There was more to it, however, than poise. Feuillet described at length the places in which dances were performed: ballrooms and their stages were typically rectangular, with the company seated all around and the king and his entourage—“the Presence”—placed at the front end. As a rule, the dancers (usually a solo or couple) began and ended their dance in the center of the room (or stage) facing each other or the king. As they danced, they did not move freely across the floor: taking a bird’s-eye view, Feuillet’s notation designated clear symmetrical figures, loops, circles, and S-curves to be traced by a soloist or couple, together or in mirror image, around the axis of the king’s presence. Orientation was essential, and the geometry of the dance made its performers acutely aware of their relation to each other, to the king, and to the courtiers around them. It was, in the most profound sense, a social dance.
Dance steps recorded in Feuillet notation. The symbols represent the feet in various positions, set to music shown at the top of the page. (1.1)
To this intense focus on the rules of etiquette, Feuillet (following Beauchamps and others) brought a zeal for categorization and codification. The distance between a gesture or movement at court and a formal ballet position was bridged in their minds, and it is a sign of the analytic character of their thinking that Feuillet’s notation was the first to use abstract symbols—like musical notes—rather than simple letters (such as r = reverence) to describe the steps of a dance. In these dances and Rameau’s descriptions, the body was organized like a court in miniature, with complicated rules governing the movement of its limbs. Metaphors linking the body of the king to the body politic and the cosmic order—or the head of state to its subject limbs, which must coordinate and conform to perceived natural hierarchies and laws—were brought fully into play.
At the heart of the endeavor were the five positions of the body, first codified by Beauchamps and clearly laid out by Feuillet, Rameau, and others in their wake. The importance of these positions cannot be overstated: they are the major scale, the primary colors from which all other constructions in ballet arise. Without them, la belle danse was a social dance; with them, the crucial leap from etiquette to art was made. The five “true” or noble positions, with the feet turned out 45 degrees at the hip, were offset by five “false” anti-positions, in which the feet pointed awkwardly inward to depict lesser social characters such as peasants, drunks, or sailors. It was universally agreed that in the true positions the feet must never be turned out more than 45 degrees, lest the dancer veer perilously toward the kind of exaggeration deployed by acrobatic performers. The line prescribing noble movements was thus drawn with some precision, and the true positions defined a golden rule for movement.27
First position was a gathering point, a “home” or balletic equivalent of a musical tonic, in which the body stood elegantly at rest, heel to heel, legs slightly turned out at the hip. The other four positions prepared the body to move. Second position pushed the feet horizontally apart by precisely the length of the dancer’s foot so that he might travel from side to side without turning his body away from the presence of the king. The measure of “one foot” meant that his movement would never be ungainly or splayed but would be held in strict proportion to the measure of the dancer’s own hips and shoulders. Third position (like first position) pulled the legs and feet back together, but slightly crossed. It was a fitted position, in which the legs were perfectly joined flush at the knees, such that a dancer might move forward or back, one foot following the other in a straight line.
In fourth position the feet were separated by exactly one foot back to front, the body poised in between. It was as if the dancer took a carefully measured step straight forward but stopped midway, weight on both feet (turned out). Fifth was a summation of all the steps; it prepared the dancer to move from side to side or front to back, without straying off his geometrically defined linear path. The heel of one foot slid to the toe of the other, pulling the limbs into perfect vertical alignment and equilibrium. The positions were thus like a map, preparing the feet to move out along clearly defined paths, front, side, or back (no imprecise wandering allowed); they contained and measured movement, ensuring that it would always be restrained and proportioned. “Steps,” Feuillet advised, “must be contained within the limits of positions.”28
Arms were also mapped, if less clearly. Ideally, for example, the arms would extend to the side in second position, on a level with the stomach. If, however, the dancer was too short, the arms would be raised slightly and extended to create the appearance of greater height. If he had an overly long body, the arms might be adjusted down or rounded at the elbow (shortened) in compensation. Arms were never raised above the shoulders, however, because this kind of distortion signaled distress or loss of control. Only furies or other devilish spirits raised their arms.
