DANCING MONARCHS

It is recorded that Nero, during a dangerous illness, made a vow that if he recovered he would dance the story of Turnus in Virgil; and the great Scipio Africanus amused himself with dancing, “not,” writes Seneca, “those effeminate dances which announce voluptuousness and corruption of manners, but those manly, animated dances in use among their ancestors, which even their enemies might witness without abating their respect.” Indeed, dancing has always been a favourite amusement amongst all classes of society, having from an early period been countenanced by the example of the Court. Thus it is said that Edward II. paid one Jack of St. Albans, his painter, for dancing on the table before him, and making him laugh excessively.

After the coronation dinner of Richard II., the remainder of the day was spent in rejoicings, and we are told how the King, the prelates, the nobles, the knights, and the rest of the company danced in Westminster Hall to the music of the minstrels. Several of our English monarchs were noted for their skill in dancing, and none, perhaps, more than Henry VIII., who was particularly partial to this mode of diversion. At this period, when masques and pageants were much in vogue, the King himself was occasionally “a frequent performer as well as spectator,” and numerous anecdotes have been handed down of his dancing feats. Thus, at the festivities held at Westminster in honour of the birth of a prince on New Year’s Day 1511, the King and a selected company danced before Catherine’s throne, executing their stately pavons and “corantos high” with the utmost success; at the conclusion of which the young King bade the lady spectators come forward and pluck the golden letters and devices from his dress, and that of his company. An unlooked-for incident followed, for a vast crowd of the London populace, who were the constant witnesses of the Court ceremonials in the middle ages, rushed forth and plucked off with startling rapidity the glittering ornaments from himself, and his noble guests. Not only were the ladies despoiled of their jewels, but the King himself was stripped to his doublet and drawers. The King, laughing heartily, took the matter in good part, and treated the whole scramble as a frolic, remarking that “they must consider their losses as largess to the commonalty.”[46]

Catherine of Aragon excelled in Spanish dances, and at the festivities in honour of her marriage with Prince Arthur—her short-lived bridegroom—apparelled in Spanish garb, she gave an exhibition of her high proficiency in this mode of dancing. On this occasion, too, the dancing of Henry Duke of York and his sister, Lady Margaret, the young Queen of Scots, gave such satisfaction that it was renewed, when the young Duke, finding himself encumbered with his dress, “suddenly threw off his robe and danced in his jacket with the said Lady Margaret, in so good and pleasant a manner that it was to King Henry and Queen Elizabeth great and singular pleasure.”

Again, on New Year’s Day 1515, Henry VIII. performed a ballet with the Duke of Suffolk and two noblemen and four ladies, the young Duchess of Savoy being supposed to be in love with Suffolk. After dancing had been continued for some time, the company took off their vizors, and when they were known, “the Queen heartily thanked the King’s grace for her good pastime, and kissed him.” But on the very day this ballet was performed the King of France died, and his fair bride was left a widow, after having been married less than three months.

Another interesting instance of Court dances at this time is given by Hall, who tells how, on the King’s visit to France with Anne Boleyn—lately made Marchioness of Pembroke—a magnificent reception was given by him at Calais in honour of the French sovereign, at which, after supper, “came in the Marchioness of Pembroke, with seven ladies, in masking apparel of strange fashion, made of cloth of gold, slashed with crimson tinsel satin puffed with cloth of silver and knit with laces of gold. These ladies were led into the state chamber by four damsels dressed in crimson satin, with tabards of pine cypress. Then the lady marchioness took the French king, the Countess of Derby the King of Navarre, and every lady took a lord. In dancing, King Henry removed the ladies’ vizors, so that their beauties were shown.” It was then discovered by the French king that he had been dancing with an old acquaintance—no other than the lovely English maid-of-honour of his first queen; and having conversed with her some time apart, he sent her a present on the next morning of a jewel valued at 15,000 crowns.

