The Styles of Eighteenth-Century Ballet

The Styles of Eighteenth-Century Ballet Edmund Fairfax

The Scarecrow Press, Inc. Lanham, Maryland, and Oxford 2003

SCARECROW PRESS, INC. Published in the United States of America by Scarecrow Press, Inc. A Member of the Rowman & Littlefield Publishing Group 4501 Forbes Boulevard, Suite 200 Lanham, Maryland 20706 www.scarecrowpress.com PO Box 317 Oxford OX2 9RU, UK Copyright 02003 by Edmund Fairfax All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

British Cataloguing in Publication Information Available Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Fairfax, Edmund 1961The styles of eighteenth-centuryballet / Edmund Fairfax. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references (p. ) and index. ISBN 0-8108-4698-5 (alk. paper) 1. Ballet-History-18th century. 2. Ballet-France-History-18th century. I. Title: Styles of 18th-century ballet. 11. Title. GV1787 .F35 2003 792.8'09'033-dc21 2002154137

WMThe paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements

of American National Standard for Information Sciences-Permanence Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO 239.48-1992. Manufactured in the United States of America.

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Contents

V

Acknowledgments

vii

Introduction The Rise of "the French Art of Dance"

1

Ballroom Dancing versus Ballet

15

The Four Traditional Styles of Ballet

81

One Man's Style, Another Man's Poison

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The "Fair Sex" and Its Style

219

Caprice: To Each His Own Style

243

The Meltdown of the Four Traditional Styles

257

Voluptuousness: The Heartbeat of Ballet

293

Chorkgraphie: Choreographic Representation and Misrepresentation

311

Appendix: Remarks on Costume

339

Bibliography

349

Index

363

About the Author

367

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Acknowledgments

Many thanks to Donna Greenberg, Sandra No11 Hammond, and Elizabeth Aldrich for their support and encouragement.

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Introduction

For its part, the public takes delight in deluding itself that the taste and talents of its century are far superior to those of foregoing centuries. (Noverre 1760,49)

Dance has been perhaps the most fleeting ephemeron of all the arts, the mere "perfume and suppliance of a minute," as it were, a feast for the eye enjoyed in the moment but feebly and poorly held by the memory. This fleeting insubstantiality is all the more apparent when one attempts to outline the features of a dance style and technique from a bygone age, such as that of the eighteenth century. The historian of dance, doubly removed from his object of study, beholds but a shadow of the original preserved in scant and often wanting descriptions. The scholar is hampered both by the longstanding absence of any truly thorough way of recording dance in all its three-dimensional complexity and by the tenacious view, not unique to our own utilitarian age, that dance is somehow a lesser art, a rather effeminate pursuit unworthy of serious study or recording. Such a view has ensured that far less information comes down to us about the dance of the past than about its sister arts. While the historian of eighteenth-century literature or music, for example, has at his disposal for study a wealth of material in the form of either theoretical writings or creative output from the period, the scholar of eighteenth-century dance is doubly at a disadvantage, for considerably less material survives here in comparison, either theoretical writings and descriptions of performances and technique, on the one hand, or actual dances and ballets, on the other. Much of vii

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what does in fact come down to us has been largely inaccessible to many individuals interested in this period because the material itself is scattered or unknown and has not been systematically brought together, translated into English, and interpreted. The problems of relatively limited available information and the difficulty of finding or accessing a good deal of it have unfortunately resulted in numerous gross misconceptions about the nature of eighteenth-century dance, its styles, its choreography, the character of its ballets, and above all its techmque. These deeply entrenched misconceptions, some of which go back as far as the early nineteenth century, have been uncritically accepted and uncritically repeated in a number of secondary sources touching upon the subject of eighteenth-century ballet. While interest in early dance has certainly increased in the last few decades, doubtless in response to the ”early music” movement, a more historically informed understanding of the nature of early ballet has not accompanied it. Thus a significant segment in the history of one of the West‘s major art forms has remained shrouded in speculation and misinformation. Even though scattered and fragmentary, enough primary material on the dance of this period survives, however, to allow the scholar to come to a far more accurate picture of this dance form than has hitherto been the case. The present work, gven over specifically to the styles of eighteenth-century dance, is the first of three projected volumes devoted to a systematic and thoroughgoing study of eighteenthcentury ballet. The second volume will deal with dance technique, that is, the manner of executing the sundry steps, ports de bras, attitudes, and other movements. The third will take up the development of the genre of pantomime ballet, specifically the manner in which dance movement, pantomimic gesture, plot, and music were combined to form an artistic whole. These three volumes are intended to lay to rest the tenacious specter of misinformation in this field. This first volume in particular is intended in part to counter the currently received but utterly erroneous view that the theatrical dance of the eighteenth century was earthbound and limited in both number of steps and range of movement, that the eighteenth-centuryballet dancer scarcely left the floor in the few jumps he did and utterly eschewed any exaggerated movements of the h b s in order to conform to a Victorian-like sense of decorum, such that the dance of the ballroom and theater were scarcely to be told apart. In order to account for the expansive style of classical ballet, historians of this school of thought are obliged to resort to a kind of “big bang” theory, wherein a relatively short ”transitional”

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period is posited, typically somewhere in the second half of the eighteenth century, to allow the contained dance form of the ancien rkgime, as the received view has it, to undergo an ”expansion of technique” and be transformed into an airborne style with exaggerated movements of the limbs. Just such a view is put forth by Cohen (1974,39),for example, who writes that in the first part of the eighteenth century ”there was still comparatively little distinction between the steps of the ballroom and those of the stage, both aiming for the qualities admired in the most typical of eighteenth-century dances, the minuet. Nobility, precision, grace, and lightness were the attributes of the accomplished dancer.” Because of the supposed technical simplicity of this early dance form and the imagined absence of difficult tours de force, Cohen (1960,27)claims that “ballet technique did not then demand the long years of arduous training required today.” In a similar vein, Wynne (1970,25) fails to see any distinct differences between social and theatrical dance of the early eighteenth century and claims that the period’s sense of “decorum” prevented the dance of that age from being in essence expressive, that the performer of this art was obliged to be “cool,” as she euphemistically puts it, or, rather, repressed in movement and expression: Conventions of the ballet in 1700 were closely interwoven with everyday life at Versailles and the royal and great houses in and around Paris. The courtier was formally tutored in the practice of manners correct for the King’s domain. Concealment of feelings was the overriding rule of demeanor: practice moderation and forbearance, smile when in distress, remain articulate and calm through all occasions, even the most tense and stormy. . . . Movement impulses within this code were to be veiled, as well as emotional responses. To move impulsively, explosively, or exuberantly was a breach of etiquette. . . . Ball dances and ballets, the lines of separation between them being still very indistinct in the earlier period, conformed entirely to these social codes.

In a less scholarly format, De Mille (1963, 98) makes unsubstantiated claims about the imagined simplicity of eighteenth-century ballet, which supposedly was a stranger to virtuosity and more demanding technical feats such as jumps, lifts, and turns.As De Mille writes, the ballet dancing of the 18th century was undoubtedly elegant and lovely but it would seem to us simple, not nearly so acrobatic or astonishing as what we demand today. Women were not yet up on their

X

Introducfion points. Jumps were just being devised. Lifts had not yet been attempted, nor multiple pirouettes. Tours B la seconde they had, but not the repeated turnings on a single spot called fouettes. The wild, quick whirlings about the stage, the precision of leap and turns accomplished by dozens of dancers simultaneously-all this was yet to come.

Following suit, Winter (1974,3) in like manner speaks of a ”decisive change in dance technique and style [which] came toward 1790” thanks to a change in dance costume, followed by a ”transitional period” leading to a more expansive style and technique. Perhaps the most glaring example of a secondary source producing a skewed view of eighteenth-century ballet is Hilton’s Dance of Court and Theater. This unscholarly work, often taken to be a “textbook” on the dance technique of this period, has been particularly effective in promulgating the erroneous view of ballet as a dance form scarcely discernible from ballroom dancing. Despite its title, Hilton’s book deals only with the ballroom dance of the early eighteenth century, or, rather, it confuses theatrical with ballroom dance, not surprisingly since the author relies on too few sources and even at times misunderstands those that she does use. Hilton herself confesses in her preface (1981, vi) that she ”restricted the inclusion of comparative material from other writers on the principle that minutia of comparison will not facilitate the establishment of basic theory” and relies in fact on only four sources. Two of these, Rameau’s Le maitre h danser and Tomlinson’s A r t of Damzing, deal only with ballroom dancing even though Hilton purports to discuss the dance of court and theater. The other two sources, Feuillet‘s Ckorkgraphie and Rameau’s Abbrkgk, give merely notational characters of steps, which are often misleading about the manner of execution, as we shall see in chapter 9. Even when attempting to outline the performance of the steps, Hilton omits to include relevant information found in her few sources, more often than not providing less information than Rameau and Tomlinson give. In her description of the temps de courante, for example, she does not mention the bend of the supporting leg during the gZissk, which Rameau does (1725a, 116), presumably because the character for this step in Feuillet notation is misleading, here as elsewhere. In other places, such as in connection with the pas de sissoizize (1981, 223), she makes unsubstantiated claims, alluding to a “principle” about the degree of bend at the ankle for the free foot that is never substantiated and then violating the same “principle” because it ”seems preferable” to do something

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other when the foot is behind: "When held in a closed position in front, the principle that the knees and ankles are flexed at the same time seems to hold good, but when in a closed position behind, it seems preferable to point the free foot to some extent." In other places, she instructs the reader to do the very opposite of what is given in the original sources. In her discussion of the pas de rigaudon (1981,226), for example, she instructs the reader in her breakdown of movements to musical counts to land from the final jump with the knees bent, thus directly contradicting Rameau (1725a, 160),who explicitly indicates that the dancer lands on the toes with the knees straight. Much of her book in fact is given over simply to a rehash of the Feuillet notational system. In vain does the reader seek in Hilton's book for a discussion of such theatrical steps as the cabriole, entrechat, gargouillade, temps de cuisse, pas de basque, ailes de pigeon, tricote', fouette', trousse', brisk, spazzacampagna, and many others that clearly figured so prominently in the dance of the eighteenthcentury theater, as contemporary sources indicate, not to mention a discussion of the attitude or the sundry styles of theatrical dance and how these styles changed. The uncritical acceptance, repetition, and even embellishment of unsubstantiated claims about the imagined techrucal simplicity of eighteenth-century ballet becomes most apparent when references to pirouettes, for example, are examined. The misinformation here goes back as far as the early nineteenth century. One of the most frequently cited early sources to give a skewed view of eighteenthcentury ballet is Blasis (1820,79-81). Writing in the early nineteenth century, he assumed that "the artists from the past century were inferior to those of the last years of the same age and to all of those at the beginning of the present age" and believed that no more than three rotations in multiple pirouettes were possible before Auguste Vestris (1760-1842). As Blasis writes, we owe pirouettes to the astounding progress of modem dancing. Our dancers of yesterday, and even Noverre, did not know them and thought that it was impossible to exceed three tums sur le cou-de-pied. The best dancers of today have proved the contrary, and present-day execution of divers pirouettes is truly extraordinary on account of the success in wonderfully sustaining aplombs and keeping the body perfectly balanced. Messrs. Gardel and Vestris should perhaps be regarded as the inventors of pirouettes; the latter, by perfecting and increasing [the number of] them, brought them into greater vogue.

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Blasis’s distorted view, uncritically accepted, becomes the received opinion of following writers and is reiterated with embellishment in succeeding sources. Albertieri (1923, 87), for example, claims that not only were pirouettes of more than three rotations thought to be impossible in the eighteenth century but even those with three turns were held to be ”amazing.” He contends that the dancers of the eighteenth century were inferior to those of the nineteenth and twentieth. Those dancers of the older times and first teachers of the art possessed a taste that was quite simple. The vigorous and brilliant execution of entrechats, the intricate combination of varied steps, and the period of perfection came only after long years of study and preparation. In the earlier days no one imagined that the three rotations on the ankle, then considered so amazing, could be surpassed, but the best dancers of the last century proved that they could. The pirouettes performed by several distinguished artists of our own days have been truly phenomenal. Who can ever forget the interminable pirouettes executed in all positions by the famous Spadalino?and those so uncommon, so difficult and with such perfect balance that the celebrated EMco Cecchetti performed? The rapid progress of the art of dancing at the beginning of the nineteenth century with its novelties and complications caused a thorough change in the method of study of the allegro part; and in order to obtain the execution of steps required by modem art, the system used by dancers of earlier times was abandoned.

Sorell (1986,236) in like manner takes Blasis at his word and further embellishes upon it, claiming that the eighteenth-century pirouette was something ”crude” in comparison to that ”invented” by Vestris and Gardel: “Multiple pirouettes in a cruder form may already have been executed in the eighteenth century, but from an academic point of view he [Blasis] was justified in assuming that his famous contemporary dancers, Vestris and Pierre Gardel, invented and perfected the pirouette in the early 1820s.” Sorell adds misinformation to misinformation here by stating that Vestris invented the pirouette in the early 1820s; the famed dancer had already retired from the stage in 1816 at the exceptional age of fifty-six. Yet the primary sources from the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries clearly indicate not only that multiple pirouettes exceeding four rotations were an established part of formal dance by the end of the sixteenth century but also that plentiful use was made of such feats in theatrical dance well before the beginning of the nineteenth century (see chapter 2). Indeed, by the 1770s, when Auguste Vestris was only in his teens and

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still endeavoring to master his art, multiple pirouettes of six rotations were standard fare on the Paris Opera stage. In no way should Vestris be seen as the ”inventor” of the pirouette, as Blasis suggests. Many more examples of such misinformation could be given that show generally the bad press that pre-nineteenth-century ballet has received from ill-informed writers simplistically subscribing to notions of progress and teleology. These gross misconceptions, moreover, have been given great currency thanks in large measure to performances on stage or video that purport to reconstruct “Baroque dance” and that are based on the misinformation current in this field. This misinformation stems, again, from an uncritical acceptance of unsubstantiated claims found in sources lacking scholarly rigor, from a misunderstanding of a very few sources taken out of context, and most significantly from a want of a thorough investigation of the primary sources. Much of this misinformation stems in fact from historians who confuse the different styles of dance cultivated in our period of study, most notably ballroom dance and ballet. While the dance of the ballroom and the stage in the eighteenth century shared many of the same steps, ports de bras, and other movements, all of these elements were, broadly speaking, performed differently on stage, with far greater elevation in jumps and much higher extensions of the limbs, for example, as we shall see in chapter 2. The confounding of ballroom and theatrical dance arises in part from writers, such as Hilton, taking at face value descriptions of dance movements found in a select few ballroom manuals, such as Rameau’s Le maifre ii danser and Tomlinson’s A r t of Dancing, without recourse to extant discussions outlining the differences between these two styles of social dance and ballet or to descriptions and reviews of dance performances found in letters, memoirs, and journals from the period. The misinformation about the nature of eighteenth-century ballet stems as well from a failure to distinguish between the different styles of theatrical dance cultivated during our period. There were in fact four distinct styles of ballet, as we shall see in chapter 3, each one different from the other in the kinds of characters represented, the choice of steps and other movements, and even the manner in which these steps and movements were typically executed; in other words, these styles differed in subject matter, choreography, and technique. Attempts to outline the nature of ballet for the early part of the eighteenth century in particular go awry when these stylistic

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differences are not taken into consideration. A greatly skewed view of ballet history results if the simpler terve-u-terre style of ballet especially, or the grave genre as it was commonly called in the period, is misconstrued to be representative of mainstream dance for the period as a whole. Mainstream dance in contrast generally made excessive use of high beaten jumps, such as long sequences of repeated entrechats, and other tours de force, such as multiple turns in the air or on the floor. Such a confusion of one single style of ballet with mainstream dance for the period arises in part from a misinterpretation of a handful of theatrical dances extant in Feuillet dance notation from the early part of the century. As we shall see in chapter 9, the compilations of these surviving dances do not appear to be a cross section of mainstream theatrical dance for the period but rather tell us more about the level of proficiency reached by amateurs and dancing masters of the age, the intended clientele for these published dances. The confusion of the serious style with mainstream dance, and thus the skewing of ballet history, also comes from a failure to take into consideration varying preferences for given styles throughout eighteenth-century Europe, not merely from one country to another but even from one city or one theater to another. The serious style was particularly popular in Paris and especially at the Paris OpQa. So prestigious was this institution that writers throughout the period and afterwards would confusingly equate the dominant style of dance at this one theater with French dance as a whole or even mainstream dance of the period, as we shall see in chapters 4 and 7, and thus confuse the radical changes that the French serious style underwent in the course of the century with the development of ballet as a whole. Some of the misinformation about the dance of this period arises from the assumption that the dance technique of this age must have been as highly uniform and homogenized as its modem counterpart is today. Hilton (1977, 162), for example, claims that one source, Rameau‘s Le muftre iz dunser, is ”the most definitive work on ballroom dance of the early 18th century,” and thus it follows that a comprehensive consideration of the sources is unnecessary, that ”minutia of comparison will not facilitate the establishment of basic theory” (Hilton 1981, vi) even within one and the same source. A careful and systematic investigation of the primary sources reveals in fact that no one writer from the period gives the last word on eighteenth-century

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dance practices. More often than not there is more than one version of a given position, step, or port de bras in the sources. Indeed, the flexibility of the old technique stands in marked contrast to its highly homogenized modern counterpart. As we shall see in chapter 6, fancy, or caprice-that is, personal taste-played a sigruficant role in the interpretation of established steps and movements during the period and ultimately played its part in the dissolution of the system of distinct dance styles. Indeed, the need to take into consideration a broad range of material is all the more important since some writers from the period at times give theory that was honored more in the breach than in the observance; thus corroborative material showing actual practice becomes most imperative. The currently received but erroneous view that eighteenth-century dance was “cool,” as Wynne (1970) words it-that is, expressively repressed owing to a sense of decorum not unlike that in the later Victorian era-also finds its origin in a failure to take into consideration a broad range of primary material from the period. Descriptions of performances and of the personal styles of individual dancers from the age, together with the typical subjects dealt with in eighteenthcentury ballets and the zeitgeist of the period, make it clear, as we shall see in chapter 8, that eighteenth-centuryballet, on the contrary, was markedly “loose” in character, that is, voluptuous and sensual, in sharp contrast to the prudery and propriety characteristic of some nineteenth- and early-twentieth-centuryballets. In those later ballets women dancers were not uncommonly reduced to sexless ideal beings in their airy white purity held aloft by a token male dancer, or transformed into unattainable sylphs (La sylphide of 1832), otherworldly swans (Swan Lake of 1895), supernatural beings (Giselle of 1841), dolls (Coppdia of 1870), or ghostly dead nuns (”The Ballet of the Nuns” in Robert Ie diable of 1831). Ultimately, the view of eighteenth-centuryballet that emerges from a comprehensive consideration of a wide variety of sources is diametrically opposed to that currently accepted. The ballet of thisperiod was not a simple, earthbound dance form limited in range of movement or number of steps, or quaintly bound by the dictates of a rigid code of decorum. On the contrary, it was a highly developed art form employing exaggerated movements; one wherein its practitioners achieved a remarkable level of virtuosity, most notably in the plentiful if not excessive use of capers, or high beaten jumps; one that cultivated for much of the period a variety of styles and techniques in contrast to its

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highly homogenized modem counterpart; and one wherein both men and women dancers took up their fair share of the limelight in dances that not uncommonly reflected the sensuality of the age. In short, the theatrical dance of this period was not some primitive predecessor in a grand chain of development leading ineluctably to the fancied more expansive and higher form of classical ballet. Because nearly three hundred different works have been drawn upon in this study, it is impossible to discuss each individual source and provide background information on each writer and his context, biases, and agenda. Broadly, three different kinds of sources underlie this study, namely, extant works dealing specifically with dance; isolated descriptions of performances and performers found in writing of a more personal nature, such as letters or memoirs; and finally the iconography. Among the first sort figure significantly extant handbooks on dance technique and published treatises on dance generally from the period. Noteworthy here is Die neueste Art zur galanten und theatralischen Tantz-Kunst of 1712, written by the Frenchman Louis Bonin, who had been a professional dancer in both France and Germany in the latter part of the seventeenth century and who provides in his book the earliest detailed discussion of the character of eighteenth-century ballet. Gottfried Taubert’s Rechtschafener Tantzrneister of 1717 is a voluminous compendium on dance spanning over a thousand pages. It provides detailed descriptions of steps and ports de bras belonging to French dance as well as fleeting references to the nature of stage dancing. Taubert, a well-educated German dancing master active in Saxony and Poland, quotes or plagiarizes from virtually every work on dance that was available in his day and that dealt with the French art of dance specifically.The great choreographer of the period, Jean-Georges Noverre, produced two important polemical works dealing specifically with eighteenth-century ballet: his Letfres sur la danse, et sur les ballets of 1760 and at the end of his life his Lettres sur les arts iinitateurs en giniral, et sur la danse en particulier of 1807. The latter in particular provides an invaluable retrospective look at the dance of the eighteenth-century both before and after the significant changes that occurred during the time of the French Revolution. Perhaps the most important source from the period dealing specificallywith stage dancing is Gennaro Magri’s Traftato teorico-prattico di ball0 of 1779. Magri, a professional dancer in the so-called grotesque style, was active in a number of theaters throughout Europe in the 1750s and 1760s. He provides in his hand-

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book invaluable descriptions of steps and ports de bras belonging to the stage as well as fleeting references to the differences between the various styles of ballet. Further essential information on the different styles of stage dancing are given notably in A n Essay Tozuards an History of Danciirg of 1712by the English dancing master and professional dancer John Weaver; A Treatise on the Art of Dancing of 1762, written by the Italian-born Giovanni Gallini, principal dancer and ballet master at the Theatre in the Haymarket in London in the latter part of the period; the Dissertation sur les ballets pantoiniines des anciens of 1765 by Gasparo Angiohi, one of the major ballet choreographers from the period; and Johann Sulzer’sAllgeineine Theorie der schonen Kiinste of 1792-1794, among others. A few works published in the first part of the nineteenth century also afford some insight into the nature of eighteenth-century ballet. Notable here are the poem ‘Tart de la danse,” penned in the late 1780s or early 1790sby Jean-Etienne Despreaux, a professional dancer active at the Paris OpQa between roughly 1770 and 1790; and the Systeinatisches Lehrbuch der bildeirden Tanzkunst und korperlichai Ausbildung of 1843, written by Franz Roller, a student of the famed choreographers Muzzarelli and Salvatore Vigano and a principal dancer in the serious style until his retirement from the stage in 1799. Further valuable information on the nature of eighteenth-century ballet can be found in a large number of varied sources not dealing specifically with dance, in the form of eyewitness accounts of dancers and dances or reviews of performances found here and there in memoirs, letters, pamphlets, travelogues, newspapers, and above all in such journals as the voluminous Mercure de France, which regularly provided its subscribers throughout almost the whole of the century with reviews of performances at the more highbrow theaters of Paris. A third important source of information on the theatrical dance of our period is the iconography, that is, extant illustrations of dancers performing on stage or even modeling theatrical garb in costume design plates. The most important of such sources is perhaps the neue und curieuse theatralisclre Tantz-Scltul of 1716, brought out by Gregorio Lambranzi, a professional dancer of Italian background. As indicated in his preface, Lambranzi not only composed most of the music and invented the various sketchy dance scenarios included in the tome but also posed for the accompanying crudely executed engravings by Johann Puschner.

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Despite the differing origins and agendas, the broad array of primary material on dance throughout the period is generally in marked agreement about the dance practices of the age as a whole. Such overall unanimity strongly argues that, from the point of view of both dance technique and dance conventions, the eighteenth century constitutes a unified period, despite the changes that occurred during the age, and should be studied as such. This continuity is most evident in the treatises dealing with dance specifically. The authors of such works commonly plagiarize, collate, and synthesize material originating from different decades of the century and from different geographical locales; indeed, parts of later sources are at times wholly derived from earlier works. In the description of the traditional four styles of ballet found in his Treatise on the A r t of Dancing of 1762, for example, Gallini simply expands upon the brief remarks given in Weaver's Essay Towards a n History of Dancing of 1712 and in fact plagiarizes the latter in places. Compare, for example, the following two passages from these writers, describing the serious and half-serious styles, called the grave and brisk, respectively, in Weaver: There are two Movements in this Kind of Dancing; the Brisk, and the Grave; the Brisk requires Vigour, Lightness, Agility, Quicksprings, with a Steadiness, and Coinirzand of the Body; the Grave, (which is the most difficult) Softness, easie Bendings and Risings, and Address and both must have Air and Firmness, with a graceful and regulated Motion of all Parts. (Weaver 1712,163) I have before observed that the grave or serious stile of dancing, is the great ground-work of the art. It is also the most difficult. Firmness of step, a graceful and regular motion of all the parts, suppleness, easy bendings and risings, the whole accompanied with a good air, and managed with the greatest ease of expertness and dexterity, constitute the merit of this kind of dancing. . . . In the half-serious stile we observe vigor, lightness, agility, brilliant springs, with a steadinessand command of the body. (Gallini1762,75,77)

This tendency to steal from earlier sources and expand upon them is no less evident in works dealing with dance technique specifically. In lus Versuch einer Encyklopadie der Leibesiibungen of 1793-1794, for example, Gerhard Vieth was clearly indebted to Taubert's Rechtschaffener Tantzrneister of 1717, one of his acknowledged sources, as was Valentino Trichter in his Curioses Reit-Jagd-Feclzt-Tanz oder Ritter Ex-

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ercitien Lexikon of 1742. Trichter’s descriptions of steps are simply lifted with abridgment from Taubert, while the latter in turn drew from Bonin’s Neueste Art zur galanten und theatralischen Tantz-Kunst of 1712, Johann Pasch‘s Beschreibung iuahrer Tanz-Kunst of 1707, and even Der von dein Mercurius neu-gebaute Schau-Platz der Dantzenden of 1671by Mercurius, among other sources. Consider, for example, the following instance of material and even phrasing being passed along from one writer to the next: The persons [participatingin the representation]must be instructed, as the need may be, in springing and the pas de ballet, which on stage must be adjusted in accordance with the nature of the artificial lighting, the distance of the spectators, and the meaning of the representations. (Pasch 1707,90) The pas de ballet on stage are to be adjusted in accordance with the nature of the artificial lighting, the distance of the spectators, and the meaning of the representations. (Behr 1713,115) If they are to be danced in an opera or play in a large theater, however, either solo or by several persons at the same time, then the high figured pas de ballet and powerful springs into the air (which must be adjusted here in accordance with the nature of the artificial lighting,the distance of the spectators, and the meaning of the representations)as well as the high port de bras par terre look the best, for not only is the space of the theater in this way well filled, but also the dancers have a far freer run and spring in their feats. (Taubert1717,959)

The Encyclopkdie mkfhodique of 1786 also copies material from earlier sources, namely, the descriptions of steps found in such works as Pierre Rameau’s Le maitre b danser of 1725 and Antoine FuretiPre’s Dicfionaire universe2 of 1690. These derivative descriptions in the Encyclopkdie in turn appear in Charles Compan’s Dictionnaire de dame of 1787. In like manner, Ivan Kuskov’s Tantsoval’noi Uchitel’ of 1794 is largely an abridged translation of Josson’s Trail&abrkgk de la danse of 1763. Chavanne’s Principes du menuet et des rkvkrences of 1767is derived partly from Rameau. BartholomP Ferriol y Boxeraus’s Reglas ufiles para 10s aficionados a danzar of 1745 is also largely a free translation of Rameau with some additions. Since the inaccessibility of many of the sources has constituted one of the major hurdles to a better understanding of eighteenthcentury ballet, a very large number of quotations from a broad range

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of primary sources are gwen here in English translation in order to let the age speak for itself as much as possible. Every effort has been made to provide quotations from a great variety of writers and from all parts of the century in order to ensure a balanced view. It should be noted, however, that material on dance is simply more plentiful in the latter part of the age thanks to a radical increase in literacy and publishing during the period, and in some cases, material on certain aspects is available only from the latter part of the century. Unless otherwise indicated, all the translations of quotations from sources with foreign-language titles are mine. The translations follow as closely as possible the originals without doing violence to modem English or attempting to replicate the all too frequent instances of poor style in the originals. In some cases, original sentences have been either broken down into smaller units to avoid long-windedness or combined to avoid choppiness, or paragraphs have been given different indentation, and needless original chapter headings have been left out without editorial markings of omission. In a few passages from both the primary sources and cited modem scholarship, references to page numbers or illustration numbers found in the originals have also been omitted without markings of omission to avoid confusion. Needless to say, some of the words in the original texts have meanings different from their modern reflexes; generally these go without comment unless the meaning of a given passage depends significantly upon a word that might be translated differently without a knowledge of its earlier meaning. Most of the many phrases in Latin and French, found so plentifully in the German texts, have been translated into English as well. Names of dance steps belonging to the ”French art of dance” are presented in their eighteenth-century French forms following the conventions of modem French orthography; thus in accordance with the terminology of the day, entrechaf u six is used rather than entrechat six, for example, or pirouette en Z’air instead of the contemporary Italian saZto tondo. The many instances of the word cabrioIe or capriola in the eighteenth-century sources are generally rendered by the more generic caper since these terms in the period more often than not mean broadly any kind of high jump in the air, usually with beats. It is assumed throughout that the reader is aware that the spelling of words in earlier English sources does not always follow modern orthographic conventions, and thus I have refrained from marking with sic the many errors in such quotations as well as in some citations from modem scholarship containing similar errors.

Introduction

xxi

A number of illustrations have been included in this work. Because of the high cost of reproducing copyrighted iconographic material held by institutions and the relative ease of finding photographic reproductions of such images in secondary sources, I present here instead simple but accurate line drawings after the original illustrations, with references to secondary sources containing photographic reproductions of the originals and to libraries or other collections holding originals.

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Chapter 1

The Rise of ”the French Art of Dance”

Modem dance originated in France, whence come excellent dancers, as well as fine chefs, beautiful stuffs, and tasteful things. France is o w oracle in matters of clothes, sauces, and dance. (Memorie [1776] 1998, 157)

The formal dance of the eighteenth century was largely the brainchild of the French, the fruits of the experimentation and efforts in the foregoing century to create both a form of social dance devised to show off the refinement and elegant deportment of its practitioner within the confines of a social gathering and a form of theatrical dance specifically intended to be seen on a large stage in a purposebuilt theater before a throng of spectators. Writers on dance throughout the eighteenth century acknowledge the debt to the French for the creation of a new style of dance, commonly called “the French art of dancing,” which came to be widely adopted and cultivated throughout fashionable Europe in the late seventeenth century and was by the beginning of the eighteenth century an international art form despite its common characterization as ”French.” As the German dancing master Hansel remarks (1755, 1-2), “France is indisputably the model of our modem galant manner of dancing. I mean, the French were the first to formulate this art according to the rules of mathematics and to divide it into a prosaic and poetic study. This is so obvious that I believe no one would take exception to it.” Or as the English character of Buck in Samuel Foote’s The Englishmatz Rrturn’d from Paris notes, ”the French are the foremost in the world such that they give or should give to everyone the laws on how to

2

Cllfl~Jt'r1

live, such that he who wishes to eat, drink, dress, dance, fight, sing, or even cough with elegance must go to Paris in order to learn how" (cited in French translation in the Jouriznl t;trangrr, Aug. 1756,12).The Italian Magri (1779) likewise concedes in the preface to his handbook on dance that the "good taste" that characterized the dance of his day was due to the efforts of the French: We are obliged to the French for the refinement which dancing shows today; they have put the finishmg touches to it with the brush of good taste and have brought luster to theaters with this amazing and delightful spectacle and have brought nobilib to ballrooms with this stately, sparkling diversion, which not only occurs at noble and polite assemblies but also constitutes the greatest and main gala at sovereign courts.

This new French style of dance appears to have come into existence specifically during the period when the famed and influential Pierre Beauchamps (1631-1705) was active as teacher and choreographer in France. Borckmann (1707) notes in particular that this novel style differed from that practiced earlier in Beauchamps's youth, although even in Borckmann's day there were some "hacks" who had not mastered the new style. As he writes, I will own here, not without reason, and rather deplore utterly that the true art of dance today be stained with many a blot and blemish due to frightful abuse, namely, whenever the distinction has not been properly observed between the old and new dance, between the good dancing master and the hack, between artful and corrupt, unregulated dance, for with regards to the first point, it is well stated in the words of wise Beauchamps that "formerly one danced by caprice and grimace, but now one dances by rules and reason." With the first sort of dance, he refers to that which was done at the beginning of his youth and not to the true dance of the ancients at its greatest height.

Not only does the creation of this new style date to the time of Beauchamps but the overall character of the style itself appears to have been greatly indebted to Beauchamps. As Astier puts it (1998, 396), Beauchamps "almost singlehandedly shaped and refined the concept of ballet and developed classical technique and style." The primary sources are equally emphatic that Beauchamps played a significant role in the creation of this style. Taubert (1717, 300), for example, claims that the famed French dancer "laid the foundation, as it were, for this exercise of both galalit [i.e., ballroom] and the-

The Rise of “the French Art of Dance”

3

atrical dance, set it in motion, and made it flower with his thousandfold inventions, such that the whole of France declares him to be the father of all dancing masters.” Ferriol (1745, 1:70) similarly observes that Beauchamps was “the first author of this dance,” whle Sulzer (1794, 4:510) notes that “in the previous century, theatrical dance was developed mainly in France. Beauchamps, who was the first director of the Academy of Dance under Louis XIV, is generally given as the first great master of the art.” To the famed dancer himself is attributed the “ordering,” or codification, of some of the fundamental features of this new dance form, such as the five classical positions of the feet, wherein the dancer endeavored to “turn out the feet as much as possible” (Mercurius 1671, 166).As Rameau notes (1725a, 9), ”these positions were brought to light through the efforts of the late Monsieur Beauchamps, who formed the idea of giving needed order to this art.” Rameau (1725a, 195) similarly credits Beauchamps with being one of the first to codify the movements of the arms as well. The development of t h s new style of theatrical dance was greatly abetted by the efforts to create French opera on the part of the famed Italian-born composer Jean-BaptisteLully (1632-1687). Aided by his librettist Plulippe Quinault, Lully established a formula for opera in France wherein dance formed a sigruficant part of the dramatic whole, ”an essential ornament of the drama, . . . used either as a constituent part or as an interlude” (Arteaga [1785] 1998,249).This fostered a taste for dance in its spectators, at the same time raising the standards of proficiency among its practitioners. Rameau (1725a, viii) makes it clear that the regular inclusion of dance in French opera contributed greatly to a flowering of ballet, to the great “headway it made around the end of the last century and still makes every day thanks to the emulation occasioned by the works at the Academie Royale de Musique,” that is, at the Paris Opera. As Rameau writes (1725a, ix-xi), the reign of Louis le Grand [i.e., Louis XW] will always be looked upon rightly as one wherein the most illustrious men thrived. Among all the arts brought to perfection before one’s very eyes thanks to the openhandedness of so powerful a monarch, dance made the quickest headway; everything seemed to contribute thereto. . . . Yet dance did not appear in all its luster until the birth of opera. Lully, an Italian by birth who came to France at the age of nine, learnt music here and having a rare and sublime genius soon raised himself above all the composers

4

Chapter 2 of his time. After having composed the music for sundry ballets, whereof I have just spoken, he undertook to bring before court and city those tragidies lyriques, which are still the source of charm and admiration for the beholder. On the stages of Paris was seen this new kind of work, which under the name of opera had hitherto been known only to the Italians.

The combined efforts of Lully and his choreographers Pierre Beauchamps, Louis-Hilaire d’Olivet, and Desbrosses in uniting music and dance within the framework of a dramatic whole resulted within a relatively short span of time in a new and original theatrical style. Raguenet (1702, 19-21) highlights the originality of this style in particular, writing that there are in Europe no dancers who come close to those [of the French]; even the Italians will own this. The Combatants and the Cyclopes in Persie, the Shakers and Blacksmiths in Isis, the Dire Dreams in Atys and their other ballet entries are original pieces, because of either the tunes written by Lully or the dances composed by Beauchamps to these tunes. Nothing like these had been seen on the stage before these two great men; they were the inventors of such and all at once raised these works to such a pitch of perfection that no one in Italy or anywhere else in the world has been able to come up to them since or perhaps ever will.

So ”original” was this new style of dance, ”which made the quickest headway” (Rameau 1725a, x), that the dance cultivated at the end of the sixteenth and the beginning of the seventeenth centuries was now so foreign that it became an object of mirth for the eighteenthcentury public, somethng suitable for a comic or grotesque dance, according to Dufort (1728).In the historical overview of dance given in the preface to his ballroom dance handbook he remarks that the Spanish were the first to learn Italian dance, to which they added some capers and the sound of castanets; thus this dance, which was first said to be Italian, soon acquired two names, by which it was indifferently called, that is, Italian and Spanish dance, as it still is today. The steps in tkus dance, done to the cadence of tunes in the worst taste, were not in the least natural, but rather most tiring and forced. The feet were held parallel; hence the steps were hard and unlithesome, with the arms straight and stretched at the sides, as can be seen from the figures found in the aforesaid books [Rinaldo Rigoni’s I1 bdlarino perfetto of 1468 and Fabritio Caroso’s I1 ballarim of 15811. The figures were of little consideration, utterly devoid of the good taste which holds sway today. Thus,

The Rise of “the French Art of Dance”

5

this Italian or Spanish dance, which I imagine was pleasing in its day, would be truly most ridiculous to behold today, so much so that Monsieur Philibois, a dancing master at the Imperial Court, created from it a buffoon role, which he, clad in the old Italian manner, danced in the great theaters of Italy to the great amazement of everyone.

The dance style developed to express the affects of Lully’s music was broadly one of exaggeration and animation, one clearly suited to the dancing of Beauchamps, who ”although not a dancer with a very fine air, was full of vigor and fire” (Le Cerf de la Vieville de Freneuse 1704, 11). This new dance style was a ”buffoonery” to many in Lully’s day who clung to the old style of theatrical dance, while the old manner seemed slow moving, simple, and dull in comparison to its successor. This contrast between the old and new styles of theatrical dance was most evident to Dubos (1719,1:491-93, 495-96), who indicates that for eighty years, music in France has had a fate similar to that of declamation in Rome at the time of Cicero. Eighty years ago [around 16-40], the tunes that were composed in France were, generally speaking, but a succession of long notes, which musicians sometimes call du gros fa. The pace of the execution was very slow. . . . Taste has changed much since, and the movement in our tunes has become so accelerated that they are sometimes unpleasant and inexpressive. This change occasioned an even greater alteration in dance, and mainly in the dance of the theater. Sixty years ago, all the ballet tunes were slow moving, and their warbling, if I may word it thus, proceeded calmly, even at its merriest. These tunes were performed on lutes, theorbos, and viols that were mixed with some violins; the steps and the figures of the ballets composed to the tunes of which I speak were slow and simple. The dancers could maintain every possible decency in their bearing in executing these ballets, the dance of which was almost not different from that of ordinary balls. Hardly had little Moliere shown with two or three airs that it could be done better when Lully appeared and began to compose those tunes for ballets that are known as airs de uitesse. Since the dancers performing the ballets which were choreographed to these airs were forced to move with greater speed and more action than they had hitherto done, many people said that good taste in dance had been corrupted and that it was being reduced to buffoonery. The dancers themselves had difficulty capturing the spirit of the new music, and it often happened that Lully himself was obliged to create the entries for them. He was obliged himself to create the entrie for the chaconne in Cndmus because

6

Chapter I Beauchamps, who composed then his ballets, could not capture the spirit of this violin tune to Lully’s satisfaction. . . . I will not say that dance has not been sometimes marred in the wish to enrich it and make it more expressive, but this is the inevitable destiny of all the arts that make considerable progress. There will always be artists who go beyond the mark and disfigure their work in their wish to make it more elegant. Those individuals who hold to the old taste usually speak of the excesses to which the artists go, those who overdo what they do, when the former wish to prove that the new taste is depraved, but the public, who can distinguish between the shortcomings of the art and those of the artist, do not hold these new inventions to be ill because misused. Thus, the public has become so used to the new sort of theatrical dance that today they would find dull the kind of dance that held sway sixty years ago.

Cahusac (1754, preface) in like manner intimates that this new style of theatrical dance was marked by greater animation and exaggeration and was ”outrageous excess and bad taste to those who praised the past”: It is clear 1) that the embellishments that Lully had brought to the dance of the theater were first deemed to be buffoonery, for they departed from the old common tablature; 2) that in Dubos’s time and not Lully’s, opinion had wholly changed and one had come to be happy only with what Lully had done; 3) that from then on [i.e., from Lully‘s time forward] everything which was daringly attempted was damned as outrageous excess and bad taste; 1) that at the time of l’Abb6 Dubos’s writing, the French, like Dubos himself, were most convinced that the dance of our opera had reached the highest level of perfection. Thus, for nearly a hundred years, almost the same things have been said in Paris about each step that dance has taken in our theater in order to progress. What was held to be noble dance was replaced by what was called buffoonery. This buffoonery became in turn the only noble dance, which in time was replaced by a more animated dance deemed to be outrageous excess and bad taste by those who praised the past; and this last sort was held to be the perfection of the art at the time of ]’Abbe Dubos.

Lully influenced the dance of the theater not only indirectly by writing more expressive music, which forced theatrical dancers to move with greater animation than before, but also directly by reforming the common pattern for entrees on stage and by even choreographing dances for his operas himself. As Le Cerf de la Vieville de Freneuse notes (1705,228),

The Rise qf ”the French Art of Dance”

7

Lully involved himself in dance almost as much as he did in everything else. “One part of the ballet Les f&s de I’Atnour et de Bacchiis had been composed by him, the other by Desbrosses” (preface to Reciieil des opiras, Ballard edition), and Lully had almost as much a part in the ballets of the operas whch followed as did Beauchamps. He reformed the entries, came up with pas which were expressive and which suited the subject, and when necessary, he himself danced in front of his dancers in order to have them better understand his ideas. He had not studied dance, however, and danced thus only by whim and chance, but the experience of seeing dances and his extraordinary talent for every aspect of entertainments allowed him to dance, if not with any great refinement, then at least with a most delightful liveliness.

Not merely progenitors of a new style of dance in both the ballroom and theater, the French also excelled in the execution of this new style and dominated the field of formal dance such that other Europeans with any pretension to culture were obliged to dance to the tune of the French, as it were. Mercurius (1671,9) notes, for example, that ”no nation is more devoted to dance or more skilled at it than the French (in tlus they hold then to one of [King Bard‘s] ways) such that even other nations endeavor to master the fine French manner of dancing on account of the refinement and courtesy found therein.” Indeed, so prevalent was the view that only the French could excel in dance that Essex (1728, vii, x-xi) felt obliged to request lus reader’s indulgence for spealung favorably of English dancers in the foreword to his English translation of Rameau’s Le maftre u danser, even though Essex felt that his gamboling compatriots were of equal merit to any on the continent: DAXCIXG being the peculiar Genius of the French Nation, they have for many Years taken great Pains to find out its Beauties as well as Advantages to Mankind in all Respects, so as to qualify Persons, of what Condition soever, to dance well, and give them a good Carriage and genteel Behaviour in Conversation. . . . I hope the Reader will not be prejudiced against me for making mention of some of our English Masters and Performers, since they bear an equal Merit with any in Europe, though they cannot extend the Reputation of their Names so far as those of the French Nation, because we are Islanders, and confined to our Language; and the principal Masters living in Paris, have the Advantage of the Universality of their Language; and the Situation of their Metropolis being upon the main Conhnent, and the Place of Reception for Strangers of all Nations, whereby

8

Chapter 1 the Fame of their Performances can spread itself to the remotest Parts of Europe, and even into many of the politest Cities of Asia and Africa.

Throughout the eighteenth century, the French continued to be viewed as the masters in the field of dance, particularly in what was known as the grave style, which will be discussed in detail in chapter 3. As the Italian Algarotti concedes (1763,55), in the serious and heroic dances one must of course own that the French surpass us [Italians] and all other nations, for who in the modern world has devoted as much study as they have to the science of dance, to which they are so naturally disposed and suited, as we are to music? . . . In this school, they are truly the masters, nor should any other nation be ashamed to study under them in this sort of gentility.

So much was the art of dance a French pursuit that the French terminology of the art was usually adopted wholesale into other languages, no matter how cumbersome it might have been in the adoptive tongue. Individuals with any pretension to a knowledge of artful dance were obliged to use the French terms, for French was the "language of the country of dance," to use Pauli's expression (1756, preface): It may seem even strange that I present to Germans this terminology in the French language, that I write in this language in the middle of Germany; willy-nilly, I could not do otherwise, for it is the language of the country of dance. It is the French who have refined the dance of our time, who have cultivated and refined la belle dame, who have invented chorigraphie [i.e., dance notation] and finally have enriched the art of dance with words and terms that are highly meaningful and fitting to the field. These words and terms, born of the mind and imagination of the French, would be most difficult to render into a foreign language with as much precision and power, especially into the German tongue. If I may say so without giving displeasure, the translations that some have attempted are ill or at least are of such slight success that those individuals with any pretension of learning to dance or of cultivating it are obliged to adopt the French terms and pronounce them distinctly and write them correctly.

The Frenchman De la Lande (1769) in like manner proudly remarks that "Italian dancers regard ours as their masters. Almost all the dance steps have the same names in Italian as they do in French; even their endings are not changed. This is because we are seen in a

The Rise of “the French Art of Dance”

9

way as the creators of t h s art: Our ballet masters have created the steps and designs and have wholly perfected taste in this art” (cited in the Journal de rnusique 1773,6:62-63). So intimately connected were the French to the art of dance and so great was their prestige in this field that competent dancing masters outside of France who were not of French birth were often passed over in preference for those from France, even if the latter were less talented. Taubert (1717,1010-11) found this chauvinism most detrimental to the progress of many amateurs and laments that if it is then mainly a question of good training and wise instruction in this art with those nations and persons known for their dancing, of which we have already heard, then they are very mistaken who say, “my children and minors can put off mastering dance until they get to France; it‘s not done right here,” and so forth. Yet everywhere at the present time, both in Germany as well as in other countries, both at the universities in the cities and at the royal, electoral, and princely courts, not only galant French-born masters but also other good masters who owe their skill and experience to the Academy of Dance in Paris are to be found, and parents then need not look so far afield. Or perhaps such parents think that in France dancing can be funneled into their children and administered in a sweet concoction, as a doctor does to a peasant‘s son, or that it will be better because it must be acquired with a heavy outlay and travel costs. 0 no, both are wrong. Indeed, I have heard before German gentlemen speak these splendid words: ”I took lessons in Paris for this many months from Monsieur Dumoulin, from Monsieur Blondy, from Monsieur de Muraille, Monsieur Balon,” and so forth. “Mon Dieu! He was some maitre! He would always pass over the floor at the height of a table, and truly, as I am honest, I had to pay him a Louis d‘or every month for his fidPle lessons.” Yet afterwards, if one ever asks them to dance once (in order to put to the test their incomparable progress) opposite very limited pupils who have never been to France nor have ever been instructed, so to speak, by a French master, they must crawl off, however, for they have learned nothing other than to flit about a little without any foundation, cadence, or style for all their money. In short, ten ill dancers sooner come back from Paris than one good one.

While this new style of dance originally came into existence in France, it was widely adopted throughout Europe in the latter part of the seventeenth century and became in essence international.

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Chapter I

Behr (1709,8-10) alludes to this wholesale adoption of French dance by fashionable Europe: As for elegant dance framed by art, it derives its origin from the French, as is known. This nation, thanks to the deep musing of some skillful individuals, has refined common natural dancing with all manner of artful steps, elegant movements, pleasing manners, and certain sundry regular figures, composed and arranged to music. And this more informed, artful, and elegant dance has flourished for some time in France, and many lavish and splendid ballets making use of this dance have been presented in Italy and France, for even under the present king, Louis XIV, very many ballets have been mounted, among which are to be commended above all others nie Four Seasons, The Arts, The Pleasures, hpatzence, The Muses, and The Triimiph of Lozv. . . . This achievement then later spread out thence to Germany and over the whole of north[em Europe] so that today kings and princes fill the places of dancers not only in France, Italy, England, and Germany but also in other countries.

In his preface, Dufort (1728) also notes that the French art of dance was adopted in many other countries: In brief, these two brilliant masters [Pierre Beauchamps and Louis Pecour] have brought dance to such a perfection and raised it to such a height that in a short space of time they have not only made all the other dances fall into disuse but also obliged a large number of nations, and perhaps the most cultured in the world, to find honor in dancing in no other way than that of the French.

According to Hansel (1755, lo), French dance reached even Asia and the New World: “We have been informed now that this practice of dance, in whch only France alone used to shine before this, has spread throughout the whole of Europe, indeed, as far as Persia and the West and East Indies.” It was not merely the theatrical style that spread out all over Europe but French ballroom dance as well; indeed, in the early part of the eighteenth century, ”the same dance was done in St. Petersburg that had been danced four weeks earlier at Versailles” (Pauli 1756, 56). The eagerness with which other nations emulated the French ensured that a relatively homogeneous dance culture arose throughout fashionable Europe, although the technique of French dance was flexible enough to allow for considerable variation according to the

The Rise of ”the French Art of Dance”

11

taste of the individual dancer, as we shall see in chapter 6. When Prince Charles of Sweden visited Paris in October of 1770, for example, he avoided dinner parties and balls and spent his time taking in “more remarkable t h g s , ” for as Grimm remarks of h s age (1879,l Oct. 1770, 9:122), ”one dines and dances just about the same in all civilized countries.” Not only did French dance spread throughout Europe and beyond, but it even contaminated, as it were, some of the national dances of Europe. Vieth (1794,2:426),for example, indicates that “social dance throughout almost all of Europe is of French origin; even the remaining national dances have sometimes taken on a foreign look through the mixing in of French steps.” The allemande was one such national dance that was often gallicized. As Bonin (1712,243-44)notes, “true German dancing, or better said, the German manner of leading, when it is to be done right, consists of notlung but French steps, and if I know these well, I can use them all in German dancing and can even attempt much of what is found in the minuet and other dances.” The French style of dance was disseminated in two ways. On the one hand, foreigners, either amateurs seelung to shine in social dance or would-be professionals seelung to master the art, would sojourn in France in order to study there, ideally under the most celebrated dancers or dancing masters. Bonin (1712, 72-73), for example, advises that a master, especially if he is German, must not forgo a journey to France and a sojourn there for a while. It is indeed true that in that kingdom dancing flourishes the most; thus it is that even among us it has been called French dance and that the very best masters have flourished there and are still to be found there. He who has been to Paris and visited the Opera will surely be obliged to boast of having seen masters whose nimbleness and unbelievable speed he will not be able to admire enough.

One such German master who did not forgo a journey to France was Johann Pasch (1653-1710), a dancing master of great repute in Saxony and a writer on dance still active in Leipzig at the beginning of the eighteenth century and one of our sources for the period. Th~s venerable master, known as “the German Beauchamps,” had spent some time in France studying his art under the tutelage of Pierre Beauchamps hmself (Borckmann 1707).The celebrated Italian-born dancer Gaetan Vestris (1729-1808), or Gaetano Vestri, to give h m his

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Chapter 1

original name, was another foreigner who had betaken himself to France and studied under a famous dancer, to wit, Louis Dupre, becoming the latter’s protegee and eventual successor as principal dancer in the grave style at the Paris Opera. In like manner, the great Austrian choreographer Franz Hilverding (171&1768), who according to Chevrier (1762) was ”the greatest ballet-master in all Europe” before Noverre (trans. in Winter 1974,87),had journeyed to France in the 1730s and spent almost two years there studying under Michel Blondy, the nephew and pupil of Beauchamps. If, on the other hand, he had neither the will nor the wherewithal to journey to France, the would-be pupil could profitably study at home under a French dancing master who had emigrated to seek his fortune abroad. So numerous were such emigre dancing masters that they were to be found at virtually every court in Europe. As Rameau notes (1725a, ix), “we may say to the glory of our nation [France] that it has true taste in la belle dame. Almost all foreigners, far from disagreeing, have for almost a century come here to admire our dances and to be trained in our spectacles and schools; indeed, there is not a court in Europe whch does not have a dancing master from our nation.” One such French expatriate living and t e a c h g abroad before h s death in 1716 was Louis Bonin, the author of one of the most important extant sources on the theatrical dance of the eighteenth century. A former professional dancer active in France and Germany who had learned h s art from “the best masters” (Meletaon 1712), he became a dancing master at the court of Duke Wilhelm von Sachsen-Eisenach and then at the University of Jena, and elsewhere. His brother similarly took up residence in Germany as a professional dancer and dancing master at the court at Dresden. It is in fact to French expatriates like Louis Bonin, Charles Pauli in Germany, C. Sol evidently in the Netherlands, Joseph Ratier in Spain, and Giambatista (i.e., Jean-Baptiste) Dufort in Italy that we are indebted for important descriptions of dance steps and discussions on dance generally. Indeed, most extant sources dealing with the technique of French dance from this period were written either by Frenchmen living and teaching abroad or by other nationals trained in French dance. Among the latter are Gennaro Magri in Italy, Kellom Tomlinson in England, Ivan Kuskov in Russia, Pablo Minguet e Yrol and Bartholome Ferriol y Boxeraus in Spain, and Samuel Behr, Gottfried Taubert, and Christoph Hansel in Germany.

The Rise of "the French Art of Dance"

13

The pervasive and preeminent role of the French in the field of dance abroad was not limited to pedagogy, many of the choreographers working outside of France were likewise French. As Little and Jenne note (1998, 9), the choreographers active in Germany up to 1753, for example, were largely of French background, judging at least by names that appear in theatrical records. One such French choreographer active in Germany and elsewhere was AntoineBonaventure Pitrot (fl. 1744-1770), who divided his time between Paris, the court of Saxony, and Poland, having spent stints in Moscow, London, Parma, and Milan. In like manner, the most famous of all eighteenth-century choreographers, Jean-Georges Noverre (1727-1810), was remarkably mobile as well, mounting his pantomime ballets in Stuttgart, Vienna, Paris, London, and Milan. At the beginrung of h s career, Noverre had in fact been a member of a ballet troupe in Berlin under the direction of h s compatriot JeanBarthelemy Lany, ballet master to Frederick the Great of Prussia. Not only French choreographers but also French dancers figured prominently in eighteenth-century European theaters, especially in England and Germany. ficcoboni (1741,153)notes that "formerly all the Dancers of the Opera in Germany and other Countries were brought from Paris." Indeed, the practice of importing French dancers continued into the second part of the century. All the dancers apart from twofiguranfes in the employ of the Kmg of Prussia in 1754, for example, were of French origin, as is evident from the names given in Marpurg's list of dancers (1754, 1:79), if the names are an accurate reflection of nationality: The ballet master is Monsieur Denis, the first solo woman dancer his wife Madame Denis, and the second Mademoiselle Cochois. The places of the soloists Monsieur le Voir, who left some time ago, and likewise of Monsieur Dubois the Younger, are expected to be filled by two other sujets. The rest of the men dancers are Messieurs Neveu, le Fevre, Dubois the Elder, d'Hervieux, and Blache. The women dancers are Mesdemoiselles Girauld, Auguste, Neveu, Simiane, and two women from Berlin, Mesdemoiselles Krohnen and Gotzen.

The preference for French dancers was no less strong among Londoners throughout the century. Count de Saussure (1903,277) noted during his visit to London in the 1720s that "the pantomime [in pantomime entertainments] is often intermixed with ballets. The English do not excel in this; even their best dancers are French men and

14

Chapter 1

women brought from Paris.” Price et al. (1995,444031)s d a r l y indicate that still in the 1780s ”most of the principals and second dancers who appeared in London had received their training in France, a few in Italy. . . . So fixed was the prejudice in favour of imported dancers that fewer than half a dozen local residents became second dancers or stars during the decade, and most of those who did were of French extraction.” W l e originally a French creation, the formal dance of the eighteenth century was an international art form. Other nations made it so much their own that some of the most outstanding dancers and choreographers of international standing in t h s period were in fact born and bred outside of France. Such dancers include Marie-Anne de Cupis de Camargo from Belgium; Gaetan Vestris, his sister Therese Vestris, Barbara Campanini, and Giovanna Baccelli from Italy; and Anne Heinel from Germany. Among choreographers one can cite Gasparo Angiolini and Salvatore Vigano from Italy and Franz Hilverding from Austria. Indeed, the establishment of ballet in eighteenth-century Russia was as much the work of Italian dancers like Antonio Rinaldi, better known as Fossano, as it was of Frenchmen. Stahlin (1770,ll-12) observes that it was during this very same reign [of Empress Anna Ivanovna] that ballets were for the first time introduced on the stage, on the occasion of the first performance of Italian opera at the Russian Imperial court in 1736. The ballet master was the Italian grotesque dancer Fossano, who later danced on the stages of Paris and London to great acclaim as well. The most outstanding dancers besides himself were his wife Giuglia, and Tonina, the daughter of the Italian Harlequin Constantini and afterwards the second wife of Signor Fossano, after Signora Giuglia had died here, Signor Tesi, Signor Giuseppe, a genuine Venetian, and a number offigurnnts,who were made up of the best dancers from the cadets of the landed nobility and were licked into shape by their French dancing master Monsieur Lande.

As we will see in chapter 7, dancers such as Fossano who origmated

outside of France were not only instrumental in bringing French ballet to the outposts of Europe but were also successful in altering the very character of dancing in France itself during the course of the eighteenth century, just as Italian composers were to change the character of French music in the same period.

Chapter 2

Ballroom Dancing versus Ballet

It shows as little taste in social dance to imitate dancers from the opera as it is to imitate the grotesque dancers of Italy or the bayadkres of Hindustan. (Martinet 1797,21)

At its most basic level, the French art of dance was broken down into two very different styles, to wit, the dance of the ballroom and the dance of the theater. The names of these two different styles vary from one writer to the next, and the same appellation can sometimes mean s o m e h g quite other in another writer. In the sources, the dance of the ballroom is commonly referred to as la belle dame (”finedancing”), la basse danse (”low dancing”), la danse galante (”galant dancing”), les danses de bal (’lballroom dances” or ”ballroom dancing”), les danses de zdle (”citydances” or ”city dancing”),la danse noble (”nobledancing”), or “common dancing.” The dance of the theater as a whole might be called ”ballet,” ”stage-dancing,”or ”theatrical dance” but more typically was further subdivided into differing styles, which wdl be discussed in detail in the following chapter.This fundamental division of French dance into ballroom and theatrical styles is clearly outlined in Taubert (1717,375-76): It is to be known that the entire elegant practice of dance, when carefully ordered, is divided effectively and principally into two main parts, namely, the galant dance of the ballroom and the representational dance of the theater. The first main part thereof includes external morality [i.e., good manners] and galant bodily dexterity, the other, however, theatrical representations of gestures and actions. But it should be added here, however, that the second part, that is, theatrical representation, is done 15

16

Chapter 2 in two ways, either serious (serieux) or comic (gai). Thus it is that all French dances generally are reduced to three classes or divisions, namely, the doux, the low and elegant basic ballroom dances, or danses de bal; the sirzeux, the high and serious theatrical springing dances; and the comique, or comic and grotesque theatrical trick dances. Of these, the French call the first sort in their language la belle danse, or la basse danse; the second la haute danse, or le ballet serieux; and the third the grotesque, or le ballet comique.

Bonin (1712,53,51)also distinguishes between la belle danse, that is, dance "for those who do not in fact make a profession of this exercise," and the dance of the theater, the latter with its two broad styles of the serious and the comic: "So that we can get a clearer idea of the full extent of t h s art and examine its diverse styles, let us break it down into three parts, la belle danse, or la basse danse, gentle, low, and elegant dance; le ballet se'rieux, or la haute danse, high or serious dance; and le comique et grotesque, comic and grotesque dance." These two basic categories of ballroom and theatrical dance as p e n by Bonin and Taubert stand in contrast in the primary sources throughout the period. Pauli (1756,38,50),for example, breaks down the art of dance into two styles. He notes that "la haute dame encompasses theatrical dance and representation, whch modem philosophes call 'the art of gestures,"' and that "la belle danse, or la dame simple, is that whch persons of fashion learn in order to make use of it for an occasion. It is made up of steps and figures which two or more persons do together in order to make a cadenced walk in harmony with the tune chosen for the dance." Lange (1751,5-7) in like manner contrasts social dance with the h g h expressive dance of the theater: The specific art of dance is broken down into two parts, la basse danse, or la belle danse, and la haute danse, and the latter is divided in turn into two parts, le ballet strieux and le ballet coinique or grotesque. The first kind, la basse danse, or la belle danse, deals with dances that are made up of gentle steps, pleasing movements and turns, and symmetrical figures. It is of use then to the fashionable world at balls, assemblies, weddings, and so forth. Today the most usual of these are minuets and contredanses. The second part, la haute danse, deals, however, with dances that are made up of gentle and high steps at the same time, of all kinds of movements, turns, figures, expressive features, positions, and jumps, such dances as the entree, gigue, chaconne, sarabande, Scapin, Pierrot, Harlequin, Polichinelle, Paysan, Matelot, and so forth. This division belongs in fact on the stage, through which are to be represented in a

Ballroom Dancing versus Ballet

17

most lively manner both true and fictional stories as well as reasonable and shocking irrational acts.

Sacchi (1770,33) indicates that "dance is generally divided into two kinds, the dance of the theater, and noble dance or ballroom dancing as they say." Sulzer (1792,1:289-90) also notes that "common dance is an amusement for people who dance, and it needs to be nothing more than that. Ballet is a dance which is to interest the spectator; it must therefore by necessity be somethmg other than common dance. Either it is a drama or it forms part of one; hence it must have the general character of a drama." In his second volume Sulzer (1794,4:505)adds that dances are generally divided into two main classes, one of which encompasses common, or social, dances (la belle danse) and the other theatrical dances. Common dances were invented as a social amusement; thus they must be so framed that they can be learned by persons who do not make their profession from the art of dance. The high dances may be more artful, of course, since they are performed only by professional dancers, who are specially employed for this.

Some of the terms for ballroom dancing found in different sources, however, are used in a confusing manner to designate different subdivisions of theatrical dance. The expressions la beIZe danse, la danse noble, Ia haute danse, and la danse sirieuse, for example, are often employed as synonyms for the grave or serious style of stage dancing; in a similar vein, "galant dance" could also be used to refer to the so-called brisk or half-serious style, as we shall see in the following chapter. Generally in such cases, the writer's definition or merely the context makes clear whch style of dance is in question. Whatever they may have been called, ballroom dancing and ballet were entirely distinct, despite the misinformation given in some modem scholarship, and this btinctiveness, together with examples of features setting apart the two styles, is alluded to in a number of the sources. In his handbook on dance, which was to be "a complete treatise for the amateur" and not the professional, Magri (1779,l: preface and 1:137),for example, notes quite explicitly about the descriptions of movements p e n in IS work that "generally speaking, all these steps, being theatrical, are perfonned on stage ddferently, not as we have minutely shown." h dlfference between social and stage dancing is perhaps best summed up by Weaver's analogy (1712, 162-63) that

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Chapter 2

”Common-Dancing,” that is ballroom dancing, had the intimacy of a painted portrait, whde ”SERIOUS Danciizg,” or theatrical dance, had the larger-than-life grandeur of narrative ”History Painting”: SEIUOCS Dancing, differs from the Coimrzon-Dancing usually taught in Schools, as History Painting differs from Limning. For as the ConrmonDancing has a peculiar Softness, which would hardly be perceiveable on the Stage; so Stage-Dancing would have a rough and ridiculous Air in a Room, when on the Stage it would appear soft, tender and delightful. And altho’ the Steps of both are generally the same, yet they differ in the Performance: Notwithstanding there are some Steps peculiarly adapted to this Sort of Dancing, viz. Capers, and Cross-Capers of all kinds; Pirou[e]ttes, Batteries, and indeed almost all Steps from the Ground.

Weaver isolates here two important speclfic differences between these two branches of dance, to wit, the execution and the choice of steps. The steps that were shared by both kinds of dance "differed in the performance.”That is, the manner of execution was more exaggerated on stage so that the steps would have appeared “rough and ridiculous” if done in the ballroom, while those in the ballroom dance had such “Softness”and lirmted range of motion that they would have been lost or hardly ”perceiveable” on stage. Indeed, so forced were the movements of the body commonly on stage that it would have been painful for any of the audience to try to move within the expansive scope typical of professional dancers. As The Spectator notes (25 Aug. 1712), the Business of Dancing is to display Beauty, and for that Reason all Distortions and Mimickries, as such, are what raise Aversion instead of Pleasure: But Things that are in themselves excellent, are ever attended with Imposture and false Imitation. Thus, as in Poetry there are laborious Fools who write Anagrams and Acrosticks, there are Pretenders in Dancing, who think meerly to do what others cannot, is to excel. Such Creatures should be rewarded like him who had acquired a Knack of throwing a Grain of Corn through the Eye of a Needle, with a Bushel to keep his Hand in Use. The Dancing on our Stages are very faulty in this Kind; and what they mean by writhing themselves into such Postures, as it would be a Pain for any of the Spectators to stand in, and yet to hope to please those Spectators, is unintelligible.

The heights of leg fleetingly mentioned in the sources or shown in the iconography provide concrete examples of the kind of exaggeration in movement and position that typically set the dance of the theater apart from that of the ballroom. The eighteenth-century ballet

Ballroom Dancing i’ersus Ballet

19

dancer availed lumself of a number of different heights of leg. What appears to have been one of the most commonly used heights, explicitly mentioned in connection with theatrical steps in some of the dance handbooks and shown in a number of extant illustrations of dancers from the period, required the executant to raise h s foot as h g h as the thigh or h p . Bonin (1712,169),for example, notes in h s description of the cabriole of serious dance that the feet were to be raised until “almost level with or opposite the hips” when beating to the fore, but when cutting to the rear, the whole body together with the legs was to be held at least parallel to the floor whle in the air: Cabrioles can also be cut out in front, wherein the feet must come to lie almost level with or opposite the hips. The beating, however, is done not apart [as in the entrechat]but upward on high and downward toward the floor; in doing so, the body must be kept upright. If I wish to do thiscabriole to the back, however, the body and the feet must come to lie in a horizontal line, but I have even seen it done with the heels visible above the horizontal line so that the head and feet formed a transverse line.

Raising the feet until they ”come to lie almost level with the h p s ” when executing the cabriole to the fore is also prescribed by Taubert (1717,728).In the Pcart, or ”opening caper” as he calls it, Ferriol(1745, 1:127)has the dancer spread his legs apart as much as possible whde airborne: ”The opening caper begins in third position. With the right in front, jump and while in the air fully open the legs as much as possible, land in the same position but with the left foot in front, and another can be done landing with the latter foot behind.” Pauli (1756, 20) also mentions the height of the thgh in connection with the roizd de jambe: “The ouzierture de jambe is performed when the leg does a roizd in the air at the height of the thigh.” Magri (1779, 1:124) mentions the height of the lup in connection with the gargodlade, wherein the dancer performs the circular movements with “the legs and thighs in an even line parallel to the floor.” The contrast between the more exaggerated movements of the legs in ballet and the more contained movements found in social dance becomes most apparent when surviving depictions of stage dancers, such as those shown in figures 2.1-6, are contrasted with illustrations of ballroom dancers, whch generally show the foot of the gesture leg raised only to the height of the ankle or sometimes to that of the calf (fig. 2.7). It might be further noted here that the eighteenth-century practice of commonly raising the foot to the height of the thgh or h p in ballet continued into the early nineteenth century, and both these heights are

20

Chapter 2

shown in Blasis (figs. 2.8-9) and singled out as two suitable levels for the grand battement to the fore (1820, 110); indeed, the bulk of attitudes and arabesques illustrated in Blasis’s handbook show in fact the foot raised to the height of the dancer’s tlugh. Dancers in what was known as the grotesque style, wluch will be discussed in the following chapter, employed more lughly exaggerated heights of the leg, such dancers taking the foot to the height of the shoulder, head, or even above the head in their contorted tours de force. In the grotesque feat known as the spazzacampagna, for example, the dancer raised both feet just above the head at the height of the jump: The caper known as the spazacatnpagna begins in fifth position. Bend both knees, and in rising into the air, draw up the legs under the body as much as possible without taking the feet apart from this fifth. Then with them both coupled together in fifth, stretch them forwards to just above the head, which is drawn down a little to hide behind the feet. From here both legs are stretched out to the sides, opening and stretching as much as possible; raise the head and straighten the body at the same time. As you start to descend, begin to bring the feet together until they are in fifth again in coming down, but with the foot in front that was behind at the beginning. (Magri 1779,1:127)

Likewise in the grande rezmltade, the foot of one leg was raised above the head during the jump, with ”its thigh taken up so high that the knee passes close to the face with the leg pointing upwards and the foot going above the head” (Magri 1779,1:126). Even in the regular grand battement, the foot was taken “at least to the height of the shoulder,” according to Magri (1779,1:4031), who had been a grotesque dancer active in the 1750s and 1760s and who boasts that he was able to take his foot above his head: I have proven myself with these batteinents and have gone higher than the head. Indeed, I held up my left hand so that it was raised perpendicularly, and I touched the palm of my left hand with the right foot, or rather the cou-de-pied, a clear indication of having disengaged the leg well. Take care, however, not to practice these batteirients violently; do them after you have made the sinews soft and flexible, and do not be heedless of keeping the foot on the floor well supported. In practicing these in a heat once, my beating foot displaced the other on the floor, and falling flat on my face, I broke my nose. With the same carelessness, Cesarini had the ill-luck to break an arm.

Figure 2.1. A dancer in the role of a Roman, after Johann Georg Puschner (Lambranzi 1716, 1:21).

Figure 2.2. Dancers in the role of Scaramouche, after Johann Georg Puschner (Lambranzi 1716, 1 :27).

Figure 2.3. A dancer in the role of a peasant, after JohannGeorg Puschner (Lambranzi 1716, 2:35).

Figure 2.4. A dwarf dancer in the role of the Chinese Emperor from the Theatralische Zwergen Tantz-Schul (1720?, 2 ) , after an unknown artist, in the New York Public Library.

I f

Figure 2.5. Auguste Vestris, London 1781, after Nathanie Dance, in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, reproduced in Guest (1996,35).

Figure 2.6. Detail of Charles Didelot with his wife Mme Rose (left) and Mlle Parisot (right) in the ballet Alonzo e Cora at the King's Theatre in London, 1796, after James Gillray, in the Victoria and Albert Museum, London, reproduced in Au (1995, 48).

Figure 2.7. Detail of a ballroom dancer performing a pas de chaconne, after an engraving in Tomlinson (1735, bk. 1, pl. 13).

Figure 2.8. “The dancer’s position in fourth to the fore off the floor, arms in second, profile” (Blasis 1820, 105), after an illustration in Blasis (PI.4, fig. 1).

Figure 2.9. "The same position [as given in 2.81 but on the toe, arms in opposition, frontal view" (Blasis 1820, 105), after an illustration in Blasis (pl. 4, fig. 2).

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Chapter 2

While Magri is the only writer on eighteenth-century dance to make explicit reference to such markedly exaggerated heights of the legs, the iconography indicates that contortion was used in connection with the grotesque style of dance throughout our period of study and continued to be employed in the early nineteenth century. The engraving of Dubreil in the grotesque role of Scaramouche (fig. 2.10), for example, whch dates from before 1711 according to Winter (1974,27),shows the dancer with the foot of his gesture leg raised behind him to the height of the shoulder. This figure betrays the same preoccupation with extreme heights as that evident in the depiction of Charles Mazurier in a comic role from the early nineteenth century, wherein with one foot raised above his head, he is portrayed ”dancing with his mistress” in a scene from Blache’s comic pantomime ballet Les tneuniers, first created in 1787 (fig. 2.11). Contortion is equally evident in an extant depiction of the dancer Carlo Antonio Delpini (1740-1828), shown shooting Spaniards with his leg held to his shoulder as if it were a gun (fig. 2.12). Contortion in fact figured prominently in entertainments of any kind involving comic or grotesque characters on the eighteenthcentury stage or fairground, above all, in the much loved acrobatic acts (fig. 2.13). The famous English grotesque pantomime John Rich (1692-1761), for example, better known by his stage name of Lun, employed feats of contortion and was able to delight the crowds by scratching his ear with his foot (Chesley 1997,532).Nemeitz (1727, 177) alludes to the remarkable flexibility of performers whom he saw at the Parisfoire, such as that of ”an Englishman, likewise around twenty years old, [who] did contortions and extraordinary movements of the body; it was as if his limbs were dislocated and broken.” The Tutler (16 Dec. 1709) gives a fleeting glimpse at such feats of contortion commonly found in ”transformation” acts: While I was in this Suspense, expecting every Moment to see my old friend Mr. Betterton appear [on stage] in all the Majesty of Distress, to my unspeakable Amazement, there came up a Monster with a Face between his Feet; and as I was looking on, he raised himself on one Leg in such a perpendicular Posture, that the other grew in a direct Line above his Head. It afterwards twisted it self into the Motions and Wreathing of several different Animals, and after great Variety of Shapes and Transformations, went off the Stage in the Figure of an human Creature.

Figure 2.1 0. “Monsieur Dubreil dancing Scaramouche at the Opera,” before 1711, after an unknown artist, formerly in the Theatermuseum, Munich, reproduced in Winter (1974, 27).

Figure 2.1 1. A detail of the comic dancer Charles Mazurier “dancing with his mistress” in Blache’s ballet Les meuniers, 1824, after an unknown artist, in the Bibliothgque de I’Opkra, Paris, reproduced in Winter (1974, 236).

Figure 2.1 2. Carlo Antonio Delphi “shooting at the Spaniards,” after an unknown artist, in the HarvardTheatreCollection, reproduced in Highfill et al. (1975,4:316).

-

Figure 2.1 3. An early-eighteenth-century contortionist from Het groote Tafereel der Dwaasheid (1 720, 29), after an unknown artist, in the Collection Theater Instituut Nederland, Amsterdam, reproduced in Lawner (1 998, 67).

Ballrooin Dancing z1ersus Ballet

33

The Connoisseur (29 July 1756) also alludes to the inclusion of contortionist acts in mainstream eighteenth-century theaters: ”Being at Sadler‘s Wells a few nights ago, I could not but admire the surprizing feats of activity [i.e., agility] there exhibited, and at the same time reflected what incredible pains and labour it must have cost the performers, to arrive at the art of writhing their bodies into such various and unnatural contortions.” ”Transformations” into the shapes of creatures through contortion appear to have played a sigruficant part in the grotesque dances performed by John h e r in 1721, among whch figured “hs new and diverting Entertainments in Metamorphosis, in changing his Body into divers Shapes. First, a Pigmy Dance, he appearing to be two Foot and a half h g h . . . and a pleasant Entertainment of an Italian Scaramouch, with two Heads and four Legs” (cited in Langhans 1984,141). Exaggeration was not confined to the height of legs in the eighteenth century; theatrical dancers regularly made use of more exaggerated heights of arms than their counterparts in the ballroom. Bonin (1712, 148), for example, notes that “the high [port de bras] belongs only to ballet but can also be used even in a minuet or passepied, or other dances b e l o n p g to la belle danse. It must not, however, be as h g h as in ballet but must be rather moderately so.” In speaking of the h g h theatrical camage of the arms, Taubert (1717, 545) in hke manner notes that when used in the ballroom ”the arms even here must not at all be as lugh as they are in the serious entrkes and ballets, but rather they must be moved and camed only moderately high.” Vieth (1794,2431) similarly indicates that ”theatrical dance requires a lugher port de bras than ballroom dance. To dance a minuet with the h g h bearing of a loure would be tantamount to declaiming an e n g a p g song as if it were an ode.” In one of the more commonly used positions of arms in the eighteenth-century theater, the arms were held outstretched to the sides of the body level with the shoulders, the forebear of second position of arms in modem ballet. This height, together with others, is mentioned in a number of sources. Ratier (1759?, 33), for example, gives a position with ”the arms raised, opened from the height of the shoulders.” Magri (1779, 1:114) defines h s “hgh” height as that wherein “you take the arms up level with the shoulders,” while Malpied (1789?, 129) gwes a ”second” position of arms ”formed by having both arms opened to the height of the shoulders” (see fig. 2.3). This position of the arms was commonly used in capering, the

34

Chnpter 2

dancer taking his arms down during the plie and then throwing them up while rising into the air in a jump in order to achieve greater elevation, with both arms extended at the height of the shoulders. Behr (1713,47),for example, notes that with capers, however, if one wishes to do one with force (straight up, to the side, to the back, or out to the fore), the arms are taken down during the t m p o [i.e., the preparatory bend], but in springing they are re-extended so that both arms come to lie in a straight line. From this, the following rule may be formulated: With the help of both arms one can achieve height, or elevation into the air off of the floor.

Vieth (1794, 2:431) in like manner indicates that “in springing, such as with cnbriolrs and eiztrrclmts, both arms are raised to a position wherein they are extended horizontally,” and this same rule is also given in Bonin (1712, 170) and Taubert (1717, 559). In complete agreement with these sources, Hogarth’s Tlzr Clznriners of the Age, depicting Barbara Campanini and Philip Desnoyer around 1740 executing what appears to be a coup de p o i p e t , or flexed-footed jump, shows the arms of the dancers extended to the sides at the height of the shoulders (see fig. 5.1). A high carriage of the arms was also usual in forming what was known as fourth position of the arms, according to Malpied’s nomenclature (1789?, 129). While the noncontrasting arm was typically held extended to the side of the body roughly level with the shoulder or lower, the hand of the opposing arm was raised to a height anywhere between the top of the head and the shoulder. According to Taubert (1717,560),this position was formed as follows: Whenever the first [i.e., the right] foot takes a step (both arms being held almost at the same height from the shoulders to the elbows), at the same time the left arm, pleasingly bent at both the wrist and primarily the elbow, is taken up so that the fingers come to stand level with the ear, or at least with the shoulder, and the right arm is gently extended and lowered a little. If the left foot does a p m , or step, then the right arm must go along in the aforesaid manner, and the left arm is extended and lowered.

Extant depictions of theatrical dancers, such as those shown in figures 2.14-15, often show the hand of the opposing arm raised to a height level with the top of the head with the noncontrasting arm roughly at shoulder level (compare the lower arms of the ballroom dancer

Figure 2.14. A mid-eighteenth-century faun, after an unknown artist, in the New York Public library Dance Collection, Cia Fornaroli Collection, reproduced in De Mille (1963, 89).

Figure 2.1 5. A costume design for Folly in Les caracferes de /a fake, 1762, after Boquet, in the Bibliothhque de I’Opera, Paris, reproduced in Kochno (1954, ill. 72).

Ballrooiii Dancing z’ersiis Ballet

37

shown in fig. 2.7).ms same arrangement of the arms continued more or less unaltered in line into the early nineteenth century; Blasis’s illustration of opposition shown in figure 2.9, for example, is virtually identical to those gven in figures 2.14-15 from the eighteenth century. Even hgher positions of the arms could be used, especially at impassioned moments in the dancing or commonly in ”attitudes,” that is, poses; here in les grunds bras, as they were called, the theatrical dancer raised his hands to any height above the head, or as Magri puts it (1779,1:114),”these arms cannot have a set measure or precise height but can be raised as much as you wish beyond the others depending on the character, the expression, the spirit and abdity of the performer.” Visual examples of these forced arms can be found in extant depictions of theatrical dancers throughout the period (see figs. 2.5-6, 2.10,3.10-11,5.2). It should be noted here that the foregoing brief discussion on the heights and positions of the legs and arms used in eighteenth-century ballet is by no means complete, and it would take several pages to give a full description of them, especially with regard to the arms. The forthcoming volume devoted to technique will explore this topic in great detail. Even the positions of the feet were broader and often forced on stage. Magri (1779, 1:46, 127) notes specifically that ”as often as not the positions themselves need to be larger, and steps are done that would be unseemly in the ballroom to get through a figure or to gain ground needed for the dancer’s movement” and that “when greater force is needed for height, an exact position is not to be looked for but rather that which will give greater force to the jump.” Even the height of the heel off the floor in a rise onto the toe varied from the ballroom to the theater. While the heel was typically to be as high off the floor as possible when dancing on the toes in formal dance, in the relaxed atmosphere of the ballroom it was common for the heel barely to clear the floor if at all in a ”rise.” This flat-footed manner of dancing is shown in the illustrations from some of the ballroom dance manuals, such as Rameau’s of 1725 or Tomlinson’s of 1735 (see fig. 2.7), and is alluded to in Taubert (1717, 506), who writes in connection with teachmg ballroom dancers the marche‘ that moving €ughon the toes was held to be affected in social dance: In short, the master has his pupil walk around forwards, backwards, sideways to the left and to the right hand, as well in the round with steps to the fore and side for a while with such posture as was given

38

Chapter 2 above in chapters 10 and 11 (which dealt with thegalant carriage of the body and the net manner of walking), firm and steady but without any force or affectation, with the feet turned out and the heel raised high off the floor or, according to the present nigligent and thoroughly absurd fashion, with the feet flat, for at the present time he who dances on his toes is no longer held to be a fine dancer but rather an affected one, to which conscientious masters give no heed when teaching in order to get their beginners used to going about lightly on their feet.

Other sources describing performances from the period likewise mention the exaggerated movements of the theatrical dancer’s limbs and body. A critic in the Mercure de France (Aug. 1728, 1858), for example, describes a performance in 1728 at the Opera-comique by the English dancer Nivelon, who danced ”a peasant enfre‘e in wooden shoes, with admirable address. He has all the lightness and correctness imaginable, and even in the most burlesque and most contorted attitudes, far from betraying any effort, he seems to instill all with grace.” A critic in the same journal (Feb. 1739,357) notes that a troupe of English dancers performing in Paris in 1739 succeeded in entertaining its spectators with ”amazing feats of strength and suppleness.” A performance of a ballet seen by Lovisa Ulrika at the Swedish Tennis Court Theater in 1744 was evidently marred by an overuse of high flapping arms. Ulrika writes in a letter to Frederick the Great that ”all the dancers had Fru von Kamecke’s figure, ungainly proportions and with gigantic feet, and as regards steps, they had never heard them spoken about: their arms swung round them like the arms of a windmill” (trans. in Skeaping 1967, 47). Noverre (1760, 343) takes to task dancers in the so-called serious or grave style especially, who were keen to ape the high extensions of the leg cultivated by Louis Dupre, the most outstanding and celebrated proponent of the grave style in the first half of the eighteenth century. In Noverre’s eyes such dancers were guilty of indulging in the “fault” of disproportionate movement: ”This fault, Monsieur, is very fashionable among serious dancers, and as this style holds greater sway in Paris than everywhere else, it is very common there to see the dwarfish dance with movements of gigantic and ridiculous proportions.” In like manner, Ange Goudar (1773a, 55-57) takes exception to the portrayal of Henri IV in Angiolini’s pantomime ballet I1 re alla caccia, mounted in Venice in 1773. In-

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stead of moving with the requisite dignity and gravity of a king, Goudar complains, the performer representing this character indulged in the ”contortions” of a professional dancer lost in the delirium of capering: But I will own, my Lord, that I was scandalized like a Frenchman to see Henri IV appear jumping and capering like a clown amid a troupe of figurants in the second ballet. I was surprised, I say, to see this great king after his death divert the pit of Venice with grimaces and contortions in order to do honor to the government of a nation celebrated during his lifetime. I expected to see the Duke de Sully appear as well, who alone could perform a pus de deux with Henri, that grave man, that upright minister, who had never committed a faux pas in government, but evidently the ballet master was unfamiliar with him and let this royal pantomime do without him. Amid the applause for this dance, I heard an Italian also speak highly of this monarch: ”By God, Henry was a great prince. The French must have been happy to have such a fine dancer for a King!” To be sure, Henri IV capered with great force during this hunt, and after a string of entrechats, he did an aploinb that won him many bravos.

