spirit of liberty, when, upon his being banished Rome, for some
time, by Augustus Cesar, upon account of the disturbances the
pantomime parties occasioned, he told him plainly to his face,
that he was ungrateful for the good his power received, by the
diversion to the Romans from more serious thoughts on the loss
of their liberty. "Why do not you," says he, "let the people
amuse themselves with our quarrels?"
This dancer had such great powers in all his tragedies, that he
could draw tears from even those of the spectators the least
used to the melting mood.
But in truth, the effect of these pantomimes, in general, was
prodigious. Tears and sobs interrupted often the representation
of the tragedy of _Glaucus_, in which the pantomime Plancus
played the principal character.
Bathillus, in painting the amours of Leda, never failed of
exciting the utmost sensibility in the Roman ladies.
But what is more surprising yet, _Memphir_, a Pithagorean
philosopher, as Athenæus tells us, expressed, by dancing, all
the excellence of the philosophy of Pithagoras, with more
elegance, more clearness and energy, than the most eloquent
professor of philosophy could have done.
Upon considering all this, one is almost tempted to say, with M.
Cahusac, "We have, upon the stage, excellent feet, lively legs,
admirable arms: what a pity it is, that with all this we have so
little of the art of dancing!"
Our tragedy and our comedy have an extent and duration which are
supported by the charms of speech, by the interestingness of
narration, by the variety of the sallies of wit. The action is
divided into acts, each act into scenes, these scenes
successively present new situations, and these situations keep
up the warmth of interest and attention, form the plot, lead to
the conclusion or unravelment, and prepare it.
Such must have been, or such must be, (but with more precision
and markingness) tragedies or comedies represented by dancing;
as gesture is something more marking and succinct than speech.
There are required many words to express a thought, but one
single motion may paint several thoughts, and situations.
In such compositions, then, made to be danced, the theatrical
action must go forward with the utmost rapidity: there must not
be one unmeaning entry, figure, or step in them. Such a piece
ought to be a close crouded abstract of some excellent written
dramatic piece.
Dancing, like painting, can only present situations to the eye;
and every truly theatrical situation is nothing but a living
picture.
If a composer of dances should undertake to represent upon the
stage any great action or theatrical subject, he must begin by
making an extract from it, of all the most picturesque
situations. No other parts beside these can enter into his plan;
all the others are defective or useless, they can only embarras,
perplex, confound, and render it cold and insipid.
Whereas, if the situations succeed one another naturally, and in
great number; if their being well linked together conducts them
with rapidity, from the first situation to the last, which must
clearly and strikingly unravel the whole; the choice is
complete, and the theatrical effect will be sure.
It is that final effect, of which, in the execution, the
composer and performer must never lose sight. Successive
pictures must be exhibited, and animated with all the expression
that can result from the impassioned motions of the dance.
This was doubtless the great secret of the art of Pilades, who
so highly excelled in his ideas of theatrical expression: this
is, perhaps, too for all kinds of theatrical composition,
whether to be declaimed, or to be executed by dancing, a general
rule that is not to be slighted.
