theory is best understood by its application. And execution, it should go without saying, is acquired only by long practice under expert and watchful eyes.

Before considering actual movements, it must be borne in mind that separately they are incomplete. Like tones that unite to form chords of music, each in itself may seem lacking in richness. Interdependence of successive parts is more marked in the classic ballet than in any other great school of choreography. The dance of the Moor is a series of statues, each self-sufficient. Of the ballet movements, almost the reverse is true. Their magic comes of the flow of one unit into another.

As France is the mother and nurse of the ballet, it follows that French is its language. Few of the terms translate successfully. To rename the movements would be superfluous—and in practical use, worse; for a big corps de ballet is often a gathering from many nations. Being explicit and sufficient, the French terms are the accepted designation of the steps in all lands where the ballet is danced.

To describe steps with precision, it is necessary to use a system of choro-stenography not easily learned, or to refer to positions of the feet. The latter is the usual method, and long usage proves its adequacy. The following arbitrary designation of positions of the feet has long been standard wherever Occidental dancing is taught:

Simple positions one to five, inclusive, are the fundamentals, which are modified in a great variety of ways. Figures 6 and 7 represent instances of such modification.

The weight may be upon both feet, or either.

In third, fourth and fifth positions: speaking of either foot (say the right) it is said to be in anterior or posterior third, fourth or fifth position.

Second and fourth positions are defined as closed or amplified, according as the feet are separated by the length of a foot, or more.

The positions, unless otherwise specified, indicate both feet on the floor. But the second, third and fourth positions sometimes relate to positions in which one foot is raised; for instance, right foot in raised second position.

The same designations apply whether the feet be flat on the floor, on the ball, on the point, or a composite of these: as for instance, second position, right foot on the point, left foot flat, etc.

Heights are definitely divided; ankle, calf and knee serve as the measures. But as the subjoined explanations are aided by diagrams, the terms to measure heights may be disregarded for the sake of simplicity. Likewise we need not go into the enumeration and names of crossed positions and other complications. The five fundamental positions, however, are important and should be memorised. Apart from their importance in any discussion of ballet work, familiarity with them greatly aids the acquisition of ballroom dances. (The latter place the feet at an angle of 45° to the line in which the dancer’s body faces, instead of 90°, the form of the French-Italian ballet.)

The school of the ballet also defines the positions of the arms, in the same manner. They need not be memorised as a preliminary to reading this chapter; but they are interesting as a matter of record of the limitations of the classic school, and as a measure of the distance to which the Russians have departed in the direction of freedom of arm movement.

Steps, which are now to be considered, fall naturally into the classes of gliding, beating, turning and jumping. Each class ranges from simplicity to more or less complexity, and certain steps have a composite character, partaking of the nature of more than one of the above general classes.

Dancers distinguish between a step and a temps, whose relation to each other is that between a word and a syllable. A temps is a single movement. By definition, a step must effect a transfer of weight; subject to that definition, a single movement may be a step.

The simple gliding step is the pas glissé. It is executed by gliding the foot along the floor. It may move in any direction. Used as indicated in figures 20, 21 and 22, the step becomes a glissade.

A chassé, in effect, “chases” one foot from its place by means of a touch from the other. For instance: the feet are in second position, weight on the right foot; bring the left foot sharply up to this position behind the right foot; at the instant of contact, let the right foot glide sharply out to second position on the right side. The step also may be executed toward the front or toward the rear. It keeps both feet on the floor.

Executing a series of chassés: simple chassés commence the step, each repetition, with the same foot. Alternating chassés are begun with each foot in turn.

A coupé is analogous to a chassé; but the foot that is displaced leaves the floor and goes to more or less height in the air. Both coupé and chassé give an impression of one foot kicking the other out of place.

An assemblé, starting with the feet in fifth position, effects a reversal of their position. Example (see diagram): the left foot is behind. A little jump upward raises both feet from the floor. Kick out with the left foot to the left, bring it back to fifth position in front of the right foot, at the moment of alighting. The right foot, instead of the left, will dégage, or “wing out,” in the next step, if the step is repeated.

A changement is similar to an assemblé; its difference is in the fact that it causes both feet to “beat.”

A relevé consists of a simultaneous (a) rise to the ball or point of the supporting foot, while the active foot is raised to the height (usually) of the knee of the supporting leg. The active foot usually is kept close to the supporting leg.

