proportion, as they
advance, and find there is more study and pains required from
them than they expected to find, towards their arrival at any
tolerable degree of perfection. Having considered this art as
purely a mechanical one, they are surprised at the discovery of
its exacting thought and reflection, for which their ideas of it
had not prepared them. A man who has not sufficient share of
genius to attempt the vanquishing these difficulties, of which,
in his false conception of things, he has formed to himself no
notion; either treats these great essentials of the art, as
innovations, and such as he is not bound to admit, or in the
despair of acquiring them, sits down contented with his
mediocrity. It is well if he does not rail at, or attempt to
turn into ridicule, perfections which are beyond his reach. And
to say the truth, the art has not greater enemies than those
professors of it, who stick at the surface, and want the spirit
necessary to go to the bottom of it. In vain does the public
refuse its applause to their indifferent, ordinary,
uninteresting performance: rather than allow the fault to be in
themselves, their vanity will lay it on the public: they never
refuse themselves that approbation which others can see no
reason for bestowing on them. They are perfectly satisfied with
having executed in their little manner, the little they know or
are capable of; they have no idea of any thing beyond their
short reach.
Certainly the best season of life, for the study of this art,
is, as for that of most others, for obvious reasons, the time of
one's youth. It is the best time of laying the foundation both
of theory and practice.
But the theory should especially be attended to, without however
neglecting the practice. For though a dancer, by an assiduous
practice, may, at the first unexamining glance, appear as well
in the eyes of the public, as he who possesses the rules; the
illusion will not be lasting; it will soon be dissipated,
especially where there is present an object of comparison. He
whose motions are dirrected only by rote and custom, will soon
be discovered essentially inferior to him whose practice is
governed by a knowledge of the principles of his art.
A master does not do his duty by his pupil, in this art, if he
fails of strongly inculcating to him the necessity of studying
those principles; and of kindling in him that ardor for
attaining to excellence, which if it is not itself genius, it
is certain that no genius will do much without it.
Invention is also as much a requisite in our art as in any
other. But to save the pains of study, we often borrow and copy
from one another. Indolence is the bane of our art. The trouble
of thinking necessary to the invention and composition of
dances, appears to many too great a fatigue: this engages them
to appropriate to themselves the fruits of other peoples
invention; and they appear to themselves well provided at a
small expence, when they have made free with the productions of
others. Some again, instead of cultivating their talent, chuse
indolently to follow the great torrent of the fashion, and stick
to the old tracks, without daring to strike out any thing new,
so that their prejudices are, in fact, the principles by which
they are governed, and which sometimes serves them for their
excuse; since they know better, but do not care to give
themselves the trouble of acting up to their knowledge. Thus
they plod in the safe, and broad road of mediocrity, but without
any reputation or name. They are neither envied nor applauded.
As for those who borrow from others, content with being copies,
when they ought to strive to be originals; nothing can more
obstruct their progress in the discoveries of the depths of
their art, than this scheme of subsisting on the merit of
others.
Many, besides those who are incapable of invention, are tempted
at once by their indolence, and by the hope of not being
discovered or minded in their borrowing from others, to give
stale or hackneyed compositions, which having seen in one
country, they flatter themselves they may palm for new and
original upon the public in another. Thence it is that the
audience is cloyed with repetitions of pantomime dances; perhaps
some of them very pretty at their first appearance, but which
cannot fail of tiring when too often repeated; or when the same
grounds or subject of action is only superficially or slightly
diversified.
It is this barrenness of invention that the ingenious Goldoni
has so well exposed in one of his plays, in the following
speech, addressed to a young man.
"[*] For example, you, as the female dancer will come upon
the stage, with a distaff, twirling it, or with a pail to
draw water; or with a spade for digging. Your companion will
come next perhaps driving a wheel-barrow, or with a sickle
to mow corn, or with a pipe a-smoaking; and though the scene
should be a saloon, no matter, it will come soon to be
filled with rustics or sailors. Your companion to be sure
will not have seen you, at first; that is the rule; upon
which you will make up to him, and he will send you a
packing. You will tap him on the shoulder with one hand,
and he will give a spring from you to the other side of the
stage. You will run after him; he, on his part will scamper
away from you, and you will take pet at it. When he sees you
angry, he will take it into his head to make peace; he will
sue to you, and you in your turn will send him about his
business. You will run from him, and he after you. He will
be down on his knees to you; peace will be made; then,
shaking your footsies, you will invite him to dance. He also
will answer you with his feet, as much as to say, come, let
us dance."