One instance of the regard shewn by Pilades to theatrical
propriety is preserved to us, and not unworthy of attention. He
had been publickly challenged by Hilas, once a pupil of his, to
represent the greatness of Agamemnon: Hilas came upon the stage
with buskins, which, in the nature of stilts, made him of an
artificial height; in consequence of which he greatly
over-topped the croud of actors who surrounded him. This passed
well enough, 'till Pilades appeared with an air, stern and
majestic. His serious steps, his arms a-cross, his motion
sometimes slow, sometimes animated, with pauses full of meaning,
his looks now fixed on the ground, now lifted to heaven, with
all the attitudes of profound pensiveness, painted strongly a
man taken up with great things, which he was meditating,
weighing, and comparing, with all the dignity of kingly
importance. The spectators, struck with the justness, with the
energy and real elevation of so expressive a portraiture,
unanimously adjudged the preference to Pilades, who, coolly
turning to Hilas, said to him, "_Young man, we had to represent
a king who commanded over twenty kings: you made him tall:
I showed him great._"
It was in the reign of Nero, that a cinical mock-philosopher,
called Demetrius, saw, for the first time, one of these
pantomime compositions. Struck with the truth of the
representation, he could not help expressing the greatest marks
of astonishment: but whether his pride made him feel a sort of
shame for the admiration he had involuntarily shewn, or whether
naturally envious and selfish, he could not bear the cruel pain
of being forced to approve any thing but his own singularities;
he attributed to the music the strong impression that has been
made upon him: as, in that reign, a false philosophy very
naturally had a greater influence than the real, this man was,
it seems, of consequence enough for the managers of the dances
to take notice of this partiality, or at least to be piqued
enough, for their own honor, to lay a scheme for undeceiving
him. He was once more brought to their theatre, and seated in a
conspicuous part of the house, without his having been
acquainted with their intention.
The orchestra began: an actor opens the scene: on the moment of
his entrance, the simphony ceases, and the representation
continues. Without any aid but that of the steps, the positions
of the body, the movements of the arms, the piece is performed,
in which are successively represented the amours of Mars and
Venus, the Sun discovering them to the jealous husband of the
goddess, the snares which he sets for his faithless spouse and
her formidable gallant, the quick effect of the treacherous net,
which, while it compleats the revenge of Vulcan, only publishes
his shame, the confusion of Venus, the rage of Mars, the arch
mirth of the gods, who came to enjoy the sight.
The whole audience gave to the excellence of the performance its
due applause, but the Cinic, out of himself, could not help
crying out, in a transport of delight; "_No! this is not a
representation; it is the very thing itself._"
Much about the same time a dancer represented the _labors of_
Hercules. He retraced in so true a manner all the different
situations of that hero, that a king of Pontus, then at Rome,
and who had never seen such a sight before, easily followed the
thread of the action, and charmed with it, asked with great
earnestness of the emperor, that he would let him have with him
that extraordinary dancer, who had made such an impression upon
him.
"Do not, says he to Nero, be surprised at my request. I have
for borderers upon my kingdom, some Barbarian nations whose
language none of my people could understand, nor they learn
ours. Such a man as this dancer would be an admirable
interpreter between us."
It would then surely be a great error to imagine, that an
habitual dexterity, a daily practice, with their arms, their
legs and feet, were the only talents of these pantomime dancers.
Their execution, without doubt, required all these advantages of
the body in the most eminent degree; but their compositions
supposed, and indispensably implied an infinite number of
combinations which belong intirely to the mind, or intellectual
faculties; as for example, especially an attentive and judicious
discernment of the most interesting truths of human nature. How
extensive a study this exacts, it is more easy to conceive than
to attain.
And surely there is an evident necessity for studying men,
before one can undertake to paint or represent them. It is not
till after a profound examination of the passions, that one
ought to flatter one's self with characterising them purely by
the powers of external signs of actions. All the passions have
affinities to each other, which it is only for a great justness
of understanding to seize; they have shades that distinguish
them, which nothing but a nice eye can perceive, and which
easily escape a superficial observer.
In serious dancing, where the character of a hero is to be
given, there are in his actions, in the course of his life,
certain marking strokes, certain incidents or extraordinary
passages, which are subjects proper for the stage, and which
must be separated from others perhaps more brilliant in history,
but which would infrigidate a theatrical composition.
In the state of dancing of our days, the dancers, and even the
composers of dances, aspire to little more than the mechanical
part of their art; and, indeed, they hardly know any thing
beyond that, and cannot in course, cultivate what they have no
conception of.
