But the woman whom it would be my joy to describe, whose perfections surpass description, is moved by no such paltry considerations. She glories in an independence which scorns all such petty restraints. She it is whose insight into domestic politics descries the true position, “to go with her husband is a bore” — his very presence is a hindrance to a full and free exercise of all the privileges of the “Boston Dip.” She can find it in her heart now to laugh at the ridiculous vow she made when playing that old-fashioned farce before the altar — the vow to “leave all others and cleave to him alone.” How much pleasanter, surely, to cleave and cling to all others, and leave hint alone. She may be “too ill” to attend with her husband; but let “Mr. Nimblefoot” — sprightly of heel and addled of brain — come along, with an invitation to attend a ball, and in a trice she so far recovers her declining health as to make such an elaborate toilet that
“Not Cleopatra on her galley’s deck,
Displays so much of leg, or more of neck.”
Then it is, when with a disregard for neighborly comments which would do credit to a better cause, we see her in all her naked loveliness. No vulgar restraint upon her movements, no “green-eyed monster” to inquire into her absence or take note of her doings. None to say
“Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier
Shines much too far — or I am much too near.”
But a more detailed account of this lady and of “how it all came about,” is it not written in the chronicles of the Courts having “original jurisdiction” in cases of divorce?
Who, then, after reviewing this ghastly procession of moral lepers, shall find words wherewith to express his reverence and admiration for those pure-minded girls and women who refuse to dance — on principle! No renowned hero of ancient or modern times has a better right to claim the bays than the woman who, seeing the degradation of the modern dance, has the independence and moral courage to avoid it. Her heroism is greater than you might suppose, for she is sorely tempted to do wrong on the one hand, and severely punished for doing right on the other. Tempted — because she is as fair and graceful as her less modest sisters, and naturally as fond of man’s admiration, and as sensible of physical pleasure as they; punished — by the sneers of women who call her “prude” and “wall-flower,” and by the slights put upon her by men who avoid her because she “doesn’t dance.” In spite of the example set by those whom she has perhaps been taught to regard as wiser and better than herself, she yet resists the fascination of the Social Basilisk from pure pride of womanhood, and sacrifices her inclinations upon the altar of modesty.
These are the wives and daughters who do honor to their families. Their reward is the respect and admiration of all honorable men.
“My child,” said a friend of mine to his daughter who had declined to attend a “sociable” on the ground that dancing was improper, “my child, I honor your judgment, and let me give you a father’s advice: never allow a man’s arm to encircle your waist till you are married, and then only your husbands.” And this advice I re-echo to all young ladies.
CHAPTER VIII.
“Illic Hippolitum pone, Priapus erit.”
OVID.
“Le Proverbe qui a coum á l’egard des Cloitres, dangereux comme le retour de matines, en pouvoit produire un autre avec un petit changement, dangereux comme le retour du bal.”
BAYLE
There are, of course, many other classes of waltzers to whom I might revert, though I have sought in vain for a single one that is entirely free from reproach. It is however time that the evil should be viewed from other points. Let us consider some of its results and effects.
I have repeatedly declared, and I now do so again that the waltz has grown to be a purely sexual enjoyment. That I may not be supposed to stand alone in this assertion I will again quote the words of the worthy clergyman before referred to. He writes:
The dance “consists substantially of a system of means contrived with more than human ingenuity to excite the instincts of sex to action, however subtle and disguised at the moment in its sequel the most bestial and degrading.” And again: “it is a usage that regularly titillates and tantalises an animal appetite as insatiable as hunger, more cruel than revenge.”
Gail Hamilton, to whose words most of us will attach some weight, I think, in a contribution to an Eastern journal, says: “The thing in its very nature is unclean and cannot be washed. The very pose of the parties suggests impurity.” But I must go further than this, and assert that the pose and motions of the parties cannot even be spoken of by a young lady without danger of committing a double entendre at which many a “nice young man” will laugh in his sleeve.
I will illustrate this statement: A charming young lady, just arrived from abroad, informed me that we do not execute these new round dances “quite right” in this country. She describes it as having “two forward and two backward movements, then sideways, with a whirl.” But she will “show me how to do it on the first opportunity.”
“That must, indeed, be nicer than the way we do it,” said I, “though I have heard of a similar dance in the Sandwich Islands.” Yea, verily, “to the pure all things are pure.”
What says St. Aldegonde in a letter written as long ago as 1577 to Caspar Verheiden? He says that he approves of the course adopted by the Church of Geneva, which by interdicting the dance has abolished many filthy abuses of daily occurrence; it being the custom of the men to take young girls to balls at night and there to vex them by lewd posturing. No one, he contends, can look on at such a spectacle without sin; what then shall we say of those who take part in it. Much more he adds, and when I say that I dare not translate it here, the reader will be ready to believe that the worthy Saint is pretty plain-spoken in his strictures on the dance. But he is no more so than is Lambert Daneau in his “Traité des Danses,” the perusal of which might do some modern dancers good. And yet both these old writers only saw the play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out, for the Waltz did not exist in their day.
