THE BALLET IN ITS DARK AGE
When a plant has passed a climax of luxuriant blossoming, a heedless
owner is likely to leave it to the mercies of weather and worms, while
he turns his interest to other plants whose season of bloom is just
beginning.
Taglioni and Ellsler faded about the middle of the nineteenth century.
Cerito, Grahn and Grisi were, at best, unable to surpass them. Jenny
Lind set people talking about singers, and spending their time listening
to songs. Dancers, desperately straining to recatch the lost interest,
multiplied _entrechats_ and _pirouettes_, jumped higher and more bravely
than ever. Straining for technical feats, they forgot motive; the public
called the ballet meaningless, its work a stupid form of acrobatics, its
smile a grimace. A genius could have made such words seem the words of
fools; in the default of a genius, the words were accepted as of more or
less true judgment.
The years that followed produced a certain amount of dancing that was
good, notably some of the operatic ballets of Europe, and a few ballet
spectacles of the seventies and eighties; more that could not exactly be
called bad; and, lastly and principally, a series of monstrosities that
were nearly infinite in both number and ugliness.
In trying to find something that would suit the new and unsettled state
of the public taste, managers apparently tried any concoction that could
be devised by stage, paint-bridge, property room or box-office.
Montmartre dance-halls evolved the _Can-can_; half of Paris caught its
fever; England, and thence America, were engulfed in the lingerie of
high kickers. Not dancers, just high kickers.
“One, two, three, KICK!” was their vocabulary--or is, for they are not
all dead yet.
In England several managers at various times offered good productions,
with casts of capable artists. Of such productions the most fortunate
made small profits; the majority lost whatever money was put into them.
Managers said the public did not want good work--a deduction apparently
justifiable. They devised the elaborate scenic production--Aladdin’s-cave
sort of thing, with millions of jewels the size of roc’s eggs, delirious
with yards and furlongs of red, yellow and green foil-paper, acres of
chrome-yellow, and “magic transformation scenes”; with one hundred
people on the stage, one hundred, obviously making two hundred legs,
every one of which was considered thrilling and dangerous in those days.
Of all those legs displayed in all their amplitude, usually not one pair
could dance a step; but they did not need to dance.
That was the form of art called the extravaganza. It was a naughty thing
to patronise. Its inanities, without its “stupendous” cost of
production, survive in the present-day burlesque.
In the morbid conditions of Montmartre there came into favour a species
of acrobats whose aim was to produce the illusion that their legs and
spines were out of joint, if not broken. Although of an ugliness
demoniac, their work was called dancing. “Wiry Sal” in England and
“Ruth the Twister” in America were the illuminating pseudonyms
associated with the specialty. Perhaps a specimen of the kind might
still be unearthed in a dime museum.
Enter Lottie Collins, she of “ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay.” To high kicking and
contortion, and the _Skirt Dance_ vogue of the moment, she added action
so violent that it seemed a menace to life itself. The combination of
attractions was irresistible; Europe and America made her rich. Her
master-stroke was bending back until her body was horizontal, and
violently straightening up to emphasise the “boom” of her song. For no
less than a dancer she was a singer! The two talents were employed
together. And hordes of little plagiarists of her act, as of every other
“hit,” brought delight to the many and despair to the few.
Lottie Collinsism left no territory to be explored in its direction. So
an eager world turned to the inanity of sweetness.
The dear little girl had been discovered. Evil among days! Preferably
she was dimpled. She wore a blond wig with curls falling artlessly over
her shoulders. Her eyebrows were painted in a smoothly curved arch
extending around on to the sides of her face, and her eyes were shaded
with the luxuriant lashes begot of heavy “beading”; they, too, were
carried out an indefinite distance to the sides. She dressed as a child
of twelve, with a sash that conveyed the idea of being dressed for
Sunday-school; imagination always supplied a cent gripped in her fist.
She wore “cunning” little low-heeled shoes, with straps. It was not
amiss that she have some sort of sunbonnet, of lace, slipped carelessly
off her flaxen head and hanging down her back. Rouge, with a bloom of
rice powder, gave her a perfect peaches-and-cream complexion. Grease
paint widened and shortened her lips, curved them into an infantile
cupid’s bow. And from that cupid’s bow emerged, in piercing calliope
tones, inflectionless recitals of her devotion to her dear old mother.