This step furnishes an interesting example of the changes wrought by the Russians. The classic turn-out of the foot confines the movement of the active leg to a plane cutting the performer laterally; i. e., as the classic performer advances en relevant toward the spectator, the legs’ movements are seen to have their extension out to the sides. Whereas the Russian “toes out” (with exceptions) at a much smaller angle. His knees therefore may rise in front of him; in which case the step, as seen by the spectator, is most effective while the performer crosses the stage from side to side. It is made the thematic step of some of the new Russian dance-poems of Greek nature. It is executed sharply, lightly.

An échappé moves the feet from closed to second position by means of moving both feet simultaneously outward.

The jeté is a step that is simple in principle, at the same time subject to so wide a range of use that it creates the most varied effects. Essentially, it is the step that is used in running.

The jeté also may be executed to the side—à côté. From its use in that manner it is easy to understand its employment as a means of turning in the air: i. e., with both feet off the floor. The jeté en tournant is one of the much-used means of producing an effect of big, easy sweep; it lends itself to the embellishment of any one of several beating steps—pas battus; or others, yet to be described.

Of the “beating” type of step, the fundamental is the battement: a beating movement of the free leg, the supporting leg remaining stationary. The accent is not on the up-stroke, as in a kick, but sharply on the down-stroke. The beats may be made from side, front, or (less usually) back. The foot may be raised to the height of the head (though it is not often done), to horizontal, to the height of the knee, or the distance of a foot’s length away from the supporting leg. Executed with a straight knee, the movement is a grand battement. A petit battement is action of the lower leg only, working from the knee as a stationary pivot, while the foot strikes the supporting ankle, calf, or knee. It is a movement designed for brilliancy, and should be executed rapidly. With practice it can be carried to such a degree of speed that the active foot seems to shimmer. It is the basic step of Scotch dances. Modified to allow the sole of the active foot to touch the floor, it provides the shuffle-step of the Irish Jigs and Reels. Petits battements, it should be added, are usually employed in a sequence of several in succession.

Correctly speaking, a battement does not constitute a step, but a temps.

The cabriole is a development of the battement. In the latter, only one leg is active; it leaves the supporting leg, and rejoins it. The cabriole is executed with both feet in the air; both legs act in the beating movement, rapidly separating and coming together, but not crossing.

A further development of the same theme brings us to the gem which, of the ballet’s entire collection, is the most dazzling: the entrechat. Instead of merely bringing the legs together, as in the cabriole, it uses a jump as the occasion for repeatedly crossing the feet. Cleanly done, it is as the sparkle of a humming-bird.

The word is derived from the Italian intrecciare, to weave or braid. The French compound it with numerals, to indicate the number of times the feet cross: as, entrechat-quatre, entrechat-six, entrechat-huit. The number includes the movements of each foot; an entrechat-huit implies four crossings. Prodigious stories are told about the number of beats that various artists have accomplished in their entrechat. It forms an attractive centre for choreographic myths. In general, the number of beats said to have been accomplished by a given artist is in direct ratio to the number of years that artist has been dead. In reality there is small object in going beyond an entrechat-six; the three crossings (always assuming performance by a master of the technique) are quite sufficient to prove that the law of gravity has ceased to exist. When their staccato twinkle is added as a finish to the long pendulum swing of a big glissade, or a long jeté en tournant, the effect is that of a swift pizzicato following a long-sustained note—always surprising, always merry.

The brisé is of the category of movements executed while both feet are off the floor. It is so closely related to the entrechat-quatre that the layman who can distinguish between the two, during the speed of performance, may conscientiously congratulate himself on having developed a passably quick and sure eye. The difference between the two lies in this: that in the brisé only one foot really “beats”; the other makes only a slight complementary or counter-movement. Starting as it does in an open position, it lends itself to the embellishment of broad leaps.

The balloné is, in a broad sense, related to the beating steps; its accent, however, is on the up-stroke, which makes it a kick. Start in third position; pliez slightly (as preparation); jump, and simultaneously kick forward, bending the knee in raising the leg, straightening it when it has reached the necessary height; usually the balloné leads into another step.

