Nature then being always Nature, always invariable in her operations and productions; there is no false conclusion, nor straining inferences, in avering, that the art of dancing could not but be a great gainer by a revival of the taste of the antients for the pantomime branch; which, upon the theatre, converted a transient flashy amusement of the eye, into a rational or sensible entertainment, and made of dancers, who are otherwise, a mere mechanicalcomposition of feet, legs, and arms, without spirit or meaning, artists formed to paint with the most pathetic expression, the most striking situations of human nature: I am not afraid of using here the term of the most pathetic expression, injuriously to the great power of theatrical declamation; because the great effect and charm of the moment is, evidently, the more likely to be produced by attitudes or gestures alone, unseconded by the voice; for that the pleasure of the spectator will have been the greater for the quickness of his apprehension not having needed that help to understand the meaning of them. And this is so true of the force of impression depending on that part of bodily eloquence, that even in oratory, action was, by one of the greatest judges of that art, pronounced to be the most essential part of it.This may be, perhaps, an exaggeration: but when people resort to a theatre to unbend, or relax, they will hardly think their pleasure tastelesly diversified by a fine pantomime execution of a dramatic composition, to the perfection of which, poetry, music, painting, decoration, and machinery will have all contributed their respective contingents.For the subjects of these poetical dances, the composer will undoubtedly find those which are the most likely to please, in fabulous history, especially for the serious, or pathetic stile. This we find was the great resource of the antients, who had, in that point, a considerable advantage, from which the moderns are excluded, by the antient mithology having lost that effect, and warmth of interest, which accompaniedall transactions taken from it by their poets, and brought upon the theatre. The heroes of antiquity, the marvellous of their deities, and the histories of their amours, or of their exploits, can never make the same impression on the moderns so thoroughly differing in manners and ways of thinking, from those, to whom such exhibitions were a kind of domestic, and even religious remembrancers. The spectators of those times were more at home to what they saw represented upon their theatres; the ground-work of the fable represented to the audience being generally foreknown, contributed greatly to the quickness of their apprehension; and its being part of their received theology, and often of the history of their own country, procured it the more favorable attention.The greatest part of these advantages are wanting in the employment of these fictions among the moderns; and to which however they are, in some measure, compelled to have recourse, for want of theatrical subjects striking enough to be agreeably thrown into a dance; by which I do not mean to exclude all subjects that have not those poetical fictions of Greek and Roman antiquity for a basis; on the contrary, it might justly pass for a barrenness of invention, the being reduced constantly to borrow from them, but purely to point out a treasure, ever open to the artist who shall know how to make a selection with judgment and taste: always remembering, that the more universally the fable is foreknown, the more easy will the task be of rendering it intelligible in the execution.There are, doubtless, some parts of the antient mithology so obscure, and so little known, that any plan taken from them, would, to the generality of the spectators, be as great a novelty, as if the composer had himself invented the subject. There are others again of which all the interest is entirely antiquated and exploded.As to the pieces of composition in the comic vein, there is nothing like taking the subject of them from the most agreeable and the most marking occurrences in real, current life; and the stronger they are of the manners and practice of the times, the nearer they will seem to the truth of nature, and the surer at once to be understood, and to have a pleasing effect.And here I shall take the liberty of concluding with offering two instances of poetic dances; the one in the serious, the other in the comic vein, which are furnished rather as hints of the improvable nature of such compositions, than in the least meant for models of them.The first has for title,VenusandAdonis.The decoration represents a wood intersected by several walks, which form an agreeable perspective of distances. At the bottom of the theatre, and in the middle, there is a grand walk, terminated by a small mount, on the summit of which is seen a colonnade, that forms the peristile of a temple.Venus, preceded by the Graces and several nimphs, comes out of the temple, descends the mount, and advances to the front of the wood; the simphony to be the most agreeable and melodious imaginable, to announce the arrival of the goddess of love.The