Similarly, a critic in theJournal des tlze2tres (1Apr. 1777,27)complains of an abrupt introduction on stage of ”a combatant who comes forth to do feats of suppleness or strength before the eyes of heroes, their attention first taken up by a divertissement prepared by the Graces,” and complains (1 May 1778, 129) of Marie Allard’s ”forced and hardly decent movements of legs, shoulders, and arms.” A critic in the Baierische Beytrage zur schonen und niitzlichen Litterntur (1779,353) takes to task the empty feats of nimbleness and suppleness of some virtuoso dancers rather than the cultivation of meaningful pantomimic gesture, these performers bending their bodies to the point of breakage: If a rope-dancer or performer of tricks stands on the tip of one toe for a quarter of an hour and whirls around, then I know very well what that means; it means just what is given in many a concert (for which the virtuoso must practice a good number of years), nothing, nothing on the whole face of the earth but feats. If, however, men or women dancers, who are to be animated by the spirit of the poet [i.e., the author of the ballet plot], whirl around on the heel of their shoe in the greatest of passions or interweave their legs with great speed or bend their bodies to the point of breakage, then I invoke all nine Muses from afar to tell me just what this might mean.

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Sulzer (1792, 1:290) remarks upon the forced positions of theatrical dancers, writing that ’ballets, as they are now performed on stage, hardly deserve to be reckoned among works of taste, for they represent n o h g clever or thoughtful at all. One sees strangely clad persons dash around on the stage, with gestures and jumps that are even stranger, with forced positions and utterly meaningless movements.” Perhaps the most strilung way in which the steps in ballroom and theatrical dancing differed “in the Performance” was the degree of height acheved when springing. In French ballroom dancing, the dancer was to avoid rising off the floor altogether in jumping and rather strive to create only the appearance of springing. As Dufort notes (1728, 19), all the other springs need to be done so slightly that the sustained and grave bearing of the body is not disturbed; that is, they should have the appearance of springing rather than in truth of rising into the air. This warning is very useful to gentlemen, especially those who are too tall, and is most necessary to ladies, who are in no way allowed to spring in noble dance [i.e.,ballroom dancing].

In contrast, the theatrical dancer was expected to rise off the floor ”with considerable force” in order to reach an impressive height, although terre-u-terre jumps were also used on stage as well, as will be seen in chapter 3. Indeed, dancers were expected to be airborne on stage: We know that everything that is found in la belle danse is also to be used here [in le ballet sCrieux], only that it must be done high, not terre-riterre, whence the rule can be formulated that all dances that are done with considerable force, with all sorts of springs, quick variations, and many capers belong to le ballet se‘rieux and thus take on utterly different characteristics. (Bonin 1712, 159)

Men dancers in particular were expected to reveal the strength of their legs in high beaten jumps. Bonin (1712, 188, 175) again notes that ”if only men dance together, however, then it goes without saying that the higher they dance, the better the entrke appears” and that “a man, however, is not so closely bound to the floor. Here, there must be more rapid interweaving, the feet doing most of their work in the air. Those who cannot do this ought to stay away from the stage, for drowsy people do not belong on it.” Taubert (1717, 559),

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drawing on Bonin, likewise stresses the importance of elevation in theatrical dance: Just as in this other branch of dance, namely serious dance, all the steps, even those which are borrowed from la belle danse, are done high with considerable force (not to mention here the sundry capers, or powerful springs into the air wherein the feet must work away in the air for most of the time), so the arms here as well, which should necessarily accord with the legs, must always be held high, to the sides in a straight line with the shoulders.

To Pasch (1707, 80), the caper, the quintessential element of theatrical dance, was by definition a springing step that was to show both elevation and stamina: “As capers are used in ballets more than in any other dances, it is to be borne in mind that capers are steps done in the air and show how the body can rise ever more and more and how high the body can do this, whether rising into the air off both feet or off one foot.” In agreement with this emphasis, Hogarths Charmers of the Age (see fig. 5.1) shows Phlip Desnoyer rising nearly three feet into the air, according the “Scale of feet” and “Prickt lines shewing the rising Height” marked in the illustration. Such elevation was necessary for the dancer to have enough time in the air to beat h s legs or feet together, successively opening and then briskly closing the lower limbs in order to beat, usually ”two or three times,” according to Taubert (1717,724).Taubert writes in connection with the cabriole droite, for example, that one is to spring straight up with the body steady and straight as a board, after having taken tempo [i.e.,done a preparatory plie] on both legs, and in the air beat both legs together at the same time, either above with the calves, or below with both feet well stretched, two or three times from the sides without the calves meeting, and land again on one leg. The latter, the French call a cabriole en ailes de pigeon because [the feet] go beyond, one against the other [weilen es gegeneinander iiber gehet], as pigeons clap their wings [together].

Behr (1703b, sec. 4) in like manner writes that the performer of cabrioles should cut more than once while in the air, that he should ”freely beat twice below with both feet stretched.” Similarly, Magri (1779,1:131-32) notes in connection with the sissonne battue that the dancer should do “one or more beats (only one would be dull).”

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The preoccupation with elevation off the floor could also manifest itself in lifts wherein the male dancer lifted his female partner up into the air in the course of dancing (pace De Mille 1963,98). A pas de deux performed by Catherine Roland and Michael Poitier at London’s Drury Lane Theatre in 1736, for example, concluded with such a lift, much to the displeasure of one spectator, who in his letter to the Grub Street Journal (8 Jan. 1736) takes to task ”Madamoiselle ROLAND’Sdancing: every one who has seen her dance knows, that at the end of the dance she is lifted by POITIER, that she may cut the higher, and represent to the whole house as immodest a sight as the most abandoned women in Drury-lane can shew.” In his description of Charles Bernardi’s ballet La foire, performed in Vienna‘s Kartnertortheater in May of 1761, the Austrian Zinzendorf similarly alludes to a woman dancer being lifted by her partner: ”The ballets were good; the first showed a fair, blacksmiths beating iron (you could see sparks). Paganini in a coffeecolored costume jumped quite high, being held up by Boccherini.”’ According to Dorat (1771,153), the dance of such sylvan figures as satyrs and nymphs typically involved lifts. He notes that ”to the sound of oboes, the light satyrs as they smile lift the nymphs of our woods.” Lifts appear to have been used even outside of dance on the eighteenth-century stage; among Probst’s 1729 engravings of various staged scenes from the commedia dell’arte is one in which Pantalone carries off his daughter in a lift (fig. 2.16). Lifting the woman into the air in the course of a dance in fact predates the eighteenth century and figured prominently in the late Renaissance dance the z~olta,for example. Lifts were also used in folk or national dance of the eighteenth century, most notably in the allemande, as we shall see below, and evidently in Catalan folk dance as well (fig. 2.17). The bucolic scene of a gentleman lifting his partner a little off the ground in a dance on the green to the accompaniment of an oboe depicted in Cochin’s 1750 engraving Le saut de In d a m e (fig. 2.18) is likely an attempt to capture a lift in folk dance as well. The fundamental difference between the dance of the ballroom and that of the theater, the former marked by its modesty and simplicity and the latter by its exaggeration, vigor, and complexity, was not, however, an innovation of the eighteenth century. Already by the second half of the seventeenth century, the dance of the theater

Figure 2.1 6. Detail of Pantalone carrying off his daughter in one of eleven narrative engravings depicting a scenario from the commedia dell’arte, 1729, after Joh. Balth. Probst (after drawings by Joh. JacobSchubler), in the Biblioth&que Nationale, Paris, reproduced in Duchartre (1955) in the insert entitled “L’enlbement d’lsabella.”

Figure 2.1 7. Catalan folk dancers performing a lift, circa 181 0, after Maurin, reproduced in Vuillier (1 898, 21 4).

Figure 2.1 8. Detail of the engraving Le saut de la dame, 1750, after Cochin (after Cillot), reproduced in Populus (1 930, pl. 36).

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was ”more daring and more vigorous” than ballroom dancing, as de Pure indicates (1668,24849): The pas de ballet [i.e.,ballet dance] does not consist merely of fine movements of the feet or sundry motions of the body; it is made up of both and takes in everything that a very nimble and well-trained body can have in the way of gesture and action in order to express something without speaking. Even though it must be more daring and more vigorous than the common dancing used at balls and in ordinary household dances, which women as well as men take pains to do well, even though, I say, it must have something livelier and gayer, it is not without its rules and laws, which render it perfect or defective in accordance with whether these are followed or dispensed with.

Indeed, again according to de Pure (1668,283-a), the simple dance of the ballroom, and with it the ballroom dancer, was out of place on stage, owing not merely to the different steps used but also to the skill and conditioning needed to perform them in the theater: We can now judge of the dancers and discern those who are fittest to answer to our purpose. No one will be hard set to imagine that there are persons of quality as well as others who dance ordinary serious dance perfectly well, who shine at balls, or anywhere else where it is a question of dignified simple dance, but who are not fit for ballet. The reason for this is not as evident as one would think, and this is due not merely to the difference in the PAS but even to the strength of the [dancer’s] constitution, conditioning [habifude], and ear, and of a thousand other things which are utterly needful in order to dance well in a ballet. Strength and constitution are the first two elements of a dancer, because of the fatigue and vehemence. Doleful, heavy, or stupid action is out of place in ballet; liveliness, lightness, and ingenuity are needed, and even conditioning is to be added here in order to strengthen even more the dancer’s constitution, giving him breath, breaking him in to the different steps and sundry jumps that he must do.

What made performance dance in the seventeenth century “more daring and more vigorous” than social dance was in part the extravagant movements cultivated (fig. 2.19). As Borromee remarks (1664, 95), evidently referring to open-air performances specifically, ”it is true that the most extravagant movements, and those most clearly at odds with Christian virtue, are found in these lunds of dances, whch are usually called ballets and which are performed in the streets and squares” (cited in Kougioumtzoglou-Roucher 1990, 2:25). Not only

Figure 2.1 9. late-seventeenth-century dancer, after an unknown artist, in the Bibliotheque Nationale, Cabinet des Estampes, Paris, reproduced in Kirstein (1984, 64).

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extravagant movement but also h g h gambols figured prominently in this style of dance, so that according to Richelet (1680,1:61),ballet by definition was ”dance that is almost completely in the air, wherein several persons dancing together form sundry h d s of figures.” In contrast to professional dancers with their exaggerated movements and airborne gambols, social dancers of the late seventeenth century cultivated a modest terre-a-terre style, for as Furetiere (1690)notes in his entry under the rubric of dame, ”the high dance is that of professional dancers,’ who do capers and gambols; the low dance is that which is done modestly and terre-h-ferre, like that of fashionable7people.” Among such capers, entrechats evidently figured prominently, for Du Manoir (1664, 72-73) singles out these steps in particular as means whereby professional dancers of the seventeenth century sought to impress their spectators: As soon as only one dancer is off beat, be it ever so little, he is dragged off and cannot be brooked; in vain does he do prodigious entrechats, in vain does he handle himself with extraordinary suppleness; if he does not dance with method and with the measure, he will be a laughingstock to the greater part of the spectators, far from being a source of admiration to them.

Extant descriptions of theatrical performances in the second half of the seventeenth century likewise bear out de Pure’s assertion that theatrical dance needed to be ”more daring and more vigorous.” Pierre Beauchamps, the foremost French dancer of the second half of the seventeenth century, was known for both lus suppleness and elevation in capering. As Loret (1877, Feb. 1657,2:301)remarks in connection with Les plaisirs froublks performed in 1657, ”tlus ballet is a backdrop against which the incomparable Beauchamps, with his wondrous suppleness, elevation, and justness, capered so high that he was proclaimed that day by his noble spectators to be the best dancer of France.” Louis Pecour, or Bathyllus, as La Bruyere discreetly calls h m in his Caracteres of 1688, likewise showed remarkable elevation in his capers. La Bruyere asks, (1998, In),”where will you find, not among the order of chezialiers, whom you disdain, but even among clowns, a young man who can rise as high when dancing and who can cut a caper better?” In connection with a royal ballet performed in 1654,Loret (1857,May 1654,1:490)comments upon the remarkable degree of suppleness in the executants, or as he puts it, “the perfection of the dancers, their steps, and their extreme suppleness.”

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Indeed, there is no evidence to support the tacit assumption underlymg much thinlung about early dance generally that exaggerated movement, both in the height to which the lunbs were raised or the elevation reached in jumping, is only a relatively recent phenomenon. Fleeting references to exaggerated and difficult movement in performance dance can be found for periods stretching back as far as classical antiquity. W e it is beyond the scope of t h s study to delve too deeply into the differences setting apart social and performance dance styles, a few examples will suffice to provide some hstorical context to the issue of range of movement in eighteenth-centurytheatrical dance. In his Essais of 1580, Montaigne (1962, 2:453), for example, alludes to the acrobatic dance of some, who, not from the ranks of the nobility, were evidently not keen upon the aristocratic affectation of dancing in a contained manner but rather sought to distinguish themselves through ”dangerous jumps” and other ”acrobatic movements,” that is, through a display of techrucal prowess: [Certain poets] get up on their high horse because they are not strong enough on their own legs, just as at our balls, these men of low birth, who make a school of it [9ui en tiennent escole], for they are not able to show the bearing and decency of our nobility, seek to recommend themselves through dangerous jumps and other outlandish, acrobatic movements, and the ladies find a better marketplace for their countenances in dances with sundry figures and bustling bodies than in certain other promenading dances wherein one needs only to walk with a natural step and display an unassuming bearing and ordinary grace, just as I have seen outstanding comedians, clad only in their ordinary garb, with their countenances as usual, give us all the pleasure that can be derived from their art, while novices and those not so highly skilled need to whiten their faces, dress up, and deform themselves with wild movements and grimaces in order to get us to laugh.

Perhaps the best documented of such ”acrobatic movements” of late sixteenth-centurydance is the salto delfiocco, or “tassel jump,” an impressive spring wherein the performer attempts to touch with h s foot a tassel or some other object held aloft at some height. Caroso (1581, 12) describes the feat as follows: The Salto del Fiocco. This is done by holding a tassel wherever you wish, as high as a man, more or less as it so pleases, and standing with the back turned toward the tassel, then raising the left foot somewhat and at the same time raising the right foot, turn the whole body to the left, rising as

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Chapter 2 high as you can and crossing the right leg over the left, and raise the toe of the right foot high enough so that it touches the tassel, landing on the floor (on the spot where you began) with the same right foot.

This tassel jump survived almost unchanged into the nineteenth century as a feat unique to the grotesque style. Magri (1779, 1:125) gives a description of this jump from the second half of the eighteenth century and notes that when performed to the fore, “it is possible to raise the hat from the hand of a very tall man up on a chair with his hand stretched up.” Roller (1843,220-21) notes in his description of the same jump that ”this spring was always a tour de force of grotesque dancers, wherein a basket or something like it was hung on a tree much higher than the dancer himself, and he would knock down the object with afiocco, whereby the spectator could assess and marvel at the force and height of the jump.” Negri (1602, 78) also instructs his reader in a number of the capers described in his handbook, such as in the salto fondo, to “rise off the floor as high as you can.” Impressive elevation was evidently achieved in other jumps as well, such as those illustrated in a scene from Le nozze degli dei of 1634, reproduced in Kirstein (1984, 14), whch shows two male dancers jumping so high into the air that their toes are level with the midthigh of a third dancer standing on the floor beside them. References to exaggerated or contorted movement in connection with performance dance are relatively easy to find in early sources as well. Itinerant English entertainers performing in Nuremberg in 1612, for example, used contortion in their dancing, according to an anonymous citation given in Voss (1868,256): From the twentieth to the twenty-third of October, some Englishmen, appointed comedians to the Landgrcf in Kassel and Hesse, performed fine comedies and tragedies that are to some extent unknown in Germany, by privilege of the Burgomaster at the Halsbrunnen court here, and accompanied with good fine music, as well as all sorts of foreign [welsck] dances, with odd contortion, hopping, springing to the fore and rear of oneself, throwing [oneself] over [i.e., somersaulting], and other strange gestures, which were comical to see.

The early-seventeenth-century Spanish dance the zdlano made conspicuous use of a high luckmg movement known as the boleo, described in detail in Esquivel (1642, 19-20). Here the foot of the ges-

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ture leg was to be raised as high as possible, the less skilled sometimes falling backward onto their backs in their attempt to raise the foot to an impressive height: The boleo is done in the idlano. It is a kick that is done in some of its variations by raising the foot as high as you can, stretching the leg well, and in doing so, take great care when raising the foot to the extreme, for I have seen some fall on their backs in raising the foot as much as possible. And for [an example ofl greater exaggeration, in a bole0 done in the aillano, a student from the school of Joseph Rodriguez knocked down with his foot a candlestick hanging like a lamp two hand breadths higher than his head.

Nett1 (1962, 88) cites a description, found in a 1557 travelogue, of women performing a passrpied that involved such high extensions of the leg; according to the source, ”the women dance alone, raise their skirts, and swing their legs up to the ceiling.” A dancing Harlequin seen by a certain Laneham during the Kenilworth festivities of 1575 in England extubited such remarkable flexibility in his acts of contortion that his body did not seem to have any bones in it: Noow within allso, in the mean time, waz thear sheawed before her Highness by an Italian, such feats of agilitie, in goinges, turninges, tumblinges, castinges, hops, jumps, leaps, skips, springs, gambaud, soomersauts, caprettiez and flights; forward, backward, sydewize, a downward, upward, and with sundry windings, gyrings, and circumflexions; allso lightly and with such easiness, as by me in feaw words it iz not expressibl by pen or speech, I tell yo0 plain. I bleast me by my faith to behold him, and began to doout whither a waz a man or a sprite. . . . Az for thiz fellow, I cannot tell what to make of him, save that I may gesse hiz bak be metalld like a lamprey, that haz no bone, but a lyne like a lute-string. (cited in Nichols 1967?, 1:.23041)

References to and depictions of dancers executing exaggerated movements or feats of contortion can also be found in sources from the Middle Ages and even classical antiquity. An Arab-Andalusian poem entitled ”The Dancer” from early-thirteenth-century Spain, written by Ben Jaruf of Cordoba, describes a dancer executing what appears to be the feat known today as the ”bridge,” wherein “he touches his head with his feet like a well-tempered sword which can be bent until the hilt joins the tip” (cited in Gomez 1942,

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138). Depictions of such feats of contortion can be found in illustrations from the period, such as those given in Busch (1982?).The medieval manuscript Heures b Z’usage de The‘rouanne contains an illustration of a tableau from some sort of performance to the accompaniment of music and shows one of the performers with his leg raised to the height of the hip (fig. 2.20). Unambiguous depictions of dancers raising their leg to the height of the hip or even higher can be found in connection with even more ancient sources as well, such as classical Greek vases (Emmanuel 1895)and ancient Egyptian tomb murals and inscriptions (Brunner-Traut 1992). In his Institutio Oratoria, Quintilian gives a cursory description of a pantomimic dance performance from the first century A.D., one clearly involving exaggerated and contorted movement, for the dancer ”leaps on one foot then on both, stands on his right foot, and lifts his left leg up to his breast and shoulder, bends it round his back to his neck, whirls around, bent over backwards, so fast that his head seems to circle on the ground” (cited in translation in Hammond 2000,140). Exaggeration, such as that found in the eighteenth-century dancer’s lofty jumps and high extensions of the limbs, was and of course still is an mherent part of theatrical representation. Indeed, it was the very heart of theater, as a critic in the Journal e‘tranger notes (Jan. 1761,55-56):

Figure 2.20. Detail of a tableau, after a marginal illustration in the medieval manuscript Heures a /’usage de Therouanne, folio 63, ms. lat. 14284, BibliothPque Nationale, Paris, reproduced in Jomaron (1988, 37).

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In order to arrive at some idea of the nature of the pleasure created by this kind of spectacle [i.e., opera], we must be allowed to offer some considerations on the subject of theater generally and first of all to get rid of the almost universal misconception that theatrical representations must be an exact imitation of actions from everyday life. If this were true, it would be enough, in order to perform such a spectacle, to take up a position in the comer of a cafe, gaming room, or a public place so as to see what is done and hear what is said, which no one has hitherto thought of doing. The pleasure that one experiences at a spectacle is not to be found in the faithful painting of human actions but in the exaggeration of what can happen and what sometimes in fact happens. This exaggerated imitation alone can procure pleasure; indeed, if in the locales just mentioned someone remarkable through a more striking character is met, he draws to himself looks and attention and becomes an object of curiosity.

This love of exaggeration in the eighteenth-century theater manifested itself in a predilection for a great deal of melodramatic “sound and fury” generally, for a kind of “bread and circuses” to please a restive and even riotous public, much to the distaste of a critic in the Mercure de France (3 Mar. 1781,29-30), who writes in h s review of Gardel’s ballet Lafite de Mirza that broken down into two classes today, [the theater-going public] is more apt to lead astray than to lead. The first class, made up of people whose taste has been developed through study and experience, see the ill but moan and hold their tongue out of fear of exciting the anger of all those little Salmoneuses, whose thundering voices echo throughout cafes for intellectuals. As to the second class, it is seduced with words, amazed by cries, amused with images, and bribed with tickets. It is they as well who, cold to the performances of works govemed by reason and genius, wildly applaud scenes of robbing, whoring, and killing; it is they who withhold their approbation (which they lavish with a kind of fury on wretched acrobats) from the small number of writers still able to do honor to our literature. This is because this class most certainly makes up the greater part of the audience in every theater, because it is imagined that we are given a would-be pantomime ballet wherein one breakfasts in the first act, or shoots savages dead in the second (a spectacle worthy of cannibals); the third act shows some soldiers maneuvering on a parade ground and the preparations for torturing someone and the anguish of a woman begging that her husband, who is about to die at the stake, be pardoned, and

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the fourth act finally (through a miracle all the more striking because it does not happen through any apparent agency) shows the deaf able to hear and the dumb able to sing, wherein a Natchez dressed like an Inca is entertained by the performance of an Asiatic comedy executed to music on a little stage twenty feet away from the orchestra, which must accompany the singers and assure their pitches and bring them back when they go astray.

Four years later, a critic in the same journal (28 Feb. 1784,183) similarly deplores the inability of theatrical performers to resist “the pleasure of exciting the momentary applause that is too easily obtained through exaggeration of every kind and which, in all our theaters, is perhaps more harmful to the progress of the dramatic art than anything else.” The exaggeration of the dancer’s movements, both in jumping and in simply raising the limbs, was not merely an aesthetic choice but also a visual necessity in the eighteenth-century, as it still is today. As Behr notes (1713,115),”the pas de bullet on stage are to be adjusted in accordance with the nature of the artificial lighting, the distance of the spectators, and the meaning of the representations”; that is, the height of jumps and limbs needed to be greater than within the smaller confines of a ballroom in order for the dancer’s movements to be perceived by an audience sitting at a distance and to fill, as it were, the darker and larger space of the theater. Taubert (1717, 959) discusses this basic principle of theater in greater detail: Likewise, before the elaboration, even before the established skeleton is fleshed out, one must give some thought above all to the space in which the entrie is to be danced and adjust the steps accordingly, for if it is to be done at an assembly, where the space for dancing is commonly very cramped and by far not so roomy as in theaters, then the gentle steps are best suited, when mixed now and then with neat capers and other moderately high steps and accompanied with a camage of arms that is not too high..‘ If they are to be danced in an opera or play in a large theater, however, either solo or by several persons at the same time, then the high figured pas de ballet and powerful springs into the air (which must be adjusted here in accordance with the nature of the artificial lighting, the distance of the spectators, and the meaning of the representations) as well as the high port de bras par terre look the best, for not only is the space of the theater in this way well filled, but also the dancers have a far freer run and spring in their feats.‘ ”It is very unsavory,” says Herr

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Pasch in his Beschreibung zijahrer Tam-Kunst (p. 79), “to see a dull entree in a magnificent theater.”

The Academie Royale de Musique, or the Pans Opera as it was more commonly called, was to be found in just such a “magnificent theater,” wherein the dance steps and movements needed to be “adjusted” so as not to be lost on its large, dimly-lit stage before a throng of spectators at some distance from the dancers. The second Pans opera house, which opened in 1770 and burned down in 1781, was a large edifice. It could accommodate as many as 2,500 spectators (Pitou 1983, 1:26), and according to Donnet’s scaled plan of the building (1821, pl. 13), the stage was roughly six toises in breadth, that is, about forty feet across, but deep enough as well to allow over a hundred bodies to maneuver successfully on the stage at one time. This was the case in Gaetan Vestris’s buZZet d’ucfion entitled Les urnours d‘Ariune et Thesee mounted in 1774, in which as many as forty dancers and eighty supernumeraries appeared on the stage simultaneously (Guest 1996, 70). This large theater, then, with its seventypiece orchestra and corps de ballet of nearly a hundred dancers (Pitou 1983, 1:26-27), was clearly suitable only for the grander movements of dancers and not the smaller gestures of actors, as Grimm notes (1879, 1 July 1770, 9:76): ”Tragedies and comedies should not be played on the stage of the Opera because they are without effect on so large a stage, as experience has shown; these representations ought to have a small theater set aside for them.” If the sheer size of the building itself succeeded in dwarfing the dancers, the darkness on the stage further made the groupings and designs of the dances appear less distinct and the dancers’ costumes look dirty and faded despite their freshness: What darkness reigns in the middle of the stage at the Opera! They must seriously think of lighting it more; it is the first way of making a spectacle magnificent.All the money spent on costumes will be lost if the light never reaches those who wear them and the finest groupings in ballets will be without effect. The reflectors could extend the light; by increasing them and mounting them on moving uprights, the light could be directed as needed, and some parts [of the stage] could sometimes even be without in order to highlight the plan, the which would give more life to the picturesque effects. By making the lighted objects brighter, the designs of the ballets would be more distinct and the groupings would be more pronounced. The costumes of the dancers

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Chapter 2 would look fresh much longer rather than in fact dirty and faded when seen from afar even though they are still very fresh when seen close up. (“Observations sur 1’Opera” 1777, 23)

The need to exaggerate the steps and other movements in theatrical productions in order for the dancers to be perceived by an audience set back at a distance becomes even more apparent in connection with the large open-air performances of ballets mounted every year by the Jesuit College de Louis le Grand in Paris until 1762. Ballets were inserted between acts of a tragedy performed in Latin by the college’s students, and the directors of the prestigous institution, not content to embellish the stage with the finest decorations and to dress the performers in the richest costumes, even have the best performers from the Opera come either to dance on their stage or play in the orchestra. They place a ballet between all the acts, usually directed by Monsieur Blondy. An open-air stage is erected in the Jesuits’ court running from one side of the wall to the other with a sail stretched over the entire space as a cover against the rain. The whole area of this court, which is square and very spacious, is filled with benches for the spectators, the number of which is so great that not only all the seats are taken but even all the windows of the college that overlook the court are filled with people from top to bottom. (Nemeitz 1727,108-9)

The small movements of the ballroom dancer would have been utterly lost on the stage erected in the form of a ”monument” for the college’s performance of a ballet in 1748, for example, which was “102 feet long, 48 feet high, and 30 feet deep,” that is, roughly 108, 51, and 32 imperial feet respectively (Mercure de France Aug. 1748, 163), or in the ballet mounted in 1725 ”before nearly five thousand people” (Mercure de Frame Sept. 1725,2064). The Italians, even more than the French, were very keen on spectacle and clearly outdid the French in theatrical magruficence.As the author of the “Lettre sur les spectacles d’Italie” concedes (1726, 82), ”it must be owned that the Italian theater on the whole is grander and more amazing than ours.” Quatremere de Quincy (1789, 129) similarly remarks upon the pomp of the Italian stage, especially in ballet: “To pantomime ballets, always independent of opera, [the Italians] have relegated all the pomp of the stage, the illusions created by painting, the movements of dance, and all the play of acting. It is a true feast for the eyes.“ In order to make possible huge spectacles, the

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stages in Italian theaters were remarkably deep. De la Lande (1769) notes that the great depth of the stage is one of the advantages that spectacles enjoy in Italy. As will be seen below, that in Parma has a depth of 124 feet [i.e., roughly 131 imperial feet]. In this way, one can represent with as much truth as grandeur battles and triumphs, assemblies of the nation or the senate, sacrifices,hunts, and so forth. One can develop the action there, give greater lifelikeness to the asides, lend more dignity to the spectacle, place the choruses without confusion, design grand ballets, and mount spectacles with sets that are grander and thus even more magnificent. (cited in the journal de musique 1773,6:37-38)

Indeed, as Cochn notes (1758, 85), Italian theaters were so grand that ”the ordinary size of our [French] stages at their longest side would scarcely give a fore-stage equal to those seen in the great theaters of Italy.” At least one of the performance spaces in Turin, for example, was large enough that “up to two hundred horses were manoeuvered on the stage,” as the dancer %bastien Gallet mentions in a letter to La Ferte, the director of the Paris Opera, dated the second of August 1783 (trans. in Guest 1996,203).According to Sara Goudar (1777,1:15),the Teatro di San Carlo in Naples was large enough that it could accommodate “four or five thousands maskers” during the masked balls held there in the 1770s. Similarly, Alessandro Verri (1998,165)notes in a letter dated 14 March 1770 that 160 bodies appeared on stage in an unnamed ballet mounted in Rome in the same year. Indeed, the small movements typical of the ballroom dancer would have been utterly lost in the ancient amphitheater of Verona, which was still used for theatrical performances in the eighteenth century. As de Brosses notes in his Italian travelogue of 1739-1740, ”thanks to God, one is not hard pressed to find seats at the comedy in Verona; it is performed right in the middle of the ancient amphitheater of the Romans, and there is nowhere else for the spectators to sit but right out in the open on the steps of the amphitheater, where there is enough space to seat thrty thousand” (cited in Sand 1862, 1:172). It was noted above that Weaver (1712,162-63) isolated two basic differences between ballroom and theatrical dance, namely, that not only were the same steps executed differently but also that the choice of steps differed, ”all Steps from the Ground,” that is, all jumps, being particularly suitable for the stage. French ballroom

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dancing was largely a “cadenced walk” (Pauli 1756,50), the dancer availing himself of mainly terre-a-terre steps; even when he chose to do a springing step, it was often done s a m sauter, that is, by bending and simply rising without jumping. As Bonin notes (1712, 51-52), the feet were seldom to leave the floor in French social dance: As for the first part [of the art of dance], or In belle danse, it is so done that the feet leave the floor seldom and very little. Here, one must forgo all springing and capering and rather largely endeavor only to see how far one is to bend and rise elegantly, how far one is to move the whole body, the head, and hands gracefully (which of course is also to be observed in ballet). As almost all the dances in this part [of the art of dance] are done with a woman, I would gain little honor if I were to do nothing but jumps and capers before her and race past her with such force that she should become alarmed and affrighted that I might break arms and legs.

In the theater, however, much of the dancing consisted of high beaten jumps, or ”capers,” and was as far away from social dance ”as water is from wine”: The high, or serious, dance is as far from the foregoing [i.e., la belle danse] as water is from wine, for which reason either of the two cannot be [indifferently] used here, for the most difficult steps and springs are found here, which demand not only considerable strength but also such gracefulness that nothing unpleasant can be seen anywhere in the body. In this dance, one must come down onto the floor seldom and very little but rather rise now here, now there, with the greatest of nimbleness and speed and show such quickness in the feet that the interweaving is like lightning, and at times it cannot be made out which is the left and which is the right leg. Neither the body nor the head and hands must be forgotten here, however, but even these, one must still know how to manage in such speed so that a pleasing attitude is presented. (Bonin 1712,56)

Even when dances that quintessentially belonged to the ballroom, such as the minuet, were used on stage, they took on quite different characteristics and were performed mainly with high jumps rather than the gentle terre-a-terre steps of the ballroom: By figured minuets, however, are meant those which are made up mainly of the ordinary composite minuet steps (moderately intermixed here and there with balancis, contretemps,fleurets, and other gen-

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tle steps) and of utterly unfamiliar symmetrical figures and tours . . . for the variation, rather, as was said, is completely and only in the figure, unless one wishes to dance it on stage instead of an entrie, where it of course takes on quite different characteristics and is danced mostly with high steps. (Taubert 1717,616-17)

H;insel(l755,173-74), drawing on Bonin, likewise equates animated h g h jumping with theatrical dance: Even in plays, however, serious ballets can be performed, commonly in conformity with the character of the former. In these dances, one must have swift feet and must be more in the air with them than on the floor, soaring now here, now there, with the greatest of nimbleness and showing such speed with the feet that their interweaving is like lightning, it being impossible to make out the left from the right leg. In doing so, neither the body nor the head or hands must be forgotten, but even these one must likewise know how to manage in such speed so that a good attitude can always be maintained. In itself, jumping is no art, but jumping gracefully and presenting a nimble figure, quickly fitting all the steps to the cadence and coming down on the cadence is a great science, this exercise taking more than a pair of shoes, great strength, and long practice. The steps are made up of quick and embellished springs into the air wherein the dancer soars strongly into the air by bending and rising with both feet and there beats the legs a number of times against or over each other and does some steps before coming down onto the floor again.

Such soaring “strongly into the air“ was most evident in the dancing found in the 1761 performance in Vienna of Angiolini’s pantomime ballet La halte des Calinouckes, wherein “the men and women dancers jumped prodigiously high,” as Zinzendorf notes in his journal entry dated 23 March of the same year (cited in Brown 1991,307).To Algarotti (1755,21), the dancing found in operas as well was nothing more than ”an indecent jumping around” to the point of exhaustion: But what can we say then of this dance of ours which people are so taken by? Aside from the fact that it never forms part of the drama, it is nothing more than a perpetual monotony of a very few steps and a very few figures, a capering about to the point of exhaustion, an indecent jumping around, which should never be applauded by genteel persons.

The eighteenth-century dancer’s talent was largely ”reduced to capering,” and the closer he came to the ceiling of the theater in his

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endless high jumping, the greater was his chance of winning fame. As Goudar puts it (1773a, 83-85), if the great inventors of ballets are removed from nature, those who perform them are no less so; their talent is reduced to capering. It is no longer a question of dancing but of rising. There is a goal that each is to reach Those who come closest to the ceiling of the theater are the most celebrated; everything is reduced to tours de force and endless gambols without drawing breath. As this school is emulated as much as the others, one sees everyday dancers turned out gifted with great talent, that is, with great muscle. We have heard said here of a famous historical pantomime, who, in order to show the public the strength of his legs, offered in a grand heroic ballet to land in an aplomb on his right foot, after having done two hundred entrechats and as many tours de jambe, and remain in equilibrium for eight minutes, in order to give the pit enough time to clap. The King of Prussia, who calls a spade a spade, refers to these great men as rope-dancers. For my part, whenever I see them do their dangerous jumps, I am always afraid that they will break their necks. My fear is all the more grounded since I had the misfortune to be present at a performance of a grand heroic ballet wherein a god in his pantomimic efforts so ill judged his bisque that he hurled himself into the orchestra, where he broke five or six instruments, disordered as many wigs, and knocked a violinist to the ground, whom he almost killed instead of killing himself.

Accidents were very common on the stage, as dancers attempting to be brilliant with all their capering were driven to execute feats beyond their strength or ability, whch led Noverre (1760,325) to recommend that dancers, Monsieur, ought to follow the same regime as athletes and use the same precautions as they do when the latter go to wrestle and fight. This care would spare them the accidents that befall them daily, accidents as new-fangled on the stage as capers, which have increased in proportion with the desire to outrage nature and force it to do that which is most often beyond her strength.

Regardless of the possibility of injury, theatrical dancers, especially the men, entered into a competition with their rivals to surpass each other in the execution of tours de force, such as entrechats and multiple turns in the air:

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For some time now there has been among the dancers a competition in strength and lightness, the abuse of which strikes us as contrary to good taste and the true end of dance. Those turning entrechts and double and triple pirouettes in the air or on the toe of the foot cannot fail to please in their proper place, but if repeated endlessly and used unsparingly everywhere, from the heroic style to dances of rustic shepherds, if performed only with effort, which is incompatible with the fine divelopponents of the body and the harmony of all its parts and even with the correct performance of the steps, such tours de force, which dazzle the crowd, can only shock persons of taste. Through such unsparing use hereof, all the genres are confounded, the sameness of it all becomes wearisome, and that feeling of grace is lost, undone by any show of effort, and cannot be replaced by anything else without loss. (Mercure de France 31 Aug. 1782,227-28)

Just such a ”competition in strength and lightness” was evident during the premiere of the New Ballet mounted on 8 April 1788 in London’s King’s Theatre. As one English viewer remarked, ”last night Monsieur Vestris and Monsieur Gardel exhibited a kind of cock-jighfing. . . . They strained every nerve in order to outvie each other in the various accomplishments of the capering art” (cited in Price et al. 1995, 519). To be sure, such high jumping is exhausting and technically demanding, requiring a degree of strength beyond the abilities of a frail amateur. As Taubert clearly indicates (1717, 1063), “such a pupil, with a weak and frail constitution lacking the requisite strength, can also keep merely to galaizf and decorous dance, developing and strengthening h s limbs with moderate steps, and wholly forgo then theatrical dance, which demands truly energetic strength.” Without strength, little or nothing could be done in the mainstream airborne style of eighteenth-century ballet: From these [descriptions of capers], one can clearly see then what is required in le bnllet skrzeux and can see that it is not child’s play but a point of convergence for all difficulties which will squeeze a good deal of sweat out of many a one and make for very weary legs before it can be seen on the stage, for without strength, nothing can be done, and without patience here, one should forgo thisundertaking for good, for few [amateurs]wdl be found who will wish to imitate such aghty. (Bonin 1712,170)

In fact, one of the reasons given for French dancers’continuing to wear masks was that such coverings h d all the p a c e s as the dancers strained to execute endless capers: ”Several people fancy that masks

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serve two purposes, the first to create uruformity and the second to h d e the twitches and gnmaces produced by the effort expended in a painful exercise,” for “the twitches, contortions, and gnmaces are less the result of habit than of the violent efforts made in order to jump” (Noverre 1760, 217, 221). All this capering and jumping required youthful strength, so much so that de fact0 most dance careers in the eighteenth century were largely over by the dancer’s early W e s , or as Ange Goudar remarks (1773a, 122), ”the career of a great woman dancer is almost always over at the age of thuty.” K s wife, Sara Goudar (1777,1:29-30), similarly notes that ballet was an art form restricted to the young. She writes in connection with the pantomime ballet Alceste mounted in Naples in 1777 that ”the two principle women dancers do not lack talent but lack youth, for thuty-seven and thuty-eight make indeed seventy-five.A pas de deux with seventy-five years in age is a ballet from the past century. To my thinking, a woman in the theater can sing until forty but must stop dancing at tturty.”So exhausting was mainstream eighteenth-century ballet that the dancer could not dance for more than thuty-two bars of music without becoming winded. Magri (1779, 1:105) notes in connection with chacomes, for example, that they need a numerous troupe offigurunts (and it is most necessary to balance the figures) since with these dancers, the corps de balleth of a chuconne begins. After thesefigurants have danced more or less twenty-four bars, the ballerino appears in a solo or duet and dances for as many bars again, at most thirty-two, for a ballerino or ballerina cannot dance more than this, and if one can find some who dance more, they are those who, not specializing in a like kind of dance, do aplombs, attitudes, and that which takes up much music without dancing. In this way, more than twenty-four or thirty-two bars can be freely danced here, but if the aplombs were adapted to the quantity of the music, one would certainly not be able to dance for more bars than that already given.

The fatigue occasioned by this airborne style of dance could not always be hidden from the public. A couple of dances performed by Auguste Vestris and Theodore at the Paris Opera in December of 1780, for example, were evidently so fatiguing that the executants could not h d e their lack of energy during one of their performances; ”these two dances are truly tiring, for in the performance on Sunday the ninth, the two sujets whom we just named did not dance them but merely marked them, whch is certainly much easier for the ex-

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ecutants but much less agreeable for the spectators” (Mercure de France 15 July 1780, 138). So popular was this capering and jumping that it dominated most of the stages of eighteenth-century Europe; indeed, as Ange Goudar (1773a, 121) remarks, “our century is the age of the caper.” The Spectator (24 Mar. 1712) notes at the beginning of the period, for example, that “Capering and Tumbling is now preferred to, and supplies the Place of, just and regular Dancing on our Theatres.” A Satyr Against Dmcing (1702, 5-6) in like manner indicates that airborne steps with “cuts,” or beats, as performed by the likes of the Frenchborn dancer 1’Abbe in entr’actes in Betterton’s Lincoln’s Inn Fields Theatre, for example, dominated the stage to the point that such capering ”ruined” every scene: The Fair thus wave what Bafterfon will say, And only talk how finely danc’d L‘abbee; Those Cuts in th’air how sudden nice and clean; These Entertainments ruin ev’ry Scene.

Noverre (1760,283-84), writing in the second half of the eighteenth century, took great exception to h s contemporaries’ continued preoccupation with capering, whch resulted in the body being “ceaselessly shaken by violent and reiterated jolts,” and saw it as a serious impediment to meaningful, that is, pantomimic, dance: It is a given that the breathlessness whch results from such painful labor stifles the language of sentiment; that entrechafs and cabrioles alter the character of la belle d a m e [i.e., the grave style]; and that it is morally impossible to put soul, truth, and expression into movements, while the body is ceaselessly shaken by violent and reiterated jolts, and while the mind thinks only of sparing the body from the accidents and falls whch threaten it at every moment.

However much he may have complained about the excessive capering in ballets generally, Noverre himself was a creature of his time. He allowed the principal dancer in h s Apelles et Campaspe of 1776 to caper away to the point where ”Alexander, played by Gardel, would rather give up h s world empire than h s entrechats”; indeed, to Grimm’s tlunking (1879, Oct. 1776,11:357-58), the second act would have been more of a success if “the conqueror of Asia had done fewer pirouettes and fewer dangerous jumps.”

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So obsessed with capering were eighteenth-century dancers that they more often than not resorted to the feats of the high dance, to ”meaningless nimbleness,” where the plot of a pantomime ballet required a simple pantomimic gesture: If the shortcomings found in the composition [of ballet plots] are great, those observed in the execution are no less so. Bereft of any philosophical idea of the true art for want of education or study, dancers are not able to distinguish between what requires artful dance and what requires imitation but mix the one with the other and confound them in such a manner that you are forced to see only the dancer where only pantomime is sought. This one sees either in their practice of choosing to do so often and without any true judgment the dance that is called high, which by all reason ought to be fully barred from the pantomime stage as that which, imitating nothing and reducing every movement of the body to meaningless nimbleness, is useless for creating a good dramatic effect, or in the uniform and similar attitudes with which they present themselves on stage so that in each character you have them done forward with the head always raised in a certain manner, with their arms curved like those of one who wishes to fly, with their heels raised off the floor or lightly pressing the floor, as if Ninias, Ulysses, Idomeneus, Telemacus had just come from a dance hall where they had taken a lesson together from the same master; or in that restlessness to take occasion at every moment to let the legs be brilliant as if the imitation of nature and the expression of affects were to be found in them rather than in the movements of the other limbs, in the eyes and countenance, the latter more often than not almost idle and neglected. (Arteaga [1785] 1998,257-58)

Just such a preoccupation with ”meaningless nimbleness” evidently led Angiolini to forgo the staid gravity needed for his role of Pluto in the pantomime ballet L’enl2z1emerzt de Proserpiize of 1757 and to choose to be incongruously “light”: “Monsieur Angiolini, her husband, could have been better as Pluto, but he preferred his usual lightness to a genre of dance and costume that was more fitting to the subject and the grave character that he took on” (Journal encyclopidiqiie 15 Sept. 1757, 130). This love of ”Capering and Tumbling,” this tremendous penchant for embellishing steps with brilliant beats in the air, was in fact a manifestation of the eighteenth-century’s passion for ornamentation in general. None of the performing and visual arts from music to painting, not to mention such other fields of applied art as fashion and interior design, were left untouched by this desire to divert the

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senses in a plenitude of embellishing detail; as Angiolini ([1773] 1998,61) complains of his age, ”the excessive quantity of ornaments mars all the arts and all their genres.” Descriptions of dance performances from the period provide concrete examples of the ”excessive quantity of ornaments” with which ballet was laden. The most popular of such terpsichorean ornaments was clearly “the entrechat, which is today the highest expression of dance” (Goudar 1773a, 70). Indeed, a string of brilliant entrechats was ”uncommonly h e ” in the eighteenth-century theater, according to Bonin (1712, 167), particularly when performed crossing the stage: Further, there are entrechats which are done one after the other a number of times in advancing over the stage, likewise executed with both feet crossing and are uncommonly fine but are considerably difficult as well, like the entrechat en tournant; it is to be understood here, however, that the advancing must be done de c6te‘, for when done straight out in front, they are not as clean [i.e., brilliant] because they do not take up such space as they do to the side.

When beaten h six or a h i t and repeated twenty to forty times in succession, the entrechat provided eighteenth-century dancers with a piece de resistance that could impress their spectators, as it did de Brosses during h s visit to Italy in 1739-1740. There to his amazement he saw a woman dancer perform twenty entrechats a huit in succession: But what has continually amazed me, even though I have see it daily, is a young woman dancer who rises at least as high and as strongly as Javilliers, who does twenty entrechats in succession without stopping, beaten a huit, and likewise with all those ‘entre-steps‘; of strength that we so marvel at in our masters, such that with regard to lightness, Camargo is a dancer of stone next to her. The women dancers in this country are generally much stronger and higher than ours [in France]. (cited in Sand 1862, 1:172)

In his description of a performance of Angolini’s pantomime ballet 11 re alla caccia, mounted in Venice in 1773, Ange Goudar (1773a, 57) also alludes to repeated entrechats, with the dancer in the role of Henri IV executing ”a string of entrechats,” as noted earlier. Nor were impressive displays of entrechats restricted merely to soloists; members of a corps could equally well avail themselves of

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strings of such brilliant steps, as did those at the Comedie-italienne on 22 May 1755, who ended the coiztredaizse in the fifth entree of the ballet Le inni with a competitive show of entrechats: ”the three corps de ballet join together. The youth still take up the center and often find themselves under the arms of the other two corps de ballet, the which increases the figures such that there seem to be many more dancers than there are. The coiztredaizse ends with a war of entrecliats” (Mercure de Fraizce June 1755, 2:199). A critic in the Jourizal des tlzkhtres (15 Jan. 1778, 196) in like manner remarks upon the use of the much loved entrechat by corps members in a scene of pillage from the opera Enzrliitdr, mounted at the Paris Opera in December of 1777: ”In Erizeliizde, we have indeed seen soldiers from the lands of the Goths, Swedes, and Hungarians do pirouettes among the debris of a city consumed by flames and eiztreclzats among its ruins.” So eager was the eighteenth-century dancer to reach an impressive height in such jumps that purity of technique was often sacrificed. According to the author of the ”Lettre d‘un abonne” (1778,199), the typical dancer ”rises as high as possible when doing an entrechat; hence, the absolute necessity of bending the body in two in order to double his strength,” instead of keeping himself ”straight as a board” (Taubert 1717, 724) during Lne preparatory bend. More robust dancers in the grotesque style could increase the number of leg movements in the air during such jumps to as many as ten or twelve. Magri (1779,1:130),for example, boasts of having been able to do an eiztreclznt A dix with two full turns in the air in his younger days: ”I was known for doing two turns interwoven ii dix in these capers, just as Vigano was singular in doing one turn interwoven u d o m e under the body and in beginning his pirouettes riz I’air [i.e., tours en l’air] in Spanish fifth.” The famed French dancer Antoine Pitrot was notorious for repeating or sustaining difficult feats that at times went beyond the bounds of good taste. The Austrian Count Khevenhiiller notes in his journal on 8 May 1756, for example, that Pitrot performed around forty consecutive cnbrioles li six, presumably cabriolrs croiskes, that is, entrechats a six, during one of his performances on the Viennese stage: ”Others will not easily come close to the figure of Pitrot, his manner of presenting himself and particularly the strength of his legs, how he once performed forty or so cabriolrs ri six one after the other, finally landing aploinb on one foot and holding himself thus” (cited in Brown 1991, 159). Such lengthy displays of beaten jumps

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were matched by h s sustained balances, even on pointe, which could last up to two minutes according to M a p (1779,1:91): As for aplomb, no one can match our much beloved Pitrot. He has succeeded in remaining aplomb for two minutes, and during this he has done every conceivable beat, en dedans, en dehors, high, low, ktendu, sur le cou-de-pied, as many as the skill of an expert ballerino makes possible, with tours de jambe done in sundry ways. This alone, however, is not worthy of amazement, for what is more [remarkable is that] he does not remain in equilibrium on the ball of one foot, as others do, but raises the whole body on the tip of the big toe and straightens all the joints so perfectly that the thigh, the leg, and the foot itself fall into one perpendicular line.

If such prolonged capering or sustained balances were not enough to amaze the spectator, Pitrot could resort to lengthy pirouettes, as he did in a performance of the ballet Le pouvoir des dames, mounted at the Comedie-italienne in 1765, wherein he performed a pirouette, presumably a pirouette sautillke or some kind of composite pirouette, that went on endlessly. As G r i m notes (1878, 15 Dec. 1765, 6:446-47), the ballet ”was so excessively long that the pit, bored to tears and afeared of spending the night at the Comedie, began to groan frightfully, especially when towards the end Pitrot came toward the edge of the stage to do a pirouette that in itself lasted a quarter of an hour.” Pitrot was not alone is his predilection for pirouettes of impressive duration; dancers throughout the eighteenth century cultivated turns as eagerly as they did capers. As one English critic complained around 1788, the art of dancing degenerates apace into downright tumbling: the chief merit of a modem dancer, consisting in various turnings and windings in imitation of the whirligig, which windings must abruptly end in the attitude of Mercury. This posture being evidently painful, becomes rather a tumbler than a dancer, who is ever supposed to move with ease; besides that it is so often repeated, that every dance offers a dull and tedious uniformity. (cited in Price et al. 1995, 519)

The author of the ”Lettre d’un abonne” (1778, 198-99) found the eighteenth-centuryballet dancer’s preoccupation with the number of rotations in multiple pirouettes excessive. He asks, “is it not madness, moreover, to prefer a sextuple pirouette to one with two or three turns

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done gracefully, since the former can be performed only from a preliminary position which has little to do with dance and with a lund of preparation characterized by a self-conscious attitude of the body and arms such that the dancer seems to say to the spectator, ’take note, gentlemen, I am about to pirouette.”’ One of the great strengths of Noverre’s choreography was that it did not consist merely of such feats as ”unending turns.” As the Afiches puts it (16 Oct. 1776), the ballets of this great master are not composed solely of monotonous patterns, unending turns and balancings, and steps that are stunningly difficult but convey no meaning to the spectator’s heart or mind. Here we have magnificent tableaux, ingenious groups and alluring attitudes following one another in rapid succession, and controlled attitudes which, at moments of pathos, can often draw comparison with the masterpieces of the Theitre Francais. (trans. in Guest 1996,96)

The eighteenth-century’s preoccupation with turning and multiple pirouettes is evident from other sources as well. According to Magri (1779, 1:89), a ”forced” pirouette was one by definition wherein the dancer twirled around as many times as possible: ”There are also forced or indeterminate pirouettes, which are done on the toe of only one foot, upon whch you quickly do as many turns as you can. It is said to be indeterminate because the number of turns hinges not upon the will of the dancer but on the greatness of his ability and agility.” A dancer in the grotesque style in the 1750s and 1760s, Magri (1779, 1:90) in fact boasts that in multiple pirouettes ”I have done as many as nine turns, with the good fortune of having found a place on the stage where I could turn without lundrance.“ Such whrling constituted an essential part of some roles in the eighteenth-century theater, such as those of the Bacchants, Winds, and Furies in particular. Le Jay (1725),for example, indicates that the dance of the Winds was typically ”characterized by frequent pirouettes that imitate the whrling of the wind” (trans. in Dorvane 1998,283).The love of twirling is evident as well from a comic dance scenario given in Lambranzi (1716, 1:7) that consists of nothing but turning punctuated by striking wooden plates together: “A man and a woman come onto the stage here and threaten each other with wooden plates, and while they continually turn around to the beat of the music, they strike the plates one against the other, and afterwards once they embrace, they throw away the plates, and the dance ends.”

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Turns of impressive duration were not restricted solely to fine dancers in reputable theaters; even fairground dancers and acrobats availed themselves of these feats, as did one woman seen by Uffenbach (1935,130)during h s visit to London in 1710, where he had occasion to marvel at this dancer’s ability to twirl around “with the greatest celerity” on a barrel for as long as a half hour: We saw one female who, for a small fee, did all kinds of dance figures with a bare sword, as you will have heard. I must confess that I have never seen anyone whose movements were so nimble. She twirled round with the greatest celerity for a good half-hour on a barrel. The most difficult thing of all that she did was to take two sharp swords between her breasts, two on her eyes, and three with the points in her mouth, and to twirl round like this; those in her mouth she held with her teeth, but the other four her hands. This is a wild and dangerous English fashion of diversion.

Despite Uffenbach’s claim that t h s was an “English”diversion, such acts of twirling with swords or daggers placed dangerously against the body were clearly a common feat among early-eighteenthcentury fairground dancers. Het groote Talereel der Dzuaasheid (1720, 41) includes an illustration (reproduced in Lawner 11998, 681) of a woman performing such a feat, while Nemeitz (1727, 176-77) describes more or less the same act in connection with the goings-on at the Paris fair, during which he saw the so-called English turner, around twenty years of age, who remained almost a half-hour on the same spot, ever turning around like a top with great rapidity, while she would often change now to the right, now to the left, and holding six naked swords in her hands with the points turned towards herself, she put one of them to her breast, one to her eye, another to her stomach, and so forth and even changed them often while she turned around incessantly, but at the end of the piece she gathered all six of them under one arm with unbelievable speed, a most dangerous profession.

A critic in the Baierische Bqtrage zur schonen uiid iziitzlichen Litteratur (1779,353)also alludes to acrobats turning for an impressive length of time, mentioning ”a rope-dancer or performer of tricks [who] stands on the tip of one toe for a quarter of an hour and whirls around.” Tlus plentiful use of pirouettes and multiple pirouettes was not an innovation of the eighteenth century but merely a continuation of a

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practice lnherited from the previous century, for already by the middle of the seventeenth century, pirouettes clearly figured s i p f i cantly in theatrical dance. In a royal ballet mounted in 1656, for example, Loret (1877, Jan. 1656, 2:150) saw “twenty exceptional dancers, who did more pirouettes than one can see larks in Beauce.” A dancer of a saraband described in the appendix to Pomey’s dictionary of 1671could ”pirouette so quickly that the eye could not follow” (trans. in Little and Jenne 1998,94). So popular were such turns that some ballroom dancers of the early seventeenth century, eager to emulate their whirling counterparts in the theater, met with censure from de Lauze (1623,36), who disapproved of mixing into social dance ”pirouettes (I mean with several violent and forced turns),’’ which more properly belonged to professional dancers. Multiple pirouettes of four or more rotations were in fact already an established element of dance by the beginning of the seventeenth century. Negri (1602, 91), for example, instructs the would-be student of his dance handbook to practice turning ”until you can turn around at least three or four times, or as many more as you can.” In contrast to the exhausting virtuosity of theatrical dance, obsessed as it was with capering and turning, eighteenth-century ballroom dancing with its simple terre-a-terre steps was ”temperate” and ”much less tiring,” as Dufort (1728)makes clear in his preface: Of these two kinds of dance, that of the theater, with its repetition of beaten, capering, and turning steps, is very exhausting to dance. Only to professional dancers (of whom very few succeed in the theater and consequently come to be highly regarded) is it or should it be of use. The dance of the ballroom or of thefestino, on the other hand, of which we wish to speak and with which I will deal in this book, is much less tiring than that of the theater. It is of use to ladies, gentlemen, and other genteel persons, ar.d even monarchs have not been free from the wish to learn it; for this reason, it has been given the name ’noble dance.’ . . . This noble exercise, which is not violent, but temperate, besides being required, is necessary for persons of distinction and equally serves those as well who need to exercise to keep the body in health.

Even when dances that properly belonged to the stage, such as chaconnes or sarabands, were performed in the ballroom, they were to be done with gentle terre-k-terre steps: “In la belle danse can be included even sarabairdes and chacoirnes; they must, however, be made up of gentle steps, for tlus is required in la belle danse. Thus, one says

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when these or other such dances are danced gently at assemblies that 'the gentleman is properly dancing ferre-u-terre, or par terre"' (Bonin 1712, 137). Indeed, the ballroom dancer was not to imitate stage dancers, for "it shows as little taste in social dance to imitate dancers from the opera as it is to imitate the grotesque dancers of Italy or the bayadkres of Hindustan" (Martinet 1797, 21).8Capers generally were quite out of place on the ballroom floor, however popular they were on stage, and any amateur dancer who paraded h s skill in their execution was apt to be dismissed as a "showoff." Taubert (1717,1060), for example, laments that it is a blinding and indeed a most hoodwinking madness when many a beginner in choosing a good master has an eye only for the high capers and great springs into the air, and I do not wish to repeat here from the chapter 35 that at the present time one dances in a most gentle manner at all the courts, indeed, at the conzJersationsqalmost everywhere, and absolutely no capers are to be seen anymore, unless a Haseleus shows up wishing to show off with his skill.

Even accomplished nonprofessional dancers generally avoided in the ballroom anything that smacked of the theater and endeavored to dance "in a most gentle manner," above all in the minuet, the most popular French ballroom dance of the period: [Tlhe minuet, just like the courante, is danced in two ways, either simple or figured. By the simple minuet is understood the ordinary minuet, which is current and known throughout the whole world, likewise danced in two ways, namely, low and high. By the low minuet is understood the common manner of dancing it with its familiar figure and main terre-li-terre step; by the high, on the other hand, when it is danced by those who already know a good something about dancing and are capable of forming all kinds of pleasing manikres [i.e., ornaments], which are varied with all manner of high and much more artful steps both in the upper and lower straight lines as well as in the giving of hands and dancing back, and so forth. But these days, however, the gentle manner gives the greatest pleasure, indeed, so much so that even the best of all dancers wholly forgo the great variations taken from the high dances (whch could, otherwise, very well be used in the minuet, where everything is normally free) and, on the contrary, endeavor to dance in an entirely gentle manner, both with the hands and feet as well as with the whole body. (Taubert 1717,616)

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Outside the theater, dancing was not an end in itself to be pursued with passion but a means to a social end, namely, developing graceful movement and providing an entertaining forum for people to socialize and interact. llus view of dance as a means rather than an end is particularly evident in Captain Edward Topham’s remark about the Scots, who, as Topham discovered during h s visit to Edinburgh in 1774-1775, unfashionably danced for the sake of dancing: “The young people of England only consider dancing an agreeable means of bringing them together. But the Scotch admire the reel for its own merit alone, and may truly be said to dance for the sake of dancing” (cited in RSCDS 1992, 1.3). The Tufler (2 May 1710) in like manner remarks upon the age’s greater interest in developing graceful movement rather than skill in dancing, noting that ”the Opera’s which are of late introduced, can leave no Trace behind them that can be of Service beyond the present Moment. To sing, and to dance are Accomplishments very few have any Thoughts of practising; but to speak justly, and move gracefully, is what every Man thinks he does perform, or wishes he did.” Too keen an enthusiasm for dancing and for learning too many dances was not genteel, as Kemmerich notes (1711),warning that a gentleman should not play the dancing master. Thus, if he knows how to dance mannerly above all a minuet, a courante, besides the old and new passepied, then I’Aimable Vainqueur and perhaps a few other new dances, that is, to my thinking, enough for a gentleman. He, however, who wishes to show off with too many artful entries and sarabandes places himself in a position where the intelligent will think that he has spent more effort on secondary rather than primary things. (cited in Meletaon 1713,82433)

Ballroom dancers in fact were to avoid dancing ”too exquisitely” and were to cultivate rather an ”Artful Carelessness,” or a fashionably easy negligence and nonchalance. As Weaver remarks (1712,65-66), TO Dance too exquisitely, is, I must own, too laborious a Vanity; and to be totally ignorant of it, and of that Carriage, Behaviour, Fashion and Address, gain‘d by learning it; shews (on the other hand) a Man either Stoical,or but meanly bred, or not us’d to Conversation. The best therefore is a kind of Artful Carelessness, as if it were a natural Motion, without a too curious and painful practising. . . . And in my Opinion it is requisite for a Man so to Dance as not to put his Friends or Acquaintance that behold him out of Countenance; or that he should be asham’d were his Enemy standing by.

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The eighteenth-century practice of cultivating a certain ne‘gligence in ballroom dance was mherited from the second half of the seventeenth cenhry. Indeed, the passage gven just above from Weaver is in fact partly derived from an earlier seventeenth-century source, namely, Owen Felltham’s Resolzws (1661,338),which sirmlarly states that To dance too exquisitely is so laborious a vanity, that a man would be ashamed to let any body see, by his dexterity in it, that he hath spent so much time in learning such a trifle. And to be totally ignorant of it, and of the garbe and comportment that by learning it, is leam’d; shewes a man either Stoical or but meanly bred, and not inur‘d to Conziersation. The best is a kind of careless easiness, as if ‘twere rather natural motion, then curious and artificial practizing. (cited in Ralph 1985, 503-4)

Felltham’s contemporary de Pure (1668, 246) in like manner notes that ”too great an attachment can be vulgar; it is shameful for a gentleman to strive to be a great dancer, a h e singer, or a slullful painter rather than to be brave if he is a soldier, learned if a scholar, or industrious if in business.” Scattered references in the sources describing the goings-on at balls during t h s period show that those dancing “beyond their station,” as it were, or attempting to impress with too many artful movements generally met with ridicule, particularly in the atmosphere of petty jealousy and rivalry prevailing at princely and royal courts. A certain Montbron met with just such a scornful response during a French royal ball in 1697, wherein the aristocrat’s conlidence in dance far outstripped his slull and led h m to commit the faux pas of attempting more than he could do. SaintSimon writes in h s Me‘rnoires (1953,1:42) that Montbron had been asked if he danced well; he had answered with a confidence which made everyone hope that he danced ill, and everyone was satisfied. From the first bow, he became confused; from the first steps, he lost the beat. He thought that he could catch up again and hide his mistake through affected airs and a high port de bras, but this made him only more ridiculous and excited bursts of laughter, which degenerated at length into veritable hoots, despite the respect due to the person of the King, who had difficulty keeping himself from laughing.

The practice of cultivating an “Artful Carelessness” in lateseventeenth-century social dance was evidently as much a necessity as a choice, since most amateurs do not appear to have been accomplished enough or even physically fit enough to perform difficult dance movements. According to the duchesse d’Orl6ans (1984, 7),

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the general level of physical fitness at Louis XIV’s court, for example, was remarkably low. The duchesse claims in a letter dated 5 February 1672 that those at court “are as lame as geese, and except for the Kmg, Madame de Chevreuse, and myself there is not a soul here who can do more than twenty steps without sweating and puffing.” Indeed, social dancing altogether appears to have suffered a serious falling off in popularity in the late seventeenth century. The duchesse (1984, 88) again writes in a letter dated 14 May 1695 that ”dancing must be out fashion everywhere. At every gathering here in France people do nothing but play lansquenef. This game is all the rage now, so the young people no longer want to dance.” Even the would-be ”theatrical” dances in amateur productions staged at court by more accomplished aristocrats, who had the time and means to study dance more intensely than others, needed to be much simpler than those executed by professional dancers, for as de Pure notes (1668,248), no matter how skillful or clever [the dancing masters] may be, they are greatly hampered by the stupidity of most great lords and persons of quality. Normally, the latter are incapable of anything and hence force the most skilled and competent masters to reduce the force of the step, the nimbleness of the movement, and the other graces of dance so as not to mangle an entrie with their different steps and movement.

The desire to cultivate an ”Artful Carelessness” in eighteenthcentury ballroom dance influenced not only the choice of steps and the manner in which they were done on the parquet but also the kinds of dances preferred in the ballroom. To match their relaxed manner of dancing, social dancers throughout the eighteenth century typically eschewed slow or technically demanding dances, which required skill and control, and restricted themselves to freer, more romping dances, above all to English country dances, which were more in harmony with the lighthearted and self-indulgent sensibility of the age. The country dance, which tended towards the rollicking rather than the genteel, had became popular among all classes of people in England during the seventeenth century and was quickly ”transplanted into almost all the Courts of Europe; and is become in the most August Assemblies the favourite Diversion” (Weaver 1712, 170-71). Already by the middle of the seventeenth century, English country dances were being danced on the Conti-

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nent. According to Bulstrode Whitelocke's Jourizal of the Swedish Ambassy, the revels occasioned by a visit of English diplomats to Sweden in 1654, included English country dances, for on one occasion, "several1 others of Wtelocke's gentlemen were taken forth by the Swedish ladyes, to daunce english countrey daunces, wherein the english gentlemen were expert, and taught them some new ones," while on a different occasion in the same year "many of the gentlemen and ladyes fell to dauncing of french daunces and country daunces above two howers togithers" (cited in Skeaping 1967, 26, 29). These jolly dances, enjoyed by high and low, in no time eclipsed and then replaced the grave ballroom dances lnherited from the late seventeenth century. As Bonnet notes (1723,134-35), since the marriage of Monsieur le Duc de Bourgogne [in 16971, one has seen the noble and serious dances year by year disappear, such as the bocanne, the canaries, the passepied, the Duchesse, and many others, which consisted in showing the fine grace and fine air of grave dance as it was practiced at the time of the old court. The brrinle, courante, and minuet have scarcely been saved; in their stead, the younger sort at court dance contredanses, in which neither the gravity nor the nobility of the old dances can be found. Such are la jalousie, le cotillon, les munches zlertes, les rats, la cabarretikre, la testard, le remouleur, and so forth, so much so that in the course of time only clownish dances will be danced any more at ceremonial assemblies. This will mean the end of the serious dances and justifies the reproach that the French are of a fickle humor and in this as in many other things often sacrifice the good to the pleasure of novelty.

The freedom inherent in the English country dances, particularly in their steps, which did not demand the same discipline as those of formal French dance, often manifested itself in a general romping abandon: This puts me in mind of the English dances, which are very common at balls these days. Whoever has seen them danced will have observed that in them one is not bound to any graceful or artful steps but rather is concerned more with jumping in the German manner, wherein nothing more than the particular figure is observed. Some take this freedom too far and jump around far too annoyingly and make such a noise with their stamping feet as if Dick and Harry were doing their kermis dance on the dance floor with Bess and Molly. (Meletaon 1713,201)

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Such dancing in the so-called German manner meant simply romping about more or less like peasants without much art or discipline. This free and unstructured way of dancing, well captured in William Hogarth’s engraving The Country Dance (1753),was enjoyed by high and low, as Bonin notes (1712,23940): As for so-called ’German’ or common dancing, it is not only in use everywhere among the common people but is even found at balls and at courts, for even in this sort of dance people wish to enjoy themselves after the galant or French dances. I can give no good reason why it is called ’German,’ for I know that the common people and peasants in France jump around in just such a manner and that it thus could just as well be called French dancing, but perhaps because it has been common in Germany for a long time, it has been so named, for it could be called more suitably common jumping or common dancing. Indeed, it is more than too common, for as already said, not a wedding is held wherein one does not usually dance in this manner; to be sure, should one visit these festivities, one will see the guests dancing in the German manner.

In his retrospective look at dance in eighteenth-century Edinburgh, the Scotsman William Creech (1815, 114) in like manner comments upon the romping character of country dances, noting that by 1786 “minuets were given up, and country dances only used, which had often a nearer resemblance to a game of romps, than to elegant and graceful dancing.” The freedom and abandon characteristic of eighteenth-century English country dances consisted not merely in the ”German” steps but also in a kind of egalitarianism wherein social rank counted little. As Bonin remarks (1712, 235), ”in English dancing, wherein the whole assembly can dance together at one time if the space is large enough, rank is not so strictly observed as before, but whoever can dance the best is placed foremost, with the ladies and the gentlemen across from each other, unless some other arrangement is required by the figure.” Such freedom and abandon were not to everyone’s taste during the period. Bacquoy-Guedon ([l778], 55-56) felt that the unstructured manner of dancing common in country dances would lead to bad dance technique and even to a loss of moral fiber. As his reviewer in the Mercure de France aptly summarizes (Feb. 1778,152),Bacquoy-Guedon ”takes to task English and German contredanses, the figures of which are too unbridled and excessive, whch c a w the body to contract bad

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habits and whch can even be dangerous to the morals of youths. It is to be wished that they be replaced with French contredanses, wherein the expression is less strong and the movement better regulated.” So popular had romping country dances become that by the second decade of the eighteenth century, the only formal French couple dance commonly figuring in social functions throughout most of Europe was the minuet. Taubert (1717,615)notes, for example, that the minuet ”is a right merry dance common everywhere and is indeed the most beloved dance at the present time so much so that at all the assemblies throughout almost the whole of Europe nothing but the minuet is danced apart from the old passepied and some English dances.” Despite the popularity of the minuet, few evidently danced it well, not surprisingly gven the overall preference for a certain negligent air on the ballroom dance-floor. As Josson remarks (1763,23), ”there are few persons who dance the minuet, for apart from a very small number, all the rest are ignorant of it down to its most basic principles. Those who take a turn around the room executing some ill-formed steps fancy that they know how to dance the minuet, which they have learned perhaps in fifteen days or in a month at the very most.” Indeed, the preference for a certain artful carelessness in social dance led some to abandon the port de bras of the ballroom minuet altogether and confine their efforts to the feet. Taubert (1717, 553), for example, notes in h s discussion of the minuet that “these days indeed some foolish teachers and corrupters of dance assert that the port de bras is now no longer in fashion and thus discard it because it is too affected.” Hiinsel (1755,128)similarly writes in his section on the minuet port de bras that ”many do away with it altogether and reason that it is no longer in use; others claim it is affected; still others deem it most unnatural, irrational, and forced.” The German dance, or the allemande (not to be confused with the so-called German dancing mentioned above), became particularly popular throughout fashionable Europe in the second half of the eighteenth century. Ldce the English country dance, it allowed the executant to romp with a certain measure of abandon, for the allemande was almost completely unstructured and improvisatory. As Hiinsel notes (1755,162), “its figure is not regulated, and each dancer can perform it according to his own fancy,” and ”its form and port de bras can also be done in ddferent ways.“ According to Pa& (1756,65),the abandon of the allemande was evident particularly in German-speakmg parts: ”There is hkewise the allemande, which is danced as a diversion; it is

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well imitated, but rarely does anyone acquire the lightness and the daring turns of the natives of that country where persons of the lughest standing turn throwing themselves from one arm to the other, pirouetting under the arms and rising into the air so much so that the positions are not very moderated.” The abandon marufested itself most clearly in the gentleman f i g or even throwing lus partner up into the air wlule dancing. In his discussion of the allemande, H;insel (1755,162-63)touches upon such lifts and notes that ”the gentleman customanly dances straight up to the lady, takes her under the arms and raises her in the air,or even takes her around the waist with both hands and wlurls [her] around in a large turn, turns,and often in doing so throws her into the air while turning around.” Noverre (1760, 358) also alludes to llfts in German dancing. No rule is without its exception, however. Despite the overall preference among amateurs to cultivate a more relaxed manner of dancing and to eschew technically difficult dance movements and more demanding dances, some amateurs throughout our period clearly acquired an impressive level of technical proficiency in formal dance and did in fact avail themselves of their skill in executing more difficult steps throughout the period. As we will see in greater detail in chapter 9, such displays of technique were confined largely to more intimate gatherings, where one was more at leisure and less concerned about making an impression; to divertissements at formal balls, where such display constituted a form of entertainment to break up the monotony of too many minuets; and above all to amateur theatricals and to masquerades, where the anonymity of the mask ensured that the participants could save face if terpsichorean intention outstripped performance ability or one rival outdanced another. As Bonin (1712,159430)makes clear, the high dances “must not be danced anywhere else except at masquerades or redoutes or on the stage in plays and operas, although they may be done at an assembly among very intimate and well-known good friends, when one wishes to be particularly merry, where galaizferie and the proper character of the dancing are not so strictly observed.” NOTES 1. Special thanks to Bruce Alan Brown for supplying this quotation. 2. In the seventeenth century, the term baladin was a common designation for a ”professional dancer.” Furetiere (1690) himself gives as a definition “dancer by profession on public stages, who dances for wages and for

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money. It is sometimes more generally used of buffoons or clowns, who amuse the people." The Dictionnaire de I'Acadimie of 1694 likewise defines the term as an "ordinary dancer in ballets" (cited in KougioumtzoglouRocher 1990, 2:24). By the 1770s the word was largely pejorative: "Baladin. This word used to mean any theatrical dancer; it is now used to designate only a clown" (Dictionnaire de I'Acade'inie 1778, 1:95). 3. The word honn2te, translated here as "fashionable," had a wider field of meaning in seventeenth-century French than it does currently. Furetiere (1690)defines the word thus: "That which merits esteem and praise because it is reasonable, in accordance with good morals; it is used above all of a man of wealth, a fashionable man who has adopted a worldly air, who has sazloir ziiiire. " 4. Even such a large space as the Paris Opera, which was regularly converted into a ballroom after opera performances by raising the floor of the pit level with the stage, could become so thronged with people that little room was left for dancing. At a masked ball held there in 1721, for example, "the crowd of maskers was so great that one could dance with ease a little only at four o'clock in the morning when people began to leave" (Mercure de France June 1721, 5). Sara Goudar (1777, 1:56) similarly writes that at an Italian masked ball in 1777 "the crowd was so great that you could have suffocated there." 5. Taubert uses the French word tour here, which can mean either a "figure" in dancing or more broadly a "feat"; the context above suggests the latter is meant. 6. C o y s de ballet here means simply the combined entrees or individual dances rather than the combined forces of the nonprincipal dancers. De Pure (1668,228)uses the expression corps de ballets in a similar sense and defines the term thus: "The c o y s de ballet is nothing other than a combination of the entries and incidents which go together and make up a pleasing whole." 7. Entrepas, translated here as "entre-steps," is presumably a play on entrechat. The term entrqas was also used, however, in horsemanship to denote "a forced gait or in fact a broken amble" (Trichter 1742,624). 8. Martinet gives in fact "baladieres," presumably a slightly garbled form of b a y a d h a influenced by baladins. 9. A Conzlersation was a social gathering with no planned entertainments or refreshments; that is, "the conversation consists merely of talking" (Taubert 1717,1108).

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Chapter 3

The Four Traditional Styles of Ballet

Beware of errors of taste that might lead you to make a Tartar dance like a sylph, or a peasant like Telemachus. (Daubervall797, trans. in Guest 1996,404)

While the dance of the eighteenth century was broken down broadly into two very different and distinct styles, namely, ballroom dance and ballet, so too the latter was further subdivided into distinct styles. There were in fact four broad styles of ballet cultivated in the eighteenth-century theater, and these "characters," as they were sometimes called, were distinct not only in the kmds of personages portrayed or the sorts of costumes typically used but also in the choice of steps, ports de bras, and attitudes, and even in the manner of executing these movements or positions. Since art was to hold a mirror up to nature and truthfully reflect the differences found among men, so too ballet as an art needed to portray these differences with verisimilitude, at least in theory. Given that, say, a lung and shepherd were not to move or comport themselves in the same manner in life, both these characters in the fictional world of the theater needed to dance differently and move in a manner befitting their station, and likewise with other characters as well, or as Dorat puts it (1771,171), "the dance of a shepherd is not that of a god." This cultivation of ddferent dance styles was not merely motivated by the dictates of dramaturgical necessity but was also based on the clear-eyed recognition that not all the bodies or aptitudes of dancers are equal or interchangeable and that each dancer is naturally well suited to some kmds of movements but often dl suited to others. In 81

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contrast to its homogenized modem counterpart, eighteenth-century ballet was more inclusive thanks to its cultivation of different styles and had room and need for different body types, for the natural gifts and shortcomings of each individual were not to be ignored but exploited. Ideally, each dancer was to follow his own bent and not be forced to execute movements at odds with hs inborn predisposition. Indeed, the secret of pleasing lay not in conforming to an outer model but in having the intelligence to recogruze and employ one’s own natural talent fully, as Borin makes clear (1746,20): Before concluding this fourth part, I think I cannot show the usefulness of the rules in this art better than by speaking of some dancers who have so perfectly availed themselves thereof and who have found the secret of pleasing and of procuring for themselves renown, although they were not born with all the talent needed to reach perfection. They have had the intelligence to employ only their natural talent, which they have managed with so much address that their admirers maintain they leave nothing to be desired. Those who have realized they have smooth, lithesome movements, a fine figure, together with exquisite taste and a grand possession, have chosen a style of dance that is terreri-terre, noble, gentle, and graceful. Others, knowing themselves to be light and vigorous, have chosen to dance in a lively and brilliant manner and to amaze through their elevation and the difficulty of execution.

The origin of the four traditional styles may well owe something to the old theory of the four humors, according to which each individual had h s own unique ”complexion,” or combination of “humors,” which were supposed to be the four body fluids of blood, phlegm, choler, and bile. A predominance of any one of these humors was thought to make an individual predisposed by nature to be respectively sanguine, phlegmatic, choleric, or melancholic. As Pasch puts it (1707,26-27), the whole body of the dancer is to be considered here and mainly what sort of complexion and strength the individual has and what sort of humor he has, since the background and station as well as the responsibilities and profession of a person rather often create many differences, in accordance with the proverb honores inutant inores [honors change manners]. This I have set down in more detail in my text, in the chapter dealing with what one is to observe in teaching dance to men, women, children, adults, the more aged, the tall, the short, the fat, the slender, the strong, the weak, the fiery and active, the phlegmatic and

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sluggish, the clever, the stupid, the capricious, and so forth, and all of this is in large part derived from the different complexions. And just as it is laugh-worthy when an individual who is saturnine, sanguine, and so forth saddles all the other complexions with rules which seem good to him for his affairs and would always be right for him but would make his complexion the sole ruler over all of [human] nature, so it would not be good if one did not distinguish between these complexions in the true art of dance but passed over everyone with one stroke of the comb.

The division of theatrical dance into distinct styles was not an innovation of the eighteenth century but was in fact a practice mherited from the foregoing period. Already in the first half of the seventeenth century, ballet was subdivided into at least two broad categories. Saint-Hubert (1641,4-5), for example, notes in his handbook on dance that ”there are two kinds of ballets, the serious and the grotesque.” In the late seventeenth century, the number of styles evidently increased, largely, it appears, as a result of Lully’s attempt to write more ”characterized” music that would capture the essence of a unique dramatic situation. Dubos (1719,1:493) notes in particular that ”the success of the airs de zdesse gave Lully the idea of composing some that were fast and characterized at the same time. One commonly calls characterized airs those wherein the tune and rhythm imitate the style of a particular kind of music and whch one can imagine to have been proper to certain peoples and even certain personages of ancient fables, who perhaps never existed.” Dubos (1719, 1:495)notes further that Lully’s novelty led to a variety and elegance in the ballets and violin tunes never before seen. Sixty years ago [around 16601, fauns, shepherds, peasants, Cyclopes, and Tritons danced almost the same. Dance today is divided into a number of characters, and each of these characters on the stage has steps, attitudes, and figures that are proper to it. Even women have little by little found their way into these characters.

In the eighteenth century, ballet was commonly but not invariably subdivided into four broad styles, whch are not always consistently named from one writer to the next. As noted in the previous chapter, these different styles could be designated by terms which in other writers refer to ballroom dance. Gallini (1762,72),for example, notes that “as to the different characters of dances, there are, properly

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spealung, four divisions of the characters of dances: the serious, the half serious, the comic, and the grottesque.” Gallini (1762, 19) evidently was uncertain whether the half-serious should be termed in fact the half-comic, for he speaks in one breath of “the moderately comic, or half serious.” Angiolini (1765)and Sulzer (1794,4:506)likewise subdivide theatrical dance into four different styles; Angiolini provides French equivalents for these characters: la belle danse or la danse noble for the serious, the demi-caractere for the half-serious, the comique, and the grotesque. Other writers give only three styles, with the comic and grotesque simply lumped together as a combined category, for as Weaver (1728a, 56) notes, the “Grotesque among Masters of our Profession, takes in all comic Dancing whatever.” These three styles appear in Bonin (1712, 58-59) as the ”serious” (ermtlzafftig); the ”brisk” (hurtig), that is, the half-serious; and finally the comic and grotesque (cornique et grotesque), dealt with as one. Noverre (1760,229-30) also discerns three broad categories: first, the “serious” or “heroic” (which he also calls la belle danse or la danse noble), second, the ”mixed” or ”half-serious” (which he also calls the demi-caractere or galant), and finally the “comic” or “grotesque”: Serious and heroic dance bears within it the character of tragedy; the mixed, or half-serious, commonly called the deini-caractkre, bears that of noble comedy, otherwise called high comedy, and grotesque dance, which is called pantomime and incorrectly so since it says nothing, borrows its features from comedy, from the comic, gay, and pleasant sort. The historical paintings of the celebrated Vanloo are the image of serious dance, those of the galant and inimitable Boucher for that of the demi-caractkre, and finally those of the incomparable Teniers for that of comic dance. The talent of the three dancers who particularly embrace these genres must be as different as their figure, their physiognomy, and their training. The one will be tall, the other galant, and the last amusing. The first will draw his subjects from history and fable, the second from pastorals, and the third from the base, rustic class.