Queen Elizabeth was a great patroness of the dance, which accounts for its having flourished in her reign. It is said that she bestowed the office of Lord Chancellor on Sir Christopher Hatton, not so much for his knowledge of the law, but because he wore green bows on his shoes, and danced the pavon to perfection, to whom mention is made in Gray’s humorous lines:—

Many notices occur, too, of Queen Mary’s participation in the revelry of her father’s court, and we find her figuring, in her young days, as a dancer in Court ballets. Some courtly adulator, who had been present at a ball at which many danced with her royal father, appears to have been much struck with her charms, making her appearance the subject of a poetic effusion, wherein he tells us:—

Charles II. was specially fond of dancing. Writing from Cologne to Henry Bennett on the 18th of August 1655, he says: “Pray, get me pricked down as many new corrants and farrabands, and ‘other little dances’ as you can, and bring them with you, for I have got a small fiddler that does not play ill on the fiddle.”

The last day of the year 1662 concluded with a grand ball at the palace of Whitehall, and Pepys tells us that he got into the room where the dancing was to take place, which was crowded with fine ladies. “By-and-by comes the King and Queen and all the great ones. After seating themselves, all rose again; the King took out the Duchess of York, the Duke the Duchess of Buckingham, the Duke of Monmouth my Lady Castlemaine, other lords other ladies, and they danced ‘the brantle.’ Afterwards the King led a lady a single coranto, and then the lords, one after another, other ladies; very noble it was, and pleasant to see. Then to country-dances, the King leading the first, which he called for by name as ‘Cuckolds all awry,’ the old dance of England. The manner was, when the King dances, all the ladies in the room, and the Queen herself, stand up; and, indeed, he dances rarely, and much better than the Duke of York.” Pepys adds that it was reported the King reprimanded Lady Gerard as he was leading her down the dance, for having spoken against Lady Castlemaine to the Queen, and forbade her to attend her Majesty any more.

Pepys, too, gives a graphic account of a ball given at Whitehall, in the year 1666, to celebrate the Queen’s birthday, on which occasion he contrived to climb up to a loft, where he obtained a view of the festive scene, which he thus describes: “It was indeed a glorious sight to see Mrs. Stuart in black and white lace, and her head and shoulders dressed with diamonds, only the Queen none (as she was in mourning for her mother), and the King in his rich vest of some rich silk and silver trimming; the Duke of York and all the other dancers wore cloth of silver. Presently, after the King was come in he took the Queen, and about fourteen more couple there were, and began the brantle. After the brantles a corant, and now and then a French dance: but that so rare, that the corants grew tiresome, and I wished it done, only Mrs. Stuart danced mighty fine; and many French dances, especially one the King called ‘the new dance,’ which was very pretty. But, upon the whole, the business of the dancing itself was not extraordinary pleasing. About twelve at night it broke up.” Indeed, Queen Catherine is said to have been childishly attached to dancing, and in some verses, entitled “The Queen’s Ball,” published in the State Poems, she is styled:—

Pepys further tells us how he was admitted by his acquaintance, Lady Peterborough, into the apartments of the Duchess of York at Whitehall when the young Mary Stuart was taking her dancing lesson, which incident he thus describes: “Stepping to the Duchess of York’s side to speak to my Lady Peterborough, I did see the young Duchess, a little child in hanging sleeves, dance most finely, so as almost to ravish me, her ear is so good, taught by a Frenchman that did heretofore teach King Charles II. and all the royal family, and the Queen-mother herself, who do still dance well.”

It may be added that the first introduction of the royal sisters, Mary and Anne, was their performance of a ballet, written for them by the poet Crowne, called “Calista, or the Chaste Nymph,” acted December 2, 1674. They were trained for this performance by Mrs. Betterton, the principal actress at the King’s Theatre, the ballet being remarkable for the future historical parts of the performers. The Lady Mary of York was the heroine, Calista; her sister the Lady Anne, Nyphe; Lady Harriet Wentworth performed Jupiter. The epilogue was written by Dryden, and addressed to Charles II.

