Dancing has stood still since the dancers have gyrated frantically in order to prove their mechanical dexterity, and drama is in the doldrums because the players, with the a.s.sistance of the press, have induced the public to regard their performance as more important than the work which it is their duty to represent. The last statement is becoming inaccurate. It is hardly extravagant to say that when a play is written at the dictation of an actor the acting will be more important than the piece, for but little good work comes out of drama concocted under such circ.u.mstances.

The dancers are really dancing on the ruins of their art. They have lessened their skirts and their popularity at the same time. Old pictures show (and I believe that old measurements are preserved to indicate the fact) that in the days of the famous _pas de quatre_--not, of course, the one at the Gaiety--skirts were worn far longer than the modern _tutu_.

The costume of the prima ballerina a.s.soluta in our grandfather's days was something like an umbrella and a pair of braces: the umbrella shrank to the _en-tout-cas_, and the _en-tout-cas_ to the open parasol; unless the movement is arrested, in the course of time a lampshade will be reached, and ultimately, say, fifty years hence, the Genee of the period will have nothing more of skirt and petticoat than some kind of fringe round the waist, indicating, like our coccygeal vertebrae, or the rudimentary limbs of the whale, a mere useless atrophied apparatus.

It was once possible for the poses and movements of the dancer to be graceful--the phrase "the poetry of motion" had a meaning. With the stiff _tutu_ sticking out almost at right angles, elegance is quite impossible. The present "star" resembles in outline one of the grotesques used by Hogarth to ill.u.s.trate his theories in his "a.n.a.lysis of Beauty," and one is inclined to laugh at her awkwardness when she walks; nor is it easy to admire when she whirls round like a dancing dervish, the _tutu_ mounting higher and becoming more and more rectangular the faster she goes.

Mlle. Genee, delicious and graceful, in some flowing character-costume, and then ridiculous in the _tutu_ that she adores, proved this more than any amount of written explanation. She was such a great performer, so perfect in mechanism, so harmonious from little foot to dainty head, so brilliant in her miming, that one was forced to say sorrowfully "_Et tu-tu_, Genee." Unfortunately the virtuoso mania is irresistible, and, so far as graceful dancing is concerned, there is no hope that we may see such a _pas de quatre_ as won fame in the palmy days of the ballet; we have reached the reign of the _pas du tutu_, and, almost wish we had arrived at the _pas du tout_.

During the last few years there has been a great stir in the dancing world. Some time ago Isadora Duncan gave a private exhibition at the New Gallery of certain dances in a style intended to be a revival of old Greek dancing.

A little later Miss Ruth St Denis presented in public some strange, quite beautiful, performances consisting of dancing, miming and posturing supposed to suggest ideas of Indian life, and her finely restrained, truly artistic work deeply impressed both the critics and audiences.

Afterwards came Miss Maud Allan, alleged--no matter with what degree of truth--to be an imitator of Isadora Duncan, and she made a great "hit,"

her most popular performance being a "Salome" dance, which was considered by some people to be indecent. Certainly of her costume the French phrase "_qui commence trop tard et finit trop tot_" might justly be used, for she carried nudity on the stage to a startling degree. In a good many other dances her work was rather pretty and quite un.o.bjectionable, but vastly inferior to the art of Isadora Duncan or Ruth St Denis.

Isadora Duncan

The theatrical season of 1908 ended in a blaze of--dancing. At what is generally deemed about the dullest moment in the year Isadora Duncan appeared at the Duke of York's Theatre, and kept it open and well attended for almost a month. The affair is unique in the history of our theatre. One can imagine a playhouse running on the basis of a big ballet, with a story, popular music, magnificent scenery, gorgeous costumes, huge _corps de ballet_, half-a-dozen princ.i.p.als and immense advertis.e.m.e.nt. In this case we have had more or less isolated dances to music generally severe; for scenery only a background of subtle yellow, taking strange tones under the influence of different lights; for costumes only some beautiful, tranquil, simple Greek drapery; for _corps de ballet_ a few children; for princ.i.p.als one woman, with an intelligent face, but certainly no great beauty; and in the way of advertis.e.m.e.nt very little, except some honestly enthusiastic press notices, and fortunately nothing in the form of photographs of nudities or half-nudities.