Planelli ([1772] 1981,111, 113) initially indicates that dance ”is broken down into the h g h and low; the h g h dance is that which a dancer does in rising as h g h as he can off the floor with both feet, the low dance that which is done with both feet or at least one foot resting on the floor.” Later in his discussion of pantomime ballet, he discerns three styles, the “serious” or “heroic,” the “demi-caractere,” and the

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”grotesque.” Other writers reduce the styles to only two broad categories as well, with the serious and half-serious as one and the comic and grotesque as a second. Taubert often subsumes the grotesque mder the rubric of the comic, speaking, for instance (1717,962), of ”the movements in the bullet cornique et grotesque, or the art of comic dance,” while the combined serious and half-serious go by the name of la haute dunse or le bullet skrieux. Lange (1751, 6) similarly breaks down theatrical dance into only “le bullet skrieux and le bullet cornique et (1755, 173), who writes that stage dancing grotesque,” as does H-el is divided ”into two classes, to wit, the serious and the comic; the French call them, moreover, le ballet shieux and le ballet cornique et grotesque.” Weaver (1712,162-67) in hke manner gives the two broad categories of the serious and the grotesque, subdividing the former into the ”grave” (serious)and the ”brisk” (half-serious). Further subdivisions are made by others. In h s discussion of pantomime ballet, Arteaga ([1785] 1998,241),for example, discerns also a ”sylvan” and a “tragc” style: As poetry has its sundry styles, so does dance, and the shortcomings and virtues of both are regulated by the same principles. The attitudes are playful and merry in comic ballets, animated and terrible in the tragic, majestic and grave in the serious, beautiful and simple in the sylvan, charming and delightful in the amatory [i.e., demi-caractere], regulated and elegant in all. These are required for the styles of pantomime.

Dubos (1748,3:130)goes so far as to claim that “now the dance is divided into several characters. The artists, if I am not mistaken, reckon sixteen, and each of these characters has its proper steps, attitudes, and figures upon the stage.” Some sources, moreover, give even further alternate names for some of the styles outlined above. Instead of the comic or grotesque, Sol (1725,54),for example, speaks of “character dances, with peasants, and so forth.” The critics in the Mercure de France often give descriptive phrases when referring to the serious style, such as the ”the majestic, noble, and imposing style” (July 1772,2:146),or ”imposing, noble dance” (June 1772,158), or the ”grand genre of dance” (Oct. 1770, 1:159),or, finally, ”noble, graceful dance” (June 1771,176). The tendency to lump together the serious and half-serious on the one hand and the comic and the grotesque on the other reflects a basic feature of these styles. That is, the serious and half-serious were restricted to what one might call “classical” positions and steps,

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while the comic and grotesque often included nonclassical elements, such as positions without turnout, or jumps and steps taken from folk or national dance or from the repertory of movements common to fairground acrobats. Despite their differences, these styles shared many of the same movements, and the serious style in particular, also known as la danse noble, la belle danse, la haute danse, le genre gracieux, le grand genre, or the grave, was commonly held to be the foundation of the art. As Noverre puts it (1807,2:116),”the study of la belle danse leads to all the styles; it is the key, and this study is to the art what rudiments and grammar are to the purity of language.” Gallini (1762, 72) likewise indicates that ”for executing any of [the styles] with grace, the artist should be well grounded in the principles of the serious dance, which will give him what may be called a delicacy of manner in all the rest.” Despite its fundamental importance, the serious style was the least popular of the four traditional styles generally among audiences throughout eighteenth-century Europe. This character was, however, greatly popular in Paris, especially at the Paris Opera, and most of the great talents in this genre throughout the period were to be found manly in the French capital. The great Louis Dupre (1697?-1774), a pupil of Louis Pecour, was widely held to be the finest male dancer in this style from the first half of the period and had the honor of being called the ”God of dance.” Not only an outstanding dancer, Dupre was also a formative teacher, and many of the great dancers, teachers, and choreographers from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries could trace their pedagogcal lineage back to him. “llus fine dancer served as a model for Vestris the Elder” (Noverre 1807, 1:80),that is, Gaetan Vestris (1729-1808), Dupre’s pupil and then successor as principal dancer in the serious style at the Paris Opera. Vestris in turn became “the best model of la danse noble” (Mercure de France July 1772,2:150)and was similarly styled the ”God of dance.” Pierre Gardel(1758-1840) was also a noted dancer in the serious style at the Paris Opera. Dixmerie (1769, 524) notes that the character of the serious genre was greatly indebted to the famed dancer Marie Salle (1707?-1756), its most outstanding female practitioner in the early eighteenth century: “The noble genre also had women dancers of rare, outstanding talent. The old theater laid claim to the likes of Subligny, Guyot, and Prevost, but it was noble and graceful Salle who deserved and met with all the applause. It was she who established the notion of what tlus genre of dance should be.” Salle’s suc-

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cessor as the most outstanding female dancer in the grave style in the second part of the century was Anne Heinel (1753-1808), ”the most perfect model for serious dance” according to Noverre (1807,2:118), or as Bachaumont puts it (1780, 9 Aug. 1768, 4:78), ”the most majestic woman dancer within human memory.” Heinel’s LTersion of the serious style was so close to Vestris’s that in watching her perform, “you would think you were seeing Vestris dance as a woman” (Bachaumont and d’hgerville 1780,9 Mar. 1768,3:314). The serious style then was one devoted to the portrayal of the lofty, noble, digrufied, and sublime and thus was the style usual with such characters as gods, goddesses, lungs, queens, grand heroes, and heroines. Sulzer (1794,4:506),for example, makes clear that t h s style was to portray the ”high, serious characters” of tragedy: The fourth class encompasses dances of a high, serious character, as required by the tragic theater. They are made up either of solo dances, which portray only great and serious characters, or of whole actions of a certain theme. Here, everything must come together that the art can represent in terms of position and movement for the expression of great sentiment.

Given its task of portraying loftiness and digruty, the serious style by necessity was largely restricted to a certain gentle and ”languid” quality, characterized by “those tilts of the head, those cadenced unfurhgs of the arms, those libidinous movements of the body, the languor and softness of wluch put me to sleep as readily as one of Lully’s operas,” as Suard notes (1753?,33). T ~ ”softness” E did not imply lunpness but rather a digrufied fluidity and smoothness. Such ”strong softness”was clearly typical of Heinel’s dancing, for her admirers found particularly laudable the ”dignity and gracefulness of her person and perfection of her dancing, which is at the same time soft and strong, bold and graceful” (Mercure de France July 1770, 1:185). Since the grave style was devoted to softness, the serious dancer, who needed time to ”unfurl” his limbs in a graceful and languid manner, typically danced to slow music, to such movements as the grave, loure, couranfe, saraband, passacaille, pavane, “the Spanish pauane . . . which is commonly called les folies d’Espagne” (Taubert 1717, 369), and sometimes the chaconne. As Magri indicates (1779,1:116), to be pleasing in the serious style, one needs to dance in a languid manner, and by being so used to this kind of softness, the body is ever

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Chapter 3 languissant, as the French say. Thus, he who dances in the serious style will have a hard time dancing in the other styles but will dance gracefully in graaes, loures, passacailles, and sometimes chnconnes, although not all serious bnllerini dance the latter, as was said in the relevant chapter.

Bielfeld (1770, 3:365) in like manner notes that the serious dancer typically performed to slow-moving music, that to express the different characters of the persons who compose a ballet, or any other theatric dance whatever, the subjects they are to represent, and the sentiments they are supposed to entertain, the master of the ballet makes use of the different modes or characters in music, and the steps that are appropriated [i.e., appropriate] to each mode; as those of the saraband, courant, louvre, &c. for the grave and serious, and those of the minuet, passepie, chaconne, gavot, rigaudoon, jig, &c. for the gay, lively or comic.

Weaver (1712, 164) notes in passing that the passacaille and chaconne in particular belonged to the grave style as cultivated by the likes of Louis Pecour: ”It must be allow’d that the French excel in this kind of Dancing; and Monsieur Prcour (as I am inform’d) in the Chaconne, or Passacaille, whch is of the grave Moziement, and the most agreeable Character in this Dancing.” Descriptions of performances from the period also indicate that a slow musical tempo was characteristic of this kind of dancing. German-born Anne Heinel, for example, fittingly known in her adopted homeland of France as the ”Engel” (German for angel) because of the lofty quality of her movement, was able to move so gracefully in such slowness that she ever resembled Pygmalion’s statue gradually coming to life. As Walpole puts it (1904,25Aug. 1771,8:76), there is a finer dancer, whom Mr. Hobart is to transplant to London; a Mademoiselle Heinel, or Ingle [i.e., Engel], a Fleming. She is tall, perfectly made, very handsome, and has a set of attitudes copied from the classics. She moves as gracefully slow as Pygmalion’s statue when it was coming to life, and moves her leg round as imperceptibly as if she was dancing in the Zodiac.

The serious style was not defined exclusively by musical tempo, however, and serious dancers could also dance to more animated music at times. Heinel’s debut performance at the Paris Opera in

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March of 1768, for example, was to both slow and lively music; a critic in the Mercure de France (Mar. 1768,180)notes that “Mademoiselle Heinel, aged fifteen, a pupil of Monsieur Lepy, former principal male dancer for His Serene Highness the Duke of Wurttemberg, debuted Friday the twenty-sixth to tunes added to the divertissement of the fifth act for this purpose. This debut, made up of three different entries, was done to a tune in the graceful genre, a Zoure ending with a bit of a chaconne, and finally a lively gavotte.” There is no indication that Heinel danced in any style other than the serious. Because of the typical slowness of the music, the serious was mainly a terre-a-terre style, characterized by “Softness,easie Bendings and Risings” rather than powerful and brilliant jumps, as Weaver indicates (1712, 163). Expanding upon Weaver, Gallini (1762, 75-76) writes that I have before observed that the grave or serious stile of dancing, is the great ground-work of the art. It is also the most difficult. Firmness of step, a graceful and regular motion of all the parts, suppleness, easy bendings and risings, the whole accompanied with a good air, and managed with the greatest ease of expertness and dexterity, constitute the merit of this kind of dancing. The soul itself should be seen in every motion of the body, and express something naturally noble, and even heroic. Every step should have its beauty.

Rather than stunningly difficult capers and turns, the serious style was largely taken up with slow steps, beautiful unfurling movements of the arms, picturesque attitudes, and sustained aplombs (balances on one leg). The importance of these elements as the defirung features of the serious genre is evident from a description of the dancing typical of Gaetan Vestris left b e h d by the nineteenth-centuryDanish dancer and choreographer August Bournonvde, who was a student of Gaetan’s son Auguste. According to Boumonvdle (1979, 456), Gaetan’s “serious dancing consisted mostly of picturesque poses, beautiful arm movements, and slow pas-in short, of performances which emphasized the external merits he possessed.” Grimm (1879, 1 Feb. 1769, 8:262) likewise indicates that attitudes and aplombs figured sigruhcantly in the slow-moving noble style: The great Vestris is the one who dances at the Opera to so much acclaim; he is indeed the greatest dancer whom we have had since the celebrated Dupre. He learned in France this genre of la danse noble, peculiar to the

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Chapter 3 French, which consists in a succession of steps, attitudes, and nplovzbs, all of which says nothing and means nothing at all; they are academic exercises out of place, which greatly please the French. Vestris took h s genre to Stuttgart and Vienna, as Favier and Dupre formerly did to Dresden and Warsaw.

Easy bendings and risings equally well characterized the serious dancing of Marie Salle, whose dancing showed ”simple, touching graces,” for “it was not with jumps and gambols that she touched the heart” (Noverre 1807,2:103).Aquin de Chbteau-Lyon (1754,187) singles out for comment Salle’s fine balances and arm movements: ”I saw appear the rival of the Graces, the inimitable Mademoiselle Salle; in her broken and negligent pas were found now tenderness and voluptuousness, now the finesse of her balances; the justness of her equilibrium, her arms, the expression of the goddesses would make you easily take her for the queen of her art.” Fine movements of the arms in particular were a sigruficant feature of t h s style, and the need for performers in t h s genre to dance above all with their arms is evident from the sources. At the beginning of our period, le Cerf de la Vieville de Freneuse (1705, 12) saw Pecour dance in the noble style and singles out both his regal steps and beautiful arm movements for comment: ”Pecour and Lestang danced, the one with those fine arms and those majestic steps, whch even in his decline make him a dancer almost unmatched, the other with that air of a man of quality, which is so difficult for a dancer to capture.” Noverre (1807, 2:176), who studied under Louis Dupre in the early 1740s, quotes the famed serious dancer’s maxim stressing the importance of the arms: ”The great Dupre said to me one day, ’it is not enough to dance well with one’s legs; one must also know how to dance with the arms.”’ Noverre (1807,2:106)also mentions a student of Dupre, the serious dancer ”named Camille, [who] danced only with her arms.” Aquin de Chbteau-Lyon (1754, 189) remarks upon the fine unfurling movements of the arms for which the serious dancer Puvignee was known: ”Consider this young performer, who takes Mademoiselle Salle as her model: You will find her attitude[s] interesting;her justness and gracefulness will show the success of her imitation. With what delicacy she unfolds her arms!” Walpole (1904, 30 Dec. 1783,13:106),who saw Heinel dance in England, makes particular mention of ”her arms sublime that float upon the air.” Indeed, to Magi (1779,1:116),the serious dancer’s ability to dance well with

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h s arms was synonymous with dancing well in this genre: ”Most of

the time the movement of the arms is the dancer’s greatest asset, especially for a serious dancer, who will be deemed good on the basis of t h s h d of movement alone; indeed, experience will show that a h e carriage of arms and a soft bend in the knees makes up for and takes the place of any other shortcomings, since such dancers usually have little leg and almost no breath.” One port de bras ihat gave performers in the grave style opportunity to display their ability to dance well with their arms was the socalled h g h rounded arms. In this movement, the executant was to “throw both arms at the same time to the fore and then back again, whch, it is to be understood, is done for the sake of appearance” (Bonin 1712, 167); that is, the dancer, with h s arms held out to each side forming more or less a straight line with the shoulders, takes the arms forward so that the hands come to be extended in front of h m just below the shoulder joints and then takes them back out to their initial position in a circular manner. Magri (1779, 1:115-16) describes this movement in greater detail; the context whence Magri’s passage is drawn makes it clear that the arms begin at shoulder height: The high rounded arms are those which are fully open and little by little are taken forward almost as if you wished to bring them together, but they do not go beyond the line of the shoulders and, coming into eyeshot [forming] almost a half circle, go back to their position. The bnllerino does not need to follow this equal movement of the arms with his eyes, for they like the head must remain indifferent, unlike with the arms of opposition. Whenever done, this arm movement is accompanied by an inclination from the waist, to the fore together with the arms, and in rising from the waist, the arms extend as well until they are back to where they were to begin when the body was well stretched. Serious bnlleriiii usually make use of this at an end, in a solo, in going back, and the like.

The emphasis on the arms in this style was at the expense of the legs, resulting in a dearth of impressive airborne feats. Goudar (1773a, 61) notes in particular that ”gods, kings, and heroes should not be made to dance,” that is, to caper about. Just such an avoidance of feats of strength characterized the dancing of Gaetan Vestris, who according to Despreaux (1806,2:286) ”enjoyed for thirty years the greatest success in this kind of dance, which does not demand tours de force but address and much grace.” Instead, the serious

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dancer cultivated mainly terre-a-terre steps. Prominent among such steps was the pas grave, also called the temps de courante, contretemps sans sauter, or the ”march” in eighteenth-century English. As Magri indicates (1779, 1:55), ”the serious and majestic quality of the pas grave is evident from its very name. It is used in the theater and in the ballroom and is found in all kinds of dances, especially in serious dancing, wherein its beauty is heightened when done with majesty. It was greatly used in the old dances, especially in the heroic and grave.” The following brief description from Taubert (1717,696) outlines one version of the step in three time: Both knees bend on the upbeat, and while bending, the ankle of the right foot is drawn in behind the ankle of the left and [then] brought forward, to the right around the heel of the left, while rising on the toe on the first quarter note (it can also be brought beside or in front of the left heel while bending). On the second quarter note, standing on the whole foot, slide the toe of the right forward (see the temps de courante in chapter 19 and in chapter 45 in Chorigraphie). On the third quarter note, the body is brought forward onto it.

Impressive pirouettes were to be especially avoided in this style, for the violence of rapid wlurling was at odds with the noble simplicity and peacefulness that was to be the hallmark of thus genre. Tkus limited use of pirouettes is mentioned by Noverre (1807,2:128) in connection with Vestris’s dancing in particular. He notes that ”Vestris the Elder did pirouettes much better than his son, but he was not prodigal with them; he left the spectator desiring more.” In a review of an entree performed by the serious dancer Pierre Gardel in the Paris Opera’s 1782 production of Daplzne‘ et ApoZZon, a critic from the Mercure de France (5 Oct. 1782, 40) similarly alludes to the practice of avoiding pirouettes in the grave style: ”It was observed that he had done only one single pirouette in this entre‘e and that he had performed it with the ease and precision which such steps demand; these steps, hardly lending themselves to grace but showing only force, should be performed without effort and are only seldom used in la danse noble.” Indeed, early eighteenth-century dances in tlus style extant in Feuillet notation, wluch will be discussed in greater detail in chapter 9, show just such a paucity of pirouettes; seldom are more than a couple of such turns found in a whole dance. When included, the pirouette, inevitably ouzwrte (with the gesture leg stretched to the side) or battu (with the foot of the gesture leg beat-

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ing the supporting leg) is often to be done slowly with one or at most two rotations. The ”Saraband of Issee perform’d by Mr. Dupre & Mrs. Bullock,” found in Roussau (1725?, 31-36), for example, contains only two such turns in the whole of the dance, a pirouette ouzlerte with one and a half revolutions in the sixth measure of the first figure and another pirouette ouverte with one revolution in the fifth measure of the fifth and penultimate figure. These extant dances in Feuillet notation from the begruing of the eighteenth century provide concrete examples not only of the limited use of pirouettes in the grave style but also of its preference for m a d y terre-a-terre steps and small jumps rather than capers. As an example, we list the steps from the first two of the four figures malung up the grave saraband ”danced by Monsieur Piffetot and Monsieur Chevrier in the opera Alcide” found in Feuillet (1704,154-57). The first figure is composed of the following steps with their eighteenth-centurynames (the numbers indicate the measure of music): 1 pas grme en l’air 2 pas grazle en l’air 3 pirouette battue with one rotation, pas plie‘ with petit tour de jambe 4 pas grazje 5 assemble‘ plik, coupe‘ a deux mouvements 6 demi-coupe‘ emboite‘ with dkgage‘ and petit four de jambe 7 cliasse‘, contretemps with half turn, contretemps de gazlotte battu with half turn and petit tour de jambe. The second figure contains the following: 1 contretemps de gaziotte battu, demi-coupk, pirouette ouzierte with one and a quarter turns ending emboitk 2 demi-fouettk 3fouettk 4 bourre‘e with quarter turn 5 sissonne with a three-quarter turn 6 coupe‘ entier battu 7 contretemps de gaziotte with quarter turn 8 demi-coupk ouziert. Only eight of the twentyone steps from these sixteen bars of music, which comprise exactly one half of the whole dance, are springmg steps: the assemble‘ plie‘ in bar 5, and the chasse, contretemps, contretemps de gavotte in bar 7, all from the first figure, and the contretemps de gavotte in bar 1, the second jump of the fouette in bar 3, the sissonne in bar 5, and the contretemps de gavotte in bar 7, all from the second figure. Whde other early eighteenth-century dances belonging to the grave style and extant in Feuillet notation sometimes contain more springmg steps and even such capers as entrechats a six, the overall preference for terre-aterre steps and small jumps with few capers if any is still marked throughout, in agreement with the essential character of this style as gven in those sources describing the genre broadly or evident from descriptions of performances. The languid quality typical of the serious style stemmed not merely from the predominance of smooth, slow movements but also

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from sustained balances in ”picturesque attitudes,” as Boumonville puts it. Louis Dupre was evidently unmatched by any other dancer in the art of striking such poses; ”no dancer has surpassed him in the nobility of attitudes or the beauty of dhloppements” (Dorat 1771, 66). A description of an Italian parody of Dupre’s dancing given by De la Lande (1769) indicates that the parodist affected ”now and then poses lasting one to two measures” (cited in the Journal de musique 1773,6:62).In like manner, Despreaux (1806,2:292-93), looking back at the dance of the eighteenth century, remarks in particular upon the use of sustained aplombs in the serious style: ”Formerly, our most celebrated dancers, in the middle of the gravest dances, would stop and balance on the toe of one foot for ten to twelve measures; they could have taken Saint Simeon Stylites as a patron, who remained on one leg for forty years.” Because of its languid, terre-a-terre nature, the serious style seemed simple, but this apparent simplicity masked the difficulty of excelling in this genre, a fact remarked upon by a critic in the Mercure de Fraiice (2 Oct. 1765,2:204):“Monsieur Vestris, despite his service at court, danced in the passacailk in the fourth act [of Hyperinnestre] to the applause or rather admiration of connoisseurs, who sense all the worth and all the difficulty of a style of dance that is simple in appearance but which brings together all the perfections of this talent.” Indeed, compared to the brilliance of the other styles with their tours de force, the grave, with its apparent simplicity of mainly slow terre-a-terre steps and small jumps, was much less amazing to the public. This apparent simplicity of the grave is also alluded to by Rochemont (1754,66-67),who notes that a foreigner, half dancer and half acrobat, by his lightness, his suppleness, and the prodigious energy which he infuses into all his movements perhaps pleases us more sometimes than Dupre himself, whose dance, simple and easy in appearance, is much less amazing. Yet despite this greater possible pleasure, we feel wonderfully certain that the latter artist is far superior to the former.

However easy and simple in appearance, the grave style demanded remarkable control on the part of the dancer in order to do justice to its predominantly slow, smooth movement. It was not without its own brilliance, for quick beats of different kinds provided contrast, together with a limited use of beaten jumps, such as entrechats. Roller (1843, 147,150-51), who had been trained in the serious style

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under Muzzarelli and Vigano among others in the late 1780s and early 1790s and had a career as a soloist before h s retirement from the stage in 1799, gives a combination that demonstrates the difficulty of this seemingly simple “grand serious style.” (The stie mentioned in the following description is ”merely a position wherein one stands with one foot flat on the whole sole, whde the other, with the knee bent and well turned out to the side, is set very firmly on the tip of the toe, enclosed in front or behind the other in fifth position.”) Starting position is the stie, with the left foot set on the toe behind the right. Rise on the left foot as high as you can and beat, beginning with the right behind the left, behind and in front passing around the left as many times as your level of proficiency will allow. Then place yourself in the stPe, with the right foot set on the toe behind the left, rise high up on the same and beat the left foot around the right. In these battenrents both knees are well stretched, however, and the movements must come only from the hips. In doing this, you must hold yourself very high on the toes, for the higher you stand on the toes, the shorter the path that the beating foot must follow around the other; in this way the speed is increased, and the number of battements is also increased in the time given. In a solo, theatrical dancers in the grand serious style commonly began with a grand tour de jambe, which they executed very slowly and masterfully, whereupon they did stPe-battements and ended the combination with an entrechat; this was a tour de force, they thereby setting in fine contrast first a show of sterling strength and then that of nimble speed, which always met with great approbation from the spectators.

A slow rond de jambe followed or preceded by brilliant battements appears to have been a common combination traditional to the eighteenth-century serious style. Such a combination can be easily enough found in early eighteenth-century grave dances extant in Feuillet notation; typical examples can be found in the first two bars of the first figure from a saraband in Roussau (1725?, 31) and in the third and fourth bars of the third figure from an entree for two men danced by Blondy and Marcel in Les f2tes vinitiennes (Gaudrau 1713?, 2:97). In the passage given just above, Roller has the serious dancer end lus terre-a-terre combination with an entrechat by way of contrast, and early eighteenth-century serious dances extant in Feuillet notation show in fact a limited use of capers as a way of bringing brilliance to the seemingly simple style of the grave. The ”Loure or Faune perform’d before h s Majesty King William ye 3d by Monsr.

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Balon and Mr. L‘abbe” in Roussau (1725?, 1-6), for example, contains one entreclzat ri six eiz tourrznizt in the seventh measure of the first figure, and three deini-entrechats ri six (asseinblk battus to use the current term), one in the fourth measure of the fourth figure, another in the third measure of the fifth figure, and the third in the fourth measure of the sixth figure. Given its broad lack of airborne tours de force, this style was particularly suitable for dancers too advanced in age to caper well anymore or for those whose careers as jumpers were cut short by an untimely injury. Louis Dupre had in fact started out in the more active styles outside of the serious and was remembered for his portrayal of demons and in particular his execution of the gargouillade in this role (Encycloptdie 1786, 417). Sometime evidently in the 1730s, he “stopped dancing because of an injury that he sustained in the leg during his work at the Opera.” Wishing to return to dancing, feeling ”less pain and more strength, he went to the Magasin to propose that he return to his work, but in heroic dance, however, not daring in his convalescence to expose himself yet to the violence of the dance for demons” (MPinoire, n.d., 2). Ultimately Dupre in his more advanced years restricted himself to the serious style exclusively and was able to dance into the 1750s,when he retired as principal serious dancer from the Paris Opera in h s fifties. If the grave style lacked brilliance because of an absence of tours de force, it did have the advantage, however, of being generally spontaneous, since the solos were usually improvised. As Magri notes (1779, 1:104), ”the cliacoiziie is not danced by all serious balleriizi because they dance on their own, and usually all the solos are danced extempore.” Thanks to its overriding preoccupation with dignity and sublimity, the grave style lacked not only complexity and seeming brilliance but also often expressiveness, and the style was often criticized for its coldness and lack of variety. The inexpressiveness common in this genre, especially in the first half of the eighteenth century, stemmed not merely from the predominantly languid, gentle quality inherent in a preponderance of slow terre-a-terre movements but also from the practice of wearing a mask. With his face encased in a mask, the dancer was effectively deprived of the most expressive part of his body. Lack of expression, thanks in part to the mask, was a common complaint leveled at serious dancers at the Paris Opera. One such critic was Laus de Boissy (1771?,16-18), who writes that

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it is not that I despise in itself noble or serious dance and that I prefer lively, gay dance; unquestionably, both have a merit proper to themselves. Rather, I wish that la dame noble, or la haute danse, as one will want to call it, would convey something to the heart and soul, and that one would not believe that it is enough to have linked together some terre-a-terre,’ pirouettes, and aplombs, and so forth in order to say then that this is la d a m e noble. To my mind, nobility goes hand in hand with boredom. The pas de deux in this noble genre, a dance which would be so easy to make interesting through pantomime, almost never paints anything. One sees twofigurants take hands, release them, turn around each other, take hands again, look at each other, now over the arms, now under, and so forth, but one cannot read anything in their gestures, that is, in the different movements of their arms and legs, for as to their eyes, one must not dream of anything. As these persons have nothing to express, their countenances became useless, and great care has been taken to cover the face up with a mask of illuminated plaster. Generally, grave or noble dance will never express anything if not animated by an action that one can link thereto.

Casanova’s description of a performance by Louis Dupre, ”the god of simple, majestic dance” (Dorat 1771,66), at the Paris Opera in 1750 provides a concrete example of the simplicity,inexpressiveness, and lack of variety that critics felt marred this sort of dance: All of a sudden I heard those in the pit clap their hands at the appearance of a tall, fine-figured dancer wearing a mask, a black wig of long curls which came down to his waist, and a robe open in front that reached his heels. Patu told me in a devout and penetrating manner that I now beheld the great Dupre. I had heard him spoken of, and I payed close attention. I saw this fine figure come forth in cadenced steps, and reaching the edge of the orchestra, he slowly raised his rounded arms, moving them gracefully, and extended them fully. Then he brought them together again, moved his feet, did some petits pas,’ battements at mid-leg,’ followed by a pirouette, and disappeared after appearing by backing into the wings. The whole of Dupre’s dance lasted but thirty seconds. The clapping from the pit and the boxes was general. I asked Patu what this applause meant, and he answered me seriously that they were applauding Dupre‘s gracefulness and the divine harmony of his movements. He added that he was sixty years old and that he was the same as he was forty years earlier..’ “What? He has never danced otherwise?” ”He could not have danced better because this development that you have seen is perfect. Is there anything beyond the perfect? He always

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Clinptrr 3 does the same thing, and we always find him fresh; such is the power of the beautiful, the good, and the true, which enters the soul. This is true dance, this is song. You Italians have no idea.” At the end of the second act, Dupre appeared again with his face covered with a mask (that goes without saying) and danced to a different tune, but to my eyes it was the same thing. He came towards the orchestra, stopping an instant, his figure well shaped I own. And suddenly I heard a hundred voices in the pit say out loud: “My God! My God! He’s unfolding! He’s unfolding!” Truly, it was an elastic body, which became bigger as it unfolded. I conceded to Patu that there was grace in all that, and I saw that made him happy. (Casanova 1961,2:110-41)

Casanova was not the only one to find the dancing of Dupre, the nonesuch of the grave style, to be unvarying and inexpressive. Noverre (1807,2:106-7), who had once been a student of the famed dancer, in like manner found Dupre ”uniform” despite the remarkable beauty of his moXTements: It was a beautiful machine, perfectly organized, but one that lacked a soul. To nature he owed the fine proportions of his body, and this excellent construction and assemblage, well combined in the overall framework, naturally resulted in gentle and agreeable movements and a perfect accord in the lissom play of his joints. All these rare qualities lent him a heavenly air, but he was uniform; he did not vary his dancing, and he was always Dupre.

Suard (1753?, 34-35) intimates that many found the grave style of the likes of Dupre to be boring, that ”it is indeed only because of prejudice and habit that Dupre and Mademoiselle Puvignee are applauded today, for a man who finds himself at the Opera for the first time will perhaps be bored in seeing them execute a grave dance but will be at once overly enchanted by an ent& of Furies, so great is the power of truth on souls deprived of passion.” Angiolini (1765) similarly found the grave style of Dupre and Vestris to be inexpressive thanks in part to the practice of wearing masks: With regards to the h g h dance of the likes of Dupre, Vestris, and their precursors, such as it was before Monsieur Noverre appeared (who has turned this latter style in the direction of expression), each makes of it the finest, most elegant, and most difficult as well. As all expression, however, had been banished from it in the past by covering up with a mask

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the face of the dancer, who most of the time even danced alone, this dance could thus affect the beholder in only a very mediocre manner, making his heart suffer merely some fleeting attacks of voluptuousness, those that one senses when the beauty of nature, adorned with its simple graces and aided by those of an art which hides itself, is presented to our view.

As Angiolini indicates, Noverre was instrumental in bringing greater expressiveness to this style in France, specifically through the introduction of pantomime, which in the first half of the eighteenth century had been used mainly in the comic and grotesque styles. As Noverre (1807,2:139) hmself writes, before h s time pantomime in ballet had been restricted largely to the "low and disgusting scenes" of farces: Indeed, Madame, when I set out on a new path in my art [in the 1750~1, ballets offered only flat caricatures. You can understand as much from their titles, such as Les sazjoyards [The Savoyards], Le casseur de aitres [The window breaker], Les sabotiers [Men in wooden shoes], Les charbonniers [The charcoal burners], Les Pierrots [The Pierrots], Le suisse dupe [The hoodwinked Switzer], and so forth. These ridiculous farces and all the low and disgusting scenes that went into their composition opened my eyes and made me set my mind on noble subjects. Fable offered its gods, history its heroes, and renouncing vulgar men, who know only how to move joyously or sadly, I endeavored to give to my works the nobility of the epic and the grace of pastoral poetry. Success crowned my first attempts; my genre spread, and I have the satisfaction to see at a very advanced age that it has been adopted and sanctioned by the public of all the nations of Europe.

Before the ennobling of pantomime ballet, thanks to the efforts of not just Noverre but also other choreographers such as Hilverding and Angiolini, serious dancers by and large appear to have had notlung but contempt for pantomime. Many people generally felt that the pantomimic dance common in the more lighthearted genres was incompatible with the nobility of la danse noble: By the word pantomime everyone usually understands a comic dancer worthy of exercising his talents only in the fairground spectacles;everyone fancies that his whole art ought to be limited to the lighthearted and even burlesque genre. The pantomimes themselves, at least those whom we have seen on our stages, share this unfair misconception with serious dancers, who despise them. (Mercure de France Feb. 1745,166)

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The prejudice against pantomimic dance in the serious stylt proved to be particularly strong in France. As late as the 1760s, at i time when heroic and tragic pantomime ballets were being mountec with some frequency in Germany and elsewhere, France remainec largely closed to this genre. As Pitrot (1764, 182-83) writes in thc program to lus serious-heroic pantomime ballet Ulysse duns Z’iZe dc Circk, mounted at the Comkdie-italienne in 1764, ”tlus genre of bal let, with action and expression, [has been] long unknown in the cap. ital.” A critic in the Mercure de France (Nov. 1765,213)similarly note: in his review of the heroic pantomime ballet Vengeance de Z‘Amour, ot Diane et Endyrnion, mounted in Fontainebleau in 1765, that “thc genre of heroic pantomime is little or poorly understood here” ir France. The following sketchy synopsis of the heroic-serious pantomime ballet Mkdke et Jason, as performed by the serious dancers Gaetan Vestris, Anne Heinel, and Marie-Madeleine Guimard, provides an example of the sort of dramatic work created in the serious style once combined with pantomime: On Friday the twenty-sixth of January, the ballet of Midie et Jason was given again at the Theitre. This dramatic ballet, composed by Monsieur Vestris, has enjoyed the greatest success. The unsteadfastness of Jason, who forsakes Medea in order to wed Creusa, his new love, Medea’s spite, her efforts to awaken tenderness in her unfaithful husband by showing him her children, the fury of this jealous woman, her spells, Creusa’s wedding celebrations, the insidious reconciliation that Medea feigns to make with her rival, the poisoned gifts that she gives her, the torments and death of Creusa, Jason’s despair, the Furies who trouble him, the wounding wrath of Medea carried off in a chariot drawn by dragons, the murder of her children, whom she stabs before their father, a rain of fire and the setting aflame of the palace, all this action and spectacle produced a great effect. What was most admirable was Mademoiselle Heinel’s talent for expressing the force of the most contrary passions and feelings; her dance, her gestures, her attitudes, the features of her face form an imposing and swift-moving tableau, which moves and transports the spectator. Such is the powerful art of pantomime when its execution is precise and natural. Mademoiselle Heinel is perfectly matched in this ballet by Monsieur Vestris, who represents with force the role of Jason, by Mademoiselle Guimard, who plays the role of Creusa with great feeling, and by Monsieur Gardel and others, who are not only outstanding dancers but also wonderful actors and pantomimes. (Mercure de France Feb. 1776, 158-59)

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For every pot there is lid, as the old proverb goes, and for every style of eighteenth-century ballet there was an ideal body, one necessary to represent convincingly the essential character of each style. As the late eighteenth-century dancer Despreaux puts it (1806, 2:249-50), “there are three kinds of figures, the tall, middling, and short, and thus by necessity there are three kinds of dance: the noble or serious style, the style of the galant berger or demi-caractere; the comic style or the genre of the pifre. There is a fourth for thick, short, and strong dancers, which is usually trivial.” The serious dancer in particular needed to be tall and elegant, without too much evident musculature; that is, he needed to have an imposing and lofty physique that matched the nobility and dignity of his role. According to Noverre (1760,231), the serious dancer unquestionably needs to have a noble and elegant figure. He who devotes himself to this style undoubtedly has more difficulties to surmount and more obstacles to overcome in order to reach perfection. He has difficulty assuming an agreeable shape: The longer his limbs, the harder it is for him to make them rounded and to unfold them gracefully.

Although his face was usually hdden by a mask, ideally the serious dancer was to have “a noble countenance, lofty features, a proud character, a majestic look-that is the mask of the serious dancer” (Noverre 1760, 233). A critic in the Mercure de France (2 Oct. 1784, 3940) similarly makes clear that a tall, elegant figure was essential to “la dnnse noble, a precious genre that is important to maintain on this stage [of the Paris Opera] and which demands at the same time an elegant, tall figure, strength and lightness, correctness and ease in the steps, and a most perfect accord in all the movements.” By elegance Despreaux (1806, 2:249) understood a certain thinness and a lack of obvious musculature: ”Elegance in figure is a gift of nature that very few people possess; one must be thin and well formed, with small bones and with muscles that are little pronounced, a raised chest and a high head without affectation. A short and thick man never has elegance.” Jean Dauberval was one serious dancer who grew to be ”thick” as he matured and consequently ”was obliged to renounce the serious style. First modeled by the Graces, he became thick and muscular” (Noverre 1807, 2:116). Heinel, with her “charming face, svelte figure, happiest proportions” (Mercure de France July 1772,2:146),was suitably

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long and lean; indeed, she was tall and imposing enough almost to pass for a man, as her contemporary Catherine-Rosalie Duthe rather unkindly remarked (1909,267):“A stately man in the clothes of my sex; such was the effect she always produced on me. Colossal form, a figure in keeping with it, hands and feet to match, a skin wonderfully firm and white, a very fine face with large features, eyes so enormous that they were like camage entrances.” The great Dupre was similarly tall and imposing in stature, ”five foot seven to eight inches” in the old French measurement of pieds de roi (Despreaux 1806,2:260-61),that is, around six feet in our imperial system. Gabtan Vestris similarly had an “elegant figure of about five foot six inches [i.e., about five foot ten]; handsome man, fine leg, noble and highly expressive face” (Desprbaux 1806,2:261). The division of dance into different styles based in part on body type was determined not merely by aesthetics but also by sheer physical necessity. Ectomorphic bodies-that is, slender, longlimbed frames, which were held to be ideal for the terre-h-terre grave style in the eighteenth century-tend to be poor at beaten jumps, thanks to their typically thinner muscles, narrow hips, long legs, and hypermobile knees. As Noverre puts it (1760,302-3): anyone with such a build will need to forgo entrechnts, cabrioles, and all difficult and complicated movements, with all the more reason that such a one is invariably weak, for his hips, being narrow, or to couch it in the parlance of anatomists, his pelvic bones, being less flared, allow less play to the muscles that are attached to them and on which the movements of the trunk in part depend, movements and bends much easier when these same bones are much wider because then the muscles begin and end from a point farther away from the center of gravity. However that may be, dance that is noble and terred-terre is the only one suitable to such dancers.

The hypermobility of the knees of such jnrretP dancers especially constitutes a serious impediment to brilliant beats. As Noverre again puts it (1760,300-301), the contraction of the muscles during the effort made in jumping stiffens the joints and forces each part to return to its place and reassume its natural shape; the knees, forced in this way, are carried inward then [i.e.,become hyperextended] and take up their volume again, which is an obstacle to the beats of an entrechak The more these parts come together, the more those below them move apart; the legs, unable to beat

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or cross, remain as if immobile when the knees move, rolling disagreeably over each other, and the entrechat, being neither cut nor beaten nor crossed below, will not have the speed or brilliance which are its merit.

If the serious style was devoted to the portrayal of imposing grandeur and gravity, the half-serious was given over to the display of bubbly nimbleness and sylphlike lightness. Also known as the demi-caractgre, the galant, or the brisk, the half-serious was much more popular than the grave style throughout eighteenth-century Europe. While the serious was the preserve of dancers portraying high gods, great kings, and grand heroes, the brisk style was the genre for the representation of such lesser divinities as Cupid and Mercury, such figures drawn from daily life as gallant youths in love or even characters from high comedy, and finally such anacreontic figures as satyrs, fauns, nymphs, sylphs, and bergers (idealized shepherds). More often than not the dances in the demi-caractere style centered around lighthearted amatory intrigues. As Sulzer indicates (1794,4:506), the third class encompasses dances that are called half-character, or demi-caractPre, in the parlance of this art. Their subject matter is an action drawn from ordinary life, in the character of the comic theater, a love affair, or some intrigue, wherein are mixed even individuals of not an entirely common way of life. These dances still require elegance, pleasing embellishments, and taste.

Noverre’s pantomime ballet Les petits riens, performed at the Paris Opera in 1778 to music composed in part by Mozart, gves some idea of the lightheartedness of this style, preoccupied as it was with amatory intrigue: The performance of lefinte geinelle was followed by a new pantomime ballet composed by Monsieur Noverre, Les petits riens, made up of episodic scenes which have almost no connection between them but which present a succession of tableaux that the muse of Anacreon or the brush of the likes of Boucher and Watteau would not disavow: Cupid caught in a net and put in a cage by Mademoiselle Guimard, the game of blind man’s bluff wherein Monsieur Dauberval plays the main role, a prank by Cupid, who presents to two shepherdesses (Guimard and Allard) another shepherdess (Asselin disguised as a shepherd), are the three scenes of the composition, which is most witty and most agreeable. (Grimm 1880, June 1778,12:117)

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In order to convey the lightheartednessof this style, the half-serious dancer typically performed to such lively movements as gavottes, riguudons, passepieds, gigues, and even minuets and chaconnes and availed himself of quick jumps and nimble capers that showed “Vigour, Lighfness, Agility,” as Weaver (1712, 163) makes clear in his comparison of the brisk and the grave: There are two Movements in this Kind of Dancing; the Brisk, and the Grave; the Brisk requires Vigour, Lightness, Agility, Quicksprings, with a Steadiness, and Coininand of the Body; the Grave, (which is the most difficult) Softness, easie Bendings and Risings, and Address; and both must have Air and Firmness, with a graceful and regulated Motion of all Parts: But the Artful Qualification is a nice Address in the Management of those Motions, that none of the Gestures and Dispositions of the Body may be disagreeable to the Spectators.

In his outline of the general features of the brisk style making up his composite category of the serious, Bonin (1712, 56) indicates that ”in thisdance, one must come down onto the floor seldom and very little but rather rise now here, now there, with the greatest of nimbleness and speed and show such quickness in the feet that the interweaving is like lightning, and at times it cannot be made out which is the left and which is the right foot.” Drawing upon Weaver’s comparison given just above, Gallini (1762,77-79) similarly indicates that the widely popular demi-caract6re was given over to ”lightness” and high brilliant jumps, for which it was impossible to have too much nimbleness: 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.

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Angiolini (1765) likewise notes that the brisk style had the broadest appeal thanks to its brilliant lightness, graceful movements, and preoccupation with affairs of the heart: I turn now to the dances commonly called deini-caractere. The dance in the demi-caractere style is as close to la belle danse, or la haute danse, as the dance of which I just spoke [i.e., comic] is to the grotesque. Sheepfolds, Romans, pastorals, agreeable anacreontic inventions, indeed, everything within the scope of French opera provides material for the composers of these dances. This style demands of its performers correctness, lightness, equilibrium, smoothness, and grace. It is here that the arms (if I may be permitted this expression)make their first appearance in dance and are to be supple and graceful; in the previous two styles [of the grotesque and comic], they count for nothing, serving merely to allow the dancer to soar with greater ease. This kind of dance is brought to life by enlightened composers with address according to rules; if pantomime is wedded to this with art and expression, if the passion of love, which constitutes the usual subject matter here, is treated with fire and refinement, it can excite in the heart, especially of the youthful, some slight and fleeting emotion, such that is felt in the scene of an opera or in the happy dinouanent of some comedy or in the narrative of some novel. The composers of these ballets can be likened to poets who produce comedies, eclogues, and pastorals, and the dancers who perform them with grace and refinement to the performers at the Opera and Comedie.

To the late-eighteenth-century dancer Despr6aux (1806, 2:286-87), “the genre of the bergers is one of the most pleasing in dance; it gives rise to grace and takes up a middle-ground between grave dance, which is almost always cold, and the comic style, which often sinks to the grotesque.” Perhaps the most famous female proponent of the half-serious style was Marie-Anne de Cupis de Camargo (1710-1770), celebrated for her fiery brilliance and her elevation in jumping. As such she was the direct opposite of her contemporary Sall6, who cultivated the terre-2-terre softness of the serious style. The striking contrast between the two dancers is often remarked upon in the sources; an anonymous “madrigal” in the Mercure de France (Jan. 1732,14647), for example, sings of Ah! How brilliant you are, Camargo! But, great God, how ravishing is Salle! How light are your steps, and how gentle are hers!

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Chapter 3 She is inimitable, and you are novel; The nymphs jump like you, But the Graces dance like her.

Voltaire (1733, 24) also alludes to Camargo’s lightness in jumping: ”Light and strong in her suppleness, lively Camargo jumped to [Lully’s] brilliant, swift sounds and to those of Rebel and Mouret.” Aquin de Chiiteau-Lyon (1754,188)also speaks of this “performer so wondrous in her genre; it is Mademoiselle Camargo. What brilliant steps! What nimble jumps! As light as the Zephyrs! The eye can scarcely follow her.” Noverre (1807,2:104-5), who saw the celebrated dancer perform in the twilight of her career, describes with greater detail the character of Camargo’s half-serious style and notes that her dancing was lively, light, and full of gaiety and brilliance. Jetis battus, royales, and entrechats, cut without rubbing, all those teiiips today [in 18071 which have been removed from the catalogue of dance and which were seductively brilliant, were executed by Mademoiselle Camargo with extreme ease. She danced only to lively tunes, and it is not to such quick movements that grace can be shown, but ease, speed, and gaiety took its place. In a spectacle [i.e., French opera at the Paris Opera] where everything was gloomy, drawn-out, and languorous, it was a joy to see a dancer so animated and whose liveliness could draw the public out of the drowsiness into which monotony had plunged it.

Casanova (1961,2:14142)also saw Camargo dance at the end of her career, in 1750, the year before she retired from the stage; although the elevation was evidently gone for which she had been known in her youth, the brilliance of her footwork was still very much evident: “All of a sudden after Duprk, I saw a woman dancer who like a Fury crossed the whole space rapidly doing entrechats to the right and to the left but hardly rising at all; this was wildly applauded.” In the course of Camargo’s performance, a few other jumps for which she was known are mentioned; Casanova is informed that ”when she was young, she used to do the saut de basque and even the gargouillade.” The lightness and brilliance of the jumps in this style made the dancer appear sylphlike. To Grimm (1879, Nov. 1776, 11:385), Charles Le Picq (1744-1806), whose “grace and lightness triumphs especially in the demi-caractere,” danced ”like the king of the sylphs” as a shepherd in the ballet Les caprices de Galatlzke, mounted at the Paris OpQa in 1776. In like manner, a critic in the Public Advertiser (9

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Jan. 1790) found the dancing of Marie-Louise Hiligsberg (?-1803) in the half-serious style to be fairylike: "All that the mind can picture of aerial vision, of fairy lightness, and of polished grace, are to be found in this charming little creature" (cited in Price et al. 1995,534). The most outstanding dancer in the half-serious style from the period was undoubtedly Auguste Vestris, whose ability to remain airborne in lus brilliant gambols was unparalleled. A letter from the period now among the Dixon Extracts at the Folger Library (MS. Ma52) similarly remarks upon Vestris's sylphlike lightness during his performances in London in 1780: "It is indeed impossible not to be transported at the ease, the ability & harmony of all his motions: they are so exquisite, that he scarcely appears a mortal but rather a sylph, formed of etherial mould, and destined to skim aloft in higher regions" (cited in Langhans 1984,138). The short "ballet demi-caractere" entitled Les galants zdlugeois from the FerrGre manuscript (1782?, 11-17), made up of dances for corps and soloists without pantomime, gives some idea, perhaps, of the lightness typical in this style created by a multitude of jumps. The second, allegro dance for the corps, choreographed for eight dancers executing various figures traced out in the manuscript, contains the following sequences of steps, almost all of which are jumps (the Roman numerals indicate the number of measures needed for the immediately preceding steps, and the Arabic numerals the number of measures for each figure given in the manuscript): 1) ContCretemps], sissonne (ii); e'ckuppe' butfu [(ii)]; (4). 2) Ckusse'd quatrepas (ii); cont[retemps], sissonne (ii); (4). Ckasse's d trois pas (iv), (4). Carre' en glissade (iv), (4). 3) Ckasse' d quatre pas, sissonne (ii); contrepas [i.e., the same on the other side (ii)]; (4). The same (iv), (4). 4) Pas de bourre'e,glissade (ii); demi-conf[retanps] (ii); the men: two chusse's (ii); cont[retemps] (ii); (4). Eckuppe' battu (ii); ckasse', sissonne (ii); the women: cont[retemps] (i) and confretemps] double (ii); (4). 5 ) The women: cont[retemps] (ii); bal[ance'l de regard (ii), and the men: e'ckappis ~narque's(iv); (4).Contrepas (iv), (4). 6 ) Conffretemps] battus (vi); ckasse', sissonne (ii); (8). Demicontfretemps], contrepas (ii); chasse' en tournant (ii); (4). Ckasse', sissonne (ii); coupe' entfier] (ii); (4). 8 ) Four ckasse's d trois pas (ii); ballotte' (ii); (4). Demi-cont[retemnps] (ii); ckassi, sissonne (ii);(4).

Prominent among the capers that figured sigruficantlyin the halfserious style were cabrioles and entrechats, jumps in which Camargo clearly excelled and which were singled out for comment in

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a review of her debut at the Paris OpQa in 1726 (Mercure de France May 1726,1003).The cabriole droite, for example, required the dancer to ”beat the calves together, springing up into the air off of both feet but landing on one, or beat two or three times with both feet, not with the calves coming together but [with the feet coming together] from the side, which manner the French call a cabriole en ailes de pigeon, for [the feet] go beyond [and strike] one against the other [weilen es gegeneinander iiber gehet], as pigeons do with their wings” (Bonin 1712, 168). The entrechat, also called the cabriole croiske, or “cross-caper” in eighteenth-century English, required the dancer to interweave his legs while beating in the air, that is, one leg beating now in front, now behind the other in an alternating manner as many times as possible. According to Ferriol(l745,1:126),entrechats a six and a huit were done as follows:

Cabriole [croisiel h six, this begins in fourth position with the right foot behind. Jump, crossing [the legs] three times, and land with the right foot in front in fourth position. This can also be done with the left foot behind. Cabriole[croisie]h huit, this is done from fourth position with the right foot behind; jumping, crossing [the legs] four times in the air, and land again in the position in which it began. It can also begin with the left foot behind, and in this manner other more difficult ones are done. Not only brilliant jumps but also lifts appear to have figured in the repertory of movements belonging to the half-serious style, as well as to the comic and grotesque. As noted in chapter 2, the practice of a male dancer lifting his female partner into the air while dancing was certainly known and used in eighteenth-century ballet, and even in folk and national dance of the period, such as in the allemande. While certainly at odds with the noble terre-A-terre languor of the grave style, lifts, according to Dorat (1771,153), were suitable to such anacreontic characters as satyrs and nymphs, who of course belonged to the half-serious genre. As discussed in chapter 2, Zinzendorf mentions a lift in connection with the ballet Lafoire (The fair) of 1761, fairs being particularly common as subject matter for comic ballets. While the serious dancer needed to be tall, elegant, and thin, the half-serious dancer needed to be of middling height with strength in the legs for lus nimble gambols. As Noverre puts it (1760,232-33), “a dancer in the demi-caractkre and voluptuous dance unquestionably needs to have a middling build, which can bring together all the beau-

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ties of an elegant figure. What does height matter, if fine proportions shine forth equally in all the parts of the body?” While the serious dancer’s countenancewas to betray a proud loftiness, the dancer in the brisk style needed ”features less lofty, a countenance both agreeable and interesting, a face made for the expression of the tender and the voluptuous. This is the physiognomy suited to the dancer in the demicaractbe and pastoral style.” To Despreaux (1806, 2:287, 250), “this genre requires dancers to be of middling build, thm, and well shaped.” Such was the figure of Charles Le Picq, a ”dancer in the demi-caractkre,“ who ”had a middling build, thin and perfectly proportioned.” In contrast to the serious and half-serious styles with their refinement and grace, the comic and grotesque genres broadly were given over to caricature. As Gallini (1762,53) makes clear, such caricature had no place within the ”classical” styles of the grave and the brisk: ”The cultivation of the natural graces, and a particular care to shun all affectation, all caricature, unless in comic or grotesque dances, cannot be too much recommended to those who wish to make any figure in this art.” Indeed, the comic and grotesque, taken together as a broad category, endeavored mainly to excite mirth or laughter through the exploitation of grimace and caricature and, particularly with the grotesque, contortion. As Gallini again writes (1762, 67), the comic, or grottesque dancers, indeed are in possession of a branch of this art, in which they are dispensed from exhibiting the serious or pathetic; however, they may be otherwise as well acquainted with the fundamental principles of the art, as the best masters. But as their success depends chiefly on awakening the risible faculty, they commonly chuse to throw their whole powers of execution into those motions, gestures, grimaces, and contortions, which are fittest to g v e pleasure by the raising a laugh. And certainly this has its merit; but in no other proportion to the truth of the art, which consists in moving the nobler passions, than as farce is to tragedy or to genteel comedy. They are in this art of dancing, what Hemskirk and Teniers are in that of painting.

In their attempt to paint the unrefined naturalness or the oddity of their characters, the comic and grotesque had recourse to a repertory of droll jumps and positions and to a line of the body different from the serious and half-serious styles. Some of these different movements and positions will be mentioned in passing as we discuss the general facets of these genres.

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It might be further noted here that the comic and the grotesque made great use of pantomime throughout the whole of the eighteenth century. Indeed, it can be said that pantomime was the preserve of these two styles before it was ever fully exploited by the serious and half-serious styles, for as noted above, serious dancers in particular appear to have been largely closed to the idea of combining dance and pantomime in the first part of the century, especially in France. Algarotti (1763, 54-55) singles out the comic and grotesque as styles wherein dance linked to pantomime produced works worthy perhaps of Bathyllus, the famous comic pantomime of ancient Rome: “To speak truth, in the comic and grotesque styles we have seen dances worthy of applause and dancers as well who were, as he said, eloquent both with their hands and feet and perhaps were not so far away from Bathyllus.” Such eloquence did not go unnoticed early in the century by critics in the Mercure de France, for example, who praised the likes of ”Roger, Renton, and Haughton, three excellent pantomime dancers newly come from England, who are generally applauded. The figure of Monsieur Roger, who was already seen here two years ago, always strikes one as most original; one never gets tired of seeing him” (June 1731,1597).Two years earlier, a critic in the same journal (July 1729,1660-62)speaks favorably of the skill of such English performers in expressing themselves with great intelligence and clarity and “without the help of words” in their comic pantomime ballets at the Opera-comique: On the seventh of this month, the divertissement from the third act of the piece we just mentioned [Laprincesse de la Chine] was replaced by a singular ballet, most striking and true in its composition and in the nai’uete‘ of the characters which are outstandingly portrayed in it and by the finesse and lightness of the execution. Five men and two women, dancing to the tunes of a Scottish musician, represent with an intelligence which leaves nothing to be desired, through their steps, their attitudes, and their gestures that which happens in the inusicaux of Holland, which are kinds of beer taverns something like our guinguettes, wherein sailors and other different nationalities experience the sundry advantages of gallantry. What is expressed here in animated tableaux, most ingenious and most agreeable, is love and jealousy. These passions are rendered with great understanding by the inimitable dancers who make up this ballet. Monsieur Nivelon and Mademoiselle Rabon, a young, very fine dancer, appear as a Dutch lover and mistress. Monsieur Roger, who composed the dances of the ballet and whose figure

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alone is capable of making the greatest stoic break out in laughter, figures in it as the valet of the Hollander; Monsieur Sall6 as a Scotsman, and Monsieur Rinton as a Scotswoman,his mistress; Monsieur Boudet as valet to the Scotsman. These two nations are very well characterized by these excellent pantomimes. We will not enter into greater detail in order to give some idea of this figured ballet wherein without the help of words one is able to express oneself with intelligence, without the slightest equivocation, and with the greatest clarity.

Given their penchant for pantomime, the comic and grotesque styles not surprisingly made conspicuous use of gesture and mime rather than merely the more artful ports de bras of pure dance or attitudes of arms: “As for le ballet comique or grotesque in theatrical dance, the elegant port de bras has nothing at all to say there, for the comic actions depend mainly on gesture, and most of the matter called for by the purpose of the work is always explained with the hands” (Taubert 1717, 543). Angiolini (1765) in like manner notes that ports de bras played a more limited role in the comic and grotesque, that ”in [these] two styles, they count for nothing, serving merely to allow the dancer to soar with greater ease.” Concrete examples of such plentiful use of gesture and mime can be found in the sketchy theatrical dance scenarios published by Lambranzi (1716), wherein are found, for example, a drunk peasant falling to the ground and drinking from a tankard (l:lO), old women scratching their bellies and behinds (1:15), a Dutch sailor warming his hands under his arms (2:10), two figures fighting with staves (2:21), a man blowing kisses to a woman who in turn collects them in her apron (2:23), a tailor measuring a woman while he dances (2:28), a cobbler going through the motions of shoe-mending in time to the music (2:29), a hunter miming the actions of shooting a bird, plucking it, and cooking it over a fire (2:31), two performers playing tennis while dancing (2:32), soldiers going through drill as they dance (2:33-34), two Moors winding and unwinding themselves in sashes (2:39), two figures kick-fighting (2:49), and the like. Some of the dance scenarios given by Behr (1713,81-82) likewise call for gesture or mime. His entree of Cyclopes, for example, portrays “the three smithy hands Steropes, Brontes, and Pyragmon [who] forge weapons of war for Mars, the god of war, while and during dancing. When such affects have moved them, they lay aside the weapons they have forged and dance, all three very merry among themselves.” A comic entree for old women has the performers “dance

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faintheartedly in a very bent-over and stooped attitude” and at one point has them ”go backward, coming together, and knock their behinds together,” all to music “made up of such songs that are usually sung to young children in the cradle” in order to show that the women are in their second childhood. Lazzi, that is, tricks and slapstick antics drawn from low comedy, clearly figured prominently in dances belonging to the comic and grotesque styles. ”Several amusing Znzzi” figured in Dehesse’s comic pantomime ballet Le rkz7eil de Tlzalie, mounted at the Comedieitalienne in August of 1750. According to the cursory synopsis in the Mercure de Frame (Aug. 1750, 169-71), the lazzi are performed by doctors in ”a comic consultation wherein they cannot come to any agreement” while attempting to bring relief to an injured woodcutter. The patient is ultimately revived by a simple glass of good wine, “finds himself at once healed and pays tribute to the remedy with his entrechats.” The opening of Dehesse’s pantomime ballet Le pkdant, mounted at the Comedie-italienne in 1751, provides a concrete example of such slapstick antics. In the ballet, Pierrot is a valet to a pedantic schoolmaster. Having been called for by the pedant, Pierrot is long in coming and arrives only half awake. He supports himself on his master, who moves back, and Pierrot falls. He feels himself raised by the ears. As the pain is not great, he cannot forbear from laughing. The pedant, who has to go out, asks for his robe. Pierrot puts it on him covered with dust; instead of a brush, he takes a broom, which he dunks in water, and cleans his master from head to toe. This angers the pedant again, who takes his ferule and wishing to strike Pierrot in the hand hits his own and is angry again. He takes the birchrod and wants to avenge himself on Pierrot, who from rebellious becomes finally docile. The pedant is touched and makes up with him again. (Mercure de France Feb. 1751,178)

A short dance scenario for grotesque characters given in Lambranzi (1716,1:29-30) employs the Zazzo of the missing and reappearing body: Harlequin appears, as shown in this fine illustration, and begins little by little to dance in his manner. Then Scaramouche draws near to him with a lantern, dances, and apes Harlequin but finally decides to go off. Scaramouche comes back with a musket in his hand, all muffled in his cloak, and sets a burning candle on the end of the barrel and waits for

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Harlequin to finish dancing. Having shot him dead, he goes back into the wings; Harlequin, however, stands up again and runs off into the other side. Then Scaramouche comes back with the lantern in hand in order to see the body but cannot find it and so goes back off. Harlequin, however, quickly lies down in front of the wing so that he is in the way. When Scaramouchecomes back yet again without the lantern, he falls, somersaulting over Harlequin, stands up again, then takes Harlequin, stands him up on his feet quite stiff, turns his head to and fro, now forward, now backward, throws him over his feet [i.e., turns him upside down], stands him again on his feet, and then takes him on his back and carries him off. With this, the tune ends.

Despite the overall similarities between the comic and the grotesque, the two were not identical. The comic style avoided the extremes of the grotesque and devoted itself largely to the representation of the lighthearted exploits of the common people. As Sulzer indicates (1794,4:506), comic dances make up the second class. I dare say, they are of a somewhat less tumultuous character [than the grotesque] and portray the ways, revels, and amatory intrigues of the common people. The movements and jumps are less tumultuous [than in the grotesque] but are still lively, appearing somewhat rollicking and robust. They must, however, always have somethingamusing and merry about them. The main thing here is lightness, quick artful movement, and frolicsomeness.

(Gallini 1762,83-84) gives more detail about the general character of this style and notes that the comic dancer was to follow nature rather than high art as much as possible and maintain a ”moderately buffoon simplicity” in his dancing and antics: 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.

In order to portray convincingly the likes of “mechanics,” that is, the common working sort, the comic dancer could even incorporate

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movements, attitudes, and gestures taken from nature rather than "high life": The comic dancer is not tied up to the same rules or observationsas 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 characters 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 captivatingby 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. (Gallini 1762,7941)

A n g i o h (1765)in like manner notes that in this portrayal of the common sort of humanity, movements and steps could include nonclassical elements such as steps or movements taken from national dance: The comic style comes next [after the grotesque] and is not at all very far removed from the former. The composers of ballets in this style endeavor to represent the amorous intrigues of shepherds, gardeners, villagers, and workers of every sort, or national, Provencal, Croatian, English, and Flemish dancers in their manner. As for the dancers, they do not allow themselves the tours de force employed by the grotfeschi; rather they content themselves with capering away, with increasing the number of entrechats, gambols, and beats without rhyme or reason, but with a sort of correctness and with a little more respect for the cadence.

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Normally incapable of bending and maintaining aplomb, they dance almost always to lively, swift-moving tunes; they would not be able even to walk to the slow, starchy movement of a passacaille without falling. If these comic dancers are nimble, one can admire their strength wedded to precision and lightness and even laugh now and then when they artfully transform their stiffened gestures needful for their exertions into grimace. I compare the composers in this style of dance to the creators of farce, and these dancers to the actors in comedies who play character roles.

Comic pantomime ballets centering on the simple life of villagers and peasants were particularly popular in the 1740s and 1750s. This craze for ”peasant ballets, with which one has been sated and bored” (Noverre 1760,91), resulted in the creation of such works as Un rendez-vous champe^tre(A rendezvous in the country) of 1740, La vendange (Harvesting grapes) of 1751, Les meuniers (The millers) of 1751, Les batteurs en grange (The threshers in the barn) of 1752, Lafgte villageoise (The village festival) of 1754, La matinke zillageoise (A morning in the village) of 1755, and La soirke villageoise (An evening in the village) of 1755, to name a few. Alternately, comic ballets might center on the common sort at play, particularly in taverns or at fairs, as did the pantomime ballets La guinguette anglaise (The English garden tavern) of 1731, Les veillkes hollandaises (Eveninggatherings in Holland) of 1734, L’estaminette flamande (The flemish tavern) of 1735, Lafoire de Bezons (The fair at Bezons) of 1735, and Lafoire de Zamoysck (The fair at Zamoysck) of 1758. Not just vdlagers and peasants but also ”workers of every sort,” even artisans and artists, could figure in ballets and dances in the comic style. Worthy of mention here are Dehesse‘s Les artisans (The artisans) of 1756 and, from the Ferrere manuscript (1782?, 1-10), Le peintre amoureux de son modkle (The painter in love with his model). The latter was evidently created in the wake of Anseaume‘s two-act comic opera Le peintre amoureux de son modde, premiered at the Thestre de la Foire Saint Laurent in Paris on 26 July 1757; this opera was in turn a parody derived ultimately from Duni’s Italian comic opera IZ pitfore innamorato of the same year. Anseaume’s opera enjoyed some popularity and was revived in 1758, ”with a new pantomime ballet” (Mercure de France Mar. 1758, 189), and again in 1759 and 1762. Ferrere’s comic pantomime ballet was likely staged together with one such performance of Anseaume’s comic opera, in Paris or the provinces, and gives some idea of the nature of mid-eighteenth-century comic pantomime ballet.

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As the manuscript indicates, “at the end of the overture, the curtain rises revealing the painter’s studio. A number of people [twelve to be exact] in dancing arrive at the painter’s,” executing a number of geometrical figures. In the second number, an allegretto, ”the painter enters dancing with his wife and continues the pantomime,” during which his wife indicates that she must go out, thereby leaving the painter alone to meet with his model. To music marked staccato, “the painter has his easel set up in order to paint h s mistress, who arrives at that moment; he greets her and has her sit.” In the following number marked largo, ”he sketches with a brush the portrait of his mistress in black and red,” but his wife reappears and frightens off the model. The painter hides the painting he was doing and ”shows her that he was painting a landscape,” thereby appeasing his wife. Then to a minuet, the painter dances a pas de deux with his wife, during which she discovers the hidden portrait. In the following largo-allegro section, she shows him the painting, threatens him, and breaks it over his head; ”the husband runs off with his head through the portrait.” He returns in the ensuing andante in order to apologize and make up with his wife. In another andante, ”they dance together, with the man starting.” The corps returns to dance a figured dance in the ensuing allegro, followed by a pas seul for the painter, one for his wife, then a pas de deux for both, ending with a general contredanse performed by the corps. In addition to the lighthearted adventures of villagers, workers, or artisans, the exploits and antics of inherently comic figures could form the subject matter for comic dances or ballets. One such character was Don Quixote, some of whose adventures figured in a pantomime ballet mounted at the OpQa-comique in 1734: ” O n the ninth of July, at the end of these same pieces [La inkre einbarrasske and L’absence] was given a new pantomime ballet entitled Don Quichoffechez la duchesse. One had desired to present in figured dances the different follies that this errant knight did at the Duchess’s during his stay there. This ballet is ingenious and very well executed“ (Mercure de France July 1734,1618). The comic would-be knight also figured in Pitrot’s pantomime ballet Don Quichotte, mounted at the royal theater in Dresden in 1756 (Pauli, 1756,49).Alternately, a comic dance might center around ridiculous personifications, such as that mounted at the Opera-comique in 1729, which was ”a ballet made up of all the different distempers, of a pas de deux for Migraine and Paralysis, Seizure, and so f o r t h (Mercure de France Apr. 1729,787).A

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further possibility for a comic dance was the imitation of beasts or birds, a possibility exploited by Pitrot in a parrot dance, which began with a pas grave, evidently satirizing the serious style and transforming the unfurling arm movements typical of that style into the flapping wings of a bird: In these ballets of which I have just spoken above, the masters of this art have made all of Olympus caper. Monsieur Noverre made the gods dance, Monsieur Angiolini the goddesses, Monsieur Pitrot the demons, but this last master, whose talent shines in this theater, has made a parrot dance. As you see, this is done by having a great talent for dance, for of all the animals, it is the least dance-like in movement. It seems that nature, who on the whole has given great agility to fowl, did not want to grant such to it. The parrot can hardly hold itself up on its feet. If in coming down from a tree, it does not cling to a branch with its claw, it will fall flat on the ground. There are examples in America of several who have killed themselves for want of having had a support, but the ballet master takes no note of this; he turns his back on Nature and composes his pantomime without bearing in mind the little agility of the beast that he introduces onto the stage. He does not stop at this: He makes the parrot a prodigy of his art that must dance like the great Vestris himself. The bird begins his dance with a pas grme, wherein he unfolds his arms in the form of a fan, which is a novelty to the pantomimic stage and creates a sensational effect in a unique genre. After the pas graae comes the light dance, of which the beast acquits itself fairly well despite the shortcomings of its legs. But what is even more remarkable are the beats of its wings that it does around the stage in rhythm to the sound of the violin, for the bird must be a musician, and if not, he would not be able to execute the dance. (Sara Goudar 1777,1:176-77)

Comic dances could contain "acts" with such props as chairs or ladders. The ballet for Les eaux de Bourbon, mounted at the Comkdie-frangaise in 1731, for example, included a dance for convalescents wherein "two characters fitted out as invalids taking the waters seem to dance in chairs, which forms a singular object of amusement" (Mercure de France July 1731,1788).Ladder dances involving balancing feats and acrobatics appear to have been particularly popular throughout the period. Lambranzi (1716, 2:42) gives a cursory sketch of just such an act, wherein "two persons, with ladders on their shoulders, come out, one on the right side and the other on the left side. They place them together on the

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Figure 3.1. A scene from a ladder dance scenario, after Johann Georg Puschner (Lambranzi 1716, 2:42).

floor, as shown in the figure above [fig. 3.11. After one goes up the ladder and does a ’rump’ or somersault through the rungs with his head to the floor, the first part of the performance is over.” Nemeitz (1727, 176) alludes to a similar feat that he saw at the Paris fair, wherein ”a man dancing on a ladder did amazing capers with it, which he nonetheless always kept balanced.” According to The Tatler (25 Nov. 1709), ladder dances, pantomimic dances, and the like were so popular as to constitute the main draw for some to attend the playhouse. This was seized upon by competing directors who were not above such acts in their eagerness to ”put bums in the seats”: It has been within the Observation of the youngest amongst us, That while there were two Houses, they did not outvie each other by such Representations as tended to the Instruction and Ornament of Life, but by introducing mimical Dances, and fulsom Buffoonries. For when an excellent Tragedy was to be acted in one House, the Ladder-Dancer carried the whole Town to the other.

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A Satyr Against Dancing (1702,6) also alludes to the popularity of ladder dances on stage, remarking "Yet nothing will our modern Plays enhance, / But Dame Ragou L'abbe or Ladder Dance." Among the things advertised in The Tatler (15 July 1709) that "may be bought cheap in Drury-Lane" are listed "Materials for Dancing; as Masques, Castanets, and a Ladder of Ten Rounds." The tradition of comic dances making use of such props as ladders continued into the early nineteenth century. The last great dancer in the comic style, Charles Frangois Mazurier, is in fact commemorated performing such a ladder dance in a print showing scenes from Blache's 1824 performance of the pantomime ballet Les meuniers, reproduced in Winter (1974,236). Indeed, one of the scenes depicted is almost identical to the ladder scene shown in Lambranzi (1716,2:42)over a hundred years earlier. To convey the lightheartedness of this style, comic dancers availed themselves of mainly jumping steps, contenting themselves "with capering away, with increasing the number of entrechats, gambols, and beats without rhyme or reason, but with a sort of correctness and with a little more respect for the cadence" than grotesque dancers had, as Angiolini puts it (1765). Indeed, slow music, and with it slow terre-8-terre steps, was largely out of place here, for comic dancers "dance almost always to lively, swift-moving tunes; they would not be able even to walk to the slow, starchy movement of a passacaille without falling." The opening corps dance from Le peintre amoureux de son mod2le (Ferrere 1782?, 1)provides a concrete example of the comic's preference for animated jumping, for almost all of the steps listed are jumps: 1) Contreftemps], entfreckaf] (ii); ballotfe' (ii); four entfreckats] z701e's (iv); (8).2) The first ones: ckasse's d quatre pas, sissonne, balance' (ii), four brise's d trois pas (iv);the second ones: four chassis ri trois pas (iv);contfreternps] (ii);pas de bourre'e ouoert (ii); (8).3) Four chassis ~3 trois pas (iv), (4).Glissade h frois pas, assemble' (ii); contlrepas] [i.e., the same on the other side] (ii); (4). The first ones: ickappe' marque' (ii); the same (ii);pirouette droite (ii); coupe' entfier] (ii); the second ones: six ckasse's d trois pas (vi); contfretemps] (ii); (8).4 ) Two ckasse's d quatre pas (ii); contfrepas] (ii); (4). Demi-contfreternps], contrepas (ii); contfrepas] (ii); (4). Pas de bourre'e, balance' (ii); the same (ii); (4). Ckasse' u quatre pas, demi-enf[reckaf]ferme' (ii); contfrepasl; (ii).

The preference for jumps in this style is also evident from a review of Jean Marcadet's debut at the Paris Opera in 1777.According to the

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1777 almanac ThZtres forains, Marcadet, who had started his career as a child dancer in Audinot‘s Boulevard theater the Ambigucomique, ”made his Opera debut with the greatest success in the style of the famous Dauberval,” that is, in the comic style (trans. in Winter 1974, 173).A review in the Journal des tkkitres (15 Dec. 1777, 79) clearly indicates that Marcadet’s comic genre made conspicuous use of jumps: What has this young man done then and what does he do every day to merit the prodigious applause that he gets? He hurls himself onto the stage, doing two or three turns on himself; he advances to the edge of the footlights in three entredzats, where he repeats coiips de poignetj and gargouillades, and when the end of his music comes, he doubles over at the waist, strikes his knees with both his hands, gives the pit a little nod as a sign of friendship, and in a jump finds himself at the back of the stage.

As the comic dancer was not ”tied up to the same rules or observations as are necessary to the serious and half serious stiles,” as Gallini notes above, steps, movements, and even whole dances taken from folk or national dance traditions also lay well within the preserve of the comic dancer. Some of the comic dance scenarios published by Lambranzi (1716, 2:5, 2:7), for example, require the performer to dance in a national or pseudonational style. His scenario for a gondolier, for instance, has the performer execute a “furlana in the Venetian manner, which is a manner that has its proper usual steps,” while in another scenario a Swiss ”dances after the manner of his country.” So-called German dancing, that is, romping about like peasants, figured in a number of pantomime ballets mounted at the Paris Opera in the second half of the eighteenth century. This practice met with criticism from Papillon (1782, 88), who complains that ”the only thing that one could take to task is that in certain corps d’enfrke, a little use was made of what is called the German genre. This genre, although far from farce, strikes me as somewhat out of place in these ballets and even more so in the theater where they are executed, a genre that wrongs theatrical dance, at least in part, and daises de ville in every sense of the expression.” Cossack dances could also be used. One figured prominently in Hilverding’s pantomime ballet La foire de Zainoysck, for example, wherein ”someone feigns wishing to make off with a Cossack’s mistress, in order to amuse a Polish lord. His anger diverts the com-

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pany; he is appeased through the gift of a pelt, and they prevail upon him to dance in the manner of his country” (Journal encyclopdddique Jan. 1758,119). Similarly at the Opera-comique in 1759, on the twenty-second of the month of September,a Cossack performed on this stage a dance which is very likely the only dance of his country. He was accompanied by a kind of mandolin. The singularity of this terre-k-terre dancing consists in kcarts and positions of the body which strike us as most painful but in which he did not seem to be hampered. His dancing is lively, light, and measured with much precision? (Mercure de France Oct. 1759,2199)

Gervais and Nivelon danced the folk dance the ptrigourdine in the Paris Opera’s 1782 production of €Zectre (Mercure de France 23 Nov. 1782,181). In England, Scottish Highland dancing, or at least something resembling it, lay within the preserve of the comic theatrical dancer and became particularly interesting to the English public in the wake of the last Jacobite rebellion of 1745. Gallini (1762, 184-85) notes that this dance form, or at least elements from it, was suitable for a comic dance in the theater: It is to the HIGHLANDERS in North-Britain, that I am told we are indebted for a dance in the comic vein, called the Scotch Reel, executed generally, and I believe always in trio, or by three. When well danced, it has a very pleasing effect: and indeed nothing can be imagined more agreeable, or more lively and brilliant, than the steps in many of the Scotch dances. There is a great variety of very natural and very pleasing ones. And a composer of comic dances, might, with great advantage to himself, upon a judicious assemblage of such steps as he might pick out of their dances, form a dance that, with well adapted dresses, correspondent music, and figures capable of a just performance, could hardly fail of a great success upon the theatre.

Indeed, extant playbills for the eighteenth-century English stage indicate that comic dancers in Britain employed Scottish dance, or at least something inspired thereby, to amuse restive English theatergoers between the acts of plays. The entr’acte ”The Highland Reel: A New Comic Dance by Aldridge, Miss Valois, and Sga. Manesiere,” for example, entertained patrons of Covent Garden on several occasionsbetween March 1768 and December 1774 (cited in E m e r s o n 1972, 126-27). In like manner, a Scots dance evidently alluding to exploits of

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the charming ”prince” Charlie in the wake of the Jacobite revolt, described in a letter from Ralph Bigland to Alexander Macmorland dated 3 March 1749 (Forbes 1895,2:254),met with the approbation of a London audience: I have since I came here [to London] been lately two or three times at the play and what invited me most was to see a new dance called the Scots Dance consisting of about 20 lads and lasses dress’d after the Highland fashion. The scene represents a very romantic, rocky, or mountainous country seemingly, at the most distant view you behold a glorious pair (which far surpass all the other actors) sitting among the rocks, while the rest are dancing below among groves of trees. Some also are representing with their wheels a spinning; all the while the music plays either Prince Charlie’s minuet or the Auld Stewarts Back Again. At last descends from the mountains the glorious pair which to appearance is a prince and princess. Then all the actors retire on each side while the royal youth and his favourite dance so fine, in a word that the whole audience clap their hands for joy. Then in a moment the spinning wheels are thrown aside and every lad and lass join in the dance and jerk it away as quick as possible while the music briskly p l a y s 4 v e r the Water to Charlie, a bagpipe being in the band. In short it is so ravishing seemingly to the whole audience that the people to express their joy clap their hands in a most extraordinary manner indeed. (cited in E m e r s o n 1972,128)

Some of the dances and steps taken from folk traditions were clearly modified or balleticized to some extent when performed on stage. The late-eighteenth-century dancer Despreaux (1806, 2:283), for example, notes that the Cossack dance was often less exaggerated than the original folk version, which was “a trivial dance from Poland, made up of grimaces.” In the origmal ”the dancer sits almost on his heels,” but on stage ”it is ennobled a little by polishing it, that is, by not exaggerating the movements.” The hornpipe, a dance taken from the British step-dancing tradition, was another such nonclassical dance that in like manner was often modified and balleticized. According to Gallini (1762, 183), comic dancers did in fact endeavor to master the true hornpipe with its tapped steps: “Some foreign comic dancers, on their coming here, apply themselves with great attention to the true study of the hornpipe, and by constant practice acquire the ability of performing it with success in foreign countries, where it always meets with the highest applause, when masterly executed.” According to the late-eighteenth-century

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American dancer John Durang (1966, ll),however, these tap-steps were frequently replaced with more airborne gambols, especially when executed by French dancers, for "the French seldom do many real ground steps" in the hornpipe. One such "real ground step" from the step-dancing tradition that made its way into mainstream comic ballet was the pas de pied, or "foot step," also called the pas marque' or the pas froffe', which was nothing more than a balleticized version of the tap-step known as the "shuffle." Vieth (1794,2:415) describes the step in the context of ballroom dance as follows: Foots, steps common in English dances wherein, while the one foot springs up almost imperceptibly, the toe of the other is thrust sideways onto the floor; the latter is set down behind the former, and then the same is repeated with the first foot. These are also called striking steps or pas marquis. (The latter term also refers to other steps, however, that are merely done in figuring [i.e., dancing] on the spot, for which among others thejeurets, either to the fore, rear, or side, are handy.) If the striking steps are very marked, then you will hear a double beat, which the toe of the working foot does on the floor, one in thrusting it out and the other in drawing it back.

Fundamental to English hornpipes and jigs, the shuffle was also used in eighteenth-century English country dances as a kind of embellishing step. References to the tapping, stamping, or bangmg of the feet on the floor common in these dances can be found in a number of sources from the period, such as Rameau (1725a, 108), the Journal e'franger (May 1754,229-30), Ratier (1759?,14-15), Despreaux (1806,2:281).The pas de pied was clearly used on stage, for it figures in the extant choreography for the comic pantomime ballet La rkjouissance zdlageoise (Ferrere 1782?,29), wherein a peasant woman "makes off in pas de pied" and then later "comes back on in pas de pied." She was evidently doing the jumps with greater elevation than was usual in the step-dancing tradition, for she was able to travel easily over the stage in executing them. The practitioner of the comic, devoted as he was to the representation of figures drawn from the lower strata of life, was ideally to be short and stocky. As Noverre indicates (1760,233-34), "the figure of the comic dancer needs fewer perfections; the shorter he is, the more his body lends grace, kindness, and nai'vetk to his expression." Noverre adds that "a pleasant physiognomy, ever animated with

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liveliness and gaiety, is the only one suitable to comic dancers. They should be, as it were, the monkeys of nature and ape that simplicity, that uninhibited joy and artless expression that holds sway in the village.” Despreaux (1806, 2:290) similarly notes that ”the comic is the third genre of dance; it requires a short, robust body. As this build allows for greater agility, the dance is gayer and more amazing and generally pleases the public more.” Jean-Barthelemy Lany (1718-1786) was one of the most outstanding comic dancers from the period. It was he who introduced onto the stage of the Paris Opera the novel genre of the plifre, or rustic shepherd in contrast to the idealized berger. He was ”short, around five foot [i.e., about five foot four], broad-shouldered, strong-legged, very strong, very precise, very correct” (Despreaux 1806,2:262).He was succeeded at the Paris Opera by Jean Dauberval (1742-1806), who started out in the serious style but became “thick and muscular” and thus was obliged to turn to the comic (Noverre 1807,2:116).According to Despreaux (1806, 2:290), Marie Allard (1742-1802) was also well renowned in this genre; ”she was middling in height, very fat, very lively, light, and charmingly talented.” Marguerite-Angelique Peslin (1748-?) was equally suited to the comic, for “she was very good at tours de force and vigorous jumps” and “her features, which are quite repulsive, and her heavy mannish figure are not capable of expressing the charms and majesty of the Muse of Dance” (Bachaumont 1783,9July 1770, 19:234). Vigee Lebrun (1984,1:106) notes that Allard and Peslin also danced in the grotesque style and that both lacked slender elegance: ”Mademoiselle Peslin and Mademoiselle Allard were two dancers in the genre that in Italy is called grotesque. They did tours de force, endless piroueffes without charm. Both of them, although very fat, were truly amazing thanks to their agility, especially Mademoiselle Allard.” Sister to the comic, the grotesque was largely devoted to mirth as well. It differed most noticeably from the former in that the grotesque dancer’s movements and jumps were marked by extreme exaggeration and contortion, his art having at times more in common with the antics of an acrobat than the movements of a dancer. His dancing was taken up m a d y with extremely difficult jumps of remarkable elevation: 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 re-

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quired in it than even of agility and sl[e]ight. 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. (Gallini 1762,8446)

Weaver (1712,168) in like manner notes that this style was "intermixt with Trick, and Tumbling, that the Design is quite lost in ridiculous Grimace, and odd and unnatural Actions" as well as "Grimace, Posture, Motions, AgiZity, Suppleness of Limbs, and Distortion of [the] Faces." Magri (1779,1:127) provides a concrete example of the extreme elevation that these grotesque dancers were able to achieve. Magri, who was a groftesco himself, active as a performer in the 1750s and 1760s, boasts of having been able to do a rkvoltade over the head of the tallest man that could be found: Such great height was reached in this jump that the heads of the tallest men could pass under the bend of my knee; and what is more, the second time I danced in Turin, His Royal Highness the Duke of Savoy, the present King of Sardinia and its happy ruler, had the tallest grenadier of the supernumeraries, dressed as he was in his theatrical garb,; come out onto the stage, and even he could pass under the bend of my knee in this jump of mine.