In after years, when Mary assumed the burden of regal dignity, she was exposed to the malevolent misinterpretation of a Court to which she was almost as much a stranger as was her husband himself. She was considered too fond of the frivolous gaieties from which in truth she shrank, and she writes: “The world who cannot see the heart ... began to take notice of the change that was in my life, and comparing my way of living in Holland to that here, were much scandalised to see me grown so remiss.” But this kind of criticism, which was unjust, did not prevent her pursuing the course she considered right; and although on the King’s birthday in 1689 a ball was given at her desire, she tells us:—

“I really thought it no proper time, when war was round about, and my father himself engaged against us.... Yet such is the depravation of this age and place where I live, none seems to think of such things, and so, ill-custom prevailing, there was a ball, but by my writings may be seen how I endeavoured to spend that day as also the next, which was Gunpowder Treason, God be praised for it.”

The following particulars of a grand ball given at Marli in July 1705, at which the royal exiles of St. Germains were present, is a proof of the respectful consideration with which they were treated by Louis XIV. At the upper end of the saloon in which the ball took place were placed three fauteuils for the King of France, the widowed Queen of England, and her son—Mary Beatrice, as in the lifetime of her royal consort, occupying the centre seat. The titular King of England opened the ball with his sister, the King of France standing all the time they were dancing. This mark of respect, it is said, he would have done every time the young royal pair danced together, had not Mary Beatrice induced him to be seated; and even then it was not till he had paid them this token of regard twice or thrice that he would consent to sit down.

The introduction in the Russian Court of foreign dances coincided with the adoption of foreign dress and other customs; hence in the time of Peter the Great ignorance of the minuet, or of Polish and English dances, was looked upon as a serious defect in education. During the latter part of her life the Empress Anne was fond of listening to the jests of her buffoons. At the conclusion of these exhibitions her maids of honour would sing to her, and occasionally she would watch them dance. One day, according to the “Memoirs of the Princess Daschkov,” she commanded four of the principal beauties of St. Petersburg to perform a Russian dance before her. But they became so nervous at the stern glance of the Empress that, losing all presence of mind, they forgot the figure of the dance, and amidst the general confusion were electrified by the approach of her Majesty, who, advancing towards them in a fit of rage, gave each a sound box on the ear, and ordered them instantly to begin over again, which they did, half dead with fear.[47] The Empress Elizabeth was an accomplished dancer, and in order to see the minuet danced to perfection it was commonly said one should go to the Russian Court. Catherine II. was very fond of the ballet, and gave it every possible encouragement, taking an active pleasure in most kinds of pantomimic ballet. Amongst some of the many anecdotes told of this sovereign, it is related how she treated her maids of honour almost as if they were her own daughters. Noticing one day that Freiline Potocka, who had lately come to the Court, had no pearls, she immediately seized the opportunity of a fancy dress ball, to which the girl came in the disguise of a milkmaid, in order to slip a superb necklace into the pail that she had put down whilst dancing. “It is you, madame, ... it is your Majesty,” she stammered on discovering the present. “No!” replied the Empress, “the milk has curdled.”[48]

In the year 1798 a curious and most imposing ballet was given at Court in honour of the Czarina and the Grand Duke. It was called “The Conquered Prejudice,” and was of a most elaborate character, the most imposing stage effects being introduced. And, coming down to recent years, ThÉophile Gautier, describing the opening of a Court ball in 1866, tells how the spectators in the ball-room of the Winter Palace separated so as to leave free a pathway of which they formed the hedges. Every one in position, the orchestra played a majestic air, and with slow steps the promenade began, led by the Emperor giving his hand to some lady whom he was desirous of honouring. They were followed by the rest of the Court, all according to precedence, and gradually “the cortÈge of brilliant uniforms goes on increasing: a nobleman leaves the hedge and takes a lady by the hand, and this new couple take their place in the procession, keeping step by step with the leader. And what adds to the originality of the Russian Court is, that from time to time a young Circassian prince in his fastidious Oriental dress, or a Mongolian officer, will join the cortÈge.”

