With a last, low wail the music ceases. Her swooning senses come back to life. Ah, must it be! Yes; her companion releases her from his embrace. Leaning wearily upon his arm, the rapture faded from her eye, the flush dying from her cheek — enervated, limp, listless, worn out — she is led to a seat, there to recover from her delirium and gather her energies as best she may in the space of five minutes, after which she must yield her body to a new embrace.
But did you not notice a faint smile upon the lips of her late companion as he turned and left her? a smile of triumph, an air of sated appetite, it seemed to me; and see, as he joins his cronies yonder he laughs, rubs his hands together, chuckles visibly, and communicates some choice scrap of news which makes them look over at our jaded beauty and laugh too; they appreciate the suggestion of the ancient:
“Tenta modo tangere corpus,
Jam tua mellifluo membra calore fluent.”
But she can keep her secret better than they, it is evident.
And now tell me, friend of mine, did you not recognize an old acquaintance in the lady we have been watching so closely? No! Then believe me she is no other than the “pure and lovely girl” you so much admired earlier in the evening, the so desirable wife, the angel who was to “haunt your dreams.”
“What! that harlot — .”
Hush — a spade is not called a spade here; but I assure you again that the sensuous, delirious Bacchante whose semi-nakedness was so apparent as she lay swooning in the arms of her param — partner just now, was one and the same with the chaste and calm Diana — virgo virginissima — whose modest mien concealed her nudity so well. Moreover the satyr who was her accomplice — I can find no better word — the coward who pastured upon her and then boasted of his lechery, was the Apollo who first saluted her; the little promise which she gave so gracefully, and which he recorded so eagerly, was a deliberate surrender of her body to his use and their mutual enjoyment. Furthermore, the old man who, filled with wine, sits asleep before the fire in the card-room, dreaming he holds thirteen trumps in his hand, is the proud father of our fair friend. Unselfish old man! he, like you, knows no dances but reels and minuets. “Why should not the dear girl enjoy herself?” he says; besides, if he grows tired he can go; Apollo will be glad to see her home. Apollo being rich, the old gentleman has no objection to see him chasing his Daphne; Cupio, Cupid, Cupidity — the Latin always knows what it is about.
But, hark! The music begins again. Le jeu est fait, faites votre jeu messieurs! Gentlemen croupiers, prepare to rake in lost souls! All stakes are yours that come within your reach.
With energies recuperated by stimulating refreshments, matron and maiden rise to the proffered embrace; with lusty vigor the Bulls of Bashan paw their fresh pastures. This is the last dance, and a furious one.
“Now round the room the circling dow’gers sweep,
Now in loose waltz the thin-clad daughters leap;
The first in lengthened line majestic swim,
The last display the free, unfettered limb.”
The Saturnalia will soon be ended. One more picture before we go.
What right has that face over there to intrude amid this scene of wild festivity? That dark and scowling face, filled with hate, and jealousy, and stifled rage. See how its owner prowls restlessly about; continually changing his position, but ever keeping his watchful eyes upon that voluptuous woman who, surrendering her soul to the lascivious pleasing of opportunity, is reeling, gliding, and yielding in the clutch of her partner — her drunken catholicity of desire, her long libidinous reaches of imagination, the glib and facile assent of her emotions, figured in every movement, and visible to every eye.
This was the manner in which Bacchus and Ariadne danced, which so moved the spectators that, as the old writer tells us, “they that were unmarried swore they would forthwith marry, and those that were married called instantly for their horses and galloped home to their wives.” That miserable, self-despised, desperate wretch is the exultant husband whom we noticed on his arrival; it is natural that he should take some interest in the lady, — she is the wife he was exulting over. No wonder that there is a dangerous look in his eye as he takes in the situation; the gallant who is dancing with his wife may sup with Polonius yet — late, or rather early, as it is, for “murder’s as near to lust as flame to smoke.” No wonder there is a hangdog expression in his face as his friends clap him on the back and applaud the lady’s performance — ask him how he is enjoying the evening, and so forth. But the climax is reached when the sated Lothario restores the partner of his joys to her lawful lord, with the remark that “your wife, sir, dances most divinely;” then the poor fool must screw up a sickly smile and say “thank you, sir,” knowing all the while in his heart of hearts that the man before him has just now most surely made him cuckold under his very nose. Poor fool! Will he never learn to appreciate the utter vileness of his situation? Will he always be persuaded next morning that he must have been excited by the champagne — that his jealousy was the acme of all unreason? Or will he, as many have done, pop out some fine day a full-fledged dancer himself, and compromise matters with his wife by making the degradation mutual?
But while we ponder these things the melody has ceased; the weary musicians have departed. There is a rush for cloaks and hoods, and rather more adjusting of the same upon feminine forms by bold masculine hands than is perhaps necessary for their proper arrangement.
Shift the scenery for the last act of this delectable drama!
The gentlemen will escort the ladies to their homes! Apollo will still pursue the nimble Daphne, Pan will not yet relinquish his hot pursuit of the fleet-footed Syrinx; and verily on this occasion their reward shall be greater than reeds and laurels. Forward, then, to the waiting carriages!