When M. Cahusac wrote, he observed that this was sufficient for
the spectators, who required nothing more than a brilliant
execution from the dancers in the old track of steps and capers;
and this is, in fact, true of the greater number now. But
lately, the taste for dances of action, animated with meaning
and conveying the idea of some fable or subject, has begun to
gain ground. People are less tired with a dance, in which the
understanding is exercised, without the fatigue of perplexity,
than by merely seeing a succession of lively steps, and
cabriols, however well executed; which, in point of merit, bear
no more proportion to that of a well-composed dance, than a
tiresome repetition of vignettes, of head-pieces and
tail-pieces, would do to the gravings of historical pieces after
a Raphael, a Michael Angelo, or a Correggio.
As hitherto the composer of the dances of action, have not been
able to recover that height of perfection to which the antient
pantomimes carried their art; the most that any composers could
do, I mean with success, (for there have been some attempts
made, that, for want of a proper plan and execution, failed,)
was to furnish certain dances, in the nature of _poemetti_ or
small dramatic poems, which, where the subject of action has
been clearly and intelligibly executed, have ever been received
with the most encouraging applause by the public.
And here the ingenious author to whom I am so much obliged in
this chapter, furnishes me with rules of composition for the
dances of action, which can hardly be too much recommended.
All theatrical compositions ought to have three essential parts.
By a lively dialogue, in a piece made to be spoken, or by an
incident dextrously introduced in one made for a dance in
action, the spectator is to be prepared for the subject that is
to be represented, and to have some acquaintance of the
character, quality, and manners of the persons of the drama:
this is what is called _the exposition_.
The circumstances, the obstacles which arise out of the
ground-work of the subject, embroil it, and retard its march
without stopping it. A sort of embarrasment forms itself out of
the actions of the characters, which perplexes the curiosity of
the spectators, from whose even guess-work, the manner how all
is to be ultimately unravelled is to be kept as great a secret
as possible: and this embarrasment is what is called _the plot_.
From this embarrasment, one sees successively break forth
lights, the more unexpected, the better. They unfold the action,
and conduct it by insensible degrees to an ingenious conclusion:
this is what is called _the unravelment_.
If any of these three parts is defective, the theatrical merit
is imperfect. If they are all three in due proportion, the
action is complete, and the charm of the representation is
infallible.
As the theatrical dance then is a representation, it must be
formed of these three essentially constitutive parts. Thus it
will be more or less perfect, according as its exposition shall
be more or less clear, its plot more or less ingenious, its
unravelment more or less striking.
But this division is not the only one that should be known and
practised. A dramatic work is commonly composed of five or fewer
acts; and an act is composed of scenes in dialogue or soliloquy.
Now every act, every scene, should have, subordinately, its
exposition, its plot, and its unravelment, just as the total of
the piece has, of which they are the parts.
So ought, also every representation in dancing to have those
three parts, which constitute every thing that is action.
Without their union, there is no action that is perfect: a fault
in one of those parts will have a bad effect on the others; the
chain is broke; the picture, whatever beauty it may have in
other respects, is without any theatrical merit.
Besides these general laws of the theatre, which are in common
to those compositions of dances, that are to be executed on it,
they are subjected to other particular rules, which are derived
from the primitive principles of the art.
As the art of dancing essentially consists in painting by
gestures and attitudes, there is nothing of what would be
rejected by a painter of good taste, that the dancer can admit;
and, consequentially, every thing that such a painter would
chuse, ought to be laid hold of, distributed, and properly
placed in a dance of action.
Here, on this point, recurs that never too often repeated rule,
as infallible as it is plain: _let nature, in every thing, be
the guide of art; and let art, in every thing, aim at imitating
nature_: a rule this, than which there is not one more trite,
more hackneyed in the theory, nor less regarded in the practice.
Nature then being always Nature, always invariable in her
operations and productions; there is no false conclusion, nor
straining inferences, in avering, that the art of dancing could
not but be a great gainer by a revival of the taste of the
antients for the pantomime branch; which, upon the theatre,
converted a transient flashy amusement of the eye, into a
rational or sensible entertainment, and made of dancers, who are
otherwise, a mere mechanical composition of feet, legs, and
arms, without spirit or meaning, artists formed to paint with
the most pathetic expression, the most striking situations of
human nature: I am not afraid of using here the term of the most
pathetic expression, injuriously to the great power of
theatrical declamation; because the great effect and charm of
the moment is, evidently, the more likely to be produced by
attitudes or gestures alone, unseconded by the voice; for that
the pleasure of the spectator will have been the greater for the
quickness of his apprehension not having needed that help to
understand the meaning of them. And this is so true of the force
of impression depending on that part of bodily eloquence, that
even in oratory, action was, by one of the greatest judges of
that art, pronounced to be the most essential part of it.