Zamacola (1796,32-33) likewise touches upon the extremes of the grotesque dancer, who could "bound three or four yards," in his tongue-in-check description of social dancers running after the music and trying to get to their necessary positions in contredanses: "It often happens that the music goes faster than the dancers in a confredanse, who do not have enough time to get to

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their allotted positions, especially when the contredanse has double figures. In this case, a springing step is done, just as when grotesque dancers at the opera bound three or four yards to plunder in a campaign.” As noted in chapter 2, not only were the jumps themselves to be breathtakingly high but the limbs as well were thrown up in as high and contorted a manner as possible, showing “Suppleness of Limbs,” as Weaver puts it. In the grotesque jump called the spazzacampagna, for example, the dancer needed to raise both his feet above the head at the height of the jump. In exposing hunself to ”deadly danger at every moment” in his attempt to reach amazing elevation while representing the ”dregs of the common people,” the grotesque dancer often sacrificed musicality and landed off the beat if it ensured amazing height in jumps: In Italy, we have dances that are called grotesque, and the dancers who perform them are known as groffeschi.These clowns frisk about only in leaps and bounds, and most often off the beat; the latter, they even willingly sacrifice to their perilous jumps. Their dances commonly revolve around the adventures of peasants, rustic shepherds, and other sorts from the dregs of the common people. To avoid doing the same all the time, they dress themselves as Germans, Englishmen, Spaniards, Turks, fancying they represent the true character of the nation whose garb they have donned, but their jumps and attitudes are almost always the same. I think that the composers of such ballets are to be ranked together with those poets who make parodies: and grotesque dancers with Pierrots, Punches, and Scaramouches, characters celebrated in such spectacles commonly reserved for the [low] theater. I do not say, and please note this, that one cannot excel either in the composition or in the execution of such dance, but I think that this style is the slightest of all. It can excite in the beholder nothing but amazement mixed with fear in seeing the likes of them exposed to deadly danger at every moment. (Angiolini 1765)

Sulzer (1794,4:506) likewise indicates that amid all the exaggeration, respect for the cadence of the music was less of a concern among grotesque dancers: The first or lowest class is called grotesque; it is characterized by a lack of restraint or by something exotic. At bottom, these dances present nothing but extraordinary jumps and strange, silly gestures, revels, and adventures of the lowest class of mankind. Little here is to do with good taste; nor is one so particular here that the cadences of the dances agree so precisely with those of the music. This style demands mainly strength.

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In their attempts to reach great height and lugh extensions, dancers in the grotesque style sacrificed not only cadence but grace: Here and there in the pantomime ballets, which pretty generally please [Italians],especially when there is some extraordinary farce in it, are always found frightful performers of capers, who are called grotteschi and who through a thousand very dangerous jumps done with heaviness and without grace produce a show as interesting as a bull-fight in France, yet this forcefully moves the sensibility of the Roman rabble. These dancers are inspired or rather goaded on by applause in the form of bellowing, which very well corresponds to their sort of quality. (Mercure de France 21 Apr. 1787,137)

Desprkaux (1806, 2:252) in like manner indicates that "the dancers from Italy called grotesque seek only to amaze; their dancing is ignoble. They seem to be unaware that dance is an art which is to please." Grotesque dance was used to portray not only "the dregs of the common people," as Angiolini indicates above-that is, daft bumpkins and crude peasants, and other characters "exotic" to European audiences, to use Sulzer's word, such as Turks, Laplanders, and Chinesebut above all characters from the commedia dell'arte. Indeed, to Weaver's thinking (1728a, 56), the grotesque style was largely synonymous with the dancing of the likes of Harlequin, Scaramouche, and Punch with their ridiculous distortion and grimace: By Grotesque Dancing, I mean only such Characters as are quite out of Nature; as Harlequin, Scaramouch, Pierrot, G.c. tho' in the natural Sense of the Word, Grotesque among Masters of our Profession, takes in all comic Dancing whatever: But here I have confin'd this Name only to such Characters where, in lieu of regulated Gesture, you meet with distorted and ridiculous Actions, and Grin and Grimace take up entirely that Countenance where the Passions and Afections of the Mind should be expressed.

As Lambranzi notes in his Italian preface (1716, i), the buffoons from the commedia dell'arte needed to be represented by a most odd manner of dancing and by comic positions. Each of these characters had his own unique style and costume: The merry or burlesque characters, that is, Scaramouche, Harlequin, and the like, must be performed with a bizarre manner of dancing and particularly by false and ridiculous positions. It would be ill suited, for

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example, if a Scaramouche, Harlequin, Scapin, or Punch were to dance a minuet, snmbnnde, coiirnnte, or entrie, since each of these has his own ridiculous burlesque steps and the like. Thus, Scaramouche has his huge long expansive steps that are hard to imitate, the Scaramouche steps and capers, as will be given with each of these figures; the same holds for the other characters such as Harlequin, Mezzetin, Scapin, Matto, the Bolognese Doctor, Narcisino, Fenocchio, Orbo, Zotto, Strupiato, Pantalone.For all of these, no steps or figures can be done in costumes other than those normally seen in Italian theaters; in these, the dancers have freedom.

A little information is extant on the individual styles of the more popular characters from the Italian comedy. Scaramouche, for example, was known for h s ”pedantic and extravagant airs” (Pauli 1756,43), for his ridiculous gravity, his contorted movements, and exaggerated high extensions of the legs in particular; as such he was the direct opposite of Harlequin. As Hogarth notes (1753, 149), ”Scaramouch is gravely absurd as the character is intended, in overstretch’d tedious movements of unnatural lengths of lines: these two characters [Scaramouche and Harlequin] seem to have been contrived by conceiving a direct opposition of movements.” Behr (1713, 55) in like manner notes in connection 1,ith Scaramouches that “their positions are in the Spanish manner [i.e., with the feet parallel rather than turned out], yet their steps are very large and expansive, their gestures serious, the which, however, always comes off as being comical and ridiculous.” Attitudes provided the perfect forum for displaying the “expansive,” ”over-stretchd,” and ”unnatural lengths of line” typical with this character. As Magri (1779,l:lll) indicates, the dancing of Scaramouche was filled with ”forced” or exaggerated attitudes, ”used in the characterized dances for the transalpine‘ as well as for Coviello or Scaramouche; these dances are utterly filled with sundry kinds of forced attitudes.” The engraving of the early-eighteenth-century dancer Dubreil as Scaramouche (fig. 2.10) provides a concrete example of the degree of contortion achieved in attitudes by performers of this role. Perhaps the most famous of Scaramouche’s”over-stretch’d” movements was h s simple walking step, wherein his stride was so broad that the sitz bones of the dancer came to be only a couple of feet or so off the floor when the feet were furthest apart during one stride, the dancer nearly doing full splits on the floor in the course of each step. This pas de Scaramouclie is illustrated in Het Groote Tafereel

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der Dwuusheid (1720,44).This illustration, wherein Scaramouche performs this step on the tightrope while playing a fiddle on his head, is reproduced in Lawner (1998,68).The step is also illustrated in Lam-

branzi (1716,1:25), shown here in figure 3.2. Lambranzi notes in the caption to his illustration that “as this figure shows, Scaramouche comes out and does huge steps mixed with capers and piroueftes and dances in this manner as it has been rather often noted.” Zacharias von Uffenbach’s description (1935,31) of a dance for a Scaramouche performed at London’s Drury Lane Theatre on 13June 1710 gives some idea of the oddity typical with this character. Scaramouche avails himself here of ”droll attitudes,” ”contortions of the body,” frequent high jumps into the air, not to mention the virtuoso feat of dancing on the ”tips of his toes”: A man appeared as Scaramouche,but he was far from being as elegant a dancer [as Hester Santlow, who preceded him], though he excels in droll attitudes, leaping and contortions of the body, in which I never saw his equal. The most amazing of all was that he danced a ”Chique” [i.e., gigue] with great aghty on the tips of his toes with his feet turned entirely inwards, so that one cannot conceive how he was able to bend his feet thus backwards, stand on tiptoes, and spring about without straining his feet or breaking them at the ankle-joints. He jumped so high in the air and with such frequency, alighting each time on his toes, that, when he suddenly collapsed, his feet were not to be seen; then he

.-

- -.-

.

Figure 3.2. Scaramouche doing his pas de Scaramouche, after Johann Ceorg Puschner (Lambranzi 171 6,1:25).

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immediately sprang up again without putting his hands to the ground to help himself. That he further set one foot exactly before the other backwards, and, placing himself flat on the ground, sprang up immediately with great nimbleness, is not so much out of the ordinary, and I have seen it done often.

Uffenbach mentions here the practice of turning the feet completely inwards, which was evidently a feat cultivated by eighteenthcentury contortionists as well, as shown in figure 2.13 from Het Groote Tafereel der Dnmsheid. Indeed, like the comic, the grotesque availed itself of nonclassical steps, positions, and movements. Prominent here were the five so-called false positions of the feet, which required one or both of the legs to be rotated inwards rather than outwards, and as such these positions were a ridiculous inversion or parody of classical techruque. According to Feuillet (1700a, 8), these positions were formed as follows: The first is formed when the toes of both feet are turned inwards so that they touch and the heels are apart on the same line; second when the feet are apart the breadth of one foot length between the toes, which are both turned in, with the heels on the same line; third when the toe of one foot is turned out and the other in so that they are parallel to each other; fourth when the toes of both feet are turned in so that the toe of one foot is close to the ankle of the other. Fifth false position is written like fifth true, and they both look the same [in notation]; however, they are in fact quite different from each other, for while in the true position the toes of both feet are turned out, in the false they are turned in, crossing each other so that the heel of one foot is directly opposite the toe of the other.

Sol (1725,54) notes specifically that “these false positions are greatly used in character dances, with peasants and so forth.” As noted above, Behr (1713,55)indicates that Spanish positionsthat is, positions wherein the feet are kept parallel rather than turned out or in-were greatly used by Scaramouche as well. These positions are clearly described by Magri (1779, 1:30): First Spanish position is formed by setting together the feet parallel so that the inner sides of both touch at all parts, with the legs, knees, and everything naturally stretched. In second, the right foot is taken behind the left the breadth of one foot so that the toe is in a straight line with the heel of the other. In third, the right foot is placed so that its instep rests against the side of the heel of the left foot. Fourth is formed from

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the same position in which the feet are placed in third by separating them by one foot length so that the feet are parallel. In fifth, the heel of the right is taken to the toe of the left, both feet forming a straight line.

Some jumps used in the comic and grotesque styles were properly executed in these Spanish positions, such as the galletti, or "cockerel" jumps, described thus in M a p (1779,1:133-34): The capers called galletti begin with the feet parallel, that is, in Spanish first. After the bend, which is done with the knees coupled together, draw up the legs, joined thus as they are, while springing and then stretch them again; the heels come back to do a beat toward the thighs, and in coming down, land with the feet still together. There is another way to do them, which is more difficult; after the first drawing up, stretch the legs, raising them in front as much as you can, curving the body as if going to sleep on the legs themselves, and as you begin to come down, bring the legs downward again and take the body back up to its natural position. There is another way to do them; namely, in springing, raise the legs (coupled again without being drawn up behind) in front right from the beginning, lowering the body over them, and in coming down do the same as given above. Because they need to be very high, all these capers are preceded by a brisk or a sissonne.'O They are called galletti because they are like the jumps of a cock. You may observe that when a cock springs up to take flight, it draws up its legs as in the first; if it springs up in order to make at some animal in a fight, it jumps up by stretching the legs in front, as in the last two given.

What appears to be roughly the same jump figured in a comic tambourine dance performed by the child wonder Lolotte Cammasse, who in 1739 was able to dance "in a manner well beyond her age, being only ten years old as of the fifteenth of last September," for on 7 April in the same year at the Comedie-franqaise, she "executed a very brilliant piece, namely, the tambourine dance, with beats, the fluency and correctness of which were amazing. She has added to it this year, and on her own, the amazing feat of beating her tambourine with both feet to the fore and rear within the space of only one measure" (Mercure de France Apr. 1739,774,777-78). The Scaramouche seen by Uffenbach was also able to land in and then spring out of a prostrate position on the floor, even "without putting his hands to the ground to help himself" up. This sort of jump appears to be a more virtuoso version of a feat found in the sequence called the talon lie ltvre, to give Helmke's name for this composite step, which was apparently restricted to Cossack dances

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in Helmke’s day (1829,188-90). Here the dancer lands on all fours with the body only slightly off the floor and then springs up again out of the same position: Dart forward with the arms stretched out, like a hare doing a jump, put both hands on the floor such that the hand forms a stand, with only the thumb and fingertips touching the floor; at the same time throw the feet back so that they land on the toes, stretch the body, and above all the knees, and lower your chest considerably to the floor between the arms, with the elbows pointing up, so that of the whole body only the feet and fingertips touch the floor. Thrust the head back so that the face is not hidden and count ”four.” Then bound back up with the body.

In contrast to Scaramouche with his gravity, Harlequin betrayed a lighthearted, superficial character, one as vibrant in its many-sidedness as his particolored costume and as amoral and unpredictable as an animal. As Jean-FranqoisMarmontel(1723-1799) puts it, his character is a mixture of ignorance, nuztwfi, wit, foolishness, and grace. He is a kind of dissolute man, a great child who has flashes of reason and intelligence, in all of whose mistakes and blunders there is something pungent. The model Harlequin is all suppleness and agility, with the grace of a young cat, with an exterior coarseness that makes his performances more amusing; he plays a lackey who is patient, faithful, credulous, gluttonous, always in love, always in difficulties on his master’s account or his own, who afflicts himself and consoles himself with the readiness of a child, whose sorrows are as amusing as his joys. (cited in Duchartre 1955, 126)

Harlequin’s ”exterior coarseness” inevitably led him into acts of mischief, into ”buffoonery and antics” (Pauli 1756,43), often of a lascivious kind. During these acts, the dancer or pantomime portraying this character was able to exhibit such movements as “the frequent and significant wriglings of HARLEQUIN’Stail” or ”HARLEQUIN’S tapping the neck or bosom of his mistress, and then kissing his fingers” (The World 25 Oct. 1753),or hs “endeavouring to creep under Columbine’s petticoats” or “laying his legs upon her lap” (The Connoisseur 19 Dec. 1754). As the Cdendrier Izistorique des thkhtres (1751) indicates, Harlequin was ever ready for ”knavery and deceit”: His character is that of an ignorant valet, who is simple at bottom, but who does his best to be witty, even to the point of malice. He is a glutton and a poltroon, but faithful and energetic. Out of fear or self-interest,he

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undertakes all manner of knavery and deceit. He is a chameleon which takes on every color. He must excel in impromptus, and the first thing above all that the public asks is if a Harlequin is agde, if he jumps, dances, and turns somersaults. (cited in Duchartre 1955,127) Lambranzi (1716,1:32-33) gives a dance scenario that well illustrates Harlequin’s “knavery,” one wherein the rogue teases and torments a blind man. In his mischief-making, Harlequin availed himself of a slapstick sword to slap about his opponents and, in brandishing this weapon, to overturn the natural order: ”It is certainly very just, that Harlequin should flourish with his dagger of lath, and invert the order of nature, whenever he finds it necessary” (The World 8 Apr. 1756). Indeed, the use of the slapstick to create mischief was still very much part of the Harlequin role in the early nineteenth century. As Leigh Hunt (1784-1859) reminisces of a performance by this roguish character (1888, loo), ”standing ready at all points, and at right angles with his omnipotent lath-sword, the emblem of the converting power of fancy and light-heartedness . . . he draws h s sword, slaps his enemy, who has just come upon him, into a settee.” In agreement with his bubbly, lighthearted character, Harlequin cultivated small, quick darting or circular movements of the body. As Hogarth indicates (1753, 149), “the attitudes of the harlequin are ingeniously composed of certain little, quick movements of the head, hands and feet, some of which shoot out as it were from the body in straight lines, or are twirled about in little circles.” Examples of such quick darting movements typical of Harlequin can be found in a simple Chacoonfor a Harlequin created by the dancing master Roussau and engraved in Feuillet notation in the 1720s.Roussau includes a forwardjutting movement of the head, performed by ”stretching ye nek and head forwards without moving ye shoulders”and then taking the head back in a birdlike movement. This same darting movement is apparent in Harlequin’s greeting, also gven in Roussau, which requires the performer with hat in hand “to stretch yr arm forwards draw it back again then move it forwards again wh[ich] is ye salutation of an Harlequin.” The certain little, quick movements of the head that shoot out from the body or twirl around, or the flourish of the hand holding the hat, doubtless formed part of the “little antics” alluded to in a review of Cammasse’s performance as a Harlequin in 1740, wherein the child dancer executed ”with great lightness and correctness the little antics with the hat and head and so forth, not to mention the most daring

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pirouefte ever done, and all with mazing correctness“ (Mercure de France June 1740,1197).The twirling movement of the head lived on into the early nineteenth century and is most evident in Leigh Hunt’s description of a performance by Harlequin (1888,100):”Giddy as we think him,he is resolved to show us that his head can bear more giddiness than we fancy; and lo! beginning with it by degrees, he whirls it round into a very spin, with no more remorse than if it were a button.” A succession of quick, little movements was also employed by one of the greatest Harlequins of the eighteenth century, the English pantomime John Rich, who was able to “dance three hundred steps in a rapid advance of only three yards” (Senelick 1998, 350). The ”quick HarIequin trip” alluded to by Jackson (1793, 368) in his description of a scene from Harlequin Sorcerer performed by Rich in 1752, wherein Harlequin is hatched from an egg, may well be an instance of such a succession of rapid minced marchks: ”From the first chipping of the egg, his receiving of motion, his feeling the ground, his standing upright, to his quick Harlequin trip round the empty shell, through the whole progression, every limb had its tongue, and every motion a voice, which ’spoke with most miraculous organ,’ to the understandings and sensations of the observers.” According to Behr (1713, 55-56), Harlequin’s ”gestures are very comical. He has nothing but pluck and binds himself to no figure; rather wherever he can avail himself of only a ridiculous jump and a comic attitude, he is ready at once to do so.” Indeed, Harlequin developed his own set of comic attitudes. In the dedication of his Chacoonfor a Harlequin, Roussau, for example, alludes to the attitudes or “ye postures w[hi]ch are most in practice for the Harlequin.” It is clear that caprice played some role in the choice of such poses, for Roussau indicates that he “endeavour’d to represent some of yours,” that is, some of those used by a dancer named Louis Dupre, presumably not the great serious dancer of the same name. It appears that such attitudes were typically used to conclude each phase of mime or phrase of dance, and Roussau in fact illustrates ”the attitude or full posture the Harlequin must be in when he begins each part.” The dancer begins each of the seven figures in one of four poses, with each figure ending typically with a pause in the choreography to allow the dancer to hold the pose. One of the poses shown in Roussau, wherein the dancer holds one hand on hs slapstick in his belt and sets the other hand on the brim of his hat, appears to have been widely used, and the iconography throughout the period often shows Harlequin striking this pose. In England, the grotesque pantomime Henry Woodward (1714-1777) evidently established the practice of concluding each phase of mime or

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dance with one of only five fixed poses, representing admiration, defiance, determination, fhtation, and thought. This tradition survived until the end of the period when James Byrne, the ballet master at Dnuy Lane, did away with this convention or rather broadened the number and variety of the poses (Beaumont 1967,110). As noted above, the comic and grotesque could employ ”nonclassical” positions and movements. Spanish positions, that is, positions wherein the feet were held parallel to each other, were commonly used by Scaramouche. That they were used by Harlequin as well is suggested by one of the illustrations given in the fifth figure from Roussau’s Chucoonfor a Harlequin, wherein the dancer does a series of sautb, or soubresauts to use the current term, on the tips of his toes in first Spanish position. In addition to employing Spanish positions, Harlequin, like many of the commedia characters, made conspicuous use of tricks or feats taken directly from acrobatics. As the Calendrier historique des thkdtres (1751) makes clear, such feats as somersaults were an inherent part of Harlequin’s antics, for “the first thing above all that the public asks is if a Harlequin is agde, if he jumps, dances, and turns somersaults” (cited in Duchartre 1955, 127). The famous Harlequin Tomasso Antonio Vicentini (1683?-1739), for example, better known as Thomassin, ”would do a somersault with a glass of wine in his hand without spilling a drop” (Duchartre 1955, 41). Indeed, some performers working in the grotesque genre clearly led a double life as both professional acrobat and dancer. The early-eighteenthcentury performer Antoni, for example, danced both on the Paris Opera stage and on the tightrope, being in his day the most perfect rope-dancer ever seen in France. His dancing was noble and easy, such that a skilled dancer might have performed on a stage. To this talent he united that of jumping with admirable elevation, justness, and precision, not to mention that he was original in the dance of the Drunkard, which he performed several times on the stage of the Academie Royale de Musique to the liking of all connoisseurs. (Parfaict 1756,1:152-53)

Descriptions of a number of tumbling tricks from the period give some idea of the dexterity achieved by performers in the grotesque style. One such feat was “the somersault, a dangerous jump wherein the feet turn around the body while the head is down. Tumblers do several somersaults in succession” (Compan 1787, 110). A further trick was the saIto mortale, or ”deadly jump” in Italian, which is illustrated in Lambranzi (1716, 2:45) and vaguely described in the

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caption to his figure as a ”somersault from back to front,” over another standing body, as the figure makes clear (fig. 3.3). llus feat is clearly described in detail in Helmke (1829, 192-94), in connection with a character dance for two in the “Cossack style: They dance up to each other and g v e both hands, which they hold up like an arch. Then each man tums on his spot, but both at the same time without letting go of their hands. In thisway, they come to stand back to back with their hands held over their shoulders. The first man bends his body somewhat backward, and the second man somewhat forward at the same time. Then the first man bends his body quickly and forcefully back to the fore, and at the same time the second man swings his body up from behind with the greatest of rebound so that with his head he comes to stand on the first man’s head, with the feet stretched straight up. Then bending he swings himself over in front of the first man and thereby comes to stand opposite him.The first man’s shoulders receive the heavy load of the second in going over, which he must counter at the same time, for this counter-forceserves the second man as a lever, who would fall if the first man were to bend under this force. Then both men turn,and the first likewise somersaults so that each comes to stand again in his spot.

Further tricks, depicted in Lambranzi (1716,2:43-45), include handstands, leapfrog, and what might be called “human wheels,” in which two performers, holding each other foot to head and either belly to belly (fig. 3.4) or back to back (fig. 3.5), coil themselves, forming a single wheel as it were, and roll about on the floor. With his two humps, one on his back and one on his belly, his grotesque mask with a long aquiline nose, and his conical hat, Punch was as graceless as his figure and as violent and cruel as his English name suggests. As Hogarth indicates (1753, 149), ”Punchinello is droll by being the reverse of all elegance, both as to movement, and figure, the beauty of variety is totally, and comically excluded from this character in every respect; h s limbs are raised and let fall almost altogether at one time, in parallel directions, as if his seeming fewer joints than ordinary, were no better than the hinges of a door.” As such he evidently combined the overstretched line of Scaramouche and the quickness in movement of Harlequin, for Behr (1713, 56) notes that ”his dancing is in the manner of Scaramouche and Harlequin.“ One jump typical of this character that affords a clear example of his utter gracelessness was the saut de pendu: The sauf de pendu, or the “hanged man’s jump,” is used in the role of Pulcinella, or the Drunkard, or with some other clumsy character, or

Figure 3.3. 2:45).

The salfo morfale, after Johann Ceorg Puschner (Lambranzi 1716,

Figure 3.4. 2:43).

“Human wheels,” after Johann Ceorg Puschner (Lambranzi 1716,

Figure 3.5. “Human wheels,” after Johann Ceorg Puschner (Lambranzi 1716, 2:44).

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sometimes it is done [merely] to be queer, this being a difficult jump. It also begus with the feet parallel and with the knees together. Bend, and in springing, straighten the body well with the legs coupled. The arms, which are stretched, fall, with the hands touching the thighs and the head lost to one side. Then when coming down, take one foot well up into the air as high as possible just before touching the floor, landing obliquely on the other foot. The difficulty of this jump lies in the great height needed to catch the spectator’s eye; otherwise it will amount to nothing. He who lacks the ability to reach such height should on no account do this caper. (Magri 1779,1:134-35)

A further grotesque movement evidently common with Punch, showing his “clumsy, crippled manner” (Pauli 1756,43), was a walking step wherein the dancer moves about with his feet spread well apart to the sides and either parallel or fully turned in, with his knees bent and just off the floor. This ludicrous and difficult feat is illustrated in Lambranzi (1716, 1:40), who shows Punch ”dancing around in a circle in this manner, and after odd crooked limping steps are done, the dance ends to the amusement of every spectator” (fig. 3.6). A similar version of this step is described in Magri (1779,

- .. -. - .

.-..-

Figure 3.6. Punch “dancing around in a circle in this manner, “doing” odd crooked limping steps,” after JohannGeorg Puschner (Lambranzi 171 6,1:40).

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1:137), who claims that ”in the role of the French Pulcinella, who usually has two humps, I have come down with the feet in Spanish fourth with the knees, together and bent, half a palm’s breadth off the floor, and in such a manner, I proceeded to walk, ending the walk with a pirouette en Z‘air [i.e., four en Z’air] taken from this same position.” The jump from which Magri landed in Punch’s limping step alluded to just above was the caprioZa aforbice, or “scissor caper,” a step commonly employed with this character as well, according to Magi (1779,1:136): The forbice is a caper used in conjunction with the character of Pulcinella. It begins in Spanish first position and is cut therein. Spring, and while in the air with the knees joined as if nailed together, spread the feet, taking indifferently the right or the left forward, and in coming down, bring the feet back together again into the same first position, in which you land balanced. This does not need to be too high. This caper is done in another manner, which requires greater height and is done fully open; that is, the knees are not joined but are stretched with the legs, which open from the hip joints, sending one forward and one backward. In the first way of doing this step, I have taken the legs back together into Spanish fifth after the first opening and opened them again in the same jump. In the second, I have done a half turn of the body while beginning the descent. All these capers, which belong to the character of Pulcinella, are done with a movement of the arm on the same side as the foot. In the role of Praut, or the French Miller, great use is made of the fully opened forbice.

Less information is available about the dancing of other such grotesque characters. According to Pauli (1756, 43), Pierrot was known for his “silliness and naYvefk,” Hogarth (1753,149) noting that ”Pierrott’s movements and attitudes, are chiefly in perpendiculars and parallels, so is his figure and dress.” Other sketchy descriptions of dance performances in this genre hint at the oddity of the grotesque style generally, with its love of caricature and contortion. According to the summary of a dance called ”the King of Morocco’s Diversions” performed by a certain Grimaldo Francolino from Malta at the King‘s Theatre in London on the second of March 1727, Francolino evidently hoped to impress his audience through his ”surprizing Activity [i.e., agility] and Strength in a Dance on his

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Knees with a wonderful heavy Machine upon lus Head, never yet attempted by any one before” (The London Stage 1960, 2/ii: 911). Equally bizarre is a dance scenario given in Lambranzi (1716,1:28), wherein two dancers, each clad in a giant shoe and leg terminating in a slouch hat, dance about together. Dances of peoples that were exotic to European audiences, such as Turks, Chinese, or Lapps, belonged to the grotesque style as well. The famed grotesque dancer Laurent appeared in a dance “in the low comic vein” for a Laplander in the opera Ernelinde, mounted at the Paris Opera in 1767 or 1777 (Despreaux 1806, 2:254). Hilverding’s pantomime ballet Psyche et ]‘Amour, first performed in 1752 at the Burgtheater in Vienna, contained a scene wherein Psyche, after having broken her word to Cupid, finds herself in the middle of a vast wasteland. The view is bounded by frightful rocks, which are arid and covered with snow. Out of the hollows rise scrubby shrubs stripped of their greenery. The painter created in this set that beautiful horror of the land of the Lapps, where the scene is now set. A group of Lapps covered with snow, laden with icicles, and armed with arrows, come and frighten Psyche with their attitudes, yielding only to Boreas, who through the vivacity of his steps and the expressiveness of his attitudes brings her to a pitch of despair. Uournal encyclopidique Jan. 1756,77-78)

Here the Lapps function much like the Eumenides, who traditionally were to hound and torment a character in his darkest hour. Dances for peoples from other locales provided grotesque dancers with ample opportunity for droll but impressive jumps, such as the so-called Turkish caper, described in M a g i (1779,1:133): It is evident from the name of this Turkish caper that it is meant to be used in Turkish roles. It is done [with the legs] drawn up under the body, and instead of beating as usual and interweaving, the soles of the feet beat together; the beat can be done two or at most three times. It is likewise done to the side, with the body oblique in the air, as usual. In these, you land on one foot.

Chinese characters were particularly apt to employ bizarre movements. The iconography suggests that squatting or sitting positions were traditional with Chinese characters on the eighteenthcentury stage, with the performer standing in a bend in a forced

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second position of the feet, for example (figs. 3.7-8), or sitting on his heels (fig. 3.9), or alternately sitting with his legs crossed. The late-eighteenth-century dancer Roller (1843, 223-24) describes a droll pas chinois, performed from a cross-legged position on the floor, that was evidently used in the ”Chinese” ballet Das Fest lies porzellanenen Turms zu Peking: Sit up on the floor with both legs [crossed],with the heel of the left foot in front of the right knee, and the toe of the right foot behind the left knee, with both legs, from the knee to the fore-part of the foot, crossed flat in front of the body. Rise a little, insignificantly so, from this seated position and lean the body slightly to the left, during which the right foot is drawn out from behind, is thrown sideways to the right in a circle and is set again crossed in front of the left so that its heel comes to be in front by the left knee, the body sitting again quite naturally.Now lean the body slightly to the right, and the left foot is drawn out from behind, is thrown sideways to the left in a circle, and is set in front of the right foot so that its heel comes to be in front by the right knee, and again with the right foot, and so forth.

An extant description of Noverre’s pantomime ballet Les f2te.s chi-

noises (The Chinese festivals), mounted at the Foire Saint Laurent in

1754, indicates that the choreographer used in the opening scene both sitting positions and bobbing movements, the latter evidently parodying the Chinese custom of multiple bows, which reminded a critic in the Spectacles de Puris (1755,4:136-37) of an undulating sea: The stage first shows an avenue ending with terraces and steps leading to a palace on a height. This first set changes and shows a public place decorated for a festival, and at the back an amphitheater where sixteen Chinese are sitting. With a quick change in locale, instead of sixteen Chinese, one sees thirty-two, who perform a pantomimic exercise on the steps. As the first go down, sixteen other Chinese, both Mandarins and slaves, come out of their dwellings and go onto the steps. All of this creates eight ranks of dancers, who in successively stooping and rising imitate rather well the waves of an agitated sea. (cited in Brown 1991,148)

In addition to squatting positions or bobbing movements, a pointedfinger gesture evidently could also be used, wherein the forearms were held upwards with one finger of each hand pointing aloft (figs. 2.4 and 3.8).

Figure 3.7. A mid-eighteenth-century dancer in a Chinese role, after J.4. Martin, in the New York Public library, reproduced in Kirstein (1984,113).

Figure 3.8. A mid-eighteenth-century dancer in a Chinese role, after J.4. Martin, in the New York Public Library, reproduced in Kirstein (1984, 113).

Figure 3.9. “Monsieur Pagode” after Roquillard in Gherardi (1700), in the N e‘W Yo1rk Public library, reproduced in Kirstein (1984, 113).

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However bizarre a figure grotesque characters cut with their droll jumps, bizarre costumes, acts of contortion, and other antics, the grotesque style of dance still required artistry so that it would appear "pleasantly ridiculous rather than worthy of ridicule." As Bonin (1712,60451) notes in his general discussion of the comic and grotesque, there is seldom a comedy or opera wherein the dancing is not a few times done in sundry ways, and as the personages are all in costume, Harlequin, Scaramouche, Punch, peasants, and other dancers make their appearance. Such characters do a solo, or ballets are performed with entries in them, which must be done in such a way that they are not simple and tasteless. Such dancers likewise truly need to have a special predisposition, as they may not use words to make themselves comical but rather only attitudes and positions of the body so that such dances may be varied in a hundred or more ways, but this, as said, must be done in such a way that it looks pleasantly ridiculous rather than worthy of ridicule or displeasure. Many look fine on the stage in their drollest costumes,but when it comes to dancing and they are to do their figures, they look so ludicrous that it could take away one's appetite for food and drink, as crooked feet, queer jumps, and strange masks are not enough; this manner of dancing also requires a certain artistry.

Gallini (1762, 86-87) likewise warns that the grotesque dancer was not to lose sight of nature amid all the contortion and grimace: 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 exaggerated. 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.

Despite warnings that this style was to eschew anything that might excite ridicule or displeasure in the spectator, it was not unknown for the grotesque to go beyond the bounds of decency. It often incorporated into its dances and pantomimes "everything bar-

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baric, indecent, and unnatural” and “dishonored the stage with the lazzi, gestures, jumps, and looseness of indecent dancers who trod under foot taste, delicacy, and custom and made representations unfitting for delicate souls” (Angiolini [1773] 1998,52). In a letter to Count de Mercy-Argenteau dated 17 June 1776, the Empress Maria Theresa of Austria alludes to the tendency of dance for Italian characters to gravitate to the lewd and low and commends Noverre, with his pantomime ballets of a more noble character, for ridding the theaters ”of the sometimes rather indecent ways of Italian dancing” (trans. in Guest 1996,87). Indeed, the lewdness of eighteenthcentury comic theater reached an all-time high, or rather low, in Italy particularly. The famed Italian comic playwright Carlo Goldoni (1761) laments, for example, that ”the comic theatre of Italy for more than a century past had so degenerated that it became a disgusting object of general abhorrence. You saw nothing on public stages but indecent harlequinades, dirty and scandalous intrigue, foul jests, immodest loves” (trans. in Beaumont 1967,83). The following review of Grandval fils’s Sirop-au-cul, ou l’heureuse dklivrance, tragidie hirof-merdifique (Asssyrupus [literally ’Syrup-inthe-Arse‘], or the Happy Deliverance, Heroic Shit-erific Tragedy) gives some idea perhaps of the ”indecency” and scatological humor of the lower end of the eighteenth-century comic stage. Doubtless the like was found in conjunction with comic and grotesque ballets outside more staid European theaters. From time to time appear productions that are low, insipid, and indecent and which become the object of the curiosity and conversation of all Paris. All such works, however, do not enjoy this honor, and a rhapsody entitled Asssyrupus has begun to excite the contempt that it merits. King Asssyrupus is sick, and the doctors give him up for dead because of a blockage that he has. Act I He is treated and given up for dead a second time because he is constipated. Act I1 Fate decrees that the prince can be healed only once someone has blown up his arse. His mistress does this, and his health returns. Act ID: He marries her in recognition of this service and condemns his subjects to eat his excrement because not one of them came forth to save his life. This is a satire against doctors, after the fashion of Sticcoti, a bad Italian comedian. (Grimm 1877,27 Dec. 1751,2127-28)

This example of low scatological humor was not an isolated case, for many other works in different genres from the period were produced

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that could match the contents of Syrop-au-cul and that were completely in accord with the lighthearted spirit of the age. One such literary creation was Hurtault's L'art de piter, reviewed by Grimm (1877,21 Feb. 1751,2:32): A 108-page pamphlet has appeared called The Art of Farting. In it can be found what a fart is, how many kinds of farts there are, how a fart is formed, the effects they produce, the drawbacks and advantages they entail. This rag, containing nothing agreeable and no wit, is proof, moreover, of the abuse made of the press. For every book of philosophy and morals that is printed in this country, one finds a hundred pamphlets contrary to common sense and good manners.

Not all grotesque dancing was to inspire laughter through buffoonery or indecency. The Furies of the eighteenth-century theater, for example, those fiends from Hell personifymg such besetting passions as hatred, rage, revenge, cruelty, confusion, and the like, were characters in the grotesque style intended to inspire horror and to paint symbolically the inner turmoil afflicting a character in his darkest hour. Scenes given over to Furies or demons tormenting their victim abounded in operas in the heroic-tragc vein throughout the period. To express their violent character, the choreography typically created for dances of Furies, or the Eumenides as they were also called, was made up feats of impressive velocity, of precipitous jumps and violent turns. As Bonin indicates (1712,165), the Furies are dances the speed of which can scarcely be imagined, for not only the music itself but also the feet must move in and out like lightning, such that the latter, because of the speed, can hardly be told apart, which is the right or which is the left, when a Fury is danced. It is just as if all the spirits of Hell have been let loose on the stage, spirits who represent confusion, revenge, wrath, and cruelty themselves. There must be movement in and out, back and forth, forward and backward, in a straight line and in a circle such that the feet come to be very little on the floor.

Cahusac (1754,3:48-49) in like manner remarks that the Furies specialized in feats of speed and "through swift steps, precipitous jumps, and violent whirling [tourbillons]paint the rage that animates them." The Furies evidently availed themselves of a step vocabulary that captured some of their rage and violence. The tourbillon mentioned

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by Cahusac just above, for example, appears to have been a bona fide step, or rather a sequence of rapid traveling turns, and as such is likely the forebear of the modem petits tours or tours chainis. Figuring prominently among their ”precipitous jumps” was the grunde gargouillude, typically done with the body performing a half or full turn and with both or only one leg executing a rond de jambe in the air. The following description from Magri (1779,1:124)outlines one version of this step: The gargouillade is an old caper, which is done with a digagk turning, and then in the spring, the body is held straight and upright, with the legs and thighs in an even line parallel to the floor; one is held stretched and still, and the other does a tour de jambe. In coming down, land on the leg that was stretched, and the other which did the four de jambe stays off the floor. Between the digagi and the spring, a full turn is done. For greater spring, the jump is done with the foot that was taken out, which gives greater force to the spring. In a jump of this kind, more than one four de jambe cannot be done, but more than one gargouillude can, all with the same foot or with a change [of feet].

The Encyclopidie inkthodique (1786,417)notes that “this step is traditional in entries for winds, demons, and spirits of fire,” one that the celebrated Louis Duprb was famed for when he danced the role of a demon early in the century. Not only the legs but the arms as well were to betray swift, grand, and wild movements, but not without artistry. Magi (1779, 1:111) cautions that ”this wildness and disorder notwithstanding, the Furies merit every attention; indeed, they more than any other character need to be represented and enacted with bodily nimbleness, with quickness in the legs and with grand, swift gestures of the arms.” Such high swinging movements of the arms was as much a practical necessity as an aesthetic one, since Furies commonly armed themselves with burning torches to frighten and torment their victim and help reveal their hellish character, and the dancers portraying these demons had to take care not to set their costumes alight. Bonin (1712,195-96) indicates that their costume is made up of nothing but flames of fire from head to toe, their faces fire red, and in both hands they bear a burning torch. The scene then must also be gloomy, frightful, and dreadful. It can be in fact a hell, somewhat illuminated, ringed round at the sides with frightful crags and chasms, or the scene reveals a mountain that spews fire as the Furies

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come forth from sundry holes and begin their dance with gestures of despair. If to the entree thunder and lightning as well as a rain of fire are added, the character of the Furies will be rendered even more naturally, and the very image of a frightful frenzy will be portrayed.

Just such a hurly-burly of frenzied, precipitous movement by hellish spirits armed with burning torches characterized a dance for Furies in Noverre’s pantomime ballet Renaud e f Armide, performed in Stuttgart in 1763 as part of the duke of Wiirttemberg’s birthday celebrations. According to Uriot’s account (1763, 146-47), Armide in the course of the ballet passes from despair to fury. She invokes the demons and Furies, who rush on at her bidding, armed with daggers and serpents; Vengeance and Rage are at her sides. The entrie that they dance makes one shake with horror. Armide orders them to destroy [Renaud’s]palace and gardens. All of them arm themselves with torches, which they light with the fire from the torches of Vengeance, and form a corps de bullet, which through the precipitous and frenzied movements as well through the arrangement of figures makes a most frightening spectacle. They disperse to all sides, and in an artistically arranged confusion, they set fire to the palace.

The scene of Furies from the fourth act of Rameau’s opera Castor et Pollux, remounted at the Paris Opera in 1791, in like manner made conspicuous use of ”tumultuous dances, with the devils waving their torches” (Mercure de France 1Oct. 1791,37). Truly spectacular displays of fire in such dances for Furies became possible beginning in the 1760s, at least at the Paris Opera, thanks to the efforts of Jacques Bandiery de Laval, assistant ballet master at the OpQa, who introduced more sophisticated flame-throwing torches. A critic in the Mercure de France (Jan. 1766,2:204)makes reference to the novelty of these torches in a production of Thisie at the Paris Opera in December of 1765, which did much to increase the hellishness of the scene wherein Medea invokes the infernal spirits: The torches, with which the inhabitants of Hell are armed, increase its terror. When these torches are agitated, the flames flare so prodigiously that it seems that they will envelope in torrents of fire now those who make use of them, now the worthy victim of their fury. This effect, so wondrous to see, comes from the powder contained in the capsules of the torches, this powder so clean-burning that it produces no smoke or

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smell and poses no risk of burning anyone even slightly in its most brilliant ignition. This discovery is due to the care and ardent zeal of Monsieur de Laval, the composer of this part of the ballet.” Four years later, a critic in the same journal (Apr. 1770,1:169) gives some idea of the nature of the combustibles found in these torches, ”which we believe [make] use of lycopodium or vegetal sulphur, the powder of which flares up, goes out, and lights up again quickly in passing through a fire of wine spirits.” The Furies used not only torches but also other props, specifically daggers and serpents, to afflict and frighten their victim. In doing so, these demons would pursue their hapless victim about the stage or encircle him and dance around him but would recoil with fear when braved. This pattern of now threatening attacks, now frightened retreats, is alluded to by the author of ”Observations sur l’Opera” (1777,27), who speaks of “these demons, who twist their arms and fret in order to frighten a hero, who bring daggers and serpents before him, who jump about with torches, threatening him,but recoil with fear when he advances toward them.” This same pattern is alluded to in a critic’s review of the dances created by Noverre for Gluck’s Iphige‘nie en Tauride mounted at the Paris Opera in 1779. As is evident from the critic’s description, the attacks and retreats were in fact written into the music, which the choreographer failed to observe consistently on this occasion: The pantomime scene for the Furies is on the whole very well conceived, but it strikes us that it would have even greater impact if the dancers danced less in it, if they were to merit more rest and more variety in the tableaux, and if they were to observe more scrupulously the intentions of the music, which seems to indicate to us the moments wherein the Furies are to rush toward Orestes and those wherein they must recoil with a kind of horror. (Mercure de France 15June 1779,179) A hellish pantomime scene found in Gluck’s Les Dunaides as mounted at the Paris Opera in 1784 similarly centered around victims being tormented by Furies and demons, but to the accompaniment of novel sound effects: “The Danaides, shackled in groups, tormented by the demons or hounded by the Furies, fill the scene with their movements and their cries; a rain of fire falls steadily. While this pantomimic action is executed by the dancers, a chorus utters the cries and groans of the Danaides, who in vain attempt to soften

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the demons who hound and torment them" (Mercure de France 1 May 1784,31). The dancing typical of Furies was characterized not merely by feats of strength and speed but also by contortion, most notably in their attitudes, which were to be "forced," that is, exaggerated, in agreement with the extremity of their character. The distortion of the body in this role is explicitly prescribed in Lambranzi's scenario for a Fury (1716, 241), which requires the performer to do "distortions [Verdrehungen] of very different sorts, with furious quick jumps." Magri (1779,l:lll) discusses this exaggeration in attitudes with greater clarity: Forced attitudes are grander than usual as is indicated by the word "forced." They go beyond the [usual] position and belong to the Furies, who go beyond the norm in everything. They are also used in the characterized dances for the transalpine as well as for Coviello or Scaramouche; these dances are utterly filled with sundry kinds of forced attitudes. To do a forward attitude for a Fury, raise the arm on the same side as the foot off the floor to a height beyond the norm with the fingers uneven, expressing a rage apt to make every limb of the body stiff, with gleaming eyes and gnashing teeth like mastiffs, and everything else that can reveal their venomous, spiteful, and resentful nature; no regularity should be perceived in them but only a quick nimbleness in gesture.

Such gnashing teeth, gleaming eyes, and "stiff," that is, stretched arms are evident in the depiction of a Fury eiz attitude from the middle of the century shown in fig. 3.10. Mane Allard clearly excelled in the role of the Fury and was evidently adept at transforming her features into a suitably fiendish countenance, as she did in the Paris Opera's 1765 remounting of Rameau's Castor et PolZux, for example. In this production the famed dancer, "despite the gracefulnessof her figure, became a veritable Fury through the fieriness of her steps, the amazing fluidity of her attitudes and the energy of her pantomimic acting, right down to the features of her face" (Mercure de France Apr. 1765,1:183). Like the torches, serpents, and daggers, fiendish attitudes were used by the Furies to frighten and torment their victim. This practice of employing attitudes as a "weapon" is evident in a critic's description of a staging of Castor et Pollux at the Paris Opera in 1754, in the fourth act of which the Furies attempt to frighten off Pollux with their attitudes: After the trio and the double chorus of demons and magicians in Phoebe's train, to the first tune, the corps d'entrie of demons first advances

Figure 3.1 0. A mid-eighteenth-century Fury after RenC Gaillard, costume design Martin, in the New York Public library Dance Collection, reproduced in by J.4 Kirstein (1984, 124).

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toward Pollux. A pas de deux with Messieurs Lava1 and Hyacinthe follows, then the three Furies with MesdemoisellesLyonnois, Labatte, and Chevrier. These characters, now separately, now united in a pas de cinque, try to frighten Pollux with their attitudes. After the fine chorus ”brisons tous nos fers,” a second air of even greater animation follows; then all the dancing redoubles the efforts to drive off Pollux, but Mercury, striking them with his caduceus, and Pollux, showing the greatest of courage, force them to go back into their cave, into which Pollux disappears with Mercury. (Mercure de France Feb. 1754,190-91)

In availing themselves of attitudes, the Furies could form striking tableaux and groupings. As Magri indicates (1779, 1:111), “sometimes the Furies bear burning torches in hand, and in waving these, in forming tableaux and groupings of more Furies weaving in and out, the dancer needs to be very agile and skilled in the art.” Such striking tableaux figured in a scene of Furies from Cane&, performed at the Paris Opkra in 1765: Demons, armed with daggers and serpents, execute to an admirable tune movements most suitable to frighten Canente. Three further demons emerge from under the stage amid flames, and vividly grouped, they fill up the rest of this first tune with movements even more marked. To a second lively tune, their master appears with two burning torches in his hands. All the others seize him by the arms and form a group with him and at that instant also find themselves each armed with two similar torches. They encircle Canente and hound her with fury. At the same time fire emerges from every part of the palace. The chorus of Circe’s ministers join the demons in order to torment Canente and come together with them and with the performer to form the most striking and most interesting tableau. (Mercure de France Jan.1761,1357-58)

The popularity of such infernal spectacles ensured that scenes of Furies always ran the risk of becoming hackneyed and obliged choreographers to surpass previous efforts with more vivid effects and novelties to keep the genre fresh. As a critic in the Mercure de France (Apr. 1772, 1:174) notes in his review of the Paris Opera’s 1772 remounting of Rameau’s Castor ef Pollux, such lavish and continued use of grand effects succeeded only in lessening their impact: “As to the ballet of the Furies, I have only one observation to make, which is the more this one succeeds, the less others of the same sort necessarily will. To be prodigal with grand effects is to destroy them. It seems that an opera cannot be made without the help of Hell, and since the in-

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vention of [Laval’s] torches, the stage has never ceased to be illuminated by them.” A critic in the same journal (June1775,179)alludes to the genre of the Furies becoming hackneyed and commends Gretry for his cleverness in producing striking music in CPplzule et Procris for Jealousy and the demons, ”a genre wherein everything seemed to be exhausted.” Some choreographers, however, were evidently successful in bringing new life to a genre that could easily degenerate into cliche. One such talent was Laval, who “with several very ingenious novelties and a number of varied characteristic actions, has already enriched the genre of the infernal spirits, whch before had almost always run the same course” (Mercure de France Dec. 1761,174).Gardel in like manner brought novelty to a dance of Furies, wluch was ”grouped in a new and most picturesque manner,” in Sacchini’sDnrdnnus performed in 1786 (Mercure de France 7 Jan. 1786,131). To make this genre spectacular, some productions appear to have relied more on scenic effects, such as ”a Fury who flies through the air on a dragon” in Hircule inourant of 1761 (Mercure de Frniice Apr. 1761, 2:169), or a stage floor that sunders to let the demons out of Hell in T h M e of 1765: ”One sees the earth rise and part by buckling in order to allow [the Furies] to come forth. This manner, which was never used before in the theater, adds to the illusion and prepares the viewer for the horror of the awaited spectacle. The spirits of Hell emerge with some effort from the bowels of the earth, in attitudes that are picturesque and well characterized” (Mercure de France Jan. 1766,2:203).Alternately, some productions tried to enliven the horror through allegory; the Paris Opera’s 1779production of Gluck’s Iphigknie en Tauride, for example, included a short but novel allegory of remorse: In the second act, Orestes, separated from Pilades, abandons himself to all the wildness of fury. He invokes the lightning of the gods down onto himself; then overcomeby the very excess of his pain, he falls into a deep sleep, during which the Furies come and torment him, reproach him for his crimes, and show him the shadow of his mother with her throat cut by him, dripping with blood still flowing from the wound. This is a most sublime allegory of remorse. Never has poetry presented a more striking or more terrible painting of the soul pained or the conscience troubled, but this tableau can belong only to the lyric theater. (Mercurede France 5 June 1779,53)

The Paris Opera’s 1784 production of Gluck‘s Arinide also included a scene of allegory involving the personification of hatred extracting

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love from Armide’s breast, although these gestures were evidently performed not by the dancers but by the singers and clearly did not meet with great success: We have yet to make a critical observation here on the acting that affronted many people of taste. In the last scene of the third act, when the words ”come out, come out of Armide’s breast! Love, break your chain!” were spoken by Hate and repeated by the chorus of demons, the performer playing Hate draws near to Armide and seizes her by the body with a violence and with movements equally at odds with truth and decorum. The demons in their turn do not fail to repeat this action, which becomes even more shocking from them. It is absurd that Hate personified pretends to pull Love out of Armide’s breast by ripping open her chest apparently to get at him. It is equally absurd that the evil spirits, ever at the beckoning of the enchantress, would permit such familiarities with their sovereign. We do not know if this acting is of an ancient tradition, but we believe that it cannot be justified by any principle of taste or reason. (Mercure de France 17 Nov. 1784,173-74)

If in theory the dances of Furies were to inspire horror in the spectator, in practice such dances by and large do not appear to have been terribly successful at painting frightening images of Hell. Noverre (1807,2:107-8), who was active in the theaters of Europe for roughly the last sixty years of the eighteenth century, suggests that the genre, at least as cultivated at the Paris Opera, seldom inspired horror even in the most fainthearted: ”Finally, Madame, I saw Malter, who was nicknamed the ‘Devil,’ because he danced the demons. His dancing was strong, hard, and dry; always frightful, he frightened nobody. This imaginary and fanciful genre has not been perfected. Our devils at the Opera do not imitate those of Aeschylus; they are good devils who do not even spook the women.” This failure appears to have owed something to the nature of the music typically used in scenes for Furies and demons, which was strangely enough often in a major key and as such too bright to paint convincingly the tormenting fires of Hell. Consider, for example, the tune for a Fury dance in Lambranzi (1716,2:41).The tendency for the music to soften the impact of the Furies is alluded to in a review of the Paris Opera’s 1779 production of Gluck’s Iphige‘nie en Tauride: This dance of the Eumenides, who in the second act come and torment Orestes in his sleep, increases the terror and pathos that one would perhaps have difficulty bearing without the music, for it is a notable feature of this enchanting art that it softens and even makes delightful

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the painting of situations that are most heartbreaking and most frightful, for the agreeable sensations which arise from the same material of art temper the too violent movements that imitation can excite in the soul. (Mercure de France 25 May 1779,197)

Doubtless the typically overrefined costumes of the Furies, made of beautiful stuffs and replete with plumes, also contributed in a small way to softening the impact of such scenes. The following description of costumes for twelve male Furies found in an inventory list drawn up in 1777 at the Munich court and evidently used in Bouqueton's pantomime ballet L'eiiZ&mzent de Proserpine mounted in Munich gives some idea of the sartorial finery that could be used with the Furies: Skirt and one half of sleeves of green taffeta trimmed with gold-colored leonian lace and differently colored foil leaves, embroidered with silver sequins. Upper part of drapery and upper part of body of poppyred taffeta decorated with gold-colored leonian lace, silver sequins and chains made of black taffeta ribbons; lower part of drapery as well as other half of sleeves of puffed golden-colored leonian gauze; 12 breeches of green taffeta and 12 helmets of green and red taffeta. (trans. in Cauthen 1998, xiii)

The tendency to have demons express their hellish character in formal dance rather than in gesture may also have contributed to a lack of dramatic effect. As Mably (1741,117) complains, You must agree, Madame, that the dancing in our operas is often ridiculous. N*** is right; the demons of b n h o r are utter nitwits for failing to come up with anything more difficult than dances in order to show the power of their master. I would say as much about those whom Arcalaus orders to frighten Amadis. Their part is all wrong, and the last folly to pass through their heads was to do cabrioles and entrechats.

Indeed, the review of Noverre's dances for Furies included in the Paris OpQa's 1779performance of Gluck's Iphige'nie en Tauride, given above, similarly complained about too much dancing, remarking that the scene "would have even greater impact if the dancers danced less in it" (Mercure de France 15 June 1779,179). The character of the Winds was the specialty of grotesque dancers as well and was not terribly different from that of the Eumenides. Magri (1779,1:112)notes that "he who is suited to the Furies always represents them or else the personificationof the Wind, which is similarly danced. Those of this style dance la grande z&sse, as it is called by the French, which is not like the character of the Furies or Wind but is

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filled with the same attitudes.” Claude Balon was one eighteenthcentury dancer who specialized in la grande vitesse, for as Nemeitz notes (1727,72), he ”dances the Furies, the Winds, and all the violent dances at the Opera.” As with the Eumenides, the dance of the Winds was made up of vehement tours de force, such as repeated violent pirouettes; echoing Menestrier’s earlier characterization (1682, 159) that ”the dance of the Winds must be light and precipitous,” Le Jay (1725)notes that “for the Winds, the dance should be light and rapid, characterized by frequent pirouettes that imitate the whirling of the wind” (trans. in Dorvane 1998,283). Indeed, as Bonin (1712,19697) indicates in his handbook on theatrical dance intended for amateurs, the Winds were to present a veritable hurly-burly on stage: Now we turn to the entries called les quatre vents, or the Winds. As one is not permitted to consider whether the winds dance, since no one has ever seen a portrait of a wind, only the melody bears this name. The dance itself goes likewise very fast and is made is up of four comers formed by twelve or more dancers, who then very briskly change places pell-mell, presenting at times a veritable hurley-burley. In such an entrie, even before the dance begins, the stage must be most dark as if a storm were about to break, whereupon the men as the Winds, clad in black, dance out and set about their business. In this, more thought is to be given to the figure than to the steps themselves, which are mainly pas de bourrie if the dancers are not at all yet brisk on their legs; with trained dancers, however, other steps can, I dare say, be chosen that demand, it might be added, extraordinary speed.

Just such ”extraordinary speed” characterized the dancing of Laval as one of the Winds in a performance of Tifon et Aurore mounted at Fontainebleau in 1764; “in the first [divertissement of the second act], Monsieur Laval, at the head of the Winds, paints very well the furious impetuosity of these tyrants of the air through the force and swiftness of his dancing” (Mercure de France Nov. 1764,123). The ballet L a f f f edesfleurs from the third entree of Rameau’s Les Indes galantes, first performed at the Paris Opera in 1735, provides a concrete example of how the Winds could be used in a dramatic dance: The ballet is a picturesque representation of the fate of flowers in a garden. They are personified, as are Boreas and Zephyrus, in order to animate this galant painting. First the chosen flowers dance together and form an ever-changing bed of flowers. The Rose, their queen, dances alone. Her dancing is interrupted by a storm brought by Boreas. The flowers feel his anger. The Rose resists this plaguing enemy the

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longest. Boreas‘s steps express his impetuosity and fury; the Rose‘s attitudes paint her sweetness and fears. Zephyrus arrives with reviving calm; he re-animates and raises the flowers brought down by the tempest and concludes their triumph, and his, with tender homage to the Rose. (Mercure de France Sept. 1735,2045-46)

The ballet of the Rose, with its stormy Winds battering the flowers of Flora, does not appear to have been untypical of the way that the Winds were employed in eighteenth-century ballet. At least this is suggested by Dorat’s following characterization of the Zephyrs (1771,166),which likewise has the jerky jumping about of the Winds wreak havoc among Flora’s flowers: Zephyrs, brush the leaves in your light flight, and without being heard, pass through the groves. One laughs at these stormy and sturdy Zephyrs, who make the air groan under their convulsive bounding. Hearing this unknown noise, Flora awakes trembling; they have already made the flowers from her basket bend. At the sight of her new lovers, she fears for the shaky throne where Spring sits, and the pit at length rightly sends these clumsy jumpers bounding into the wings.

A mid-eighteenth-century depiction of the Winds in action reproduced in Winter (1974,103)shows what appears to be the same ”artistically arranged confusion” that characterized Noverre’s dance of Furies in Renaud et Armide, as mentioned by Uriot (1763,147).The attitudes of these Winds (fig. 3.11) reveal the same exaggeration and

Figure 3.1 1. A detail of a mid-eighteenth-centuryWind in action, after an unknown

artist, in a private collection, reproduced in Winter (1974, 103).

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overstretched line that was characteristic of the Furies as well (fig. 3.10), in agreement with Magri’s characterization of this role given above. To la grande vitesse, the noisy and drunken Bacchants appear to have belonged as well, and their dancing was similarly characterized by rapid turning and wild bounds, according to Dorat (1771, 165): “Bacchants, express the fury of drunkenness. Rapidly turn under the God who goads you.” The grotesque style, particularly in the case of commedia characters, required its practitioner to be accomplished in dance, acrobatics, and pantomime. Despite the seeming lack of discipline to be found in buffoonery and caricature, the genre was highly demandDaizciizg is wholly calculated for the Stage, and ing, for ”GROTESQUE takes in the greatest Part of Opern-Dancing, and is much more difficult than the Serious, requiring the utmost Skill of the Performer. . . . A Master or Performer in Grofesque Daizciizg ought to be a Person bred up to the Profession, and throughly skill’d in his Business” (Weaver 1712, 164-65). To excel in the grotesque, the dancer also needed to be naturally disposed to jolliness or at least capable of making himself so upon demand. Bonin (1712,62) indicates that ”he who wishes to excel in this then must be an individual who can assume a merry humor and lively spirits upon demand, for should it so happen that he is to make his appearance but is not disposed or otherwise vexed, it would be better that he quite leave this off rather than making himself contemptible with a forced performance.” Eighteenth-century grotesque dancers, like acrobats, were commonly of Italian extraction, for the style was particularly popular in Italy. As Pellegrin indicates (1754, 58), “it is from Italy that all the tumblers, rope-dancers, charlatans, Mezzetins, Giles, and Harlequins come.” Roller (1843, 206-7) gives some insight into the life that these grotesque dancers led, who not uncommonly started out as orphans or children from poor backgrounds indentured into a kind of serfdom of itinerant theatrical service. These hapless individuals were carefully selected on the basis of their conformation, their disproportionately long legs and high waist evidently making them suitable to do their bizarre but striking jumps and feats of contortion, for which they received meager recompense from their masters: The grotesque dancers were bred (or better said broken in) mainly in Italy. They cannot be numbered among the fine artistic dancers but

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rather among those who through extraordinary practice and strength could do the strangest and the most peculiar jumps. The older jumpers reared in turn the younger ones and trained them. They were bought of parents from the poor class of folk or were taken on parentless. In choosing a new pupil, mainly his strength and build were considered: The shorter his upper body, and the longer he was from the hips to the thighs and legs, the better suited he was to grotesque dancing. They were chosen at an age so that they could appear on stage after a few years. Commonly the teacher and pupil entered into a contract whereby from the time that such a student could perform in public, the pay went to the teacher for a certain period of time, and the latter had merely to maintain his pupil; in this way, the master was recompensed for instruction and training rendered. It was a kind of serfdom for a given breadth of time. These dancers journeyed from theater to theater, and when it was announced that "today there is a new grottesco," great was the throng in keeping with that time. The duration of this sort of serfdom was unbearable for many of these students, however, and if one were so fortunate as to gain the approbation of the public, then he felt that he could become independent and autonomous, and if not kept under careful watch, he would run away from his lord and master. I learnt this directly from a certain Montuani and Casani, who related to me stories from their youth and who were active as grotteschi for nearly fifty years to extraordinary acclaim. This sort of dancer has become rare now [in 18433; he served the fine dancer as a folie and was quite at home (and would still be so today) in such ballets wherein wild exotic tribes, Furies, and other fantastic characters were portrayed.

It was noted at the beginning of this chapter that the four traditional styles of eighteenth-century ballet differed not only in the kinds of characters represented but also in the choice of steps and positions and even in the manner of executing them; in other words, the styles differed not only in subject matter and choreography but also in technique. The degree of elevation in jumping prescribed for these characters was one of the more striking ways in which the individual styles differed technically. According to the tradition as outlined in Magri (1779,1:138), the steps in "a style must be done all in [grand] jumps, or all mid high, or all on the floor, hence the division [of dance] into the three styles"; in other words, the higher the character, the lower the jump, or conversely, the lower the character, the higher the jump. Thus it is that at one extreme the grave, the loftiest and most dignified of the four styles, was to cultivate mainly

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terre-a-terre steps with small jumps rather than capers. At the other extreme the grotesque was to amaze through its "perilous jumps" of remarkable elevation (Angiolini 1765) such that the grotesque dancer like an acrobat could jump over the heads of the tallest men in a revoltade or perform entrechats a dix with two turns in the air, as the grottesco Magri claims he could. The pirouette affords a good example of how a given step could vary in its execution from one style to another. Pirouettes, so essential to such roles as the Furies and Winds, were only seldom done in the grave style, and when they did appear, the serious dancer had fewer options in the way the turns could be executed. While clearly not exhaustive in their catalog of movements, the sources suggest that only two basic kinds of pirouettes were cultivated by grave dancers, and by pirouette we mean specifically a rotation on only one foot as opposed to two. These two basic sorts are described by Taubert (1717, 717-18), who in his handbook gives steps evidently only from the high dance that could be used by more accomplished amateurs to embellish their minuets. The first kind was called a pirouette ouverte ("open turn"), or pirouette teiidue ("stretched turn"), that is, a pirouette ri la secoiide to use the current term, and could be embellished with beats or ronds de jambe, as Taubert makes clear in the following brief sketch (Taubert rather idiosyncratically uses the term tounzi here to designate a turn on only one foot and pirouette to designate a turn on both feet): The tourni, which besides also designates tournnnt de zliEj7exii "turning from the bend in the road," means, however, a rotation or a turning step wherein you turn around very quickly, just like a turning bar on the upright spindle of a gaming table, doing either a quarter, half, three-quarter, or full turn, or a one-and-a-half, or even a double turn, not leisurely on both feet, as in the pirouette, but on only one leg, either the right or the left, with the other turning leg either stretched stiff out to the side (which is called a pirouette ouzlerte, or "open turn," in ChorPgrnphie, wherein we find twenty-two variations of the tourni) or beating over the former, either behind and in front, or in front and behind, or a number of times one quickly after the other to the back, or to the front, then set down again (which is called a pirouette bottue, or "beaten turn," in Clzorigropliie;see numbers 650 to 661 in the table of pirouettes).

As noted above in our discussion of the grave style in particular, the pirouettes that are found in dances belonging to this genre and are

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extant in Feuillet notation from the early part of the eighteenth century invariably have the free leg stretched to the side, with or without beats or ronds de jambe. According to Taubert, the second kind of pirouette, a tourne-broche or "roasting spit" turn, required the dancer to change feet in an alternating manner while turning, the performer presumably drawing the alternating free foot up quickly and repeatedly on the ankle of the supporting leg in doing so. Turning can be done either with the right leg to the left or right side or with the left to the right or left side as well, that is, turning inwards or outwards, which the French call a pirouette ouuerte en dedans and en dehors, or in turning around you step off one foot onto the other, that is, alternately now on the right, now on the left, and in doing so, turn around with such nimbleness that it cannot be made out which is the right or left leg. This is why it is also called a tourne-broche, or "roasting spit" in French, for it continually turns around in a circle, and as it moves, one of its tines cannot be made out from the other.

According to Magri (1779, 1:90-91), the serious dancer Ga6tan Vestris was particularly skilled in this second kind of pirouette, for "during the same turn, he changes feet twice or thrice without stopping or interrupting the turn, something truly worthy of endless wonder." In contrast, the grotesque dancer had a greater variety of ways to turn in his repertory of steps. He could avail himself, for example, of pirouettes wherein the toe of the free foot was held at the heel, ankle (croisk), or knee (en retirk) of the supporting leg, with the knee of the gesture leg kept bent, or a pirouette wherein the heel of the free foot was held on the toe of the supporting leg: The pirouette en refirk is fitting only for the grotesque dancer and is done thus; during the turn on the toe of one foot, the other is held on the knee of the leg that turns or behind the bend of the knee. This pirouette is also reckoned among the indeterminate [i.e.,can be done with as many t u m s as possible]. That with the toe to the heel is also fitting only for the grotesque dancer and is done by resting the toe of the foot that is off the floor against the heel of the foot on which you turn. This pirouette is also indeterminate. That with the heel to the toe is the opposite, wherein the heel of the foot that is off the floor is placed on the toe of the foot that turns.This belongs to the grotesque dancer as well and is indeterminate. The pirouette ouverte, or pirouette tendue, is done

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by turning on the toe of one foot holding the other off the floor to the breadth of second with the knees well stretched. It is a forced, or indeterminate, pirouette and can be done in all the characters. The pirouette croisie belongs to the grotesque dancer; it is also indeterminate and done as follows; the foot not touching the floor is set on the cou-de-pied of the other on which you turn.There are others, but since they are related to these, we will pass over them in silence. (Magri 1779,1:90)

These grotesque turns appear to be of some age and were doubtless inherited from Renaissance dance, like other grotesque steps, such as the salto delfiocco discussed in chapter 2, for what appear to be the forebears of these turns are described in Negri (1602,91-93). A further option for the grotesque dancer was the zurlo basso, or “low pirouette,” which required the executant while turning to bend the supporting leg so much that he could sit down on the heel of the supporting foot. Magri (1779, 1:89) indicates that ”the low pirouette, which is also indeterminate and forced, can be done only by the grotesque ballerino, done by turning quickly on the toe of one foot with the knees bent.” A slightly different version of this turn is given in Lambranzi (1716, 2:37), misspelled as the “zurlo basho,” which shows the dancer sitting on the heel of the supporting foot with both legs parallel rather than turned out and the free leg held extended in front. His caption reads, ”as this figure shows [fig. 3.121, one does turning steps” all the time, one springs up quickly and then does the[se] turning steps again.” Lambranzi’s version is very similar to one given by the lateeighteenth-century dancer Roller (1843, 210-11). Roller similarly has the dancer begin by “taking tempo,” that is, by doing a preparatory jump landing in a pli6 in first position, as he makes clear elsewhere, and has the dancer keep the gesture leg extended rather than bent: Pirouette en bas SUY la terre. The tempo for this is taken as in number 140; at the moment of swingmg around, however, squat down as much as possible on the left foot, on which the turn is done (accomplished dancers sit right on the heel). The right foot, extended out to the side in a horizontal line, must hover stiff [i.e., straight], and the arms are likewise extended away to both sides. Strength and practice are needed to keep the body perpendicular and to keep the extended foot sweeping around freely in a horizontal line over the floor so that it does not sink to the floor. Contra to go around to the right.

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-;==
Figure 3.12. The zurlo basso, or low pirouette, after Johann Georg Puschner (Lambranzi 1716, 237).

While both grotesque and serious dancers could avail themselves of the pirouette ouverte, the serious dancer often performed this turn in a slow and sustained rather than violent manner. As Taubert indicates (1717, 718), in such dances as thefolies d'Espagne, a grave dance belonging to the serious style, the turn was frequently done slowly and gravely: "As the pirouette is rather often done very quickly, however, so the tourne' is sometimes done very slowly as well, such as in thefolies d'Espugne, for example, wherein one turns around in a circle very slowly and with particular gravity, stretching the one leg away from oneself straight and marking the cadence only in front with the foot, and then sets it down again at the end." Magri (1779,1:89)in like manner links a slow, sustained execution of the pirouette to the serious dancer: A pirouette is said to be sustained when the turn is not done with speed but in a circuitous manner, and this will depend on whether the music is touching. There are also forced or indeterminate piroueftes, which are done on the toe of only one foot, upon which you quickly do as many turns as you can. It is said to be indeterminate because the number of turns hinges not upon the will of the dancer but on the greatness of his

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ability and agility. Ballerini sometimes link to this yiroiiette a four de jnmbe or some batfeinents en dehors or en dednns or bends of the knee with the foot that is to be held off the floor while turning on the toe of the other; in this case, the serious dancer may do so in a sustained manner.

Engravings of serious dances extant in Feuillet notation from the early part of the century confirm that pirouettes in this style were typically executed in a slow, leisurely manner, often taking up a whole measure of slow music. A pirouette ouverte with one and a half revolutions, for example, takes up the whole of the sixth measure in the first figure from the "Sarabande of Issee perform'd by Mr. Dupr6 & Mrs. Bullock and notated in Roussau (1725?, 31). Similarly, a pirouette ouverte with one single revolution takes up the whole of the third measure in the first figure of the "CHACONE of Galathee perform'd by Mr. La Garde and Mrs. Santlow" found in the same collection (1725?,22). The styles could differ not only in the choice of steps and the manner of executing them but also in the choice of arm movements to be used with a given step, and even in the positions and line of the body. These distinctive differences in arm and body positions are alluded to by Glushkovsky (1940, 163-64), a student of the lateeighteenth-century choreographer Charles Didelot. The latter was a traditionalist who continued to uphold the system of styles at a time when the conventions had largely been abandoned. According to Glushkovsky, Didelot's serious dances were performed to the music of adagio and march. Didelot always composed smooth, fluent dances for the principal character, with various nttitudes but rarely mixed with entrechats or fast pirouettes. The demi-character dancer performed to the music of andante grazioso and allegro; for him Didelot composed graceful dances with a completely different position of the body and arms, made use of quick and fine steps and pirouettes of a different kind from those of the serious pas; and for the comic dancer he made a pas to allegro musicfor the most part with different kinds of jumps, namely: fours en l'air with a different movement of the body and arms. Thus the public saw in each dancer a particular type of dance, not as in some ballets where you encounter different genres of dance which are all similar to one another: one dancer exits, having performed several entrechats and pirouettes, and after him a second and a third perform exactly the same thing. (trans. in Wiley 1994, xii)

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Other sources bear out Glushkovsky’s remarks, whch intimate that style played a signlficant role in determining the arm movements for a given step. One of the basic governing principles of eighteenth-century port de bras was that the higher the step, the higher the arms, a principle that still holds true more or less in contemporary classical ballet. Taubert (1717, 545), for example, writes that “if the feet perform a step high and strong, then the arms as well must be high and strong,” Hansel (1755,135)similarly indicates that the port de bras ”must always be done low, mid, and h g h depending on whether the steps are low or high and strong, which demands force and great impetus.” Vieth (1794, 2:431) also states that ”the higher the steps and character, the higher the port de bras.” The typical height of the arms and even the usual port de bras employed with a given step were determined not merely by the height of the jump or gesture leg but also by the style of dance wherein the step was used. In high capering, the half-serious dancer commonly took his arms down during the preparatory pli6, or tempo as it could also be called, and in jumping threw them up in order to achieve greater elevation off the floor and then opened the arms again so that they came to be extended at the height of the shoulders. As Taubert indicates (1717,729), although the movement of the arms with capers and other springs is always high such that both arms come to be extended in a straight line, both arms are nevertheless taken down during the tempo (when a caper is to be executed with force either straight up in the air, to the rear, to the side, or to the fore) and are raised again in springing and extended away from each other to the sides. Only a few capers are excepted from this rule.

It is presumably this high swinging movement of the arms to which Lovisa Ulrika alludes in her description of a ballet performance she saw in 1744, mentioned in chapter 1, wherein the dancers’ “arms swung round them like the arms of a windmill” (trans. in Skeaping 1967,47). In contrast to the half-serious dancer, the performer in the grave genre, who was less concerned with elevation into the air, typically used the so-called high rounded port de bras in capering, according to Magri (1779, 1:115-16). The hands, held at shoulder height, were taken not downward and then upward in the course of the jump but

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rather forward and then outward again to the sides, all in a circular mamer, as described above in the section on the grave genre. The grotesque dancer in his turn commonly used the so-called low rounded arms in such jumps, wherein the hands, held at the height of the thighs, "move scarcely a palm's breadth away from the sides, and as the one moves, so the other, both of them taken forward and both back." To quote Magri more fully, "serious balkrini usually make use of this [high rounded port de bras] at an end, in a solo, in going back, and the like. These arms are also used in doing a jump: If these dancers wish to do a caper under the body, for example, they do it with a brisk to the fore and with the high rounded arms. Grotesque dancers, however, do capers with the low rounded arms, which gives greater force and greater impetus to the jump." The use of a very low carriage of arms with jumps in both the comic and grotesque styles is also alluded to by the late-eighteenthcentury dancer Franz Roller, who includes in his handbook descriptions of jumps belonging to these two styles even though they had largely disappeared from the ballet stage by the time his book was published. In the grotesque step the galletto, for example, Roller (1843, 219, 211) notes that in executing the jump "the arms hang downward, fully stretched straight and perpendicular," while in the so-called comic tour en l'air, the dancer with his feet drawn up under the body "lets his arms sink downward so that during the whirl around the elbows and knees come rather close together." The use of the low rounded arms in capering was clearly an old convention and in fact predates the eighteenth century by almost a hundred years, for what appears to be roughly the same port de bras is prescribed by de Lauze (1623,48) as the correct arm movement for executing a caper, he noting that "first, the hands must be carried to the busk of the doublet [i.e., roughly the navel], as one does who would gain force in order to do a jump, and second, they are taken down by opening the arms a little." It should perhaps be noted here as an aside that the dancer could also replace or evidently combine these usual ports de bras with an attitude of arms, that is, a picturesque arrangement of the arms, typically taken from the visual arts of painting, drawing, or sculpture. Lambranzi (1716,1:1,2:1) provides two clear examples of such attitudes of arms used in conjunction with capers: the first, in a cabriok de CM, with the arms in what might be called a "commander's pose," that is, with one arm extended to the side and the other held akimbo;

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and the second, in a cubriole droite, with the arms held at the sides sloping downward from the shoulders, one arm held straight and the forearm of the other held somewhat upward at the elbow such that both forearms follow the same diagonal line across the body. In the passage given above, Glushkovsky indicates that the styles could also differ in the positions of the body. Unfortunately very little information is extant on the orientations of the body in stage dancing or on the use of efucement, or +padement to use the modern term, that is, the shading or drawing back of one shoulder in a twisting movement of the upper body. It is clear from sources both textual and iconographic that three basic orientations of the body in relation to the pit of the theater were used on the eighteenth-century stage, the dancer oriented to his audience either en fuce, or fully frontal (figs. 2.5-6,3.7-8,5.1-2), in profile (figs. 2.2,2.12,3.2-3,3.14), or on one of two diagonals (figs. 2.1,2.3-4,2.6,2.10,2.14-15,3.10-11, 3.16-17), such that in the last the dancer could be either croist!, efuct!, or &curt&to use the modem terms. (Neither these diagonal orientations nor the effacements of the upper body are captured by Feuillet notation, as we shall see in chapter 9.) The little evidence on the positions of the body extant for the period suggests that the higher the style, the more frequent the use of diagonal orientations and effacements. Comic and grotesque dancers likely used en face and profile orientations more than serious and half-serious dancers, the latter two more typically using a diagonal orientation or alternating from one diagonal orientation to another with each new step, thereby creating a waving or serpentine line of movement completely in accord with the age's predilection for curvilinear lines. According to the late-eighteenth-centurydancer Despreaux (1806,2:187),an inelegant dancer is one who presents himself fully frontal, one who limits himself to a few steps: He changes the tunes but he himself does not change. Without grace, without bearing, he presents himself en face. He walks, he promenades, he runs from place to place; he does an attitude here, beats there; he always repeats the same movements. In dancing, his legs are never equal; the same one always does the ronds or ovals. He does twenty entrechafs to get to the end; overcome with fatigue, he at last disappears.

Some of the steps and movements that were typical of the grotesque style, such as the forbice or the pas de Scaramouche (fig. 3.2), can be seen to advantage only when executed in profile.

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The frequency or even presence of effacement, or epaulement to use the modem term, similarly depended upon the style of dance cultivated. The shading of the shoulder, mentioned in such sources as Rameau (1725a), Tomlinson (1735), Noverre (1760), and Josson (1763), for example, was clearly thought of as an elegant embellishment that belonged to fine dancing and not comic capering. Indeed, to Hogarth (1753,148), among the "beauties belonging to this dance [the minuet], are the turns of the head, and twist of the body in passing each other." Josson (1763, 69-70) notes further that "however simply the minuet is danced, you must not leave out the turns of the head nor the shadings of the shoulders." Such effacements were not restricted merely to ballroom dancing but were essential to the more serious styles in the theater. As the author of the "Remarques sur l'estampe de la demoiselle Camargo" indicates (1732,811),such elegance was out of place in comic dance: "Thus, a figure which shades to the right must show us a head gracefully directed toward the left shoulder; I mean in the serious, for in the comic, grace loses its rules, as it were." The absence of this twisting movement of the upper body in a loftier style could be striking enough to elicit comment from an informed spectator, as it did in connection with a performance by the Italian dancer Giovanna Bassi in Sweden. The duchess of Sodermanland notes in a letter to Sofia Albertina dated 24 July 1783 that the dancer carries her body and in particular her head extraordinarilywell. . . . She does an entrechat 2 six without the least trouble. I believe almost an ri huif. The most remarkable is, nevertheless, that in her jumps she neither moves her head nor her arms, neither does she turn her body to either side, possibly one could believe that this would look stiff, but this is by no means the case. She is perfectly free and easy and has specially noble movements. (trans. in Skeaping 1967,59)

The context here suggests that this particular role was not comic or grotesque, since the nobility of the dancer's movements is highlighted. The failure of this Italian dancer to "turn her body to either side," that is, to shade the shoulder, may well have had to do with her training in Italy, where the comic and grotesque genres were very popular and where the differences between the traditional styles were less marked. Indeed, this practice of dancing with the body flat without any dynamic twisting in the torso outlived the

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eighteenth century and became a characteristic feature of the socalled Italian school in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. In the middle of the twentieth century, Nadine Nicolaeva-Legat (1947, 39), wife of the famed Russian dancer and teacher Nicholas Legat, could write that in the Italian school, dancers dance flat to the audience, and kpaulement is therefore not so important; but in the Russian school, dancers who dance without kpuulement may be compared to a Russian unable to speak his own language. A parallel may be drawn with old-fashioned photography in which there was no artistic foreshortening, everything was on the plane; and the Italian school still teaches dancing without kpaulement.

The styles could also differ in the overall line created by the dancer’s body, above all in striking attitudes. As Hogarth notes (1753,148), the higher the character, the rounder typically the line, and conversely the lower the character, the straighter the h e : There are other dances that entertain merely because they are composed of variety of movements and performed in proper time, but the less they consist of serpentine or waving lines, the lower they are in the estimation of dancing-masters: for, as has been shewn, when the form of the body is divested of its serpentine lines it becomes ridiculous as a human figure, so likewise when all movements in such lines are excluded in a dance, it becomes low, grotesque and comical;but however, being as was said composed of variety, made consistent with some character, and executed with agility, it nevertheless is very entertaining. Such are Italian peasant-dances, &c.

The serious style made greater use of rounder lines in the body than the other styles, with more marked inflections of the neck and torso and gentler, more curvilinear lines to the arms and even the legs. Suard (1753?, 33), for example, alludes to the soft lines and movements of the dancers in the serious style at the Paris Opera, to ”those tilts of the head, those cadenced unfurlings of the arms, those libidinous movements of the body, the languor and softness of which put me to sleep as readily as one of Lully’s operas.” Magri (1779, 1:115-16) also makes fleeting reference to bends at the waist in connection with the so-called high rounded arms, wherein the port de bras ”is accompanied by an inclination from the waist,” a movement used especially by serious dancers ”at an end, in a solo, in going

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back, and the like.” The practice of using more curvilinear lines in the loftier styles was evidently taken to excess in the attitudes of the half-serious dancer Marie-Louise Hiligsberg during her debut at the Paris OpQa on 25 November 1784. According to a critic in the Mercure de France (4Dec. 1784, 34), the young dancer marred her performance with too much bending of the body: ”We ought to point out to this young and agreeable dancer that a little too much mannerism and exaggeration were found in her attitudes, that she could avoid having her body continually bent and her head too far forward and that she does not need so much studied elegance in order to be found most pleasing by the public.” In contrast, Angiolini (1765) mentions in passing the ”stiffened gestures” typical of comic dancers, and illustrations of grotesque characters in the iconography, such as that of Scaramouche reproduced in figure 2.2, or the Fury in figure 3.10, show the arms held in a forced straight line in agreement with Hogarth’s remarks on line. As the attitudes of eighteenth-century ballet were radically different from their counterparts in contemporary classical ballet, a few words should perhaps be said here on the subject of poses in order to provide more context for Hogarth’s statement on beauty of line in dance. The following brief discussion by no means constitutes an exhaustive treatment of this broad topic, which will be dealt with in detail in the companion volume devoted to technique. The use of attitudes, which in eighteenth-century dance parlance meant any kind of pose irrespective of the shape of the dancer’s legs, in contrast to modem usage, was not an innovation of the eighteenth century; already by the latter part of the foregoing period, the word “attitude” was in use as a “dance term” denoting a ”kind of posture,” that is, a pose (Richelet 1680,1:50).Descriptions of performances throughout ow period of study indicate that attitudes, also called ”postures,” “poses,” or sometimes ”actions,” constituted a significant element of theatrical dance, so much so that Borin (1746, 3), for example, includes attitudes as a defining element of ballet: “The art of dance is a natural linking together of principles and definite rules which teach how to form gracefully all sorts of steps with port de bras and attitudes which are suitable and which exhibit the perfect rapport of the steps and actions with the notes and palpable beats of the tune to which they are performed.” Indeed, whole dances could consist of nothing but attitudes, like the scenario for a dance of statues given in Behr (1713,83):

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A Ballet [i.e., a Dance] Wherein Statues are Represented. They all stand on pedestals, each one in a different attitude, all of which must be done rightly according to the arts of painting and sculpture. It is through magic that the dancers are able to dance. Then the music strikes up, and the statues first become active in all their limbs and full of life. Then they all spring down at the same time in one movement from their pedestals and begin an entrke wherein nothing but attitudes are to be seen. At the end of this, they betake themselves again to their pedestals, take up their first poses, and stand lifeless again as before.