(As this description is at variance with that of two eminent choreographic writers, it should be added that it is made from the step as demonstrated and explained by Sr. Luigi Albertieri, ballet-master of the Century Opera Company, an unquestioned authority; his traditions are those of La Scala, and of Sr. E. Cecchetti. Mlle. Louise La Gai, former pupil of Leo Staats, one-time ballet-master of l’Opéra, demonstrates the step in the same manner.)

A phrase of steps (enchainement) is rarely made up of big or difficult steps exclusively; the value of the latter would soon be lost in monotony were they not contrasted with work of a simpler nature. The pas de bourrée and the pas de Basque are among the little steps useful in furnishing such contrasts, in giving the dancer a renewed equilibrium, and in the capacity of connecting links between other steps. They are like prepositions in a sentence—insufficient in themselves, but none the less indispensable.

The pas de bourrée (the name is taken from an old French dance) is essentially the familiar polka-step late of the ballroom, with varied applications. Forward, backward or to the side, it “covers stage”—or gives the dancer progress in a given direction. It furnishes a means of turning, or preserving the continuity of a dance while the performer keeps his place. Always it is useful as a filler when interest is to be directed away from the foot-work—in such case, for instance, as when the hands have important pantomime.

The pas de Basque is of similar value, but commits the dancer to a swinging movement from side to side. Like the pas de bourrée it is an alternating step, with one foot on the floor all the time, and executed without much “elevation“—i. e., variety of level. It runs through many of the dances of Spain, and presumably is, as its name suggests, a native of the Basque provinces. Probably, too, it is a remote ancestor of the Waltz.

In contrast to the sharp, dry quality of the beating steps is the fluid, swinging fouetté. Its many variations conform to the principles indicated in the diagram figures 43 to 46.

The word “fouetté” means literally, whip; the movement, a swing with a snap at the finish, is well named. A relaxed manner of execution gives it a feeling of pliancy, while lightness is preserved by the smart termination.

Start with a plié of both knees, for preparation; sharply lift the active leg sidewise to horizontal (i. e., raised second position); snap the lower leg back, in a movement curving downward, to the crossed leg position in figure 46. There it is prepared to enter into another step, or to lead to an arabesque, or to continue to finish in third or fifth position of the feet. The body has remained facing the spectator.

Now, let it be understood that a pirouette is a turn, or spin, on one foot only, or else in the air. One species of pirouette is made in conjunction with the fouetté, the body being permitted to turn with the impulse of the leg’s backward sweep. The making of a pirouette, however, requires its own preparations, as shown in the first four figures of the diagram. In figure 47 the legs are pliés. Figures 48, 49 and 50 represent a developpé, or unfolding—a device of frequent use in the present conditions, namely, the need of bringing the active leg to horizontal in preparation for a step. The extension of the arms as indicated enables them to give a vigourous start to the revolving movement; the leg, by a sharp sweep “outward,” contributes to the same impulse. The turn started, the fouetté is executed as it proceeds. The free foot drops to position behind the supporting leg. But note that as the body continues turning, the foot changes from position behind to position in front; very simple, in performance very effective—and until understood, puzzling in its illusion of winding up and unwinding. It is permissible, in the position of figure 52, to drop to the heel of the supporting foot, for a momentary renewal of equilibrium; but there is merit in going through without that aid. The position at finish leaves the dancer prepared to repeat the tour, which can be done an indefinite number of times in succession; to continue into an arabesque (figures 55, 56); or to enter a different step.

Among the variations of the above typical fouetté pirouette is its execution “in” instead of “out”: that is, to sweep the active leg across in front of the supporting leg, to start the turn, instead of raising it out to the side. Again using the left foot as support, the turn of the body is now toward the left, instead of toward the right as when the step is executed “out.” The active foot arrives at its position of crossing the supporting leg when it has described a half-circle.

Tradition makes the fouetté pirouette a step for men, although it is not intrinsically less feminine than any other of the great steps. Nevertheless, tradition is often a thing to respect. So, a fouetté pirouette performed by a woman is customarily called a rond de jambe tour. Mlle. Zambeli, the première of l’Opéra in Paris, has on occasion performed a succession of thirty-two such turns in a steadily accelerating tempo. The result, instead of monotony, is a cumulative excitement little short of overpowering.

The fouetté pirouette leads into the subject of pirouettes in general. By their common definition, they are turns made on one supporting foot only, or without support (i. e., turns in the air). The definition serves to distinguish a true pirouette from a turn made by means of alternating steps, such as a pas bourrée turn.