At the end of each stanza she had a little dance--usually a slow
polka-step, _one_, _two_, _three_ and _kick_! (An irreproachably
discreet little kick, to the side.) Repeat four times each side, and on
to the next stanza--which instead of “mother” and “other,” will avail
itself of the felicitous rhyme of “roam” and “home,” or “heart” and
“part.”
Lest the enumeration of the foregoing horrors should be criticised as
out of place in a discussion of dancing, be it recorded at this point
that the said horrors went under the name of dancing within easy
remembrance of people now living, that there are still people living who
call them dancing, and--for artistic sins of the world as yet
unexpiated--they still influence the dancing situation in these United
States.
_The Black Crook_ is a name that stands for superlatives. It was the
most lavish spectacle America ever had seen. It made such a “hit” as
rarely has been duplicated since. Its dancing features, which were of
the first order, made more of an impression than had any dancing in this
country since Ellsler’s tour, in 1840, ’41 and ’42. Its origin was in
part due to the sometimes favourable factor of accident.
“In consequence of the destruction by fire of the Academy of Music, this
city,” writes J. Allston Brown in his _History of the New York Stage_,
“Jarrett and Palmer, who were to have produced _La Biche au Bois_
there, had on their hands a number of artists brought from Europe. They
made an arrangement with William Wheatley to utilise the ballet troupe,
the chief scenic effects, of which they had models, and the
transformation scene.” From those beginnings grew _The Black Crook_.
With Marie Bonfanti, Rita Sangalli, Betty Rigl and Rose Delval as
principal dancers, it opened at Niblo’s Garden in September, 1866. The
run closed in January, 1868, after 475 performances. A return to Niblo’s
in December, 1870, yielded 122 performances. December of the following
year added 57 to the score. A revival in August, 1872, brought into the
company the Kiralfy family, dancers, among whom were the brothers
destined to fame as managers and producers. This 1872 revival ran twelve
weeks. In 1874, Kiralfy Brothers appear as lessees of the Grand Opera
House. They initiated their term with _The Black Crook_, with Bonfanti
as _première_.
Of American appreciation of good dancing pantomime, during that period,
at least, there is no question. It must be borne in mind that the New
York performances above mentioned represent only a fraction of the
production’s total business. The tours that largely occupied the
intervals met the same success. The box-office measure of public
enthusiasm is incomplete, moreover, without mention of _Humpty Dumpty_,
also a spectacular pantomime with good dancing. Of its first run (in New
York, and largely coinciding with the first run of _The Black Crook_ in
point of time) the gross receipts were $1,406,000. It was commensurately
profitable as a “road” attraction. Pertinent to the quality of its
dancing, we have a few words of its manager, Clifton W. Tayleure, as
quoted by Brown: “ ... principal dancers were not easily to be found. A
quarrel between Vestvalli and Sangalli enabled me to secure the latter.
Betty and Emily Rigl, who had previously seceded from Niblo’s, were also
secured.”
Notwithstanding desertions, _The Black Crook_ maintained its high
standards. Its ballet has never since been equalled in America,
according to Mme. Bonfanti, in the classic style of work.
For its managers, at least, dancing had earned fortunes. To the Kiralfys
it was evident, too, that the kind of dancing America wanted was good
dancing. To produce their _Excelsior_ in 1882 they brought from Paris
Sr. Ettore Coppini, now ballet-master of the Metropolitan Opera; and
George Saracco, now ballet-master of the Brussels Opera, as a leading
dancer. Nor did Jarrett and Palmer modify their faith in quality. Their
_White Fawn_, with an excellent ballet, was little less successful than
_The Black Crook_.
The fame of such works is food for parasites; creatures incapable of
discerning the quality of successful works, and upon whom the goodness
of the successful dancing had made no impression. _Black Crook_ and
_White Fawn_ companies overran the country like a flood of counterfeit
money--one part fine, ninety-nine parts base. Plausible advertising
protected the deception, but only for a time. It was not long before
lovers of good dancing began to realise that they were being defrauded.