Behr (1713, 114) notes generally that “a dancing master ought to be able to execute all the attitudes and positions in dancing properly according to the art of painting.” Indeed, the attitudes of eighteenthcentury ballet were typically taken right from the arts of painting and sculpture. Compare the pose of the boy from the engraving of Mirabell Palace in Salzburg shown in figure 3.13 with the attitude of

,

. .-.--

-_--.-.

Figure 3.1 3. Detail of a boy fleeing a dog in an engraving of the gardens of Mirabell Palace in Salzburg, first half of the eighteenth century, after I. A. Corvinus (after a drawing by Franz Anton Danreiter), reproduced in Hutchings (1976,43).

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the dancer in figure 3.14, or the pose of Fragonard’s Ruggiero in figure 3.15 with the attitude of the dancer in figure 3.16. These attitudes were not governed by the rules of dance; such poses could be formed, theoretically at least, in an almost unbounded number of ways according to the fancy of the dancer and the needs of the role represented, although it is clear that there was a well-defined fund of attitudes that were often repeated. Such attitudes could be formed without turnout, with the feet not pointed or the legs not straight, or with the arms arranged in a manner not conforming to any established dance position, with a lesser or greater degree of bend in the limbs or body dependent on the expression and style, as Hogarth indicates. Indeed, the illustrations of dancers in the iconography from

Figure 3.14. A detail of a tableau for dancers, after Johann Georg Puschner (Lambranzi 1716, 2:17).

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Figure 3.1 5. Detail from the illustration “Ruggiero seeks Angelica who has made herself invisible,” for canto 11 of OrlandoFurioso, second half of the eighteenth century, after Fragonard, formerly in the A. S. W. Rosenbach Collection, Philadelphia, reproduced in Wakefield (1976, 65).

this period typically show the performer in positions that are utterly at odds with the rules of pure formal dance as outlined in surviving descriptions of technique from the period, which generally stress the need to turn out the legs as much as one’s conformation will allow and to stretch the legs and feet. Consider, for example, the slightly bent legs in figures 2.34, 2.6, and 2.10, or the flexed feet in figures 2.1-3 and 3.16, or the lack of turnout in figures 2.1-3,2.6, 3.14, 3.16, and 5.2, or the positions of the arms in figures 2.1-2,2.6,3.7-8,3.14, and 3.17. Unlike their limited and highly uniform counterparts in contemporary classical ballet, eighteenth-century attitudes appear

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Figure 3.16.

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Detail of a dancer, after Johann Georg Puschner (Lambranzi

171 6, 2:6).

to have been moments of nondance within dance, that is, intrusions of a different but complementary sister art. As such, they doubtless brought contrast and variety through their more plastic and vaned line. Indeed, judging from extant depictions of attitudes belonging to this period, one might go so far as to say that eighteenth-century poses have at times more in common with modem dance than they do with contemporary classical ballet. So important were the arts of painting and sculpture as sources for dance attitudes that writers on dance throughout the eighteenth century commonly advise the would-be dancer to study the visual arts in order to find suitable poses for the stage. Weaver (1721,146), for example, notes that

THE Dancer will, without Dispute, find great Assistance from his Acquaintance with Painting and Prints, in the Choice of his Attitudes; in the Contrasting his Actions; and, in a just Imitation of the Passions; because the Actions produc'd, and the Variety of the Motions arising from them, in representing such Passions; will never fail of moving, and giving Delight to the Spectator.

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Magri (1779, 1:18, 1:109), basing himself on Noverre (1760, 72-73), also stresses that the theatrical dancer needs a knowledge of “painting and sculpture for sundry poses, for combining groupings and for forming those paintings known as tableaux, to use the technical term” and advises that the dancer study drawing: In his fifth letter, Monsieur Noverre claims that if a ballerino knows nothing of drawing,“ he will never know how to dispose his limbs suitably in attitudes; his head will not be agreeably set and will form a poor contrast with the opposing placement of the body. Nor will the arms be arranged in easy attitudes. The whole will be unbecoming, painful, disunified, and unharmonious. Just as dancing masters who lack a knowledge of music will be hard set to arrange and distribute the tunes and will always be unable to capture the spirit and character, so those who know nothing of drawing will be unable to arrange attitudes suitably.

Descriptions of dance performances from the period clearly show that dancers and choreographers borrowed their attitudes from the visual arts or re-created painterly versions of their own. Marie Salle, as the statue in her 1734 ballet Pygmalion, for example, employed in her dancing ”the most elegant attitudes that the art of sculpture could desire” (Mercure de France Apr. 1734, 771). In his brief description of Anne Heinel’s dancing, Walpole (1904,25 Aug. 1771, 8:76) remarks that the performer had “a set of attitudes copied from the classics.” Michael Rosing (Schyberg 1943,225-26) similarly notes that the “novel” poses and tableaux used by Guimard and Auguste Vestris in a performance in 1788 were painterly: Both were continuously assuming novel and beautiful poses, but none was more worthy of the greatest painter’s brush than the final tableau when in her anger she wants to escape from him and he catches her in flight. She lies across him in his arms, supporting herself on one toe, and there he stands holding her like the most handsome Hercules and the most beautiful God of Love any painter could imagine. (trans.in Guest 1996,272)

The famed choreographer Noverre was particularly adept at borrowing from the works of great painters, at taking from their works the attitudes and tableaux that he used in his pantomime ballets. A critic in the Mercure de France (Apr. 1777,1:162-63) notes in particular that Noverre’s genius as a choreographer consisted in the felicitous

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ability to make his own the plots and ideas from great literature and the attitudes from great painting: It could be noted that in the composition of his ballets, Monsieur Noverre knows how to wed the imagination of the poet and the talent of the painter. From poetry he borrows his ideas, and from painting he imitates the figures and attitudes for the groupings of the dancers, a happy invention, to enrich dance with poetic thoughts and picturesque arrangements! What charming ballets to draw from the odes of Anacreon, the poems of Homer, Virgil, Tasso, Voltaire, the idylls of Theocrites and Gessner, and so forth! What agreeable figures, what happy attitudes to borrow from Rubens, Correggio, Albano, Watteau, and so forth. Thus a man of genius can make his own the riches of the arts and create a new one out of them by combining them.

Eighteenth-century ballet dancers were not alone in taking their attitudes from the arts of painting, drawing, or sculpture; eighteenth-century actors pilfered poses from the same sources. While Weaver (1721) advises the theatrical dancer to study painting for the selection of his attitudes, Batteux (1753,4:222-23) similarly advises the actor to use paintings as "models for beautiful declamation": If there are two genres which resemble one another, it is painting and declamation: since one is the model, and the other is the copy. I say one without distinguishing; because if nature is the model for painters, paintings in their turn should be models for beautiful declamation. How many lessons for an excellent actor in the pictures of Le Brun, Le Sueur, h Poussin, where all the figures are kinds of pantomimes all the more admirable, since in order to express themselves, they have, not a succession of gestures which help one another reciprocally, but only one gesture which stands alone! It is in this gesture that there had to be contained the whole soul of Alexander, all the grief of the mother of Darius; and this gesture was enough to draw tears from us. (trans. in Barnett 1987, 122)

In like manner, Einsiedel(l797,84) advises the actor to study works of art to guide him in arranging groupings: Not less useful to [the actor] will be the study of works of art (even if it were only in a transmitted representation); because his art is alto-

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gether so closely related to visual art, and because nothing can guide him better in the proper, pleasing arrangement of theatre groupings than the frequent contemplationof all kinds of artistic works. (trans. in Bamett 1987,122)

The free flow of attitudes from the visual arts into theatrical performances made up of dancing or acting, and even back again in the opposite direction, is evident from both accounts of performers and the iconography from the period. The famous English actor Barton Booth (1679?-1733), husband to the famed dancer and actress Hester Santlow, was noted in particular for the colorfulness of his attitudes, whch he owed to his study of painting and sculpture. As Cibber reminisces (1753?,51), Mr. Booth’s Attitudes were all picturesque.-He had a good Taste for Statuary and Painting, and where he could not come at original Pictures, he spared no Pains or Expence to get the best Drawings and Prints: These he frequently studied, and sometimes borrowed Attitudes from, which he so judiciously introduced, so finely executed, and fell into them with so easy a Transition, that these masterpieces of his Art seemed but the Effect of Nature. (cited in Bamett 1987,127)

So beautiful were Booth’s poses that according to a critic in the Mercure de France (Aug. 1733,1840), ”painters would go to the theater expressly to copy his attitudes.” It is evident from the iconography that at times eighteenth-century ballet dancers and actors even employed the same poses more or less. Compare, for example, the attitude of Gaetan Vestris in a scene of pantomime from the 1781 London production of MhGe ef Jason (fig. 3.17) with that of the English actor William Powell as Oroonoko from 1764 (fig. 3.18). As mentioned at the beginning of this chapter, the four traditional styles of eighteenth-century ballet were intended to mirror on stage the diversity of characters found in true life. While some dancemakers from the period created ballets in only one style, more commonly eighteenth-century choreographers would combine dances for sundry characters and of different styles within the same work in order to give variety, interest, and color to the whole. It was just such a happy mix of styles that characterized the dance in La cinquanfaine, mounted at the Paris Opera in 1772, and which so pleased a critic of the Mercure de France (Oct. 1772,1:152):

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Figure 3.17. A detail showing Gaktan Vestris in a pose from the 1781 London performance of M6d6e et Jason, after an unknown artist, reproduced in Guest (1996, pl. 12).

Figure 3.18. A detail of the English actor William Powell as Oroonoko in 1764, after an unknown artist, in the Harvard Theatre Collection, reproduced in Highfill (1984, 9:201).

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The happy blend of different styles of dance, noble, galant, comic, and pantomimic, executed by the greatest talents, excites one's curiosity and satisfies it. Monsieur Gardel appears to advantage in the chaconne of the second act, wherein he deploys all the strength, sureness, and nobility of his dance. Mademoiselle Heinel is always admirable in the proud and majestic style of dance that she perfoms with such superiority. First rank must also be given to Mademoiselle Guimard in the gracious and voluptuous style, Mademoiselle Allard in her strong, pantomimic dance, and Mademoiselle Peslin, her emulator. Monsieur Dauberval amazes and charms the beholder at the same time through his daringness and the picturesque art of his pas.

What a critic in the Morning Herald (22 May 1784)found particularly laudable about one scene in the pantomime ballet Le diserteur as mounted in London in 1784 was the variety arising from the use of differing styles throughout the work: "Lovers of dancing in general have enough to please their respective tastes either for serious, demi-character or even low comic stile of 'tripping it along"' (cited in Guest 1996, 361). The "tripping" role of the drunken dragoon Montauciel, called "Skirmish in the English version, provided welcome comic relief, for example. In like manner, Weaver (1728b, 4) availed himself of differing styles in his pantomime ballet Perseus and Andromeda of 1728, wherein after the destruction of the Medusa and the creation of Pegasus from her blood, six sailors "Dance a Comic Dance." Different styles might be brought together even in one and the same dance, as happened in a divertissement entitled Le seigneur bienfaisanf for a benefit performance at the King's Theatre in London in 1785. According to a critic in The London Magazine (Mar. 1785,219), the most remarkable part of it is the mock minuet between Frederick and Dorival; a most laughable contrast to the graceful manner of Signora Angiolini. The concluding part of this first dance, hath, in our eyes, the greater merit by offering at one view, the three stiles of dancing united, viz. serious demi-character and comic, performed altogether to the same music, and exhibiting the completest groupe that imagination can conceive.

The practice of combining different dance styles in the same work, common in the eighteenth century, was in fact inherited from the foregoing period. Saint-Hubert (1641,7), writing in the first half of the seventeenth century, notes, for example, that for a ballet "to be fine, it must

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never have been done before; it is necessary that it hang together well, that not one entree depart from the subject, that they be most fitting, that there are some serious and some grotesque, that two grotesque srfrees not be seen in succession, for if serious ones are mixed among them, then they will be much more pleasing.” Indeed, the more passions, actions, and characters that a seventeenth-centuryballet had, the more ”art” it exhibited, according to Menestrier (1682,176): Ballets composed with art have an admirable variety of all these movements and all these passions; in this, Le ballet de la nuit seems to me inimitable, for characters of every kind are seen in it, gods, heroes, hunters, shepherds and shepherdesses, bandits, merchants, gallants, coquettes, gypsies, knife-grinders, lantern-lighters, burgher women, beggars and cripples, poetical characters, the Fates, Sadness, Age, pages, peasants, astrologers, monsters, demons, blacksmiths, and so forth. In it one sees ball-dancing, ballet, comedy, a feast, a witches’ Sabbath, all kinds of passions, the curious, the melancholic, the enraged, passionate lovers, the amorous transfixed,the pleasing, a house on fire, people alarmed.

This practice of mixing styles within the same theatrical work was not always felt to be in good taste by some contemporaries, however. Noverre (1760,23-24), for example, found this practice often a disfigurement to the whole: It is a major fault to link together contrary styles and to mix without distinction the serious with the comic, the noble with the trivial, the galant with the burlesque. These gross but common errors betray mental mediocrity; they parade the composer’s ignorance and bad taste. The character and style of a ballet must not be disfigured by episodes opposed in style and character.

Dances in the grotesque style especially were often used not only for comic relief but also, much like a classical chorus, to comment on the foregoing or following action: these ”merry conceited Representations of Harlequin, Scaramouclr, Mezzelin, Pasquariel, &c. [are] generally us‘d for the Introduction of a following, or Explanation of a foregoing Scene” (Weaver 1712,168).The practice of mixing together the serious and grotesque was particularly common in Italy, especially in serious operas, a custom that to Planelli ([1772] 1981,113-14) resulted in a veritable mishmash with little unity in subject, style, or tone:

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While your mind is occupied with a Greek or Roman fable, out springs a troupe of Persians or Chinese, who begin a strange-looking dance in a scene just before one given over to the buskins of a Greek or Roman. Who can but fail to see that dance, when thus made, is dressed in foreign robes here, as it were, and does not form a single unified action but is utterly at odds in one and the same moment with the three m i ties of drama? Nor is this the only shortcoming; if the drama is tragic, the dance is more often than not clownish, the which stops the movement of the soul that the fable has quickened and thus deadens the delight in the drama. Is it no wonder then if the spectator grows tired of the drama, when the movement of the soul, which is the pleasure afforded us by dramatic action, is arrested by a contrary one created by the dance? This is one of the main reasons why little attention is usually given to tragic fables.

There were, however, compelling reasons for cultivating the different styles and for mixing them together in eighteenth-century theaters. The widespread view during the period that dance was essentially something extraneous to the theatrical whole and could be added or deleted ad hoc and placed outside the body of the work, between the acts or even after the piece had concluded, did little to ensure that the dance used in connection with operas and plays had a close and meaningful tie to the dramatic whole and maintained a unity of style. As Sulzer puts it (1794,4:507), theatrical dances, as the name surely indicates, are presented only on the stage, commonly as interludes between the acts and also at the end to conclude the entire theatrical work. As interludes, they are now generally used only in operas; with other theatrical works, however, they commonly appear only at the end as a special postlude, which has no tie with the work that was performed. Even the ballets performed between the acts of an opera seldom have any real connection to the work and are in fact nothing else than utter hors d’euares, which wipe out the impressions that the work has created.

Indeed, tying the dance too closely to another theatrical work had its dangers: if the latter proved to be a flop and consequently was withdrawn, the ballet was sure to disappear as well. Such was the fate of Dauberval‘s ballet The Slaves of Conquering Bacchus, which was to complement the opera IZ frionfo d’Ariunna. It disappeared when the opera was withdrawn after only three performances at London’s King’s Theatre in 1784 (Price et al. 1995,489).

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The need to present a variety of styles and characters in dance stemmed as much from the need to avoid monotony as from the necessity to please a factious and restive audience whose interest was difficult to sustain. Indeed, the public throughout eighteenthcentury Europe might have been more accurately described at times as a rabble. Audiences showed scant courtesy or respect to either their fellow theatergoers or the performers on stage and commonly interrupted performances that they found dull, boring, or offensive, manifesting their displeasure in outbursts of noise, tumult, and even violence. Reviews of performances and general comments on the nature of theatergoers found in the sources throughout the period often mention the intractability of the public. A critic in the Mercure de France (Mar. 1728, 561), for example, excuses himself for failing to evaluate the merits of the premiere performance of De la C6te’s opera Orion at the Paris Opera in 1728 because much of the music could not be heard above the noise of the spectators: On the nineteenth of February, the Academie Royale de Musique gave its first performance of the tragedy of Orion. The crowd was very large and most tumultuous, which prevented one from being able to make a fair assessment of this opera, both its music and libretto. There were, however, some pieces that could be heard and were applauded.

A performance of opera fragments at the Paris Opera in August of 1765 met with a disturbance in the audience, leading a critic in the Mercure de France (Sept. 1765,169) to bemoan the all too frequent instances of such disorder in theaters: ”There was marked ill-will in a small part of the audience, which created tumult and noise at the slightest provocation, an abuse still too frequent in the spectacles of a refined nation and in a century that aspires to the sublime light of taste and philosophy.” The ill humor that often characterized eighteenth-century audiences stemmed in part from the discomforts that many theatergoers were obliged to suffer in attending performances. Some eighteenthcentury theaters, such as the Paris Opera, provided only standing room in the pit. Thus, after lengthy waits in queues outside the theater in order to get in, those who could not afford tickets to the boxes were herded into the poorly ventilated pit and forced to stand there for the duration of the performance, often tightly packed together, and the discomfort occasioned by standing for hours in a sweaty

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crushed pack naturally led to irascibility. As one critic puts it (Mercure de France 3 Apr. 1784,749, ”the tumultuous pit, on those days when greatly crowded, is like the waves of a wild sea stirred up by the wind, if I may liken something slight to something great.” The same critic gives some idea of the discomfort that could cause such turbulence: Those in the pit were truly squeezed together, such that only halfmuffled cries of ”bravo” were emitted from their crushed chests; their arms glued to their sides, as it were, were no longer free to clap. A number of them tried in vain to get through the tight ranks around them; several were ill. Dust mixed with sweat would rise at times from the bottom of the pit and greatly incommoded the first boxes and the first rows of the amphitheater. This image, I assure you, is not overdrawn, and I am convinced that of the more than eight hundred people who were likely in the pit that day, there was not one who was not covered with sweat.

Crushed packs of spectators were not unknown in other theaters as well. One late-eighteenth-century Swede complains in a letter to a Swedish newspaper that the standing room in theaters was at times so crowded that in such a crush it was impossible to use our graciously granted right to applaud unless we wanted to stand with our arms above our heads the whole time. . . . When someone in the stalls wanted to clap for Mlle. Slottsberg, they did not manage to get their hands up until another dancer had already appeared on the stage and done several of his usual steps, so that he got the applause, which was not intended for him and which he did not deserve. (trans. in Skeaping 1967,59)

Theatergoers outside of France were by no means any calmer or more docile than those at the Paris Opera. The noise of chitchat from English audiences at times drowned out the music coming from the orchestra or the singing or recitation of the performers on stage: It were also to be wished, that the ladies would be pleased to confine themselves to whispering in their ttte ri t2te conferences at an opera or the play-house; which would be a proper deference to the rest of the audience. In France, we are told, it is common for the Parterre to join with the performers in any favourite air; but we seem to have carried this custom still further, as our boxes, without concerning themselves

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in the least with the play, are even louder than the players. The wit and humour of a Vunbrugh is frequently interrupted by a brilliant dialogue between two persons of fashion; and a love-scene in the side-box has often been more attended to than that on the stage. As to their loud bursts of laughter at the theatre, they may very well be excused, when they are excited by any lively strokes in a comedy: but I have seen our ladies titter at the most distressful scenes in Xonieo nnd julief, grin over the anguish of a Moniiriin, or Belz,idern, and fairly laugh King Lenr off the stage. (The Connoisseur 2 May 1754)

Theatrical performers not only were in competition with the tittle-tattle of the public ostensibly there to listen but were also interrupted by the frequent sneezes and coughs of those taking their snuff. As The Connoisseur complains (5Sept. 1754),"It is indeed impossible to go into any large company without being disturbed by this abominable practice. The church and the playhouse continually echoe with this musick of the nose, and in every comer you may hear them in concert snuffling, sneezing, hawking, and grunting like a drove of hogs." English audiences were particularly gven to violent outbursts resulting in riots and vandalism. A performance at London's Drury Lane Theatre in February of 1776, for example, met with just such an outburst wherein the performers were hissed and everywhere assailed with apples and oranges. In the middle of the tumult, one Englishman broke the lights with his stick, jumped on the stage, and tore up the set. Someone in the pit threw a big cane at the one who was causing all the disorder on stage and injured him in the jaw and shoulder. The injured man, furious, picked up the cane, threw it into the middle of the pit, striking five or six heads. At that moment more than fifty people hurled themselves onto the stage and came to blows. There was nothing left of the lights, candles, or sets; all the ornaments of the hall were destroyed. Mr. Garrick, in despair at this hullabaloo, appeared and harangued the audience. He assured them that since the play did not please them, it would no longer be played. (Mercure de France July 1776,1:218)

Italian audiences, particularly those in Rome, were no less eager to outdo performers on stage in "sound and fury,'' which evidently obliged some performers to resort to exaggeration of every kind in order to get the attention of the spectators: It is to be expected in Rome that only three or four pieces in a serious opera will ever be listened to and about as many in an interlude; during

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all the rest of the spectacle, people chat, visit each other, and eat a great deal of ice-cream, macaroons, pralines, and sherbets. Thus the performers, counting on this behavior, allow themselves to be careless in all sorts of way: The dullest features in the libretti propped up with acting and contortions of the most ridiculous kind meet with universal approbation and are applauded with such fury that the performer is sometimes obliged to stop in order to pay his respects to the spectators and thank them, who ought to blush at being so cheap with their compliments. (Mercure de France 21 Apr. 1787,136)

If the practice of cultivating different styles of dance on the eighteenth-century stage was useful to represent man in all h s diversity and to bring a measure of variety to performances, not all of these styles enjoyed equal popularity among restive audiences. As w e shall see in the next chapter, the preference for one given style above another could vary greatly depending on theater, city, and even country.Furthermore, as w e shall see in chapter 8, this tradition of distinct genres became increasingly questioned in the course of the century and its conventions increasingly honored more in the breach than in the observance. Indeed, by the end of the period, the styles became largely melded together, resulting in the creation of one single style, that of the early nineteenth century, wherein all dancers, regardless of their body type, predisposition, and even the character that they were to represent, ended up largely dancing one like the other. NOTES 1. The terre-2-terre was an eighteenth-centurydance step, which is not described in any of the sources. The term was used in the early nineteenth century to denote a brilliant terre-A-terre beaten jump, executed without the tips of the toes leaving the floor. 2. By petits pas, literally ”small steps,” Casanova presumably means terreA-terre steps rather than small mincing steps, since Dupre was known for his large “daring steps” (Noverre 1760,342).] 3. The French is battewents u mi-jambe, literally ”beats at midleg,” that is, beats of the gesture foot at the knee or possibly the calf of the supporting leg. 4. Dupre is thought to have been born around 1697; thus he must have been about fifty-three years old in 1750, the year that Casanova saw him dance at the Paris %&a. Patu, whom Casanova quotes, was evidently unaware that

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Dupre had danced the role of demons in his youth and thus did not exactly dance in 1750 as he did decades earlier. 5. The coup de poignet is not described in any handbook on dance technique from the period; the movement appears to have been a jump wherein the dancer flexed his feet in the air (fig. 5.1). The coup de poignet will be dealt with in detail in the forthcoming volume on technique. 6. When performed in its true folk manner, the Cossack dance appears to have belonged rather to the grotesque style; at least this is how Gallini categorizes it (1762,193-94): The Cossacs, have amidst all their uncouth barbarism, a sort of dancing, which they execute to the sound of an instrument, somewhat resembling a Mandoline, but considerably larger, and which is highly diverting, from the extreme vivacity of the steps, and the oddity of the contortions and grimaces, with which they exhibit it. For a grotesque dance there can hardly be imagined any thing more entertaining.

7. The typical uniform of an eighteenth-century grenadier included a tall cap, which could increase the soldier's height by almost a foot. 8. The French gives in fact parades, literally "parades," which is likely a typographical error for parodies, that is, "parodies." 9. Magri never defines "transalpine"; he may have meant "hillbillies" rather than "foreigners." 10. By sissonne, Magri presumably means here a demi-sissonne, that is, an assemblt ending in a plie, the first element of the eighteenth-century sissonne, which unlike its modem equivalent was a composite step of two component elements. Magri is inconsistent in his use of the prefix demi- in such contexts throughout his handbook. 11. Lambranzi gives in fact pas piroles, which appears to be an unsuccessful attempt to translate into French the Italian phrase passi pirolafi, that is, "pirouetting steps"; the expected French would be pas pirouettts. It is also possible but less likely that Lambranzi's phrase is a failed attempt to render into French the Italian pirole basse, or "low pirouettes," instead of the correct basses pirouettes. The confusion of voiced and voiceless stops, to use the linguistic terms, that is, the sounds b, d, g and p, t, k respectively, is a marked feature of some more southern dialectical forms of German. Such confusion is evident elsewhere in the captions from Lambranzi, which list at one point "Birollets" (1716, 2:25), that is, pirolettes. 12. The Italian disegno can mean either "design" or "drawing."

Chapter 4

One Man’s Style, Another Man’s Poison

Not only does the taste of nations differ, but even that of cities varies. Theaters are thronged with various ranks and sundry people, and each desires satisfaction. (Magri 1779,1:138)

While the sundry styles of eighteenth-century ballet were theoretically of equal value and of equal necessity in order to represent all the passions of man fully on stage, these styles did not meet with equal enthusiasm from spectators throughout Europe. Then as now, those who crowded into theaters to take in the spectacle came from different walks of life and came with differing tastes and sensibilities; indeed, as Goudar puts it (1773a, 93-94), “the pit of a European theater may be regarded as a small universe filled with different peoples and nations whose customs and manners are diametrically opposed.” These ”diametrically opposed” sensibilities and tastes often manifested themselves in riotous partisanship, wherein one faction would attempt to sabotage a performance of an unfavored dancer or group of performers, and sometimes even resulted in violent clashes, which needed to be put down by armed grenadiers. In 1784, for example, a faction at the Paris OpQa took a dislike to Auguste Vestris when he refused to comply with a royal request from Marie Antoinette asking him to dance for a visiting Swedish dignitary. Upon his return to the stage after a month in prison, his recompense for bearding the queen’s wishes, Vestris met with an angry outburst from one part of the audience in the form of a storm of oranges and stones

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thrown at the stage and the ”extremity” of a near brawl in the factious pit of the theater: The animosity of the two parties was too strong for this extremity not to come soon. Seeing that instead of oranges some stones began to be thrown on the stage and that several champions of this noble quarrel had each other by the hair, the sergeant had his grenadiers come into the middle of the pit, and the example made of some arrested and taken away under guard soon re-established order and peace. ( G r i m 1880, Sept. 1784,14:48)

Perhaps the most spectacular of such violent displays of riotous partisanship was occasioned by Noverre’s ballet Les ptes chinoises when mounted in Garrick’s London theater in November of 1755. The lurid details of the resulting fifteen-day hullabaloo in London, wherein an anti-French party battled to scuttle Noverre’s ”French” ballet, were given in full by a correspondent for the JournaZ e‘franger (Dec. 1755,223-35). The second performance, on the twelfth, for example, met with a violent disturbance culminating in a general brawl in the pit, which brought the ballet to a stop: They began by throwing a man into the pit and another into the orchestra. All the lords jumped into the pit, some with sticks and others with swords in hand and swooped down on one group of the cabal and beat them with their sticks. The English ladies, far from being frightened by this horrible battery, gave the gentlemen a hand in jumping into the pit and showed them the people that needed to be battered. Several guiltless suffered on account of the guilty: The outraged nobility struck indifferently, broke arms and heads, blood flowed everywhere, the ballet stopped. Finally the nobility drove out all the limping mischief-makers, and the ballet began again.

The fifth performance of the ballet, on the fifteenth, met with vandalism when the anti-French faction took advantage of the absence of the ”pro-French” nobility, who were at the opera, and literally pulled the theater apart: These blackguards, that is, the London mob, triumphed and made a horrible racket. They pulled up the benches and threw them into the pit onto the people of the opposing party; they broke all the mirrors, the lights, and so forth and attempted to get up onto the stage in order to massacre everyone, but as this spectacle was wonderfully orga-

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nized, in three minutes the backdrops were raised; all the trap doors were ready to play their part in swallowing up those who would come up; all the wings were filled with men armed with clubs, sabers, and halberds and the like, and the great reservoir behind the stage was in readiness to be opened in order to inundate all those who would have fallen under the stage. All the spectators demanded Garrick, who had significant reasons not to show himself. His associate appeared and promised that the ballet would no longer be given. The blackguards withdrew satisfied. This scene lasted until midnight.

The closure of the theater on Sunday the sixteenth did nothing to prevent further violent clashes between the factions for and against Noverre’s ballet. In taverns and watering holes, ”several tragic scenes between the two parties transpired; these disputes, far from healing the ill-will, only envenomed it more and more.” The violence reached its peak during the sixth and last performance of the ballet, on Tuesday the eighteenth: Finally the overture of the ballet was played; the noise of the whistles, bells, and so forth redoubled. The curtain rose, and the hullabaloo increased. The lords jumped from the balconies onto the stage, the boards of which bristled imperceptibly with iron spikes that pierced their feet. One of them challenged the public, and someone threw a rotten apple in his face. He wildly hurled himself into the pit, and all the others followed him. Arms, legs, and heads were broken; people were half crushed under the benches; all the ’Chinese’ dancers hid themselves in the comers; and so forth. Such was the spectacle that presented itself in an instant. The mischief-makers were driven out, and the pit was fully emptied. The lords went back up on the stage and gave their hand to the rest from the pit, who were of their party, in order to have them come up with them. Everyone seemed appeased. While the lords rallied the ‘Chinese,’ who had dispersed out of fear, the pit, however, was filled again with new combatants, who came down from the third gallery. The ballet began, but the stage was covered with several bushels of peas mixed with small tacks. The lords swept the stage with their hats, but more peas were thrown. The lords jumped into the pit again, the doors to which were forced open by a group of butchers, who declared themselves for the lords, striking right and left at the rowdies. Meanwhile,a group of two hundred had formed the plan of breaking down the door in the corridor in order to get under the stage and swoop down from behind on the lords, but this plot was found out by a girl. Ten or twelve theater-boys, who were timely warned, lay in ambush at

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this door, let them break it open and fell upon the besiegers with fury, who not expecting this maneuver, lost their heads and were thrashed. This corridor being very narrow, they could escape only by tumbling over each other. During this, even Garrick’s house was besieged by the populace; all the windows were broken, and without the constable that had been sent there forthwith and who thought that he would be massacred, the house would have been demolished and set aflame. The ballet, however, was performed, but without music. The nobility in triumph indecently made fun of the pit. When the show was over, the mob broke everything that it could; even the windows of the carriages were smashed. One lady thought that she would be stoned to death and was obliged to take cover at a merchant’s and spend part of the night there. The butchers, on the other hand, placed themselves at the doors to the pit, and all those who spoke against the ballet while leaving were soundly struck with sticks. At last, the ballet was withdrawn in order to spare the inhabitants of London; it had occupied the whole city for fifteen days. Monsieur Noverre and his family had been forced to hide out of fear of some mishap.

The overall preference for a given style could vary not merely from individual to individual or from faction to faction within a given theater but also from theater to theater and even from country to country, and the same dance performed in two different theaters could meet with two very different responses from an audience, as Magri notes (1779,1:139): In many places, I have seen flop the same dances with the same music and same costumes which in a theater in some other city occasioned amazement. This difference in taste in sundry cities and theaters is due to the structure and size of the theaters, wherein a different echo does not render the music as pleasing; if the music is strident, it might be painful to listen to in a small theater but will be merely sharp in a large one.

The success or failure of a dance performance in one theater over against another hinged not merely upon the structure and size of the building but also upon the taste of the majority of the spectators found therein. The Paris OpQa, for example, was one prestigious European theater wherein the bulk of the audience had a marked preference for one particular style of dance, namely, the serious style. This theater was hailed as one of the foremost for dance performances throughout the eighteenth century, and some of the great-

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est talents of the period, such as Marie-Anne de Cupis de Camargo, Marie-Madeleine Guimard, Marie Allard, Anne Heinel, Gaetan Vestris, and Auguste Vestris, spent the better part of their careers on the Opera‘s stage. As a critic in the Mercure de France (19 Nov. 1791, 94-99) notes generally about the institution in his summary of Leroux’s Rapport sur I’Ope‘ra of 1791, ”without repeating here all the descriptions that have been given of the Paris Opera, it is certain that there is no spectacle in Europe that is more magnificent, more varied, and better made to excite the curiosity of foreigners and have them settle in the capital.” This was no less true earlier in the century than in 1791. The Opera by this latter time, with its total personnel of over five hundred and with a yearly deficit of around 360,000 livres, was spending annually close to 1.1 million livres on performances and was responsible for a spinoff circulation of an estimated 8 to 20 million livres in the capital. The dancers at the Paris Opera were said to “combine every perfection, models of whch this theater alone in Europe has provided for such a long time” (Mercure de France 26 Nov. 1791, 126). The serious style was especially popular among not only the principal dancers but also the spectators at the Paris Opera throughout much of the eighteenth century. Indeed, Noverre (1760, 343) notes that the serious was greatly admired in the capital and that this “style holds greater sway in Paris than everywhere else.” Parisians had a marked predilection for not merely dance but also more broadly music and drama in this genre. As a critic in the Mercure de France notes (Jan.1777,1:187),the love of the serious style in the arts generally was particularly marked in Paris in contrast to the rest of Europe: ”[Gluck] has true taste in drama, the main object of which is to sadden and move the soul. l k s is the dominant genre found in all the theaters of Paris, for in the provinces and in foreign countries, these dramas or this music of so somber and lugubrious a character do not find as many partisans and enthusiasts as in the capital.” So entrenched was the taste for the serious at the Paris Opera that apart from entrees for demons, Winds, and Furies, dances in the low comic and grotesque styles were rather infrequent on the Opera stage. Attempts made in the second half of the century to introduce a more grotesquelike element into this theater were not without controversy and met with short-lived success. In 1760, for example, Chinese dances of a more bizarre character were included in a remounting of Rameau’s opera Les paladins but elicited criticism from

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a sizable section of the audience, according to a critic in the Mercure de France (Mar. 1760,179-80), who remarks that ”what was most criticized in this ballet was the mix of the serious and the comic, of which one made use. It revolted the greater part of the audience, who would like to see this theater devoted exclusively to the noble genre.” According to Despreaux (1806, 2:191), these grotesque dances were performed mainly by imported foreign dancers of the likes of Simon Slingsby and Laurent: Foreign dancers, crude tumblers, came to the Opera in order to dance in Les pnlndiizs;‘ this contagion infected the provinces, and from thefoire it found its way into the entertainments of princes. Slingsby with his grimacing found admirers,’ and L[aurent] as a Laplander met with approbation;’ but the court, at last disabused of this genre, disdained the easy extravagance of these dances, could see the difference between the fine dancer and the buffoon, and left it to the provinces to admire jumpers.

Further attempts at introducing “contortions and caricature” into the Opera were made and similarly met with criticism. As one critic remarks in the Mercure dr France (19 May 1781, 137), it is asked if dance is truly an art; if so, one would like to know to what extent the rules can be forgotten and contortions and caricature can take the place of the regularity of known and accepted steps. The ridiculous farces that have been allowed in some ballets for some time now engender the doubt that one would be pleased to see it disappear.

Among such ”ridiculous farces” figured prominently a pantomimic Chinese ballet created by Noverre for a performance of Piccini’s opera Rolnizd mounted in February of 1778.A critic in the Mercure de Fraizcr (Feb. 1778, 17-1-75) notes that this ballet was withdrawn on account of its less exalted style: ”His Chinese ballet brought to mind that which this master had formerly given on the small stage of the Opera-comique.4It was felt that the ballet was out of place in this spectacle, which obliged Monsieur Noverre to substitute it with another that was less pantomimic and more suitable to this theater.” A dancing master from Versailles by the name of Papillon was evidently among those who supported Noverre’s more grotesque treatment of the Chinese in the ballet from Roland and took exception to the absence of verisimilitude in the dances at the Paris Opera

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arising from an overriding preference for the serious style. Papillon (1782,8647) writes that “if the Chinese dance ill,“ it was said, “they are not worth imitating; the bad taste of Peking is not to be transported to Paris.” This remark would be excellent if the dancing masters in this capital [did not] want their pupils to dance in the Chinese manner; thus one could rightly have recourse to the admirable rules of French dance, but when I go to the Opera or to any spectacle where everything that is presented before me is an imitation, then I expect that the Chinese will dance like Chinese, Indians like Indians, Laplanders like Laplanders. If I see the contrary, I will say that I am being deceived, and I would like it as much as if I were to go to the Comedie, where I would find Bajazet, Mehmed, and Osman dressed as French monarchs when I counted on seeing Turkish emperors.

The introduction of a more foreign air into a march of Asiatic soldiers in the Paris Opera’s 1766 performance of Aline simply threw into sharp relief the Opera’s wariness in departing from the narrow confines of highbrow dance forms. As a critic in the Mercure de France puts it (May 1766, 186-87), one would have wished that in the divertissements of this opera wherein Golcondians were introduced, the composition and execution of the entries had had a foreign character or at least one far from the ordinary dances of all the ballets at the Opera. If dance is an art, it is said, it must like the other arts, such as poetry, painting, and music, present sundry characters by availing itself of a combination of its own means modified in different ways without departing from its basic rules and without borrowing the bizarre contortions and caricatures shown some years back on theforre stage under the name of The Chinese Ballet, the which would be out of place in revels whence the heroic genre must banish buffoonery. We are not in a position to give reasons for this. If dance is truly an art, it must indeed have this ability, and it is up to the masters of this art to know if this is possible and in this matter to satisfy the critics. The marches of the Asiatic soldiers making up the cortege were given this foreign air; this perhaps made more palpable what was lacking from the dances as a whole and the truthfulness of the effect.

A bit of slapstick comedy included in Gardel’s pantomime ballet Le coq du village, mounted at the Opera in March of 1787, wherein two widows played by the male dancers Nivelon and Fredkric wrestled

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on the floor in their attempts to win the heart of the only available bachelor of the village, similarly met with criticism for its breach of decorum at a theater known for its dislike of caricature. As a critic in the Mercure de France puts it (3 Mar. 1787, 39), ”this gaiety was carried to the point of caricature when these two women came to blows and rolled on the floor. There is even in the most burlesque comedy a kind of decorum or delicacy (I would say almost a kind of dignity) from which one must never depart, especially in t h s theater.” More typically, the comic style at the Paris Opera was watered down, as it were, to make it more palatable to many in the audience who preferred loftier subjects and treatments. This was noted by a critic in the Mercure lie France (Sept. 1764,199)in connection with a couple of comic dances in the second act of Nab, mounted at the Paris Opera in August of 1764: ”Monsieur Lany and Mademoiselle Lyonnois grace t h s ballet with another more lively and comic genre, although always in keeping with the decorum of this theater. They perform the main entries of the piitres.” So weighted was the style at the Paris Opera in favor of the serious that dancers from other French theaters or from foreign theaters who were engaged to dance on the Opera stage were obliged to modify their style of dance and bring it more in line with the ”local style” of the Opera. The English dancer Slingsby, for example, made a limited appearance on the Opera stage in 1766 and clearly betrayed in his performance an attempt to soften his brilliant style in order to render it more acceptable: Monsieur Slingsby, a foreign dancer, appeared for four performances in Monsieur Dauberval’s entrkes in the second divertissement of the Turkish act; he was greatly pleasing and always met with very animated and plentiful applause. Especially noted was his nimble lightness, his great precision, and a variety of most agreeable steps although they seemed difficult. In the brilliance of his execution, one recognized enough finish and a grand disposition to acquire in a short space of time the habit of making the advantageous means given him by nature and practice submit to the soft graces of French taste. (Mercure de France Sept. 1766, 187-88)

In like manner, Marie Allard, a dancer originally from Lyon and a native of Marseille, was obliged to adopt a less robust style of dance once she was taken on by the Opera. Makmg her Paris debut at the Comedie-franqaise, she was able to win admirers in Paris despite

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the more exaggerated style that she had acquired in the provinces, for as a critic in the Mercure de France notes (July 1761, 2:190), ”Mademoiselle Allard’s genre of dance, although judged by some amateurs to be a little forced, has its partisans and thus meets with applause.” The young dancer’s powerful pantomimic dance did not entirely stand her in good stead for her debut at the Opera, where dance of a more serious and abstract character was preferred. A critic in the Mercure de Frunce (July 1761, 1:182-83) acknowledged that she would need to adopt the local style of the Opera: It was desired that Mademoiselle Allard be seen at the Opera. This dancer, although still v e q young, has been applauded for some time at this theater (the Com6die-franqaise),’ where dance, almost always isolated from the main entertainment, does not even form an accessory to it and almost always constitutes but the least object of attention for the spectators. Each theater judges the same performers differently.Although intimidated there, Mademoiselle Allard from the end of the first tune was rightly applauded at least as much as she had been for encouragement‘s sake when she appeared. A fine ear, precision in the steps, an execution equally brilliant with both legs are the qualities that the public with pleasure sees combined in this dancer. In all, it is a local style, if one may word it thus, that Mademoiselle Allard will undoubtedly acquire in very little time. She evidently leaves nothing to be desired in pantomime, for which she has a gift, and for which this local style of the Opera is less necessary than elsewhere.

A year later, the same journal (Oct. 1762, 1:158) remarks upon Allard’s success in cultivating a style of dance more fitting to the stodgy Opera: ”The public recognizes with pleasure the palpable progress that Mademoiselle Allard has made in the genre of dance suitable to the theater of the Opera.” So great was the prestige and renown of the Paris Opera that writers, both in France and beyond her borders, would frequently and simplistically equate the dominant style of t h s one theater with French dance as a whole and sometimes even with mainstream European dance of the period. This equation has by and large bedeviled modem scholars attempting to come to an understanding of the history of ballet during this period. Many of the criticisms found in Noverre’s Lettres sur la danse, et sur Ies ballets of 1760, for example, which has often been taken as an indictment of early-eighteenthcentury ballet as a whole, apply specifically to the practices of the

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Paris Opera and not necessarily to those of other theaters in or outside France. Tlus fact was not lost on Noverre’s contemporary Angio h , who in his Lettere of 1773 (1998, M),addressed to the egocentric French master, explicitly notes that ”your letters refer to various subjects, but that with whch you deal most distinctly in them is the Paris Opera and particularly with the dance of that spectacle.” Many sources that contrast the taste of the French in matters of dance with that of the Italians or the English in like manner often equate the serious style with French dance as a whole. To the Italian Martello (1715, 229-30), for example, the typical French dancer resembled a swimmer moving smoothly through the water, rising now and then in a little surge-that is, a little jump-as if borne up by the odd crest of a wave. In other words, the French cultivated mainly the terre-aterre style of the serious: The Frenchman dances such that he seems almost to be swimming. His arms, always raised and lithesome, gracefully break the waves, and his body is driven forward in a thousand starts almost as if he yields with his gentlest bends to the motion of the current, and now and then he does a little spring just like a swimmer who, following the swell of the wave, lets himself be raised up in order to make headway. You will see him turn again and again without any set figure that can be made out in any way to be a square, oval, or circle. Now you will find moments of abandonment and emphasis where you do not expect them, but all of this is performed to the music with so much grace that you are bewitched, and certainly in Medie,” your eyes will be lost in admiration for the graceful dancing of the diminutive but most charming Mademoiselle Pr6vost. This manner of dancing greatly pleases the French, who are keen on amorous attitudes and is even pleasing generally to other nations, since love is a passion that is common to all mankind.

In a similar vein, Magri (1779, 1:82) makes the broad generalization that the French did ”not care to make great use of capers, preferring to dance terre-a-terre.“ Goudar (1773a, 50) in his short outline on the development of eighteenth-century dance notes that despite the growth in the popularity of fast music and with it an animated dance of capers, ”the French, who would not give up their sustained airs, continued to dance with gravity. They clung to that which is called la belle danse.” Weaver (1712, 164) in his discussion of the serious style notes that ”it must be allow’d that the French excel in this kind of Dancing.” Algarotti (1755, 22) likewise admits that ”in the

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noble dances, the French undoubtedly surpass all other nations." The Journal de inusique (July 1770,9) notes in particular that the noble style as practiced by Gaetan Vestris and Anne Heinel was not only a French preference but also a French invention, that "a chaconne is needed for Monsieur Vestris, who shares with Mademoiselle Heinel in the approbation and the pieasure of the spectators, in a genre of dance created by the French, the nobility of which raises them above the other nations." A critic in the Mercure de France (20 Mar. 1784, 128-29) notes that the serious style was a "national genre," remarking that Mademoiselle Saulnier is meant for la dnnse noble, and nature has given her all the means to distinguish herself in it. We are certain that with work she will nurture such a happy disposition and that the lessons of Monsieur Gardel the Elder, to whom we owe the progress that she has already made, will soon stand her in the stead to console us over the loss which we still rue in a genre of dance so difficult, so worthy, and all the more precious as it is a national genre, wherein dancers of our school have been unmatched.:

Whde it is certainly true that the serious style enjoyed great popularity in France, it should not be overlooked that other styles were also known and widely cultivated there throughout the eighteenth century. Even at the Paris Opera, its dislike of the low comic and grotesque notwithstanding, the half-serious and the comic shared the stage with the serious. The onetime French dancer and later dancing master Louis Bonin (1712, 72-73), for example, remarks at the beginning of the century upon the nimbleness of French dancers at the Opera in the other, more animated styles and notes that "he who has been to Paris and visited the Opera will surely be obliged to boast of having seen masters whose nimbleness and unbelievable speed he will not be able to admire enough." As noted in chapter 3, nimbleness and speed were not features of the serious style but of the half-serious and comic. Gildon (1710, 144) remarks upon the briskness typical of French performers, dismissing the "French Dancer [as] being at best but a graceful Mover, full of a brisk and senseless Activity," while to Weaver (1712, 137), the celebrated French dancer Balon was notable for his "strong and nimble Risings." Again briskness and nimbleness were not characteristic of the serious style. Among the nimble French numbered Antoine Pitrot, a native of Bordeaux, who was admired for his "amazing lightness and

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strength coupled with every grace” (Mercure de France Nov. 1746, 122), this strength allowing him to bedazzle his Viennese audience on one occasion with a sequence of forty or so entrechats a six. Angiolini (1765) also notes that ”everything within the scope of French opera provides material for the composers of these dances” in the demi-caractere style. Grimm (1879,l Feb. 1769,8:262) characterizes the serious style as a meaningless exercise ”peculiar to the French, whch consists in a succession of steps, attitudes, and aplombs, all of which says nothing and means notlung at all; they are academic exercises out of place, which greatly please the French.” Other writers on dance throughout the eighteenth century likewise note that the serious style as cultivated in France was of interest largely to the French and generally was not to the taste of the rest of Europe, which by and large preferred a more animated style of dance mixed with pantomime. La danse noble was most notably lost on the Italians. According to Raguenet (1702, 42), ”as the Italians are much livelier than the French, they are much more susceptible to the passions than the latter and also express them as well much more vividly in everythmg they produce.” Rochemont (1754, 50-51) similarly contrasts the greater gravity of the French with the vivacity of the Italians, this difference in national character resulting in differing preferences in style: The Italians, who have a livelier imagination than we do, bring grace to everything on account of the traits and witticisms with which their spirit abounds. The French, who are colder and more rational, have imposed upon their artists the most rigorous laws. Every art that aims to please the public must in France be subject to the justness of sentiment, the proper rules of etiquette, to the decency and nobility of expression, whereof the French are slaves. It is the national character that has laid down the laws at the French OpQa.

Or as Caux de Cappeval puts it (1754?, 18), “the passions do not walk in Italy; they do only bounds, gambols, and capers.” The mherent vivacity of the Italian national character resulted in a marked love of capering in particular, wherein the dancer spent more time in the air than on the floor, his dance thus resembling ”flying,” according to Martello (1715, 230-31): The Italian neatly arranges his spirited dance in the middle and at the sides [of the stage]. He hurls himself into the air and there cuts the nim-

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blest capers and comes back down to the boards very lightly on the toes, and hardly having touched the floor, he rises again like a partridge that flies straight up in its brief flight from the earth to which it nimbly returns and outsmarts the hound because it moves towards him in rising. This third kind of dance, which is shown mainly in the air, is like flying. The Italian has all the liveliness of the Frenchman but lacks the suave abandon of Mademoiselle Prevost. He has all the orderliness and aptitude of the Spaniard but lacks his gravity.

Goudar (1773a, 51), in his short outline on the development of eighteenth-century dance, likewise remarks upon the Italian's love of dancing in "leaps and bounds" and lack of grace in the movement of the arms: During that time [i.e., the first half of the eighteenth century], the Italians in dancing ran after the notes which had escaped from the music and gave themselves up to grand movements in carrying on after them. The better part made themselves lame through their agitation; they gamboled about as much as their music did and made their busyness fit the tunes, which proceeded in leaps and bounds. Some, however, wanted to be trained in la belle danse, which typifies French dance. They betook themselves to the Magasin of the Paris Opera, for this was the great storehouse of the graces of this art. Lany (the foremost and oldest ballet master at the Paris Opera) became the surgeon of all the pantomimes with crippled arms, but after they had mended, there was always a scar, for it was a foregone conclusion that the Italians would never acquire the carriage and easy air which sets the French apart on stage.

Other writers similarly remark upon the Italians' love of capering to such an extent that a graceful movement of the arms was often sacrificed to the nimbleness of the legs. De Brosses (1980,68) notes, for example, that the sprightly Italian dancers whom he had seen during his visit to Italy in 1739-1740 had "legs, and certain pleasing sweetness to boot" but thanks to their capering had neither the "arms, grace, nor nobility" of their French counterparts. Algarotti (1763,54) likewise remarks upon the Italians' preoccupation with nimble feet at the expense of the arms: "It very rarely happens that in our ballerini strength is united with grace, or softness in the arms with nimbleness in the feet; or that a certain ease appear in their movements, without which dancing is a fatigue as much to them as to those who watch." Magri (1779,1:71,82) similarly notes that Italian dancers were "much

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given to capering” and in fact takes some of his fellow Italian dancers to task for being too ”French in their dancing, their uncharacteristic torpor inducing them to avoid fatigue by doing a simple assernbZk, for example, instead of a more brilliant caper. So preoccupied were the Italians with speed that they would commonly further subdivide a measure of music to increase the number of possible steps that could fit into it. As Feuillet indicates in his “Trait6 de la cadence” (1704), ”there are yet other [dance] movements, wherein each measure can be divided into several other ones, like those commonly used by Italians in their quick four-time movements.” The Italian Magri (1779, 1:23-24) gives a concrete example of such packing of more and more steps into one bar of music: We modems do not measure the cadence with steps as the ancients did, for whom each step took up one bar. We run more beats into one step, and we put more steps into one bar. One [jete‘]emboite‘ used to be done in one measure of triple time; these days, there is nobody who does not do two or three in one bar. In two measures of triple time in the movement of a chaconne, one jete‘, three battements, and an asseiiible‘ under the body were done; now in the same time and in the same combination of steps, eight to ten battements are repeated; likewise in other combinations of steps, they are repeated and linked together in various ways.

The plethora of beats, evident from Magri‘s example, wherein eight to ten battements are done within the space of only two bars, was a particular marufestation of the eighteenth-century Italians’ broad love of plentiful ornamentation, which was no less evident in Italian music of the period. It was just such prodigality with ornaments that led the famed composer Gluck (1773,182433)to invent “a new genre of Italian opera,” as he refers to his style, for as he adds, ”my music aims only to express fully and to reinforce the declamation of the poetry [i.e., the libretto]. This is why I do not employ the trills, passaggi, or cadenze with which the Italians are prodigal.” The Spectator (6 Mar. 1711) touches upon the Italians’ love of embellishment in literature as well, noting that “the finest Writers among the Modem Italians, express themselves in such a florid form of Words, and such tedious Circumlocutions, as are used by none but Pedants in our own Country.” So fond were Italian dancers of speed and capering that the serious style of the French was virtually a joke to them, a fitting subject for a Zazzo. Even when the serious style was performed on Italian stages, it was presented ”quite differently,” as De la Lande (1767) notes:

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The dances in Naples and even in Italy generally are still one of the weak elements in [Italian] opera; they are often made up of ballets and pantomimes given in the entr’actes but are hardly related to the drama. There are, for example, dances of shepherds, sailors, and Chinese. There are few men dancers in them; the women dancers who dance alone display in them the utmost in lightness and action that they can, often to the point of exhaustion, for Italians like only high pantomimic dance with extraordinary steps, contortion, and tours de force, this dance used less often in France than la belle danse terre-2-terre in the style of Vestris and Guimard. Several of their good dancers have come to France in order to learn the best principles of this art and to better themselves, but upon returning to Italy, they have never been able to succeed in developing a taste there for OUT graceful style despite their attempts. In order to brighten faces as serious as those of the Italians, something grotesque is needed; the amazing lightness of [the comic dancers] Allard or Dauberval would hardly suffice in making them like the gracefulness of our dance. There are, however, good dancers who present it quite differently but are obliged to give it up in order to please the majority. The Italians like to see our dance and customs parodied. I have heard told that in an intermezzo of a grand opera, a dancer was brought on dressed in the manner of DuprC when he used to enchant court and town, with a long wig like his. This fellow began by dancing gracefully; then quickening his movements, he worked his way up to a kind of fury, during which he executed many jumps and capers. He let his wig fall to the boards and completed his entrie with his head uncovered, affecting now and then poses8 lasting one or two measures, during which he displayed all his tasteless affected grace. The Italians found this lazzo delightful, and some in the pit said, ”that’s how DuprC dances, the most famous dancer of France.” (cited in the Journal de rnusique 1773,66142)

Noverre (1807,1:57-58) believed that this difference in national taste went back as far as the middle of the seventeenth century, for the lightness and gaiety of comic a n d grotesque dance was evidently not to the taste of pompous Louis XIV. Thus the gravity of the serious came to dominate the theatrical performances mounted for the pleasure of the king: Cardinal Mazarin, who took care of everything and who did not lose sight of the progress in the fine arts, would have ardently liked to have come to the aid of dance; it was made up of only slow steps and moved only pontifically, and the ballets, bereft of women soloists and women

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corps dancers, were without the agreeableness and charm which they bring. The art of varying the figures was unknown; they were all parallel, presenting only straight lines. It was more a procession than an entertainment. All this was called la danse noble, or measured dance; and the tunes written by musicians for it were slow and staid. This noble dance and this dragging music offered only monotony and sadness. These arts, the children of Pleasure and Gaiety, had forsworn the principles that gave them life. The Cardinal was tempted to bring in transalpine jumpers, who were by nature gay and comical, but he was afraid to offer the court such shocking contrasts; he knew, moreover, that Louis XN did not like monkeys. The Cardinal weighed the dangers that could arise from these two contraries and from the monstrous disparateness that they would offer. He feared that the French dancers, serious and noble, would die of laughter in seeing gambols, pirouettes linked together, triple turns in the air, entrechats h huit and h dix, the spazzacumpagna, and that the others, seeing the French dancers promenading in slow steps to the tunes of courantes and sarabandes, would acquire spleen and die of consumption. Weighing all this, Marazin turned his back on dance and did not attempt to remove from it the appellations of nobility and monotony.

The Italians were unlike the French not only in their dislike of the grave style but also in their overriding love of pantomimic dance, that is, dance mixed with pantomime, either in a full-blown pantomime ballet or in a divertissement inserted between the acts of an opera or play. As QuatremPre de Quincy notes (1789,147-48), the ancients did not know dance without pantomime, and even today, the Italian cannot conceive how anyone could take delight in dance divorced from dramatic action; he wants all the steps and their combinations, all the gestures and varied movements of dancers to work towards expressing all the passions that enter into the composition of tragic or comic ballets, for which are required unity, interest, coherence, and a most rational management. In short, it is the action that is valued in ballet and hardly the dance. In Paris, on the contrary, dance without pantomime is very often allowed. It is even believed that this art might alter that of the dancer. Most of the ballets that adorn the spectacle are, from the point of view of composition, but sorts of common locales bereft of interest and especially of dramatic interest, or better said, are sorts of canvasses, the blankness of which is to be filled by the great art of our dancers. This is indeed the dance that meets with applause, and very slight is the in-

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terest in the almost non-existent action. . . . In Paris one dances for the sake of dancing, as in Italy one sings for the sake of singing.

This marked love of pantomimic dance in Italy did not go unnoticed by Charles Bumey, who notes in connection with a performance he saw in the Teatro San Carlo in Naples in November 1770 that “in the opera to-night Uommelli’s Demofoonte] there were three entertaining dances, but all in the lively way; the Italians are not pleased with any other. Indeed, as I have before observed, all their dances are more pantomime entertainments than any thing else, in which the scenes are usually pretty, and the stones well told” (cited in Brown 1991, 150). Ratier (1759?, 16-17) likewise notes that the Italians, who had no bent for serious dance but preferred a high dance of capers and turns, excelled in pantomime: The Italians perform pantomime dances better than any other nation. A pantomime is a professional dancer who in present practice imitates generally everything and expresses all the passions of man; he must not do any gesture or strike an attitude that is not fitting,and the spectator must be able to hear without words. Ultimately, they are inimitable in this kind of dance. In serious dance, they lack grace somewhat, as they wish to be always in the air doing turns and capers.

The author of the ”Lettre sur les spectacles d’Italie” (1726, 83) also remarks on the popularity of pantomime among Italians. He notes that “as they love the sweetness of ordinary existence and the pleasures of a voluptuous life, their wish has been to produce theatrical works that are related to both the one and the other, hence the mix of comedy and the art of pantomime that we see on the Italian stage.” To Taubert (1717, 962), the art of pantomimic gesture in dance was synonymous with “the Italian art of dance”: The movements in the serious ballets and high springing dances, however, do not always, as some think,merely mark the beat, that is, with all manner of artfully figured springs and steps arranged well in accordance with the measure and accompanied more by port de bras and other galant gestures, but rather often, in doing so, mores, actions, passions, and so forth are expressed at the same time after the Italian art of dance through the musical cadences and the serious movements of the feet, arms, and the whole body ordered in a regulated manner. In the same way, the movements in the ballet comique et grotesque, or the art of comic dance, in particular must be the best interpreter, especially

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when a comic story, fable, or other ridiculous prank is to be explained through the art of gesture.

In contrast to the Italians, the French preferred their dance to be unencumbered by too much plot. Indeed, to the Frenchman Blainville (1754,95), pantomime was an Italian art best left to those who were born to it: ”Let us leave to the Italians the genre of pantomime; it is theirs by birthright.” The characterized dancing in the divertissements of eighteenth-century French opera, often divorced from any significant action in a manner reminiscent of the largely meaningless character entrkes in The Nutcracker, succeeded more in delighting the spectator’s eyes than in moving his heart. As a critic in the Mercure de Frmice (31 Aug. 1782,228-29) puts it, we will say but a word on the genre of the divertissement, which we have just mentioned. This is a ballet without action, without any determined subject, made up of heroic characters and shepherds, mixed without motive together with entries of different characters. One must excuse the incoherence and insignificance of this composition on account of the circumstances that have given rise thereto, but we believe that it would not be so hard to devise some action wherein the different characters of the dance could be introduced, wherein the sujets that are to perform before the spectators could still reveal their diverse talents with greater interest. Let us say then generally that dance, when reduced to figures and movements and steps, is but an exercise which can amuse the eyes and ears, satisfying the natural taste we have for everything which is symmetrical and measured, but it does not merit being raised to the rank of a fine art until it interests the mind and stirs the soul, awakening feelings and ideas, painting pictures, and expressing the passions.

Despite their attempts to represent sundry characters, the dancers throughout the eighteenth century, particularly at the Paris Opera, often ended up looking one like the other in their preoccupation with “the feats from the school of dance” rather than with the development and expression of the idiosyncracies of individual roles within the framework of a proper narrative structure. Indeed, to Grimm (1878 15Aug. 1761,4:452), all our ballets are alike and amount to very unimaginative technique. A troupe of men and women corps dancers appear on the stage to do several figures, to form several groupings, and this general dance is broken

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up by the entries of the most skilled men and women dancers, who dance now alone, now in twos, threes, fours, and so on. Their art is limited to showing us diverse attitudes mixed with steps, with entrechats, with pirouettes, with gargouillades, and with other feats from the school of dance; and to link all of this together after a fashion, the musician is obliged to create chaconnes, gavoftes,passepieds, rigaudons and to bend his genius in a hundred ways unworthy of him.This is the general pattern of all ballets and despite the pretentious window dressing that we find in our programs and which hide from us their sickening sameness, all of their diversity consists in seeing the same dancers dressed now as priests, now as shepherds, now as wamors, now as devils. Imagine a libretto, whose text has no subject, wherein one would be limited simply to giving a general character to the singers and to dressing them as heroes or as peasants. The chorus, dressed according to the conventions, would come forth to sing fugues with several parts, with one or several themes artfully developed according to all the rules of the school. The skilled singers alone would ”sol-fa” away with their vocal feats, their passaggi, in short, with all the solfeggi of the school without subject or words. Would you then not have a most interesting show? This is precisely what we have with dance. A skilled dancer must undoubtedly know how to do entrechats, gargouillades, pirouettes, and all the steps of the school, but he is not at all to make a parade of them in ballets and even less to tire us by a succession of all these feats.

Noverre (1760,35) similarly takes to task much of French dance for its lack of meaningful movement, for being, in short, dance for dance’s sake: Yet owing to unfortunate custom or to ignorance, there are few rational ballets; the dancing is for the sake of dancing, and it would seem that everything consists in the movement of the legs, in high jumps, and that the idea which people of taste have of a ballet is fulfilled when one has the charge of executants who execute nothing, who mingle and jostle with one another, who offer only cold and confused tableaux designed without taste and grouped without grace, devoid of all harmony and of that expression, the offspring of sentiment, which alone can embellish the art by giving it life.

Remond de Saint-Mard (1741, 93-94) similarly found much of the dancing in French opera to be inexpressive and mechanical: Moreover, there is in our ballets a certain uniformity which I find wearisome and boring. Our dances are almost all formed one like the

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other, no variety, no wit. Would it then be so difficult to give them more fire, more inventiveness?I do not say that our dancers should become utter pantomimes; that would be too much, but would it be so bad if they were just a little? What stops them from giving nobility to their look, expressiveness to their movements, from varying their attitudes so that they are not cardboard dancers that move mechanically?

Echoing later writers in their criticism of French dancing, Weaver (1712, 136-37) at the beginning of our period also castigates the French for the meaninglessness of their dancing, which to his thinking amounted to little more than “modulated Movement ”: The best of the French Dancers, who have been seen with so much Applause, and follow’d with so great an Infatuation, having nothing more than Motion, Figure and Measure; and Figure indeed in so imperfect and obscure a Degree, that it is seldom obvious to the common Spectator. They have observed in Ballon (the best we have seen on our Stage) that he pretended to nothing more than a graceful Motion, with strong and nimble Risings, and the casting his Body into several (perhaps) agreeable Postures: But for expressing any thing in Nature but modulated Motion, it was never in his Head: The Imitation of the Manners and Passions of Mankind he never knew any thing of, nor ever therefore pretended to shew us.

To Weaver (1712,166-67), French choreography was but a “Chaos of Steps . . . indifferently apply’d, without any Design, to all Ckaracted’: Mr. Joseph Priest of Chelsey . . . has not gven into those gross Errors of the French Masters who have been in England, and whose greatest Endowments were in having a confus‘d Chaos of Steps, which they indifferently apply‘d, without any Design, to all Characters; they car ‘d not by what ridiculous, awkward, out of the way Action, they gain’d Applause; and judg’d of their mean Performances, by the mistaken Taste of the Audience. I remember one of these celebrated French Masters, compos‘d an Entry for four Furies, and the next Week the very same Dance was perform’d to represent the four Winds, with this only Alteration, that the Master himself by Dancing in the middle made afifth; the same Mistake I have also seen in the four Seasons: I must confess they dress‘d well, but consulted Finery before what was natural, insomuch that I have seen Sailors, Clowns, Chimney-sweepers, Witches, and such like, perform’d in Shoes lac’d, and Ribbanded, Red-silk Stockings, and sometimes Cravat-strings; but enough of this.

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Gildon (1710, 144) in like manner takes to task French dancers in particular for failing to bring life and meaning to the characters they were to represent: The best of French Dancers are without Variety; their Steps, their Posture, their Risings are perpetually the same UNMEANING Motion; a French Dancer being at best but a graceful Mover, full of a brisk and senseless Activity, unworthy [of] the Eye of a Man of Sense, who can take no Pleasure worth attending, in which the Mind has not a considerable Share.

However ”meaningless” some contemporaries may have found much of the theatrical dance in France and at the Paris OpQa in particular, it would be a gross simplification for the reader to go away with the notion that eighteenth-century French dances were “abstract” without action or gesture and that Italian dances of the same period were pantomimic-or even worse, that before Noverre, the fabled ”father of ballet,” pantomimic dance was unknown to the eighteenth-century stage. While it is beyond the scope of this study to delve too deeply into the use of pantomimic dance and the development of pantomime ballet in the eighteenth century, a few remarks should perhaps be made here on this head. Writers on the subject of ”action” in ballet from the period can be misleading, for they more often than not fail to define with clarity what they precisely mean by pantomime dance. Furthermore, many of their complaints about the ”meaninglessness” of the dancing in ballets could equally well apply to such nineteenth-century classic story ballets as The Nutcracker or Swan Lake, which have relatively insubstantial plots with long sections containing little to no “action” or gesture. Modem scholarship devoted to tracing the history of pantomime ballet in this period has further muddied the topic by confusing the concept of pantomimic dance (the art of representing actions, characters, happenings, or even dialogue through the mixing of pure dance movements and mime) with the genre of pantomime ballet (the extended use of pantomimic dance within the structure of a developed narrative) and by failing to distinguish the different histories of the latter genre in differing styles. At the heart of ballet history in the eighteenth century is not the invention of pantomimic dance but rather the development of structures wherein such dance could be used more extensively.

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Pantomimic dance, that is, dance combined with gesture and mime, was clearly known long before Noverre, in fact before the eighteenth century. It even figured then in performances at the Paris Opera, that stodgy institution with its particular love of more abstract, serious dance. It is clear from the sources that the art of French dance already in the latter part of the seventeenth century made conspicuous use of pantomimic dance. Mercurius (1671,84+35),for example, indicates that theatrical dance ”often” made use of gestures such that the art of ballet was typically a ”mute play” that revealed character or unfolded plot: One can also have dances in comedies and plays, for that which can often be revealed in gesture while dancing will be discussed below in chapter eight, namely that through the movement of the feet, hands, and other turns of the body whole stories can be narrated more clearly than when explained with the tongue. This is why, in my view, nothing is said in ballets, which are nothing more than mute comedies and plays, for a skilled and expert dancing master knows how to train those who must dance in the ballet so that their jumps, steps, and gestures give well enough to understand what character is represented or dealt with.

To Mercurius’s thinking (1671,152-53), there was little that set apart the French theatrical dances of his time from the mimic dances of ancient Rome: “Between the French dances of today (which are usually called ballet and sarabandes and are well known to us Germans now, who quickly wish to imitate and learn everything from the French) and the old dances of tricks (which before were in use among the Romans and were called salfationes rnirnicae [mimic dances]) there is to my thinking no particular difference.” Writers in the first half of the eighteenth century similarly stress the representational element found in the theatrical dance of their day. Behr (1703a, sec. 3), for example, indicates that ballet was a ”mute representation” wherein all kinds of stories could by shown through ”mute action”: A ballet is a mute representation to the accompaniment of music made up of sundry individuals depicting that which is performed in tragedies and comedies through speech and in operas through song, such that by means of certain steps arranged according to the art not only various rational and irrational actions but even affects and all sorts of other things are represented so clearly that the spectator can

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make out without my help what is meant. It is indeed true that a ballet is scarcely or not at all to be told apart from painting or sculpture and that which goes together with these, for they too are mute representations. Indeed, one may go so far as to say that in realizing such ballets not only can all manner of histories be represented through mute actions, as said above, but even words and names can be mannerly represented therein.

Borin (1746,24) was clearly familiar with the practice of pantomimic dance. He writes that before proposing any rules on the composition of ballet, I believe that it is fitting to note that the subject of a ballet is sometimes wholly dealt with through words, as in the operas and divertissementsthat bear the name of ballets, for example, Les f2tes vinitiennes, Les divertissements de comidie, and others, and sometimes the subject is only shown, such as in the ballets that are performed by pantomimes dancing without the accompaniment of words, for example, L’iducation du prince, Les toinbeaux des grands hotnmes, L‘industrie, Les spectacles, and others.

EstPve (1753, 1:78) notes that pantomime dancers figured prominently in French theaters by his day, that ”the French have allowed onto their stage as many pantomimes as there are roles to play; they have made these performers as attentive to the movements of dance as the ancients were to making them expressive through gestures and reasoned discussion.” Descriptions of performances from the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries bear witness to the developed use of pantomime and pantomimic dance on stages before the advent of Noverre or Hilverding; suffice it to give only a few examples here. Lully clearly made use of extensive pantomime in some of the danced scenes of his operas, for as Dubos notes (1719,1:533-35), we have seen choruses [i.e., corps de ballet] which did nothing more than imitate the mute play of the choruses from ancient tragedy succeed on the stage of the Opera and even greatly delight as long as some care went into their execution. Such ballets I hear spoken of, ballets without dance steps but made up of gestures, of actions [dimonstrations], in short, of a mute play, which Lully had placed in the scenes of funerary pomp in Psyche and Alceste. . . . Lully took great care with these ballets and had a particular dancing master by the name of d’Olivet compose them. It was he and not des Brosses or Beauchamps whom Lully had compose the ordinary ballets

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and the ballets for the scenes of funerary pomp in Psyche‘ and Alceste. It was also d’Olivet who created the ballet of the Greybeards in Thisie, the Dire Dreams in A f y s and the Shakers in lsis, the latter made up only of the gestures and actions of people afflicted by the cold.

In a ballet making up part of the divertissement in Les f2tes de Thalie, mounted at the Paris Opera in 1722, for example, pantomime dancers figured prominently. As a critic in Mercure de France (Aug. 1722, 155) notes of the performance, ”Momus’s retinue, made up of pantomimes, forms the divertissement which ends the ballet and this our critique.” In like manner Les dieux b la foire, mounted at the Opera-comique in September of 1724, included pantomimic dance. In the course of the prologue, “Pluto offers to give [Folly] an impromptu ballet and invokes the demons and nymphs from the fields of Elysium, whom he commands to represent through their dances the abduction of Proserpina, which is performed with justness and liveliness. You would think that you saw the painting of this famous abduction” (Mercure de France Oct. 1724,2203-4). The Italian’s love of capering, with or without pantomime, was clearly shared by most Europeans. Indeed, the typical spectator of the eighteenth-century theater preferred by far the capers and feats of Italian dancers to the slow, grave dance of the likes of Louis Dupre. According to Rousselet (1754, 7), Italians ”would sooner have cubrioles and entreclzats than a dance that shows nobility and good taste. I am convinced that among the other nations the admirable Dupre would not meet with as much success by far as Italian dancers, jumpers who do tours de force.” Weaver (1712,138-39) writes that the English were as addicted to capers in their dance as they were to rhetorical devices in their poetry: [The] natural Propensity of Imitation in Mankind gave Rise to Poetry and Dancing, and fumish’d them with their greatest Excellence and Beauty; which when they deviate from, the first degenerates into Anagrams, Acrosticks, Conceits, Conundrums, and Puns, below the Dignity of Poetry, and the other into ridiculous senseless Motions, insignificant Cap’rings, and worthless Agility, tho’ both of these are what the English have generally been too fond of in their Poetry and Dances; to the Scandal of the English Wit and Ability; and to the Disincouragement of our English Performers, who alone seem capable of reviving this so long lost Art of imitative Dancing.

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The English do not appear to have been particularly fond of the grave style. Gallini (1762,77-78), the director of the opera theater in the Haymarket, notes, for example, that the half-serious "pleases more generally," while "the grand pathetic of the serious stile of dancing is not what every one enters into," for the admirers of the serious style were "rarely numerous enough to encourage the composer of dances to form them entirely in that stile." In a humorous anecdote about the famed French dancer and teacher Franqois Marcel, Helvktius (1758, 616) similarly alludes to the preference for jumping on the part of the English and indeed other nationalities: A most celebrated English dancer, having come to Paris, pays a visit to Marcel. "I have come," he tells him, "to pay you the homage that all in our art owe to you. Allow me to dance before you so that I might profit from your advice." "Gladly," says Marcel. Straightway the Englishman executes some very difficult steps and a thousand enfreckafs;Marcel looks at him and suddenly cries, "Monsieur, one jumps in other countries; only in Paris does one dance. But alas! Here in this wretched kingdom one does only that well."

The artist William Hogarth (1753,150)dismissed serious dance as "a contradiction in terms," for to this Englishman the true art of dance was to be found in liveliness and "elegant wantonness (which is the true spirit of dancing)." The Swedes appear to have generally preferred the comic style to the serious; at least this is suggested by a passing comment made by Count Gustaf Johan Ehrensvard (1878), the first director of the Swedish Royal Opera. He notes in 1773 with regard to Louis Gallodier, a French dancer who had come to Sweden in 1758 and who became principal dancer in the French troupe there, that "his dancing had pleased as much as Ie genre skrrieux does please in our country compared with Ie genre comique" (trans. in Skeaping 1967,52). Those in German-speaking parts inclined more to Italian than French taste in the arts generally throughout the eighteenth century, particularly in music, and more to a brilliant style of dance, the only one suitable to their animated music. Taubert (1717, 961) notes, for example, that the higher the dancer danced, the more his entrke grew in "grace and art." Not surprisingly, Barbara Campanini, with her brilliant entrechats 21 huit, found her most ardent admirer and supporter in the figure of the king of Prussia. The serious genre as

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cultivated by the French appears to have been largely unknown in some theaters of central Europe at the beginning of our period. According to Grimm (1879, 1 Feb. 1769, 8:262), the grave style in the course of the century was brought to such theaters as those in Dresden, Stuttgart, and Vienna by the likes of Dupre and Vestris. As Grimm notes, ”Vestris took this genre to Stuttgart and Vienna, as Favier and Dupr6 formerly did to Dresden and Warsaw.” The serious style of the French does not appear to have found much favor among the Viennese public in particular despite a couple of attempts to introduce this genre into the Austrian capital. The first such attempt was evidently made by Franz Hilverding in the late 1730s. At the Viennese court’s expense, Hilverding had been sent to Paris to study dance during the same decade. According to Hilverding’s student Gasparo Angiolini ([1773] 1998, 51-53) he ”then returned to Vienna, where in imitation of his other colleagues, with a mask on his face, a great black wig and helmet on his head, and a tonnekt? he danced the genre of ballet called serious dance (’I know not why,’ says Addison), which a little before had brought delight to the sensual court of Louis XIV and which also pleased so much the Viennese court then.” The cultivation of this style there proved to be short-lived. When the theaters of Vienna were opened again in 1742 after a prolonged period of mourning following the death of Emperor Charles VI in 1740, Hilverding did not bring back to the stage the serious style as cultivated by the French, part of his program for ballet reform, for ”the aforesaid cold serious dance also took on a new appearance under him.” A further attempt to reintroduce to the Viennese public the French serious style, with its long black curly wigs and tonnelets, was made in 1756, in a performance of “a new ballet in the French style, called la grande passacaille or chaconne, wherein all the dancers danced in black curly wigs,” as Khevenhuller notes in his journal on 29 May in the same year (cited in Brown 1991, 152).Yet another attempt was made in 1759 by the French dancers Jean Dupre and Leclerc. These performances evidently did not meet with much favor, for as Count Durazzo makes clear in a letter to Favart dated 13 June 1760, which touches upon the reception given Dupre and Leclerc, ”their style of dance is generally not to the taste of the public” (cited in Brown 1991, 295). Indeed, the Viennese generally preferred an animated style with gambols, especially at the so-called German Theater in the city, where ”one dances a strong, high genre,” as Durazzo puts in a

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letter to Favart dated 26 October 1763 (cited in Brown 1991,158).The Viennese broad taste for a "strong, high genre" of dance ensured that the Austrian minister Kaunitz found not delight but disappointment when he viewed the French serious style firsthand at the Paris Opera in 1750, for he wrote from Paris in a letter dated 11 December that "I was let down [je suis tombe' de mon haut] when I saw the ballets at the Opera" (cited in Brown 1991,152). In contrast to much of Europe, the Spanish evidently preferred a more grave and restrained style of dance in keeping with their national character, at least as outlined in some of the sources from the period. According to a critic in the Mercure de Fratice (Sept. 1739, 1968), "the Romanesque point of honor, by which the Spanish nation could be characterized, assumes an important place in their theatrical works." The same journal (Jan. 1773,111) notes that the gravity of the nation stemmed from "a certain pride that it owes to the extent of its conquests, to the ideas that it has of its origins and perhaps to the majesty of its language. This Spanish haughtiness is so widespread that it is to be found among even the lowest people and the most ragged beggars." Martello (1715, 230) gives a glimpse at the kind of dance that the grave Spanish cultivated: The Spaniard has a restrained manner of dancing, and even in the slight turns of the body he maintains a certain decorous dignity, which is inseparable from the gravity of that nation, so that this dance appears rather like a promenade adorned with spirited but odd movements which show off the aptitude and agility of the body, lofty, fine, and free, all endowments rightly prized by a people who never yield to cowardice.

Vieth (1793, 1:342) in like manner comments on the Spaniard's gravity, particularly when compared to dancers from other parts of Europe; he notes that "the Spaniards also like to dance the minuet, but the lightness of the French is too much supplanted by Spanish gravity." This more restrained manner of dancing could have an antithetical effect, most notably in their national dances. Vieth (1793, 1:338-39) indicates that "the dances of the Spanish bear the stamp of their national character. They paint the many situations of a couple in love, with a decidedness that does every honor to the dancer's art of pantomimic representation." Notable here is "the fandango of the Spaniards, a most lascivious dance," as Noverre puts it (1807,2:168).

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Vieth in like manner characterizes the fandango as a dance of lust (1793, k339-40): The fandango, that famed or ill-famed favorite dance of Spanish men and women, is by all accounts of travelers the most extraordinary and most seductive dance that can be found. If each dance were dedicated to the Goddess of Love, then this is the one that she herself would seem to have invented. It is the pantomime of lust insofar as it can be done without greatly affronting decorum. The German waltz is accused of being dangerous to chastity since the man and woman touch each other so closely, breast to breast, knee to knee, with the arms intimately coiled around the body of the other, but in the fandango not even the fingertips touch, and yet it arouses all the senses, pours electrifyingfire through the veins of youths and girls, makes the hearts of men beat harder, brings warmth to the coldness of old age, and excites all those watching into a frenzy. Thefandango portrays the battle between buming love and feminine reserve, between desire for gratification and morality, although the latter does not always play the main role. Every charm of form and position is developed here to its maximum. Now one draws near with a thousand seductive tums, now one escapes again, now the languishing fair one seems to yield to the conquering young man, now she slips away from him again and flees from her tender persecutor. At times one thinks that they truly flee the dance space, or battlefield, as one might say here, in order to play out the scene in an adjoining room. As is evident from its character, the fandango can be danced in quite different ways, in a seemly or unseemly manner.

Vieth (1793,1:341)notes that in Spain the fandango “is not seldom danced on stage at the end of a play and is often worth more than the whole of the foregoing drama.” The dance found its way onto stages in other countries in the eighteenth century. One performed by the dancer Rossi in London’s King’s Theatre in 1785 evidently captured some of the ”pantomime of lust” mentioned by Vieth above, for a critic in the Public Advertiser (10 Jan. 1785) comments that Rossi’s ”Fandango is undoubtedly powerful and grateful electricity-but is it quite safe?-Mezzo putana! [half whore]” (cited in Price 1995,506-7). The freedom to dance like a “half whore” was in fact a relatively newly won liberty for women dancers in the eighteenth century, as we shall see in the next chapter, for before the 1730s women were obliged by convention to be more restrained in their movements while dancing.

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NOTES 1. Despreaux’s endnote: “Italian dancers came to Paris in order to dance in an opera entitled Les paladins; their grotesque style amused for some time but soon people became sick of it.” 2. Despreaux’s endnote: ”Slingsby, an Englishman, came to dance ‘the Englishman’ in an Turkish act at the Paris Opera, around twenty-five years ago; he met with wild success. He was the most amazing dancer ever seen in this genre. The court wished to see him,and he went to Fontainebleau. He was amazing, but soon he no longer pleased.” [Despreaux misspells Slingsby’s name throughout as ”Slins’byk.”] 3. Despreaux gives the following endnote: ”In the opera ErneIinde, there was a dance for a Laplander, which met with great approbation. This dance was in the low comic vein.” The mentioned opera was mounted at the Paris Opera in 1767 and again in 1777. A critic in the Mercure de France (20 Apr. 1782,136)concedes that allowing grotesque dancers like Laurent was sometimes ”necessary,”the Opera like other theaters “forced” occasionally to admit such caricatures: Monsieur Laurent. This dancer was known by the name of the Laplander. He was more of a strong and daring jumper than a dancer worthy of the approbation of persons of taste. This kmd of talent, however, is sometimes necessary in certain dances; the Opera, like all the other theaters, is forced from time to time to admit caricatures. When seen from this vantage point, Monsieur Laurent was useful. He did not deem it fitting to stay connected to the theater of the capital, but we do not believe that it is difficult to replace him.