Graces and the nimphs open the action, and, by their gestures and steps, express their endeavour to sooth the impatience of Venus on the absence of Adonis. The agitation in which she is, ought to be painted on her countenance, and expressed by the discomposure of her steps, marking her anxiety and desire of seeing her lover.The sound of the chace is heard, which betokens the approach of Adonis. Joy breaks forth in the eyes, the gestures, and steps of Venus and her train.Adonis, followed by several hunters, enters through one of the side-walks of the wood. Venus runs to meet him, and seems to chide him for having been so long away. He shows her the head of a stag, which he has killed, and which is carried, as in triumph, upon a hunting-pole, by one of the hunters; and offers it, as the fruit of his chace, in homage to the goddess, who is presently appeased, and graciously receives his offering. These two lovers then express in apas-de-deux, their mutual satisfaction.The hunters mix with the Graces and nimphs, and form a dance which characterises their harmony.Soon a noisy simphony, of military instrumental music, gives warning of the arrival of Mars. Venus, Adonis,the Graces, the nimphs, and hunters, show signs of uneasiness and terror.Mars, followed by several warriors, enters precipitately through a walk opposite to that by which Adonis and the hunters came. Venus separates from Adonis, having insisted on his getting out of the way of the formidable god of war. He withdraws with his train by the same way as he came. Mars, inraged with jealousy, makes a shew of going to pursue Adonis. Venus stops him, and employs, in her soothing and caresses, all the usual arts of appeasing and blinding a jealous lover. She prevails at length, not only to dissipate his passion, but to make him believe himself in the wrong for having been jealous.The warriors address themselves to the Graces and nimphs, and form together a dance expressive of a sort of reconciliation; after which Mars and his train return by the same way as they came.Venus, the Graces, and the nimphs, see them go, and when they are got a little distance from them, testify their satisfaction at having got so well over this interruption.Adonis returns alone: Venus springs to meet him, and gives him to understand that he has now nothing to fear; that Mars will not return in haste.In the same walk from which Adonis came, the hunters of his train are seen pursuing a wild boar, that tries to escape just by where the Graces and the nimphsare, who, in their fright, attempt to fly from him: but he is already so near them, that they do not know how to avoid him. Adonis runs hastily to pierce the boar with his javelin; but the boar gets him himself down. The hunters arrive at that instant, and kill the boar; but Adonis is nevertheless mortally wounded, and expires.Here it is that the music and the dance are to display their respective powers: the one by the most plaintive mournful sounds; the other by gestures and steps in which grief and despair are strongly characterised, ought to express the profound affection into which Venus is plunged, and the share the Graces, the nimphs, and the hunters take in it.Venus appears to implore the aid of all the gods, to restore her lover to her. She bathes him with her tears, and those precious tears have such a virtue, that Adonis appears all of a sudden transformed into an anemony or wind-flower.The Graces and the nimphs express their surprise; but the astonishment of the hunters should be yet more strongly marked.Venus herself is not the more comforted by this metamorphosis. A flower cannot well supply the place of her lover. She turns then her eyes towards the earth, and seems to invoke the power of some deity inhabitant of its bowels.The flower disappears; the earth opens, and Proserpine rises out of it, sitting on a chariot drawn by black horses, and having at her side Adonis restored to life.It is natural to imagine the joy that is at this to be expressed, by the simphony, by the gestures, and stepsofVenus, of the Graces, the nimphs, and hunters.Proserpine, getting out of her chariot, holding Adonis by the hand, presents him to Venus. Apas-de-troisor trio-dance follows, in which the joy of the two lovers at seeing one another again is to be characterised by all the expression, and all the graces of the most pleasing dance, while Proserpine testifies her satisfaction at having produced the re-union: after which, shegets into her chariot, and re-descends into the earth.The Graces, the nimphs, and hunters, express how highly they are charmed at seeing Adonis again; Venus and Adonis form apas-de-deux, or duet-dance, in which the Goddess takes off her girdle orcestus, and puts it upon Adonis, in the way of a shoulder-belt, or as now the ribbons of most orders of knight-hood are worn, which is to him a simbol of immortality.The Graces and nimphs testify to Adonis how pleased they are to see him received into the number of the demi-gods: the hunters pay their homage to him, and the whole concludes by a general country-dance.The other specimen has for title,TheCoquette Punished.The decoration