Portuguese dances having long been famous, it is not surprising that at most Court festivals dancing was in high repute. King Dom Pedro I. is reported to have been a great votary of the dance, and the Portuguese historian, FerÑao Lopes, tells how, mad with sorrow at the loss of his wife, Inez de Castro, he would in the weary hours of nighttime, as he lay sleepless, order a troop of soldiers “to form a hedge from his palace, and to hold lighted torches that he might dance between them, and thus give bodily expression to the vehemence of his grief.”[49] But a monarch who degraded and brought dancing into the lowest repute was Alfonso VI.—a wicked and unscrupulous sovereign, whose conduct, as already noted, seemed to savour of insanity. Thus, when his country was in the greatest peril, he indulged in every kind of infamy. While his soldiers and his English allies[50] were spilling their blood in defence of his dominions, he devoted his time to ruin himself and his country. His palace, it is said, “particularly his residence at Alcantara, afforded a scene at which the most immodest might blush.” He violated the nunneries, assailed the affrighted sisters with rough wooing, and at once terrified and disgusted them by fitting up a stage in the choir of the church at Alcantara, on which he not only had theatrical performances and unseemly dances, “but compelled the unhappy nuns to honour them with their presence.” This was a pleasing spectacle for a responsible ruler, and one well worthy of the days of a Nero. But one of his successors on the throne—John V.—was of a very different turn of mind; for although a munificent patron of literature and the fine arts—founding the Academy of History at Lisbon—he was a great lover of music and the theatre, and spent large sums in importing singers and dancers from Italy, and actors from France.

Dancing was a monomania with Philip III. of Spain and Portugal, and his Prime Minister distinguished himself as the best dancer of his time—the result being that the whole aristocracy of Spain and Portugal became affected by the dancing rage, which was ridiculed by Manuel de Mello.

The wife of Ferdinand VI. of Spain, the Infanta of Portugal, was haunted by the fear of death and of poverty—apprehensions which she tried to conquer by the extravagant indulgence of a passion for music and dancing. With this melancholy, and oppressed by asthma and unwieldy corpulency, she could scarcely have been a very graceful dancer, for M. de Noailles said of her, “Son visage est tel qu’on ne peut la regarder sans peine.”

A romantic tale is told of Queen Joan of Naples, who, at a magnificent feast given in her castle of Gaeta, gave her hand to Galeazzo of Mantua for the purpose of opening the ball. At the conclusion of the dance the gallant knight knelt down before his royal partner, and, as an acknowledgment of the honour conferred upon him, he made a solemn vow not to rest until he had subdued two valiant knights, and had presented them prisoners at her royal footstool, to be disposed of at her pleasure. Accordingly, after a year spent in visiting various scenes of action in Brittany, England, France, Burgundy, and elsewhere, he returned and offered his two prisoners of rank to Queen Joan. The Queen received the gift very graciously, but, declining to avail herself of the right she had to impose rigorous conditions on the captives, she gave them liberty without ransom, in addition to bestowing on them several marks of liberality.

An early Danish ballad tells how one of the ancient kings of Denmark, dancing at a wake with a fair peasant girl, requested her to sing to him, which she did in tones so clear and thrilling that she woke the Queen Sophie, who had retired to bed. Her Royal Highness’s curiosity being aroused, she got up, put on her purple mantle, and went out to see what sort of girl the songstress might be. On seeing her husband dance with the peasant girl, the Queen’s jealousy was excited, and she exclaimed that it was “a monstrous thing that Signellile”—the peasant girl—“should dance with Denmark’s king.” So she ordered one of her attendants to bring her “the richly moulded horn” filled with wine, giving instructions for an edder-corn to be first dropped in. Then, when the King asked his royal consort if she would not dance with him, Queen Sophie replied—