There has been a triumph of pure art under austere conditions, such as can hardly be recollected on our stage, unless in the case of _Everyman_--pure art akin to the theatrical, indeed parent of the drama.

The word histrionic is derived through the Latin from an Etruscan word which means "to leap" and was originally applied to dancers.

Historically, the matter is interesting. Drama began in dance and developed from it, dance and drama going hand-in-hand for a long while; then a separation came, and dance has tended more and more to become meaningless and conventional, and, in the chief school of dancing, purely technical. The Spanish school is still alive, reinforced by the North African, and in the main showing some tendency, often perfectly restrained, towards the indecent. Our own step-dancing remains popular, and for a while the hybrid skirt-dancing triumphed, chiefly because of the genius of Kate Vaughan and talent of her successors, one of whom, Katie Seymour, worked out a clever individual compound of styles.

The "Cla.s.sic" school, cla.s.sic in quite a secondary sense, which has been represented by what one can conveniently call the ballet, year after year has worked towards its extinction by the over-cultivation of mere technique, of execution rather than imagination.

The greatest artist of this school in our times is Genee; natural grace, a piquant individuality, and a fine power of miming, have lent charm to work the foundation of which is really acrobatic, and consists of remarkable feats made too manifest by an abominably ugly costume.

Isadora Duncan goes back in style to the early Greek; dancing, however, necessarily to more modern music, for the reason that we do not know how to reproduce much of the old, and possibly would not like it if we could. To her work one may apply the phrase of Simonides, that "dancing is silent poetry." Preferable is the term that has been used concerning architecture: Sch.e.l.ling, in his "Philosophie der Kunst," calls it "frozen music," a term ridiculed by Madame de Stael. Peter Legh wrote a book on the topic, published in 1831, with the t.i.tle "The Music of the Eye." The book is poor, pretentious stuff, but the t.i.tle seems nicely applicable to the dancing of Isadora Duncan. To a deaf man her work would be entirely musical--to a Beethoven or Robert Franz, deaf after, for a while, full enjoyment of sound, her dances would, I believe, represent complete, delightful, musical impressions.

It may be that sometimes in her work she attempts impossible subtleties, endeavouring to express ideas beyond the range of melody--for it is difficult to imagine that any dancing can be more than expressive of melody, though no doubt to make this true "melody" must be understood in a large sense. How far away this is from dancing which consists in the main of executing more or less complicated steps "in time" with the music, or such appalling vulgarities as a cake-walk. It must be admitted that one of the Tanagra figurines is sadly suggestive of a characteristic pose in the cake-walk--though it may well be that it is a mere pose which led to none of the abominations with which our stage has been deluged!

In the case of Isadora Duncan we have seen poses and movements of extraordinary beauty, exquisitely sympathetic with fine music. No doubt occasionally she has made a concession, as on her first night, when she danced to "The Blue Danube" waltz by way of an encore, putting, however, her own interpretation on the music and her sense of it. Those who are acquainted with Greek sculpture and with some of the cla.s.sic drawings of the old masters will see that to a very large extent her work is a revival rather than an invention; but this fact--which she acknowledges--in no degree diminishes the merit of her performances, for the execution is of wonderful beauty and the application of the old ideas to music of a different type is very clever.

Her work alone has well repaid the audiences, many members of which have made several visits to the theatre; it has, however, been supplemented by dances in which young children were the performers, dances so pretty in conception and delightful in execution that one has felt the whole house thrilling with pleasure. Nothing like these children dances, nothing of the kind half as charming, has been given on the stage in our day.

