Take the case of the poor, dull, stupid Benedick who, like Byron with his club foot, dances not at all. He is a splendid man of business, perhaps, and is highly respected on change; but here, in the ball-room, what is he? A dolt, a ninny, an old fogy, a nuisance—to be snubbed and slighted by the woman he calls wife for every brainless popingay who "dances divinely." He has been proud to toil from day to day to be able to purchase costly apparel with which to adorn this far better half of his; now he has the felicity of seeing the fine fruits of his labor dangled about the legs of another man; he had supposed her the "wife of his bosom," yet, behold! she reclines most lovingly on the bosom of another; she is the mother of his children, yet as she quivers in her partner's arms, her face is troubled with
"The half-told wish and ill-dissembled flame."
He has pride enough to attempt to look interested, and to affect ignorance of his own shame, but the sham is apparent. Note how uneasily he sits upon the benches provided for such "wallflowers" as himself. Anyone who will take the trouble to observe him, can see that his heart is not in the waltz in which his spouse is taking such a lively interest. Approach him, now, and tell him that it is a very nice party, and that he seems to be enjoying himself. "Oh very nice," he answers with a ghastly grin intended for a smile, "I am enjoying it greatly." But now incidentally remark that after all you have no great liking for these "fancy dances," and see how quickly a fellow-feeling will make him wondrous confidential, as he answers:
"To tell the truth, I don't like them at all."
Perhaps you have known him when a bachelor and have seen him dance then. You mention this fact.
"O yes," he answers, "of course I used to dance; but can't you see that there is a mighty deal of difference between hugging other people's wives and daughters to music, and taking your own wife to a place where every fellow can press her to his bosom and dangle his legs among her petticoats? No, sir, I do not like it, and if my wife thought as I do about it, there would be no more dancing in our family. 'I would rather be a toad and feed on the damp vapor of a dungeon, than keep a corner in the thing I love for others' uses.'"
Follow the conversation up and you will find that if ever Sorrow mocked a festival by its presence it is in the person of this man. He is not jealous, he is outraged; all the finer feelings of his nature are trampled under foot, he is grieved and deeply wounded beyond recovery.
This is the beginning of the end; she is never the same woman to him hereafter; he may smile and appear careless, but none the less has that tiny satin slipper crushed all the fresh love from his heart. The second volume of his Book of Life is opened; the first chapter thereof being headed "Estrangement," and the last "Divorce."
And this is not an exceptional case; the writer will venture the assertion that out of every fifty husbands who have dancing wives, there are at least a dozen who if spoken frankly to upon the subject would express themselves in terms of most bitter condemnation.
And what kind of men are those who do not object to see their wives made common property in this manner? Well, there is your weak good-natured husband, who would willingly suffer any personal annoyance rather than thwart the wishes of his beloved wife, no matter how ill-advised those wishes may be.