This may be, perhaps, an exaggeration: but when people resort to
a theatre to unbend, or relax, they will hardly think their
pleasure tastelesly diversified by a fine pantomime execution of
a dramatic composition, to the perfection of which, poetry,
music, painting, decoration, and machinery will have all
contributed their respective contingents.
For the subjects of these poetical dances, the composer will
undoubtedly find those which are the most likely to please, in
fabulous history, especially for the serious, or pathetic stile.
This we find was the great resource of the antients, who had, in
that point, a considerable advantage, from which the moderns are
excluded, by the antient mithology having lost that effect, and
warmth of interest, which accompanied all transactions taken
from it by their poets, and brought upon the theatre. The heroes
of antiquity, the marvellous of their deities, and the histories
of their amours, or of their exploits, can never make the same
impression on the moderns so thoroughly differing in manners and
ways of thinking, from those, to whom such exhibitions were a
kind of domestic, and even religious remembrancers. The
spectators of those times were more at home to what they saw
represented upon their theatres; the ground-work of the fable
represented to the audience being generally foreknown,
contributed greatly to the quickness of their apprehension; and
its being part of their received theology, and often of the
history of their own country, procured it the more favorable
attention.
The greatest part of these advantages are wanting in the
employment of these fictions among the moderns; and to which
however they are, in some measure, compelled to have recourse,
for want of theatrical subjects striking enough to be agreeably
thrown into a dance; by which I do not mean to exclude all
subjects that have not those poetical fictions of Greek and
Roman antiquity for a basis; on the contrary, it might justly
pass for a barrenness of invention, the being reduced constantly
to borrow from them, but purely to point out a treasure, ever
open to the artist who shall know how to make a selection with
judgment and taste: always remembering, that the more
universally the fable is foreknown, the more easy will the task
be of rendering it intelligible in the execution.
There are, doubtless, some parts of the antient mithology so
obscure, and so little known, that any plan taken from them,
would, to the generality of the spectators, be as great a
novelty, as if the composer had himself invented the subject.
There are others again of which all the interest is entirely
antiquated and exploded.
As to the pieces of composition in the comic vein, there is
nothing like taking the subject of them from the most agreeable
and the most marking occurrences in real, current life; and the
stronger they are of the manners and practice of the times, the
nearer they will seem to the truth of nature, and the surer at
once to be understood, and to have a pleasing effect.
And here I shall take the liberty of concluding with offering
two instances of poetic dances; the one in the serious, the
other in the comic vein, which are furnished rather as hints of
the improvable nature of such compositions, than in the least
meant for models of them.
The first has for title,
VENUS and ADONIS.
The decoration represents a wood intersected by several walks,
which form an agreeable perspective of distances. At the bottom
of the theatre, and in the middle, there is a grand walk,
terminated by a small mount, on the summit of which is seen a
colonnade, that forms the peristile of a temple.
Venus, preceded by the Graces and several nimphs, comes out of
the temple, descends the mount, and advances to the front of the
wood; the simphony to be the most agreeable and melodious
imaginable, to announce the arrival of the goddess of love.
The Graces and the nimphs open the action, and, by their
gestures and steps, express their endeavour to sooth the
impatience of Venus on the absence of Adonis. The agitation in
which she is, ought to be painted on her countenance, and
expressed by the discomposure of her steps, marking her anxiety
and desire of seeing her lover.
The sound of the chace is heard, which betokens the approach of
Adonis. Joy breaks forth in the eyes, the gestures, and steps of
Venus and her train.