Ah, how grateful to the gas-scorched eyeballs is the thick gloom of the coach — how pleasant to the weary limbs are these luxurious cushions!
There! close the door softly; up with the windows — down with the curtains! Driver, go slowly, as I heard you ordered to do just now, and you shall not want for future patronage. And you, young man within, strike while the iron is hot. In your comrade every mental sense is stupified, every carnal sense is roused. It is the old, old story: “Nox, vinum et adoiescentia” The opportunity is golden. Society is very good to you, young man!
Come, my friend, let us go. The play is played out, and so are the players. The final tableau does not take place upon the stage. We read that under one of the Roman Emperors the pantomimic dance was not unfrequently ended by the putting to death by torture upon the stage of some condemned, criminal, in order that the spectators might gaze upon death in all its horrible reality. God forbid that any such ghastly finale should take place behind the scenes now that our pantomime is finished! But at all events there is no more to see; and lest your imagination spoil your rest let me divert your attention to the speck of dawn over there in the east. At this hour, says the poet,
“When late larks give warning
Of dying lights and dawning,
Night murmurs to the morning,
‘Lie still, O love, lie still;’
And half her dark limbs cover
The white limbs of her lover,
With amorous plumes that hover
And fervent lips that chill.”
But, mind you, in these lines the poet does not even remotely refer to the occupants of the carriage.
CHAPTER II.
“The Dance is the spur of lust — a circle of which the Devil himself is the centre. Many women that use it have come dishonest home, most indifferent, none better.” — PETRARCH.
But,” says the worthy reader who has honored me by perusing the preceding Chapter, “what manner of disgusting revel is this that you have shown us? Have we been present at a reproduction of the rites of Dionysus and Astarte? Have we held high revel in the halls of a modern Faustina or Messalina? Have we supped with Catherine of Russia? Or have we been under the influence of a restored Lampsace
ne?
Don’t delude yourself, my unsophisticated friend, you have simply been present at a “social hop” at the house of the Hon. Ducat Fitzbullion — a most estimable and “solid” citizen, a deacon of the church, where his family regularly attend, a great promoter of charities, Magdalen Asylums, and the like, and President of the “Society for the Suppression of Immorality among the Hottentots.” The fair women whom you have somewhat naturally mistaken for prétresses de la Vagabonde Vénus, are the pure daughters and spotless wives of our “best citizens;” their male companions, or accomplices, or whatever you choose to call them, are the crime de la crime of all that is respectable and eligible in society; and, finally, the dance which you have pronounced outrageously indecent, is simply the Divine Waltz, in its various shapes of “Dip,” ‘Glide,” “Saratoga,” “German,” and what not — the King of Dances “with all the modern improvements.”
And this, my dear reader, is the abomination that I intend to smite hip and thigh — not with fine words and dainty phrases, but with the homely language of truth; not blinded by prejudice or passion, but calmly and reasonably; not with any private purpose to subserve, but simply in the cause of common decency; not with the hope of working out any great moral reform, but having the sense of duty strong upon me as I stick my nibbed lancet into the most hideous social ulcer that has as yet afflicted the body corporate.
That the subject is a delicate one is best shown by the fact that even Byron found himself reduced to the necessity of “Putting out the light” and invoking the longest garments to cover that which he was unable to describe — hear him:
“Waltz — Waltz alone — both legs and arms demands;
Liberal of feet, and lavish of her hands;
‘Hands which may freely range in public sight
Where ne’er before — but — pray “put out the light.’
* * * * * *
“But here the muse with due decorum halts —
And lends her longest petticoats to Waltz.”
It should not, then, be a matter of surprise, when one so gifted in the use of his mother tongue and writing in a far less prudish age, failed to describe the “voluptuous Waltz” without shocking his readers, — if I, sixty-three years later, with so much more to describe and such limited capacity, do not succeed in rendering the subject less repulsive.
Many will urge that a practice indulged in by the “best people” of every country — seemingly tolerated by all — cannot be so violently assailed without some motive other than a disinterested desire to advocate a correct principle — but such are reminded that much more than one-half the male adult population of every American city are addicted to the use of tobacco. Is its baneful effect upon the nerves of man any the less severe on this account? So in the case of alcoholic beverages, is it open to debate that the great mass of our population are constantly consuming this “wet damnation”? And is it not known to all that it is the direct source of desolation to hearth and home, the destroyer of happiness and character, — that this has broken more hearts, filled more dishonored graves than any other of man’s follies? Does, I say, the fact of its universality render its destroying influence less potent? I think not. Neither do I believe the fact of society permitting itself to be carried by storm into the toleration of the “modern” dance, obliterates the fearful vortex into which its members are drawn, or compensates for the irreparable loss it suffers in the degradation of its chief ornament — woman.
And here is one great difficulty in my self-imposed task, for to lovely and pure woman must I partly address myself. Yet even a partial reference to the various considerations involved, entails the presenting of topics not generally admitted into refined conversation. But in order to do any justice at all to the subject, we must not only consider the dance itself, but we must follow it to its conclusion. We must look at its direct results. We must hold it responsible for the vice it encourages, the lasciviousness of which it so largely partakes. And in presenting this subject, I shall steadfastly ignore that line of argument based upon the assumption that because “it is general,” it must be proper. Says Rochester: —
“Custom docs often reason overrule,
And only serves for reason to the fool.”
