Golden House

Dudley Warner Charles

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pubOne.info present you this new edition. It was near midnight: The company gathered in a famous city studio were under the impression, diligently diffused in the world, that the end of the century is a time of license if not of decadence. The situation had its own piquancy, partly in the surprise of some of those assembled at finding themselves in bohemia, partly in a flutter of expectation of seeing something on the border-line of propriety. The hour, the place, the anticipation of the lifting of the veil from an Oriental and ancient art, gave them a titillating feeling of adventure, of a moral hazard bravely incurred in the duty of knowing life, penetrating to its core. Opportunity for this sort of fruitful experience being rare outside the metropolis, students of good and evil had made the pilgrimage to this midnight occasion from less-favored cities. Recondite scholars in the physical beauty of the Greeks, from Boston, were there; fair women from Washington, whose charms make the reputation of many a newspaper correspondent; spirited stars of official and diplomatic life, who have moments of longing to shine in some more languorous material paradise, had made a hasty flitting to be present at the ceremony, sustained by a slight feeling of bravado in making this exceptional descent

Informations

• Publié par: Pub One Info
• Date de parution: 06 novembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9782819945673
• Langue: English

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THE GOLDEN HOUSE
By Charles Dudley Warner
I
It was near midnight: The company gathered in afamous city studio were under the impression, diligently diffusedin the world, that the end of the century is a time of license ifnot of decadence. The situation had its own piquancy, partly in thesurprise of some of those assembled at finding themselves inbohemia, partly in a flutter of expectation of seeing something onthe border-line of propriety. The hour, the place, the anticipationof the lifting of the veil from an Oriental and ancient art, gavethem a titillating feeling of adventure, of a moral hazard bravelyincurred in the duty of knowing life, penetrating to its core.Opportunity for this sort of fruitful experience being rare outsidethe metropolis, students of good and evil had made the pilgrimageto this midnight occasion from less-favored cities. Reconditescholars in the physical beauty of the Greeks, from Boston, werethere; fair women from Washington, whose charms make the reputationof many a newspaper correspondent; spirited stars of official anddiplomatic life, who have moments of longing to shine in some morelanguorous material paradise, had made a hasty flitting to bepresent at the ceremony, sustained by a slight feeling of bravadoin making this exceptional descent. But the favored hundredspectators were mainly from the city-groups of late diners, whofluttered in under that pleasurable glow which the red Jacqueminotalways gets from contiguity with the pale yellow Clicquot; theatreparties, a little jaded, and quite ready for something real andstimulating; men from the clubs and men from studios—representatives of society and of art graciously mingled, since itis discovered that it is easier to make art fashionable than tomake fashion artistic.
The vast, dimly lighted apartment was itselfmysterious, a temple of luxury quite as much as of art. Shadowslurked in the corners, the ribs of the roof were faintly outlined;on the sombre walls gleams of color, faces of loveliness and facesof pain, studies all of a mood or a passion, bits of shining brass,reflections from lustred ware struggling out of obscurity; hangingsfrom Fez or Tetuan, bits of embroidery, costumes in silk and invelvet, still having the aroma of balls a hundred years ago, thefaint perfume of a scented society of ladies and gallants; askeleton scarcely less fantastic than the draped wooden model nearit; heavy rugs of Daghestan and Persia, making the footfallssoundless on the floor; a fountain tinkling in a thicket ofjaponicas and azaleas; the stems of palmettoes, with their brancheswaving in the obscurity overhead; points of light here and therewhere a shaded lamp shone on a single red rose in a blue Granadavase on a toppling stand, or on a mass of jonquils in a barbarouspot of Chanak-Kallessi; tacked here and there on walls andhangings, colored memoranda of Capri and of the North Woods, thearmor of knights, trophies of small-arms, crossed swords of theUnion and the Confederacy, easels, paints, and palettes, and rowsof canvases leaning against the wall-the studied litter, in short,of a successful artist, whose surroundings contribute to thepopular conception of his genius.
On the wall at one end of the apartment wasstretched a white canvas; in front of it was left a small clearedspace, on the edge of which, in the shadow, squatting on the floor,were four swarthy musicians in Oriental garments, with a mandolin,a guitar, a ney, and a darabooka drum. About this cleared space, ina crescent, knelt or sat upon the rugs a couple of rows of men inevening dress; behind them, seated in chairs, a group of ladies,whose white shoulders and arms and animated faces flashed out inthe semi-obscurity; and in their rear stood a crowd of spectators—beautiful young gentlemen with vacant faces and the elevated Oxfordshoulders, rosy youth already blase to all this world can offer,and gray-headed men young again in the prospect of a new sensation.So they kneel or stand, worshipers before the shrine, expecting theadvent of the Goddess of AEsthetic Culture.