4. The critic presumably has in mind here Noverre’s Fttes chinoises, which was first created in 1751 and then later mounted at the Opera-comique in Paris on 28 January 1778. 5. According to the Mercure de France (Aug. 1756,189-90), Allard debuted at the Comedie-franqaiseon 12 July 1756. 6. Midie et Jason, an opera by Joseph Franqois Salomon, first performed at the Paris Opera on 24 April 1713. 7. The critic is presumably alluding to the ”loss,” or retirement, of Gaetan Vestrisand Anne Heinel from the Paris Opera in 1781and 1782, respectively. 8. The text gives in fact ”pauses,” presumably a misspelling of ”poses,” for the terms are homophones in French. Malpied (1789?, 105) similarly confuses the spelling of the two words, writing, for example, that “a pause [pose]happens when one lets some notes pass without dancing.” 9. A tonnelet, French for “keg,” was a kind of tutu worn by eighteenthcentury male dancers, especially in serious roles (figs. 2.14,3.10,3.11,5.1).

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Chapter 5

The "Fair Sex" and Its Style

That's the famed Camargo', i i m z aiiii, and you have arrived in Paris at the right time to see her. She's also sixty years old. She was the first woman dancer who dared to jump; before her, women dancers did not jump, and the wonderful thing about it is that she doesn't wear drawers. (Casanova 1961,2:141)

As noted in chapter 3, the tradition of cultivating distinct styles in eighteenth-century ballet was founded in part upon the perception that not all dancers are equally adept at different kinds of movements or roles thanks in large measure to differences in body type, and it was believed that these differences should be respected and exploited. The real or imagined differences setting apart men and women generally were, above all, not to go unnoticed, for dance as an art that was to hold a mirror up to nature was obliged to reflect the diversity of humanity. The long-standing tradition that the eighteenth century inherited from the past whereby women were thought or at least supposed to be gentle, modest creatures, was clearly reflected in the conventions of ballet at the outset of our period. Women dancers were expected to be more modest in their movements than men, although as we shall see, this convention was to change in the course of the century. Pasch (1707, 81), for example, notes that "with the eizfrkes of women, it is yet to be marked above and beyond the foregoing that modesty must always have the upper hand and their jumps never go beyond the contretemps; it must be a peculiar role for them to be allowed capers and then only a few at a moderate 219

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height.” As is evident from the foregoing, capering was felt to be ill suited to the members of the “fair sex,” who were to dance instead in a more gentle terre-2-terre manner, even in such dances as gigues, which were typically performed with many springing steps. Bonin (1712,174-75) in like manner indicates that when women appear on the stage, it would not be well if they were to dance high and do many jumps and capers; that is an undertaking for men, who are stronger than women; the latter concern themselves rather with gentleness. If a woman does dance a gigue or sarabande, it must consist of gentle steps, which require a neat figure and galant airs as an accompaniment to enhance them all the more.

If women were discouraged from performing high capering steps when on stage, their doing so on the ballroom floor was decidedly frowned upon. They were sure to meet with the censure of their onlookers if they were so bold as to let theirfontange shake in gambols:2 To show a woman entrechats, confretenips battus, pas de ciseaux, and so forth would be more fitting were she on the stage than before people who are fond of gentle creatures, and because to do such artful things before men is not always proper and how much more would a woman be censored if she wished to reveal her skill thereby [in the ballroom]. (Meletaon 1713, 163)

Not all women dancers on the early-eighteenth-century stage were content, however, to limit themselves to steps and movements deemed suitable for their sex. In fact there were on the boards some brave souls (or brazen souls, depending on the spectator’s point of view) who went against the grain and succeeded in making their dancing ”wanton and daring” and in doing so elicited the censure of the likes of Taubert (1717,960-61), who prescribes that if a woman dances a solo, that is, an entrke, sarabande, or gigue, it must be composed of very soft steps and done with the sweet gentleness befitting a woman’s humor and condition, for nothing makes this delicate sex more agreeable or attractive than gentleness, especially when accompanied by a neat figure and a galant air, just as nothing appears more insolent and audacious, on the other hand, than a woman who does many jumps and capers.

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And this is the very reason why such a solo is so very much hated here in Danzig by generally almost all respectable young ladies and their parents, and indeed so much so that the former, even those who have been taking lessons for four or five years, are ashamed to learn and dance such a one, and the latter adamantly refuse to let their daughters learn the like, granting these be dances that belong on stage and be far too lascivious and wild for their daughters, for, to wit, they have seen one or another brave and brazen danseuse dance thus in the "play-hut," where commonly the entries are made to be so wanton and daring that understandably all respectable people are horrified by it, their gorge rising as if at rancid butter. Or because as well they sometimes have had dancing masters who would spring awfully high into the air and who have taught their daughters capers so dangerous that with each step the fonfanges on their heads would tremble, the which betrays neither grace nor gentleness. No! Capering is work for men, who possess much greater strength than the fair sex, for capers after all show how the body can rise into the air ever more and more and what height it can reach, rising into the air either from both feet or from only one foot. Thus men are not so closely bound to the floor but spend most of the time interweaving and working their legs together in the air like lightning, for the higher they dance, the more their entrie grows in grace and art. "With the entries of women, modesty must always have the upper hand and their jumps never go above the contretemps; it must indeed be a peculiar role for them to be allowed capers and then only a few at a moderate height," writes Herr Pasch in his Beschreibung wahrer TanzKunst (p. 81). With the fair sex, gentle movements and pretty gestures must be the fairest ornament, for here, with their legs covered under long dresses, high jumps and many capers will certainly not do, especially at a wedding, assembly, and so forth, and in common wear. Pretty steps and such variations can be chosen which well become a woman and likewise reveal her skill in dancing and thus take preference over the other steps.

The famed English dancer Hester Santlow was evidently one such "brave and brazen danseuse" who danced with more manly steps. At least the laudatory verses entitled "On Mira Dancing" left behind by her husband, Barton Booth, before he died in 1733 suggest that she excelled in jumping and turning at a time when women dancers were expected to be more delicately modest: "She whirls around! She bounds! She springs! / As if Jove's messenger had lent her wings!" (cited in Highfill 1973, 2228). In like manner, the English women rope-dancers seen by Ward ([1698-17001 1924, 244) at the

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very end of the seventeenth century clearly entertained their spectators with more manly "Capering and Firking," that is, jigging: At last they put up a little Dumplin-Ars'd Animal, that look'd as if it had not been six Weeks out of a Goe-Cart [i.e., a walker], and that began to creep along the Rope, like a Snail along a Cabbage-Stalk, with a Pole in its Hand not much bigger than a large Tobacco-Stopper. This was succeeded by a couple of Plump-Buttock-Lasses, who, to show their Affection to the Breeches, wore 'em under their Petticoats; which, for decency sake, they first Danc'd in: But to show the Spectators how forward a Woman, once warm'd, is to lay aside her Modesty, they doft their Pefticoats after a gentle Breathing, and fell to Capering and Firking as if Old Nick had been in 'em.

Around the end of the second decade of the eighteenth century, the convention that women dancers were to be more modest in their movements began to be viewed as outmoded and unnecessary. This change in sensibility appears to have been brought about singlehandedly, at least in France, by the famed Belgian-born dancer MarieAnne de Cupis de Camargo (1710-1770), who through her trendsetting precedent is credited with breaking down the barriers in technique separating men and women on the French stage and creating a high masculine dance that was equally acceptable for women. Camargo's signhcance as a reformer is alluded to in an obituary found in Bachaumont (1783,13May 1770,19:212-13), who writes that Mesdemoiselles Camargo and Carton, two former highly-accomplished members of the Opera, died recently. The one had been in her time a very famous jumper; it was she in a way who created this high dance so fashionable today, which, however, has greatly improved since. She was renowned for the lightness and liveliness of her gambols, and her name is still ranked among the epoch-making theatrical wonders of the Academie Royale de Musique.

Casanova, who saw Camargo dance in 1750, the year before her retirement from the Paris OpCra, mentions in his memoirs (1961,2:141) that Camargo was remembered as the first woman dancer who dared truly to jump. He quotes his companion Patu, who during Camargo's performance informed Casanova that "'she was the first woman dancer who dared to jump; before her, women dancers did not jump."' As Voltaire notes (1733, 24), Camargo was "the first woman who danced like a man." This brilliant masculine gamboling style created

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somewhat of a stir at the Paris OpQa in the beginning, for as a writer in the Mercure de France notes (Sept. 1732, 2002) "everyone beholds with amazement the daring steps, the noble, strong hardihood of Camargo." From the very day of her debut at the Paris Opera in 1726,Camargo, clearly endowed with strength, excelled in the s p r i n p g steps that had hitherto been the traditional preserve of the male dancer. The lightness of her effortless entrechats and cabrioles was particularly worthy of notice to a critic in the Mucure the France (May 1726,1003): On the fifth of this month, Afys was performed again and was continued on the ninth, tenth, and twelfth. The same day, Mademoiselle Camargo, a dancer from the Brussels Opera, who has never appeared here before, danced Les caracteres de la danse, with the utmost vivacity and intelligence that one could expect from a fifteen to sixteen year old. She is the pupil of the illustrious Mademoiselle Prevost, who has introduced her to the public. Her cabrioles and entrechats were effortless, and although she has many perfections yet to acquire in order to come near to her inimitable teacher, the public regards her as one of the most brilliant women dancers to be seen, especially for the sensitivity of her ear, her lightness, and her strength.

Noverre (1807,2:106) makes it clear that Camargo was instrumental in changing taste, that "after her, nothing in the women dancers was bearable," that is, in those who continued to dance in the old manner. To make themselves "bearable," many women dancers clearly began to ape Camargo's masculine dance. From the beginning of the third decade of the eighteenth century onward, contemporary references to women theatrical dancers either jumping high or performing capers on stage become common in the sources. A critic in the Mercure de France (Sept. 1731, 2225), for example, notes in his review of the comic piece Je ne sais p o i , mounted at the Comkdie-itahenne in 1731, that the main character takes exception to the performances by the singer and woman dancer in the piece and "is happy with neither the one nor the other; the singer seems too mannered to hun,and the dancer jumps too high for a woman." A critic in the same journal (May 1732,992-93) comments on the effortless capers conspicuous in a performance by the seventeenyear-old woman dancer Roland on the stage of the H8tel de Bourgogne in 1732. He notes that "at the end of the piece Mademoiselle Roland danced Les caractkres de Za danse with much intelligence and liveliness; her cubrioles and enfrechats were effortless." In 1738 the

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”amazingly strong” child wonder Lolotte Cammasse similarly impressed the French by performing manly feats of the high dance: MademoiselleLolotte Cammasse, aged nine and a half and most amazingly strong for her age (her parents are comedians in the service of the King of Poland) danced all these characters several times to the great surprise and admiration of all the spectators, who were utterly taken by her, such that the truth will be beyond the reader’s imagination. Never has so much talent, so much fine, delicate grace, such lively and light expressiveness been united, with steps performed as the best dancers at the height of their powers can do, in undertaking and succeeding, furthermore, in performing everything that the high dance has which is most difficult to execute with justness, cabrioles, pirouettes, entrechats, gargouillades, and so forth. (Mercure de France Apr. 1738,761)

Already by the late 1730s, Italian women dancers were known for their impressive elevation in jumping and were evidently far better jumpers than their French counterparts. Charles de Brosses (1980, 67-68), who visited Italy in 1739-1740, notes that Italian women dancers typically danced with even greater elevation than Camargo. He writes that [Italian] men and women dancers are lively and light, rising higher than Camargo and as much as ‘the Bird’ Malter. They have legs, and a certain pleasing sweetness to boot, and are not without precision, but they have neither arms, grace, nor nobility. In a word, the dance of the Italians is much below ours; they themselves acknowledge this.

Indeed, one woman he saw danced so high and nimbly in her sequence of twenty entrechats 2 huit that in comparison the airborne Camargo seemed as heavy as stone. The Italian-born Barbara Campanini, better known as ”la Barbarina,” impressed her Parisian audience in 1739 with her brilliant entrechat a huit: On the fourteenth of this month, Mademoiselle Barbarina, a young dancer from Parma, who is not yet sixteen years old, drew a great throng of people by an entrie that she danced with much grace and, what is more, with much correctness and lightness; she beat entrechat B huit with amazing brilliance (her style of dance is in the vein of Mademoiselle Camargo’s). Moreover, young, musical, and wonderfully strong, she is well built with a passable figure; she possesses much charm, which leads one to think that she will become a dancer of the first order, if she is not already, for she has the approbation of all. (Mercure de France July 1739, 1632)

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Some felt that women preoccupied with capering and tumbling were sacrificing grace in emulating their soaring male counterparts. Just such a critic was Gallini (1762, 113-14), who takes to task women attempting to impress solely through the strength of their legs at the expense of expression. He remarks that a woman, who should only depend on the exertion of strength in her legs or limbs, without attention to expression, would possess but a very defective talent. Such an one might surprize the public, by the masculine vigor of her springs; but should she attempt to execute a dance, where tender expressions are requisite, she would certainly fail of pleasing.

In like manner, the author of the "Lettre d'un abonne" remarks (1778, 199) "how singular it is, Monsieur, to see the women wilfully vie with our Herculean men dancers and often cast grace aside so as to abandon themselves to the tours de force which I have just mentioned." In her daring steps, the trendsetter Camargo evidently sought greater height in leg extensions than was common for women at the time. She apparently possessed a marked degree of limberness, for Voltaire (1733,24) remarks upon her flexibility, noting that she was "light and strong in her suppleness." Again, she appears to have set a precedent for other women dancers to raise their legs higher than ever before. Evidently, they did not previously lift their legs above the height of the knee or so, if the depiction of a woman theatrical dancer from 1716 shown in figure 2.2 is representative of the pre-Camargo period. Roller (1843, 231-33), who was trained as a professional dancer in the late 1780s and had a career as a principal dancer in the 1790s, makes it clear in his retrospective look at eighteenthcentury ballet that it was earlier in the century, evidently before Noverre's time, that "women dancers began throwing their legs higher than the moral and natural bounds of beauty would allow": Social dance reached its highest in France under Louis XIV. An Academie de l'Art de la Danse was set up. . . . French dancers and dancing masters grew in number, emigrated, and made their fortune. At that time, it was not enough to receive instruction from a French dancing master; at that time it was rather indispensably necessary (if a young gentleman wished to be held as cultured) to master in Paris itself one's savoir vivre, one's savoir faire, and one's skill in social dance. French dance, as it was commonly called (just as we still today call all dance steps French pas, except those which come from the grotteschi and are nothing but jumps such as the salto tondo, spaccata, rannic~hiato,~

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and so forth), spread over the whole of Germany and ushered in a new age in pleasure and bodily refinement, which, however, soon became mannerism and often only affectation, as Germans wished to imitate the French without possessing their inborn lively movement or without being able to make it their own. At this same time, ballet grew; every theater of any consequence had its corps de ballet. Indeed, even travelling theatrical troupes mounted ballets on their small stages. This required taste in artful dance, which was maintained as long as the ballets themselves were pure fine art and could serve as models without being indecent because of the movements of the women dancers. This imitation, however, had to cease at once, when women dancers began throwing their legs higher than the moral and natural bounds of beauty would allow. The often immense costs which resulted from the ballets were also the cause of their falling off, and they were then carried on only in the largest cities. The blame was laid at the feet of famed Noverre, that he had brought about their decline, striving to carry to the extreme the illusion in the ballets, in the sets, characters, the subtleties of color in the costumes, and so forth, as can be read about in his Lettres siir la danse.

Just such a throwing of the legs “higher than the moral and natural bounds of beauty would allow” was evidently a marked feature in the dancing of Marie Allard, for a critic in the Journal des th&tres (1 May 1778, 129) notes in connection with a performance at the Pans Opera in 1778 that when she appeared on the stage with forced and hardly decent movements of her legs, shoulders, and arms, I thought I beheld one of those fine demoiselles who go to take refreshment at a garden tavern, and by her continual signs to the pit, I thought that she was inviting someone of her acquaintance to come and have a midnight snack with her.

Goudar (1773a, 117-18) found the exaggerated movements of women dancers lost in the emotional excesses of heroic pantomime ballets quite contrary to good taste, together with other such “unmeasured movements” as thrashing about, tumbling to the floor, and being held up: I cannot conceivehow these great masters of the art find women dancers who wish to disfigure themselves in order to do honor to their glory and become Furies on the stage in order to establish their reputation. I assure you, my Lord, that I was angry to see fair Campioni and pretty Curtz in the ballets Shiziraiiiis and Le dkserteiir become frightfully ugly at the end

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of the ballet by dint of contortions and unmeasured movements, their looks distraught, their features altered, the fine color pallid such that they were not to be recognized. Moreover, these forced and unnatural expressionsalmost always shock the laws of modesty. It is not a question here of pedantry; I have never preached the Gospel. It is certain that these emotions,these outpourings are not all done according to the rules of true decency. The performer must become convulsive, must stir and thrash about, must give to her body an unregulated posture, must lean forward and back, must fall to the ground, must be raised and held up.

To free up her strong, active legs from encumbering long skirts, Camargo raised her hemline to reveal her brilliant legwork. Other women dancers followed suit, and in doing so excited the disapproval of the more prudish element of her audience. To ensure that more than just brilliant legwork was not revealed in high jumps, the Paris Opera was obliged to regulate that all women dancers were to wear under their skirts a culepn, a pair of men’s drawers, that is, ”a garment that is worn under the breeches and covers the body from the waist to the knees” (Dictionnuire 1778,1:153).This was somewhat of a peculiar regulation at a time when women normally went quite bare-bottomed under their skirts, the practice of wearing drawers not becoming general among women until the beginning of the nineteenth century (Cunnington and Cunnington 1992, 112). Camargo’s precedent of shorter skirts at the Paris Opera is alluded to in Grimm (1879,l May 1770,9:18-19), for example, who writes that Mademoiselle Camargo, sister to the violinist Cupis, known in the wings for her thousand brilliant adventures, has been immortalized in the theater as the founder of this dance of capers that Mademoiselle Allard has taken to such a height of perfection and splendor in our day. Camargo was the first who dared to shorten her skirts, and this practical innovation, which put the admirers [of dance] in a position to assess with knowledge the legs of the women dancers, has since been widely adopted, but it then promised to occasion a very dangerous schism. The jansenists of the pit cried heresy and scandal and did not wish to see skirts shortened; the molinists, on the other hand, maintained that this innovation brought us closer to the spirit of the Early Church, which was repulsed at seeing pirouettes and gargouillades hindered by the length of petticoats. The Sorbonne of the OpCra had difficulty for some time in establishing a sound doctrine on this head, which divided the faithful. At last, the Holy Spirit suggested to it in this difficulty a moderation which brought everyone

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into agreement: It decided in favor of shortened skirts, but declared at the same time as an article of faith that a woman dancer could not appear on stage without drawers. . . . Since Camargo left the stage, dance of every kind has made so much progress that her lightness, so admired in her day, would obtain only a very mediocre reception beside Mademoiselle Allard and other women jumpers less spry than the latter, but to survive posterity, everything depends upon finding oneself in an age of shortened skirts.

It appears that the practice of women dancers wearing drawers or even knee breeches under their skirts while on stage in order to maintain decorum was common in other countries as well. De la Lande (1769) notes that in Naples, for example, “women dancers have been constrained to wear drawers” (cited in the Journal de musique 1773, 6:63). Tlus practice was evidently known in England also; Eva Maria Weigel, better known as ”la Violette,” evidently sprang high enough in her capering during her 1746 debut performance on the stage at the Opera Theatre in the Haymarket that Lord Stafford was able to note that she was rather oddly wearing knee breeches rather than the more usual drawers under her skirts: ”She surprised her audience at her first appearance on the stage; for at her beginning to caper she showed a neat pair of black velvet breeches, with roll’d stockings; but finding they were unusual in England she changed them the next time for a pair of white drawers” (cited in Emmerson 1972,126). Some eighteenth-century women dancers, however, boldly forwent any modesty garment and danced quite bare-bottomed, as a certain Miss Poitier did during her performance of a hornpipe at the Covent Garden Theatre in 1762: Would any person suppose she could have the confidence to appear with her bosom so scandalously bare, that, to use the expression of a public writer, who took some notice of the circumstance, the breast hung flabbing over a pair of stays cut remarkably low, like a couple of empty bladders in an oil-shop-One thing the author of that letter has omitted, which, if possible, is still more gross; and that is, in the course of Miss POITIER’S hornpipe, one of her shoes happening to [have] slipt down at the heel, she lifted up her Leg, and danced upon the other till she had drawn it up-This, had she worn drawers, would have been the more excusable; but unhappily, there was little occasion for standing in the pit to see that she was not provided with so much as a figleaf. (The Theatrical Review, 1Jan. 1763,4243)

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According to Poinsinet de Sivry (1771), Camargo in fact never bothered to wear drawers as prescribed by the Paris Opera administration, and "adopting the principle of executing all her steps under her, she always dispensed with that modesty garment worn by danseuses to avoid any offence against decency, notwithstanding the height of her cabrioles, entrechats, and jet& battus en l'air" (trans. in Beaumont 1934,14). From the beginning of the third decade of the century, contemporary references to the shape of women dancers' exposed legs, to what these women wore under their skirts, and to the "indecent" movements of their legs become rather common (fig. 5.1). An angry letter to the Grub-street Journal (8 Jan. 1736), for example, takes to task the

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Figure 5.1. A Detail from The Charmers of the Age, circa 1741, showing Barbara Campanini and Philip Desnoyer, after William Hogarth, in the Clarke-Crisp Collection, London, reproduced in Ralph (1 985,781. The caption of the original reads "AB The Charmers of The Age: C. C. Prickt lines shewing the rising Height."

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dancing of Catherine Roland, who in the course of her "immodest" performances frequently revealed herself "above her knees": THIScomes to complain to you of the most impudent practice that ever was introduced on our Stage: without farther preface, it is of Madamoiselle ROLAND'Sdancing:every one who has seen her dance knows, that at the end of the dance she is lifted by POKIER, that she may cut the higher, and represent to the whole house as immodest a sight as the most abandoned women in Drury-lane can shew. Her whole behaviour is of a stamp with this;for during the whole dance, her only endeavour is to shew above her knees as often as she can. If the managers of the House will not remedy such faults as these, I'm humbly of opinion, they would be proper for the notice of our Superiors, whose province it especially is. Matters are come to such a height, that it is very seldom that a whole representation is fit to be seen by a modest woman. If there is no harm in the Play (whichis but seldom the case) we are presented with two or three of these immodest dances, which are commonly followed with a Farce, which teaches no good lesson to our wives, sisters,and daughters.As you have lately taken notice of the French Rope-dancers, I hope you will excite the Town to discourage unfit representations on all the other Stages.

Other writers were less rabid about the new fashion of women exposing leg. A critic in the Mercure de France (Apr. 1739, 774), for example, comments on the well-shaped legs of the child wonder Lolotte Carnmasse, noting that she "is rather tall for her age; her legs are well shaped, her arms the most beautiful in the world; her head and shoulders well placed." Grimm (1877,24 Aug. 1750,1:467)notes with regard to the twelve-year-old dancer RiviPre that "to the advantage of a very fine figure, she couples a well-shaped leg" and that Marie-Rose Pole "also has a perfect figure; she has especially beautiful legs" (1880, Nov. 1786, 14:470-71). Pierre Clement (1755, 1:109) found the legs of the dancer d'Azenoncourt to be particularly attractive: "The one who dances the best of all is afigurante named Mademoiselle d'Azenoncourt, for she has a wonderful figure (what legs!) and delicate features, and an expressive face, with a naive, tender, fine, and noble air, and the finest complexion in the world, with all the freshness of first youth." No less taking did Clement (1755,2:364) find the legs and the voluptuous dancing generally of Teresina, that is, TerPse Vestris, GaCtan Vestris's sister: La Signora Teresina his sister! The joy of my life! What legs! (almost as fine as those of Mademoiselle Aurette), an admirably svelte figure,

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arms a little on the long side (but we can always pull back), her head high, well placed, and charmingly inclined, and her eyes, lips, teeth, her smile, such a graceful accompaniment to her countenance; there is something so tender, so voluptuous in all her movements, a sweetness so suave that it penetrates one’s fantasy: I can think of nothing else!

The compulsory drawers of women dancers at the Paris OpQa came between some ballet loves and the hidden “secret charms” hinted at during more revealing dh~eloppemenfsperformed by the likes of Marie Allard and Marguerite-Angelique Peslin. As Mairobert de Pidansat (1779,2:224) remarks, gavottes, rigaudons, tambourins, loures, everything that goes by the name ”les grands airs,” continually provide opportunities for inventing an astonishing variety of steps. Their particular speciality lies in the gargouillade, karfs, spinning, pirouetting on one foot, and diveloppeiiients of secret charms which the traiterous calefons always hide from our sight but which never fail to whet the desires of ballet-lovers. (trans. in Guest 1996,5554)

The dancers Marie-Louise Hiligsberg, Anne-Jacqueline Coulon, and Marie-Rose Pole seemed to be particularly adept at revealing not merely their legs but even the top of their drawers when dancing on the Paris Opera stage, particularly in lengthy sequences of pirouettes. Preisler (1789,2236) gives the following eyewitness account of such revealing performances: The Dlle Coulon danced first. It seemed both to me and to everyone present that she has made much progress, particularly in jumps, for in a very long sequence of pirouettes she showed us the top of her knickers [le dessus de son cale~on]at least ten times. She was greatly applauded. . . . The Dlle Hiligsberg appeared next. She was much applauded. She danced very well and like Mlle Coulon showed the top of her knickers 10 to 12 times. The Dlle Rose was presented last and danced very well; she appeared very decent after the others, although she had been previously criticised for performing indecent pirouettes. (trans. in Guest 1996, 270-71)

As noted above, the practice of dancing in shorter skirts became widely adopted in France in the wake of Camargo’s precedent. That the hemline of women’s skirts appears to have been commonly at the knee is suggested by the questions posed in the ”Observations

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sur l'Op6ra" (1777,26): "Where is it said that priestesses and vestals ever danced? Is it in accordance with our understanding of them that they be dressed such that their legs are revealed to the knees?" It is clear, however, that in some other parts of Europe at least professional women dancers had availed themselves of raised hemlines before Camargo's time, for Lambranzi (1716,1:17) includes an illustration of a comic woman dancer with her hemline raised almost to the height of the kneecap. The women rope-dancers seen by Ward ([1698-17001 1924,244) at the close of the seventeenth century similarly wore breeches under their skirts when capering on the rope and at times even dispensed with the skirts altogether. This general rise in hemlines coincides in fact with a shift in the center of erotic attraction from the breasts to the legs during the eighteenth century evidently initiated by the introduction into fashion of hooped skirts around 1710 (Cunnington 1992,70). This novelty was a voluminous lower garment, whose fullness was supported and extended by a petticoat (commonly known as the punier, or "breadbasket" in French) typically stiffened with encircling rows of narrow strips of springy whalebone and wom under the dress. Despite the difficulties in maneuvering occasioned by the sheer bulk of such a garment, this sartorial innovation nonetheless brought a measure of freedom to women's feet and legs, in contrast to its predecessor, which clung to the lower limbs, hampering the free and easy movement of the legs needed for capering. The London Magazine in 1741 touches upon this newfound freedom of the feminine lower limbs: When we consider what Alterations have been made in the lower Part of the Female Dress, and think of the different Figures which our Great Grandmothers made with their Petticoats clinging about their Feet, from the Ladies spreading Coats [i.e., petticoats] of this last Age, it admits of a Dispute whether the old Habit was the more modest, or the modem more polite. I have heard objected, that the ancient Petticoat must necessarily too much confine the Woman's Legs; whereas the circular Hoop gave the Feet a Freedom of Motion, shew'd the Beauty of the Leg and Foot which play beneath it. . . . (cited in Waugh 1995,60)

Indeed, it appears to have become "a genteel fashion" as well as a simple necessity for women to raise their hoops and thus expose leg in their attempts to maneuver through the streets and avoid contact with the widespread filth in public places. A certain Mrs. Haywood in The Female Specfator makes mention in the 1740s of this practice, lamenting "how often do the angular comers of such immense ma-

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chines as we sometimes see, tho’ held up almost to the armpits, catch hold of obstacles.” She provides a concrete example of the dire consequences that could befall the followers of this genteel fashon: A large flock of sheep were driving to the slaughterhouse and an old ram ran full butt into the footway where his horns were immediately

entangled in the hoop of a fine lady as she was holding it up on one side, as the genteel fashion is. In her fright she let it fall down (on the ram). She attempted to run-he to disengage himself; she shriek‘d, he baa’d, and the dog barked. Down fell the lady and a crowd of mob shouted. . . . Her gown and petticoat which before were yellow, the colour so much the mode at present, were now most barbarously painted with a filthy brown. (cited in Cunnington 1992,69)

However cumbersome may have been some of the costumes worn by the eighteenth-century female dancer, they did offer one real advantage, that of making the dancer‘s beats appear more brilliant than a man’s, at least according to Noverre (1760,312-14): Nature has not spared the fair sex from the imperfectionsof which I have spoken, but artifice and the fashion of skirts have happily come to the aid of our women dancers. The punier hides a multitude of faults, but the curious eye of the critics does not go high enough in order to see this.Most women dance with their knees open as if they were naturally arque‘ [i.e., hypoextended at the knee]; thanks to this bad habit and to skirts, they seem more brilliant than men because, as I said, beating only the lower leg, they pass their temps with greater speed than us, who hiding nothing from the spectator are obliged to beat with the legs stretched and have them move chiefly from the hip, and you know that it takes more time to move a whole than a part. As to the brilliance that women show, quickness plays its part but much less, however, than the skirts, which hiding the length of the parts hold the eye of the beholder most assuredly and impress it more. All the fieriness of their beats, being concentrated at one point, as it were, seems even livelier and more brilliant; the eye can take it in at once, for the less space it has to scan, the less distracted it is.

Despite the change in attitude toward what was techrucally and stylistically fitting for women dancers brought about largely by Camargo, not all women chose to emulate their soaring fellow male or female dancers. Marie-Rose Pole, for example, avoided tours de force and adtivated rather a more feminine gracefulness. As a critic in the Mercure de France (14Apr. 1787,81)notes of her dancing, “Mademoiselle Rose, a pupil of Monsieur Vestris the Elder, drew attention to herself through the gracefulnessand nobility of her dancing; eschewing tours de force,

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she maintains that decency, that softness which belongs to her sex and wkich it ought never to forget." Puvignk, another dancer who eschewed the high gambols common on the eighteenth-century stage, "for her part cultivates with success ferre-2-terre dance; she is happily the replacement of SallC" (Mercure de France Aug. 1755, 208). While some women dancers had the intelligence to confine themselves to styles of dance well suited to their bodies and dispositions, others foolishly tried to excel in an airborne style that was beyond their abilities or at odds with their conformation. One such dancer was a certain Mrs. Hamois, whose debut at Covent Garden Theatre inspired a critic in the Journal de rnusique (Nov. 1770,66) to note that "she is too short and too heavy in order ever to succeed in tlus style of jumps and capers. Since she does not have the strength to rise high enough off the floor, let her confine herself to forming her pas, to varying them, and to cultivating them, let her in short limit herself to terre-d-terre dance, wherein women are so charming when they dance it well." Perhaps the most famous of these more earth-treading women dancers was Marie-Madeleine Guimard (1743-1816), who cultivated mainly a simpler terre-2-terre style of dance. As Noverre recalls (1807, 2:117), Guimard "never pursued difficulties; a noble simplicity held sway in her dancing, and she gave shape to her dancing with taste and put expression and feeling into her movements." Vigk Lebrun (1984, 1:106-7) similarly reminisces that "Mademoiselle Guimard had quite a different kind of talent. Her dancing was but a sketch; she did only small steps [petits pas], but with movements so graceful that the public preferred her to every other woman dancer. She was small, thin,very well-shaped, and although ugly, she had such fine features that at the age of forty-five she seemed on stage to be no more than fifteen." Her simpler, more earthbound style could stand out somewhat awkwardly, however, beside the more contorted styles of her contemporaries. In the ballets for Mowet's lyric farce Le inariage de Radegonde mounted at the Paris Opera in 1769, for example, Bachaumont observes (1780, 5 Feb. 1769, 4:198) that "Mademoiselle Guimard wanted to go along with the folly of the day, but her ever mannered dance and her simpering countenance are too at odds with the openness of such gambols which demand contortions and dislocationsand which do not include the fraghty and the borrowed graces of this Terpsichore." While other women dancers gave themselves over to "contortions and dislocations," Guimard evidently restricted herself to more modest heights of the leg as well (fig.5.2), for as her husband Despreaux was to note in 1816, the year of Guimard's death, "she disapproved of the present

Figure 5.2. A caricature of Marie-Madeleine Guimard entitled "The Celebrated Mademoiselle G-m-rd or Grimhard from Paris," London 1789, after an unknown artist, reproduced in Guest (1996, pl. 38).

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custom of raising the foot to the height of the hip” (cited in Guest 1976, 77). The contrast between the modesty of Guimard’s less exaggerated personal style and the more revealing gambols of her contemporaries is also evident in a review of a performance at London’s King’s Theatre in 1789.A critic in the Oracle (29June 1789)remarking that despite the “strenuous”efforts of other women dancers, who succeeded in exposing their thghs and even more, the modest movements of the more talented Guimard were generally preferable: Of the Dancing, we can only say that Madem. Guimard was not there. The other Dancers endeavoured by efforts the most strenuousand pleasing to compensate for her absence;but still the general cry was Guimard! Guimard! The Ladies pirouetted in the most fascinating manner to no purpose. Mine Saulnier showed a very handsome leg, so did Madem. Adelaide.-Rosine Simonet showed-something more: but in spite of all thisJainbage and Cuissage, the cry was still Guimrd! Guiinard!-the ancle of Guimard was worth if all! (cited in Price et al. 1995,531)

In some less progressive parts of Europe, women dancers were even constrained by law to be more moderate in their movements, even in the latter part of the eighteenth century. One such place was Barcelona, where women theatrical dancers were fined if they exposed their drawers while dancing, as the undistinguished figuranfe Nina Bergonzi, an acquaintance of Casanova, had the misfortune to discover in 1767: Hardly had she arrived in Barcelona two years ago, having come from Lisbon where she left Bergonzi, her husband, when she was taken on as afigurante in the ballets thanks to her fine figure, for as for talent, she could not do a step. All she knew how to do was a turning jump called the re‘volfade.In doing this jump, she had the pleasure to hear herself applauded by the pit, because they saw her drawers [culottes] right up to the waist. Now you must know that there is a law in theaters here which fines every woman dancer an e‘cu who reveals her drawers to the public when gamboling. Nina, who knew nothing about it, did her re‘voltade; the spectators clapped, and she did an even finer one. At the end of the ballet, the inspector told her that at the end of the month she would have two less e‘ccusbecause of her impudent gambols. She swore and cursed, but she was unable to take on the law. Do you know what she did two days later to revenge herself? She appeared without drawers and did her re‘volfadewith the same force, which caused a tumult of merriment in the pit, the likes of which had never been seen before in

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Barcelona. Count Ricla, who was in his box on the main floor, on the very stage, had seen everything better than anyone else and seized by horror and admiration at the same time, sent off the inspector first to find out if an exemplary punishment other than fines ought to be meted out to this daring woman resistant to the law. "While we wait," he said to him,"have her come before me." Then Nina made her appearance in the viceroy's box with an affronted air and asked him what he wanted with her. "You are an impudent woman who has shown a lack of respect for the public and its laws and who deserves severe punishment." "What did I do?" "The same jump that you did two days ago." "That's right, but I have not broken your Catalan law, for nobody can say that they saw my drawers. To be sure that no one would see them, I didn't wear them. What more can you do on behalf of your damned law, which has already cost me two kcus without my knowing it. Answer me that!" The viceroy and all the grave personages there tried to keep themselves from laughing, for, as you know, gravity does not like to laugh. The little vixen Nina was right at bottom, and a dispute about whether the law had been broken or not would have been made to appear ridiculous because of the detail needed to show that Nina had been guilty a second time. The viceroy thus contented himself by telling her that if in the future she meant to dance without drawers, she would spend a month in prison with only bread and water. This made her biddable. (Casanova 1961,6:178-79)

If they were obliged merely to moderate their movements when performing on stage in Barcelona, women were not even allowed to dance on stage in the papal states of Italy during Carnival. The female roles were regularly danced by boys and young men en trmesfi, a practice rarely successful, at least according to Gallini (1762, 114-15), who notes that at the Italian theatres at Rome, in the Camaval, where the female dancers are not suffered to perform the dances, and where the parts of the women are perform'd by men in the dresses of women, it appears plainly, how much the execution suffers by this expedient. However well they may be disguised, there is an inherent clumsiness in them, which it is impossible for them to shake off, so as to represent with justness the sprightly graces and delicacy of the female sex. The very idea of seeing men effeminated by such a dress, invincibly disgusts. An effeminate man appears even worse than a masculine woman.

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In a letter dated 28 February 1770, Alessandro Verri (1998, 161-62, 165) remarks upon this practice of men or boys impersonating women dancers in the operas mounted in Rome during Carnival that year: ”The music in our operas has been good, but the ballets are always utterly ridiculous; boys awkwardly dressed as women are used by the college.” He complains on 14 March of the same year that while Milan was blessed to have Noverre mounting splendid pantomime ballets, Rome had to be content seeing ”impersonators dance dressed as women.” The celebrated Italian dancer and choreographer Salvatore Viganb in fact made his debut in just such a skirt role in 1783 at the age of fourteen at the Teatro Argentina in Rome (Celi 1998,337). Despite the revolution created by Camargo early in the eighteenth century, some spectators even in the latter part of the period still questioned whether capering was right for women at all. According to Sara Goudar (1777, 1:179), for example, ”these ballets show a want of decency. The sex which was never made to gambol on stage loses that reserve which goes into its character. In this way women who devote themselves to this profession today make themselves contemptible; thus it is that talent itself makes them lose that esteem which is normally linked to modesty.” In a similar vein, Desprkaux (1806,2:265)writes that “a woman must avoid dancing like a man.” The changes brought to the conventions of ballet early in the eighteenth century, which allowed women to dance like men, were to be followed by an even greater revolution at the very end of the period: Ballet began to be viewed as too ephemeral and delicate an entertainment for men to participate in. Consequently, it became largely a feminine pursuit, a decorative activity often smothered in white muslin or narrowly begirt within bobbing tutus, the male roles often danced even by women en travesti. Throughout much of the eighteenth century in sharp contrast, an age fixated on capering, dance had been an art form cultivated by men, who strove to impress through their virile capers and who took up a handsome share of the h e l i g h t with their nimble gambols. Indeed, Noverre (1807, 2108) indicates that ”the dance then [around 17401 boasted far greater talents in men than in women. It is the very opposite today; the fair sex has won out and triumphs. With force, vigor, and talent, it jockeys with men, and women tip the balancing scales of judgment considerably in their favor.” Still in the latter part of the eighteenth century, the attraction of such a fleetfooted airborne male dancer as the superstar Auguste Vestris was so

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great that the second reading of Burke's Bill of Economic Reform in the English Parliament, scheduled to be held on 23 February 1781, was postponed so that the members of Parliament could attend Vestris's benefit performance, which happened to be on the same day. As Burke remarked, "to a great part of that House, a dance was a much more important object than a war, and the Opera House must be maintained whatever became of the country" (cited in Beaumont 1948,20).During this benefit concert, held for both Vestris father and son, "the house could not receive and contain the multitudes that presented themselves. Their oblations amounted to fourteen hundred pounds" (Walpole 1904,26 Feb. 1781,11:406).Walpole reports on an earlier occasion (1904,17Dec. 1780,11:34C41)that Vestris similarly met with "convulsions of applause" from the English The theatre was brimful in expectation of Vestris. At the end of the second act [of the opera Riccimero] he appeared; but with so much grace, agility, and strength, that the whole audience fell into convulsions of applause: the men thundered; the ladies, forgetting their delicacy and weakness, clapped with such vehemence, that seventeen broke their arms, sixty-nine sprained their wrists, and three cried bravo! bravissimo! so rashly, that they have not been able to utter so much as no since, any more than both Houses of Parliament.

By the middle of the nineteenth century, however, ballet had become a profession deemed too effeminate for men; the male dancer was now but a necessary evil. To Gautier (1858,June 1838,1:139),serious male dancing was not merely a contradiction in terms but an affront to decency: To us, a male dancer is something unfathomably monstrous and indecent. Our modesty is alarmed at seeing these large beings jig about frantically and bounce on the boards. However much we are amused and delighted by jugglers, tight-rope walkers, athletes, and other performers of feats and perilous jumps, in the manner of Auriol, Lawrence, or Redisha, that much we are revolted by noble male dancers and graceful male dancers, who are painful to watch.

To a critic in Journal des de'bnts ( 2 Mar. 1840), the grand dunseur was merely a useful accessory at best: Today, thanks to this revolution which we have effected, woman is the queen of ballet. She breathes and dances there at her ease. She is no

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longer forced to cut off half her silk petticoat to dress her partner with it. Today the dancing man is no longer tolerated except as a useful accessory. He is the shading of the picture, the green box trees surrounding the garden flowers, the necessary foil. (Trans. in Guest 1980,21)

According to the nineteenth-century choreographer August Bournonville (1979,459), the male dancer of his time had largely become a useful accessory, a ”lifting machine” for a ballerina: At the moment, unfortunately, there are on the Continent very few danseurs who have not been reduced to being lifting machines and props for equibrilistic groupings, while the danseuses outdo one another in fours deforce. The ballet is hereby losing its importance as artistic performance and degenerating into something that ought to be relegated to the carnival tent.

Gautier’s view (1858, Mar. 1840,2:34) that ”a male dancer performing anything other than character dances or pantomime has always struck us as a kind of monster” was clearly shared by others. Gustave Bertrand in Le Me‘nesfrel (18 Nov. 1866) similarly expressed the view that the male dancer was out of place except in a nondancing, supporting capacity: ”Mkrante does not dance but now does mime with talent; we congratulate him doubly, for that is the part that all men in ballet should take” (cited in Pastori 1980?,68). If the male soloist was to be tolerated only in an ancillary capacity, the male corps dancer was wholly beneath contempt. As the ballet master Saint-Leon writes (1856), thefigurunt was a human monster, an outcast in dance; upon him fall all the curses that used to rain on the Israelites. What a falling off is this, when one thinks that scarcely a hundred years ago only men were allowed on the stage and were the source of every delight. It must also be owned that our poorfigurant is most frightful, very ugly and very old, and yet without being a full supporter of thefigurant dancer, one must recognize that he is necessary, indispensable even as a group, and yet one cannot better him.To state the opposite belongs only to the greying ticket-holders in the stalls at the Opera, who are interested only in the “ballet rats” of the corps. (cited in Pastori 1980?,66)

As ballet was now widely held to be a woman’s art, very few men entered the profession; of the ninety pupils in the Paris Opera’s school of dance in 1847, for example, only twelve were male (Guest 1980,22).The paucity of men in the profession ensured that the level

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of proficiency among male dancers fell to an appalling low; by 1860, there were no advanced dance classes for men at the Opera’s school (Pastori 1980?, 58). So dominant was the female presence in ballet that the few men who did enter the profession typically began to dance like women, adopting a more effeminate manner, which doubtless only strengthened the prevailing view that dance was unmanly. According to Boumonville (1979,20) the composite style of ballet adopted in Italy was ”masculine among the women, feminine among the men.” What Gautier (1858, Mar. 1840, 2:34) so admired about Jules Perrot was that he was conspicuously manly in h s dancing, for he ”did not in any way have that insipid and sickly sweet manner which makes male dancers generally so unbearable.” According to Nadine Nicolaeva-Legat (1947,20), such effeminacy continued into the twentieth century: ”For some years male dancing has been deteriorating. Dances in the real male style have lost their chief features, and a kind of effeminacy now characterises them.” The remarkable bnlliance of male virtuosi that blossomed in the eighteenth century and that was carried to such a height by the likes of Antoine Pitrot and Auguste Vestris largely disappeared from the stage with the almost complete disappearance of the male dancer in the nineteenth century. Indeed, bereft of male bravura, shorn largely of a virile presence, and deprived of situations wherein full-blooded amatory intrigues could be unfolded, the whole art of ballet waned and ceased to be taken seriously.As Au puts it (1995,59),”ballet seemed to have lost its creative momentum, and the public had ceased to regard it as a serious art form. It was no longer a mainstream art, as it had been in the 1830s and 1840s;it had lost touch with the times. Indeed, ballet bore all the symptoms of an art about to die of exhaustion.” The technical virtuosity that characterized the male dancer of the eighteenth century did not return to the stage until the appearance of the legendary dancer Vaslov Nijinsky (1889?-1950), ”the first real ballet star of the male sex that Europe had seen since the retirement of Auguste Vestris nearly a century earlier” (Acocella 1998,648).

NOTES 1. Camargo was in fact only forty in 1750, the year in which Casanova saw her dance at the Paris Opera; Casanova quotes in the epigraph the words of his companion Patu.

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2. The fontange was a kind of headdress worn by fashionable women at the beginning of the eighteenth century. 3. Roller’s corrupt names of these steps have been normalized here, the more usual sulto tondo, or “turning jump,” instead of his salto rondo; the spaccafa, or ”splits,” instead of his spajato; and the runnicckiato, or “drawn-up (jump),” instead of his ranicellione.

Chapter 6

Caprice: To Each His Own Style

Art furnishes rules, and taste exceptions; taste discovers to us on what occasionsart ought to be subservient, and when, in turn,the latter should submit. (Montesquieu, trans. in Blasis 1828,113)

While eighteenth-century dancers were in theory expected to work within the conventions of their chosen distinct style, considerable freedom was granted to the individual dancer in interpreting these conventions according to his fancy (or caprice, to use the common eighteenth-century term) or in combining the basic elements of the dance form or even in creating something novel, such as new steps or new subgenres. As we saw in the foregoing chapter, the changes to the conventions governing women dancers early in the century were ultimately brought about by Camargo’s trendsetting novel personal style, which was widely imitated by her less original contemporaries and successors. It was for both her artistry as a performer and her creation of an original style that Camargo was celebrated and remembered. As a critic in the Journal des thk2litres writes (15 July 1776,487), ”her dancing, brought to the perfection of the art, was the result of the principles that she had learned from Mademoiselle Pr6vost and Messieurs Pkcour, Blondy, and Dupr6; from their different styles, she had created her own.” He cites de la Faye’s caption to Lancret’s portrait of the famed dancer, which proclaimed “original in my dance, I can vie with the likes of Balon and Blondy.” Camargo’s example was neither exceptional nor undesirable, for writers from the period stress the need for a dancer to cultivate a unique personal style. Gallini (1762, 236), for example, writes that 243

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“besides the necessity of learning his art elementally, a dancer, like a writer, should have a stile of his own, an original stile: more or less valuable, according as he can exhibit, express, and paint with elegance a greater or lesser quantity of things admirable, agreeable, and useful.” In a similar vein, Noverre (1760, 15) takes to task the rigidity of some ballet masters from the period, who in insisting upon conformity stifled the individual’s natural grace and powers of expression: I cannot refrain, Monsieur, from expressing my disapproval of those ballet masters who are so ridiculously stubborn as to wish that thefigurnnts and figurniites take them as an exact model and rigidly copy their movements, gestures, and attitudes. Can such a singular claim not prevent the development of the executants’natural grace and stifle their own powers of expression?

Indeed, a lack of an original personal style could result in a mediocre reception from a factious and restive public that expected to be entertained with something novel. Baccelli’s debut at the Paris Opera in 1782, for example, met with a somewhat lukewarm reception merely because her style of dance was the same as that of Elkonore Dupre, who had made her appearance only a few months before. As Bachaumont writes (1783, 16 Nov. 1782, 21:1, second paginated part), it was in the ballet in the second act of Electre, to an air by Monsieur Sacchini, that Mademoiselle Baccelli debuted yesterday. It cannot be gainsaid that she is a most agreeable dancer, who links strength and a brilliant execution to a neat figure; but because her style is utterly the same as Mademoiselle h p r b ’ s (who made her appearance a few months ago and who already has many partisans), she excited less admiration especially in her tours de force of landing, holding herself, and pirouetting on the toe [orteil] without losing anything of the nobility and grace in her role, which the former did as well.

What a critic in the Mercure de Frame (June 1729,1229) found so admirable about the Dumoulin brothers’ realization of the roles of Harlequin and Punch was their “original and inimitable manner.” Noverre (1807, 2:117) similarly praised Guimard for being “inimitable in all the anacreontic ballets” and in the ”mixed style” that Noverre created for her and Le Picq.

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The cultivation of a personal style manifested itself above all in the novel interpretation of established positions, steps, and port de bras, and t h s was equally true for dancers in the ballroom as it was for those on stage. Caprice played a significant role, especially in the choice of shapes and heights of arms and the manner of executing a given port de bras. As Feuillet (1700a, 97) explicitly indicates, "the ports de bras depend more on the taste of the dancer than on any rules that could be given." H h s e l (1755, 135, 137) in like manner notes in connection with the so-called high port de bras of theatrical dance that "many theatrical dancers do this port de bras according to their own caprice" and that "there is no difference between the gentleman's and the lady's theatrical port de bras except that the caprice of various dancing masters here and there has a great influence on this." Magri (1779,1:114) remarks that the disposition of the arms in the so-called grunds bras, or forced carriage of the arms, was by and large determined by the dancer's fancy rather than by any set rules: "These arms cannot have a set measure or precise height but can be raised as much as you wish beyond the others depending on the character, the expression, the spirit, and ability of the performer." Angiolini (117731 1998, 68) stresses that the choice of heights and shapes of the limbs needed to be adapted to the dancer's unique build, noting that the diversity in the builds of both men and women dancers requires a varied treatment in the arms, in the movements, and in the legs, requires a dance that is either expansive, or confined, or in-between, requires freedom in rounding or raising the arms less or more, requires a dance that is either dry, or slow, or quick, and other little instances of chiaroscuro which do not in any way alter the aforesaid fundamentals although these instances of chiaroscuro adapted to the build of each executant are of greater consequence to each since upon them depends a fine, middling, or poor execution.

To Ratier (1759?, 30-31) "proportion" in dance generally was "the knowledge of how to adjust, measure, and match the steps and movements according to the height of the pupil." Not only positions and movements of the arms but also steps could be altered freely according to the whim of the dancer and the needs of the role represented. As Pasch puts it (1707,80),"everything that was mentioned above in connection with the steps, hands, and gestures must also be observed here [in choreography], and the nature of the

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character to be represented in particular must be borne in mind and what the actions represented specifically require; to this end, one has full freedom to alter the steps endlessly in a regulated manner.” Magri (1779,1:66) similarly notes that “these theatrical steps can be embellished with arbitrary airs and graces as it pleases the dancer.” This freedom to alter dance movements was determined as much by the need to create beauty of line among dancers with their differing builds and differing disproportions as by the dictates of dramaturgical necessity, for dance was an art that was to express and imitate. As Papillon notes (1782, 86), ”in the theater, dance is an imitative art, which no one will question; thus it seems to me that every imitative art can free itself from rules when circumstances so require. Passion does not rigidly control; every means is fitting here when passion is to be expressed no matter how it is excited.” The exercise of caprice was no less evident in ballroom dancing technique. Taubert (1717,553) notes, for example, that “as many unfamiliar dancers of the minuet that one sees dance, that many times almost one sees the port de brus executed in an altered manner as well.” The differences from one dancing master to the other were at times great enough that a pupil exposed only to the style of his master could easily become nonplused when trylng to dance with someone from another school. M a p (1779,2:29-30), for example, advises that in order to dance [the minuet] with freedom, one will need to practice it with various people who are from different schools. When the dancer first comes to dance with one of these, he will be taken aback in seeing the other’s different style. Accustomed only to that of his master and subscribing only thereto, everything new will dumbfound him. If this pupil who has not yet acquired such experience lays himself open to dancing in public, he will often be taken aback whenever the occasion arises to dance with others not from the same school. Thus, he should not expose himself to such if he has not been informed of other styles.

According to Taubert (1717,619-20), a good dancing master almost did not know which version of the minuet step to teach a beginner, since the latter was almost always certain to be taught something else by another master: And thus it happens that the main minuet step is not the same among all pupils but is ever danced and taught differently from one master in one place to another, whence nothing but frightful confusion and vex-

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ation may arise on the part of both the teacher and the student. Indeed, a good master almost does not know here what minuet step in fact he should show the beginner, since the pupil, when handed over to another master, is always persuaded if not forced to do another, which later (when the pupil goes to yet another) a third master again scorns and burdens him again either with another or at least the very one which the foregoing master scorned.

Such lack of agreement was not restricted merely to the ballroom min-

uet, for as Taubert notes (1717,377),dancers and dancing masters commonly executed other dances as well according to their caprice, such that ”all the dances, even the slightest, are altered in a most manifold manner and are always danced differently from one place to another, indeed, from one dancing master to another.” In a similar vein, Ferriol (1745,123-24) censoriously notes that ballroom dancers would change the port de bras with given steps, not to mention even the figures of known dances. He advises the reader not to emulate “those who, abusing the rules because of their ignorance of theory and their intention not to betray its absence, introduce a different track into the figures of dances, confounding the arm movements of one step with those of another, and the like, bom of their forgetfulness of the rules and lessons; for this reason there are some who in the passepied, I’Aimable Vainqueur, and other dances corrupt the true form of the figures, steps, and so forth.” The lack of consensus on how precisely a given step was to be executed becomes most apparent when descriptions of steps found in extant handbooks on dance from the period are compared; even one and the same source sometimes gives more than one version of a movement. It is beyond the scope of this study to move beyond the general and explore any of the many instances revealing the ”looseness” of eighteenth-century dance technique; this topic will be dealt with in detail in the companion volume on technique. In theory, the eighteenth-century ballet dancer was both encouraged and expected to create something new in his dancing, unlike his modem counterpart, who is more narrowly bound to a limited vocabulary of dance movements, whose execution is rigidly prescribed. Indeed, as Gallini puts it (1762, 101), ”invention is also as much a requisite in our art as in any other.” The eighteenth-century dancer was to rely on his own fancy, musicality, and expression to produce something novel that was suitable to the role represented, in the same way that a painter might create a new color from a limited

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number of basic colors. This freedom to invent is described in detail by Bonin (1712,204-5): The steps and capers in dancing can be likened to the painters' colors; from the latter, all sorts of blends can be created, and from the former, as many variations can be made as a painter can brush on changes of color. This blending and invention is called caprice in dancing, which is nothing more than an alteration of that which one has learned, such that one embellishes, expands, diminishes, takes from or adds to, and binds oneself to no fixed step but rather chooses what is most suitable and in doing so betrays no affectation, the desired embellishment appearing not tiresome or meaningless but clever. Here, one governs caprice itself and the composition of caprice. The first depends on the character of him who is learning to dance or wishes to make a profession of it; this, the master cannot show the student, for the manifold changes admit no orderly instruction. The student must find it out himself and use that method which is fitting in other things wherein one seeks perfection. One's own search is the best dancing master for those who already have some understanding of the material with which they are dealing. Tireless practice brings a boon over the other, which sometimes is not found when one studies diligently [under a master].

Indeed, a dancer with any aspirations to become an outstanding performer needed to be able to invent novelties. Such creativity figures prominently in Magri's recipe for an excellent dancer given in his preamble "to the reader" (1779): "He who moves [his feet] with order, symmetry, judgment, and proportion, he who fits his movements to the true, the lifelike, and the timely, he who invents new, surprising, and pleasing things will make an outstanding baIZerino.'' Eighteenth-century ballet dancers were clearly prolific in their invention or alteration of steps, especially beaten jumps, for as Bonin notes (1712,169),"there are very many different sorts of capers, both of entrechats as well as of the latter class [cabrioles], which depend upon the master's caprice, now this way, now that, as the thought comes to him, such that their variety defies a proper description." Magri (1779,1:137) says as much in his discussion of such jumps as well, noting that "these are the main capers, to which a prodigious quantity can be added. These same capers can be varied by an able virtuoso dancer in sundry ways, as his own skill may prompt him." Most of their many creations simply went nameless and were doubtless never committed to paper. Bonin again notes (1712,166) that "it

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is impossible, however, to give the names of the steps, for almost all of them go unnamed when conceived or invented, nor can the form of them be painted with words, for there are far too many very peculiar ways of interweaving and even more are invented daily by masters and need to be explained and described by word of mouth.” Among such novelties born of caprice that found their way into print were the pas de Marcel, invented by Franqois Marcel somewhere around the beginning of the eighteenth century, and, in the middle of the period, ”the famous step known as ’la statue,’ invented by Monsieur Vestris, and which expresses nothing more than ‘look how beautiful I am!”’ (”Lettre d’un abonnk” 1778,198). This creativity was not limited to the invention of steps but also manifested itself in the creation of new roles and new subgenres. Notable here is the genre of the pritre, the rustic shepherd of comic dance, invented by Jean-Barthelemy Lany, a style distinct from that of the more refined and idealized berger of the half-serious style (Noverre 1807,2:107).In like manner, Dauberval ”introduced into this theater [of the Paris Opera] a genre of character dance as interesting to the heart as pleasing to the eye” (Mmcure de France Oct. 1770,1:159);the critic unfortunately did not bother to describe the features of thisnew genre. A lack of novelty was apt to excite censure. What one critic in the Journal de rnusique (Nov. 1770,66, 67-68) found objectionable about the dancing of Robert Aldridge and John Hamois at the Covent Garden Theatre, for example, was the sameness of their dancing, for the latter in particular had ”no style or variety in his steps, always the same capers.” The same critic offers the following advice: We therefore advise Mr. Hamois to leave off his acrobatic dance and study terre-h-terre dance a little more and vary more his steps. He has in Mr. Aldridge an excellent model. We take this opportunity to ask the latter to give us some new steps, not that we are most unhappy with those that he does now, but since he dances them every day and since we have seen them for several seasons, such variety would but increase our pleasure and give him more occasion to let his talent shine.

Aldridge and Hamois were clearly not alone in failing to bring novelty and variety to their dancing, for a critic in the Journal encyclopkdie laments (15 Nov. 1757, 135), “each dancer has his favorite steps wherein he shines and which he puts in all his entries, which cannot fail to make a shepherd look ridiculous who uses the same attitudes that were admired the night before in that of a hero.”

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The exercise of caprice manifested itself most obviously in the choice of steps and other movements, that is, the choreography itself. Angiolini ([1773] 1998, 68-69) notes that the enchainements invented for and by dancers were a matter of varying personal taste, Angiolini’s choreography differing ”not a little” from those of his contemporaries Noverre and Lany, for example: In [Feuillet’s Chorigruphie] you will find everything that is finest and most difficult in terms of the elements of dance, ronds de jambe, pus batfus, emboitis, jetis, contretemps, chassis, sissonnes, cubrioles, entrechats, pirouettes, and all of this vaned in a thousand ways and in a thousand ways linked together according to the whim, needs, and spirit of the music. If you mean to say then that the combinations of these, called legazioni in Italian or enchainements in French, vary somewhat from those times [around 17001 to ours [in the 1770~1,I will agree with you, but at the same time you must concede that although the elements are the same, the combination of them is a question of utter taste. Hence it is that your manner of linking steps together differs not a little from mine, and naturally mine from that of Monsieur h y , and so on and so forth.

Noverre (1760, 360) likewise concedes that “enchainemenfs are innumerable and that each dancer has his own particular way of combining and varying his movements.” Indeed, so personal was choreography that some individuals from the period clearly thought principal dancers ought simply to be their own choreographers. Sara Goudar (1777,1:28), for example, notes that ”in this I would not wish that Monsieur Le Picq dance a ballet which is not composed by him. A first dancer should perform only according to his fancy.” This personal and creative choice of movements often happened spontaneously on stage, the dancer extemporizing on the spot, which Pasch (1707,84-85) considered to be the highest form of execution: And finally, it is not to be forgotten that the highest level of execution is to dance de caprice. This does not mean to jump about without rhyme or reason, as the injudicious fancy; rather, to give an analogy, it is how one does an oration propositio ex tempore, as if well aforethought and written according to all the rules, and it is likewise how a dancing master, taking on a given character, does a dance extempore at the hearing of a tune, even one unknown to him,as if the dance had been composed with great care.

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Such spontaneous choreograpluc creation was especially common in the dances of principals. Marcello ([1720?]1956,58), for example, notes generally that ”in pas de deux, the dance is improvised on the spot.” Magri (1779, 1:104)in like manner notes in connection with serious dancers that “usually all the solos are danced extempore.” According to Blasis (1820, 113), the great Dupre made ”a habit” of dancing extempore: ”To practice and hasten one’s progress in the composition of dance, why would our young students not follow the example of Dupre? that artist, who made a habit of improvising his dance to unknown tunes in order to develop his imagination for inventing pas and enchairzeinent and to get his ear used quickly to capturing the movement and rhythm of the music.” This ability to create spontaneously helped in no small way to boost Camargo’s career at the Paris Opera, when she took advantage of a failed entrance to improvise a dance on the spur of the moment to fill the spot of the missing dancer. According to Fontenay (1776,1:303), she appeared in a modest role in some infernal ballet wherein Dumoulin, nicknamed “the Devil,” was to dance an entrke alone, but when the music began and he did not appear, Mademoiselle Camargo, inspired by the spirit of her art, darted from her place and de cnprice filled out the whole dance of the missing dancer with unbelievable success.

Such an ability to create dances spontaneouslywas no mean feat in an age wherein choreography was ideally to reflect the character, expressiveness, and rhythm of the music, in sharp contrast to so much modem choreography, which proceeds largely on its own, independent of Euterpe, disassociated from the phrases, climaxes, and rhythm of the music. Indeed, it was precisely the dancer’s skill and artistry in translating the contours of the music into movement that is singled out for praise in reviews of performances from the period. According to the author of Le petit proph2te de Boehinisclzbroda (1754?, 18), for example, the dancing of Jean-Barthelemy Lany and his sister LouiseMadeleine betrayed this kind of choreographic musicality: ”I saw a peasant and his companion appear, and I thought that they were musicians in disguise, for I could clearly see it: They wrote out on the floor the tune that was played, and in their steps, I counted the eighth notes of each measure, and all were there. I admired their dance, for I am well versed in music; their names were Lany.” A critic in the Mercure de France (Sept. 1761, 187) notes of Allard’s performance in

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Rameau’s Les sauvages, mounted at the Paris Opera in 1761, that ”not only does this dancer through her steps trace out before one’s eyes, as it were, all the notes with their different values, but she even does with her feet what one sometimes hears skilled singers do with their voices; to wit, she elaborates the musical subject and even enriches it.” Gardel’s musical dancing in the Paris Opera’s staging of Ipkigknie in 1763 similarly met with praise: ”In the passage from the crescendo one will take particular note of the quickened combined steps whereby this young dancer exactly writes out before one’s eyes the notes of this passage” (Mercure de France Jan. 1763,161).A critic in the same journal (Jan. 1763,159) also comments on Vestris’s “talent, particularly distinctive of this great dancer, for adapting his steps to the character and expressiveness of the music with a kind of poetic enthusiasm.” Gervais was evidently also noted for her musicality, for in the divertissementof the first act of the 1783performance of Renaud at the Paris Opera, “one could not express with greater lightness or precision the character and the rhythm of the tune to which she dances” (Mercure de France 22 Mar. 1783,180).August Boumonville (1979,458) notes with regard to his great teacher Auguste Vestris that ”his pure taste and sense of rhythm were superbly manifested in the composition of individual dances.” Even when following the choreography invented by someone other than himself, the eighteenth-century dancer could still exercise his caprice and embellish the general idea of the choreographer, even independently of the other dancers performing with him, in contrast to modem practice, wherein the dancer is but an instrument at the disposal of a choreographer, whose work is often treated as if inviolable. This freedom to alter a choreographer’s work according to whim is explicitly touched upon by Taubert (1717, 959-60), who writes that although one has in the composition of the steps complete freedom to alter and substitute at will the pas de ballet times out of number, yet one must in particular bear in mind the qualities of the character that is to be represented, as well as what is required separately by the performers who are drawn up and even by the actions themselves that are to be done. . . . If a solo is to be performed (by which entries, gigues, sarabandes, and chaconnes are to be understood), then the dancer is not exactly bound so very much at all to the steps and figures invented or prescribed for him by the master, but can bring in, where he deems fit, an elegant pas or pleasing spring in accordance with the cadence, as

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this he is allowed, for here the art lies rather in the movements than in the figures. Thus to la haute danse belongs not only a very deft foot but also a good caprice, so that inventivenessand clever ideas can be aided by the legs, and thus all steps, movements, and gestures can be performed properly in proportion, cadence, and equilibrium.

Such freedom to embellish or depart from set choreography was not restricted to principal dancers; even corps members enjoyed this right to exercise their creativity. According to Bonin (1712, 182) no dancer was rigidly bound to established choreography: If the master then has at his disposal those who understand dance, he needs only to show them the figures of his composed entrkes and give them an explanation of the steps and jumps; the rest is left to caprice wherein no one is bound to the other (the better they accord, however, the finer it will appear and the more it will please the spectators), for many a dancer is stronger or weaker than the other and can thus avail himself of greater strength or gentleness as well.

Ideally, a choreographer was to bear in mind the individual's talents and shortcomings and create works well suited to the individual performer, or as Behr puts it (1713,114), "in composing [dances], the condition or charge, the humor and disposition of the dancer is borne in mind." The famed choreographer Gasparo Angiolini ([1773]1998,84-85) clearly collaborated with his dancers rather than arbitrarily imposed dance upon them and tried to find a happy middle ground between letting the executants merely follow whim on the one hand and blithely choreographing with no thought of those who were to perform the dancing on the other. As he himself writes, the subject matter of Tefi e Peleo and Andromeda, however, and many others, despite all my efforts, struck me as cold, insipid, and lifeless. I can attribute this insipidity neither to having bound the performers more than was needed nor to having induced them, as you [Noverre] imagine with some ballet masters, to ape my own movements; while I not only grant to each the freedom to make their own the part that I have composed for him, I always create new dances so that each part is expressly made for those who are to execute them. Too great a freedom would create an effect contrary to too great a restriction. For the true ballet master, the difficulty consists in fully understanding the level of ability, the style, and the disposition of each dancer in order to be

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able to make use of and develop over time the merits that remain hidden for some reason.

The cultivation of caprice in eighteenth-century ballet could be as much a blight as a blessing, however. Among top dancers, freedom to vary their dancing according to whim and to perfom extempore ensured that artists could be novel and fresh. Indeed, what a critic in the Journal de Paris (20Mar. 1783,319)found so admirable about the dancing of Auguste Vestris and Guimard was that their performances were rarely the same: ”The pantomime in the Ballet de la bergerie [in Thkske] had the greatest success; it was performed by Monsieur Vestris and Mademoiselle Guimard. The superior talents of both of these is well known, but what is surprising is that they are always able to appear novel.” Among more willful and less gifted dancers, however, the overall design of a theatrical work could be undermined or even destroyed through capricious creations quite unrelated to the dramatic whole. As Cahusac laments (1754,3:126), every [principal] dancer believes that he is unique and privileged. He always wants the right to appear solo twice in some opera mounted at the theater. He would think that he had not danced if he did not have his two particular entries. He always alters them after his manner without any direct or indirect relation to the overall plan, of which he is ignorant and which he hardly troubles himself to learn. Now this single drawback, as long as it is brooked, will be an insuperable hurdle to perfection.

Getting performers at the Paris Opera and indeed at other theaters to follow the wishes of the choreographer, author, or director was not an easy task in the eighteenth century, thanks in part to the tradition of performers following their fancy, not only in dance but in the other arts as well. The Opera in particular was notorious for the “petty intrigues and hidden cabals that hold sway at this spectacle” (Noverre 1807,2:120), or as the anonymous author of the Lettre d’un amateur de Z’Opkra puts it, ”no one will disagree that the Opera theater in Paris is truly the most difficult in this capital to lead and to discipline due to the number of sirens who abound there, and whose headlands will always make approach perilous for the most seaworthy vessels and for pilots least likely to fail” (cited in the Mercure de France Dec. 1776,8445). One such pilot was Noverre, who in his attempt to mount his ballets d’acfion on the Paris Opera stage in the

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late 1770s met with recalcitrance on the part of the “majesty” of the theater, those dancers with privileges and prerogatives, real or imaginary. As La Harpe writes (1801,2:9), the ”majesty” of the Opera and the prerogatives of the corps de ballet are continually driving him [Noverre] to despair. When he wanted to place a group of figurants at the back of the stage, he was told: “Monsieur, we are seniors and have the right to be in front.” ”But what about my ballet!” “A fig for your ballet. The public has to see us,it’s our right.” (trans. in Guest 1996,102)

The intractabilityof performers was not unique to the Paris Opera, for other theaters were sirmlarlyhampered by willful artistes.As one critic in the JournuI Pfrungerremarks in a book review (Feb. 1756,4-5), in light of his complaints, it is likely that the theaters of Italy are not exempt from the abuse that holds sway in ours. All those who have some knowledge of what happens in them knows how ridiculously common it is to see a woman performer who has the least talent force the author to make changes, additions or deletions. A superfluous tirade, and a dull one, must be added, for she believes that it gives occasion for her to shine longer. It is the most expressive verse that must be sacrificed to her fear of opening her mouth too wide, which is already big enough, as if the caprice or individual interest of the mason were made to enthrall the architect.

Indeed, it was in part the culture of stardom and the cultivation of whim, which went hand in hand with it, that eroded the traditional system of distinct styles and ultimately led to its breakdown. As we shall see in the following chapter, the popularity of such stars as Dupr6, Camargo, Fossano, and Auguste Vestris, with their idiosyncratic personal styles, induced many less original dancers to imitate them slavishly in order to shine with reflected glory, to the point where the art of ballet was largely shorn of its variety and became lost in uniformity.

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Chapter 7

The Meltdown of the Four Traditional Styles

The dancers’ blending of capers with la belle dame altered its character and debased its nobility. (Noverre 1760,114)

As the eighteenth century progressed, the neat classification of ballet into the four broad but distinct styles of the serious, half-serious, comic, and grotesque became increasingly blurred and ultimately broke down at the end of the century. The styles became, as it were, contaminated by each other or blended, with the half-serious style suffering the least and the serious the most, and the comic and grotesque in effect dymg out completely in the early nineteenth century. Or it may be better to say that the half-serious, having absorbed elements from the other styles, became in effect the only style cultivated in ballet. This process of dissolution and homogenization was clearly gradual, despite some of the misleading claims found in the primary sources, and was more apparent in France, where the distinctions between the styles were more marked, and above all at the Paris Opera, where the slow terre-8-terre dance of the serious style was especially cultivated. Thus, much of the following discussion deals specifically with the happenings in France and at the Paris Opera in particular. The grave style, which was traditionally to portray such lofty figures as gods and heroes, began to lose its gentler, mainly terre-8terre character beginning around the 1730s and became more animated largely through the introduction of the high beaten jumps and more naturalistic gesture from the other styles. As Goudar

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(1773a, 77-78) notes, even the loftiest characters were now commonly forced to jig about on stage: The great changes in the field of dance have spread almost entirely over the heroic genre; jumps and gambols created the revolution. It is astonishing that movements from nature have been used on our stage to represent the gravest personages on earth. In pantomime have been represented Hypennnestra, Agamemnon, Medea, Jason, Admetus, Galatea, Orpheus, Eurydice, Atalanta, Hyppomenes, Rinaldo, Armida, the death of Hercules, the judgement of Paris and a hundred others that I could name. Parnassus and the Muses (The Bullet oftlir Muses) have capered about in their turn; the Virtues and the Arts have cut entreclmts. All the gods in heaven and all the heroes on earth have been made to dance. Nothing has been spared from the delirium of pantomime. Even Proserpina was not safe in the Underworld (The Abdiicfioii of Proseryinn set to dance); ballet masters have dragged her from that gloomy place in order to have her gambol about on the stage.

The emergence of a new adulterated grave style taking in more conspicuous high capering rather than largely terre-a-terre movements is also mentioned in passing in other sources. For example, in the play Les eizizuis de Tlznlie, mounted at the Comedie-italienne in July of 1745, the character of the Dancer brags, I understand ballets fully, and without boasting, I can say that I have even composed some that were better designed than that of the Rose [i.e., Le bullet desflerirs from Rameau's Les hides gnlnntes of 17351. Why? It is never in season at the OpPra; lightness is all that is demanded. Before, the principal dancers used to delight the eyes of the beholders with their gentle movements in a sarnbnnde. Good taste today proscribes the dull embellishments of boring grace, and we make some third woman dancer dance all these old movements. When a dancer has the noble hardihood to rise very high, he is deemed godlike; there is no shortcoming that lightness will not hide. (cited in Mercure de Frniice Aug. 1745, 149)

This new taste for gambols is also alluded to in the comedy Les ndieux du goiit mounted at the Comedie-franqaise on 11 March in 1754, wherein the allegorical character of Taste is put off by a gamboling Terpsichore: "Terpsichore appears, doing jumps and gambols. 'All is lost,' cries Taste. Terpsichore changes her manner of dancing and to the sound of a tender air by Lully draws near to Taste, who now recognizes her. Then she wants to dance in the modem manner, but

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Taste interrupts her, telling her that this dance is false and artificial” (cited in Mercure de France Apr. 1754,182).In a similar vein, a critic in the Mercure de France (May 1762,181)notes that the terre-2-terre style of old had been “too much wronged” by a more active and brilliant sort of dancing: The retirement of Mademoiselle Camille has deprived this spectacle of one of the best models for the dance known to the public by the expression terre-d-terre. Connoisseurs have always admired among other perfections the talents of this dancer, the most beautiful finesse in the steps, the softness that characterized all the movements of the famed Monsieur DuprP, a most supple and accomplished gracefulness in the carriage of the arms and in their play, in short that fine whole in the movement of the figure which taste can discern and appreciate with so much pleasure in this art. This kind of dance, which has perhaps been too much wronged for some time by a more active and brilliant sort, is, however, so essentially suitable to that of the spectacle at the OpCra that it should not be so neglected there, by people of talent or by spectators who rue its loss.

There appear to have been a number of contributing forces to this confusion of styles, different writers giving different causes for the breakdown of this system, and these different causes need not be taken as mutually exclusive. According to Bielfeld (1770, 3:366), the greater animation brought to the dancing generally at the Paris Opera, where the grave style had been so popular, was largely the result of the precedents set by the famed dancers Louis Dupre, with his exaggerated movement, and Marie-Anne de Cupis de Camargo, with her animated high jumping, the individual styles of both of these dancers in turn serving as models widely imitated by other dancers: Formerly there were scarce any dances exhibited on the [French]theatre but the pavan, of which we shall presently speak, and those that do not rise from the ground in displaying the natural graces, either by the manner of the step or in the attitude: the women especially danced only after this manner; but since M. DuprP, Mlle. Camargo, and their competitors, have shown that the high dance, the noble and graceful, is susceptible of leaps and bounds, and of entrechats or capers of six or eight, the entrechat en toumant, the ail[es] de pigeon, the gargouillade, and many other high steps (which must be seen to be understood) the theatre dance is become more lively and brilliant; and the extraordinary abilities of modem dancers have afforded the masters of the ballet opportunity of greatly varying their subjects, of surprising the spectator to

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a greater degree, by constantly preserving the graceful in the attitudes, and even in the most difficult steps.

With regard to Dupre in particular, Franqois Marcel is reputed to have blamed the famed dancer for having ”stomped on the principles [of dance] with both feet,” at least according to Noverre (1807, 1:88), who had been a student of both Dupr6 and Marcel in the 1740s. Thank5 to his long, lithesome legs and ”elastic body” (Casanova 1961, 2:141), Dupre, who had excelled in the grotesque role of demons during his youth, cultivated a style that was marked by exaggerated leg movements. Many serious dancers, attempting to ape Dupre’s “daring” steps (Mercure de France Apr, 1736,789) but lacking his elegantly tall and lissome figure suitable for such an expansive style, ended up dancing “with movements of gigantic and ridiculous proportions,” as Noverre puts it (1760,342-43), their hips displaced in an attempt to raise their legs to the exaggerated heights cultivated by Dupre. All of this was much to the distaste of Noverre and at odds with the noble and peaceful character that traditionally was the hallmark of the serious style: The dkplobnents‘ of the leg and the temps ouuerts’ were doubtless suitable to Monsieur Duprk; the elegance of his figure and the length of his limbs went wonderfully together with the teinps d6neloppis and daring steps of his dancing, but what suited him will not suit dancers of middling height, yet every one wanted to ape him.The shortest legs were forced to run through the same spaces and describe the same circles as those of this celebrated dancer, thus, the loss of stability: The hips were never in their place, the body wavered continuously, the execution was ridiculous, I thought I saw Thersites imitating Achilles.

This fault of disproportionate movement resulted in the loss of the peaceful character that the noble style was to portray. As Noverre adds (1760,343-44), this fault, Monsieur, is very fashionable among serious dancers, and as this style holds greater sway in Paris than everywhere else, it is very common there to see the dwarfish dance with movements of gigantic and ridiculous proportions. I would even go so far as to say that those who are gifted with a majestic figure sometimes misuse the extent that their limbs can reach and the ease with which they cover the stage and make their movements stand out. These exaggerated dkploiements alter the noble and peaceful character that la belle d a m e should have and deprives the execution of its softness and gentleness.

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With regard to Camargo, Bachaumont (1783, 13 May 1770, 19:212-13) notes that this dancer through her precedent popularized at the Paris Opera a dance of airborne gambols for women, for "it was she in a way who created this high dance so fashionable today, which, however, has greatly improved since. She was renowned for the lightness and liveliness of her gambols, and her name is still ranked among the epoch-making theatrical wonders of the Academie Royale de Musique." According to Bricaire de la Dixmerie, the greater animation brought to the serious style in France was largely the result of the musical innovations introduced into French opera by the composer Jean-Philippe Rameau (1683-1764), "the father of rigdudom" (Goudar 1773a, 30), who imbued his dance music with the greater vitality and greater drama more typical of Italian music. As Bricaire de la Dixmerie notes (1769,522-23), it is to illustrious Rameau that this art owes part of its progress. He created the same revolution in dance that he did in our music: In strengthening the one, he strengthened the other. Dancers, even the most skillful, had a new course to run.It is certain that the fine dzaconne in Les sauvages [i.e., the last act of Rameau's 1736 version of Les Indes galantes] greatly set the famous Dupre at a disadvantage; Rameau himself was obliged to trace out for him the outline of his performance.

A critic in the Mercure de France (Apr. 1772,1:175-76) similarly notes that the creation of a more animated style of dance at the Paris Opera was due to Rameau's musical revolution: Through his expressive and varied compositions, Rameau created dance among us. In order to verify this assertion, one would need only to turn to the traditions of the Opera. Before Camargo, no woman dancer had performed with any liveliness; the dance of women was but a walk, rigidly controlled by a music without life or passion. The age of dance perfected by the famed Dupre coincides with the time wherein Rameau created a revolution in his art.

Before Rameau's musical revolution, French music on the whole had been typically gentle and restrained, in contrast to Italian music with its greater animation and drive. As Le Cerf de la Vieville de Freneuse (1704,25) notes at the beginning of the eighteenth century, French music thus is sober, coherent, and natural and only now and then and here and there admits extraordinary sonorities or too studied

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graces. Italian music, on the other hand, always forced, always beyond the bounds of nature, without connection, without coherence, rejects our gentle and easy graces. It comes as no surprise that Italians find our music dull and insipid; their loss is our gain.

To a critic in the Mercure de France (Oct. 1764,1:197),the new style of dance music introduced into French opera by Rameau approximated Italian music with all its bubbly animation: "Almost all of the dance tunes of this musician [Rameau] are as skipping and characterized as those in Italy and all the countries where only Italian opera is known; it is mainly the airs by tlus French musician that are used for ballets." Rameau's cultivation of a more Italianate style of dance music was only part of a broader musical trend in the eighteenth century wherein the compositional style of Italy triumphed over those of other countries. Earlier in the century, the Italian style had been firmly established in England, for example, thanks to the efforts of the composer George Frideric Handel. Goudar (1773a, 29) likens Rameau's innovations in France to those of Handel earlier in England: "Rameau brought about the same revolution in the music of France that Handel had done in that of England; he added too many notes which led to the loss of that grave and sustained air which the French hold to be fine." The rivalry between the music of Italy and France came to a head in Paris in 1752-1753 during the so-called guerre des bouffons, when Italian musicians introduced comic opera in their native style to the Parisian public. This initially occasioned a schism in the musical life of Paris but ultimately led to a more thorough Italianization of French music, resulting in a music that was lighter, livelier, and faster than that inherited from the school of Lully. As a critic in the Mercure de France puts it (Aug. 1763,101), in 1753, a new set of boufoons from Italy was established again on the lyric stage, and their success created a revolution in the art of music among us. When the bouflons were proscribed, there was an almost universal reaction against Italian music, but in the uprising against this music, it was imperceptiblyimitated, and its spirit has now become OUTS.

