THE DANCE OF DEATH
By Ambrose Bierce (AKA William Herman)
```"Wilt thou bring fine gold for a payment
````For sins on this wise?
```For the glittering of raiment
````And the shining of eyes,
```For the painting of faces
````And the sundering of trust,
```For the sins of thine high places
````And delight of thy lust?"=
* * * *
```"Not with fine gold for a payment,
````But with coin of sighs,
```But with rending of raiment
````And with weeping of eyes,
```But with shame of stricken faces
````And with strewing of dust,
```For the sin of stately places
````And lordship of lust."
`````Swinburne.=
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PREFACE.
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he writer of these pages is not foolish enough to suppose that he can
escape strong and bitter condemnation for his utterances. On this
score he is not disposed to be greatly troubled; and for these reasons:
Firstly--he feels that he is performing a _duty_; secondly--he is
certain that his sentiments will be endorsed by hundreds upon whose
opinion he sets great value; thirdly--he relieves his mind of a burden
that has oppressed it for many years; and fourthly--as is evident upon
the face of these pages--he is no professed _litterateur_, who can be
starved by adverse criticism. Nevertheless he would be apostate to his
self-appointed mission if he invited censure by unseemly defiance of
those who must read and pass judgment upon his work. While, therefore,
he does not desire to invoke the _leniency_ of the professional critic
or the casual reader, he does desire to justify the position he has
taken as far as may be consistent with good taste.
It will doubtless be asserted by many: That the writer is a "bigoted
parson," whose puritanical and illiberal ideas concerning matters of
which he has no personal experience belong to an age that is happily
passed. On the contrary, he is a man of the world, who has mixed much
in society both in the old world and the new, and who knows whereof he
affirms.
That he is, for some reason, unable to partake of the amusement he
condemns, and is therefore jealous of those more fortunate than himself.
Wrong again. He has drunk deeply of the cup he warns others to avoid;
and has better opportunities than the generality of men to continue the
draught if he found it to his taste.
That he publishes from motives of private malice. _Private_ malice--no.
Malice of a certain kind, yes. Malice against those who should know
better than to abuse the rights of hospitality by making a bawdy-house
of their host's dwelling.
But the principal objection will doubtless refer to the plain language
used.
My excuse, if indeed excuse be needed for saying just what I mean,
is, that it is impossible to clothe in delicate terms the intolerable
nastiness which I expose, and at the same time to press the truth home
to those who are most in need of it; I might as well talk to the winds
as veil my ideas in sweet phrases when addressing people who it seems
cannot descry the presence of corruption until it is held in all its
putridity under their very nostrils.
Finally, concerning the prudence and advisability of such a publication,
I have only to say that I have consulted many leading divines and
principals of educational institutions, all of whom agree that the
subject must be dealt with plainly, and assure me that its importance
demands more than ordinary treatment--that it is a foeman worthy of the
sharpest steel; for, say they: To repeat the tame generalities uttered
from the pulpit, or the quiet tone of disapprobation adopted by the
press, would be to accord to the advocates of this evil a power which
they do not possess, and to proclaim a weakness of its opponents which
the facts will not justify.
I have therefore spoken plainly and to the purpose, that those who
run--or waltz--may read.
But there remains yet something to be said, which is more necessary to
my own peace of mind, and to that of many of my readers, than all that
has gone before. So important is it, indeed, that what I am about to say
should be distinctly understood by all those whose criticism I value,
and whose feelings I respect, that I almost hesitate to consign it to
that limbo of egotism--the preface.
Be it known, then, that although in the following pages I have, without
compunction, attacked the folly and vice of those who practice such, yet
I would rather my right hand should wither than that the pen it wields
should inflict a single wound upon one innocent person. I am willing to
believe, nay, I _know_, that there are many men and women who can and do
dance without an impure thought or action; for theirs is not the Dance
of Death; they can take a reasonable pleasure in one another's society
without wishing to be locked in one another's embrace; they can rest
content with such graces as true refinement teaches them are modest,
without leaping the bounds of decorum to indulge in what a false and
fatal refinement styles the "poetry of motion;" in short, to them the
waltz, in its newest phases at least, is a stranger. I would not, like
Lycurgus and Mahomet, cut down all the vines, and forbid the drinking of
wine, because it makes some men drunk. Dancers of this class,
therefore, I implore not to regard the ensuing chapters as referring to
themselves--the cap does not fit their heads, let them not attempt to
wear it.