The one complaint possible against Isadora Duncan is that she has rendered us immoderately dissatisfied with what had once moderately contented us; and the fear is that we shall promptly have a host of half-baked imitators, who will copy the mere accidentals of her system without understanding the essentials, and will fancy that the whole matter is one of clothes and music, and prance about bare-legged, meaninglessly. It is hard to see how this is to be avoided until there has been time for her pupils to grow up; it is certain, however, that if the new idea, the new-old idea, takes root, there will be a revolution in dancing, which may have far-reaching effects.

Drama of the strictly intellectual type will remain unaffected; possibly there will be a new development of the musico-dramatic. It has been suggested that musical comedy is waning, and the period has been reached when the average piece of this cla.s.s spells failure. There is, of course, nothing in the work of Isadora Duncan which limits it to one princ.i.p.al, and naught to prevent the combination of singing and dancing.

Off-hand it seems rash to suggest that spoken dialogue could be harmonized with these. It is imaginable that the authors of _Prunella_ could see their way to combine with work somewhat on the lines of their charming piece such ideas of dancing as have been suggested by Isadora Duncan. The result should be a novel, delightful form of art, not necessarily hybrid.

After Isadora Duncan's public performances came the deluge and the country was flooded with women indecently unclad, who flapped about on the stage displaying their persons and their incompetence lavishly. The authorities have been very lax as regards such performances, many of which were so obviously crude and clumsy that it was clear that a _succes de scandale_ was sought deliberately. Of course some of the performers may have had merit. Later on (in 1910) there arrived some brilliant Russian dancers whose work is of too great value and importance to be dealt with in a single paragraph.

CHAPTER X

THINGS IN THE THEATRE

A Defence of the Matinee Hat

The number of matinees at Christmas-time has caused the usual outcry against the matinee hat, and wrathful or sarcastic letters on the subject; and it is said that some French managers are taking the strong step of excluding from the front rows those ladies who, to use the queer Gallic term, are not "_en cheveux_." It seems surprising that an evil denounced so universally should be permitted to exist, and that loud complaints made during many years should have had little or no effect.

The average man regards the matter as quite simple, and wonders why women are so selfish as to keep on their hats, and thinks that there is no reasonable explanation of their conduct or excuse for it. It seemed clear that there must be greater difficulties than are obvious. So questions were put to an ardent playgoer, who spends appalling sums of money on her dress, as to why she makes a fuss about taking off her hat in the theatre.

"My good man," she said to the questioner, "you are talking 'through your hat' as well as about mine. If my hair was as simple a matter as yours--" this. .h.i.t at his unprotected pate seemed rather a blow below the belt--"there would be no difficulty. Unfortunately, it is a very complex matter." He hid all but the smallest conceivable fraction of a smile. "I am not referring to colour," she continued with some asperity, "but to the fact that, at present, fashion requires me to wear a prodigious number of little curls. My native crop is ample in quant.i.ty, but I should hardly be in time for a matinee or even an evening performance if I had it turned into all these little necessary curls.

So, like most of my friends, in order to save time and trouble, I have a number which are pinned on. Do you think I care to run the risk of removing my hat without even a looking-gla.s.s to guide me? Heaven knows what might happen. The case is a little better, though far from satisfactory, with those who wear nothing but their own crop."

This view of the subject seemed to have something in it, a fact which, of course, could not be admitted. There were, not long before, in _The Westminster Gazette_ some remarks by "Madame Qui Vive" to the effect that even a female Absalom or a Melisande could not do without what she called the "clever devices of the coiffeur," and claims were made of woman's right to adopt the fashion of the days when both men and women wore wigs, on the ground that the coiffeur's "little devices"--English for sham curls--save time, and also remain "trimmer and neater" than natural curls.