The purest example of pirouette is that performed “on the crossed ankle”—sur le cou-de-pied. (Figures 57 to 61.) This turn is made without the aid of impulse from either leg after the free foot goes into its position, in distinction from the fouetté pirouette, for instance, in which the active leg’s movement in the air furnishes the motive power by which the body is turned.

The pirouette sur le cou-de-pied here diagrammed is according to the specifications of Herr Otto Stoige, ballet-master and dancing teacher at the University of Königsberg, as quoted by Zorn. Raise the arms and the active leg (figure 58). Drop the active foot to anterior fourth position (figure 59), plié, and at the same time dispose the arms to give the twisting impulse to the body. The same impulse is aided by the sharp straightening of the left leg, coming into position as support. The arms drop (figure 60) as the free foot is placed sur le cou-de-pied of the supporting leg. Comparing the finish (figure 61) with figure 57, it is seen that the feet have resumed third position but exchanged places. In making the turn, the face is turned away from the spectator as short a time as possible.

The ability to do a double turn in this form is not rare, and a few men make it triple. The Prussian Stullmueller brought it to seven revolutions. An amusing conventionality of gender in pirouettes makes it man’s prerogative to do the pirouette en l’air—i. e., with both feet off the floor. This too is doubled by some of the men now dancing: Leo Staats, formerly of l’Opéra in Paris, is said to triple it!

A pirouette of this sort is one of the few pas that have a value independent of what precedes and follows; it is a beautiful thing by itself. In combination it gives a feeling of ecstasy; or, in other conditions, of happy eccentricity. A few years ago Angelo Romeo used it as the theme of his solo in a Ballet of Birds (under Fred Thompson’s management, the New York Hippodrome staged some real ballets). As King of the Birds, Romeo gave his part a gallantry at once amusing and brilliant by the reiteration of double pirouettes as a refrain.

Between the two extremes of fouetté pirouette and pirouette sur le cou-de-pied lie such a variety of manners of turning that experts fail to agree on any definition of the word “pirouette,” more explicit than the one already given. A half-turn sur le cou-de-pied, pas de bourrée, and complete the turn with a fouetté:—there, for instance, is a turn that is a pirouette or not, according to arbitrary definition. There are half as many subvarieties of pirouette and other turns as there are solo dancers. Turns of mixed type, partaking of the natures of both pure pirouette and the rond de jambe character of movement, are known collectively as pirouettes composées.

A rond de jambe, it should be explained parenthetically, is a circle described by the foot. A grand rond de jambe is a circle (in any plane) described by the straight leg. A petit rond de jambe is made by the lower leg, working from a stationary knee as pivot. Cf. grands and petits battements.

As the pirouette sur le cou-de-pied has its virtue of sparkle, its cousin the renversé is endowed with a species of bewildering, bacchanalian ecstasy. Words and diagrams fail to convey an impression of its qualities; but analysis of its mechanics is worth while, in order that it may be recognised when seen, and not allowed to pass without yielding its full and due pleasure to him who sees it.

Preceding the position indicated in figure 65, the dancer, placing his weight on the left foot, has raised the right foot in a developpé forward, and around on a horizontal plane “outward.” Figure 65 shows the right foot at a point that may be conveniently designated as the quarter-circle. In figure 66 the right foot continues to sweep back, and the body begins to lean forward—or away from the active leg. This lean of the body has become more pronounced in figure 67, in which the active foot has reached the three-quarter circle. Note the sweep of the left hand accelerating the movement of the turn, and its continuance through the remaining figures.

Up to the position in figure 68 the body has leaned forward—or in other words, has been chest down. In figure 69 it is seen chest up. Figure 68 is the intermediate position. In performance the turn-over takes place so quickly that only a trained eye sees just when it is done.

The right foot touches the floor at the point of completing the half-circle. The body continues leaning back, straightening up in figure 70 after describing a round body-sweep started in figure 69. Figure 70 finds the weight on the right foot; the left is raised on the first temps of a pas de bourrée, very quick, which brings the feet to fifth position as in figure 71. The right-handsweep upward, meantime, has been continuous.