The moment has come. There is a tap on the drum, atuning of the strings, a flash of light from the rear of the roominundates the white canvas, and suddenly a figure is poised in thespace, her shadow cast upon the glowing background.
It is the Spanish dancer!
The apparition evokes a flutter of applause. It is asuperb figure, clad in a high tight bodice and long skirts simplydraped so as to show every motion of the athletic limbs. She seems,in this pose and light, supernaturally tall. Through her partedlips white teeth gleam, and she smiles. Is it a smile ofanticipated, triumph, or of contempt? Is it the smile of thedaughter of Herodias, or the invitation of a 'ghazeeyeh'? Shepauses. Shall she surprise, or shock, or only please? What shallthe art that is older than the pyramids do for these kneelingChristians? The drum taps, the ney pipes, the mandolin twangs, herarms are extended— the castanets clink, a foot is thrust out, thebosom heaves, the waist trembles. What shall it be— the old serpentdance of the Nile, or the posturing of decorous courtship when theolives are purple in the time of the grape harvest? Her head,wreathed with coils of black hair, a red rose behind the left ear,is thrown back. The eyes flash, there is a snakelike movement ofthe limbs, the music hastens slowly in unison with the quickeningpulse, the body palpitates, seems to flash invitation like theeyes, it turns, it twists, the neck is thrust forward, it is drawnin, while the limbs move still slowly, tentatively; suddenly thebody from the waist up seems to twist round, with the waist as apivot, in a flash of athletic vigor, the music quickens, the armsmove more rapidly to the click of the heated castenets, the stepsare more pronounced, the whole woman is agitated, bounding, pulsingwith physical excitement. It is a Maenad in an access of gymnasticenergy. Yes, it is gymnastics; it is not grace; it is scarcelyalluring. Yet it is a physical triumph. While the spectators arebreathless, the fury ceases, the music dies, and the Spaniard sinksinto a chair, panting with triumph, and inclines her dark head tothe clapping of hands and the bravos. The kneelers rise; thespectators break into chattering groups; the ladies look at thedancer with curious eyes; a young gentleman with the elevatedOxford shoulders leans upon the arm of her chair and fans her. Thepose is correct; it is the somewhat awkward tribute of culture tophysical beauty.
To be on speaking terms with the phenomenon was forthe moment a distinction. The young ladies wondered if it would beproper to go forward and talk with her.
“Why not? ” said a wit. “The Duke of Donnycastlealways shakes hands with the pugilists at a mill. ”
“It is not so bad”— the speaker was a Washingtonbeauty in an evening dress that she would have condemned asindecorous for the dancer it is not so bad as I— "
“Expected? ” asked her companion, a sedate man ofthirty-five, with the cynical air of a student of life.
“As I feared, ” she added, quickly. “I have alwayshad a curiosity to know what these Oriental dances mean. ”
“Oh, nothing in particular, now. This was anexhibition dance. Of course its origin, like all dancing, wasreligious. The fault I find with it is that it lacks seriousness,like the modern exhibition of the dancing dervishes for money.”
“Do you think, Mr. Mavick, that the decay of dancingis the reason our religion lacks seriousness? We are in Lent now,you know. Does this seem to you a Lenten performance? ”
“Why, yes, to a degree. Anything that keeps you uptill three o'clock in the morning has some penitential quality.”
“You give me a new view, Mr. Mavick. I confess thatI did not expect to assist at what New Englanders call an 'eveningmeeting. ' I thought Eros was the deity of the dance. ”
“That, Mrs. Lamon, is a vulgar error. It is anancient form of worship. Virtue and beauty are the same thing— thetwo graces. ”
“What a nice apothegm! It makes religion so easy andagreeable. ”
“As easy as gravitation. ”
“Dear me, Mr. Mavick, I thought this was a questionof levitation. You are upsetting all my ideas. I shall not have thecomfort of repenting of this episode in Lent. ”
“Oh yes; you can be sorry that the dancing was notmore alluring. ”
Meantime there was heard the popping of corks.Venetian glasses filled with champagne were quaffed under theblessing of sparkling eyes, young girls, almond-eyed for theoccasion, in the costume of Tokyo, handed round ices, and the humof accelerated conversation filled the studio.
“And your wife didn't come? ”
“Wouldn't, ” replied Jack Delancy, with a littlebow, before he raised his glass. And then added, “Her taste isn'tfor this sort of thing. ”
The girl, already flushed with the wine, blushed alittle— Jack thought he had never seen her look so dazzlinglyhandsome— as she said, “And you think mine is? ”
“Bless me, no, I didn't mean that; that is, youknow”— Jack didn't exactly see his way out of the dilemma— “Edithis a little old-fashioned; but what's the harm in this, anyway?”
“I did not say there was any, ” she replied, with asmile at his embarrassment. “Only I think there are half a dozenwomen in the room who could do it better, with a little practice.It isn't as Oriental as I thought it would be. ”
“I cannot say as to that. I know Edith thinks I'vegone into the depths of the Orient. But, on the whole, I'm glad— ”Jack stopped on the verge of speaking out of his better nature.
“Now don't be rude again. I quite understand thatshe is not here. ”
The dialogue was cut short by a clapping of hands.The spectators took their places again, the lights were lowered,the illumination was turned on the white canvas, and the dancer,warmed with wine and adulation, took a bolder pose, and, as herlimbs began to move, sang a wild Moorish melody in a shrill voice,action and words flowing together into the passion of the daughterof tents in a desert life.