A Delicious Redowa

Among the many online remarks I have read on the subject of social dancing is the observation that some girls grow up thinking that dances will be like those they see in Disney cartoons: beautiful ballgowns, waltzing, an enchanted teapot singing “Tale As Old As Time”… The reality of the standard middle school dance is quite a letdown.

My childhood predated Disney’s Beauty and the Beast, so my first ideas about dances came from Louisa May Alcott’s semi-autobiographical Little Women. The March family (like the Alcotts) is unusual in that it seeks moral perfection instead of contenting itself with conventional churchgoing and the pursuit of wealth. The recent film adaptations (especially 1994) take details from the Alcotts’ life not included in the text of Little Women to underscore this point: for example, the March women don’t wear silk because silk workers are either slaves or treated like them. But even in the book itself, the Marches eschew alcohol, the girls dress more modestly than their peers, the boy next door stops going to a low dive (a saloon where he played billiards) thanks to their influence, and they strive to overcome their own bosom faults.

And they go to dances.

Seeking Moral Perfection in the 1860s

As unusual as they are, the Marches/Alcotts are products of Colonial New England and (like your humble correspondent) rejoice in having ancestors who were officers in the American War of Revolution. (Nota bene: I had people on both sides.) The Marches are thus Society People, despite their reduced income and philosopher/clergyman papa. Mrs March (or Marmee, as her children call her), for all her self-denial and active charity, never forgets this. She permits her daughters to go to parties, dances and other entertainments hosted by their richer and more worldly friends, the Gardiners and the Moffats, and she allows the teenage grandson of her millionaire neighbour the run of her house. After all, this is the 1860s (and the late 1840s, as Louisa May Alcott was born in 1832), so there is a moral baseline nobody respectable falls beneath.

There are three major dance scenes in Little Women, and they all provide backgrounds for the boy next door, “Laurie” Laurence. At the first dance (the Gardiners’), Laurie meets Jo March, the principal heroine of the book. At the second (the Moffats’), Laurie upbraids Meg March, the eldest, for succumbing to the peer pressure to behave immodestly. At the third (in France), Laurie’s (plot spoiler) temporary moral decline is checked by Amy March, the youngest, and they begin (another plot spoiler) to take a shine to one another.

By the way, all anglophone North American (and very likely British, too) girls from literate households have read Little Women, so if you are a man and want some insight into such females, please read Little Women.

The Gardiners’ Dance

The drama at the Gardiners’ dance is provided by the Marches’ comparative poverty: Meg and Jo have to wear gloves, and Jo has stained hers with lemonade, and Meg’s shoes are too tight. Jo has also burned the back of her one suitable dress, so she plans to spend the evening propping up a wall.

When the dancing begins, Meg is asked to dance at once. Jo sees a boy coming to ask her, so she hides behind a “curtained recess” where she finds “the Laurence boy” hiding himself. It is established that dancing is an ordinary, if optional, part of their lives to date:

“Don’t you like to dance, Miss Jo?” asked Laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her.

“I like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and every one is lively. In a place like this I’m sure to upset something, tread on people’s toes, or do something dreadful, so I keep out of mischief, and let Meg sail about. Don’t you dance?”

“Sometimes; you see I’ve been abroad a good many years, and haven’t been into company enough yet to know how you do things here.”

Laurie has spent his young life in Europe and is cosmopolitan (in a good way). Interestingly, he introduces the idea that there is good dancing and bad dancing when he praises Meg’s appearance: “She makes me think of the German girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady.”

Jo, who doesn’t much like being a lady herself, is nevertheless pleased by this. Of course, dancing “like a lady” implies that other girls don’t dance like ladies, causing their neighbours discomfort or leading them morally astray.

Hearing the musicians playing a “splendid polka,” Jo encourages Laurie to leave their hiding place and find a partner. Laurie opts to ask Jo instead, and when she demurs (the burn mark), he comes up with a solution: the empty hall.

Jo thanked him, and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves, when she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore. The hall was empty, and they had a grand polka; for Laurie danced well, and taught her the German step, which delighted Jo, being full of swing and spring. When the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath …

And they are interrupted by Meg, who has sprained her ankle thanks to those silly shoes. Happily, she enjoyed a “delicious redowa” (a kind of Czech waltz) before this happened and (unlike in the films) stays for the mid-party supper.

The Moffats’ Dances

Meg’s love of finery is her downfall at the Moffats’ second dance, too. The highly moral (if understanding) Miss Alcott has not a word to say against the actual dancing. At their first dance, Meg’s embarrassment about having a shabby dress is dispelled by kindly Laurie sending her a box of flowers and her own decision to make up corsages from the blooms for the richer girls around.

This dress gets irreparably torn in the course of the evening. Thus, Meg’s friends have an excuse to lend her a fashionable gown and give her a makeover for the next dance, a bigger affair to which Laurie is invited, giving Miss March a whole new not-very-March-like look, including a neckline so low Meg feels half-dressed.

The “queer feeling” did not pass away, but she imagined herself acting the new part of fine lady, and so got on pretty well, though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the train kept getting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest her ear-rings should fly off, and get lost or broken. She was flirting her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried to be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and looked confused; for, just opposite, she saw Laurie. He was staring at her with undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought; for, though he bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush, and wish she had her old dress on. 

