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:—
“Ill-natured little goblin, and designed
For nothing but to dance and vex mankind.”
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.