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—
“Before a place in the dance I fill,
Must drink to my health fair Signellile.”
Whereupon Signellile took the horn, and though she
“Drank but a sip to quench her thirst,
Her guileless heart in her bosom burst.”
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.