represents a delicious garden, in which there are several compartments, separated by canals andjet-d’eaux. This scenery should exhibit the prospect of at once a pleasure-garden, and a fruit-one.In the bottom of this perspective, there appear several gardeners busied, some in pruning the hedges, others in sowing and planting: more towards the front are seen, some women at work, tying up the flowers, or cleaning them from pernicious leaves; others setting roots in vases. All this forms the scenical picture at the drawing up the curtain.A simphony mixed with the most rural instruments of music, begins with soft and soothing airs.One of the female gardeners, more showishly dressed than the others, and who is employed upon some necessary task about the flower-vases, seems however more attentive to the admiring the flowers, than to do her work: and as she is standing near a canal, she is, when she imagines none are taking notice of her, lookingather figure in the watery mirror, admiring herself, and adjusting her dress. Though she does all this by stealth, her companions remark her coquettry, make signs to each other, and point her out to the gardeners, who join the laugh at her, without the coquet’s perceiving it, who is too much taken up with herself.The simphony should express by the sounds, as nearly as possible, the mockery and bursts of laughter from the rest of the gardeners.The coquet is sadly tempted to gather some of the flowers for her own use, but dares not. In the moment that she is expressing the greatest mind for it, enters a gardener, who is not one of those employed at work, and who makes up to her, shows her a fine nosegay, and signifies to her that he is come on purpose to offer it her. The coquet immediately leaves off her work; and thispas-de-deuxbegins by all the little grimaces and false coyness that the coquette opposes to her acceptance of the nosegay, but which at the same time only the more betray the mind she has for it. The gardener keeps pressing her to receive it. Her companions,curious to see how this will end, advance little by little towards them: the gardeners follow them; and all surrounding the coquette and her swain, form a dance, in which the men seem to excite the lover not to take a denial, and the women want to engage the coquette to receive the nosegay; but all this, with a bantering air: at length the coquette accepts it, sticks some of the flowers in her hair, and the rest in her bosom. Her companions and the gardeners, shew by their signs, that they were very sure she would take the nosegay and return to their, work.Another gardener now enters, on the side opposite to that on which the first came, and advancing with an air of gaiety, presents to the coquette, a small basket of fine fruit. In thispas-de-trois, she a-fresh makes a great many faces, about whether she will take the fruit or not. The swain of the nosegay expresses his vexation at the intervention of this rival, but the coquette manages so well that she pacifies his jealousy, and accepts the other’s basket of fruit, which she hangs upon her arm. The gardeners do not quit their work, but they give to understand by shrewd signs, what they think of the coquette’s game.It is easy to conceive, that the composer of this music will, in the airs made for thepas-de-deux, andpas-de-trois, pay attention to the different affections that are to be characterised by the dance.While the gardener who brought the nosegay, and the other who presentedthe fruit, and the coquette, are all seemingly in good harmony, enters a third gardener, gallantly dressed, of a most engaging figure, having in his hands some pink-and-silver ribbons.The simphony should announce the arrival of this amiable gardener, by an air all expressive of briskness and gay gallantry.The gallant gardener approaches the coquette, and shews her those glittering ribbons, which at once catch her eye, and give her a violent longing for them. This new-comer takes notice of the flowers in her hair and bosom, and of the fruit-basket hung upon her arm. He gives her plainly to understand that she must return all this to his rivals, if she has a mind to have the ribbons. Thesebegin to express their resentment; but the coquette is so transported with the pleasure of bedizening herself with those ribbons, that no regard can with-hold her: she returns the flowers to the one, and the fruit to the other, and takes the ribbons. The two gardeners, who see themselves slighted in this manner, threaten him who has given the ribbons, and throw themselves into attitudes of falling upon him; at which he puts on a resolute look, and does not seem to fear them. Her companions and the gardeners leave their work, and advance some steps forwards, being curious to see how the scene will end.The simphony should here express, by different airs, the resentment of thetwo first swains, and the resentment of the gallant gardener.The coquette uses her best arts to pacify the two angry gardeners; but it is all in vain; they express their indignation, and are determined to take their revenge upon their rival. Just in the instant that they are preparing