In a similar contingency, the supporting public of a baseball club loses
no time in applying to that club’s manager whatever pressure may be
necessary as a means to correcting shortcomings, as far as within him
lies. The source of their ability to do this is twofold: they can
analyse the game, and they have a vocabulary in which to express
themselves. Baseball had not so many enthusiasts in those days as
dancing had. But the appreciators of dancing lacked analytical knowledge
of the art, and the language in which to discuss it. Promoters of
counterfeits were not taken to task, therefore, as would have been to
their own good. Instead, the names of _Black Crook_, _White Fawn_,
dancing and pantomime became synonyms for theatrical imposition, and
America laid aside interest in them and all their appurtenances.
Of all the consequences of the above incidents, perhaps the most
unfortunate was a generally accepted managerial deduction that America
does not like dancing after all. Though the Russian ballet has shaken
that belief, the belief is not dead yet.
There is a saying that no man is indispensable; that, after his removal,
there is always another to take his place. The saying is not true.
Pantomime--not dancing to be sure, but so closely related to it that the
prosperity of either usually means that of both--at one time had the
alliance of Augustin Daly. He believed in it as a great art, and
contemplated increasingly ambitious productions. To those closely
associated with him he declared himself willing to lose money on it for
three years, and more if necessary; he was confident that eventually it
would attain to great popularity in this country. But after producing
_L’Enfant Prodigue_ and _Pygmalion and Galatea_, death stepped in and
took away from the stage one of the best influences it ever had, and
from dancing a possible friendship of the kind it sorely needed.
In the eighties there was in Chicago a child who had considerable fame
as a temperance lecturer. Her name was Loie Fuller. She was moved to
take dancing lessons; but (according to biographers) gave them up after
a few lessons, on account of difficulty. After a certain amount of voice
culture, she qualified as an actress with a singing part. During an
engagement in this capacity she received, from a friend in India, a
present of a long scarf of extremely thin silk. While playing with it,
delighting in its power to float in the air almost like a vapour, Miss
Fuller received the idea that was to bring her before the world, the
_Serpentine Dance_. The dance was there in its essence, needing only
arrangement and polish, and surety of keeping a great volume of cloth
afloat without entanglement. Steps were of no consequence, nor quality
of movement in arms or body. The cloth was the thing, and Miss Fuller
lost no time on non-essentials.
The success of the _Serpentine_ was not one of those victories gained
after long experimenting for a perfect expression, patiently educating
the public, and years of disappointments. It was instantaneous and
complete; a few weeks sufficed to make Loie Fuller a national figure. A
period of tremendous popularity followed, popularity amounting to a
fashion. And still another impulse was to come, second only in
importance to the use of the gauze itself.
In Paris Miss Fuller had a sketch in which she, a solitary figure, stood
on a height at dawn, silhouetted against the sky. The rising sun was
arranged to illuminate, one after another, the prominences in the
landscape falling away into the distance. The figure, on being touched
by the rays, represented its awakening by the fluttering, raising and
full play of its hundred yards or so of drapery.
It happened that an audience mistook the intent of the effect, and
greeted it as a dance of fire. The upward rush of the cloth, obviously,
had suggested flame. “La Loïe” lost not a moment in seeing the
possibilities, nor an hour in setting to work on their development.
Stage electric lighting was new; so new that it acknowledged no
limitations. Electricians were enthusiastic over new problems, because
new problems were being solved by new and sometimes sensational
inventions. To lighting Miss Fuller turned to make the effect of the
fire dance unmistakable and startling. With the result that the colours
and movement of flame were almost counterfeited. Variously coloured
glasses lent their tints to the rays of spot lights; set into discs made
to revolve in front of the lamp, they simulated the upward rush that
helps make flame exciting. As a precaution against theft of ideas, the
essential parts of the electric arrangements are said to have been
trusted exclusively to Miss Fuller’s brothers.
_La Danse de Feu_, consistently prepared as such, created an enthusiasm
in Paris probably equal to the “hit” of the _Serpentine_ in America.
Indeed Miss Fuller was practically adopted into the French nation, where
she was affectionately and widely known as “La Loïe.” French is the
language in which she wrote her memoirs. (_Mes Mémoires_, Loie Fuller.)
Her work, always startling, never failed of being agreeable also. By a
loose application of the word it was justified in being called dancing.
Strictly speaking it was not, from the point of view of step, movement
or posture. Interest in steps the work frankly disclaimed by its own
terms; an easy movement from place to place, with reference always to
the drapery, was all that was undertaken in the department of foot-work.
