Цитата: Кадрили и контрдансы в Англии начала XIX века
“Southern Reporter and Cork Commercial Courier” – Thursday 15 February 1827
QUADRILLE-DANCING,
Nil tibi mecum Commune est.’
I hate quadrilles! What, hate the elegant Pastorale —the neat La Poule—the gay Lodoiska! Peace, madam—cease from repeating that head-roll of foreign monsters; I hate them all! They are complicated pieces of mechanism, which require study and practice; and must a man of five-and-thirty go and put himself under the care of a dancing-master, to be a second time initiated in all the mysteries of first position, and one, two, three, four? Yet he must either do that or foreswear dancing, – lt is a hard case. Now, Sir, l am very fond of dancing; but I learnt before Roger de Coverly and Chatsworth House were assaulted by Weippart and Hart—before the importation of French quadrilles, French foolery, and French silks; – I learnt when dancing was dancing—not a little angular shuffle, like a knight over a chess-board. O how different was the ancient regime dancing ! There you stood the envied leader of thirty couple; your partner’s decision rested the momentous question of ‘What figure?’ and how proudly you communicated to the few around you the important intelligence, ‘Hands across, back again, down the middle, up again, and poussette!’ Then the endeavour to appear degage, while the two fiddles scraped over the tune, when you knew that every eye was upon you, and your bosom throbbed with anxiety! But as you became inspired, your heart beat fuller, your’ capers were higher, and you redoubled the kind looks you bestowed upon your blushing partner, who gave you a hand as warm as her heart! Then, when came the final scrape, what pursuit of a chair! and then a glass of warm negus was almost as much a desideratum as the longitude is now. Then, fanning was sinecure; the ample green orb was spread—
‘Like the moon
Through optic glass by Tuscan artist view’d;’
and the assiduous beau, while industriously wafting the cool breezes on his sweetheart’s brow, often concealed beneath its disk the near approaches he made towards her cheek. Oh, happy days! But ye are gone! -and sickly and heartless Quadrille rules it now in the throne of country dance, while crowds of parasites, as heartless as herself, follow her over chalked floors and perfumed halls.
A short time ago, Sir I received ‘at home’ from a very particular friend, with that ugly little word which I have made the subject of this essay, stuck in the corner, like a naughty little child, quite ashamed of himself—What was to done? I was told I could not refuse, so go I must, and my sister kindly volunteered to show me the mysteries of these saltatorial intricacies.—After a week’s hard practice, I thought I might venture, although I had many misgivings about Pastorale; the others, I thought might shuffle off behind some protecting flounce, but a pas-seul!— ‘Infandum jubes renovare dolorem!’ The fatal evening came – powdered and silk-hosed footmen stood, like vocal telegraphs, to pass our names up, and I heard, with feelings similar to those of a wretch called out the condemned cells to be executed, ‘Mr. and Miss Longfoot’ announced. We walked in, made our respects, and I sat down, (to use Sir J. Sylvester’s words,) ‘to employ the short time which was left me, in preparing myself for my approaching execution.’ Had this been ‘a country-dance party,’ like those of yore, I should only have had to have found some lively partner, and been happy; but here, all looked cold the soup at a Lord Mayor’s dinner. The sperms were transparently freezing, and the ladies walked, or rather stalked about, like so many Junos.
Men were bowing and displaying white teeth and ’kerchiefs, and talked indifferently of the ties of affection and of their neckcloths. There was no laugh, no merry greeting, quaint joke from the host, no kind inquiries for absent friends from the hostess. We looked like quakers, waiting for the spirit, who came at length in the shape of Mr. Hart, and whilst he was employed in bringing the fiddles to a proper state of mind and tone of feeling for the solemnity of the occasion, I saw with feelings of indiscribable horror, our hostess advancing, of course to have the pleasure of introducing me to a partner. ‘Very sorry, madam—sprained ancle —distorted hip—lame this month past,’ I muttered out while a faint sickness came over me; but to no purpose. ‘Dancing is the best thing in the world for sprains,’ and several other equally true apophthegms were poured out by my kind partner finder, and was dragged up to be presented—l bowed, tried to say something polite, but, alas! –
Vox faucibus haesit,’
and, at length, endeavouring to hide my real feeling under an appearance of indifference, took my place at the side of the first set.
I saw there was a sneer on the faces of the whole set; I could have dashed the teeth out of the ridiculous puppies’ jaws, and been rude the ladies. Then came that hideous Pastorale. There I stood alone; my legs looking like number eleven on a street door; my face not at all unlike one of those long, oval, lion-headed knockers, with a very similar grin. There I stood, alone, I say, with two long feet, like a spondee at the end of an hexameter, whilst two women, with a smirking cavalier between them, advanced and retired, as the dancing-masters say, grinning all the time, and seeming to enjoy my misery. Then it was my turn to advance, whilst those three stood looking at me with the most perfect assurance, now staring in my face, now gazing on my feet, till I wished, with old John Bunyan, (I believe,) that the earth were an hungry, and would swallow me up! How did I rejoice when I bowed, my sense of the honour done me, and prepared to lead my partner to her seat. But judge of my horror when she exclaimed, ‘we had better keep our places for the lancers!’ I could not have felt have so much, had I been ordered to keep my place before a whole regiment of them at full charge. It was intolerable; I limped about—put my hand on my hip—swore I was lame for life—and mentally ejaculated, if ever I dance a quadrille again, may I be dashed. This would not have happened in a country-dance.
Я ненавижу кадрили! Что, ненавидеть элегантную Пастораль — изящную Ла Пуль — веселую Лодоиску! Мир вам, мадам, прекратите повторять этот набор иностранных чудовищ; я ненавижу их всех! Это сложные механизмы, требующие изучения и практики; и неужели человек тридцати пяти лет должен вверять себя попечению учителя танцев, чтобы во второй раз пройти посвящение во все тайны первой позиции, и «раз, два, три, четыре»? И все же он должен либо делать это, либо зарекаться танцевать, — это сложный случай. Итак, господа, я очень люблю танцевать; но я учился до того, как “Роджер де Коверли” и “Чатсворт-Хаус” подверглись разбойному нападению Вейппара и Харта — до того, как к нам импортировали французские кадрили, французские дурачества и французские шелка; — я учился, когда танец был танцем, а не маленькой угловатой перетасовкой, как у коня на шахматной доске. О, как отличались танцы старых времен! Вот вы стояли, вызывающий зависть глава над тридцатью парами; оставляя решению вашей партнерши важнейший вопрос: «Какая фигура?», и с какой гордостью вы сообщали ближайшему окружению важнейшую информацию: «Мулине; обратно; вниз по колонне; снова вверх и пусетт»!»
Автор цитаты: Неизвестный корреспондент
Источник: Southern Reporter and Cork Commercial Courier - 15 February 1827
Год, к которому относится цитата: 1827
Дата первой найденной публикации: 1827 г.
Подобрал цитату: Ирина Ремпен