Now, this being the case, what are we to suppose are its effects upon those who indulge in it? Does the scandal end in the ball room, or, as Byron says, may we not marvel
“If nothing follows all this palming work.”
and do we not feel ourselves constrained to believe his assurance that
“Something does follow at a fitter time.”
That the waltz has been the acknowledged avenue to destruction for great multitudes, is a truth burnt into the hearts of thousands of downcast fathers and broken-hearted mothers; and the husbands are legion who can look upon hearths deserted and homes left desolate by wives and daughters who have been led captive by this magnificent burst of harmony and laying-on of hands.
One of our ablest writers says: “it is a war on home, it is a war on physical health, it is a war on man’s moral nature; this is the broad avenue through which thousands press into the brothel.” The “dancing hall is the nursery of the divorce Court, the training ship of prostitution, the graduating school of infamy.”
Olaus Magnus tells us that the young people of the North danced among naked sword-blades and pointed weapons scattered upon the ground; our young people dance among far deadlier dangers than these.
Think of it, dear reader, picture to yourself the condition to which a young girl is reduced by the time that her carriage is announced. All the baser instincts of her nature are aroused — to use the words of Erasmus she has “a pound of passion to an ounce of reason.” Answer me, is she not now in a fit state to fall an easy prey to the destroyer? And yet in this condition
“Hot from the hands promiscuously applied
Round the slight waist or down the glowing side,”
she is almost borne to her carriage by an escort, “flown with insolence and wine” and whose condition is otherwise similar to her own, except that the excitement of the moment makes him as bold and ardent, as it renders her languid and compliant. He places her panting form upon the soft cushions, and with a
whispered admonition to the coachman not to drive too fast, he ensconces ‘himself by her side. But here as upon an earlier page, we must leave them. The hour, the darkness, everything is propitious — it is little short of a miracle if she escapes.
“Look out, look out and see
What object this may be
That doth perstringe mine eye;
A gallant lady goes
In rich and gaudy clothes,
But whither away God knows.”
But let us charitably suppose that the sequel is only a continuation of the license of the waltz, and that she reaches her home with merely the smell of the fire through which she has passed upon her garments — let us suppose that the Ah si liceret! of Caracalla has not been answered by the yielding quic-quid libet licet of his mother-in-law — and what is the result? The flame that has been aroused must be allayed. If she is unmarried, then in God’s name let us inquire no farther; but if she is a wife then is the dear indulgent husband at home privileged to meet a want inspired in the embrace of “the first dancer in the valley,” and to enjoy some advantage, at least, from the peculiar position which he sustains toward the matronly dancer.
And now may we not take a peep at the fair danseuse as she comes into the breakfast-room at noon next day. Is this broken-down, used-up creature the radiant beauty of the night before? Can it be that that “healthful recreation,” the Waltz, has painted those dark circles round her eyes and planted those wrinkles on her brow?
“Alas, the mother, that her bare,
If she could stand in presence there,
In that wan cheek and wasted air
She would not know her child.”
She is paying now for the sweetness of “stolen waters” and the pleasantness of bread “eaten in secret.” For the next week what pleasure will husband, father, or brother, derive from her society. She is ill and peevish — she is damaged both in body and soul. For the next week, did I say? Well, I meant until the next invitation to a dance arrives. That is the magic elixir that will brighten the dull eyes and recall the dead smiles to life. Then invoking the rejuvenating spirit of the cosmetic - box and tricked out in the finery which those most near, but not most dear, to her have toiled to purchase, she will sally forth to lavish upon the lechers of the ball-room a gracious sweetness which she never showed at home.
But where is Apollo all this time?
We left him burning with half satiated lust before the gate of his paramour’s mansion. Where will he go to complete his debauch? At what strange fountains will he quench the flame that is devouring him? Go ask the harlot! She will reap the harvest that has ripened in the warm embrace of maids and mothers. She is equally fortunate with the husband described above. Ah, well! verily it is an ill wind that blows nobody good.
The Waltz is, therefore, in its effects, fearfully disastrous to both sexes, but nevertheless the woman is the greater sufferer — physically, because what is fatal excess for a woman may be only hurtful indulgence for a man, and morally, because she loses that without which her beauty and grace are but a curse — man’s respect. And her punishment is just, her fault being more inexcusable than his. For woman is the natural and acknowledged custodian of morals. I t is she who fixes the standard of modesty — a variable standard, it is true, different in different ages and countries, but always sufficiently well-defined. She draws across the path of passion, lines limiting, on the one hand, the license of masculine approach, on the other, the liberty of feminine concession. To a certain extent man may blamelessly accept whatever privileges she is pleased to accord him, without troubling himself to consider “too curiously” their consistency with the general tenor of her decrees. It is her discretion in such matters that must, in a large way, preserve the race from fatal excess. When, therefore, she shamelessly violates this sacred trust which nature and society have confided to her, it is to be expected that the ball-room roué should regard her as something lower than the harlot, who at least ministers to his lusts in a natural manner.