to attack him, and that he is stoutly standing upon his defence, comes in a female gardener, amiable, lively, but without any mark of coquettry in her looks or dress; who, by the eager and frightened air with which she interposes, and places herself between the gallant gardener and the others, to prevent their hurting him, discovers the tender regard she has for him.The two others, in respect to this charming girl, dare not proceed; but they give her to understand that the coquette has been so base as to return the flowers to the one, and the fruit to the other, that she might get the ribbons from the gardener whom she is protecting from their just resentment.At this the offended fair one expresses to her lover her indignation, but does not the less for that make the others sensible that she will not suffer them to hurt him. She snatches next, from the coquette, the ribbons. The whole company round testify their approbation of what she has done, even the two gardeners, who were, the moment before, so angry, burst out a-laughing for joy, to see the coquette so well punished, being now left without flowers, fruit, or ribbons; atwhich she withdraws, overwhelmed with confusion, and with the loud laugh and rallying gestures of her companions and the other gardeners.The gay gardener, vexed at having been surprised by his mistress, in an act of gallantry to another woman, wants to pass it off to her as merely a scheme to amuse himself, and to laugh at the coquette. At first she will not hear him; she treads the ribbons under her feet, and is going away in a passion. He stops her, and entreats her forgiveness with an air so moving and penetrated, that, little by little, she is disarmed of her anger, and pardons him, in sign of which she gives him her hand.There is no need of specifying here what the dance in action, accompaniedby the music, should express in thispas-de-deux; it is too obvious.The gardeners, men and women, testify their rejoicing at this reconciliation, and the dance becomes general.FINIS.*Hanc partem Musicæ disciplinæ Majores mutam nominârunt, quæ ore clauso loquitur, et quibusdam gesticulationibus facit intelligi, quod vix narrante lingua, aut scripturæ textu possit agnosci.Cassiod, var. 1. 20.Loquacissimas manus, linguosos digitos, silentium clamosum, expositionem tacitam.Idem.
Nature then being always Nature, always invariable in her operations and productions; there is no false conclusion, nor straining inferences, in avering, that the art of dancing could not but be a great gainer by a revival of the taste of the antients for the pantomime branch; which, upon the theatre, converted a transient flashy amusement of the eye, into a rational or sensible entertainment, and made of dancers, who are otherwise, a mere mechanicalcomposition of feet, legs, and arms, without spirit or meaning, artists formed to paint with the most pathetic expression, the most striking situations of human nature: I am not afraid of using here the term of the most pathetic expression, injuriously to the great power of theatrical declamation; because the great effect and charm of the moment is, evidently, the more likely to be produced by attitudes or gestures alone, unseconded by the voice; for that the pleasure of the spectator will have been the greater for the quickness of his apprehension not having needed that help to understand the meaning of them. And this is so true of the force of impression depending on that part of bodily eloquence, that even in oratory, action was, by one of the greatest judges of that art, pronounced to be the most essential part of it.
This may be, perhaps, an exaggeration: but when people resort to a theatre to unbend, or relax, they will hardly think their pleasure tastelesly diversified by a fine pantomime execution of a dramatic composition, to the perfection of which, poetry, music, painting, decoration, and machinery will have all contributed their respective contingents.
For the subjects of these poetical dances, the composer will undoubtedly find those which are the most likely to please, in fabulous history, especially for the serious, or pathetic stile. This we find was the great resource of the antients, who had, in that point, a considerable advantage, from which the moderns are excluded, by the antient mithology having lost that effect, and warmth of interest, which accompaniedall transactions taken from it by their poets, and brought upon the theatre. The heroes of antiquity, the marvellous of their deities, and the histories of their amours, or of their exploits, can never make the same impression on the moderns so thoroughly differing in manners and ways of thinking, from those, to whom such exhibitions were a kind of domestic, and even religious remembrancers. The spectators of those times were more at home to what they saw represented upon their theatres; the ground-work of the fable represented to the audience being generally foreknown, contributed greatly to the quickness of their apprehension; and its being part of their received theology, and often of the history of their own country, procured it the more favorable attention.