"Then handing you backwards to the top of the stage, you
will begin gaily a _Pas-de-deux_, or Duet dance. The first
part will be lively, the second grave; the third a jig. You
will have taken care to procure six or seven of the best
airs for a dance, put together, that can be imagined. You
will execute all the steps that you are mistress of; and let
your character in the Pas-de-deux, be that of a country
wench, a gardener's servant, a granadier's trull, or a
statue; the steps will be always the same; and the same
actions for ever repeated; such as running after one
another, dodging, crying, falling in a passion, making peace
again, bringing the arms over the head, jumping in and out
of time, shaking legs and arms, the head, the body, the
shoulders, and especially smirking and ogling round you; not
forgetting gentle inflexions of the neck, as you pass close
under the lights, nor to make pretty faces to the audience,
and then, hey for a fine curtesy at the end of the dance!"
[Footnote *: Per esempio vendra fora la ballerina, colla
rocca, filando, ò con un secchio à trar l'acqua, ò con una
zappa à zappar. El vostro compagno vendra fora ò colla
cariola à portar qualche cosa, ò colla falce à tagliar il
grano, ò colla pipa a fumar, e si ben, che la scena fosse
una sala, tanto e tanto, se vien a far da contadini ò da
marinari. El vostro compagno non vi vedra: voi andarete a
cercarlo, e el vi scacciera via. Gli batterete una man su
la spalla, ed el con un salto anderà dall'altra banda. Voi
gli correrete dietro, lui se scampera, e voi anderete in
collera. Quando voi sarete in collera, a lui le vendra la
voglia di far pace, e lui vi preghera, voi lo scacciarete.
Scamparete via, e lui vi correra dietro. El se
inginocchiera, farete pace, voi, menando I pedini,
l'invitarete a ballar: anche ello, menando I piedi,
a segni dira, "balliamo," e tirandovi indietro
allegramente cominciarete el _Pas-de-deux_. La prima parte
allegra, la segonda grave, la terza una giga. Procurarete
di cacciargli dentro sei o sette delle migliori arie di
ballo che s'abbiano sentito; farete tutti i passi che
sapete fare, e che sia il _Pas-de-deux_ o da paesana, o da
giardinera, o da Granatiera, o da statue, i passi saranno
sempre gli istessi, correrse dietro, scampar, pianger,
andar in collera, far pace, tirar i bracci sopra la testa,
saltar in tempo e fora di tempo, menar gli bracci, e le
gambe, e la testa, e la vita, e le spalle, e sopra tutto
rider sempre col popolo, e storcer un pochetto il collo
quando si passa prossimo i lumi, e fare delle belle
smorfie all udienza, e una bella riverenza in ultima.]
Nothing however would more obstruct the progress of this art,
than thus contenting one self with adopting the productions
of others. It even would, in the disgust which repetition
occasions, bring on the decline of this entertainment, in the
opinion of a public which is always fond of novelty.
And of novelty, the beauties of nature furnish an inexhaustible
fund, in their infinite variety. Among these it is the business
of the artist to chuse such as can be brought upon the scene,
and theatrically adapted to the execution of his art. But for
this he must be possessed of taste, which is a qualification as
necessary to him, as a composer, as that of the graces are to
him as a performer. Both are gifts. But if a due exercise of
the art can add to the natural graces, taste does not stand
less in need of cultivation: it refines itself by a judicious
observation of the beauties and delicacies of nature. These he
must incessantly study, in order to transplant into his art such
as are capable of producing the most pleasing effect. He must
particularly consult the fitness of time, place and manners;
otherwise what would please in one dance might displease in
another. Propriety is the great rule of this art, as of all
others. A discordance in music hurts a nice ear; a false
attitude or motion in dancing equally offends the judicious eye.