daily under the eye of her Italian maestro, Ceccetti. Lydia Lopoukowa, Alexander Volinine—perfect, both, in academic form; their romantic pantomime is an addition, not a corruption. These are among the great artistic intelligences in the new Russian movement. Meantime arises a horde of beings possessed of “soul,” “God-given individuality,” “natural and unhampered grace,” boasting of their self-evident innocence of all instruction. These last constitute the tidal wave that excites alarmists, on behalf of the classic ballet!
No less subject to rule and form than steps and their elements is choreographic composition. Steps are phrased and phrases repeated, exactly as in music. By the same formality of construction, each movement of the composition is dominated by a fixed theme. Suppose an entrance is in the coquettish mood: it is not unlikely that the ballet-master will elect to interpret that mood by whirls—in other words, the horizontal circle. The girl may approach the man in a wide piqué tour (a stage-covering circle, the dancer picking her steps with emphasised daintiness), elude his grasp by means of a series of rapid pas de bourrée turns, and perhaps finally spin into his arms at the finish of a pirouette. Everything is kept in turns, and in little vivacious steps; no great elevation, no open or sweeping movements; nothing of the glorious, everything to secure daintiness. Again, the same motive might be rendered in quite another way, namely, by short advances, retreats and steps to the side. The passage might start with a series of relevés—quick, sharp rises to the toe, the free foot crossing to pose in front of the ankle of the supporting foot, after describing (each step) a petit battement en avant; short, crisp, dainty movements, all. In this group might appropriately be included pas de bourrée dessus-dessous (i. e., in front and behind); glissades; petits battements; and the devilish-looking little pas-de-chat. In the same enchainement might easily be grouped the entrechat. All these steps may unite in a similarity of action: slight elevation, and a short, saucy movement in which the horizontal direction predominates.
If the mood to be expressed were the triumphant, its interpretation might begin with a series of pas de cheval. With this the balloné and a rond de jambe finishing en arabesque would unite coherently, their movements all being based on the general form of an arch.
To multiply instances of arrangement by theme is needless. A ballet-master would admit a greater variety of steps together in sequence than the foregoing paragraphs indicate; whirling dervishes produce an effect by turns alone. The instances are given with view only to emphasising the principle of theme unity. What is not obvious to him who never has seen the horrible example of lack of observance of this principle is, that it is not an arbitrary convention, but a fundamental necessity. It is no uncommon thing to see good execution completely wasted in a helter-skelter throwing together of steps that lead to nothing. Cumulative development—with adornment but not digression—along a certain line, will coax the spectator into a mood of full sympathy with the performance. But a series of unrelated turns, jumps sidewise and up in the air, entrechats and kicks, bears about the same relation to choreographic argument as a cat’s antics on the keyboard of a piano does to the work of a musician.
It will of course be understood that the ballet-master’s problem is complicated by requirements and limitations not even touched upon in this work. Conformity to his accompanying music, for instance, is alone a matter of careful study. In former generations, before the present relative importance of music, the musical composer followed the scenario of the ballet, which was composed first and independently. Nowadays—owing to causes as to which speculation is free—the procedure is reversed. The ballet-master must not only follow phrasing as it is written; he must move his people about the stage in felicitous group evolutions, basing their steps on a fixed number of musical bars and beats. This requirement disposed of, he should interpret the music’s changing moods with appropriate steps. Taking as an example a bit of the Ballet of the Hours in Gioconda: the music of the hours before dawn is largo and dreamy, breaking into a sparkling allegro as the light comes, increasing in speed and strength until a forte tells of the full-fledged new day. There are steps and combinations to render these motives with the utmost expressiveness. Failure to employ them does not represent lack of competence on the part of the director, so often as it does inadequacy of the human material at his disposal. In America, at present, the task of producing effects with people whose incapability he must conceal is perhaps the most serious embarrassment the ballet-master has to face.
The dancer’s supreme virtue is style. If, beginning as a naturally graceful youngster, he has been diligent for from four to seven years in ballet school, he will have it; some acquire it by study alone. With practice from two to four hours every morning, and half an hour to an hour before each performance, he is likely to keep it. What style is, is not for words to define. To preserve mathematical precision in a series of definitely prescribed movements, while executing those movements with the flowing sweep of perfect relaxation; to move through the air like a breeze-wafted leaf, and alight with a leaf’s airiness; to ennoble the violence of a savage with a demi-god’s dignity; to combine woman’s seductiveness with the illusiveness of a spirit—these things are not style, but the kind of thing that style makes possible, the magic results from the perfect co-ordination of many forces, both æsthetic and mechanical. Some of the latter, as to theory, are readily enough understood.
Of the ballet dancer’s ever-surprising defiance of the law of gravity, the more obvious means are the plié, to soften a descent, and a manner of picking up the weight so quickly that the body seems buoyant. Of perhaps no less value, though not so obvious, is the straight knee. To the eye it gives a sensation of sure architectural support—doubtless through the suggestion of a column. The mechanical importance of the straight supporting knee is no less than the æsthetic, since a firm foundation is essential to perfect control of body, arms and head. When the knee “slumps,” the usual consequence is a softened back and a collapsed chest. The muscles of the body “let down,” the fine, hypersensitive control of head and arms is gone. Crisp movement being impossible to them without a sound, springy body as a base to work on, the work becomes monotonous and soggy.
The theory of a straight supporting axis applies also to the foot as soon as it rises sur la pointe. The foot of Madame Pavlowa en arabesque (see reproduction of her photograph) illustrates the principle. Mechanically, there is definite advantage in an absolutely vertical support; while the spectator’s visual impression asserts without hesitation that the figure above the foot is without weight whatever. The superb line of the ankle, continuous in sweep over the instep, is not the least of the wonders of what, if one were writing in Spanish, one could without extravagance refer to as “that little foot of gold.”
It should not in the least modify admiration of this superlative bit of technique to dispel the not uncommon belief that rising on the toes is a cause of physical torment, a feat requiring extraordinary strength, or in itself an achievement to insist upon. Quite the contrary. Like every other position in the dance, any half-trained performer or student can get it, all except the quality. As soon as a pupil has acquired the equilibrium that ought to precede toe-work, the necessary muscular development has taken care of itself, as a general rule; and she takes position on the point without special effort. Help is given the foot by the hard-toe slipper, combining as it does the support of a well-fitted shoe with a square, blunt toe. The latter, though of small area, furnishes some base to stand on. Stiffening in the fore-part of the shoe protects the toes against bruising in the descent from leaps.