Whereupon Signellile took the horn, and though she

In China dancing has from a remote period held a conspicuous place in Court ceremonies. At the present day it takes the form of an act of homage to the sovereign, for which performance special mandarins are appointed. This dance is performed by the greatest in the land, and at stated times an imposing sight may be witnessed at the imperial palace, when men coming from all parts of Asia render tribute to the Emperor by songs and dances. On one occasion, when the dance was at its glory in China, “the Emperor showed the appreciation he felt for his Viceroys by the number of the dances with which he received them when they came into his presence. If he was displeased with their administration, he would reprove them silently by allowing only a few dances, performed by a small number of coryphÉes.” It would seem, too, that emperors “did not disdain the study of the dance, or its performance in public; they generally devoted the autumn to the former, and the spring to the latter, and the feast of ancestors was the greatest occasion for the dance. In 1719 the son of the Emperor danced before his father and the whole assembled Court.”

At the French Court dancing from an early period was in high repute, and the intermezzi or entremets—from which sprang dances—performances held at banquets to entertain the guests whilst waiting for the courses, can be traced back to the year 1237, when St. Louis gave a wedding feast to his brother Robert at CompiÈgne. It is related that at this feast a knight rode across the hall on horseback over a large tight-rope stretched above the heads of the guests.[51] With the Medicis the splendid dance entertainments were introduced into France; and we read how Catherine de’ Medicis, while plotting the massacre of St. Bartholomew, amused herself by witnessing the antics of a troupe of Italian players, called “I Gelosi,” which consisted of mimic acting varied with comic dances.

It is said that Jacques Coetier, a French physician, was the only person who could curb the uneven spirit of Louis IX., which he did by making an artful use of that dread of death to which the King was subject. Thus Coetier, trading on this peculiarity, would often say to his Majesty, “I suppose one of these days you will dismiss me, as you have done many other servants; but mark my words, if you do, you will not live eight days after it.” By repeating this menace from time to time, Coetier not only kept himself in his station, but actually succeeded in persuading the King to bestow upon him valuable presents. He paid, however, considerable attention to the mind of his royal master, and to divert his attention and to amuse him during his indisposition, he would arrange to have rural dances performed under his window.

Henry IV. and his great minister, Sully, were lovers of the ballet, and Louis XIII. danced on the stage with all his Court.

Louis XIV. enjoyed performing various characters in the ballet, a recreation he pursued till he became too corpulent, when he abandoned it for fear of making himself an object of ridicule. Some idea of the importance of dancing at the Court of Louis XIV. can be gained from MoliÈre, who goes so far as to say in the Bourgeois Gentilhomme “that the destiny of nations depends on the art of dancing.” Monsieur de Lauzun, the favourite of Louis XIV., owed his fortune to his grace in dancing in the King’s quadrille. And, as Dumas writes, “many more than one nobleman owed the favour he enjoyed at Court to the way he pointed his toe, or moved his leg.” Indeed, Louis XIV. not only busied himself with the composition of ballets, but danced in them, and took dancing lessons from Beauchamps for twenty years.[52] Until he was thirty-two he danced with professional ballet-dancers, a fad which, it has been said, suggested itself to him from some lines in Racine’s Britannicus, wherein Nero’s dramatic proclivities are ridiculed. His last appearance was on February 13, 1669, in the Ballet of Flora. Indeed, so devoted was Louis to the pastime, that in one ballet he actually played no less than five successive characters, those of Apollo, Mars, a Fury, a Dryad, and a Courtier; and actually submitted to the fatigue of assuming the several costumes, frequently as often as three times during the week.[53] Benserade had the exclusive privilege of composing the libretti of these ballets, which, it is said, “were one continued ovation to the young monarch, who was not in his own person exempted from the delivery of the most exaggerated and fulsome self-praise.” But such was the taste of the time.

The Allemande FranÇaise—a mediÆval German dance introduced into France about the year 1600—was a favourite of Louis XIV. and of Napoleon. Louis XIV. was also specially fond of the courante, which he is said to have performed better than any one else. And it may be added that on the 21st of January 1681, when the then Dauphiness, the Princess de Conti, and some other ladies of the first distinction in the Court of Louis XIV., performed a ballet with the opera, called Le Triomphe de l’Amour, it was received with so much applause, that on the 16th of the following May, when the same opera was acted in Paris, at the Theatre of the Palais Royal, it was thought indispensable for the success of this kind of entertainment to introduce female dancers, who have ever since been a support of the opera.