Cochin (1779,3) in like manner remarks upon the transformation of musical taste in France thanks to the influence of Italian comic opera: "Let us think back to what French music was like in 1751 when the Italian bouffons appeared in Paris; poor, monotonous, and

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timid, it was circumscribed within narrow bounds from which it dared not free itself.” By the beginning of the 1760s, the character of French music was greatly altered, according to Abbe Daulny (1761, 76): “The taste for Italian music has for a number of years now made immense progress among us. The character of our music has almost entirely changed; everything is lively, light, skipping, or graceful at our concerts.” This new, more animated style of dance music introduced into France by Rameau was brought to its zenith by the French composer Andre-Emest-ModesteGretry (1741-1813), for ”as to his ballet tunes, one will easily own that nothing has been heard since Rameau that is better conceived, more varied, more animated, and better suited to dance” (Mercure de France June 1775,179). Despite this revolution, the stodgy and conservative Paris Opera continued to keep much of the grave music from the past in its repertoire, even in the aftermath of the guerre des bouffons. Still in the 1 7 7 0 the ~ ~ serious remained ”the dominant genre found in all the theaters of Paris, for in the provinces and in foreign countries, these dramas or this music of so somber and lugubrious a character do not find as many partisans and enthusiasts as in the capital” (Mercure de France Jan. 1777,1:187).To reconcile the new taste for light and lively music, especially in dance tunes, with the “lugubrious character” of the old tragkdies Zyriques, significant parts of the original scores for these earlier works were rewritten in a more modem, animated style. The music of Lully in particular, which had earlier brought greater animation to the dance of the seventeenth-century theater through his airs de vitesse, was now held to be too dull for dancing or listening. When Lully’s Amadis was remounted at the Opera in November of 1759, for example, some of the musical numbers were replaced with more brilliant music. As a critic in the Mercure de France laments (Dec. 1759,1&2-85),“what one finds wrong with the opera of Amadis is its dreariness, and t h s fault has to do with the taste of our century, which seems to be set on lively, light music. The directors have tried to remedy this with dance and vocal airs that are more brilliant than Lully’s music.” When the same opera was remounted in 1771, sigruficant changes were again made to the score: “The Academie Royale de Musique is to give Amadis de Gauze, a tragedy by Quinault to music by Lully, with many changes and additions in the music for the ballets and in the symphonic parts” (Mercure de France Nov. 1771,144). In ldce manner, for the remounting of Lully’s Thkske at the Opera in February of 1779, ”almost all the

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ballet tunes are added and taken from other composers” (Mercure de France 5 Mar. 1779,50-51). This practice of replacing parts of scores of early works, especially the dance tunes, with more animated music was by no means unique to the period following the guerre des bouffons. The Opera’s remounting of Arinide in November of 1761 included not only new music for that production but also added music from an earlier version in 1746: Given that the new progress in the art of dance has greatly broadened the composition and execution of ballets, the need had already been felt to take advantage of the new richness of an accessory that is so agreeable in our operas. Thus, tunes which make the divertissements more outstanding, had already been adapted on several occasions to the most excellent foundation of the ancients. Messieurs Rebel and Francceur added new pieces to those which they had included in Armide in 1746. These pieces, the greater part of which are their compositions, go very well together with the core; some of them seem even to keep to the basic character of the old music, yet taking advantage of the agre‘ment that allows modem symphonists to perfom with far greater ease and with a much greater scope than when opera was first created. This important remark is to be borne in mind when coming to a recognition of the immense richness of Lully’s genius, as he was able to produce those admirable symphonic works that we know of him within the narrow confines that limited his orchestra. (Mercure de France Dec. 1761,164-65)

This change in musical taste in French opera had a direct impact on the character of the dancing that was to be performed to this new music and thus on the styles of theatrical dance generally. Any attempt to move to the impetuosity of Italian or Italianate music obliged the dancers, particularly at the Paris Opera, to lay aside the slow terre-A-terre movements of the old grave style and avail themselves instead of more brilliant steps, such as those typical of dancers at the Opera-comique. As Suard puts it (1753?, 33-34), first of all I showed that the music of the French was intimately bound up with the dance which they were pleased to call ”grave” and that no alteration to the character of one could be done without effecting the same changes in the other. I proved that the softness and monotony of this dance stemmed from the same taste that was responsible for the slowness of the music and that if Italian music were ever to be introduced on the lyric stage [of the Paris Opera] (which cannot fail to hap-

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pen), one could only with ridiculous inconsistency produce a monstrous mix with French [serious] dance, whence would need to be utterly proscribed those tilts of the head, those cadenced unfurlings of the arms, those libidinous movements of the body, the languor and softness of which put me to sleep as readily as one of Lully’s operas; the dancers would need legs and nimbleness. It is indeed only in entrechats, pirouettes, and gargouillades that dance can make its appearance when accompanied by the lively sound and the sparkling, brilliant convulsions of Italian music. Whereupon I decided to have Dupre, Mademoiselle PuvignCe, and Mademoiselle Vestris sent to the provinces and to have the likes of Charbonier from the Opera-comique, Lariviere, Pitrot, and Mademoiselle Auguste mount the boards of the Opera stage in order to have them in the limelight of the ballets. I would still admit Mademoiselle Rey, Vestris, Lyonnois, and some others as long as they got rid of the bad habits which they have contracted in order to limit themselves to tours de force. I even forbade Mademoiselle SallC to enter the Opera for having brought this bad taste in dance to its latest spell.

If the introduction of more Italianate music did much to lessen the popularity of the old serious style among the French, the appearance on French stages of brilliant itinerant dancers mainly from Italy was equally potent in making the traditional terre-A-terre dance of the serious style seem insipid. As Aubert (1754,72) complains, we deplored the debasing of dance, from which art and nobility had been banned. It seemed destined no longer to paint; it consisted only of jumps almost always abortive, fit only to cripple those who do them and to bring pain to those who see them. We were outraged that the loss of the great Dupr6 was made more palpable by bringing Italian acrobats into all our theaters.

The distinctions between the various styles of dance were evidently not as marked among Italian dancers, for as Hogarth indicates (1753, 148), ”there is a much greater consistency in the dances of the Italian theatre than of the French, notwithstanding dancing seems to be the genius of that nation.”3The serious style as cultivated by the French was by and large a joke to the Italians, something fitting for a Zazzo, and was not widely cultivated in Italy. The Italians in contrast betrayed a marked preference broadly for a spirited dance wherein the dancer typically ”hurls himself into the air and there cuts the nimblest capers,” that is, a ”kind of dance, which is shown mainly in the

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air” (Martello 1715, 230-31). French exposure to itinerant Italian dancers with their more mixed style clearly helped to weaken the distinctions between the traditional styles in France. Hogarth explicitly notes (1753,149-50) that the more animated comic dances of the Italians in particular did much to lessen the popularity of the “pompous” grave style in French dance: Dances that represent provincial characters, as these above do [i.e., Harlequin, Scaramouche,Pierrot, and Punch], or very low people, such as gardeners, sailors, &c. in merriment, are generally most entertaining on the stage: the Italians have lately added great pleasantry and humour to several french dances, particularly the wooden-shoe dance, in which there is a continual shifting from one attitude in plain [i.e., straight] lines to another; both the man and the woman often comically fix themselves in uniform positions, and frequently start in equal time, into angular forms, one of which remarkably represents two W s in a line, as over figure 122, plate 2, these sort of dances a little raised, especially on the woman’s side, in expressing elegant wantonness (which is the true spirit of dancing) have of late years been most delightfully done, and seem at present to have got the better of pompous, unmeaning grand ballets; serious dancing being even a contradiction in terms.

In his retrospective look at eighteenth-century dance, Bournonville (1979, 20) in like manner indicates that it was particularly Italian dancers, and especially those in the grotesque style, that contaminated, as it were, the more lofty genre once so popular among the French: “It is an undeniable fact that these grofteschi infected the more graceful dancing, for all violent movements, exaggerated poses, and wild turns stem from Italian ballet.” The ”greater consistency in the dances of the Italian theatre,” mentioned by Hogarth, may well have owed something to the practice evidently common in Italy wherein dancers were often obliged to perform in a style that was not their specialty. Such mixing of performers and genres doubtless led to a mixing of styles and thus to a greater homogeneity in dance: Why is it that oftentimes such characters [as the Furies] do not meet with success in our Italian theaters? It is because more often than not a serious dancer, who is accustomed to his many soft attitudes and is versed in the emotionalism of his tender, passionate ways, is given the task of portraying the violent character of a Fury. How can this be

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done, if the action needs great liveliness and fire? If used to bends, how can he adapt himself to violent poses? This forces him to go against his style, wrenches him from his manner, and dresses him in borrowed clothes, as it were. This is true what I say. In French theaters, wherein the dances rival the perspective paintings of the most renowned artists, the ballerini practice only the style that is known to be within their capacity. They do not endeavor to do everything; they do not waste their time where success is not possible. A poor dancer is not sent to slaughter by being forced into a style for which he has no bent. He whose ability lies with the serious gives his all to this style; the grotesque dancer confines himself to his speciality and does not don buskins; he in the demicaracthe devotes himself to this style; gavottes and bubbly movements are ever his steady business, and thus they come to do them all to perfection. (Magri 1779,l:lll-12)

This “greater consistency in the dances of the Italian theatre” was in fact only part of a broader lack of distinctivenessbetween theatrical styles or of a mixing together of styles prevalent on the Italian stage generally. With regard to acting styles, for example, Dubos (1719,1:588) notes that “in Italy, the actors recite tragedies with the same tone and with the same gestures that they use in reciting comedy. The actor who wears buskins is almost not different from him who wears clogs. As soon as Italian actors wish to become animated in passionate parts, they at once overdo it.” A critic in the Mercure de France (Apr. 1725,828) comments on the colorfulness of Italian spectacles thanks to their freedom: ”The Italian theater is given over to a boundless variety; it puts up with everything and gets used to everything, to the tragic, the comic, today purely Italian, tomorrow in the French style, sometimes Spanish, sometimes English. In short, it is the canvas of a painter on which are employed all kinds of colors and figures.” Something of this colorful Italian manner was evidently brought to France by such Italian dancers as Grimaldi and Balletti, or Pietro Sodi, who was not only “an excellent Italian dancer” (Mercure de France Nov. 1744,172)but also an ”excellent Italian pantomime, who has shined for some time on the stage of the Academie Royale de Musique” (Mercure de France Mar. 1745, 163). Bettina Bugiani and Cosimo Maranesi also ”appeared with such brilliance on the stage of the OpQa-comique at the last Saint-Laurent fair” (Mercure de France June 1753, 2:161) and were noted for “their amazing precision and

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lightness” (Mercure de France Aug. 1752, 172). It was evidently t h s Maranesi who appeared at the Comedie-italienne in 1751 as a performer in the piece Les biicherons et Zes sabotiers, which is notated in the FerrPre manuscript (1782?, 36-42), the latter, in fact, mentioning Maranesi’s name in connection with the ballet. Perhaps the most outstanding of these itinerant Italian dancers were Antonio Rinaldi, better known as Fossano or Fossan to the French, and his protegee Barbara Campanini, or “La Barbarina.” These two performers amazed the French with their prodigious lightness; as mentioned in chapter 6 , Barbarina’s brilliant entrechat 21 huit, for example, was especially noted by a critic in the Mercure de France (July 1739,1632).Even more noteworthy was their introduction of a novel style of burlesque pantomimic dance into the French capital. As a critic in the Mercure de France indicates (Aug. 1739, 1850), “these two excellent dancers generally meet with applause from a prodigious throng. It must be owned that nothing as amazing and singular perhaps has yet been seen in this burlesque pantomime style.” The success that Fossano and Campanini enjoyed in Paris was prodigious, and their pantomimic dance in particular drew audiences away from the loftier fare of the more staid theaters of the capital: ”These dances, the use of which is almost unknown in France, continue to draw all Paris and have the edge over the most interesting plays, over the greatest buskin, and over everything that the Opera has to offer which is grave and noble” (Mercure de France Nov. 1739, 2678). It was the great popularity of Fossano as a performer, ”the most excellent pantomime ever seen in France” (Mercure de France Sept. 1739, 2245), as well as his diverting burlesque style of pantomimic dance, that contributed in part to a falling off in the popularity of la belle danse in France. According to Noverre (1760,91,112), it was Fossano who ”introduced into France the rage for jumping.” In the wake of the craze for animated antics that he occasioned, the principles of the old grave style were partly cast aside: Fossan, the most pleasing and witty of all comic‘ dancers, turned the heads of the votaries of Terpsichore; everyone wished to copy him, even those who had not seen him. The style of la belle danse was sacrificed to the trivial, the yoke of its principles was shaken off, all the rules were scorned and rejected, jumps and feats of strength were taken up.

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The rules that were "scorned and rejected" in the wake of the Fossano craze demanded that jumps in the grave style, for example, were to be performed just off the floor, while those in the halfserious style were to reach a height midway between the terre-hterre jumps of the grave and the remarkable acrobatic feats of the grotesque: "Thus [the steps in] a style must be done all in [grand] jumps, or all mid high or all on the floor, hence the division into the three styles," as Magri anachronistically notes (1779, 1:138). Although upheld in the theoretical writings of authors on dance to the end of the eighteenth century, this neat division of theatrical dance into three or four distinct traditional styles became a rule honored more in the breach than in the observance, serious dancers either using too many capers or striving with their counterparts in other styles to reach an impressive height in them. Indeed, Sgai (1779,SO-81) takes to task Magri's outdated pronouncements on the differences between the serious, demi-caractere, and grotesque styles, particularly Magri's assertion that only grotesque dancers needed great "elasticity," or elevation in jumping. Even before Magri's time, dancers in all the styles needed both "greater or lesser elasticity" for their dancing: Moreover, you [Magri] say that "this step [the pas de bourrie nranque'] would belong to ballerini in the serious and demi-caractere styles, these dancers not needing great elasticity." By these your last words everyone will be most convinced of how little you know about these two kinds of dance. What! They do not need great elasticity? You are wrong; the dancers in the serious and demi-caract2re styles, in equal measure to those in the grotesque, have need of greater or lesser elasticity in proportion to the steps and capers they wish to do.

No doubt the meltdown of the distinct styles of dance was also abetted by the growth in the popularity of the heroic ballef d'acfion, wherein the principals were obliged to be able to represent a complex character with all his inconsistencies and varying, fleeting passions. To this end, the dancer clearly needed to cultivate a more varied style of dancing in order to capture these inconsistencies and passions, and it appears that in response theater directors and choreographers began to require more flexibility from their dancers. By the 1780s, the premiers sujefs at the Paris Opera, for example, who were of course called upon to mime the major roles in the ballets d'action mounted there, were expected to be able to dance in more than one style. Indeed, Theodore's request

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to become a premier sujet was rejected because she was, as h e l o t expressed it in a letter to La Ferte dated 23 March 1781, ”proficientin only one genre, whereas a preinier sujet must be capable of dancing in all three” (trans. in Guest 1996,180431). The practice of executants dancing in more than one style in pantomime ballet is evident from descriptions of ballet performances in the heroic style. The performer who danced the role of King Henri IV in Angiolini’s ballet Il re alla caccia, mounted in Venice in 1773, clearly did not restrict himself to the terre-a-ten-esteps of the grave, as tradition would have it. Rather he appeared, according to Goudar (1773a, 56-57,54), ”jumping and capering like a clown amid a troupe of figurunts. . . he capered with great force during this hunt, and after a string of mfrechafs,he did an aploinb that won him a number of bravos,” however at odds it may have been with the regal nobility needed for his kingly role. Goudar also complains that the dancer who performed the role of Calypso in Pitrot’s ballet Tklkmaque duns I’ile de Calypso unsuitably ”jigged about in the midst of her nymphs: One saw her descend from her rank of a goddess to that of a dancer,” while more correctly ”Minerva did her capers ferre-h-ferre in order to maintain her dignity” in the same production. Arteaga ([1785]1998,258)in like manner takes exception to the use in serious roles of the high gambols and naturalistic gesture traditionally belonging to the other less exalted styles, bemoaning the trend of his day whereby heroes from fable and history imitated by dancers look nearly the same as the personages from tragedy represented by puppets, appearing no less indecent or ridiculous in the eyes of him who immediately respects a Vespasian, for example, clad as a hero in a majestic palace deciding the life of a Sabine with a caper or 1mulimt, than an Augustus pardoning a Cinna with the gesture and voice of a Punch.

By the 1770ssome were becoming alarmed at the growing confusion of styles on the stage and the approaching demise of the serious style in particular. More and more technical brihance made inroads on the noble style such that the latter was becoming almost a memory as a distinct terre-A-terre style. The noble genre cultivated by Theodore was almost a forgotten genre by 1778, according to Grimm (1880,Jan. 1778, 12:46), who notes that “the Academie Royale de Musique has just made a valuable acquisition in the dancer Mademoiselle Theodore. This young pupil of Monsieur Lany showed in her debut the most outstanding talent for a genre of dance almost forgotten today; she ap-

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pears to wed to the highest degree precision, nobility, and lightness.” In like manner, a critic in the JournaZ de Paris (20Mar.1783,319)laments that a style of dancing betraymg nobility, typical of such serious dancers as Gardel and Dupr6, appeared to be neglected: “We cannot refrain from attempting to draw more and more the spectators’attention to Monsieur Gardel the Younger and Mademoiselle Dupr6. It is difficult to bring greater nobility, gracefulness, or precision to a genre that seems neglected, the which these two dancers alone would make one regret.” The grave style, once so popular among the French, was now increasingly found to be ”sublimely boring” so that crude peasant dances, even if clumsily executed, were preferable: As things stand now in theatrical dance, it is certain that, to my thinking, the one [i.e., lively dance] is vastly preferred to the other [i.e., serious dance]. . . . I prefer those crude round dances of our peasants and their heavy rigaudons under the elm, wherein I at least see pleasure and gaiety hold sway, to those sublimely boring dances which make every spectator who has a little taste yawn with so great a cost at the lyric theater. (Laus de Boissy 1771?, 16-17)

By the 1770s, the difference between the heroic-serious and the comic in mainstream dance lay no longer in the presence or absence of grand jumps but merely in their execution. As Goudar indicates (1773a, 132), the only differencebetween Le Picq disguised as Hercules and Viganb dressed as a peasant is the manner in which they hurl themselves into the air. The one rises gravely and the other lands comically on both feet. Le Picq, with a serious and starchy countenance, presents to the beholder a rational being dead to nature, while Viganb offers a living painting.

Indeed, dancers in both the French and Italian theaters, which could be markedly different at the beginning of the century, now availed themselves of combinations that were roughly the same: With regards to enclinineinents, they are about the same in both theaters, with the difference that the French composer has the enchaineiiient at the end of a wand while the Italian has it in his head. It matters not to the spectator that the transformation in pantomimic scenes is done by an unforeseen sign or executed by a plan aforethought. The ridiculousness of it is always the same. (Goudar 1773a, 130-31)

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The stodgy Paris Opera, however, remained one of the last bastions haunted by the ghost of the old noble style. Goudar (1773a, 130) notes, for example, that “if, however, a shadow of la belIe danse yet remains, it is to be found on the Paris stage, where the arms and other natural graces are more expressive than the brilliance of Italian legs.” A critic in the Mercure Lie France (Jan. 1768, 1:88) notes in passing in his review of Dorat’s “La danse” that the traditional local style of the Paris Opera, which was weighted heavily in the direction of the serious, was in danger of being swallowed up by the ”grotesque convulsions” of mainstream dance: Monsieur Dorat has merely put into fine sweet-sounding harmonious verses the tableau offered to us in Syluie by Mademoiselle Allard and Monsieur Dauberval. It is to be wished that the deserved applause which this charming dancer received in this ballet might be remembered and not be confounded with that which bad taste lavishes on the grotesque convulsions that some would like to have introduced at the Opera.

Even the most outstanding proponent of the serious at the Paris Opera, Gaetan Vestris, pupil and successor of Louis Dupre, was evidently not immune to the development of an adulterated grave style. While his dancing on the whole evidently remained true to the fundamental principles of the traditional serious style, he cultivated more animation and expressive brilliance than his teacher and predecessor Dupre. As Bricaire de la Dixmerie makes clear (1769,523), this dancer [ h p r k ] must be regarded as one of the greatest models in the noble genre; he owed much to nature, whither he brought the resources of art. It must be owned, however, that more is demanded today than he ever gave. His dance was not plain, but it would strike us now as a little too simple. We want more effort, more action, more variety. His successor, Monsieur Vestris, has not been content to take him as a model; Vestris’s dance is animated, brilliant, and expressive. Perhaps he has overdrawn this expressiveness more than once; perhaps he has sacrificed too much precision to colorful effects. Be that as it may, the art will always be in his debt for much of its progress.

Not unlike his predecessor Dupre, Vestris had been first trained as a grotesque dancer in his native Italy before his subsequent retraining in France as a serious dancer (Noverre 1760, 237-38) and evidently melded some of the features of the grotesque with the serious

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as well. The more animated, brilliant, and expressive character of Vestris's hybrid style included more violent pirouettes, according to Magri (1779,1:90-91): The renowned Florentine Signor Vestris, who is presently in the service of the King of France, is so free with these pirouettes that he can amaze a whole theater with only one of them, and during the same turn, he changes feet twice or thrice without stopping or interrupting the turn, something truly worthy of endless wonder. But what causes even more amazement is that while turning with the greatest possible speed, he stops suddenly and remains in an aplomb with such particular freedom that he can stay unmoving thus balanced.

Needless to say, such bnhant pirouettes, done "with the greatest possible speed," were at odds with the requisite languid quality that was supposed to be the hallmark of the grave style. Not just turbulent pirouettes but also jumps with appreciable elevation were evidently cultivated by Vestris as well. Desprbaux (1806,2:185),for example, advises the would-be dancer to eschew the "fruitless jumps" for which both Vestris senior and junior were known: "0you then, who, buming with dangerous zeal, runthe thorny path of our Vestrises, do not weary yourself in fruitless jumps, know that talent is not the ability to rise." Vestris's rival in the serious style Anne Heinel also played her part in the breakdown of the traditional styles. According to Desprkaux (1806, 2:292), "piroueftes were certainly done before this period, but it was in 1766' that Mademoiselle Heinel and a young dancer named Fierville came from Stuttgart to debut in Paris. They amazed so much with this novelty that all the other dancers imitated them and even surpassed them." Desprbaux seems to suggest that Heinel introduced a "novelty" in the manner of executing pirouettes, perhaps the introduction into the serious style of turns with the gesture foot held in a closed position either sur Ie cou-de-pied or en refiri, which were traditional only to the grotesque style. Certainly by the beginning of the nineteenth century, such turns were no longer felt to be grotesque, although it is possible that Auguste Vestris was responsible for the introduction of grotesque turns into the nobler styles, given his extreme predilection for turning and his mixing of styles, as we shall see below. Like Vestris the Elder and Heinel, Pierre Gardel cultivated an adulterated grave style. Gardel danced in a more "manly and imposing" manner, as Bricaire de la Dixmerie (1769, 170-71) notes in his summary of the changes that the grave style in France underwent in the

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course of the eighteenth century: “The monotonous sarabandes of the likes of Beauchamps, Magny, and Pecour soon made way for the noble and sustained dance of Dupre, then to the brilliant and colorful dance of Vestris, then to the manly and imposing genre of Gardel.” This ”manly” style included ”forced steps” that were at odds with the staidness of the traditional grave style, as a critic in the Mercure de France makes clear (31Jan. 1784,232-33): Monsieur Gardel the Younger has perhaps never danced with as much nobility, aplomb, and correctness as in the sundry entries that he performed in the third act [of Grktry’s opera Caraimel. The degree of superiority that he has reached in the genre of la danse noble should encourage him to refrain from all those forced steps, which have for some time been too numerous in this theater due to ill-guided emulation and which can please only when they are done with ease, for all effort is incompatible with the grace and fine harmony of movement which is the true charm of dance.

Grimm (1888, Feb. 1785, 14:94-95) in like manner indicates that Gardel availed himself of ”difficult” steps. In the divertissement from the third act of Panurge duns l’ile des Zanternes, mounted at the Paris Opera in 1785, Gardel ”performs the most difficult steps always maintaining nobility in movement and beauty in attitudes, which constitute the character of the grave dance that he has adopted.” To Noverre (1807, 2:114), the loss from the Paris Opera in 1781 of Ga6tan Vestris, the most outstanding proponent of grave dance in the second half of the century, marked the end of the serious style: “His retirement from the Op6ra brought the fatal blow to la belle danse; deprived of this fine model, it became lost amid extravagance.” To a critic in the Mercure de France (7 Aug. 1784,40),it was not Gaetan Vestris, but Pierre Gardel, who was in effect the last proponent of the grave style at the Paris Opera: ”Monsieur Gardel the Younger revealed in the fifth act [of Gluck‘s Armide, mounted at the Pans Opera in July of 17841 all the nobility of one genre of dance that, without him,would perhaps have already disappeared from our lyric theater,” for ”la danse noble, a precious genre, which ought to be maintained in this theater” (Mercure de France 2 Oct. 1784,39), was by the 1780s in danger of disappearing altogether. Dance increasingly was given over wholesale to the “extravagance” of difficult steps irrespective of character, as a critic in the Mercure de France complains (31Aug. 1782,228):”Tours de force, whch dazzle the crowd, can only shock persons of taste. Through such unsparing use hereof, all the genres are confounded, the sameness of it all

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becomes wearisome, and that feehg of grace is lost, undone by any show of effort, and cannot be replaced by anything else without loss.” Evidently responding to thisconfusion of the styles and specifically to the encroachmentof the half-serious into the comic, Dauberval stresses in his printed scenario to the 1797 Bordeaux revival of Tklhnaque the importance of studying character, of finding what was suitable to any given role. He warns the prospective ballet master to ”take care not to mix the genres, and beware of errors of taste that might lead you to make a Tartar dance like a sylph, or a peasant like Telemachus” (trans. in Guest 1996,404). Looking back at the eighteenth century, the critic Julien-Louis Geoffroy (1740-1814) points an incriminating finger at “the great Vestris and Vestris the Elder, who were the first to seduce and corrupt the public in offering it monstrosities which seemed new and difficult” (Journal de l’snpire 25 Dec. 1812,3).Both father and son are singled out here in one breath as innovators, or rather corrupters, of dance. Indeed the final deathblow to the division of eighteenth-century theatrical dance into four distinct styles came from the son Auguste towards the end of the century. The young Vestris was clearly the most outstanding dancer of the century, if not of all time. His abilities as a dancer and mime appeared to know no bounds, such that, as a critic in the Daily Universal Register words it (17 Dec. 1783, “every thing under the superlative, must be eclipsed by the @ant power of Vestris” (cited in Price et al. 1995,518).A critic in the Mercure de France (23 Nov. 1782, 181) is no less emphatic about Vestris’s remarkable talent and ability: “This young dancer, always amazing because of the vigor, a&ty, and precision of his pus, eclipses everything that has been seen up to now, especially on account of an abandon and a kmd of enthusiasm whch is communicated to the spectators, and excites the wildest transports every time he appears.” Blasis (1820,95)also mentions ”MonsieurAuguste Vestris, to whom we still cannot compare any other dancer.” Perhaps the most impressive praise comes from the hypercritical choreographer Noverre, who was active in the theaters of Europe for nearly sixty years of the eighteenth century and had seen nearly all the great dancers of the time. He states (1807,2:172-73) that Vestris the Younger was ”the dancer of all time.” This superstar was first groomed to be a serious dancer by his father but soon broadened his style to include the genres of the berger and piitre, wherein ”he had greater success” (Noverre 1807,2:125).He thus became a master of the three styles of the serious, half-serious, and comic, or as Despreaux indicates (1806, 2:262), ”his style is the

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grucieux or the demi-cmactPre; to this he sometimes adds the comic style, given his address and h s vivacity, excellent pantomime, charming dancer.” To Blasis (1820, 94), Vestris’s talent for the comic in particular was unparalleled, for “it was in the rustic roles and dances that Monsieur Vestris showed talent superior to anyone else. In this genre, he took nature fully as his model, and he was always matchless. Since his retirement, I have yet to see a shepherd in any rustic ballet.” This versatile “dancer of all time” had the advantage of ”a charming figure suitable to all the styles, with vigor and address, brilliance and ease, balance and sureness, with grace, feeling, and expression” (Noverre 1807,2:172). Thanksto the spirit of change and revolt during his day and to h s remarkable talent and versatility in an art form that encouraged the development of a unique personal style, Vestris developed a highly idiosyncratic blended genre of dance. As his most famous pupil, August Boumonville, explains (1979, 458), “emancipated from his father’s strict school, he created a completely new genre, which bore the same relation to the preceding one as a painting of brilliant hue does to a marble sculpture displaymg classical perfection.” Vestris mixed together elements from all the styles, most notably wedding the exaggeration of grotesque dance to the brilliance of the half-serious, to the point where a new and unique composite style of dance came into being. As Noverre puts it (1807,2126-27), the Opera sustained successive losses that time has still not been able to repair. Vestris the Elder, Mademoiselle Heinel, Dauberval, Mesdemoiselles Allard and Theodore retired. Other sujets appeared. Gardel the Elder died, and dance followed a new path. It was Vestris the Younger who showed the way. It was he in the end who was taken as a model. Flying with his own wings and heeding the counsel of only caprice and fancy, he turned upside down the august edifice that students dear to Terpsichore had raised to this muse, a temple erected on a solid foundation, adorned by the Graces, sublime in its proportions and its whole. Vestris, overflowing with ease and facility, vigor and deftness, suppleness and strength, caprice and imagination, enterprising without reflection, created, as it were, a new architectural genre wherein all the orders, all the proportions, were mixed and exaggerated; he did away with the three well-known and distinct styles; he melded them together and from this amalgamation created one style, a new style, which was successfulbecause everything succeeds with this dancer and everything suits him wonderfully, because he possesses the

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happy art of dressing up even nonsense and making it pleasing. Young people proclaim a miracle; people of sense and taste merely moan.

Geoffroy (1822,3014), evidently numbering among such ”people of sense and taste,” took great exception to the exaggeration of Vestris’s new style: Today it is exclaimed what great height of perfection dance has reached, that so frivolous art. It is not borne in mind that in all the arts the moment of perfection is also the moment of decadence: When one has reached the highest point of true beauty, as much as is humanly possible, the law of movement will not suffer us to rest there; we hurl ourselves beyond and become outrageous; we throw ourselves to the side and deceive through false appearances; we seek the new, the difficult above all, and the difficult has merit only as much as pleasure and agreeableness arise from difficulty overcome. Dance reached its highest point under Vestris the Elder; if it appears to reach perfection under his son, it is because it amazes more, because it is distorted. Vestris the Younger in fact contributed nothing to what constitutes the true merit of dance, in grace, expression, worthiness of movements, beauty of forms and attitudes; he did not surpass his father (lucky if he equaled him!).He perfected no essential part of the art, but taking advantage of his extraordinary strength, he mixed that which is true dance with tours de force, which smack of the art of the tumblers, called by Nicolet in his Afiches ”great dancers.” He spumed the earth and the floor, where the true dancer practices his talent; he threw himself into the air, and the boldness of his flight captivated the spectator. It was thought that he danced when he did nothing but bound and turn. What was merely corruption was regarded as a wonder of the art, and this mix of jumps and steps, which confound and alter two very different arts, appeared to be a bold and sublime novelty. There is no true agreeablenessin holding oneself for a long time on one foot; that is merely difficult. . . .What grace is there in forced and painful attitudes, wherein effort is always evident? What do pirouettes repeated ad nauseam express,which often violate the regularity of the position, for the dancer after this tour de force is almost always disconcerted.

As is evident from this passage from Geoffroy, Vestris, a remarkable technician, cultivated a style marked by extremely difficult tours de force, ”which smack of the art of the tumblers.” These included jumps seemingly beyond the pull of gravity wherein “he spurned the earth and the floor,” aplombs held “for a long time on one foot,” “forced and painful attitudes,” and ”pirouettes repeated ad

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nauseam.” This predilection for difficulty clearly manifested itself early in Vestris’s career, for a critic in the Mercure de France (18 Mar. 1780, 120) notes that already the nineteen-year-old ”Monsieur Vestris the Younger dances with such facility and such ease that you first see in him only the gaiety, grace, and lightness of youth, but listen to connoisseurs, and they will tell you that never has a dancer executed steps as difficult.” Vestris was clearly capable of remarkable elevation in his jumps. As Vig6e Lebrun reminisces (1984, 1:106), Vestris ”was the most amazing dancer to be seen, such was his grace and lightness at one and the same moment. . . . He would rise toward the sky in such a prodigious manner that he was believed to have wings, which caused h s father to say, ’if my son touches the earth, it is only out of courtesy to his friends!”’ Indeed, Vestris ”did jumps so dangerous and bounded with such vigor that his head was raised above the other dancers” Uournal des dkbafs, 30 Niv6se 9 [20 Jan. 18011, 3) and could remain so effortlessly suspended in air in his jumping that he seemed beyond the pull of gravity. According to Nares (1788, 29), Vestris ”has this privilege above the lot of other men, that he seems, like a real divinity, to touch the ground by choice only, not by necessity; the grace and lightness of his motions conveying the idea that the air, if he pleased to tread it, were quite sufficient to support him.” Boumonville (1979,458) similarly remarks upon Vestris’s ”astonishing elasticity and speed, combined with his expressive countenance and lively spirits.” Even in his later years, Vestris seemed to be immune to age and was able to keep his youthfulness as a performer, not retiring from the stage until the age of fifty-six, having danced on stage for over forty years. As Noverre (1807,2:172) marveled of the dancer in his mid-forties, ”to see him dance, one would think that he is in the bloom of youth or that Hebe has entrusted to him the key to the fountain of youth.” Not only an extraordinaryjumper, Vestris was also remarkably limber and availed himself of exaggerated high extensions of the legs, commonly taking the foot of his gesture leg to the height of his head like dancers in the grotesque style. As Berchoux writes (1808,20-21), his leg would rise to the height of his head; his unfolded arms would attempt the shapes invented by affection in the realm of love. His head, gently balanced on his neck, lost to the winds and free of thought, would follow the movements of his lissom body. His calves would forcefully beat en huif tenips, and soon, throwing up a fearless leg, he would describe an elegant but rapid circle.

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In agreement with Berchoux’s remarks, extant depictions of Vestris from around the turn of the nineteenth century, such as the caricatures in figures 7.1-2, reveal something of the dancer’s preoccupation with exaggerated extensions of the leg and high ports de bras.

Figure 7.1. A caricature of Auguste Vestris circa 1800, after Isabey, in the Musee de I’Opera, Paris, reproduced in Kochno (1954, 86).

Figure 7.2. A caricature of Auguste Vestris circa 1800, after George Dance, reproduced in Chapman (1987,15).

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Multiple pirouettes in particular Vestris cultivated with assiduity and repeated “ad nauseam,” to use Geoffroy’s expression. Indeed, so strongly was Vestris‘s name associated with the pirouette that some writers such as Blasis (1820,81) erroneously believed that the great dancer was its inventor. Already in the 1780s, Vestris’s facility at turning was singled out for comment. A critic in the Daily Register (16 Feb. 1786), for example, notes in connection with one of the dancer’s performances in London that ”Vestris was as great as usual, or perhaps greater-his peroettes exhibited a degree of ease and stability which we never before saw equalled” (cited in Price et al. 1995, 510). Six years earlier, in December of 1780, Henry Angelo notes that Vestris impressed his English audiences particularly with the number of revolutions in his multiple turns: “Young Vestris astonished John Bull more by his agility than his grace, and some have been known to count the number of times he turned around like a tee-totum” (cited in The London Stage 1968,5/i/396). If the less celebrated dancer Gennaro Magri, a contemporary of Vestris’s father, could do as many as nine turns in multiple pirouettes, as he himself claimed (1779,1:90), it would seem a reasonable guess that the superstar Vestris, who turned in a manner ”never before equaled,” could perform pirouettes with over ten revolutions. At times Vestris performed his pirouettes with such tremendous violence that he was obliged to do a stamping-like movement with his feet to stop the turn, at least according to Noverre (1807,2:128),who notes that “the Vestris of today does not perform [the pirouette] gently; he turns with such extraordinary speed, and when his center of gravity warns him of a fall, he stops by strongly stamping his feet. If this latter movement is not a miracle of a balance, it is that of address, prudence, and necessity.” Vigee Lebrun also indicates (1984,1:106)that Vestris was prodigal with turns, for ”although our dancers today do not stint on pirouettes, no one certainly ever performed as many as he did.” Vestris’s preoccupation with turning became endemic, leading to an excessive number of turns in ballet performances of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. As Noverre laments (1807, 2:128-29), unfortunately the pirouette has not remained the preserve of only Vestris; it has become the habitual temps of thirty dancers and, if I may word it thus, the daily bread of the public. After the example of Vestris, all the men and women dancers turn, and with them they turn the

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heads of the spectators. If in a grand ballethall the stjefs are used and each in fact does six pirouettes, thirty multiplied by six gives a product of 180 pirouettes, which if they are each made up of say six turns, gives a total of 1080 turns. Could one not say then, Madame, that the dancing at the Opera seems to have unwittingly adopted Descartes’s system and loses itself in whirling?

Vestris’s unique personal style was defined not merely by the cultivation of difficult tours de force but also by a bearding of the old conventions governing the technique of eighteenth-century ballet. According to Vestris’s pupil August Bournonville, the great dancer defied the conventions governing ”contrast” or ”opposition,” for example, that is, the contrastive movement or placement of one arm on the side of the body opposite to the more forward foot. Borin writes that (1746,1615) “the most certain and general rule of good usage for the arms is contrast, that is, the opposition of the leg to the arm. Thus, an advanced right leg requires the right arm to be extended and the left arm to be bent from the elbow in opposition” and vice versa (see figs. 2.14-15). Bournonville makes it clear that the rule of opposition was rather strictly observed by the “old masters” and did not lose any of its force until the advent of Vestris, who made greater use of ”false opposition”: It is well known that the arms and shoulders will always move in opposition to the legs, and that if one places the same foot, arm and shoulder forward in a step, one can move only with difficulty. This natural rule has become a dogma in the dance, so that when in any croisi position the left foot is forward, the head must turn more to that side, while the left shoulder and arm are lower and more forward than the right, which is lifted up and frames the whole upper part of the body. Every position contrary to this rule was condemned by the old masters under the name ”false opposition”; but Vestris, creator of the new school, found out, partly by studying the antique, and partly through his own inspiration, that one could readily deviate from this strict rule, without ceasing to be graceful. Without diminishing the old beautiful oppositions, he enriched the dance with countless others, and thereby demonstrated that the different positions of the head and shoulders gave the arms fortuitous curves, which did not stand in an oppositional relationship to the legs; but far from hindering the movement, they gave it redoubled charm. (trans. in Bruhn and Moore 1963,30-31),

Doubtless other changes in technique evident from a comparison of the pre- and post-Vestris periods are also to be attributed to the in-

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fluence of the great dancer, the "creator of the new school," as Bournonville calls him.For example, the high capering port de bras typical of the traditional eighteenth-century demi-caractere, wherein the arms were taken down in front of the body during the preparatory plie and then thrown up and extended during the jump into the air, was in the pre-Vestris period to be "done only in the tempo of capers, whenever one wishes to do a powerful jump either forward, backward, sideways to the right or left hand, or also straight up" (Taubert 1717, 559), that is, only in executing grand jumps. Most likely it was Vestris who set the precedent of using this port de bras with nonspringing steps in violation of the old rule; certainly by the middle of the nineteenth century, the use of this arm movement with terre-a-terre steps was already well established, as is evident from the dance exercises and choreography found in Saint-Leon (1852). Vestris ultimately became the model for other ambitious but less original dancers, who in their attempt to shine with reflected glory strove to imitate the great dancer. A critic in the Jourirnl des dkbrzts (20 May 1804,3) found the prevailing spirit of emulation wearisome: The dancer who hurled himself into the air soon caused those who skimmed the ground to be forgotten, but the height to which the young Vestris brought dance lowered the art in raising the artist. His fellows, seduced by his brilliant fame, spent all their strength in these marvels, more difficult than pleasing; they measured their distance from Vestris in numbers of pirouettes; and this emulation caused the students of Terpsichore to degenerate into acrobats. Even women were not fully spared from this contagion although such evolutions are even less suitable to the graces of their sex.

What Noverre (1807, 2:127) found particularly objectionable about the eagerness with which other dancers attempted to ape Vestris's novel style generally was that, lacking the great dancer's talent, they ended up being merely crude caricatures: All dancers embraced with idolatry the new palace that Vestris had just created. Everyone became imperfect and unfaithful copiers. Aping their master, they offer still today only a crude caricature.They are yet to learn that it is impossible to imitate what is inimitable, for in order to succeed in this they would need to have been formed in the same mold, have in them the same fancy, the same dispositions, and the same physique. Bereft of all these @,they dawdle laboriously in the arena and in vain strain to match their model.

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Not only a theatrical phenomenon but also the formative teacher of such greats of nineteenth-century ballet as August Boumonville and Jules Perrot among others, Vestris ended up passing on both his originally unique style as a new norm and his choreographic principles. Boumonville (1979,459) claims that it was he himself, together with Jules Perrot and Vestris’s son Armand, who had “best comprehended and most successfully disseminated his choreographicprinciples.” Thus, wittingly or unwittingly, for better or for worse, Vestris was in part responsible for the emergence of the single composite style of early-nineteenth-centuryballet, wherein every dancer was expected to excel in both adagio and allegro and to be adept in both petit and grund movements from the simplest to the most difficult. As Theleur indicates (1831,81-82), formerly we had (independent of the grotesque) three distinct styles of dances. First, the grand serious; this was used on all occasions where the intention was to personate grandeur, or majesty: secondly, the demi-character; this was used to personate all light, airy, or gay characters, such as zephyrs, pages, peasantry, &c.: thirdly, the comic; this was used as a dance of country clowns, &c.: but of late the two first have been so blended with each other, that they now actually form but one, and the comic latterly has become almost obsolete. The last dancers of eminence in this style, were Messrs. BeauprGe, Boisgirard, and Mazurier. Thus there remains at the present time (correctlyspeaking) only one style, in which all dancers strive to gain pre-eminence, individually endeavouring to gain to the greatest extent, the approbation of the public; thus it necessarily happens, that so few persons succeed in the attempt. How much better and more meritorious it would have been to have kept each style distinct; we then should have had more space and a better field for the diversified talents of our dancers; and persons whose abilities would not allow them to become eminent in the combined style, might, if each had remained distinct, have become equally favourites with the public, and excelled in that which their genius and construction had adapted them for; but according to the present system, the high majestic figure, the middling size, the athletic, and the diminutive, all aspire to become celebrated in the combined style, striving very often against nature: and if success attends their efforts in acquiring that talent so essential in the profession, it often happens that their figure, being either too tall or too diminutive, is so ill adapted to the combined style, that they never become established favourites with the public; the best height for the present style is the middle size.

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Roller (1843,99-100) likewise notes that the demise of the system of distinct styles dates back to the time of Vestris: Poetry, music, painting, and sculpture have their rules and laws, which free talent and taste from cold form and make genius enjoyable to the educated and excite admiration. One would think that theatrical dance should produce this effect, but since the time of Vestris, this has changed as well. A good ballet had to match character dancers to the drama: heroic (he‘roi’que),completely serious (grand strieux), halfserious (demi-caractere), high comic (galant comique), low comic (burlesque), and dancers who performed mixed characters of all sorts and national character dances (mezzo carattere). This study has now disappeared, and everyone dances according to his own individuality without the study of character. Technique and jumping are, to be sure, not fine art.

The creation and spread of this more ”egalitarian” or homogeneous style of dance, evidently in the latter part of the 1780s and the 1790s, with all characters free to avail themselves of a common fund of movements irrespective of their station in the fictional world of the theater, was doubtless abetted by the overall spirit of the times during the Sturm und Drang of the French revolutionary period. Wherein this time a new reactionary sensibility emerged, one celebrating the fraternity and equality of mankind and freedom from the traditions and class distinctions of the ancien regime. Thanks to this new spirit of freedom and the abolition of royal censorship, artists in France were free to follow more their fancy. As a critic in the Mercure de France puts it (26 June 1790,153), “the arts have been given a greater berth for us; our poets, our artists can freely follow the impulses of their genius in the choice of their subjects and in the manner of treating them. . . . [Flor a long time one could only think but dare not; one could not put into practice.” Noverre (1807, 2:114-15) also intimates that the demise of the old dance traditions was in part a spinoff of the French Revolution: “The Revolution having come, boundless freedom opened for the arts the door to the temple of Folly; artists became its ministers, prescribed’ that Taste jest with a fool’s bauble and sacrificed the beauties of their art to Caprice and Fancy.” What many found particularly objectionable about this new mixed and egalitarian style was not only the lack of fittingness in the choice of the steps for a given character or situation but also the

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extreme degree of exaggeration in the extension of the legs made popular by Vestris. According to Vieth (1794,2:417), writing at the time of the French Revolution, dancers won greater approbation from the public the more they could open their legs: These jumps into the air are proper to theatrical dance, and the latter cannot do well without them, although of late one finds great exaggeration here, with jumps often done that are not required by the nature of the role or situation. It is certainly detrimental to good taste in dance when the dancer receives greater applause the more he opens his legs and the more times he can beat an entrechaf.

Roller (1843, 19) found the grotesque "contortions" of women dancers in this new style particularly unpleasing. He writes that the ballet, where the main style [of the eighteenth century] was found, charmed as well, for the loathsome contortions and grotesque movements to which ballet has now degenerated, little by little since the French Revolution, were not to be seen. Theatrical dancers gave lessons, and one could even allow the fair sex to imitate female theatrical dancers, as their dance was decent then; even at the end of the last century, it would not have been brooked if a corps of bayaderes were to have moved like a woman dancer of today.

The contortionist's feat of taking the foot to the height of the shoulder or beyond, which in the past had been mainly the preserve of the grottesco, although evidently popular with some serious dancers as well thanks to the precedent of Louis DuprC, now became a widespread disfigurement to dance generally, at least in the eyes of the likes of Lorenze, who lampooned the exaggerated movements of this new style. The satiric depiction in his lithograph Grise-Aile of dancers in the grips of a pas de deux from the ballet Giselle, for example, shows the limbs raised on high above the heads in a most dislocated manner (fig. 7.3). With regard to these plastic early-nineteenth-century women dancers, the English critic Leigh Hunt notes in 1828 rather humorously that "a mathematician should marry one of them for a pair of compasses" (cited in Fenner 1978,91). Reacting generally to the extremes of the newly emerging Romantic movement, Noverre (1807,2:16fj-67) similarly dismissed as graceless

Figure 7.3. A caricature of a pas de deux in Giselle, entitled Grise-Aile (Tipsy wing), from Le rnuske Philipon of 1841, after lorent Lorenze, in the New York Public library Dance Collection, reproduced in Kirstein (1984, 19).

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the contortions and angularity of this new mixed style wherein all danced the same regardless of the demands of character: I have eschewed critical comments as much as possible, but not wishing to be the insipid panegyrist of the ridiculous, which has been adopted thanks to fashion and false taste, I will allow myself to rise up openly against all the abuses that, having been introduced into dance, drive out grace, banish proportion, retreat from good taste, and replace everything that can lend charm to the art with a dull monotony of false attitudes, disproportionate movements, and unnatural pauses. When I have been persuaded that the Graces and nymphs should dance like bacchants, that Games and Laughter should move like fauns and sylphs, when it has been proven to me that open, projecting, or sharp angles can be the delight of the imitative arts, when painters whose opinions and talent I respect have demonstrated to me that one must give up the roundness and just proportions that nature has traced out for them, when they have convinced me that all the imitative arts must be stiff and stretched, that it is fine to see sixty arms raised well above the head and thirty straight legs carried in one spontaneous movement to the height of the shoulder, then I will keep quiet.

The ”disproportionate movements and unnatural pauses” of this new exaggerated style, not to mention its obsession with circuslike tours de force, were also commented upon by contemporaries of the aged Noverre. As Chapman (1978,335) notes in his article on contemporary critical response to the new style of early-nineteenthcentury ballet, critics complained of legs “’lifted aloft with the stretch of a pair of compasses,’ dancers ‘standing upon one leg while the spectators can count a hundred,’ and jumps that seemed to ’bound like a tennis ball.’ In 1824 the Italian grotesque dancer, Signor Venafra, astonished one critic by turning ‘at least four times round without touching the ground.”’ It might be added here as a historical aside that the exaggerated extensions of the legs, which had been so greatly popularized by Auguste Vestris at the end of the eighteenth century and which had figured prominently in ballet at the very beginning of the nineteenth century, ceased to be acceptable in the course of the nineteenth century, doubtless thanks in part to Victorian prudery and propriety. By the beginning of the twentieth century such high extensions had come to be seen as vulgar, at least in Russia, where interest in ballet continued long after it had waned in the rest of Europe. The famous

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ballerina and teacher Alexandra Danilova (1903-1997) notes in her memoirs (1986,40), for example, that at that time, during my years at the school [in the second decade of the twentieth century], we didn’t lift the legs high-it was considered not classical, rather daring, a little bit vulgar. “You are not in the circus,” our teachers would scold if dPvelopp6s or grands battements got too big. Just a teeny bit above the waist was as high as we were allowed. The Victorian attitudes still prevailed.

The widespread use of very high extensions of the legs in modem ballet appears to be due to the influence of George Balanchine’s aesthetics; as Danilova notes, the trendsetting choreographer “wanted the legs higher.” In their eagerness to ape Vestris‘s original style rather than cultivate one of their own governed by the dictates of dramaturgical necessity, late-eighteenth-century and early-nineteenth-century dancers ended up looking one like the other. This imitation resulted in a monotonous uniformity of style and technique, compared to the past, such that at the end of his life and at the end of our period Noverre (1807,2127-28) did not celebrate some fabled ”expansion of technique” that later misinformed historians were to invent but rather lamented the loss of technique, color, and variety from the art of ballet: What has come of this unreasonable and capricious aping? The dancing at the OpPra is now of the same color, the same style, the same genre. There is only one manner of execution. This art has driven out variety in order to adopt the most unbearable monotony. It no longer offers to the eye those oppositions, those contrasts, and that chiaroscuro wherein the charm of the fine arts is to be found.

Indeed, the trend toward uniformity of style and technique in dance continued into the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, leading to the loss of the comic and grotesque styles, the latter once so dear to eighteenth-centuryItalian audiences. As Bournonville indicates, this trend toward uniformity had most unfortunate consequencesfor Italian dancers in particular, who now danced the same regardless of even sex. He writes (1979,20) that “little by little, the Italians picked up the French style of dancing, to which they gave an unfortunate character (masculine among the women, feminine among the men); but the grotteschi completely disappeared from the stage,” although

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some of their peculiar jumps lived on in vaudeville and circus. Despite the Ballet Russe‘s attempt to reintroduce ”character” dancing in the early twentieth century, uniformity of style and technique broadly characterizes the art of classical ballet to this day, perhaps more intensely than ever before, such that the few so-called national styles inherited from the nineteenth century have largely become indistinguishable today. It is precisely this unfortunate legacy of uniformity that clearly led many twentieth-century choreographers to attempt to bring greater variety to contemporary ballet through the introduction of elements from modem dance, and as such this atavistic development represents an unwitting attempt to recapture what was lost. Hand-in-hand with this exaggerated style of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries went as well a certain rugged and brusque manner of execution.Sprung from the restlessnessof the newly emerging Romantic movement, with its love of the s u b h e , the unattainable, and the extremes of passions and heightened effects, the new postrevolutionary composite style was a mere circus act devoid of grace to the likes of Despreawc, who had known late-eighteenth-century ballet firsthand: Dance today [in 18161 is nothing at all like that which I saw between 1770 and 1790 or 1792. The crude public in red caps, who have taken over the pit, and the boulevard dancers . . . who have been introduced onto the stage of the Grand Opera, have made one forget that grace was the varnish to the moving painting at the Opera. Talent in dance is not knowing how to do all kinds of steps in measure to some rhythm. . . . Speed is but a weak advantage. (cited in Guest 1976,77)

This novel cultivation of a certain ruggedness in dance was simply a particular manifestation of the new sensibility and new spirit of the times occasioned by the upheavals of the French Revolution. A lightness in bearing and a certain amiable gracefulness in manners generally were discarded as the outmoded ways of the ancien regime and were replaced by a more matter-of-fact sobriety. GourdouxDaux (1811, 6), writes that ”that lightness in movement, those civil, amiable, and gracious manners, those charming graces that had reached such a height of perfection in the heyday of France became ~] among some, foreign in the time of terror [Its feiizps d b a s t r e t ~forced to others and replaced with a distorted and crude manner by a number of people, far indeed from French gallantry and urbanity” (cited in Foster 1996,320).

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While eighteenth-century ballet had certainly been no stranger to tours de force, such as Pitrot's two-minute balance, or his fifteenminute pirouette, or sequence of forty or so consecutive entrechats 2 six, gracefulness and a certain playful voluptuousness in particular had been features generally celebrated and sought after by most dancers and spectators. Indeed, as we shall see in the following chapter, voluptuousness might rightly be regarded as the quintessential defining character of eighteenth-century ballet. NOTES 1. By diploiement, a substantive derived from the verb diployer, "to open, spread out, unfurl, deploy, or display," Noverre presumably means simply the action of moving the legs apart. 2. "Temps, dance term. A pus is composed of one or more temps; a teinps is made up of a number of movements, and a movement is the action that the limbs or the body do in order to move from one position or attitude to another" (Despreaux 1806,2258). 3. By "consistency" Hogarth may alternately mean "narrative coherence." 4. S t w i n (1770,ll) considered Fossano to be a grotesque dancer. 5. According to the Mercure de France (Mar. 1768,180),Heinel in fact made her debut at the Paris Opera on 26 March 1768. 6. By "grand ballet" Noverre may mean either a large ballet or the concluding dance wherein most if not all of the dancers figured. The term in fact is used in the latter sense in Bonin (1712, 199), for example, who notes that the end of an opera "is formed by a grand ballet, which is nothing more than a bringing together of all the men and women dancers who have already appeared on stage in different entries or even solos and end the opera with a dance." 7. The French is in fact proscriairenf ("proscribed"), which, given the context, is doubtless a typographical error for prescriziirenf ("prescribed).

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Chapter 8

Voluptuousness: The Heartbeat of Ballet

CCPIDS again! nothing but Cupids and nymphs! will some people say.-Eh! what can be fancied more charming than love, more amiable, more enchanting than lively nymphs? (Didelot 1797,151)

The sundry dance styles notwithstanding, if one were forced to reduce mainstream ballet of the eighteenth century to a single underlying and unirylng impulse that might capture the essence of this dance from the age of Watteau, Boucher, and Fragonard, surely it would be the seductive, the voluptuous, or even the teasingly erotic. Indeed, the pursuit of pleasure and the indulgence of the senses in a profusion of stimuli appears to typify much of human endeavor in the eighteenth century, more intensely so perhaps than in any other historical period. The delight in the sensuous and particularly in the sensual is strongly reflected in all the arts of the age, from the fleshy breasts and buttocks of Boucher’s nude nymphs or the scenes of imminent seduction in Fragonard to the fascination with the wanton ways of such women as Pr6vost’s Manon Lescaut, Defoe’s Moll Flanders, or Cleland’s Fanny Hill, or of such rakes as Richardson’s Lovelace, Fielding’s Tom Jones, De Laclos’s Valmont, or Mozart’s Don Giovanni, not to mention the exploits of the great lover Casanova himself or the perversion of the Marquis de Sade. Indeed, the century itself was well aware of its own marked debauchery, and such cultural institutions as the playhouse and the opera theater were frankly acknowledged as locales for the licentious spectator to gratdy both his taste for art and his lust for the opposite sex. The letters of the duchesse d’Orl6ans give some censorious 293

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glimpses at the conduct of those at the dawn of a new pleasure-loving age. In a communication dated 16March 1698, for example, she writes that you will not believe how debauched men and women are here, men with women, women and women;’ the stories that one continually hears are something abominable.Apart from my son and three or four others, there is not one who is not afflicted with this vice. They all sell themselves for money. The pit of the opera is like a horse market where they choose whom they wish at all sorts of prices: The cheapest go for a thaler and the dearest for a hundred pistoles.’ (cited in Brooks 1996,24)

While those in the pit of the theater openly sold themselves like horses, as it were, those in the boxes were evidently no less reticent in giving free rein to their amatory impulses. The duchesse again notes in a letter dated 13 March 1718 that never have women been as one sees them now: They act as if their happiness hinged upon sleeping with men. Those who have a mind for marriage are still the most honorable. What one hears and sees daily is not fit to be described, [especially] that touching the highest. In my daughter‘s day, this was not the custom; she is in such a state of amazement that she cannot get over what she hears and sees. Her astonishment often makes me laugh. In particular, she cannot get used to seeing well-titled women lying in the laps of men in the filled opera house, which, it is said, they do not dislike. (cited in Brooks 1996,24)

As is evident from the duchesse’s comments, the Paris OpQa in particular was notorious as a den for the lubricious. Bachaumont (1780,2 May 1768,4:23) frankly acknowledges, for example, that the woman dancer Asselin, who was engaged by the Opera in 1768, constituted ”a most agreeable recruit for the lustful spectators who abound in h s theater.” Indeed, the greater part of the audience at the OpQa cried ”encore” when Asselin, disguised as a shepherd in a performance of Noverre‘s Les petits riens, exposed her breasts on stage, as directed by the choreographer, in order to disabuse two amorous shepherdesses who had fallen in love with her in the course of the ballet (Grimm 1888,June 1778,12:117-18). If the Paris Opera failed to satisfy, those who sought to combine more intimately their taste for art and lust for women could, with the right connections, resort to the

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private theaters of the kind run by the likes of the famed dancer Guimard, which mounted pornographic pieces (fig. 8.1): For pleasures of a more particular nature, there were in Paris the thihtres clandesfins, small private theaters that specialized in pomographic plays. Two such theaters were run by the stage-performer Marie-MadeleineGuimard, for example, who also appeared as a major participant. There were authors who regularly provided texts for these theaters; even Marmontel is said to have occasionally earned a little on the side from this. These comedies were financed mainly by those who treated themselves to either the performers or the bedfellows, among whom the patrons of Mademoiselle Guimard must be named: Bishop Jarente d’OrlCans, Charles de Rohan, the Prince de Soubise, and the Marshal of France, who financed the construction of the theater in Pantin (the second of Mademoiselle Guimard’s theaters was in Pans), and the banker La Borde, who held himself to be an underrated composer. The erotic theaters were enjoyed as a very private and particular delicacy in the second half of the eighteenth century, their clientele coming from the circles of the high aristocracy,but remained closed, of course, to the general theater public. (Klessmann 1998,4344)

Figure 8.1.

Detail of a dance performance in an eighteenth-century thkdfre clandesfin, after an unknown artist, from a private collection, reproduced in Toepfer (1991, fig. 35).

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Such debauchery was not confined to the French but characterized much of fashionable European culture of the eighteenth century. Like the Parisian, the Londoner, for example, was equally at home in his ”corruption of morals,” as Count de Saussure (1903, 197) discovered during his grand tour in the 1720s: The corruption of morals is very great; it even dares to flaunt itself in broad daylight. Aman, even a married man, who keeps a mistress does not hide the fact. There are many lords and rich persons who do this. Brothels are visited in broad daylight without any secrecy. An Englishman very familiar with his London has assured me that there are over forty thousand courtesans in this city3 Doubtless, you will be surprised to learn of this great corruption. There are several things which contribute hereto: The freedom granted by an mild government, the impunity of vice, the poor education of the youth, wealth, and finally frequent and easy opportunity are as much the sources of the extraordinary debauchery that holds sway openly in London.

Nor was de Saussure alone in his characterization of London society as debauched. In his study of the economic relations between France and England, Tucker (1749,48)notes in passing that ”it has been often remarked, That the greatest Rakes, that all Europe can produce, when they amve in England, and come to London, are quite shocked and scandalized at the unparalleled Lewdness and Debauchery reigning among Us, so far beyond any thing they could have imagined.” Indeed, such lewdness and debauchery were the outward signs of gentility, as The Connoisseur (16 Jan. 1755) satirically notes: ”Since pleasure is almost the only pursuit of a fine gentleman, it is very necessary, for the maintaining his consequence and character, that he should have a girl in keeping. Intriguing with women of fashion, and debauching tradesmen’s daughters, naturally happen in the common course of gallantry; but this convenient female, to fill up the intervals of business, is the principal mark of his superior taste and quality.” According to An Heroic Epistle (1781,12) what English women admired in particular about the youthful French dancer Auguste Vestris, who performed in London in 1781, was his “delicious thighs”: One cries, “Sweet boy! “Our public favorite, our private joy: ”Observe, my lady, what a charming size! ”Then what firm legs, and what delicious thighs!”

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Nor was gallantry restricted to the French and English; the Italians were similarly devoted to ”the pleasures of a voluptuous life”: The Italians of today are content to be brightened by the same sun, to breathe the same air, and to inhabit the same earth that was once inhabited by the ancient Romans, but the former have left to history that severe virtue that the latter practiced; they feel that they have no need of tragedy to rouse themselves to those pursuits which they have no desire to follow. As they love the sweetness of ordinary existence and the pleasures of a voluptuous life, their wish has been to produce theatrical works that are related to both the one and the other, hence the mix of comedy and the art of pantomime that we see on the Italian stage. (”Lettresur les spectacles d’Italie” 1726,8243)

According to Ange Goudar (1777,63-64), the scenes of voluptuousness enacted on Italian stages, particularly on the lyric stages, merely reflected the mores of the time and in turn served as new inducements to further voluptuousness, such that life now imitated art: ”As the number of theaters have grown in Italy, so mores have degenerated with them. Vice comes down off the stage and spreads throughout society generally. The passions follow the spirit of the music; one could say that they are quite in unison.” If the patrons who crowded into the playhouses and opera theaters of the period were on the whole of a licentious sort, the performers who mounted the boards to entertain such spectators were more often than not notorious for their dissipation and debauchery. The performers at the Paris OpQa in particular were worthy of mention: In short, since the Opera is essentially a school for gallantry and lust, which embraces only low members, disgraced men and fallen women, which exists only thanks to recruits endlessly obtained through licentiousness, debauchery, and corruption, and which serves as a basin for indecency, adultery, prostitution, and the most shameful scum, in a word, a haven for every kind of turpitude and vice. (Mairobert de Pisandat 1779,3229)

The venerable institution of the Paris Opera attracted all manner of women, who sometimes showed more dedication to the flesh trade than to Terpsichore’s art and exploited their position on stage before the public eye to connect with high-paying lovers. This effort was aided by a royal patent issued by Louis XIV that ensured that

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any individual registered in the Opera’s school of dance was under royal protection and free from any paternal or matrimonial authority. Indeed, this enabled a young woman intent upon a life of pleasure to free herself from an unwanted husband, while others found that it gave them liberty of leading a double life of dancer and courtesan. For a number of dancers, then and later, enjoyed lives of luxury as mistresses of wealthy protectors, some of them such as Rosalie DuthC, Anne-Victoire Dervieux and Mlle Cleophile, retiring from the Opera after a few years to devote themselves to the more lucrative and less demanding of their two professions. (Guest 1996,23)

In his tongue-in-cheek list of regulations for the Paris OpQa, Meusnier de Querlon (1743) alludes to the common practice of women dancers supplementing their paltry income by allowing themselves “one or several lovers”: Article 22: Whereas the girls of the theater enjoy little wealth, a mean honorarium, and the resources that they can draw from their dishonor yet need to maintain themselves in a state keeping with their condition of goddesses, nymphs, and heroines, let them then be allowed to have one or several lovers, in accordance with their needs or designs, with the charge, however, of dismissing needless wooers. (cited in Pastori 1980?,40)

The truthfulness of such sweeping generalizations about the moral looseness of eighteenth-century dancers is borne out by extant passing allusions to the amatory antics of individual performers from the period. The temporary dismissal of Allard from the Opera in 1774, for example, because of her habit of being with child from her many amatory escapades sent a wave of alarm among the women dancers there, threatening the prospects of both pleasure and profit for many of them: The public has been saddened by a loss at the Opera, namely, the sacking of Mademoiselle Allard, whom the directors deemed fit to dismiss even though she continued to please and meet only with the greatest approbation. They say that she has become too thickset and what is more that she is continually with child, which makes her unfit to work for several months. This last ground was of concern to all the demoiselles of this spectacle. They do not wish to be forbidden a

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freedom which touches upon their pleasure and even more so their fortune. They have formed a cabal, and there has been a great to-do, which happily has settled down. (Bachaumont 1780, 25 Apr. 1774, 7:164-65)

Perhaps the most notorious of such ’%ballet rats” was Th6rPse Vestris, sister to Gaetan Vestris, who is almost better remembered for her highclass prostitution than for her dancing. She freely brought her lovers home to the Vestris hearth, a place of ”great corruption of morals,” in order to sleep with her wealthy patrons for money: The Vestris family is from Florence, transplanted to France where it has made its fortune, the boys by their talent and the girls by selling their charms. It has given the lie to the principle that friendship cannot exist without the strictest virtue, for this family lives in the most tender togetherness and in a great corruption of morals. While fair Teresina Vestris sleeps with her lover for money, the mother, devout like a saint, says the rosary beside her room; her brother, who is called the cook, readies supper, which the sister Violenta and the other brothers come to eat with Teresina and her lover in the most cordial manner in the world. ( G r i m 1879,l Feb. 1769,8:261-62)

The debauched lifestyle of Jean-Barthdemy Lany proved in fact to be his undoing. The death of the sixty-eight-year-old man was brought on after a night of voluptuousness in 1786, the onetime dancer and choreographer dying “as he had lived”: A few days ago, Monsieur Lany, a former dancer and composer of ballets, gave a ball at which he gathered together the prettiest whores of Paris. This entertainment reawakened his lust, and he tossed his hanky to one of them: whose youth and freshness procured for him a most voluptuous night, but having outdone himself, he developed an inflammation of the bladder. He had to be catheterized in order to pass water, but in doing so he sustained an injury, and the old sinner died as he had lived. (Bachaumont 1788,21 Mar. 1786,31:193)

Guimard was notorious for the orgies that she held regularly once a week: She has three dinner parties a week, the one made up of the first lords from court and all kinds of notable persons, the second made up of authors, artists, scholars, who go to amuse this muse, the rival to Madame Geoffrin in this, and finally a third, a veritable orgy, to which

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are invited the most seductive and most lascivious whores and where lust and debauchery are carried to their extreme. (Bachaumont1780,24 Jan. 1768,3:287-88)

Such ”debauchery” was not confined to performers from the Paris Opera; dancers in other theaters often showed the same passion for amatory pursuits. The women dancers in the employ of Karl Eugen the duke of Wurttemburg in the 1760s had evidently spared no effort at ingratiating themselves with the duke by granting sexual favors. According to Casanova (1961, 6:66), ”all his women dancers were pretty, and they all boasted of having brought amatory delight to my lord at least once.” In contrast to the comfortable lives of some high-profile dancers, like Guimard, who enjoyed great luxury thanks to their skill in extracting money and gifts from their suitors, the dissipation of those in the less exalted Boulevard theaters of Paris was notably less glamorous: The Boulevard theaters are filled with low libertines, underage prostituted grls, who owe their life to artisans whose unrefined probity would perhaps have remained intact if they had not encountered in these cesspits of vice and bad taste the causes of the seduction which has led to its loss. It is h l y a wretched sight, all those children, all those youths of either sex, withered, discolored, pale, weak, fleshless, bearing upon their physiognomies the proof of their misconduct and the sign of the diseases that sap them. (Mercure de France 29 Mar. 1788,232)

Given that not only many of the dancers but also many of the spectators who crowded into the theaters to admire these performers were of a decidedly sensual cast, it should come as no surprise that much of the dancing to be seen in the eighteenth-century theater was framed by the hand of Venus, as it were. Indeed, much of the theatrical output of the eighteenth century generally is taken up with amatory subjects; as a critic in the Mercure de France notes (Aug. 1739,1830), ”for a long time the Italians and the French have had the plots of their plays revolve around love.” According to The Connoisseur (14 Mar. 1754), the eighteenth-century English theatergoer invariably met with lengthy scenes of “luscious” love play replete with smacking kisses in theatrical performances: BEFOREI conclude I cannot but take notice of those luscious lovescenes, that have so great a share in our modem plays; which are ren-

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dered still more fulsom by the officiousness of the player, who takes every opportunity of heightening the expression by kisses and embraces. In a Comedy, nothing is more relished by the audience than a loud smack which echoes through the whole house, and in the most passionate scenes of a Tragedy, the Hero and Heroine are continually flying into each others arms.

If eighteenth-century tragedies and comedies had lovers flying into each other’s arms or smacking kisses, the less exalted pantomime entertainments of the period often centered on the earthier escapades of grotesque characters. For example, ”Harlequin is but a wicked sort of fellow, and is always running after the girls. For my part I have often blushed to see this impudent rake endeavouring to creep under Columbine’s petticoats, and at other times patting her neck, and laying his legs upon her lap. Nobody will say indeed, that there is much virtue and morality in these entertainments” (The Connoisseur 19 Dec. 1754).Nor was such lack of ”virtue and morality” confined to representations of Harlequin; other grotesque characters belonging to the world of pantomime, such as Pierrot, were no less eager to get under Columbine’s skirts: Happy is it for us, that we live in an age of TASTE, when the dumb eloquence, and manual wit and humour of HARLEQUIN is justly preferred to the whining of tragedy, or the vulgarity of comedy. But it grieves me, in an entertainment so near perfection, to observe certain indelicacies and indeconuns, which, though they never fail of obtaining the approbation of the galleries, must be extremely offensive to the politeness of the boxes. The indelicacies I mean, are, the frequent and significant wriglings of HARLEQEIS’S tail, and the affront that PIEROT is apt to put upon the modesty of COLUMBINE, by sometimes supposing, in his searches for her lover, that she has hid him under her petticoats. . . . Another impurity that gives me almost equal offence, is, HARLEQUIN’S tapping the neck or bosom of his mistress, and then kissing his fingers. (The World 25 Oct. 1753)

The lack of ”virtue and morality” in English pantomimes of the period is satirically touched upon in The Adventurer (27 Jan. 1753) as well, which gives an account of a typical performance as seen through the eyes of a fictitious recluse during h s first visit to the theater: The dress of the women discovered beauties which I could not behold without confusion: the wanton caresses which they received and

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returned, the desire that languished in their eyes, the kiss snatched with eagerness, and the embrace prolongued with reciprocal delight, filled my breast with tumultuous wishes, which, though I feared to gratify, I did not wish to suppress. Besides all these incentives to dissolute pleasure, there was the dance, which indulged the spectators with a view of almost every charm that apparel was intended to conceal, but the pleasure of this indulgence I was deprived by the head of the tall man who sat before me.

Mirroring other theatrical entertainments, many of the dance scenarios from the eighteenth century are similarly taken up with amatory matters, such as coquetry, wooing, seduction, and infidelity, for dance was to express “elegant wantonness (which is the true spirit of dancing)” (Hogarth 1753, 150). Indeed, a list of characters peopling eighteenth-century pantomime ballets forms a veritable who’s who of classical love stories: Orpheus and Eurydice in ballets by Weaver (1718),Petters (1752), and Gaetan Vestris (1791); Pygmalion and his statue in ballets by Salle (1734), Riccoboni (1734), Dourdet (1746), Hilverding (1758), and Billioni (1761); Psyche and Cupid in ballets by Hilverding (1752), Noverre (1762), Galeotti (1768), and Gardel(l790); Mars and Venus in ballets by Weaver (1717) and Riccoboni (1738); Telemachus and Calypso in ballets by Pitrot (1758) and Gardel (1790); Ulysses and Circe in a ballet by Pitrot (1764);Diane and Endymion in a ballet by Lava1 (1765),to name a few. The insubstantial pantomime ballet L’amozu fixk, performed as an afterpiece to the comedy La crkole at the Comedie-frangaise in Paris in September of 1754, affords a short example of eighteenth-century ballet’s preoccupation with amatory subjects. Here mischievous Cupid wounds himself with an arrow of love and then attempts to win the heart of a coy shepherdess: Some shepherds are pursuing shepherdesses, who are indifferent to them; they refuse the nosegays offered them. In fleeing, they pass in front of a myrtle tree, and out of its trunk emerges Cupid, who shoots arrows at them. The arrows turn their heads toward the shepherds, and they appear softened and accept the nosegays. Cupid congratulates himself for having established concord among them. The shepherds and shepherdesses thank him, and Cupid invites them to go and rest on the grassy banks in a copse of roses, and he goes back into the myrtle tree. Another shepherdess is pursued by a shepherd; in vain he urges her, and she disdains his addresses. He goes off to hide his shame and vex-

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ation in the shadows of the forest. Cupid takes pity on this shepherd and comes out of the myrtle, with an arrow in hand to wound the shepherdess. Struck by the sight of her, he briskly diverts the arrow with which he is ready to shoot her and wounds himself. He throws himself at the shepherdess's knees, who makes him get up without showing any interest in his pain. He hands over to her his quiver and arrows in order to move her, but she throws them down with indifference, pointing out to him that he has wings, that he would fly off soon and that she wants a steadfast lover. Cupid himself pulls the feathers out of his wings, and seeing that she is beginning to soften, he shows her, in order to bring her fully round, the happiness of the shepherds and shepherdesses in the copse, whom he has made susceptible to love. Moved by this sight, the shepherdess agrees to make Cupid happy as long as in donning the garb of a shepherd he also adopts the character of a steadfast lover. He goes and disguises himself and comes back and throws himself at her knees. At this moment, the shepherd appears whom she had jilted; he is in despair at seeing her susceptible to the vows of another lover. To console him and to show at the same time that he forswears for good all other conquests, Cupid gives him his arrows and quiver. The shepherd is happy and, certain of overcoming the most recalcitrant hearts with such arms, joins in the general contredanse which ends the ballet. (Mercure de France Sept. 1754,186-87)

Nor were love stories in eighteenth-century ballet restricted to lofty or idealized characters from myth and legend; the amatory adventures of everyday folk such as villagers and sailors were no less interesting. The story of Hilverding's pantomime ballet Le retour, for example, which deals with a mariner who, upon his return from a voyage, finds himself jilted by his onetime mistress and takes consolation in the arms of a new woman, was greatly to the taste of the Viennese public in 1756. A critic in the Journal encyclopkdique (1Feb. 1756, 87) remarks that "greatly stung by her unfaithfulness, [the mariner] throws himself into the arms of a new mistress, a bewitching Provencal woman. This part of the ballet, which is truly a picture of the mores of this century, greatly pleased." Even love stories from the lives of such buffoons as Harlequin succeeded in capturing the fancy of this age. The plot of Dehesse's pantomime ballet Les noces bergainasques of 1752, for example, revolves around the matchmaking efforts of an old Harlequin, the head of a family of six children, and an old Scapine, the head of another family of six, who succeed in allying the two families by marrying off all their children one to another.

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Whether part of a full-blown pantomime ballet or a simple entree inserted between the acts of a play or opera, the pas de deux figured prominently in eighteenth-century dance performances and almost inevitably dealt with affairs of the heart. As Goldoni notes, the hackneyed formula of an eighteenth-century pas de deux typically had at its core two lovers "running after one another, dodging, crying, falling in a passion, making peace again": 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 asmoaking; and though the scene should be a saloon [i.e., salon], 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 [i.e., a grenadier's trollop], 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 [i.e., curtsy] at the end of the dance! (trans. in Gallini 1762,103-8)

Needless to say, the pas de deux was the perfect forum for the expression of the voluptuous and seductive. Indeed, "a dance per-

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formed by a man and a woman requires even more perfection mainly since such entrkes are seen as a design representing a situation involving some passion, the different movements of which are vividly expressed by the justness of the steps and the beauty of the attitudes, which, forming a kind of harmonious dialogue, charm and delight the spectator, agreeably diverting his mind" (Borin 1746,22-23). A design "involving some passion" clearly underlay the main pas de deux from Hilverding's pantomime ballet Psyche' et Z'Ainour, first mounted in Vienna in 1752, wherein Pysche, forbidden ever to lay eyes on her lover, searches for him in the dark during their first meeting as lovers: The stage grows dark, and Psyche alights from her chariot, which leaves at once. Her face, her attitudes, her steps, everything, show her surprise, wonder, and successively her impatience to find Love. He comes, and she cannot see him, but her heart tells her that he is near her. She searches for him.This pas de deux is highly expressive. Every time that Psyche thinks she touches him,one can see that joy in feeling, that sweet voluptuousness spread over her face. When Love steps away from her, sadness and despondency make her fine eyes grow dull; the movements of her heart are painted there. (Journal encyclopiddique 1Jan. 1756,7677)

The formula of two lovers "running after one another, dodging, crying, falling in a passion, making peace again," which Goldoni says typified eighteenth-century pas de deux, is most evident in Michael Rosing's description of a performance by Auguste Vestris and Marie-Madeleine Guimard in 1788 (Schyberg 1943,225-26): [Their] pas de deux was a quarrel between two lovers. . . . Guimard was angry because Vestris had been away for so long (I refer to them by their own names), and rejects his excuses. He pursues her in the most beautiful manner in the world, and whenever she tries to escape, he is standing in her path; both were continuously assuming novel and beautiful poses, but none was more worthy of the greatest painter's brush than the final tableau when in her anger she wants to escape from him and he catches her in flight. She lies across him in his arms, supporting herself on one toe, and there he stands holding her like the most handsome Hercules and the most beautiful God of Love any painter could imagine. The couple melted into one another, and conquered every heart. I have seen Guimard many times, but she

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seemed revitalised on being reunited with her Vestris. (Trans. in Guest 1996,272)

The cultivation of voluptuousness in pas de deux was brought perhaps to its greatest height in the eighteenth century by the two famed principal dancers of the Paris Opera Gaetan Vestris and Guimard. A pas de deux performed by them in 1777, for example, betrayed a design "involving some passion" so blatantly that a critic in the JournaI des fhiifres (15 Dec. 1777, 83-84) dismissed it as "indecent": Monsieur Vestris and Mademoiselle Guimard have been received by the public with the transport that they are always certain to excite. As for us, we will own that we are always amazed that at a time when our entertainments are becoming more refined, there are still performed on our stages dances which because of their indecency ought to be ruthlessly banned. Be aware that it is not the gracious sort that we wish to exclude but the lascivious kind, and it is to this latter sort, it strikes us, that the pas de deux danced by Monsieur Vestris and Mademoiselle Guimard belongs. This genre, which can contribute nothing to the drama, whatever it may be, seems to us fit only for breeding thoughts of voluptuousness in the heads of youth, who are already too susceptible thereto.

Gaetan Vestris was in fact taken to task by more than one critic for the excessive voluptuousness in his dancing; in a review of the Paris Opera's 1772 remounting of Rameau's Castor e f Pollux, a critic in the Mercure de France (Mar. 1772,162)writes that "the pas de deux that he performs with Mademoiselle Guimard moves the spectator involuntarily, and if we had a reproach to make toward Monsieur Vestris, it would be of having shown perhaps too much voluptuousness to hearts which no longer ought to know the agitation of the senses or the movement of the passions." The representation of seduction on the stage of the Paris Opera and on that of her pornographic thedtre clandestin was clearly a specialty of the ever popular Guimard as well. As a critic in the Journal des fhidfresputs it (1May 1778,129), "voluptuousness always guides the steps, eyes, and arms of Mademoiselle Guimard. This lovely dancer creates enchanting tableaux with Monsieur Vestris. It is the fashion that 'one becomes inflamed and swoons in the arms of one's lover.' This is brought to life by rather frequent taking hold of the

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body.” A critic in the Journal de inusique (July 1770,9)found Guimard no less sensual: “Voluptuousness seems to come to life and play among the steps of Mademoiselle Guimard; Monsieur Gardel, who partners her, makes her no less seductive.” Gardel exhibited the same talent for portraymg the sensual as her partner in the danced segments of Zai’s mounted at the Paris Opera on 13 June 1769. The one pantomime section, ”that of L’oracZe[,] especially won the greatest approbation; it is performed by Monsieur Gardel and Mademoiselle Guimard. These two dancers fully exhibit in their movements, in their attitudes, and in their intertwining everything most expressive that voluptuousness could desire” (Bachaumont 1780, 14 June 1769,4:253). Even more generally, whether in or out of a pas de deux, the individual styles of many dancers from the eighteenth century, despite their differences, betrayed a certain seductiveness and even at times a blatant lustfulness. Earlier, Prevost had been celebrated for her “amorous attitudes” (Martello 1715, 230), whde the dancing of her English contemporary Hester Santlow had betrayed a decided sensuality. A certain James Thomson writes to a Dr.Cranston in a letter dated 3 April 1725 that “she dances so deliciously, has such melting lascivious motions, airs and postures” (cited in Ralph 1985,56),which doubtless stood her in good stead to portray the character of Venus in Weaver‘s pantomime ballet TIE Loves of Mars and Venus. Noverre (1807, 2:103), recollecting the dancing of the famed Salle, remarks upon ”her voluptuous dance.” Dorat (1771, 169) similarly notes of Sall6 that “sweet voluptuousness ruled her steps, animated her looks, and played in her arms.”Puvignk was similarly celebrated for her painting of desire and voluptuousness in her dancing: “ t h bewitching dancer, who through her gentle looks and diverse talents, amazes, ravishes, and interests Paris, France, and the world. On her lips Love breathes and her arms form sweet chains. I see Zephyr’s wings at her feet, and she has the smile, camage, and lightness of the Graces. She paints desire and even voluptuousness” (Mercure de France June 1755, 164-65). Teresa Folgiazzi Angiolini, the wife of the famed ballet master Angiolini, was ”a dancer for the voluptuous admirer” (Journal &anger May 1760, 110).Allard’s intimate signs to the pit of the Paris Opera in a performance of Les trois iges de Z ’ @ h in 1778 struck one critic as an invitation for a midnight rendezvous: “When she appeared on the stage with forced and hardly decent movements of her legs, shoulders, and arms,I thought I beheld one of those fine demoiselles

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who go to take refreshment at a garden tavern, and by her continual signs to the pit, I thought that she was inviting someone of her acquaintance to come and have a midnight snack with her” (Journal des the‘itres 1May 1778,129).Above all, the dancing of Gaetan Vestris’s sister ThMse, ”that pleasing dancer of voluptuousness” (Mercure de France Aug. 1755,208), was marked by an outright lustful character: ”Mademoiselle Vestris is ever the mistress of a voluptuous and even lustful dance; those who uphold morality endlessly reproach her for this, a fault that they inwardly forgive as long as the flesh holds some sway over them” (Bachaumont 1780,8Jan. 1762,138). Descriptions of performances throughout the century indicate that the prevailing ”style” of dance cultivated during this period was the voluptuous. With regard to the Songe d’Alcidbiade, for example, mounted at the Paris Opera in 1721, a critic in the Nouveau Mercure (Mar. 1721, 22) asks the reader to ”consider the voluptuous movements of all these women who dance; it is in these movements that the perfection of this art is made to consist. The ones that you see applauded are those who know best how to be expressive. They are the same women who are paid to corrupt youth.” The ballets included in the Paris Opera‘s mounting of Alciinadure in 1768 were in like manner ”picturesque, voluptuous, and gay“ (Mercure de France Sept. 1768, 119).the Morizing Post (19 Feb. 1789) notes in its description of a rehearsal at London’s King’s Theater in 1789 that the dancing of some of the women was so enticing in their state of de‘shabille‘ that the famed choreographer Noverre was evidently overcome by a ”luxuriousness,” or lustfulness, worthy of a sultan in a harem: Noverre, and a set of voluptuousfigurantes. . . engrossed the stage, and the gallant ballet-master seemed to be so delighted with many of their movements, that he had them repeated before him till he seemed to be entranced into a state of Asiatic luxuriousness. The dance which these nymphs, most of whom were in a state of enticing dishabille, were thus rehearsing, is to be something about the jealousie of the Sultan. (cited in Price et al. 1995,528)

Noverre et al. (1807, 2:llO) was later to confess that “nothing is as beautiful or as seductive to the eye and to the imagination as seeing twenty young sultanas, one fairer and prettier than the other, vying in their gracefulness and their provocative gestures for the hanky held by the Sultan,” the token granting a sultana the right to spend a night with her master.

