You have danced? Ah, good. You have waltzed? Better. You have felt the
hot blood hound through your veins, as your beautiful partner, compliant
to the lightest pressure of your finger-tips, her breath responsive,
matched her every motion with yours? Best of all--for you have served in
the temple--you are of the priesthood of manhood. You cannot
misunderstand, you will not deliver false oracle.
Do you remember your first waltz with the lovely woman whom you had
longed like a man but feared like a boy to touch--even so much as the
hem of her garment? Can you recall the time, place and circumstance? Has
not the very first bar of the music that whirled you away been singing
itself in your memory ever since? Do you recall the face you then looked
into, the eyes that seemed deeper than a mountain tarn, the figure that
you clasped, the beating of the heart, the warm breath that mingled with
your own? Can you faintly, as in a dream--_blasé_ old dancer that you
are--invoke a reminiscence of the delirium that stormed your soul,
expelling the dull demon in possession? Was it lust, as the Prudes
aver--the poor dear Prudes, with the feel of the cold wall familiar to
the leathery backs of them?
It was the gratification--the decent, honorable, legal gratification--of
the passion for rhythm; the unconditional surrender to the supreme law
of periodicity, under conditions of exact observance by all external
things. The notes of the music repeat and supplement each other; the
lights burn with answering flame at sequent distances; the walls, the
windows, doors, mouldings, frescoes, iterate their lines, their levels,
and panels, interminable of combination and similarity; the inlaid floor
matches its angles, multiplies its figures, does over again at this
point what it did at that; the groups of dancers deploy in couples,
aggregate in groups, and again deploy, evoking endless resemblances. And
all this rhythm and recurrence, borne in upon the brain--itself
rhythmic--through intermittent senses, is converted into motion, and the
mind, yielding utterly to its environment, knows the happiness of faith,
the ecstasy of compliance, the rapture of congruity. And this the dull
dunces--the eyeless, earless, brainless and bloodless callosites of
cavil--are pleased to call lust!
O ye, who teach the ingenuous youth of nations
The Boston Dip, the German and the Glide,
I pray you guard them upon all occasions
From contact of the palpitating side;
Requiring that their virtuous gyrations
Shall interpose a space a furlong wide
Between the partners, lest their thoughts grow lewd--
So shall we satisfy the exacting Prude.
--_Israfel Brown_.