The precise positions of the arms, wrists, and hands were often left to the discretion of the dancer, but this did not mean they were not regulated. Much was made of how to offer a hand, carry a fan, or take off a hat or gloves, and the fingers were meant to be curved and shaped, index finger and thumb bent together as if lifting a skirt (or, perhaps, holding the bow of a violin). The palm of the hand was particularly sensitive, as if it had a life apart from the fingers and wrists, and simply turning a palm up or down could change the entire demeanor of the body. It was important to be conscious of the hands, and Rameau recommended that they be held neither open nor shut, uncommitted but ready to react.
The relations between the limbs were also scrupulously defined. The body was divided horizontally at the waist, just as a skirt (or later a tutu) set the upper body off from the lower, but it was also split vertically through the center as if a plumb line were dropped from the crown of the head down through the spine to the floor. The dancer had to organize his movement across and through these north-south and east-west divides. Thus ankles, knees, and hips were thought to correspond to wrists, elbows, and shoulders. When the knee bent, the elbow would react; if the ankle bent, this had consequences for the wrist. Moreover, and related to traditions of contrapposto in art, if the right shoulder and arm twisted forward, it had to be opposed and counterbalanced by the left hip and leg. Skill was largely a matter of coordinating multiple and simultaneous movements through and across the body according to subtle but clearly delineated rules.
Much depended on musicality, and Feuillet noted the music for each figure he traced at the top of the page, and also divided his decorative curves into distinct segments, each containing movement for a specific musical measure. Eschewing ostentatious flourishes, dancers prized subtle cadences and rhythmic tensions sustained and resolved in refined and discerning ways. Musical acuity depended on a receptive body, finely calibrated and prepared to react to even the faintest musical cues. Every limb and nerve ending had to be alive and ready to shift.
The body was thus in a constant state of readiness and play, knees slightly bent, heels gently off the floor, and the limbs counterbalancing around the dancer’s center of gravity. Balance was vital, but it was never a still point with the dancer rigidly posed in a given position: rather, it was a series of microadjustments and small physical maneuvers. Passage from one position to another was meant to be, as Feuillet put it, a seamless “mutation.” Indeed, smooth execution hinged especially on skillful use of the instep (extending through the ankle) of the foot in small, transition steps such as the demi-coupé—an exaggerated walking movement with bends of the knees and rises to the ball of the foot that subtly accentuated rhythm. In la belle danse, this part of the foot acted as a shock absorber and fine tuner, constantly calibrating changes in the body alignment and modifying movements in tiny, almost imperceptible ways. Like verbal manipulations, using the foot and ankle well could embellish a phrase or smooth an awkward moment. It could endow its author with an air of consummate polish and ease.29
Reminders of etiquette, moreover, were imprinted in the steps. The plié, for example, was a simple bend of the kn
ees and a preparation to step or jump, but it was also a sign of humility associated with the reverence; the greater the person bowed to, the deeper the bend of the knees. Similarly, the opposition through the body not only was a formal principle but also carried a social hue, as Rameau reminded his readers: “For example if you pass someone you must turn your shoulder” to allow them room to go by. There were resonances with the etiquette of fencing too: éffacé designated a “retreat” or a pulling back of one side of the torso to avoid an opponent’s glance. And turnout did not (as it later would) ply open the feet and legs to a physically extreme 180-degree line. Rather, it was a restrained stance that indicated ease of being, elegance, and grace.30
When a man and a woman danced together, they generally performed the same steps in mirror image, though men were given to virtuosity while women were expected to exercise restraint. The relationship was chivalric, with the man performing technical feats in honor of his demure lady, and also reflected commonly held views of sexuality: women were thought to be biologically and physically the same as men—just a bit less developed and with less “heat.” The difference was one of degree, not kind, and so it was in the dances.
