The Golden House | Page 5

shock, or only please? What shall the
art that is older than the pyramids do for these kneeling Christians? The
drum taps, the ney pipes, the mandolin twangs, her arms are
extended--the castanets clink, a foot is thrust out, the bosom heaves, the
waist trembles. What shall it be--the old serpent dance of the Nile, or
the posturing of decorous courtship when the olives are purple in the
time of the grape harvest? Her head, wreathed with coils of black hair,

a red rose behind the left ear, is thrown back. The eyes flash, there is a
snakelike movement of the limbs, the music hastens slowly in unison
with the quickening pulse, the body palpitates, seems to flash invitation
like the eyes, it turns, it twists, the neck is thrust forward, it is drawn in,
while the limbs move still slowly, tentatively; suddenly the body from
the waist up seems to twist round, with the waist as a pivot, in a flash of
athletic vigor, the music quickens, the arms move more rapidly to the
click of the heated castenets, the steps are more pronounced, the whole
woman is agitated, bounding, pulsing with physical excitement. It is a
Maenad in an access of gymnastic energy. Yes, it is gymnastics; it is
not grace; it is scarcely alluring. Yet it is a physical triumph. While the
spectators are breathless, the fury ceases, the music dies, and the
Spaniard sinks into a chair, panting with triumph, and inclines her dark
head to the clapping of hands and the bravos. The kneelers rise; the
spectators break into chattering groups; the ladies look at the dancer
with curious eyes; a young gentleman with the elevated Oxford
shoulders leans upon the arm of her chair and fans her. The pose is
correct; it is the somewhat awkward tribute of culture to physical
beauty.
To be on speaking terms with the phenomenon was for the moment a
distinction. The young ladies wondered if it would be proper to go
forward and talk with her.
"Why not?" said a wit. "The Duke of Donnycastle always shakes hands
with the pugilists at a mill."
"It is not so bad"--the speaker was a Washington beauty in an evening
dress that she would have condemned as indecorous for the dancer it is
not so bad as I--"
"Expected?" asked her companion, a sedate man of thirty-five, with the
cynical air of a student of life.
"As I feared," she added, quickly. "I have always had a curiosity to
know what these Oriental dances mean."
"Oh, nothing in particular, now. This was an exhibition dance. Of
course its origin, like all dancing, was religious. The fault I find with it
is that it lacks seriousness, like the modern exhibition of the dancing
dervishes for money."
"Do you think, Mr. Mavick, that the decay of dancing is the reason our
religion lacks seriousness? We are in Lent now, you know. Does this

seem to you a Lenten performance?"
"Why, yes, to a degree. Anything that keeps you up till three o'clock in
the morning has some penitential quality."
"You give me a new view, Mr. Mavick. I confess that I did not expect
to assist at what New Englanders call an 'evening meeting.' I thought
Eros was the deity of the dance."
"That, Mrs. Lamon, is a vulgar error. It is an ancient form of worship.
Virtue and beauty are the same thing--the two graces."
"What a nice apothegm! It makes religion so easy and agreeable."
"As easy as gravitation."
"Dear me, Mr. Mavick, I thought this was a question of levitation. You
are upsetting all my ideas. I shall not have the comfort of repenting of
this episode in Lent."
"Oh yes; you can be sorry that the dancing was not more alluring."
Meantime there was heard the popping of corks. Venetian glasses filled
with champagne were quaffed under the blessing of sparkling eyes,
young girls, almond-eyed for the occasion, in the costume of Tokyo,
handed round ices, and the hum of accelerated conversation filled the
studio.
"And your wife didn't come?"
"Wouldn't," replied Jack Delancy, with a little bow, before he raised his
glass. And then added, "Her taste isn't for this sort of thing."
The girl, already flushed with the wine, blushed a little--Jack thought
he had never seen her look so dazzlingly handsome--as she said, "And
you think mine is?"
"Bless me, no, I didn't mean that; that is, you know"--Jack didn't
exactly see his way out of the dilemma--"Edith is a little old-fashioned;
but what's the harm in this, anyway?"
"I did not say there was any," she replied, with a smile at his
embarrassment. "Only I think there are half a dozen women in the room
who could do it better, with a little practice. It isn't as