The same remarks will apply to some of those heads of families who
permit and encourage dancing at their homes. Many among them doubtless
exercise a surveillance too strict to admit of anything improper taking
place within their doors; these stand in no need of either advice or
warning from me. But more of them, I am grieved to say, are merely
blameless because they are ignorant of what really _does_ take place.
The social maelstrom whirls nightly in their drawing-rooms; with their
wealth, hospitality; and countenance they unconsciously, but none the
less surely, lure the fairest ships of life into its mad waters. Let
these also, then, not be offended that in this book I raise a beacon
over the dark vortex, within whose treacherous embrace so many sweet
young souls have been whirled to perdition.
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CHAPTER I.
````"That motley drama! Oh, be sure
`````It shall not be forgot!
````With its Phantom chased for evermore
`````By a crowd that seize it not,
````Through a circle that ever returneth in
`````To the self-same spot;
````And much of Madness, and more of Sin
`````And Horror, the soul of the plot!"
`````Poe.
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eader, I have an engagement to keep to-night. Let me take you with me;
you will be interested.
But, stay--I have a condition to make before I accept of your company.
Have you read the preface? "No, of course not; who reads prefaces?" Very
well, just oblige me by making mine an exception--it is a Gilead where
you perhaps may obtain balm for the wounds you will receive on our
expedition. And now, supposing you to have granted this request, let us
proceed.
Our carriage pulls up before the entrance of an imposing mansion. From
every window the golden gaslight streams out into the darkness; from
the wide-open door a perfect glory floods the street from side to side.
There is a hum of subdued voices within, there is a banging of coach
doors without; there is revelry brewing, we may be sure.
We step daintily from our carriage upon the rich carpet which preserves
our patent-leathers from the contamination of the sidewalk; we trip
lightly up the grand stone stairway to the entrance; obsequious lackeys
relieve us of our superfluous raiment; folding doors fly open before us
without so much as a "sesame" being uttered; and, behold, we enter upon
a scene of enchantment.
Magnificent apartments succeed each other in a long vista, glittering
with splendid decorations; costly frescoes are overhead, luxurious
carpets are under foot, priceless pictures, rich laces, rare trifles of
art are around us; an atmosphere of wealth, refinement, luxury, and good
taste is all-pervading.
But these are afterthoughts with us; it is the splendor of the assembled
company that absorbs our admiration now. Let us draw aside and observe
this throng a little, my friend.
Would you have believed it possible that so much beauty and richness
could have been collected under one roof? Score upon score of fair women
and handsome men; the apparel of the former rich beyond conception--of
the latter, immaculate to a fault. The rooms are pretty well filled
already, but the cry is still they come.
See yonder tall and radiant maiden, as she enters leaning upon the arm
of her grey-headed father. Mark her well, my friend; I will draw your
attention to her again presently. How proud of her the old man looks;
and well he may. What divine grace of womanhood lives in that supple
form; what calm, sweet beauty shines in that lovely face--a face so pure
and passionless in expression that the nudity of bust and arms, and the
contour of limbs more than suggested by the tightly clinging silk,
call for no baser admiration than we feel when looking upon the
representation of an angel. Observe closely with what high-bred and
maidenly reserve she responds to the greeting of the Apollo in a
"claw-hammer" who bows low before her--the very type of the elegant
and polished gentleman. In bland and gentle tones he begs a favor to
be granted a little later in the evening. With downcast eyes she smiles
consent; with a bow he records the promise upon a tablet in his hand.