There were other hierarchies too: not all bodies were considered equal. In keeping with the idea (as Saint-Simon put it) that “gradation, inequality, and difference” were both natural and desirable—in society as in the physical world—some bodies were thought “higher” and more suited to perform the noble style than others. In recognition of this seemingly incontrovertible fact (bodies, after all, are different), over time performers were increasingly differentiated according to defined genres: “serious” or “noble,” “demi-character,” and (bringing up the rear) “comic.” The categories were never rigid or fixed; a dancer, for example, might cross into a different genre for a certain dance, or even distort the styles of movement to different dramatic purpose—exotic, fantasy, burlesque. But until the 1820s when (exhausted and embattled) these categories finally collapsed, they set forth important limits that most people took for granted.31
Dances of the serious, noble style, as we have seen, ideally were performed by men with long, lean, elegantly proportioned bodies. One danseur noble in the eighteenth century, Gaetan Vestris, was known as “the god of the dance,” and his physical stature and beauty were so impressive that Horace Walpole once remarked that Vestris must be “the only perfect being that has dropped from the clouds within the memory of man or woman.” Working down the social ladder, the demi-character dancer was more compact and moved a bit faster than his noble counterpart. His currency was élan and a delicate physical wit. The comic dancer was stout and bouncy: he was the peasant and the least refined type.32
Who a dancer was onstage also depended, of course, on what he wore. In ballets as in balls, dancers dressed in the latest fashions using the most expensive and luxurious fabrics and accoutrements designed by tailors, jewelers, hairdressers, and other related artisans. Following conventions in painting and drama, Roman dress was thought the highest and most noble; thus Louis XIV often appeared as a Roman emperor, adorned with other symbols of high birth and character such as powdered wigs, precious jewels, or ostrich plumes (rare and costly) planted like a great fern in the hero’s helmet.* The point was not accurately to depict a character but to respect the rules of decorum: dress was a way of indicating a character’s place in the social hierarchy, and the quality, number, value, and length of fabric, plumes, jewelry, and trains were all calibrated to status. The tone of the performance, however, never dipped too low; even those playing peasants were costumed in silk.
Character or allegorical meanings were conveyed with props, headdresses, and symbols sewn over fashion-plate designs. Night was indicated with stars sprayed across the fabric; Greeks, Muslims, and Americans could be identified by their exotic headgear; Love might wear a fabric tinged with rose. In one especially witty costume, le monde malade was depicted with a headdress of Mount Olympus and the dancer’s body mapped with France on the heart, Germany on the stomach, Italy on the leg, and Hispania on the arm—with the arm pointedly bled and leeched in the course of the dance.
The face was costumed too: masks or half masks were de rigueur, both at court and on the stage. Made of leather, velvet, or fabric, they could be held by clenching between the teeth a bead attached to the inside of the mask, or tied around the head with fancy ribbons. They were not decorative accessories but an essential part of dress. Human character, it was believed, was immutable and determined by a particular mix of humors and temperaments in the body; no amount of acting could hide or alter an individual’s identity and the only way to be something other than oneself was to wear a mask. Thus dancers did not try to “become” their characters: they assumed them by wearing symbols of birth and status. As such, masks were also worn on the knees, elbows, and chest, and even in the hair.