Adonis, followed by several hunters, enters through one of the
side-walks of the wood. Venus runs to meet him, and seems to
chide him for having been so long away. He shows her the head of
a stag, which he has killed, and which is carried, as in
triumph, upon a hunting-pole, by one of the hunters; and offers
it, as the fruit of his chace, in homage to the goddess, who is
presently appeased, and graciously receives his offering. These
two lovers then express in a _pas-de-deux_, their mutual
satisfaction.
The hunters mix with the Graces and nimphs, and form a dance
which characterises their harmony.
Soon a noisy simphony, of military instrumental music, gives
warning of the arrival of Mars. Venus, Adonis, the Graces, the
nimphs, and hunters, show signs of uneasiness and terror.
Mars, followed by several warriors, enters precipitately through
a walk opposite to that by which Adonis and the hunters came.
Venus separates from Adonis, having insisted on his getting out
of the way of the formidable god of war. He withdraws with his
train by the same way as he came. Mars, inraged with jealousy,
makes a shew of going to pursue Adonis. Venus stops him, and
employs, in her soothing and caresses, all the usual arts of
appeasing and blinding a jealous lover. She prevails at length,
not only to dissipate his passion, but to make him believe
himself in the wrong for having been jealous.
The warriors address themselves to the Graces and nimphs, and
form together a dance expressive of a sort of reconciliation;
after which Mars and his train return by the same way as they
came.
Venus, the Graces, and the nimphs, see them go, and when they
are got a little distance from them, testify their satisfaction
at having got so well over this interruption.
Adonis returns alone: Venus springs to meet him, and gives him
to understand that he has now nothing to fear; that Mars will
not return in haste.
In the same walk from which Adonis came, the hunters of his
train are seen pursuing a wild boar, that tries to escape just
by where the Graces and the nimphs are, who, in their fright,
attempt to fly from him: but he is already so near them, that
they do not know how to avoid him. Adonis runs hastily to pierce
the boar with his javelin; but the boar gets him himself down.
The hunters arrive at that instant, and kill the boar; but
Adonis is nevertheless mortally wounded, and expires.
Here it is that the music and the dance are to display their
respective powers: the one by the most plaintive mournful
sounds; the other by gestures and steps in which grief and
despair are strongly characterised, ought to express the
profound affection into which Venus is plunged, and the share
the Graces, the nimphs, and the hunters take in it.
Venus appears to implore the aid of all the gods, to restore her
lover to her. She bathes him with her tears, and those precious
tears have such a virtue, that Adonis appears all of a sudden
transformed into an anemony or wind-flower.
The Graces and the nimphs express their surprise; but the
astonishment of the hunters should be yet more strongly marked.
Venus herself is not the more comforted by this metamorphosis.
A flower cannot well supply the place of her lover. She turns
then her eyes towards the earth, and seems to invoke the power
of some deity inhabitant of its bowels.
The flower disappears; the earth opens, and Proserpine rises out
of it, sitting on a chariot drawn by black horses, and having at
her side Adonis restored to life.
It is natural to imagine the joy that is at this to be
expressed, by the simphony, by the gestures, and steps of Venus,
of the Graces, the nimphs, and hunters.
Proserpine, getting out of her chariot, holding Adonis by the
hand, presents him to Venus. A _pas-de-trois_ or trio-dance
follows, in which the joy of the two lovers at seeing one
another again is to be characterised by all the expression, and
all the graces of the most pleasing dance, while Proserpine
testifies her satisfaction at having produced the re-union:
after which, she gets into her chariot, and re-descends into the
earth.
The Graces, the nimphs, and hunters, express how highly they are
charmed at seeing Adonis again; Venus and Adonis form a
_pas-de-deux_, or duet-dance, in which the Goddess takes off her
girdle or _cestus_, and puts it upon Adonis, in the way of a
shoulder-belt, or as now the ribbons of most orders of
knight-hood are worn, which is to him a simbol of immortality.