"Do you think," she said, "that it is pleasant to hold an eight or ten guinea hat on your knees, to say nothing of a boa and m.u.f.f and veil? And what about the damage to a delicate hat caused by people who shove in front of you and brush against it and crush the tulle and break the feathers? A lot of style it possesses after being treated in that fashion!"

"Don't you think you might have special hats for matinees--something undamageable."

"Perhaps you would like to see me in a tam-o'-shanter, or a yachting cap, or one of those nice 'sensible' straw hats you men admire; and suppose I want to go to a lunch _en route_ for the play, or tea afterwards, or to drive in the Park, or to go anywhere except to my _cabinet de toilette_?"

"They might make you something extra small and low that would serve for all these purposes."

"Indeed; don't you think half-a-guinea is enough to pay for a stall without buying a special hat into the bargain? A nice fuss my husband would make about my extravagance. Besides, people want us to wear no hat at all. What does your wife do?"

The interviewer replied that his wife thought it her duty to take off her hat.

"She behaves better than many ladies of the theatrical world. The other day I could not see a bit because of the enormous hat worn by Miss ----, and Miss ----and Miss ---- were just as bad."

It would be pleasant to give the names which would identify popular actresses who are great shiners in this matter.

"Moreover," she continued, "there is the difficulty of putting it on again. You men wear your hats on your heads, and can easily get them straight; we don't, we wear them on our hair, or our scalpettes, or our transformations, or on any _postiche_ that may be fashionable or necessary, and can only tell whether they are straight, or even the right way round, by means of a looking-gla.s.s. A pretty thing if I were to sail out of a theatre with my hat really askew, or before behind; people might fail to take a charitable view of the situation, and suspect I had had a gla.s.s too much instead of a gla.s.s too little."

"All this is irrelevant," said the interviewer, "and the whole difficulty is--you are too mean to go to the ladies' room and pay or give sixpence to the attendant."

She smiled pityingly.

"My dear man, you grumble about our being late at the theatre. What would happen if fifty of us were to take off our hats and touch up our hair in a room too small for fifteen, before taking our seats? I know one ladies' room where there is only one looking-gla.s.s, and there are only a few horrid little hooks on which to hang hats and veils. I would gladly patronize the waiting-room if there were ample accommodation, but that would be out of the question in most theatres, and one would have to come much too early and get away needlessly late; and there might be little mistakes about the hats and furs unless half-a-dozen attendants were provided, for it can't be a simple question of handing hats and coats over the counter as it is with you men."

It is undeniable that in some cases the ladies' cloak-rooms have not been designed so as to deal with the question under discussion, because, of course, theatres are primarily built for the evening performances, and matinees are only a little extra as a rule.

"The matter," said the lady thoughtfully, "is more important than you think. I consider that the matinee hat has settled the fate of many new enterprises. If the lady is asked to take off her hat and does not, she is uncomfortable during the afternoon, because she knows the people are hating her, not quite unjustly, and also because they sometimes whisper at her offensively. If she does take it off she is worried lest she has made a guy of herself; she is often upset because her hat has been crushed, and her mind is distracted by wonder if she will get it on right at the end. The result is that she is in a bad mood for the play and judges it unfairly.

"I think something could be done. The seats might be so arranged as to have an open box underneath each stall for the hat and m.u.f.f of the lady immediately behind. I do not say it would be easy to get at them; but even in the case of the narrowest stalls--and many are an outrage--it would be possible. Something of the sort indeed exists at one or two theatres, such as the Haymarket. Of course the cartwheel hats would not go into them, but ladies don't wear such things, only women who want to advertize themselves. Next," she continued, "comes the question of the looking-gla.s.s. I have made efforts to use a small _miroir de poche_, but it is far from adequate. In cases where the backs of the stalls are of a good height, a fair-sized mirror might be fixed high up on the back, with some little contrivance in the way of a curtain which could be drawn over it; and aided by these we might be able to grapple with our difficulties."

A penny-in-the-slot mirror might pay.

A Justification of certain Deadheads