The greatest part of these advantages are wanting in the employment of these fictions among the moderns; and to which however they are, in some measure, compelled to have recourse, for want of theatrical subjects striking enough to be agreeably thrown into a dance; by which I do not mean to exclude all subjects that have not those poetical fictions of Greek and Roman antiquity for a basis; on the contrary, it might justly pass for a barrenness of invention, the being reduced constantly to borrow from them, but purely to point out a treasure, ever open to the artist who shall know how to make a selection with judgment and taste: always remembering, that the more universally the fable is foreknown, the more easy will the task be of rendering it intelligible in the execution.
There are, doubtless, some parts of the antient mithology so obscure, and so little known, that any plan taken from them, would, to the generality of the spectators, be as great a novelty, as if the composer had himself invented the subject. There are others again of which all the interest is entirely antiquated and exploded.
As to the pieces of composition in the comic vein, there is nothing like taking the subject of them from the most agreeable and the most marking occurrences in real, current life; and the stronger they are of the manners and practice of the times, the nearer they will seem to the truth of nature, and the surer at once to be understood, and to have a pleasing effect.
And here I shall take the liberty of concluding with offering two instances of poetic dances; the one in the serious, the other in the comic vein, which are furnished rather as hints of the improvable nature of such compositions, than in the least meant for models of them.
The first has for title,
The decoration represents a wood intersected by several walks, which form an agreeable perspective of distances. At the bottom of the theatre, and in the middle, there is a grand walk, terminated by a small mount, on the summit of which is seen a colonnade, that forms the peristile of a temple.
Venus, preceded by the Graces and several nimphs, comes out of the temple, descends the mount, and advances to the front of the wood; the simphony to be the most agreeable and melodious imaginable, to announce the arrival of the goddess of love.
The Graces and the nimphs open the action, and, by their gestures and steps, express their endeavour to sooth the impatience of Venus on the absence of Adonis. The agitation in which she is, ought to be painted on her countenance, and expressed by the discomposure of her steps, marking her anxiety and desire of seeing her lover.
The sound of the chace is heard, which betokens the approach of Adonis. Joy breaks forth in the eyes, the gestures, and steps of Venus and her train.
Adonis, followed by several hunters, enters through one of the side-walks of the wood. Venus runs to meet him, and seems to chide him for having been so long away. He shows her the head of a stag, which he has killed, and which is carried, as in triumph, upon a hunting-pole, by one of the hunters; and offers it, as the fruit of his chace, in homage to the goddess, who is presently appeased, and graciously receives his offering. These two lovers then express in apas-de-deux, their mutual satisfaction.
The hunters mix with the Graces and nimphs, and form a dance which characterises their harmony.
Soon a noisy simphony, of military instrumental music, gives warning of the arrival of Mars. Venus, Adonis,the Graces, the nimphs, and hunters, show signs of uneasiness and terror.
Mars, followed by several warriors, enters precipitately through a walk opposite to that by which Adonis and the hunters came. Venus separates from Adonis, having insisted on his getting out of the way of the formidable god of war. He withdraws with his train by the same way as he came. Mars, inraged with jealousy, makes a shew of going to pursue Adonis. Venus stops him, and employs, in her soothing and caresses, all the usual arts of appeasing and blinding a jealous lover. She prevails at length, not only to dissipate his passion, but to make him believe himself in the wrong for having been jealous.
The warriors address themselves to the Graces and nimphs, and form together a dance expressive of a sort of reconciliation; after which Mars and his train return by the same way as they came.
Venus, the Graces, and the nimphs, see them go, and when they are got a little distance from them, testify their satisfaction at having got so well over this interruption.
Adonis returns alone: Venus springs to meet him, and gives him to understand that he has now nothing to fear; that Mars will not return in haste.
In the same walk from which Adonis came, the hunters of his train are seen pursuing a wild boar, that tries to escape just by where the Graces and the nimphsare, who, in their fright, attempt to fly from him: but he is already so near them, that they do not know how to avoid him. Adonis runs hastily to pierce the boar with his javelin; but the boar gets him himself down. The hunters arrive at that instant, and kill the boar; but Adonis is nevertheless mortally wounded, and expires.
Here it is that the music and the dance are to display their respective powers: the one by the most plaintive mournful sounds; the other by gestures and steps in which grief and despair are strongly characterised, ought to express the profound affection into which Venus is plunged, and the share the Graces, the nimphs, and the hunters take in it.