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The eighteenth-century dancer's preoccupation with voluptuousness and seduction becomes perhaps most apparent at the very end of the period when seen in sharp contrast with an emerging preference in the nineteenth century for an idealized and even sexless ballerina, a disembodied spirit in her airy white purity, who is more a denizen of the other world than of the boudoir. This striking shift in taste from the sensual to the ideal, doubtless a reaction to the decadence of the ancien regime and a manifestation of a newfound antithetical sense of propriety and respectability, is well captured in Veron's comparison (1854, 3:304) of the two schools of Auguste Vestris and Taglioni the Elder. While Vestris, an even greater rake than his father, encouraged seductiveness and coquettishness on stage, Taglioni, who created a world of uniform otherworldly feminine spirits in his ballet La sylphide of 1832, would brook no indecency or immodesty in dance: Vestris taught grace and seduction. He was a sensualist, who demanded provocative smiles, poses, and attitudes almost without decency and modesty. I often heard him say to his female pupils in a cynical tone, "my dear friends, be charming and coquettish; show in all your movements the most arousing liberty. You must inspire love, both during and after your pas, such that the pit and orchestra would wish to go to bed with you." The school, the style, and the language of Monsieur Taglioni the Elder was quite the opposite; he too demanded a graceful facility of movement, of lightness, of elevation especially, of bnllon, but he did not allow his daughter [Mane Talgoni] a gesture or an attitude that lacked decency or modesty. (cited in Pastori 1980?,52)

NOTES 1. The duchesse d'Orleans may have also had in mind here the 1695 scandal surrounding the convent school of Saint Cyr, established by Louis XIV's pious mistress Madame de Maintenon. A number of the girls at the convent were evidently caught in flagrante delicto. A book disclosing the goings-on at the convent elicited the following account by the duchesse in a letter dated 15 September of the same year (1984,88): The story of Saint Cyr is worse than it is written in the book, and funnier, too. The young maids there fell in love with each other and were caught in committing indecenciestogether. They say that Madame de Maintenon wept bitter tears about this and had all the relics exposed in order to drive out the demons of

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lewdness. Also, a preacher was dispatched to preach against lewdness. But he himself said such filthy things that the good and modest girls could not stand it and walked out of the church, while the others, the guilty ones, were so taken by the giggles that they could not hold them in.

2. According to The Connoisseur (21 Nov. 1754), the "flesh market" of the English theater was in the upper boxes rather than the pit: "Before I quit this part of the [playlhouse I must take notice of that division of the upperboxes, properly distinguished by the name of the Flesh Market. There is frequently as much art used to make the flesh exhibited here look wholesome, and (as Tim says in the farce) 'all over red and white like the inside of a shoulder of mutton,' as there is by the butchers to make their veal look white; and it is as often rank carrion and flyblown." 3. The population of London in the 1720s is estimated to have been about half a million. 4. The expression "to toss one's hanky to someone," that is, to choose someone as a bedfellow, is an allusion to the custom among Turkish sultans whereby the woman chosen from the harem to spend the night with the sultan was marked out by having a handkerchief thrown at her.

Chapter 9

Chorkgraphie: Choreographic Representation and Misrepresentation The chorigruphies [i.e., dance notations] of Thoinet Arbeau and of Feuillet (and that of which Beauchamps had himself declared author by a ruling of the parlemenf) are merely the rudiments of dance. (Cahusac 1754, preface)

Perhaps in no other period was dance as popular as it was in the eighteenth century; its presence was felt in nearly every kind of theatrical work throughout almost the whole of the century. Dances or even whole ballets were inserted in or between the acts of plays, pantomime entertainments, and operas. The dancing, wluch, at least in theory, was meant to be but an accessory or added embellishment, often constituted the major focal point of interest for the spectators and the main attraction to go to the theater. As a critic in the Mercure de France (July 1774,1:163) remarks in connection with French opera particularly, "today dance has reached a perfection which causes it to dominate our operas although it is but an accessory to the action according to the plan of the libretto." Or as an earlier critic put it (Mercure de France Aug. 1755,236), "dance today is the principal resource of all the spectacles of Paris" and indeed in most European theaters of the period. Dance figured prominently not only in the theater but also in redoutes, at assemblies and other social functions, where amateurs from all walks of life indulged their love of "footing it" on the parquet. As Nemeitz indicates (1727,71), "everyone today learns to dance the minuet, such that even journeymen among cobblers and tailors aspire to excel in it." This widespread love of dancing, both amateur and professional, in the eighteenth century was 311

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merely part of a larger passion for the arts broadly in the same period, one shared by high and low. This enthusiasm for the arts reached its zenith in Italy especially. Indeed, as one critic puts it Uournal e‘trangerApr. 1757,64),“the Roman people of old asked only for bread and circus. The Roman of today has kept this same passion for the theater,” while with regard to music nothing is more frequent in that Country, than to hear a Cobbler working to an Opera Tune. You can scarce see a Porter that has not one Nail much longer than the rest, which you will find, upon Enquiry, is cherished for some Instrument. In short, there is not a Labourer, or Handicraft-Man, that in the Cool of the Evening does not relieve himself with Solo’s and Sonnata’s. (The Tnfler 8 Sept. 1710)

The marked and widespread predilection for dance during this period resulted in the creation of hundreds of ballets throughout the century; the famed choreographer Jean-Georges Noverre, for example, mounted over a hundred works alone in his lifetime. Sadly enough, almost no choreography from the eighteenth-century theater has come down to us, or at least little has been unearthed in libraries or other collections. Of all the pantomime ballets created in the period, only one, Galeotti’s Whims of Cupid and the Ballet Master of 1786, has survived into the repertory of modem classical ballet, specifically in that of the Royal Danish Ballet, although it is impossible to tell how much of the original choreography has been preserved. Only the music and story of Lafille inal garde‘e as created by Dauberval in 1789 is extant, but even the original score is rarely heard today in modem reconstructions of the ballet. Similarly, only scattered scenarios of other ballets survive, sometimes with their musical scores. The little choreography from the eighteenth-century stage that is extant, together with a sizable body of ballroom dances, is largely preserved in a crude dance notation that was called in its day chore‘graphie. It is more commonly known today as Beauchamps-Feuillet notation, so called after the men who invented and promoted it around the turn of the eighteenth century. Notable here are the published collections brought out by Feuillet (1700, 1704), Gaudrau (1713?),and Roussau (1725?)early in the century, containing dances in this notation that were evidently performed on stage, mainly by one or two dancers. Some of these, such as those in Feuillet (1704),

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are noted as having been “danced at the [Paris] Opera,” while some of those from Roussau’s collection were ”performed both in DrdrlyLane and Lincoln’s-Inn-Fiellis” in London. In addition to these publications, there is extant a manuscript dating from around 1782, assembled by a certain Auguste FerrPre in Valencienne, containing fifty pages of music together with choreographic notes or notation for two short pantomime ballets and some dance interludes dating from the period roughly 1751-1782. These few samples of theatrical choreography taken out of context have been in part responsible for some of the misconceptions about the level of technical sophistication in eighteenth-century ballet. Some dance historians make sweeping claims about the nature of early eighteenth-century choreography as a whole and the level of technical accomplishment reached by dancers of the period based solely on these notations. Hilton (1998,343), for example, writes that the major collections of theater dances were published in 1700 and 1704 (Feuillet)and c. 1714 (Gaudrau) and c. 1725 (Rousseau).Although virtuosic dances for men appear in each book, the last two volumes show a rapid development in women’s technique. In the last collection, women are perfonning pirouettes a la seconde of as many as one-and-ahalf revolutions.

Hilton violates here one of the most basic principles of historiography, namely, that a scholar must not confound historical document with history, that the absence of an element in the former does not necessarily substantiate an absence in the latter. Thus Hilton simplistically construes the compilers’ choice of dances in these early published sources, which she evidently assumed to be a cross section of mainstream dance for the period, as proof of a change in the level of technical accomplishment among women dancers of the early eighteenth century as a whole. This confusion is further complicated by her failure to consider for whom these published collections of dances were intended or to which particular style of dance these notations belonged. When considered in the light of both the system of different styles cultivated in the eighteenth-century theater and descriptions of dance performances from the period, it becomes quite apparent that the bulk of these published notations belong in fact to the grave style, whch was not the most common or representative style of

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eighteenth-century ballet for most of Europe. If taken as such, these notations will give a greatly skewed view of the nature of early eighteenth-century choreography. The grave style, especially at the beginning of the century, was traditionally restricted to slower dance movements such as sarabands, passacailles, Zoures, sometimes minuets and chaconnes, and thus to mainly terre-a-terre steps and small jumps with few capers, and most of the dances in notation are in fact composed to such slow grave movements or other music marked simply “grave” or ”slow.” Of the eleven dances bearing tempo or movement markings found in the collection of thirteen pieces published by Roussau, for example, there are two chaconnes, two passacailles, one saraband, one minuet, one Turkish march, a “pastoral” in two parts (the first marked “slow” and the second ”hornpipe”), one jig, and one marked canaries. Thus the last three, the hornpipe, jig, and canaries, are the only dance movements of the eleven that traditionally betray any animation in tempo. Those dances that are extant in published notation and composed to more animated movements, such as jigs, which more typically belong to the other nonserious styles, or those which are of a less serious and lofty character, such as the Turkish march in Roussau’s collection, betray a marked absence of capering. These very few notations of dances in a less grave vein are in marked contrast to descriptions of dance performances from the period and other references to the nature of theatrical dance. In vain does one look in these notations for the “many capers” that Bonin (1712,159,167)says typified theatrical dance, such as sequences of entrechats crossing the stage, or strings of capers wherein the dancer can ”show how the body can rise ever more and more and how high the body can do this,” as Pasch puts it (1707, 80). Absent also are ”those Cuts in thair” that A Satyr Against Dancing (1702,6) claims ”mined” every scene on the stage, a sequence of twenty entrechats a huit such as de Brosses saw in Italy in 1739-1740, the ”entrechats to the right and to the left” that Casanova (1961, 2A41-42) saw Camargo execute in 1750, and the “war of entrechts” at the Comedie-italienne in 1755 (Mercure de France June 1755, 2:199). Similarly missing are the ”capering about to the point of exhaustion” typical of stage dancing according to Algarotti (1755,21), sequences of forty or so entrechats a six, such as performed by Pitrot and mentioned by Khevenhiiller, and the ”eight to ten battements” within two bars of music that Magri (1779,1:23-24) claims was typical of the dancing in his day. The

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first figure from one of the most difficult male solos found in these early-eighteenth-century dance collections, Gaudrau (1713?, 2:104), contains only six capers within eighteen bars of music, two cabrioles en sauf de basque, one royale, one entrechat a six, one coizfrefeinpsdouble en cloche cabriolk, and one pistoleffe. Such a low percentage of capers among the steps in this first figure is by no means atypical of other comparable dances extant in the published collections by Feuillet, Gaudrau, and Roussau; indeed, many of the dances contain an even lower percentage of such jumps. In contrast, some of the dances found in the unpublished Ferrere manuscript come closer to the descriptions of stage dancing found in sources throughout the period. The pas d’une punfoinirne d’Ifalie, for example, the first pas de deux from the pantomime ballet Le peinfre umoureux de son inodde composed to allegro music, contains a far greater proportion of ”Cuts in th’air.” After the opening twelve bars, almost every other step in the next twenty measures is either a brisk or an entreclzaf L? cinque. The Roman numerals in the following quotation indicate the number of bars for the immediately preceding steps given, while the Arabic numbers indicate the total number of measures for the figure. 1)Eight measures are played before the entrance; two chasse‘s b qitatre pas, contre[tempsJ double en arri2re iiii (4). [2)] Brisi dessus, deiiiicont[reteinps] i; brise‘ dessous, deini-contfreteinps] i; coupe en flier] ii (4).3 ) Contfretemps]double, entlreclmt] b cinque ii; contrepas [i.e., the same on the other side] ii; the same iiii (8). 4) Chasse einboite‘ en tournant, entfrechatl ri cinque ii; contrepas ii; the same iiii (8). (Ferrhre 1782?, 2)

The question then arises, why do the published dances, some of which the compilers indicate were performed on stage or were at least theatrical-like, fail to agree with the characterization of mainstream ballet found in so many sources throughout the period, which indicate that generally such dancing was composed mainly of beaten jumps? One reason already given is that most of the dances in the published sources belong to the serious style, which was mainly a terre-a-terre style employing far fewer capers. The handful of dances, moreover, found in the published collectionsnot belonging to this style appear to be mainly relatively simpler pieces; some of these were taken from the stage and were suitable for accomplished amateurs to learn and even perform alongside dancing masters in divertissements at assemblies,

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at masquerades, or in amateur theatrical productions, for then as now, people from different walks of life studied ballet as a form of recreation and acquired a measure of proficiency in it. Indeed, there is no evidence to suggest that the dances recorded in Feuillet notation and extant in published collections such as those given above constitute a cross section of mainstream theatrical dance for any part of the eighteenth century or were intended to be of use to professional dancers in the theater. The published notations tell us more about the level of proficiency reached by some amateurs and dancing masters outside the theater than about the technical accomplishments of professional dancers on the stage. Despite the widespread love of capering during this period, not all the dancing seen on the eighteenth-century stage consisted of stunningly difficult feats of strength, such as lengthy sequences of repeated entrechats i six or i huit; simpler dances in various styles were clearly created and performed on stage throughout the period. The dance, music, and plot of La sibyle, the first act of Les @tes d’Euferpe, mounted at the Paris Opera in August of 1758, for example, were conspicuously simple in a century enamored of capers and complexity, according to a critic in the Mercure de France (Sept. 1758, 189), who notes that La sibyle has the simplicity of the good old days. The story is about a quarrel between lovers, which is settled by a Sibyl. The composer of music imitated the naive style of the poet, for the music is in the most graceful and touching style of romances, and the same style is observed in the dance as in the singing. It even seems that this imitation was felt to be too slavish. This spectacle would have been livelier, more vaned, and more charming to our century if it had painted less faithfully the simple mores of past times.

According to Despreaux (1806,2:263), the demi-caractere and comic dancer Jean Dauberval throughout his career ”charmed all of Paris without ever having done one tour de force.” Just such an absence of feats of strength characterized a dance for Scythians choreographed by Noverre to appear in Gluck‘s opera Iphigknie en Tauride, mounted at the Paris Opera in 1779. As a critic in the Mercure de France (15 June 1779,179)notes of Noverre‘s dances for the opera, the first, although of great simplicity, is worthy of this celebrated composer; it paints truthfully and forcefully the cruel joy of a savage peo-

Chorkgraphie:Choreographic Representation and Misrepresentation 317 ple, who lead in triumph two victims and rejoice in the thought of soon seeing their blood flow. It is very well executed by all the men dancers and above all by Messieurs Gardel and Dauberval, who marvelously render the dance of the two chiefs of the savages in steps and movements which are simple yet energetic and well characterized. The phrase ”great simplicity” well describes a number of dances found in the published collections that were evidently danced on stage, such as the pastoral entree (Gaudrau 1713?,2:27-32) that was performed by Dumoulin and Guyot in the opera Se‘me‘lke, for example, and that contains not one caper. Indeed, overly difficult dances would certainly have been beyond the abilities of many amateurs. The compilers of such collections needed to include simpler dances within the range of accomplished nonprofessionals, especially dances in the serious style, which was the least technically difficult of all the styles used in the eighteenth-century theater and which most amateurs would have had the greatest success in cultivating, with the most difficult dances included for highly accomplished amateurs and dancing masters to learn and perform. That these compilations were intended not for professional dancers on stage but for dancing masters and accomplished amateurs outside the theater is most evident from the prefaces to the compilations themselves, which explicitly and invariably indicate that the collections were meant for the latter clientele. Feuillet (1700) notes in his preface that “it cannot be denied that it [choregraphie] is very useful and most advantageous to dancing masters, both those in Paris and those in the Provinces and even in other kingdoms, and finally to students,” and that with regard to the dances found in the collection “there are some for masters and others for students already advanced in this exercise.” Feuillet’s 1704 collection was in fact laid out like a textbook, progressing from the easy to the difficult, and thus contained something for all levels of ability. As Feuillet notes in his preface, ”all the dances found in this collection are arranged in a manner so that one can equally make use of them as lessons; I have placed those for women at the beginning, as they are the easiest, and those for the men at the end, as they are the most difficult, such that one will find in this work something that will satisfy, for there are very easy and very difficult dances for both men and women and for one or two persons.” Gaudrau (1713?)similarly writes in his preface that the dances in his collection were for

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dancing masters to learn and to teach, that these pieces were ”of use to masters in order to learn for themselves or to teach with ease outstanding selections of dance,” and that as such these dances constituted ”excellent lessons capable of training persons attached to dance and capable of making them perfect” and were intended mainly for the more accomplished: “As I imagine that those who will make use of my book are already advanced in dance and in the knowledge of chorigraphie, I will not lay out its principles here.” Roussau (1725?)in like manner indicates in his preface that his collection was for amateurs: ”I dare flatter my self that Persons who are Lovers of Dancing, will find in this Collection wherewith to satisfie themselves.” Handbooks dealing with the conventions of the notation also indicate that choregaphie was largely the concern of amateurs and dancing masters. Rameau’s Abbrkgi of 1725, for example, a textbook outlining a modified version of Feuillet’s original notation, was clearly intended to be a supplementary aid for mainly amateurs in their study of dance. As Rameau writes in his preface, after having endeavored as best I could to reveal the usefulness of dancing, both in itself and in relation to the necessary rules of civilized life, which can be seen in my book Le m i t r e d danser, I thought that it was not enough to have shown how to do the movements correctly and do all the steps according to the rules of the art; I thought that it was necessary to add to it this treatise on chorigraphie in order to make learning easier and shorten the time it takes. It is even a recognition that I owe to the public for the favorable reception that it accorded my first work. There are many persons, who after having learnt all the dances, forget them because they have stopped practicing them. This treatise will help them remember everything that they begin to forget, and without the bother of bringing in new masters, they will be able themselves to find their way back to the measure of the steps and all the correct movements, which will doubtless be an agreeable recreation for them. I will also say that dancing masters will not disdain using it themselves, and I flatter myself that they will find a sure path in order to find the correct form of dances and one so simple at the same time that they will not need to return to it more than ten times in order to have a perfect understanding of it.

The reviewer of Magny‘s 1771 edition of Principes de chorigraphie, a slightly altered version of Feuillet’s Chorkgraphie of 1700, in like manner notes that such a work was meant for amateurs. He writes that

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”this elementary chorkgraphie will be of use to amateurs of dance, to those who wish to read or write an air of dance as one reads or writes an air of music” (Mercure de France July 1771,2:183-84). Other sources make it clear that the use of chorkgraphie was largely confined to the work of dancing masters who needed to keep abreast of new fashions for ballroom dances or needed pedagogical material for their more accomplished students. Sol (1725), for example, writes in his preface that no one is unaware that for a long time dance has been in vogue and that we have had kings and princes who have mastered the art, and we still have examples of them today. Moreover, we have an author, a dancing master from Paris, who has worked out chortgraphie, which is something most necessary to all dancing masters but even more so to those in the provinces, who without having learnt this chorigraphie would not be able to get the new dances from Paris and would be obliged to go there in order to learn the new ones or ask someone, even students themselves who might not recall, about those they no longer remember and thus would not be able to give them correctly.

Noverre (1760,363-64) also alludes to the popularity of the notation among dancing masters as a means of communicating social dances, for such ”masters send each other little contredunses and brilliant and difficult pieces, such as the menuet d’Anjou, la bretagne, la marike, Ze passepied, not to mention further Zesfolies d’Espagne, la pavanne, la courunte, la bourrke d’AchilZe and Z’allemande.” The Tatler (31 Oct. 1709) gives an amusing satirical account of a dancing master “reading” such dances in notation, much to the annoyance of those dwelling in the same building, who were incommoded by the sounds of the dancing master hitting the floor in his jumping about. The narrator, watching the man through a keyhole and evidently unfamiliar with the phenomenon of dance notation, thought him perhaps “disorder ’d.” He discovered later that the individual was in fact learning a new dance from a book, that he was a master who would not reveal anything of the notation ”without a Consideration,” or payment: I looked in at the Key-hole, and there I saw a well-made Man look with great Attention on a Book, and on a sudden jump into the Air so high, that his Head almost touch‘d the Sieling. He came down safe on his Right Foot, and again flew up alighting on his Left; then lookd again

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at his Book, and holding out his Right Leg, put it into such a quivering Motion, that I thought he would have shak’d it off. He us’d the Left after the same Manner, when on a sudden, to my great Surprize, he stoop’d himself incredibly low, and tum’d gently on his Toes. After this circular Motion, he continu’d bent in that humble Posture for some Time, looking on his Book. After this, he recover’d himself with a sudden Spring, and flew round the Room in all the Violence and Disorder imaginable, till he made a full Pause for Want of Breath. In this Interim my Woman ask‘d what I thought: I whisper’d, that I thought this learned Person an Enthusiast, who possibly had his first Education, in the Peripatetick Way, which was a Sect of Philosophers who always study’d when walking. But observing him much out of Breath, I thought it the best Time to master him if here were disorder’d, and knock‘d at his Door. I was surpris’d to find him open it, and say with great Civility and good Mien, That he hoped he had not disturb’d us. I believ’d him in a lucid Interval, and desir’d he’d please to let me see his Book. He did so, smiling. I could not make any Thing of it, and therefore ask’d in what Language it was writ. He said, It was one he study‘d with great Application; but it was his Profession to teach it, and could not communicate his Knowledge without a Consideration.I answer’d, That I hop‘d he would hereafter keep his Thoughts to himself; for his Meditation this Morning had cost me Three Coffee-Dishes, and a clean Pipe. He seem’d concem’d at that, and told me, he was a Dancing-Master, and had been reading a Dance or Two before he went out, which had been written by one who taught at an Academy in France. He observ’d me at a stand, and went on to inform me, That now articulate Motions, as well as Sounds, were express’d by proper Characters; and that there is nothing so common, as to communicate a Dance by a Letter. I beseech’d him hereafter to meditate in a Ground Room; for that otherwise it would be impossible for an Artist of any other Kind to live near him; and that I was sure several of his Thoughts this Morning would have shaken my Spectacles off my Nose, had I been my self at Study. According to Pauli (1756,54-57), these more artful and challenging dances a s found in the compilations were known a s dames d’exercice, that is “practice dances” or ”study dances.” They served a twofold function: first, to allow the amateur to develop greater skill in dancing, and, second, to provide him with more artful dances to perform a s entertainments or ”ornaments” at balls: The d a m e d‘exercice, this is a composite of steps and symmetrically determined figures for one or also two or more persons, to get used to

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dancing generally or to practice one of its elements. Thus there are solos, duets (or dances for two), triolets, and quadrilles. These dances are composites of all the types possible, of all the steps, of all the figures, to all the tunes that lend themselves to dancing, which train those who endeavor through dance to cultivate themselves and make themselves skillful as well as to serve as models and dances for celebration days and for entertainments, for in the past these danses d’exercice, or danses de composition, were the ornaments at balls, since only grave and noble dances well befitted persons of distinction and of a fine air. At the French court, persons of great standing, the princes, and the king himself danced only serious and grave dances. At the balls given by Louis XIV on the occasion of the Duchesse de Bourgogne‘smarriage [in 16971, great pains were taken to allow la belle danse to shine. The French court set the tone for galanteries among the courts of Europe and prided itself on the fact that the dancing at balls followed the French model. There were only new dances bearing the stamp of the French. As the art of printing or engraving dances was known then, a collection of danses d’exercice or danses de bal were published yearly in Paris by privilege of the king. They were composed by the foremost masters of the French court, whose names were always given below [the titles of] the pieces, and as their reception was always certain, in no time they made their way throughout Europe by means of chorkgraphie. The same dance was done in St. Petersburg that had been danced four weeks earlier at Versailles, since the art of writing dances makes the communication of the steps and the figures of a dance wondrously easy in a letter. Although the danses d‘exercice have fallen out of favor at balls and are hardly danced any more in public, their practice must not be neglected, as the connoisseurs and amateurs of serious dance will acknowledge. These figured dances, which are more varied and various in their steps and figures than simple plain dances, alone possess the property of developing the body, of rendering it agile, of making its movements light, the which gives life to dance and grace and ease to the dancer. There are all sorts, with all the movements, for all characters and personalities. They are brought to life by suitably chosen tunes, grave, tender, lively, gay, and animated,which sharpen the ear. Among their steps are mixed little jumps and turns which fix the body’s center of gravity and keep it balanced. The arms, which support the steps and movements, allow the body to achieve good balance by way of counterpoise.

This practice of enlivening balls with presentations by more accomplished dancers in more artful ”practice dances” served as a sort of diversion for those assembled at balls or other such functions by

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breaking up the all too frequent monotony of endless minuets, which dominated the ballroom for most of the eighteenth century. The famous German dancing master Johann Pasch, for example, included even performances of whole pantomime ballets by his students as diversions at his regular weekly balls in Leipzig before his death in 1710. As Taubert recalls (1717,938), I remember having seen among many others a very artful ballet in Leipzig, which was presented in the form of a fair by the worldcelebrated dancing master (whose fame must outlast even his death), namely Pasch, together with his pupils, or gentlemen students, at one of his ordinary weekly balls, and it was certainly not one of the slightest, for almost everything that usually happens at a fair was most clearly expressed in particular steps, facial expressions, and gestures with particular art: The quack presented his quackery with most quackish gestures and movements, while Harlequin did all sorts of things, the dentist pulled teeth, the paperboy sold his lies, the cutpurse did all manner of thieving, and so forth. And all of this was done with all the characteristic movements, facial expressions, and gestures of each in good order and according to the cadence so that one could clearly enough understand what this or that was to mean.

In like manner, the accomplished amateur Mademoiselle de Beaujolais, to whom Rameau dedicated his Abbrkgk of 1725, endeavored to entertain an assembly of ballroom dancers with a theatrical piece when she opened a ball in 1730 by dancing some form of the stage dance Les caracterrs d r la danse: This ball without masks began at six o'clock in the evening, with an excellent symphony made up of the most skillful in Paris, and ended at eleven o'clock. Mademoiselle de Beaujolais opened the ball with Les caracteres de In danse, which she danced with the Duke de la Tremoille with the greatest perfection, intelligence, justness, and grace possible, as did Mademoiselle de Chartres in everything that she danced. Most of the lords and ladies then danced several different dances, contredanses, and so forth. (Mercure de Fraiice Feb. 1730,412)

The fashion of amateurs dancing a performance piece for the diversion of those assembled at a ball is also alluded to in Daniel Defoe's novel Roxma ([1724] 1982,216-17), wherein Roxana dances a "Turki s h dance, which she learnt in France, in order to amuse the company at a social function. Not only amateurs but also dancing masters could

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enliven festivities with a performance piece. Bonin (1712,53-54), for example, alludes to this practice, noting with regard to ballroom dance that ”such dances are mostly done in large rooms, halls, or other chambers and belong only to those who do not in fact make a profession of this exercise, for a master commonly dances high when he does a solo; he may be asked for something gentle as well, as it is not at all fitting to do many springs and capers with a woman.” Pauli notes that by the middle of the eighteenth century, French danses d’exercice had largely ”fallen out of favor at balls” and were hardly danced anymore in public as purely recreational dances. It is clear, however, that the practice of amateurs dancing more artful dances as display pieces did not altogether disappear in the second half of the century, however much more popular they may have been in the first part of the period. Magri (1779, 1:52) similarly alludes to a decline in interest in such dances as forms of recreation at balls. In connection with his description of the balanck, he writes that “fdty years ago, this step was much used because at that time ballroom dances were more diversified. It was customary in the sarabande, I’Aimable Vainqueur, the passepied, les folies, and other like dances. Today such dances have fallen out of fashion, and at balls are seen nothing but contredanses, minuets, seldom an allemande, and at best a Scotch minuet.” The waning of interest in these dances, the natural result of the period’s overall preference for a freer, more romping style of dance on the parquet, is most palpably shown in the fact that such compilations of danses d’exercice more or less ceased to be published after around 1725, judging from the dates of publication for extant collections of these dances. It might be noted here as a historical aside that more artful French contredanses and national dances appear to have largely taken the place of the danses d’exercice as the more usual forms in social dance wherein amateurs could avail themselves of more difficult steps and movements. In Scotland, for example, the hornpipe, a dance belonging to the step-dancing tradition, was one such national dance commonly employed at “recital“ balls in some late-eighteenth-century Scottish dance schools as a form of welcome diversion and relief from endlessly repeated minuets. According to Topham (1776), at these balls the children dance minuets; which would be very tiresome and disagreeable, as well from the badness of the performances, as from the length of time they would take up were they regularly continued,but

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the dancing masters enliven the entertainment by introducing between the minuets their high dances (which is a kind of double hornpipe) in the execution of which they excel perhaps the rest of the world. I wish I had it in my power to describe to you the variety of figures and steps they put into it. Besides all those common to the hornpipe, they have a number of their own which I never saw or heard of; and their neatness and quickness in the performance of them is incredible; so amazing is their aghty that an Irishman, who was standingby me the other night, could not help exclaimingin his surprise ”that by Jesus he never saw children so handy with their feet in all his life.” (cited in Emerson 1972,156)

If not national dances then contredanses could provide opportunities for amateurs to dance in a more sophisticated manner at informal gatherings. As Sara Goudar notes (1777,1:41), theatrical dance is another extravagance of the century; it is bereft of taste and genius. It has been reduced to skill in capering and is a methodical and unregulated attempt at breaking one’s neck before a large number of spectators, who on such an occasion never fail to cry “bravo.” Sadly this jumping around has passed from the stage into civil society, for as I have already said, whatever is established on stage is always taken home. Formerly, our particular balls were grave assemblies, where decency reigned. Now people get together in a vestibule in order to gambol the whole night, and when they can no longer do so and are almost exhausted, they dance the minuet to relax.

Despreaux (1806, 2:280-81) in like manner notes that such contredanses, which were supposed to be venues for socializing, often degenerated into platforms for a shameless display of skill: ”Formerly different ballet figures were done in them, and the steps were very simple, but soon were admitted pas seuls or pas kccho; then the dancer sought to distinguish himself in them through his gracefulness, then through his lightness. This abuse led to difficulties, and tours de force took the place of grace and pleasing gaiety.” Perhaps one of the most common venues for amateurs to dance in a more theatrical vein with more artful dances of any kind was the masked ball, a rather disorderly affair generally where the anonymity of the masks ensured that the dancer could save face, as it were, in whatever transpired on the dance floor. Bonin (1712, 236-38) notes that masked balls were in fact “related to theatrical dance,” for the masked dancer was to ”express the character of his costume” rather than merely to strive to be charming and genteel:

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I have in this book made rather frequent mention of the masked balls, which amount to nothing other than the so-called masquerades and redoutes and are most closely allied with or related to theatrical dance. These balls do not proceed in an ordered fashion and no order of rank is upheld, as all are unknown due to the masks, and thus even the highest do not dance first, for they do not wish to reveal themselves but often appear only at the end. . . . If a man dresses like a woman, he must not then dance very high or caper, for that would not agree with the character of a woman and would not do no matter how well the jumps be done. If a woman, however, has learnt to dance high (which is rare) and is dressed like a man, no one would keep her from dancing high but rather would take delight in her nimbleness. If it so happens that a woman clad, say, in the garb of a Roman, Persian, Amazon, or shepherd should wish to dance with a gentleman who is dressed as Harlequin or Scaramouche,it would be vile if the gentleman were to dance as one does in la belle dame and be most charming; he must rather express the character of his costume and rather often combine gentleness with a comic step and cut a ridiculous figure.

At such balls, the amateur dancer could not only represent a character but also freely employ such theatrical steps as capers if within his ability: It is to be noted that this [high] dance is used particularly on the stage in operas and plays; how rather tasteless it would be then if I were to dance in the described manner with a woman outside of the theater or masked balls or other such entertainments and form a whole minuet out of springing and capering. (Bonin 1712,57)

At masked balls not only the amateur male dancer but even his female counterpart could caper away. As Ferriol(l745,1:125-26) notes in connection with his description of beaten jumps, ”these capering steps are the most brilliant and graceful of those invented, but only men do them. Women do not, however, except when dancing in theaters or at masquerades.” At such balls with diversions of more artful dance, the amateur had more “freedom to jump and caper,” unlike at other functions, such as weddings or assemblies, where dance was not the main purpose of the gathering: And they then especially if their imagined ability is far from their true aptitude, would indeed be wiser to dance their minuets nice and gently at weddings and to keep their cabrioles for balls, ”where the freedom to jump and caper is more readily allowed than at weddings, for

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[at the latter] many sorts of people are present who may not have the taste for such fancy things but rather take delight in a gentle minuet,” as Meletaon well puts it in his treatise Von der Nutzbarkeit des Tantzens (ch. 14, p. 207, secs. 33 and 34). “This, however, does not mean,” he goes on, “that all capering is forbidden, for if one does not rise so high off the floor and if the beats are not done all too expansively, then one is still allowed to add a simple caper at a choice moment, but jumping all too strongly as if one wished to fly out the window is not proper, especially if in doing so one appears clumsy, affected, or peculiar. Hence I am of the opinion that in such a case a gentle minuet step, with a good bend, rise, and placement, is preferable by far to the most difficult cross-springs [i.e., entrechats] and other jumps, which in and of themselves are unworthy of any consideration because of their silliness.” (Taubert 1717,1157-58)

Danses d’exercice appear to have been used not only as ornaments at balls, assemblies, and masquerades but also as performance pieces on stage, either in amateur theatrical productions or occasionally even in the theater. Indeed, the ”pastoral,” one of the pieces included in Roussau’s collection of dances (1725?,65-71) that were ”performed both in Drufrly-Lane and Lilzcoln’s-lnn-Fields,” is identified as having been ”performed by a Gentleman.” In like manner, spectators at Drury Lane theater had occasion on 10 June 1713 to see performed a “Hornpipe by a Gentleman for his Diversion” (The London Stage 1960,2/i:304). Amateur theatrical productions thrived in the eighteenth century and provided opportunities for nonprofessionals to ape the gambols of stage dancers as best they could. Indeed, the delight on the part of amateurs in emulating theatrical performers generally was widespread throughout eighteenth-century Europe, particularly among the aristocracy and bourgeoisie. Amateurs formed their own dramatic societies to enact plays, for example, and some even went so far as to erect their own private little theaters wherein they could mount full-blown theatrical works for the amusement of themselves and their circle. As a critic in the Mercure de France notes (Apr. 1732, 775), never has the taste for declamation and theatrical representations been so strong or widespread, not only in France but also in foreign countries. In Pans and in some fine country homes in the environs, there are more than fifty theaters, very well appointed and suitably adorned, or particular societies take delight in enacting tragic and comic plays with much

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intelligence and finesse. Persons of the highest quality take part in them like those of the bourgeoisie. Some of these individuals, of either sex, shine with their most felicitous talent and draw well-deserved applause.

This love for amateur theatricals was no less marked in England. The Obserz7er (1785, #102) humorously remarks that if the present taste for private plays spreads as fast as most fashions do in this country, we may expect the rising generation will be, like the Greeks in my motto [natio comeda est], one entire nation of actors and actresses. A father of a family may shortly reckon it amongst the blessings of a numerous progeny, that he is provided with a sufficient company for his domestic stage, and may cast a play to his own liking, without going abroad for his theatrical amusements. (reprinted in Berguer 1823,39:337)

Dorat (1771, 29-30) also alludes to the popularity of amateur theatricals in the eighteenth century: Never has the talent for enacting plays been more welcome or more widespread. It is the amusement of our most brilliant societies. Almost all of these have their own theater and performers; our women have left their shuttles and their embroidery hoops in order to leaf their way through fine roles, and our young men, faithful imitators of these ladies, are not as good coachmen as they are better actors.

Not only plays but also operas were mounted by amateurs. Grimm (1877, 1:158) notes in the middle of the century that “the taste for plays and operas has become general. They are performed everywhere, and there are in Paris up to 160 societies which have theaters. You will find that of the King’s pefifsapparfements to be the most brilliant; the performers who have acquired the greatest celebrity there are Madame de Pompadour and the Dukes de Duras and de Nivernois.” The duke de Grammont was one noted opera buff who mounted operas in his small private theater, he himself appearing in them as a vocalist. Clement (1755,1:234)alludes to one such performance in the 1740s: ”Eight days ago, we had an opera at Monsieur the Duke de Grammont, at his house in Putteaux. He himself performed in it with very much grace; he has a fine figure and an agreeable voice and sings tastefully. The other roles were filled by two Fauconier ladies, one of whom was the favorite sultana, and by performers from the Paris Opera.”

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This passion for amateur theatrical representation was not limited to the performance of plays and operas but was also extended to theatrical dance and pantomime, to the point that the original function of social dance, namely, to develop graceful movement and skill in social interaction, at times became lost, much to the chagrin of Taubert (1717,1067-68),who laments that it is then, as matters stand, a very laugh-worthy thing that many pupils wish to learn to dance but do not properly apply themselves. They wish neither wisely to be instructed, nor wisely to practice and hone what they have been taught, nor even to be corrected by the dancing master. Instead of rightly taking the pains (in accordance with the purpose [of dance]) to acquire the courtesy and civil behavior, which is required everywhere these days and is to be gained through the practice of noble dance, many quite unwisely sink to le ballet comique et grotesque and wish to learn only comic peasant and ridiculous Scaramouche dances and pantomime.’ If, as is his duty, the master speaks to them of learning the riuirences required everywhere and elegant turns [of phrases] and so forth, they listen to it once or twice, if at all, as if it were an unworthy thing to be bought with money and do so with nothing but vexed countenancesthat they clearly give to understand they have come to learn how to dance and not to spend the time learning fetching behavior. [If only] thus, this would be well. If they have seen perchance a true dancer perfom an entrke or solo at the opera, at a ball, or somewhere else, they at once wish to do nothing but capers and great springs into the air and fly, as it were, before they have even been fledged. As a result of this,the foundation is neglected, which can only be laid with the low ballroom dances and with the courunte and minuet in particular, and consequently these dancers remain bunglers for life both in the art of dance as well as in the art of social intercourse, for they have not adequately cultivated either the rpZwences ’ or other fetching gestus, not to mention that they often have neither the predisposition and stature nor the requisite strength needed for capering.

Martinet (1797,21) similarly notes that ”one copies and often models oneself on the dancers from the theater.” Such a cultivation of acting, singing, and dancing, even performing before an audience, was felt to be beneficial to amateurs, making them adopt easy and free manners needed for their more mundane pursuits in life. This at least was the thinking behind the yearly amateur theatrical productions mounted by the students at the Jesuit College de Louis le Grand in Paris. As a critic in the Mercure de France notes (Aug. 1726,1892),

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it is known that in many of the colleges, the youth from time to time are made to enact some tragedy or some comic dramas and that often ballets are danced in them. The Jesuits of the College de Louis le Grand always have one every year. They take great pains to provide with a divertissement their young scholars and the public, who always take part. The divertissement is very useful to the students in preparing them for the pulpit and the bar, in making them adopt easy and free manners so that they will be able to speak in public with grace.

In such performances, the students might even share the stage with professional dancers, as they did in the allegorical ballet forming part of the CollPge’s spectacle in August of 1725: Almost all of the entries (except some which were executed by several of the best masters from the Opera and by excellent foreign dancers) were danced by the young lords lodging at the college; the Prince de Beauvau, the Marquis de Livry, the Marquis d’Estampes, the Marquis de Rochechouart, the Count de Puiguyon, the Count de Venasques, Monsieur Moufle de Gerville, and several other young gentlemen danced with much grace and did honor to the efforts of Monsieur Froment, who has been entrusted with the composition of the dances for some years. (Mercure de France Sept. 1725,2064)

Prominent among those eager to ape professional performers were members of the aristocracy, even princes and kings, and court festivities in particular provided opportunities for accomplished amateurs to perform in theatrical works employing dance. Bonin (1712, 163) notes, for example, that ”sometimes in royal operas at Versailles, persons of the first quality, princes, and counts perform on stage.” Wagenseil (1705, 76) in like manner notes that “great men” were not unknown to mount the boards in order to appear in performance pieces at court: ”La haute dame, or the so-called sarabandes, entrkes, and the like, are either not necessary or not common among great men, although even they rather often appear on the stage, as His Roman Royal Majesty, the King of France, and Johann Georg IV the Elector in Saxony have done in chamber festivities.” The French king Louis XV was one such aristocrat who was evidently accomplished enough at formal dance that he could perform on stage in dances inserted into the works given at court by professionals. The Nouzleau Mercure (Jan. 1720, 197) reports, for example, that the king was busy in January of 1720 rehearsing a number of

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entrees that he was to perform in a play mounted at court by players from the Comedie-franqaise: On the twentieth, the French Comediansperformed before His Majesty the two comedies of Crispin medecin and Le mariage force on the small stage erected in the ante-chamber. The King will attend this divertissement once a week during Carnival. Almost everyday the King rehearsed on that small stage the ballet that is to serve as an interlude for the comedy L’inconnu, which is being prepared, wherein His Majesty will dance several entries with Monsieur the Duke de Chartres and several other young lords.”

In the dances inserted between the acts of L’inconnu on 24 February of the same year, the king together with a number of lords shared the stage with professional dancers from the Paris Opera, such as Balon, Prevost, Blondy, and Marcel. The Nouz~euuMercure (Feb. 1720, 185) reports that in the fifth entree, the stage showed a village wedding; Monsieur Balon as the Husband and Mademoiselle PrCvost as the Wife danced together; the wedding guests were Monsieur Dumoulin the fourth, Mademoiselle Guyot, Monsieur Marcel, Mademoiselle Dupre, Monsieur Blondy, Mademoiselle Men&, Monsieur Dumoulin the second, Mademoiselle de la Ferriere, Monsieur Dumoulin the third, and Mademoiselle de Lastre. This ballet ended with a general entree, the King, Monsieur the Duke de Chartres, and the lords who had danced before in the first and third entree performed the new dances.

Later in the same year, the king appeared on the stage of the Great Hall in the Tuilleries in the dances included in a performance of the play Curdenio, the Nouueuu Mercure (Dec. 1720, 190) reporting that ”the King dances alone several entrkes with all the grace and neatness imaginable. Monsieur the Duke de Chartres and several young lords distinguish themselves through their dancing.” Nor was the example of the King singular; other aristocrats indulged their fancy for dancing in festivities before a public. An amateur production at the Palais de Bourbon in 1732 included dances performed by lords from court: On the twenty-fourth of this month, there was a very large and very illustrious assembly at the Palais de Bourbon, at Madame the Duchess Douairiere’s. In the grand gallery, on a well-arranged stage, as well as the rest of the gallery, there was a performance of the tragedy of Vences-

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Zas and then of a short comedy written by Monsieur de Moncrif, entitled Abdhites, which met with great approbation. It was concluded with a ballet in which Mesdemoiselles Camargo and Sall6 danced. Some lords from court were bold enough to appear masked along side these illustrious dancers, and their grace and nobility were admired. Other lords enacted with much intelligence the principal roles in the two plays of which I have just spoken. (Mercure de France July 1732,1632).

The Mercure de France (Mar. 1763,212-32) also reports that a number of amateur ballets were performed in the king’s theater at Versailles between 17 January and 14 February 1763 during various court balls, wherein ”independently of the danses d’usage performed by several Princes of the Blood and the most brilliant and distinguished youth at court, the same persons danced figured ballets at each of these balls.” The ballets included Les saisons choreographed by Dehesse and Gardel(l4 and 24 Jan.), Les provenfaux by Dehesse (24 and 31 Jan.), La noce de zriZZage by Dehesse (31 Jan. and 7 Feb.), Les e‘le‘ments by Lany (7 Feb.), and Le maiflamand by Dehesse and Lany (14 Feb.). Perhaps the most notable of all the French aristocrats from the early eighteenth century who showed a marked predilection for mounting amateur theatricals was the duchesse du Maine, who maintained a private theater at Sceaux outside of Paris. She even pressed her domestics into theatrical service and employed the famous dancer ”Monsieur Balon, who shows the sons of the Princess how to dance on stage and who, furthermore, creates the ballets” for her amateur productions (Nemeitz 1727,110). Such nonprofessional theatricals were not restricted to French aristocrats but were mounted throughout Europe by amateurs from different walks of life. The dances making up part of a pastoral performed at the court of the Palatinate elector in 1731, for example, were executed by the elector’s court pages: The Italian language is not unknown here, but it is understood by a small number of people. I noticed this the following day when a pastorale en inusique was performed, at which several of those sitting nearby served as my interpreter. The greater part of the dancers in this ballet were the court pages, and the performers were the musicians of His Highness the Elector. (Mercure de France, Jan. 1731,163)

Perhaps the most famous of such gamboling amateurs was the great composer Mozart himself, who passionately loved to dance. So keen was Mozart’s love of dance and pantomime that he mounted whole

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dramatic pieces wherein he not only performed but even on one occasion created the plot and composed the music for the piece, his Pantomime K. 446, which was performed at a Viennese ball in 1783 as a divertissement. Mozart notes in a letter to his father dated 12 March 1783, on Carnival Monday our company of masqueraders went to the Redoute, where we performed a pantomime which exactly filled the half hour when there is a pause in the dancing. My sister-in-law was Columbine, I Harlequin, my brother-in-law Pierrot, an old dancingmaster (Merck) Pantaloon, and a painter (Grassi) the doctor. Both the plot and the music of the pantomime were mine. Merck, the dancing master, was so kind as to coach us, and I must say that we played it charmingly. (trans. in Anderson 1985,842)

The widespread love of amateur theatricals created a demand for not only theatrical choreography that was within the range of amateurs’ abilities but also dancing lessons, wherein such amateurs could learn the choreography. Some professional dancers from the theater, taking advantage of their fame, clearly cashed in on the public demand for dancing lessons and led a double life as stage performer and dancing master. Indeed, as Roller (1843,19) notes in his retrospective look at eighteenth-century dance, ”theatrical dancers gave lessons.” One such dancer was Claude Balon from the Paris Opera, who, as we noted above, was employed by the duchesse du Maine both to teach her sons theatrical dance and to choreograph dances for her amateur theatrical productions (Nemeitz 1727, 110). Balon’s name in fact appears on the list of subscribers who bought copies of Roussau’s collection of engraved dances, as do the names of such prominent dancing masters as John Essex (Rameau’s first English translator), Kellom Tomlinson (the author of the ballroom dance manual The Art of Dancing of 1735).Subscribers also included some other famous performers who also taught amateurs, such as Marcel and Blondy, the latter regularly employed by the Jesuit College de Louis le Grand in the first part of the century to direct the ballets included in the college’s yearly play performed mainly by students (Nemeitz 1727, 108). In like manner, the French-born dancer YAbbe, whose ”Cuts in th’air” ”ruined” every scene in the Betterton’s theater (SafyrAgainst Dancing 1702,5-6), was also active as a dancing master, having taught the royal princesses, that is, the grandchildren of George I, while Handel taught them music (Marsh 1991, x-xi).

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Jean Dauberval is reputed to have spent 45,000 livres renovating his house in Rue Saint-Lazare in order to transform part of it into a private studio and small theater for teaching dance to wealthy aristocratic pupils (Guest 1996,73).His colleague Gaktan Vestris also taught amateurs, the most notable of whom was none other than the young Mozart. A certain Edward Pigott notes in his diary for the year 1781, a time when Vestris was in England, that the "famous Vestris teaches some of our Ladies of the first rank to dance, his price is 6 Guineas entry & one per Lesson; most of them assemble at the Dutchess of Devonshires" (cited in Highfill et al. 1993,15:148).Vig& Lebrun (1984, 1:106) notes that the great dancer also taught such other graces as bows, which were learned from a dancing master at that time: "I cannot tell you with what grace he doffed and donned his hat in the formalities preceding the minuet. Thus all the young women at court, before being presented, would take some lessons from him on how to do the three rkvkrences." Amateurs keen on aping theatrical dancers could also resort to Magri's treatise of 1779, which was to be a "complete treatise for the amateur" according to the author's preface and in fact includes a number of steps belonging wholly to the theater. While compilations of dances in Feuillet notation would have provided dancing masters with handy pieces of graded choreography for their lessons, such collections would have been largely useless to dancers in the theater. Principal dancers, particularly in the serious style, typically choreographed, if not improvised on the spot, the dances they performed, and members of a corps would have found little use for the published compilations, since corps dancers were largely restricted to figure dances, which almost never appear in the published compilations.Indeed, it appears that by and large professional dancers 'and choreographers in the eighteenth century had little regard for Feuillet notation and viewed it as largely useless for recording stage dancing. This is not surprising, since the notation is a crude system that fails to capture most of the movements of the body, and those that it does purport to record, namely, the movements of the feet, are at times rendered in a misleading or ambiguous manner. As Magri (1779,1:31), who had been a professional dancer in the 1750s and 1760s, bluntly notes, the symbols are more apt to confuse than enlighten: I will not avail myself of choreographicsymbols but will explain fully without setting many ciphers before the eye which are more apt to

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confuse than not, nor do these symbols sufficiently indicate all the movements that are done in a step; they merely sift out the position wherein they begin and end. I will rely on explanation in the hopes of turning this to good account.

To give just one example of the system’s failure to capture all the movements or its misrepresentation of the manner of execution, the notations create the false impression that the dancer when executing a step to the fore along a track perpendicular to the base of the stage danced fully frontal, or en fuce. A number of indicators, however, both textual and iconographic, to be outlined in detail in the companion volume on technique, show that in practice the dancer, at least in the loftier styles, typically alternated from one diagonal orientation to the other in a serpentine manner when dancing along a forward line perpendicular to the foot of the stage. This failure on the part of the system to capture the positions of the body is alluded to by the choreographer Noverre (1760,365), who damns the Feuillet notation as largely useless: This art moreover is very imperfect. It indicates only the movement of the feet exactly, and if it draws for us the movements of the arms, it gives neither the positions nor the shapes [contours] that they must have. Furthermore, it shows us neither the attitudes of the body nor their shadings [efacements],neither the oppositions of the head nor the different situations, noble and easy, that are needed here. I regard it as a useless art since it can add nothing to the perfection of our art.

In agreement with Noverre’s statement that Feuillet notation captured only the movements of the feet and not those of the body, almost all of the plates from book l of Tomlinson’s 1735 handbook, which depict ballroom dancers realizing the Feuillet notation drawn out on the floor beneath their feet, show the hips of the executants typically oriented diagonally to the line of direction marked on the floor under their bodies and not “square” to the line as a literal reading of the notation would suggest (consider fig. 2.7, for example). Indeed, the practice of dancing with the body commonly oriented along a diagonal rather than perpendicular line to the pit of the theater is still a marked feature of modem classical ballet. The most damning assessment of chorkggraphie comes from Gallini (1772?, 179-84), ballet master at the Theatre in the Haymarket in London, who emphasizes that the Feuillet notation was so

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limited that it could not hope to preserve any dance "but some very plain ones": Some great masters of the art of dancing, having observed that music, which is inseparable from it, was capable of being conveyed and preserved by the musical characters, imagined by analogy, that the like advantage could be procured to the composition of dances. Upon this plan, they attempted, what is called Choregruphy, an art which they suppose was either utterly unknown to the ancients, or not transmitted from them to us. But surely if the possibility of executing this idea be well examined, the ancients will not be found to deserve much pity for their ignorance of it: however plausible at the first the proposal of it may sound. A proposal founded on certain unadequate resemblances, as was that of the famous Pere Castel, for the invention of an occular harpsichord, on a false analogy of the scale of colours to that of musical notes. An invention doubtless ingenious, but without a particle of solidity or of common sense. It may indeed be easily allowed, that the track or figure of a dance may be determined by written or engraved lines; but those lines will necessarily appear so perplexing, so intricate, so difficult, if not impossible to seize, in their various relations, that they are only fit to disgust and discourage, without the possibility of their conveying a satisfactory or retainable instruction. Whoever has any doubt of this needs but consult those writers who have endeavoured to introduce and establish the choregraphical art; nothing can be more ingenious nor more plausible than their attempt; there is only to be lamented in it so much labor in vain to furnish an inextricablepuzzle or maze of lines and characters, hardly possible for the imagination to seize, or for the memory to retain. To learners they can be of no use; and as to dancing-masters they proceed upon much preferable grounds, those of practical knowledge and experience; the only ones which can be materially serviceableto thisart. Granted also, that the enumeration of the motions and steps, was possible which it unquestionablyis not, consideringthe infinite variety of gestures and inflexions, concomitant to such motions as have received certain distinctivenames; granted withal, that such motions distinguished by names appropriated to them, may be specified by their respective characters, still there offers one invincible objection, and that is the nomenclature of those more complicated motions which mock all description, and which can only be comprehended by sight: so that though like the most simple ones, they may have their peculiar character readily enough apprehensible by a master; they can be of no use in the world but to the master, who does not need them. Nor even

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to him,will that imaginary choregruphy, preserve any dance, but some very plain ones. The written or engraved description by lines and characters, where the dance is any thing complicated offers such an untoward medley of motions, and figures that it is scarce possible to decypher them. The plan has more the air of a puzzling mathematical problem, or of figures in a conjuring-book, than of that happy regularity and clearness of which the notes of music are susceptible. Thence it is, that the article of choregraphy, in the Encyclopedical dictionary b y Diderot] is universally exploded as unintelligible and useless: though nothing more than an elementary indication of the art: and an explanation, such as it is, of some of the technical terms of it.

Such damning judgment as that given by Noverre, Gallini, and Magri does not appear to have been uncommon during the period. According to Noverre (1760, 368, 387), other professional dancers and choreographers of the period had nothing but scorn for Feuillet notation and did not use it. He notes that “I have learnt chorkgruphie, Monsieur, and I have forgotten it; if I believed it to be useful to me, I would learn it again. The best dancers and the most celebrated ballet masters scorn it because it seems to offer no real help to them.” He notes further that even ”the famed Blondy himself forbad his students to study this.” In some parts of Europe, the principles of the notation were in fact largely unknown in the first part of the eighteenth century. Taubert (1717,74142) includes in his handbook a German translation of Feuillet’s Chorkgraphie of 1700 because the work has hitherto been almost as rare and unknown in the world as a white crow for these reasons: 1)the work is very costly and even at a high price is scarcely to be had; 2) it is written in French, and thus most foreigners could not make use of it if they wished; 3) the French masters keep this trick [of notation] hidden on their dance floors to such an extent that they show nothing of chorigruphie to any of the thousand foreign gentlemen and other upright persons whom they instruct in dancing, unless an extraordinarily great outlay takes place first, paving the way, as it were. Thus it is that these young gentlemen know simply nothing about it when they return home again from their completed journey. And miraculously most masters themselves, both here in Germany and in other European countries, today do not thoroughly understand this art and in some cases have never seen any notation and thus have often wished that someone would go about translating it into German.

Even if many eighteenth-centurychoreographers and ballet dancers dismissed chorkgraphie as largely useless for accurately recording stage dances, some professionals did in fact make use of it at least as an aid

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in remembering some dances. The obscure dancer Auguste Ferrere outlined in Feuillet notation the basic form of some pas seuls and pas de d e w found in his manuscript dating from around 1782, while Angiolini ([1773] 1998,70)notes that he committed to paper the animation scene from Hilverding’s pantomime ballet PygmaIion of 1756by availing himself of chorkgraphie. Such personal ”notes” were clearly not intended to be published in engravings for the benefit of amateurs but were merely an aide-memoire for a performance on stage. Attempts at improving the notational system to capture the complexity of eighteenth-century ballet or even more of the movements executed by the dancer evidently succeeded only in malung it indecipherable. As Noverre notes (1760, 386-87), the resulting symbols were so complicated that it confuses the mind and eye, for what is only the rudiment of dance has gradually become illegible scribbling. Even the attempts to perfect the signs that designate the steps and movements have served only to muddle them and make them indecipherable.The more dance is embellished, the more the characters multiply and the more this science becomes unintelligible.

One notable but ineffectual attempt, however slight it was, to bring greater accuracy to the crude and misleading notation was made by Pierre Rameau and outlined in his Abbrkgk of 1725. His few changes to the original chorkgraphie, intended to help amateurs retain the dances learned from dancing masters, resulted in a reprimand from the Academie de Danse in August of 1732 obliging Rameau neither to sell nor distribute anything about dance not conforming to the old method, for according to the academy’s deliberations published in the Mercure de France (Sept. 1732,2000-2002), Rameau’s modifications did ”considerablewrong to all the masters removed from Paris and all the amateurs of dance.” Chorkgraphie, largely useless to any thoroughgoing attempt to record theatrical dance in all its three-dimensional complexity, gradually passed out of use with the decline in the popularity of amateur practice dances and amateur theatricals and by the end of the eighteenth century was but a thing of the past. NOTE 1. By “h4inen“ Taubert presumably means Mienenspiel, that is, “mimicry“or “pantomime.”

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Appendix: Remarks on Costume

It is beyond the scope of this study to explore in detail the nature of eighteenth-centuryballet costume here; clearly this topic is a broad and complicated one meriting separate treatment. The following few remarks are intended merely to lay to rest a few misconceptions about theatrical costume as it impinges upon dance technique, to wit, the notion that theatrical costume greatly restricted movement during this period, making impossible lofty jumps, high extensions of the limbs, or fully pointed feet. As an example of such a view, one might cite Winter’s claim (1974,3) that by the 18th century and roughly until the French Revolution, the ballerina was progressively more restricted. The elegant panoplies of Anne Auretti imposed a limited porte de bras and hampered elevation. As 18th century costume was dictated by France, one can generalize for Europe in saying that under Louis XV the lambrequins were replaced by voluminous panniers in which the fabric was stretched over cardboard and held rigid by a metal framework.

Winter goes on to claim that “a decisive change in dance techruque and style came toward 1790, literally on the heels of the Ancien Rkgime, as the dancers’ heeled shoes were exchanged for supple cothurns or soft, glove-fitting slippers” and that “during the transitional period which followed, dancers began to develop wonderfully flowing porte de bras. The ballerina‘s thighs were freed so that greater extension was possible.” Such conclusions stem from a misunderstanding of the nature of costume construction for this period and more sigruhcantly from a 339

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failure to investigate thoroughly the primary sources. Winter is quite mistaken in claiming that dance shoes before the French Revolution lacked suppleness, or, as she implies, that such shoes restricted the extension of the instep or were invariably constructed with cumbersome heels, and thus that such shoes constituted an impediment to an expansive style of dancing. Like his modem counterpart, the eighteenth-century dancer, whether strutting on the ballroom floor or capering on the stage, could in fact avail himself of purpose-built dance shoes, or rather pumps, to use the eighteenth-century term. These light, soft shoes, bearing only a slight heel and a low tongue, could move with the feet like a sock and were not unlike what are commonly known today as ”jazz shoes.” While no examples of such pumps appear to survive from the period, the sources clearly indicate that such shoes were used by dancers throughout our period of study. Taubert (1717,407-8), for example, provides a clear and fairly detailed description of such pumps: A light dance shoe with a pointed toe, single sole, and low heel and tongue is both elegant and comfortable for dancing, especially since it can be easily flexed and controlled like a sock, which best allows one to dance with grace, while a large, thick, and broad shoe, on the other hand, is heavy on the foot like a lead weight. With a neat shoe, one can dance on the toes of the foot and execute all movements with style and almost without effort, while with a clumsy shoe, one must use the greatest of force and cannot even get up onto the toes because of the length and the thick soles. The latter sort then suits peasants and grenadiers much better indeed than galant dancers. If one wishes to make use of a pair of such muck-plungers for drudgery and daily wear, then one can at least keep a pair of neat dance shoes aside, which will stand one in good stead on the [dance] floor and at assemblies.

Other sources make fleeting reference to light dance shoes as well. The Connoisseur (17 July 1755) mentions in passing “dancing pumps,” while the Safyr Against Dancing (1702, 2) speaks of thinsoled shoes for dancing: The Feet, which vilely to the Earth declin’d, Are the remotest Members to the Mind: Yet these manur’d with Cotton Pantaloons, Soft tender Heels, gay Hose, compleat Buffoons, The Shoes must be precise, the Soles as thin, As theirs, who Puppet-like shall dance therein.

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Jenyns ([1729] 1978, 16) in like manner speaks of thin-soled, lowheeled shoes to be used in ballroom dancing, noting that Thus each man’s habit with his business suits; Nor must we ride in pumps, or dance in boots. But you, that oft in circling dances wheel, Thin be your yielding sole, and low your heel.

Dance shoes resembling the pumps described by Taubert can in fact be found on the feet of dancers shown in illustrations from the period. Almost all the crude depictions of male and female dancers in Lambranzi (1716), for example, show a unisex low-heeled shoe. Other illustrations from the period, such as those reproduced in figures 2.4-5, 2.14, and 3.10, show dancers sporting soft pumps with a very insubstantial heel. Such shoes regularly show buckles rather than lacing, typical with footwear from the late seventeenth century into the early nineteenth century (hence the expression ”beating over the buckle” found in Taubert (1717),used to describe petits butteinents sur le cou-depied). Lacing with ribbons was not unknown in the period, however. Weaver (1712, 167) takes to task, for example, the French dancers whom he had seen in London and who “perform’d in Shoes luc’d, and ribbunded,” no matter how at odds it might have been with the needs of the role. The male dancers depicted in figure 2.4 from around 1720 and in figure 2.6 from 1796 in like manner appear to be sporting ribbon laces. Doubtless such dance pumps were cut straight without a right or left, as was usual in European footwear roughly from the beginning of the seventeenth century to the nineteenth century and as is still the case with contemporary ballet slippers. Eighteenth-century dance pumps appear to have been commonly black with red heels. The author of ”Observations sur l’Opera” (1777, 24) complains about the popularity of the use of thiscolor combination at the Paris Opera irrespective of its fittingness for the character represented and notes that he would not “have it that heroes, gods, the Pleasures, or shepherds always wear black shoes with red heels and large buckles. Footwear should be made for them that represents buskins as needed.” The Guardian (1Sept. 1713) similarly alludes to the popularity of red heels, and red stockings, among dancing masters outside the theater, noting that ”a Dancing Muster of the lowest Rank seldom fails of the Scarlet Stocking and the Red Heel; and shows a particular respect to the Leg and Foot, to which he owes his Substance.” Weaver

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(1712, 167) also mentions "Red-silk Stockirzgs" as typical among the French dancers that he saw perform in London in the early eighteenth century. Sartorial finery rather than verisimilitude in garb appears to have characterizedmany French performances throughout our period, for as G a b indicates (1762, 129), "the French are notoriously faulty in over-dressing their characters, and in making them fine and showy, where their simplicity would be their greatest ornament. I do not mean a simplicity that should have any thing mean, low or indifferent in it; but, for example, in rural characters, the simplicity of nature, if I may use the expression, in her holyday-cloaths." The Guardian (13 Apr. 1713)similarly touches upon finery in French theater costumes, noting that "I cannot better illustrate what I would say of the Frenclz, than by the Dress in which they make their Shepherds appear in their Pastoral Interludes upon the Stage, as I find it described by a celebrated Author. 'The Shepherds,' saith he, 'are all embroidered, and acquit themselves in a Ball better than our English Dancing-Masters."' Pumps appear in fact to have been a kind of sports shoe of a sort that one might wear even when fencing. The Tatler (7July 1709)satirically alludes to the nicety of a couple of duelists who momentarily set aside their slighted dignity in order to take the time to don their pumps before turning to the life-and-death matter of defending their honor; at the appointed place "the Principals put on their Pumps, and strip'd to their Shirts, to show they had nothing but what Men of Honour carry about 'em, and then engag'd." Not wearing suitable shoes while dancing could attract censorious attention, at least in the ballroom. In a supposed missive to The Connoisseur (13 June 1754), for example, the letter writer notes that she once had the dubious pleasure of dancing with a gentleman hobbling in his boots: "We had a ball the other day; and I opened it with Sir Humphrey Chase, who danced in his boots, and hobbled along for all the world like the dancing-bears which I have seen in the streets at London." It was not unknown, however, for social dancers to dance in high-heeled shoes during our period, and sweeping claims about the nature of dance wear in this age cannot be made, for social dancers, particularly at fancy balls, did not always dress suitably for dancing. As Madame de Genlis indicates in her Me'moires depuis 1756 jusqu'd rzos jours, the elaborate panoplies of French aristocrats, particularly at fancy court balls, could be most ill suited to dancing: Bals parks were those which were given at court on solemn occasions in the last century. . . . The ladies at court danced only in grand apparel,

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with enormous pnniers; the grand bodices k n n d s corps], the straps of which exposed the shoulders, scarcely allowed one to raise the arms; the shoes, tight and pointed, bore high heels; the bottoms of the dresses were immensely long; a garment of thick, rich shdf embroidered with gold, a coiffure of prodigious elevationloaded with gems, and heavy girandoles of diamonds suspended from the ears completed this costume, in which it was difficult to dance in a sprightly manner. (cited in Waugh 1995,68)

The sources indicate that other kinds of footwear were also used by eighteenth-century ballet dancers. Extant depictions of performers, such as that of Didelot in figure 2.6, sometimes show completely heelless shoes, evidently typical of acrobats and rope-dancers (fig. 2.13); an extant print from around 1732 reproduced in Winter (1974, 43) similarly shows Jacques Boudet in the role of Ie petit sabotier sporting such soft heelless shoes with ribbon laces. An extant depiction of a scene from the 1781 London production of Vestris’s Mid& ef Juson, reproduced in Guest (1996, pl. 12),shows Giovanna Baccelli as Creusa and Adelaide Simonet as Medea wearing completely heelless pumps as well, with a very low upper revealing most of the instep remarkably similar to modern ballet slippers. Other extant illustrations of dancers from the period show footwear in imitation of ancient sandals, with thin soles and lacing up the lower leg, such as those found in figures 2.6 and 8.1 and in a print of Pierre Gardel reproduced in Winter (1974,128). Behr (1713,70) notes in his general discussion of theatrical costume that a dancer in the role of a hunter should be shod in ”very light boots.” Other illustrations, such as figure 2.10, show shoes with substantial heels. Ultimately, the choice of footwear used on the eighteenth-century stage doubtless depended on the role represented, the style of dance employed, and the personal taste or caprice of the dancer. In light of this most evident variability, the modern scholar must guard against making sweeping claims about the nature of dance footwear and how it altered established dance technique as a whole. Indeed, Winter’s claim that ”a decisive change in dance technique and style came toward 1790, literally on the heels of the Ancien Rigime, as the dancers’ heeled shoes were exchanged for supple cothurns or soft, glove-fitting slippers” becomes absurd in light of both depictions of insubstantial dance shoes shown in the eighteenth-century iconography, and even reproduced in her own work, and Taubert’s description from the early eighteenth century of dance pumps that allowed the dancer to move his feet as if in a sock.

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Winter's claim that women dancers were "progressively more restricted in the eighteenth century, in contrast to their counterparts in the ensuing period, likewise makes little sense. The torso of the nineteenth-century ballerina was no less restricted than that of her counterpart in the eighteenth century no matter how free-flowing or stiff outer costumes from these periods may appear in costume prints. Women dancers throughout most of both periods wore corsets, or stays as they were called in the eighteenth century, even if this underpinning was discarded for a short period of time in the wake of the French Revolution. In fact, the nineteenth-centurycorset generally appears to have been even more restrictive than its eighteenth-century counterpart. As Hunnisett (1991, 38-39) indicates, eighteenth-century stays were intended merely to create the shape of "an inverted cone which compresses the breasts with little or no shape under the bust, but pushes them up into a much higher position. The second [kind of corset], from 1800 to 1914,is constructed in many panels constricting the diaphragm and waist. The bust and hips are smoothed and moulded into an hourglass shape." Even today bodices for tutus are boned, in a manner not unlike that used in the constructionof eighteenth-centurystays, that is, reinforced with strips of nylon, such as Rigdene, or finely coiled steel in order to keep the bodice from twisting or riding up. Moreover, it would be naive to assume that eighteenth-century theatrical garb followed strictly the construction of clothes from daily life, without making alterations to give the performer greater ease of movement. As Waugh (1995,37)indicates, even out of the theater, the amount of boning inserted in the stays of the period could vary, such that these underpinnings could be either bnleine' (fully boned) or demi-baleine' (halfboned). In eighteenth-century ballroom dancing, it was evidently proper for women to wear their stays only loosely laced to allow greater freedom of movement, for as Jenyns ([1729]1978,19) explicitly indicates in his discussion of proper dance attire, "Nor should the tightened stays, too straightly laced, / In whalebone bondage gall the slender waist." Winter's claim that the costumes of eighteenth-century women dancers were so restrictive that they "imposed a limited porte de bras" is likewise at odds with extant depictions from the period showing women dancers in poses with arms held high, such as Gainsborough's portrait of Giovanna Baccelli reproduced in Guest (1996, pl. 19), the sketch of Langlois from Alcindor (fig. App. l),or the caricature of Guimard shown in figure 5.2. If the sleeves of their

Figure App. 1. Detail showing the dancer Louise-Franqoise Langlois in a prose from DezPde’s opera Alcindor of 1787, after a drawing by Moitte, in the H. R. Beard Collection, Theatre Museum, London, reproduced in Guest (1 996, pl. 37).

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costumes were as restrictive as Winter claims, such dancers could not have performed the action of ”bringing the arms over the head,” which Goldoni indicates was “ever repeated” in pas de deux (trans. in Gallini 1762,107), or that of ”look[ing]at each other, now over the arms, now under,” which Laus de Boissy (1771?, 18) notes was typical in the pas de deux of the serious style. The size of the hooped skirts often seen in costume design plates extant from the period should not be confused with weight, as Winter evidently did. Judging from garments extant from the period and found in museum collections, it is clear that the small boned pocket hoops or the full hooped petticoat, worn under the skirt and used to support the latter, are in fact lightweight and in no way would greatly weigh down a dancer or prevent her from achieving elevation in jumping. Winter’s notion that such underpinnings were typically made of cardboard and metal is incompatible with current understanding of eighteenth-century costume based on the examination of extant garments or references to their construction in the primary sources. The usual three to five yards of stuff making up the skirt of the dress, typically in taffeta or silk satin, as suggested by theatrical costume inventories from the period, would not be heavy enough to reduce elevation significantly, nor would such an expansive circumference at the hemline restrict extensions of the leg. It should also be borne in mind that not all women, on or off the stage, wore large hooped skirts during our period, even in the first part of the century, when they were fashionable wear. Instead of the full hooped petticoat, separate small side hoops, often called ”pocket hoops,” could be worn; these were attached to the waist and suspended over each hip under the skirt of the dress. These smaller hoops were worn by women when engaged in less sedentary activities and thus were especially common among women not from the leisured classes. This less cumbersome underpinning became in fact the norm for undress around the middle of the eighteenth century, with the full hooped skirt restricted to full dress, until about 1775, when hoops went out of fashion altogether (Waugh 1995, 47). Women, especially from the lower social stratum, commonly wore a ”bum-roll” under their skirt instead, that is, a padded, sausageshaped tube tied over the hips to give the top of the skirt a slight bell-like shape without in the least being cumbersome or restrictive. It seems likely that women dancers in more airborne styles of dance would, like most women in the period, have availed themselves of

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these smaller pocket hoops or bum-rolls as well. Examples of women dancers apparently sporting such smaller and lighter underpinnings rather than large hooped petticoats can be found in the iconography, judging at least by the hang and shape of their skirts. A number of depictions of women dancers in Lambranzi (1716, 1:5-8, 11, 15, 17, 27, 35, 42; 2:2, 4, 6, 11, 23), for example, show performers evidently not wearing hooped skirts (fig. 2.2), as do the frontispiece to Harlequin Horace of 1731 and the painting Dancers and Musicians by Marcellus Laroon the Younger circa 1750, both of which are reproduced in Winter (1974,76). Large hooped skirts may well have been restricted mainly to dancers in the serious genre, which was traditionally a slower, more terre-8-terre style stressing above all beauty of arm movements, as we saw in chapter 2. Indeed, Pasch (1707, 79) indicates that the choice of steps and the choice of costume were to be in harmony, for the dancing master "is to consider as well the dancers' costumes, whether they are long, short, loose, or tight, for the steps must be very much set according to them." A critic in the Merctire de France (Feb. 1759,199) seems to link the use of hooped skirts to the noble style in particular, noting that MesdemoisellesLany and Lyonnois have at last given up panniers in the noble dances; it was recognized that the natural play of a rich and light drapery added new graces to the elegance of the figure and to the liveliness of the movement. Thus it is that this bizarre fashion is at the point of being banished from the stage where licence had the greatest authority. Even bad taste can have only a time.

In contrast, the capering women dancers who figured in Hilverding's comic pantomime ballet La Izalfedes Calrnoucks, mounted in Vienna in 1761, availed themselves of smaller underpinnings. Zinzendorf notes explicitly in his journal entry for 24 March 1761 that "La Geoffroy danced admirably well and likewise jumped with amazing force and suppleness in the knees. The women dancers wear cloth breeches, short costumes, and small paniers" (cited in Brown 1991,307). It must be owned, however, that such bulky garments as dresses with hooped petticoats or even small pocket hoops are not entirely suitable for dancing, compared to, say, modern tights or leotards. Indeed, as Noverre (1760, 185) remarks of his dancing female contemporary, "the movement of her hoops affects her and sometimes

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occupies her more seriously than that of her arms and her legs.” Nonetheless, the eighteenth-century woman dancer clearly danced in spite of her apparel (fig.5.1) and, as was shown in chapter 5, succeeded in cultivating a high dance of capers with forced movements of the limbs.

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362

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Bibliography

Index

acrobatics. See tumbling Allard, Marie, 39, 103, 124,193, 196-97,203,226,228,231, 251-52,272,276,298,30743 allemande, 11,7778 attitudes, 37,64,67,89-90,94152, 16849,172-79 audiences. See theatergoers

Beauchamps, Pierre, 2-5, 11,48, 274,312

Bacchants, 68,160 ballet: styles of. See styles of ballet; airborne character of, 57-66; elevation in jumps, 4031,48-50; exaggerated movement in, xiii, 17-20,28,33-34,3740,46-52; French origin of, 1-7; misconceptions about, viii-xvi; nomenclature, 15-17; prestige of French in, 7-9,lSl-t; spread of, 9-14. See also lifts;pantomime; pas de dew; theater; voluptuousness ballroom dancing, French: capers in, 325,328; French origin, 1-7; influence of caprice on, 24647; nomenclature, 15-17; small movement in, 17-19,33,37-38, 4649; terre-a-terre character of, 40,57-58, 70-74. See also allemande; contredanse; minuet

Camargo, Marie-Anne de Cupis de, 14,1054,193,219,222-25, 227-28,243,251,259,261,314,331 Campanini, Barbara, 14,34,213, 224,268 capers: in the ballroom, 71,325,328; in the theater, 19-20,4&41,50, 58-66,78,95-96,102,1074, 119-20,124-27,129,131,138-39, 141,148-19,157,161-62,200-4, 207,257,26849,248-49. See also ballet; style for women dancers caprice, xiv-xv; advantages and disadvantages of, 254-55; influence on dance technique, 24546,248; manifested in improvisation, 250-51; need for, 24344,24748; role in creation of new steps and choreography, 248-50; within established choreography, 252-53 Chinese, character of, 14145 Chorigraphie: changes to conventions, 337; clientele of notations, 315-20; degree of technical difficulty in notated dances, 314-17;

363

364

lndex

limitations, 334-36; century, 311. See also ballet; misconceptions about notations, ballroom dancing, French; 313; styles of dance in notation, contredanse; masquerade 313-15; value to professional dame d'exercice, 320-23,326 dancers, 33344,33627; works Dauberval, Jean, 101,103,124,196, extant in notation, 312-13 203,272,276,312,316,317,333 choreography: created for individual Dupre, Louis, 12, 38,86,90, 94, dancer, 253-54; freedom in, 96-98,102,106,149,203,214, 252-53; musicality in, 251-52. See 243,251,25940,261,265,272 also caprice; Chorigraphie; pas de dew; serious style FerrPre, Auguste, 107, 115, 123,268, comic style, 328; ideal body type for, 313,315,337 123-24; overall character of, Fossano, 14,268-69 109-12,113-19; technical features Furies, 68,148-57, 162, 193,26647 of, 130,269;typical choice of steps and movements of, 119-23,166, Galeotti, Vincenzio, 312 168-72. See also commedia Gardel, Pierre, 53,61,63,86, dell'arte; styles of ballet 273-74,307,317 commedia dell'arte, 127; gender: women supplant men in Columbine, 132,301; Harlequin, dance, 23811. See also style for 112-13,127-28,132-36,146,182, women dancers 301,303; Pierrot, 112, 126, 140-41, grotesque style: overall character of, 301; Punch, 126,128,136,13940, 20,28,33,109-12,12&28, 146; Scaramouche, 28,112-13, 14648,160-61; technical features 126-32,146,172,182. See also of, 50,130-31,16345,168-72, grotesque style; tumbling 269. See also Bacchants; Chinese, composite style of late eighteenth character of; commedia dell'arte; century, 286-90 Furies; Lapps, character of; styles contredanse, 7477,12526,323-24, of ballet; Turks, character of; 303 Winds, character of costume: dance shoes, 340-43; Guimard, Marie-Madeleine, 100, influence of Camargo on skirt 103,177,193,203,234-36,244, length, 227-28,231-32; influence 295,299,305,306-7 of hooped skirts on dance technique, 233; masks, 61-62,96, half-serious style: ideal body type 98,101; misconceptions about, for, 108-9; overall character of, 339; obligatory drawers for 1034; typical choice of steps women dancers, 227-29; range of and movements in, 107-8, movement, 339,34446; women's 166-67, 169-72,269. See also underpinnings 232-33,346-47 styles of ballet country dance. See confredanse Heinel, Anne, 14,87-90, 100, 101, 177,193,199,273,276 dance: national dance, 323-24; Hilverding, Franz, 12, 14,99, 120, popularity of in the eighteenth 303,305,337

Index improvisation. See caprice Lapps, character of, 141 lifts, 42, 108,230 Lully, Jean-Baptiste,3-7,263-64 masquerade, 324-26 minuet, 58-59,71-72,75,77,246-47 music: guerre des bouffons, 262-64. See also styles of ballet notation, dance. See Ckorigraphie. Noverre, Jean-Georges, 63,68,98, 103,142,147,150-51,157, 177-78,190-92,194,197-98,209,

211,226,294,308,312,316

pantomime, 38-39,53,56,64,99-100, 110-13,115-16,181,197,200,

204-12,258,268,301,304,322, 328,332. See also voluptuousness Paris Opera: confusion of Paris Opera style with French dance, 197-200; conservatism of, 263-64, 272; preference for serious style, 192-97; theater of, 55-56 pas de deux: improvisation in, 251; voluptuous character of, 304-5 pirouettes, xi-xiii, 61,63,66-70, 92-93,97,124,129,140,162-66, 207,273,277,281433 Pitrot, Antoine-Bonaventure,66-67, 117,265,270 port de bras: influence of caprice on, 245,247; influence of style on, 91,111,16648; prostitution. See voluptuousness; theatrical, 33-37,54

Rameau, Jean-Philippe, 152,154, 158,261-62 Rinaldi, Antonio. See Fossano Salle, Marie, 86-87,90,105,177, 265,307,331

365

serious style: ideal body type for, 101-3; lack of expressiveness in, 96-100; overall character of, 38, 8749,315; typical choice of steps and movements of, 89-96, 16143,16572,257,269. See also styles of ballet spectators. See theatergoers style for women dancers: exposure of legs, 229-32,236-37; hardbitten conservatism toward, 236-38; influence of Camargo on choice of steps, 222-25; influence of Camargo on costume. See costume influence of Camargo on height of legs, 224-27; preCamargo prescriptions, 219-21 style, personal. See caprice styles of ballet: blending of styles, 257-58,270-75,284-85; influence of Auguste Vestris on. See Vestris, Auguste; influence of Gaetan Vestris and Anne Heinel on, 272-73; influence of heroic ballet d'action on, 269-70; influence of Italian dancers on, 265-65, 267-69; influence of Italian music on, 262-65; influence of JeanPhiLippe Rameau on, 261-62, 264-65; influence of Louis Dupre and Marie-Anne Camargo on, 259-61; influence of the Zeitgeist, 285; misconceptions about, xiii-xiv; motivation for, 81-83, 101-2,183-84; nomenclature, 84-85; origin of, 83; technical differencesbetween, 86,161-72; use of, 180-83. See also composite style of late eighteenth century; comic style; grotesque style; halfserious style; serious style; voluptuousness styles of ballet, regional preferences and differences:

366

Index

English taste, 212-13; French taste, 193-200,204,206-9, 271; German and Swedish taste, 213-15; Italian taste, 65, 200-205,265-67; Spanish taste, 215-16 technique, dance: See capers; costume; lifts; port de bras; styles of ballet theater: amateur, 78,326-32; exaggeration generally in, 52-54; influence of size on ballet, 54-57; pornographic, 294-95. See also voluptuousness theatergoers, 18447,189-92 tumbling, 117-19,13536

Turks, character of, 141 Vestris, Auguste: as choreographer, 252; influence of, 2 7 5 , 2 8 1 4 ; popularity and fame of, 193, 189-90,238-39,275,296; style of, 6142,107,27542; and voluptuousness, 178,305,309 Vestris, GaCtan, 11-12,li, 55,86, 89-91,94,98,100,102,163,179,

193, 199,203,214,252,265, 272-74,27677,299,306,333 Vestris, ThCrbe, 14,230-31,265, 299,308 voluptuousness: xv, 293-99,302-9

Winds, character of, 68,15740,162

About the Author

Edmund Fairfax completed his undergraduate work in foreign languages, music, and English literature at the University of Regina. After stints of language studies at the Universitk de Montrkal and Universitg Laval, he pursued graduate work in theoretical l i n p t i c s at the University of Toronto, with specialization in early Germanic historical linguistics. He studied classical ballet at the National Ballet School in Toronto, as well as Baroque and Renaissancedance under Elaine BiagiTurner, artistic director of Dame Baroque. After studying fashion design and techniques at Sheridan College, he worked as an independent historical costume designer and teacher while pursuing his research into early ballet. He is now an independent dance scholar devoted to b r i n p g to life eighteenth-centuryballet.

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