But, if the world’s great and beautiful mural decorations were suddenly painted over with frenzied or sentimental illustrations, to “modernise” them, it would be a different matter. That little public to whom beauty is as a necessary sustenance—by coincidence the same public that includes the leaders of thought in each generation—would have a good deal to say in the line of objection to such desecration. Now, the ballet is essentially a mural decoration, potentially very great in power to exalt. If a large element should have its way, the next few years would see that decoration painted over with a huge choreographic story-picture, sentimental or frenzied, realistic; and beauty be hanged.
This anarchistic mania is in no wise a doctrine of the Russians. But their undiscerning admirers, seeing in their work only the lines of departure from old-established formulæ, shout to heaven that any restraint of individual caprice is wrong. Innocent of suspicion that such things as æsthetic principles exist, they force their expression of “individuality” to the limit of their invention. And some of them certainly are inventive.
Fortunately the great dancer is great largely because of his perception of the value of order and form. The best of the Russians are great dancers; great artists in the full sense of the word. They are the ones who will profoundly influence the æsthetic thought of the present generation, and their influence will be sound and good. Opposing it will be many a “hit” by skilful characters, and a dangerous numerical force among the public. It is easily possible that the latter influence may prevail. The grand ballet is still an experiment in the America of this generation. It was here thirty years ago, and fell into the hands of Philistines, who shaped it into the silly thing they thought they wanted, and then were forced to abandon it because it was silly.
Than the present, there never was a more important crisis in the cause of choreographic good taste. The outcome depends upon the manner and degree in which those who stand for good taste assert themselves during the next few years.
CHAPTER V
THE GOLDEN AGE OF DANCING
LOUIS XIV brought public interest in the ballet to a point of eager excitement; indeed, the influence of a monarch’s consistent patronage, including the foundation of a national academy, added to the example of his prominent participation in about thirty allegorical dancing spectacles, could not fail to be powerful.
With the growth of public interest and intelligence, the ballet and the technique of dancing developed commensurately. The two enthusiasms of public and artists reacted on each other to the advantage of both; in the uninterrupted enrichment of the ballet the public never failed to find its attention repaid in ever-increasing fascination. Dancers, composers and directors, on their side, abandoned themselves to their work with the zeal that comes of certainty that no good thing will pass unnoticed.
Such conditions bring good results more than can be foreseen even by those actively engaged. As, in fiction, the miner in trying to loosen a nugget usually uncovers a vein, so it may occur in the arts. For instance, Camargo found that her entrechat was difficult and ineffectual under the weight and length of the fashionable skirt of the period. She therefore had a skirt made reaching midway from knee to foot. A simple solution? Certainly. But it was thought of only after centuries of submission to clothes that considered fashion and disregarded the problems and possibilities of the dancer’s art. And it represented the species of decision that risks acting counter to an accepted, unquestioned institution. It was not an effort to draw attention by means of a spurious originality. Camargo’s work explained the change. The public understood and approved. The ballet was directed toward its costume; a long journey lay ahead of it, but it was rightly started.
Liberty of movement so attained at once put a premium on higher and more open steps; technical invention was set to work as never before. The balloné, various pas battus and ronds-de-jambe that followed immeasurably enhanced the scope of the ballet as an instrument of ocular-orchestral expression. New enchainements, striking in the contrast of little work with big, soon made the court dances—which for a period had constituted the ballet’s working material—look old-fashioned. The stage now required considerable elevation, decided contrasts, increasing scope. And, whatever the cost in skill and energy, there were dancers eager to expend the energy and to give the needed years to acquiring the skill.
Since the days of the Roman Empire, masks had been worn to identify characters. Not a bit of cloth to cover the face, merely; but cumbersome things with plumes, wings, metallic spikes (i. e., the rays of the sun worn by Louis XIV in the Ballet of Night) or what-not, so extended that they restricted the action of the arms, so heavy as to interfere with steps. It was a clumsy convention, but it was as integrally a part of stage representation as scenery is to-day, and the few who wished its abolition were outvoted by a cautious majority. At last, according to her custom of helping an enterprise that is doing well, Fate took a hand. Auguste Vestris failed to appear for a certain performance; as the time for his entrance drew near, the anxious stage director asked Gardel to “go on” in Vestris’ part. Gardel, an until-that-time ineffectual rebel against the mask, consented; but with the condition that the mask be omitted. In default of arrangements more to his satisfaction, the director consented. The public at once saw the advantage of the change, and were pleased with Gardel’s appearance. So began the end of the dominion of the mask.