The arms were equally subordinated to the drapery; their movements, as
interpretation or decoration, meant nothing. The performer held in each
hand a short pole as aid to manipulation of the cloth, in which her arms
were buried most of the time. They committed no awkwardness, nor did
they contribute to the effect except as they furnished motive power. As
to the drapery, any idea of making it a vehicle of controlled lines
would obviously have been out of the question. Colour without form was
the result; and form, when all is said and done, is the essence not only
of dancing, but of any art that would attempt to convey a message to the
senses as well as pleasure to the eye.
Imitators affected Miss Fuller very little. So closely were her means
guarded--it is said that no one of her designers and sewing-women knew
more than a part of the construction of her draperies--that attempts to
reproduce her work were generally laborious compromises with failure.
But the musical comedy stage underwent an inundation of illuminated
dry-goods. With the mechanical problem simplified by the distribution of
the hundred yards of drapery among forty people, there followed a sea of
cavorting rainbows and prisms that lacked even a semi-careful selection
of colours.
The World’s Fair in Chicago brought to America a variety of dancers,
most of them good. The novelty element was the work of the Orient. The
Oriental point of view differs from that of England and America; it
accepts as natural the existence of sex. In all its expressions,
whether literary, sculptural, pictorial, or choreographic, the subject
of sex is neither avoided nor emphasised. It takes its place among the
actuating dramatic motives exactly as it has done in the expressions of
all civilisations of all times, except those of our Anglo-Saxon
civilisation since about 1620, in which it is evaded, and of certain
decadent civilisations, where it is an obsession.
The World’s Fair crowd was so amazed by the Oriental disregard of
Puritan tradition that it could see nothing in dances of India and North
Africa except obscenity. Instead of trying to acquaint the public with
the wealth of poetic symbolism of the dances, and their unlimited scope
of meaning, every manager on the Midway at once adopted the motto of the
majority of his profession: “Give the public what it wants.” That at
least is the inference from conditions. Before the fair was a month old
there was hardly an Oriental dancing attraction on the grounds that did
not claim, in the sly-dog language of naughty suggestion, to surpass all
competitors in lewdness. And it verily seemed as though most of them
were justified in their claims.
They all made money. And they created against Oriental dancing a
prejudice just beginning to melt now at the end of twenty years; the
majority of the public is still convinced that no Oriental dancing is
anything but a pretext for offensiveness. For any physical quality truly
is offensive the moment it is unduly insisted upon. And with few
exceptions the managers of the unhappy Arabs dancing in this country
have inspired their charges to exaggerate one quality to the almost
complete exclusion of every other one.
The ghastly reaction of such a state of affairs is on dancing in
general. In this present year, 1913, one of the most prominent and
successful managers in America said: “There are two ways to succeed with
dancers. If they have a sensational acrobatic novelty that never has
been seen before, _that_ will make money. Otherwise you’ve got to take
their clothes off, if you want anybody to look at ’em. Duncan? St.
Denis? What does the American public care about art? They have succeeded
because they took their clothes off.”
It sounds unreal, it is so demonstrably silly. But it was what that
manager said. In his profession there are several who hold contrary
beliefs; but the one quoted is of the opinion common among the present
custodians of the dancing art in America. In their offices is determined
what character of dancing shall occupy the stage; to their beliefs the
lover of good dancing must give heed.
Any refutation of the above cynicism as affecting Miss Duncan and Miss
St. Denis is superfluous. Their work has at all times been charged with
a big, romantic or mystic meaning. Imitators, basing their activities on
the manager’s creed above quoted, have furnished an illuminating
experiment to determine exactly what interest the public finds in the
work of the two artists named. Invariable failure has accompanied their
approximate nudity, despite the fact that many of them are pretty in
face and figure.
Great dancers have come, been seen, but--until the coming of the
Russians--have achieved few victories of lasting value. Genée is an
exception; to delight in her work is to be added a real influence in
favour of real art. Carmencita, Otero and Rosario Guerrero, all great
artists of expression conveyed through the medium of the dances of
Spain, have had good seasons in this country. Even though their
influence on taste did not seem far-reaching, it must be believed that
they helped prepare the way for great things that were to come.
But the real force of the coming change, the change that was to take its
place among the important revolutions in the history of all art was
quietly preparing itself in an American village.