Meg asks Laurie if he likes how she looks, and the brave boy says “No,” and new male readers say “Based.” Meg runs off in a snit but overhears another man condemn her new look and relents towards Laurie when he finds her, apologizes for his “rudeness” and asks her to dance to her favourite waltz. And, amazing as it may seem to anti-terpsichoreans, the dance heals all:

Meg smiled and relented, and whispered, as they stood waiting to catch the time,—

“Take care my skirt don’t trip you up; it’s the plague of my life, and I was a goose to wear it.”

“Pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful,” said Laurie, looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.

Away they went, fleetly and gracefully; for, having practised at home, they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more friendly than ever after their small tiff.

When Meg goes home she confesses having allowed herself to be made into “a doll,” drinking champagne, romping, and flirting. Jo doesn’t think that wearing the fashionable clothing is so bad, and Marmee is much more annoyed by the foolish, vulgar gossip Meg admits to hearing. Meanwhile, I am reminded that when anti-terpsichoreans assemble their arguments, they very soon resort to complaining about what women wear to dances. As in Meg’s minor disgrace, it’s not the dancing: it’s the clothes.

The Hotel Christmas Dance in Nice

Amy March departs from her family’s strict morality in only one respect: she is willing to marry for money. As she grows up, she surpasses Meg in beauty and talent, and her approving great-aunt, who is very wealthy, takes her with her on a long sojourn in Europe. Great-aunt and niece spend one Christmas in Nice, where their hotel hosts a dance for its guests. Having promised to spend Christmas with Amy, the globetrotting Laurie accepts her invitation to attend the party with her and (of course) Aunt March.

Amy dresses as well as she can for this ball, her artistic eye and cleverness making up for her budget, because she wants Laurie to think she looks well and tell the folks back home so. (Clearly Laurie keeps this March girl on the straight and narrow path as much as the Marches do him.)

Alcott’s description of the assembled company is a miniature masterpiece. Amy’s attitude towards admiration would probably be condemned by a clickbaiting YouTuber, but it’s the 1860s and becoming an “ornament to society” was considered the supreme accomplishment for women in the world.

Any young girl can imagine Amy’s state of mind when she “took the stage” that night, leaning on Laurie’s arm. She knew she looked well, she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a ball-room, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood. She did pity the Davis girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her friendliest manner as she passed; which was good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend might be. With the first burst of the band, Amy’s color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the floor impatiently; for she danced well, and wanted Laurie to know it: therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than described, when he said, in a perfectly tranquil tone,—

“Do you care to dance?”

“One usually does at a ball.”

Her amazed look and quick answer caused Laurie to repair his error as fast as possible.

“I meant the first dance. May I have the honor?”

“I can give you one if I put off the Count. He dances divinely; but he will excuse me, as you are an old friend,” said Amy, hoping that the name would have a good effect, and show Laurie that she was not to be trifled with.

The two old friends make up part of a set in a dance called the Cotillion, and then Laurie goes off to ask Amy’s cousin to dance. He doesn’t ask Amy for another dance, so Amy somehow ensures that her dance card is full when he approaches for a Polka-Redowa. She gallops off with the Polish count, as one does. And once again the boy-next-door stands in private judgement of women’s dancing:

Laurie’s eyes followed her with pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be. He very naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view; and, before the evening was half over, had decided that “little Amy was going to make a very charming woman.”

There follows another mini masterpiece as the company gets caught up in the merry music. Apart from the German aristo stuffing his face, it reminds me of the last Michaelmas Dance. The passage begins:

It was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took possession of every one, and Christmas merriment made all faces shine, hearts happy, and heels light. The musicians fiddled, tooted, and banged as if they enjoyed it; everybody danced who could, and those who couldn’t admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth.

This is what dancing is suppose to do and, thank heavens, does when there is a clear goal, the right music, a sympathetic crowd, and adequate preparation.

These are the three major dances, and I’ll just briefly sum up a minor dance: there is a wedding at which the married guests are exhorted to dance in a ring around the bridal pair while the singles are directed to make up dancing couples. Widowed Grandfather Laurence glides up to Great-Aunt March to dance as a couple, but she snubs him to join the ring of marrieds. “Based,” say the Great-Aunt Marches of the world.

Little Women was published in two volumes: in 1868 and then 1869. It was, and remains, a massive success. It was praised by no less a leading Catholic light than G.K. Chesterton (in 1907). Apparently critics mostly ignored it (although I recall reading decades ago that it had been dismissed as “not suitable for Sunday School”), and it fell out of favour during the Feminist Revolution of the 1960s and 1970s. But in 1869 every literate American alive was reading it, and Wiki tells me that it was pointed out to soldiers during World War II as an example of “what we are fighting for.” Quite clearly its dancing girls (that is to say, its girls who danced) were not loved any less or thought any worse of because they tripped the light fantastic.

When its two volumes are included in one big tome, Little Women is a mighty hefty weapon–in more ways than one–against offensive misogynist YouTubers who erroneously claim dancing is intrinsically evil. However, that is a subject I will address on a later occasion. For now I will add only that whereas Alcott would oppose strictures against dancing, she would certainly warn young ladies to keep their bosomy charms modestly covered up.