Another variation of the pirouette is based on the rond de jambe described on a previous page. The rond de jambe pirouette is executed with the aid and embellishment of a horizontal leg. It usually starts with a developpé, like the fouetté tour. A pirouette à la seconde is so called by reason of the active foot’s continuance in raised second position. If the heel is touched at the half-circles for equilibrium, the turns can be continued ad libitum. Still another tour is the pirouette en arabesque, the pose being entered into (usually) on completion of a half-circle of a rond de jambe tour, the revolution being kept continuous while the necessary changes are made in the position of the body. A turn in the air that may be included among pirouettes is a jeté en tournant; and it may be adorned with an entrechat, a brisé, or whatever “beats” may suit the artist’s taste and abilities.

The words “arabesque” and “attitude” do not refer to steps, but to postures. Their composition is as exactly defined as that of any step. Figure 56 shows a typical arabesque.

The developpé above referred to is a usual means of bringing a leg to horizontal, as a preliminary to further work. It is the opening step of many a dance-poem, and a pretty accurate index of the class of work to follow. If the leg rises without hurry or faltering, and unfolds with its proper sense of proud elegance; if always the body keeps the serene relaxation that accompanies only the perfection of equilibrium, there is coming a feast for the gods. Far from the least of Genée’s manifestations of virtuosity is the legato poise of her entrance stepping down from a picture frame: so deliberate and even is her developpé that the eye at first fails to discern movement, as though it were watching the opening of a morning glory. Never the twitch of a muscle, never an impulse of hurry, never the suspicion of hesitation—through bar after bar of music, the ethereal one makes that first step reverence-compelling in its incredible beauty of movement.

Analogous to the developpé in execution is the pas de cheval, the latter, however, serving to change the dancer’s place on the floor. It is proud, strong, triumphant; used in an advance of a corps de ballet toward the spectator, the motive of dominance is strongly felt. Though effective, it is not one of the structural parts, like the steps heretofore described. It is, rather, a decorative unit superadded. The same may be said of the pas de chat, which is a jerky, short and very rapid simple alternating step; bending the knees sharply, but not bringing them high; the feet crossing at each step. It is not the physical locomotion of a cat, but it is a good interpretation of the spirit of an especially capricious one. It expresses well the idea of witchcraft or mischievous spirits.

Going to the extreme contrast of this step, a fortissimo effect is attained by the male dancer’s form of extended jump. It is necessarily high; but it emphasises especially its effect of length horizontally. (See figures 74 and 75.) Auguste Vestris, the eighteenth-century virtuoso, owed a part of his reputation to his power in this step; “suspended in the air” was the phrase attaching to his performance of it. Its function is, in great part, to astonish. Women accomplish its effect with the aid of a supporting man; the change of level attained by this leap aided by a “lift” is indeed a harmonised explosion, especially if it follows an arrangement of little steps.

Stories of the impression created by Vestris’ leap would be quite incredible were their possibility not confirmed in our own time. In Scheherazade Volinine jumped a distance that seemed literally more than half the width of a big stage. An illusion, of course. The world’s record in the broad jump is less than twenty-five feet, and the broad jumper’s covered distance does not look so impressive in actuality as it does on paper, at that. Whereas the dancer’s leap seems to be under no particular limit—when adequately performed, which is rare. Being typical of the trickery by which dancing plays with the eye, it may be worth analysing.

The magic is based on two illusions. First, horizontal lines are insisted upon and preserved as continuous; while lines not horizontal are “broken up” into short lengths, to the end that they make comparatively little impression on the eye. The pose itself, then, is horizontal, which practically coincides with the direction of the dancer’s flight. Every one has seen the experiment of apparently shortening one of two equal pencil lines by means of cutting short lines across it: the converse of the same principle governs the jump. As the pencil line was shortened by cross lines, the jump is lengthened by long lines parallel to its direction.

As the dancer passes the top of his flight, the second illusion begins to go into effect. Contradicting the eye’s observation of the gradual descent of the body, the long lines of the artist’s arms and legs are steadily raised to point more and more upward. Be the reason whatever it may, the spectator is much less conscious of the body’s descent than of the level—or even rising—direction of those long lines; lines which, by the time the step is half completed, have come to appear a good deal longer than they are. The dancer lowers his foot just in time to alight properly. The eye meantime has been so impressed by the sweep of horizontals that it conveys to the mind an agreeably exaggerated statement of the length of leap they represent. Also it probably has been so puzzled that its owner, unless he knows something of dancing, has failed to catch the value of the step as a thing of beauty.