But, what is worse still, she also loses moral caste with those who have more than a negative respect for honorable women. For even your gentleman is no professor of heroic virtues, and the same easy courtesy with which he dismisses the soliciting courtesan, restrains him from wounding, even by implication, the merely facile fair being whom favoring fortune has as yet prevented from taking to the street. He dissembles his disgust, begs the honor of her hand for the next dance, flutters her pulses to her soul’s satisfaction, and regards her ever thereafter with tranquil, philosophical contempt And so they come to mutually despise each other; she sets no value on his flattering praises, he no longer cares for her good opinion — the wine of woman’s approval has gone stale, and the sunshine of man’s admiration is darkened in her eyes.
CHAPTER IX.
“So she looks into her heart, and lo! Vacucæ sedes et inania arcana * * * And the man is himself, and the woman herself; that dream of love is over as everything else is over in life; as flowers and fury, as griefs and pleasures are over.”
THACKERAY.
“Wir haben lang genug geliebt, und wollen endlich hassen.”
GEORGE HERWEGH.
BUT this “innocent amusement” entails worse consequences than these. It is the high-road to the divorce court, it has brought strife and misery into ten thousand happy homes; truly it is the “abomination that maketh desolation.”
Take the case of the poor, dull, stupid Benedick who, like Byron with his club foot, dances not at all. He is a splendid man of business, perhaps, and is highly respected on change; but here, in the ball-room, what is he? A dolt, a ninny, an old fogy, a nuisance — to be snubbed and slighted by the woman he calls wife for every brainless popingay who “dances divinely.” He has been proud to toil from day to day to be able to purchase costly apparel with which to adorn this far better half of his; now he has the felicity of seeing the fine fruits of his labor dangled about the legs of another man; he had supposed her the “wife of his bosom,” yet, behold! she reclines most lovingly on the bosom of another; she is the mother of his children, yet as she quivers in her partner’s arms, her face is troubled with
“The half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame.”
He has pride enough to attempt to look interested, and to affect ignorance of his own shame, but the sham is apparent. Note how uneasily he sits upon the benches provided for such “wallflowers” as himself. Anyone who will take the trouble to observe him, can see that his heart is not in the waltz in which his spouse is taking such a lively interest. Approach him, now, and tell him that it is a very nice party, and that he seems to be enjoying himself. “Oh very nice,” he answers with a ghastly grin intended for a smile, “I am enjoying it greatly.” But now incidentally remark that after all you have no great liking for these “fancy dances,” and see how quickly a fellow-feeling will make him wondrous confidential, as he answers:
“To tell the truth, I don’t like them at all.”
Perhaps you have known him when a bachelor and have seen him dance then. You mention this fact.
“O yes,” he answers, “of course I used to dance; but can’t you see that there is a mighty deal of difference between hugging other people’s wives and daughters to music, and taking your own wife to a place where every fellow can press her to his bosom and dangle his legs among her petticoats? No, sir, I do not like it, and if my wife thought as I do about it, there would be no more dancing in our family. ‘I would rather be a toad and feed on the damp vapor of a dungeon, than keep a corner in the thing I love for others’ uses.’”
Follow the conversation up and you will find that if ever Sorrow mocked a festival by its presence it is in the person of this man. He is not jealous, he is outraged; all the finer feelings of his nature are trampled under foot, he is grieved and deeply wounded beyond recovery.
This is the beginning of the end; she is never the same woman to him hereafter; he may smile and appear careless, but none the less has that tiny satin slipper
crushed all the fresh love from his heart. The second volume of his Book of Life is opened; the first chapter thereof being headed “Estrangement,” and the last “Divorce.”
And this is not an exceptional case; the writer will venture the assertion that out of every fifty husbands who have dancing wives, there are at least a dozen who if spoken frankly to upon the subject would express themselves in terms of most bitter condemnation.
And what kind of men are those who do not object to see their wives made common property in this manner? Well, there is your weak good-natured husband, who would willingly suffer any personal annoyance rather than thwart the wishes of his beloved wife, no matter how ill-advised those wishes may be.
The writer is personally acquainted with a young and newly-married man, whose experience will illustrate what I have just said, though it is true that he eventually came to see the error of his ways He had the misfortune to marry a lady who was excessively fond of dancing. He had never learned to waltz himself, but finding it impossible to remain a looker-on he determined to acquire a knowledge of the intoxicating art. He, poor fool, imagined that when he had conquered the first elements of the dance, his wife would take particular pleasure in attending to his further instruction. Picture, then, his surprise and disgust when on making his début in the ball-room he found that his wife would avail herself of every pretext to leave him to shift for himself — a conspicuous object for commiseration of the experts — while she accepted the amorous attentions of every clodhopper who possessed the divine accomplishment.
Complete Works of Ambrose Bierce (Delphi Classics) Page 5