Venus appears to implore the aid of all the gods, to restore her lover to her. She bathes him with her tears, and those precious tears have such a virtue, that Adonis appears all of a sudden transformed into an anemony or wind-flower.
The Graces and the nimphs express their surprise; but the astonishment of the hunters should be yet more strongly marked.
Venus herself is not the more comforted by this metamorphosis. A flower cannot well supply the place of her lover. She turns then her eyes towards the earth, and seems to invoke the power of some deity inhabitant of its bowels.
The flower disappears; the earth opens, and Proserpine rises out of it, sitting on a chariot drawn by black horses, and having at her side Adonis restored to life.
It is natural to imagine the joy that is at this to be expressed, by the simphony, by the gestures, and stepsofVenus, of the Graces, the nimphs, and hunters.
Proserpine, getting out of her chariot, holding Adonis by the hand, presents him to Venus. Apas-de-troisor trio-dance follows, in which the joy of the two lovers at seeing one another again is to be characterised by all the expression, and all the graces of the most pleasing dance, while Proserpine testifies her satisfaction at having produced the re-union: after which, shegets into her chariot, and re-descends into the earth.
The Graces, the nimphs, and hunters, express how highly they are charmed at seeing Adonis again; Venus and Adonis form apas-de-deux, or duet-dance, in which the Goddess takes off her girdle orcestus, and puts it upon Adonis, in the way of a shoulder-belt, or as now the ribbons of most orders of knight-hood are worn, which is to him a simbol of immortality.
The Graces and nimphs testify to Adonis how pleased they are to see him received into the number of the demi-gods: the hunters pay their homage to him, and the whole concludes by a general country-dance.
The other specimen has for title,
The decoration represents a delicious garden, in which there are several compartments, separated by canals andjet-d’eaux. This scenery should exhibit the prospect of at once a pleasure-garden, and a fruit-one.
In the bottom of this perspective, there appear several gardeners busied, some in pruning the hedges, others in sowing and planting: more towards the front are seen, some women at work, tying up the flowers, or cleaning them from pernicious leaves; others setting roots in vases. All this forms the scenical picture at the drawing up the curtain.
A simphony mixed with the most rural instruments of music, begins with soft and soothing airs.
One of the female gardeners, more showishly dressed than the others, and who is employed upon some necessary task about the flower-vases, seems however more attentive to the admiring the flowers, than to do her work: and as she is standing near a canal, she is, when she imagines none are taking notice of her, lookingather figure in the watery mirror, admiring herself, and adjusting her dress. Though she does all this by stealth, her companions remark her coquettry, make signs to each other, and point her out to the gardeners, who join the laugh at her, without the coquet’s perceiving it, who is too much taken up with herself.
The simphony should express by the sounds, as nearly as possible, the mockery and bursts of laughter from the rest of the gardeners.
The coquet is sadly tempted to gather some of the flowers for her own use, but dares not. In the moment that she is expressing the greatest mind for it, enters a gardener, who is not one of those employed at work, and who makes up to her, shows her a fine nosegay, and signifies to her that he is come on purpose to offer it her. The coquet immediately leaves off her work; and thispas-de-deuxbegins by all the little grimaces and false coyness that the coquette opposes to her acceptance of the nosegay, but which at the same time only the more betray the mind she has for it. The gardener keeps pressing her to receive it. Her companions,curious to see how this will end, advance little by little towards them: the gardeners follow them; and all surrounding the coquette and her swain, form a dance, in which the men seem to excite the lover not to take a denial, and the women want to engage the coquette to receive the nosegay; but all this, with a bantering air: at length the coquette accepts it, sticks some of the flowers in her hair, and the rest in her bosom. Her companions and the gardeners, shew by their signs, that they were very sure she would take the nosegay and return to their, work.
Another gardener now enters, on the side opposite to that on which the first came, and advancing with an air of gaiety, presents to the coquette, a small basket of fine fruit. In thispas-de-trois, she a-fresh makes a great many faces, about whether she will take the fruit or not. The swain of the nosegay expresses his vexation at the intervention of this rival, but the coquette manages so well that she pacifies his jealousy, and accepts the other’s basket of fruit, which she hangs upon her arm. The gardeners do not quit their work, but they give to understand by shrewd signs, what they think of the coquette’s game.