Reasonable familiarity with the foregoing descriptions of steps will, it is hoped, enable the reader to look at great dancing with the added joy that comes of intelligent sympathy with the ballet’s intent as decoration, as well as insight into its technical means. The résumé of steps includes the ballet’s fundamentals. Each step has its variations, as has been suggested; some of the variations diverge far enough from the basic step to have earned a special designation. For the sake of simplicity, the special names of subvarieties of steps have been eliminated from this little discussion; but not at the sacrifice of anything that a well-informed connoisseur of the ballet need know.

It is a subject whose study is accompanied by the satisfaction that time spent on it is not being frittered away on an affair of a day. Some of the steps are coeval with the earliest graphic records of social life; Emmanuel (La Danse Grecque Antique) has made a fascinating book showing the use of many present-day ballet steps (including “toe-work”) by the figures on early Greek ceramics, carvings, etc. Various ages have added to the vocabulary of choreographic material; the national academies of France and Italy have preserved that which is contributory to their ideals of almost architectural style, and rejected that which lacks form, even though expressive. The tours and pas of which ballet eloquence is composed, therefore, represent a selection based on generations of careful and accurately recorded experiment in the interest of pure beauty. The designation “classic,” attached to French and Italian ballets, is in all ways correct and deserved. The watchful care of guardians keeps both schools aloof from passing caprices of the public, and uncorrupted by vulgar fashions. There is a present and growing movement toward naturalistic pantomime—a mode combining with popularity enough intrinsic good to occasion anxiety lest the classic ballet perish under its momentum. In reply to which let it be emphasised at this point that the old schools never have failed to incorporate the good of whatever has offered; whereas that which was not of intrinsic value always has passed away through its own lack of æsthetic soundness. The Russian academy bases its technique on the French-Italian, and insists on it rigourously as a groundwork; Madame Pavlowa’s practice is conducted

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.

Position on the point justly claims attention as an acrobatic wonder, when it is taken barefooted. And a dancer who, barefooted, can perform steps on the point, supporting herself easily with one foot off the floor, is simply hyper-normal in strength of ankles, feet, and legs. Miss Bessie Clayton is such a one, and very likely the only one. It is a feat whose absence from formal dancing is not felt, though its use would be effective in some of the re-creations of Greek work. There is evidence that the early Greeks practiced it, as before noted. In our own times, there is only one instance, among the stories ever heard by the authors, of barefoot work on the point being done in public; and that performance, oddly enough, took place in precedent-worshipping Spain. The occasion was one of those competitions that Spaniards love to arrange when two or more good dancers happen to play the same town at the same time. Tremendous affairs; not only does rivalry approach the line of physical hostilities among the spectators, but the competition draws out feats of special virtuosity that the dancers have practiced secretly, in anticipation of such contingencies. La Gitanita (the Little Gipsy), one of the competitors in the event referred to, had, for some years, put in a patient half-hour a day on the ends of her bare toes, without the knowledge of any but the members of her family. When, therefore, at the coming of her turn in the competition, she threw her shoes to the audience, and her stockings behind a wing, and danced a copla of las Sevillanas on the point, the contest was settled. Most of the spectators never had heard even of the existence of such a thing as toe-work, because it does not exist in Spanish dancing. The experience to them was like witnessing a miracle; so it happens that La Gitanita, many years dead, is still talked of when Spanish conversation turns to incredible feats of dancing.

With such rare exceptions as the above, however, the person who is happy in seeing difficulties overcome is best repaid by watching the manner instead of the matter. There is hardly a step but can be floundered through, if real execution be disregarded. The difficulties that take years to master, that keep the front rank thin, are those of nobility, ease and precision of action. Naturally, it is harder to preserve these qualities through a renversé than in a pas de Basque; but there is no merit in exhibiting a renversé badly done. The latter is a pertinent instance of things difficult to do well. A fouetté tour “inward” is not safely attempted by any but the most skilful; nor is either a fouetté or a rond de jambe, finishing in arabesque. To keep the movement continuous, imperceptibly slowing it down as the arabesque settles into its final pose, requires ability of a rare grade.

As the little alternating steps furnish the means of regaining equilibrium after a big pas or tour, it follows that their elimination from an enchainement represents a tour de force. This is especially true if the big steps be taken at a slow tempo (as an adagio, so called); and difficulties are compounded if the artist performs the entire adagio on the point. Few there are in any generation who can attempt such a flight.