Among the many amusing anecdotes told of Louis XIV. when still in his minority, it is related that one evening, in 1655, Queen Henrietta and her daughter were invited to see the King dance at a ball, which Anne of Austria gave in her private apartments. The party was of rather a juvenile character; the dancers were from the age of the Princess of England, who was about eleven, to the age of Louis XIV., who was just sixteen. At this time Louis was in love with Marie de Mancini—niece of Mazarin—and as she was not at the party, he chose to dance with her sister, the Duchess de Mercoeur, and led her out as his partner in the brawl. But the Queen-Regent observing his action, at once stepped forth, took the niece of Mazarin from him, and commanded him to dance with the young Princess of England. Queen Henrietta, alarmed at the contretemps, assured the King “that her daughter would not dance—she was too young; besides she had hurt her foot, and could not be his partner.” The result was that neither Louis nor the Princess Henrietta danced that evening, the youthful King remarking later on in a sullen mood that “he did not like little girls.”

In 1640 the Duc d’Enghien, son of Prince Henry of CondÉ, was affianced to Claire ClÉmence, a niece of Richelieu, and the account given by the Duc d’Aumale of the marriage and the behaviour of the Prince at the accident which befell his bride whilst dancing, gives far from a pleasing idea of Court refinement at that period: “The marriage was celebrated at the palace of the Cardinal, and was followed by brilliant festivities.... Mirame had received the plaudits of an illustrious assembly, at which—a memento of the military processions of Rome—several general officers appeared who were prisoners of war. After a representation had been given, followed by new comic pieces, the theatre was transformed, as it were by enchantment, and the Duc d’Enghien, leading in the Queen, opened the ball with her. It was remarked that the young Duchess, embarrassed in a coranto by the high-heeled shoes she wore to increase her low stature, fell; the Court laughed, and her husband joined in the laughter. The pallor and disordered appearance of the Duc were also noticed.”[54]

Marie Antoinette was fond of dancing, and was a great admirer and patroness of Augustus Vestris, the god of dance, as he was styled. She was instrumental in bringing back the “gavotte” into fashion as a Court and society dance, which had been originally a peasant’s diversion, taking its name from Gap, in DauphinÉ. It appears to have been introduced at Court in the sixteenth century, “when, to amuse the royal circles, entertainments were given consisting of dances in national costume, performed by natives of the various provinces, and to the sound of appropriate instruments.” Numerous accounts have been given of the brilliant part Marie Antoinette so often played in the festive scenes of the Court of Versailles, the following conveying a faint notion of the grace and popularity which marked her early but ill-fated life: “The ball opened with four quadrilles; in the first the dress was the old costume of France, the second represented a set of morris-dancers, the third was that of the Queen—Tyrolese peasants, the fourth wild Indians.... In the interval between the dances the Queen took occasion to say a kind word to every one. She particularly noticed foreign ladies, among them Lady Ailesbury and three English ladies. They were treated by the Queen with a grace and a courtesy which was much remarked and approved. I shall only add that the Queen every day brings the elegance of the Court to a higher degree of perfection.”[55]

It was owing to a tumble sustained by a royal princess at a Court ball some twenty years ago that waltzing has been forbidden at the State balls at Berlin or Potsdam. And that the polka is not considered altogether free from danger is shown by the fact that the German Emperor one day summoned the generals commanding the various troops stationed in and around Berlin, and directed them to instruct those officers who were not able to dance properly to abstain from attempting to do so at imperial receptions.

Indeed, the history of most countries is full of incidents illustrative of dancing customs at Court, and on certain special occasions it would seem that feats in dancing formed one of the many attractions to amuse royalty. When Isabel of Bavaria, queen of Charles VI. of France, made her public entry into Paris, among other extraordinary exhibitions prepared for her reception was the marvellous performance, according to St. Foix, of a rope-dancer.