Gracefully she moves forward again, leaning on her father's arm, smiling
and nodding to her acquaintances, and repeating the harmless little
ceremony described above with perhaps a dozen other Apollos before she
reaches the end of the room.
"Ah, pure and lovely girl!" I hear you mutter as she disappears, "happy
indeed is he who can win that jewel for a wife. That face will haunt
me like a dream!" Likely enough, O my friend! but dreams are not all
pleasant.
Now look again at this young wife just entering with her husband. Is
she not beautiful! and how devotedly she hangs upon his arm! With what
a triumphant glance around the room he seems to say: "Behold my
treasure--my very own; look at the gorgeousness of her attire, ladies,
and pray for such a husband; gaze upon the fairness of her face,
gentlemen, and covet such a wife." Again the Apollos step blandly
forward, again the little promises are lisped out and recorded. And
so the goodly company go on, introducing and being introduced, and
conversing agreeably together. A right pleasant and edifying spectacle,
surely.
But, hark! The music strikes up; the dancing is about to begin. You
and I do not dance; we withdraw to an adjoining room and take a hand at
cards.
The hours go swiftly by and still we play on. The clock strikes two; the
card-players are departing. But the strains of the distant music have
been unceasing; the game does not flag in the ball-room. You have not
seen a dance since your youth, you say, and then only the rude gambols
of country-folk; you would fain see before you go how these dames and
damsels of gentler breeding acquit themselves.
The dance is at its height; we could not have chosen a better time to
see the thing in its glory.
As we approach the door of the ballroom the music grows louder and more
ravishing than ever; no confusion of voices mars its delicious melody;
the only sounds heard beneath its strains are a low swish and rustle
as of whirling robes, and a light, but rapid and incessant shuffling of
feet. The dull element has gone home; those who remain have better work
to do than talking. We push the great doors asunder and enter.
Ha! the air is hot and heavy here; it breathes upon us in sensuous gusts
of varying perfumes. And no wonder. A score of whirling scented robes
stir it into fragrance. How beautiful--but you look aghast, my friend.
Ah, I forgot; these are not the rude countryfolk of your youth. You are
dazzled--bewildered. Then let me try to enliven your dulled senses with
a description of what we see.
A score of forms whirl swiftly before us under the softened gaslight.
I say a score of _forms_--but each is double--they would have made two
score before the dancing began. Twenty floating visions--each male and
female. Twenty women knit and growing to as many men, undulate, sway,
and swirl giddily before us, keeping time with the delirious melody of
piano, harp, and violin.
But draw nearer--let us see how this miracle is accomplished. Do you
mark yonder tall couple who seem even to excel the rest in grace and
ardor. Do they not make a picture which might put a soul under the
ribs of Death? Such must have been the sight which made Speusippas
incontinently rave: "O admirable, O divine Panareta! Who would not
admire her, who would not love her, that should but see her dance as
I did? O how she danced, how she tripped, how she turned! With what
a grace! _Felix qui Panareta fruitur!_ O most incomparable, only,
Panareta!" Let Us take this couple for a sample. He is stalwart, agile,
mighty; she is tall, supple, lithe, and how beautiful in form and
feature! Her head rests upon his shoulder, her face is upturned to his;
her naked arm is almost around his neck; her swelling breast heaves
tumultuously against his; face to face they whirl, his limbs interwoven
with her limbs; with strong right arm about her yielding waist, he
presses her to him till every curve in the contour of her lovely body
thrills with the amorous contact. Her eyes look into his, but she sees
nothing; the soft music fills the room, but she hears nothing; swiftly
he whirls her from the floor or bends her frail body to and fro in his
embrace, but she knows it not; his hot breath is upon her hair, his lips
almost touch her forehead, yet she does not shrink; his eyes, gleaming
with a fierce intolerable lust, gloat satyrlike over her, yet she does
not quail; she is filled with a rapture divine in its intensity--she is
in the Maelstrom of burning desire--her spirit is with the gods.=
````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 fleetfooted 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 adolescentia_." 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 amourous 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.
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