But there are many qualities justly to be demanded of any artist who steps before an audience. Crisp, straight-line movements should be cleanly differentiated from the soft and flowing. An entrechat not as sharp-cut as a diamond represents incompetent or slovenly workmanship. The same applies to other steps of the staccato character—as battements, brisés, pirouettes sur le cou-de-pied. Each dancer rightly has his own individuality; and the movements of one will be dominated by a liquid quality, while another’s will be brilliant, or “snappy.” But a dancer who is truly an artist has, within his scope, a good contrast between the several types of movement. Lack of such contrast may cause a sense of monotony even in very skilful work. Elevation also is important in preserving a sense of variety. Not only plié and rise are made to serve; raisings of the arms add immensely to the sense of vertical uplift when height is sought.

A certain conformity to geometrical exactness is necessary to the satisfaction of the spectator’s eye, and is observed by all but the incompetent. Not that movement should be rigid—very much to the contrary. “Geometry” is a sinister word; interpreted in a sense in which it is not meant, it would be misleading. An example is sometimes clearer than attempted definitions or descriptions.

If, having given an order for a grandfather’s clock, the recipient found on delivery that it did not stand quite straight, he would be annoyed. Suppose then that further observation revealed that the face of the clock was not in the middle, that the centre of the circle described by the hands was not the centre of the face, that the face was no more than an indeterminate approximation of a circle, and that the numerals were placed at random intervals; the eye of the clock’s owner would be offended. Various æsthetic and psychological arguments might be applied to the justification of his feeling, but they are not needed. The futility of near-circles, approximate right angles and wobbly lines is felt instinctively. Yet the eye rejoices in the “free-hand” sweep of line correct in placement, though not subjected to the restrictions of straight-edge and compass. Asking for acceptance in such sense of the terms “geometrical” and “precision,” we may return to our discussion of the ballet.

The decorative iniquity of the hypothetical clock attaches to all dancing that fails to give to precision the most rigourous consideration. The imaginary circle described in a pirouette for example, is divided into halves and quarters. Let us suppose the pirouette to end in arabesque, stopping on the half-circle, bringing the dancer in profile to the audience: a very few degrees off the half-circle are, from the ballet-master’s point of view, about of a kind with a few centimetres separating the misplaced clock hands from their proper situation in the centre of the dial. The petit rond de jambe has its imaginary quarter of the great circle in which to play, and which it must fill. In a fouetté, the sweep of the foot starts at the quarter-circle (marked by an imaginary lateral plane through the dancer’s body), and reaches back just to the half-circle (defined by a similar plane, drawn longitudinally). The lateral elevations of the legs are likewise subject to law, the imaginary vertical circle described by the leg as radius being divided into eights, to allow the leg to use the angle of forty-five degrees; experience shows that this diagonal, half a right angle, is pleasing to the eye and not disturbing to the senses.

The hands and forearms are turned in such a way as to eliminate elbows, the coincidence of a contour of the arm with an arc of a big (imaginary) circle being always sought.

The convention of “toeing out” has as an object the showing of ankles and legs to the best advantage. On the flat foot the advantage is not so apparent; but experiment shows that pointing out and down greatly helps the appearance of a foot in the air. The supporting foot and leg also show the benefit of the device as soon as the dancer rises to the ball of the foot or the point. Moreover, it is obvious that the pointing of a supporting foot forward would necessitate changes from the classic form of many steps.

Recent years have brought out a volume of protest to the effect that the classic ballet’s restriction of movement too severely limits expression. The protest is right or wrong according to point of view, and point of view is a matter of historical period. The French school comes to us from a time when men kissed hands and drew swords in exact accordance with accepted forms, and the favoured house-decoration was a tapestry designed on lines purely architectural. The present is a moment of much concern about freedom of the individual, and its expression. Curiosity is at boiling-point. Narrative is sought. We want something to happen, all the time. And those who fail to see the actual occurrence want the story of it to be graphic. Moving pictures are very satisfying to the majority. Acres of popular pictures are painted in boisterous disregard of order or harmony of line and form. It would be very pleasant for those who enjoy optical beauty, if public taste required beauty as a first requisite for popularity. Nevertheless, popular pictures as they are do no particular harm, probably, either to those who like them or to those who do not.

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.