And Crabbe: —
Habit with him was all the test of truth:
It must be right — I’ve done it from my youth.”
No, neither the use of tobacco, the indulgence in alcoholic beverages, nor the familiar posturing of the “Glide” can be justified or defended by proving that they are common to all classes of society.
I repeat that the scene I have attempted to describe in the foregoing chapter is no creation of a prurient imagination — would to God that it were — but is a scene that is enacted at every social entertainment which in these days is regarded by the class for whose benefit this work is written as worth the trouble of attending. I repeat that the female portion of the “class” referred to is not composed of what are commonly known as prostitutes, whatever the uninitiated spectator at their orgies may imagine, but of matrons who are held spotless, and of maidens who are counted pure — not only by the world in general, but by those husbands, fathers, and brothers, whose eyes should surely be the first to detect any taint upon the character of wife, daughter, or sister. And I repeat, moreover, that the social status of these people is not that of the rude peasant whose lewd pranks are the result of his ignorance, but that of the most highly cultivated and refined among us. These are the people who are expected to, and do, lead the world in all that is elegant and desirable; and the Waltz, forsooth, is one of their arts — one of the choice products of their ultra-civilization — brought to perfection by the grace with which God has gifted them above common folk, adorned by their wealth, and enjoyed by their high-strung sensibilities. The boor could not dance as they do though he were willing to give his immortal soul to possess the accomplishment, for the waltz, in its perfection, is a pleasure reserved for the social pantheon.
Said one to me, stooping forward in the most confidential way “Do you see that young lady to the left? How exquisitely the closely drawn silk discloses her wasp-like form! and those motions — could anything be more suggestive? Every movement of her body is a perfect reproduction of Hogarth’s line of beauty. Look man! Remove just a little drapery and there is nothing left to desire — isn’t it wonderful? But then,” added he, “it is a perfect outrage nevertheless.”
Not so, I answered. Can aught be said against her reputation? no! — a thousand times no — and as for her dress, is it not the perfection of what all others in the room are but a crude attempt to accomplish? Does it not disclose a form intrinsically beautiful, and admit of a grace and “poetry of motion” quite unknown to those encumbered with petticoats? Yes, look at her backward and forward movements — see how she entwines her lithe limbs with those of her enraptured partner as they oscillate, advance, recede, and rotate, as though they were “spitted on the same bodkin.”
“Thus front to front the partners move or stand, The foot may rest, but none withdraw the hand.
This, sir, is but one of the many improvements on the waltz.
And pray, sir, are not this lady to the right and that one in the center, vainly endeavoring to achieve the same feat? The only difference is that this lady is better dressed, more ably taught than either; is she to be censured because she has the talent and industry to do well, that which they have neither the courage, energy, nor ability to perform?
Can it be that in this instance alone, a want of proficiency is a redeeming feature?
CHAPTER III.
“Wherefore God also gave them up to uncleanness through the lust of their own hearts, to dishonor their own bodies between themselves.”
EPISTLE TO THE ROMANS.
Already I see the face of the reader grow red with indignation. “This is a calumniator, an infamous detractor, an envious pessimist, a hater of all that is innocently enjoyable!” cries he or she. Very well — I bow my a
cknowledgements for the compliment I have already stated in my preface that I did not expect you to say anything else. I could be well content to tell what I know and let you say your say in peace, but I will nevertheless go somewhat out of my way to answer your principal objections.
In the first place, there are certainly many who will deny my charges in toto — who will declare that the waltz is very moral and healthful, and entirely innocent and harmless, and that he who puts it in any other light is a knave and a vile slanderer. These of my opponents I may divide into two classes: First, those who know nothing of the matter, who have never danced, have scarcely ever seen a modem waltz, and are consequently unwilling to believe that such terrible things could be going on in their very midst without their knowledge; and, secondly, those who do know and practice the abomination, and find “the fruit of the tree of knowledge” far too sweet to be hedged about as “forbidden.”
To the first of these classes I have little to say; it is composed mainly of “old fogies,” the diversions of whose youth were innocent, and who can see no evil that does not sprawl in all its ugliness over the face of the community. If a courtesan accosted one of them on the street, they would be unutterably shocked, and so they certainly would if they on a sudden found themselves experiencing the “perfect waltz,” though even then it is doubtful if they would not be shocked into dumbness and grieved into inaction. But of the vailed and subtle pleasures of the waltz they are profoundly ignorant — why should they not be? They see no harm in it because they don’t see it at all; they are optimists through ignorance, and lift palms of deprecation at the mention of vice which they cannot understand or attain to. To these I say: open your eyes and look about you, even at the risk of seeing things not exactly as you fancied them to be; or, if you will remain obstinately blind, then pray do not deny that evil exists where you do not happen to see it with your eyes shut I have painted the picture, you can compare it with the reality at your leisure.
Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics) Page 2