It is easy to conceive, that the composer of this music will, in the airs made for thepas-de-deux, andpas-de-trois, pay attention to the different affections that are to be characterised by the dance.
While the gardener who brought the nosegay, and the other who presentedthe fruit, and the coquette, are all seemingly in good harmony, enters a third gardener, gallantly dressed, of a most engaging figure, having in his hands some pink-and-silver ribbons.
The simphony should announce the arrival of this amiable gardener, by an air all expressive of briskness and gay gallantry.
The gallant gardener approaches the coquette, and shews her those glittering ribbons, which at once catch her eye, and give her a violent longing for them. This new-comer takes notice of the flowers in her hair and bosom, and of the fruit-basket hung upon her arm. He gives her plainly to understand that she must return all this to his rivals, if she has a mind to have the ribbons. Thesebegin to express their resentment; but the coquette is so transported with the pleasure of bedizening herself with those ribbons, that no regard can with-hold her: she returns the flowers to the one, and the fruit to the other, and takes the ribbons. The two gardeners, who see themselves slighted in this manner, threaten him who has given the ribbons, and throw themselves into attitudes of falling upon him; at which he puts on a resolute look, and does not seem to fear them. Her companions and the gardeners leave their work, and advance some steps forwards, being curious to see how the scene will end.
The simphony should here express, by different airs, the resentment of thetwo first swains, and the resentment of the gallant gardener.
The coquette uses her best arts to pacify the two angry gardeners; but it is all in vain; they express their indignation, and are determined to take their revenge upon their rival. Just in the instant that they are preparing to attack him, and that he is stoutly standing upon his defence, comes in a female gardener, amiable, lively, but without any mark of coquettry in her looks or dress; who, by the eager and frightened air with which she interposes, and places herself between the gallant gardener and the others, to prevent their hurting him, discovers the tender regard she has for him.
The two others, in respect to this charming girl, dare not proceed; but they give her to understand that the coquette has been so base as to return the flowers to the one, and the fruit to the other, that she might get the ribbons from the gardener whom she is protecting from their just resentment.
At this the offended fair one expresses to her lover her indignation, but does not the less for that make the others sensible that she will not suffer them to hurt him. She snatches next, from the coquette, the ribbons. The whole company round testify their approbation of what she has done, even the two gardeners, who were, the moment before, so angry, burst out a-laughing for joy, to see the coquette so well punished, being now left without flowers, fruit, or ribbons; atwhich she withdraws, overwhelmed with confusion, and with the loud laugh and rallying gestures of her companions and the other gardeners.
The gay gardener, vexed at having been surprised by his mistress, in an act of gallantry to another woman, wants to pass it off to her as merely a scheme to amuse himself, and to laugh at the coquette. At first she will not hear him; she treads the ribbons under her feet, and is going away in a passion. He stops her, and entreats her forgiveness with an air so moving and penetrated, that, little by little, she is disarmed of her anger, and pardons him, in sign of which she gives him her hand.
There is no need of specifying here what the dance in action, accompaniedby the music, should express in thispas-de-deux; it is too obvious.
The gardeners, men and women, testify their rejoicing at this reconciliation, and the dance becomes general.
*Hanc partem Musicæ disciplinæ Majores mutam nominârunt, quæ ore clauso loquitur, et quibusdam gesticulationibus facit intelligi, quod vix narrante lingua, aut scripturæ textu possit agnosci.Cassiod, var. 1. 20.Loquacissimas manus, linguosos digitos, silentium clamosum, expositionem tacitam.Idem.
*Hanc partem Musicæ disciplinæ Majores mutam nominârunt, quæ ore clauso loquitur, et quibusdam gesticulationibus facit intelligi, quod vix narrante lingua, aut scripturæ textu possit agnosci.
Cassiod, var. 1. 20.
Loquacissimas manus, linguosos digitos, silentium clamosum, expositionem tacitam.
Idem.