A Treatise on the Art of Dancing Part 8

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 pa.s.sions, that one ought to flatter one's self with characterising them purely by the powers of external signs of actions. All the pa.s.sions 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 pa.s.sages, 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 repet.i.tion 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. .h.i.therto 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 circ.u.mstances, the obstacles which arise out of the ground-work of the subject, embroil it, and r.e.t.a.r.d 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 const.i.tutive 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 const.i.tute 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 att.i.tudes, 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 amus.e.m.e.nt 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 att.i.tudes 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, p.r.o.nounced 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 pa.s.s 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 t.i.tle,

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 G.o.ddess 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 G.o.ddess, 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.sion, 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 G.o.ds, 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.