Even when they did not wear masks, courtiers—especially women—customarily painted their faces, necks, and breasts with thick ceruse made of (highly toxic) white lead, occasionally in combination with an egg-white enamel. Red lips and blue veins might then be drawn onto the white base to create a perfectly unblemished appearance. Patches of red leather or black taffeta cut into symbolic shapes indicating passion, a saucy temperament, and the like were often pasted to the center of the cheek or at the corner of the eye. Masks and being masked were thus part of a larger drama of appearances and artifice—and deceit—of which ballets were just one expression. Physical and emotional control were paramount, as La Bruyère famously noted: “A man who knows the court is a master of his gestures, of his eyes, and of his face … he is profound; impenetrable; he dissimulates bad offices, smiles at his enemies, controls his irritation, disguises his passions, belies his heart, speaks and acts against his feelings.”33
For dancing, the conventions of costume gave men a distinct advantage. Roman-style dress or fashionable skirted waistcoats, breeches, and silk stockings left the legs free and visible. Women had no such freedoms. As Claude-François Ménestrier matter-of-factly pointed out (without further comment), “Women’s dresses are less suitable [for dancing] because they must be long.” Indeed so: heavy skirts that fell to the floor, worn over petticoats and topped with mantuas, aprons, and stiff bodices and corsets, conspired to constrain movement in the interests of upright posture and dignified carriage. These gowns, however, were not necessarily seen as impediments: a woman carried her dress as if it were part of her body, and its architectural structure contributed to her poise and stature. The art lay in concealing rather than revealing, in artifice rather than self-expression, and the layers of fabric, wigs, masks, jewels, makeup were designed to build up from nature and make the body, in itself, a work of art.34
Mlle. Subligny and M. Balon: decorative costumes were part of the dance.
There remains the all-important matter of the feet, on which the whole elaborate structure of the body was poised. It was, after all, the feet that showed: they peeked out from a woman’s robes, and it was in quick footwork, beats, and ornamented steps that a man proved his virtuosity. It is no accident that Feuillet’s notation recorded exactly which part of the foot should be placed on the floor when and how, but left the head, chest, hips, and arms unspecified, expected presumably to follow.
Dancers performed in street shoes, which were generally made of ornamented silk, velvet, felt, or leather. No distinction was made for left or right, and the feet were like two filigreed pedestals decorating the base of the legs. Shoes were squared at the front with a thick, low heel attached at the back for men, and more pointed at the toe with a higher and narrower heel stemming from the instep for women. Men thus moved with greater ease and balance than women could ever hope to achieve, and the long and tapered line of men’s shoes made decisive steps essential; shuffling could occasion a nasty and humiliating fall. Women’s feet, by contrast, were cupped around the high arch, and the heel inserted at the instep threw the weight straight down the plumb line, further accentuating
their corseted carriage and necessitating small, delicate steps.
This obsession with the feet did not come out of nowhere. To the seventeenth-century mind, feet were an object of allure and erotic fantasy, and shoes could be sexy, showy, and a clear sign of rank. Courtiers wore red heels (showing rank), and shoes were often decorated with ribbons; buckles of gold, silver, or jewels; and scenery depicting love, flowers, shepherds, or even important battles. Small feet were coveted, especially in women, who were known to bind their feet in waxed linen tape and force them into shoes that cut off circulation and caused many a young courtier to faint from pain. In the early eighteenth century, the dancer Marie-Anne de Cupis de Camargo was so admired for her fine foot that ladies of the court rushed to her shoemaker (who became a wealthy man) in the hope that they too might have “the prettiest foot in the world.”35
Shoes, costumes, masks, and makeup were thus all part of la belle danse, which was itself a studied and refined show of nobility. To modern eyes, French court dance can sometimes have a brittle, eggshell look, as if it were contrived, a fake persona or highly ornamented façade with no real substance inside. But it is important to remember that in seventeenth-century France, hierarchy, degree, proportion, and heightened physical control were all part of a much larger social and political design. Appearances were substance, and la belle danse was one way of demonstrating and acquiring nobility.
We may also find it strange to identify the florid gestural artifice of la belle danse with the purities and rigor of classicism. Yet la belle danse was very much a classical art in its strict attention to rules and ideals and its devotion to a conception of formal precision, proportion, and human perfection. Those who trained their bodies to master Beauchamps’s five positions and fastened their minds to the meticulous laws governing movement may have seemed at times to have been involved in a great deceit. But if la belle danse held a mirror to Louis’s court, it also transcended it. The self-control and order demanded of this linear and geometrical organization of the body would outlast the court that gave it form, not as etiquette but as dance: classical ballet.
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