Love's Provocations; being Extracts taken in the most Unmanly and Unmannerly Manner from the Diary of Miss Polly C-- is a comic novel published in 1855 by an English clergyman writing under a pseudonym (cover image at left; click to enlarge). After some of the painfully earnest and unintentionally hilarious (to a modern reader) Victorian novels I've read for dance research, it's a relief to read one that was actually intended to be funny. As a bonus, it also has more interesting and valuable dance information than most of the more serious ones!
Cuthbert M. Bede was the pen name of Edward Bradley (1827-1889). He wrote a number of novels and short pieces for many different publications (notably, The Illustrated London News and Punch) as well as constructing acrostic puzzles. Biographical information and more about his writing career may be found on his Wikipedia page, but The Cambridge Bibliography of English Literature (1940) provides a much more complete bibliography of his books and confirms the 1855 publication date for Love's Provocations.
The novel is the story of the romantic tribulations of "Polly", who is madly in love with one Walter Vernon, much to the dismay of her protective parents and her brother Fred, who consider him -- accurately -- to be a scoundrel. The title of the book is a play on The provocations of Madame Palissy by Anne Manning (1807-1879), which is explicitly referenced by Polly as the inspiration for her journal. She claims not to have read it; I skimmed it, and there doesn't seem to be any thematic connection. Madame Palissy's provocations were rather more serious, so the appropriation of the term by Polly is just more evidence of her general silliness.
Polly is abetted in her clandestine love affair by her friend Madge, whose brother Joseph is also in love with Polly. She is also being courted by an older friend of her father's. Walter, meanwhile is also flirting heavily with the Madder Brown sisters, Rose and Hyacinth. "Rose Madder Brown" is a joking reference to the red dye rose madder, one of Bradley's many plays on words. Others include "a castle in Ayrshire" (castles in the air) for Walter's imaginary wealthy family, and the dancing master "Signor Pussigutti", a reference to catgut, from which violin strings were made. Dancing masters were often violinists as well, and played for their own dance classes. The plot is about what you'd expect: Polly plays her suitors against each other and generally acts like a shallow and narcissistic idiot. She ends up planning to elope with Walter, only to be thwarted by her devoted family. It's full of over-the-top, buoyantly fake, melodrama:
I saw the gentlemen interfere, and take Mr. Joseph away ; and I thought that I could do no less than go into hysterics. So I sank on the couch, and began to go into them ; but Walter, instead of at once coming to support me through them (as naturally I intended him to do), left me in the most provoking manner, and went out of the conservatory; to attend to his own nose, I suppose. I then, of course, came-to very quickly...
This was after a confrontation between suitors disintegrated into the very drunk Joseph hurling oranges at Walter. Other amusing scenes involve Walter's wig: long, poetic black locks with which he is covering -- horrors! -- bright red hair, and a moment in a boat when, after being miraculously saved from the incoming tide, Walter and Polly retreat to opposite ends of the boat to be comprehensively seasick.
Interestingly, considering it was written by a clergyman, after Polly is saved from Walter and abandoned by her other suitors for her fickleness, there is no scene of religious repentance and subsequent happy ending, nor does she waste away and die. She just remains, for the nonce, unmarried and, apparently, unrepentant.
On to the dance material.
There are two scenes with dancing, both "evening parties" held by the Trotman family. Before they even get to the party, Polly is imagining dancing with Walter, who "can waltz—oh! like a duck!" Meanwhile, Joseph hopes to dance frequently with Polly because "[her] step suits [his] so well". He tries to engage her in advance, at which point his sister recommends accepting some dances with him, rather than dancing only with Walter, because “if you were to dance with no one else than the one you wish, you might be talked about, Miss Polly.” Polly then promises him the first set of quadrilles, and perhaps another, while planning to reserve all the "delightful valses and polkas" for Walter.
At the party itself, Walter arrives while Polly is dancing the quadrille with Joseph, who was "pastorale-ing in the most grotesque way", a reference to the popular fourth quadrille figure La Pastourelle. Early versions of the figures had the gentleman dancing alone for eight measures, either doing solo steps or just going forward and back twice, providing ample opportunity for a gentleman to make a spectacle of himself. After Walter fails to be sufficiently attentive, and promises waltzes to the Madder Brown sisters, Polly tries to make him jealous by repeatedly dancing with Joseph -- no specifics given -- culminating in the drunken confrontation involving the orange-throwing.
The real dance material shows up in the description of the second party, at which they dance a cotillion, which is described in detail:
A chair was placed in the centre of the room, and every one polked around the room, till some one couple polked up to the chair, and the lady was left seated there, and was given a hand-mirror...Of course the other couples ceased dancing when the lady was placed in the chair. Her partner then went and brought up another gentleman, and placed him behind the chair; and the lady looked in the mirror, and, if she pretended that she did not like the reflection, she rubbed her handkerchief over the glass. Her partner had then to bring up another gentleman; and, if she rubbed him out, a third gentleman had to be brought, and so on, until she was quite satisfied. And, when she saw in the mirror the reflection of anyone she approved, she jumped up, and the favoured individual took her as his partner, and polked off with her—her late partner seeking out the other gentleman’s partner, and all the company polking on round the room, until someone else was seated in the chair, and then the whole affair was da capo...After awhile, the dance was varied by a gentleman taking his seat on the chair, while his partner brought up ladies behind him. And the gentlemen were often more difficult to please than the ladies had been, and would rub the glass across their knees with the most provoking assumption of indifference.
This is interesting on all sorts of levels. "Polk" as a verb for dancing the polka is not uncommon in mid-nineteenth-century novels, but it's fun to see it used repeatedly here. The cotillion figure itself is an absolute classic, and the description practically word for word as found in nineteenth-century manuals. Here's a somewhat later description of the mirror figure from Allen Dodworth's Dancing (1885):
No. 163.
The Mirror.
A lady is seated, provided with a hand-mirror; the conductor presents successively a number of gentlemen, each one in turn looking over the lady's shoulder from behind, so that she may see the face reflected in the mirror; in rejecting the gentlemen she rubs the surface of the mirror; the rejected gentlemen place themselves one behind the other at the back of the lady's chair; when the lady makes a choice she rises, and places the mirror upon the chair; the rejected gentlemen then search for partners. Sometimes the gentlemen stand in front of the lady, and sometimes a gentleman takes the chair and the ladies perform the figure.
What's especially interesting to me about the description in Love's Provocations is that there is no cotillion conductor (leader). Instead, the whole room just dances until some couple feels like starting the figure, at which point everyone stops dancing. And after the lady selects a gentleman, her partner then seeks out that gentleman's partner to dance with, while everyone else just keeps going with their own partners.
Since most detailed descriptions of the actual mechanics of conducting a cotillion involve a leader managing things (probably because they are intended as how-to information for such leaders), and often are descriptions of either completely stand-alone events or a lengthy series of figures at the end of an evening, it fascinates me to see portrayed just one figure danced spontaneously in the middle of a ball, with the couples essentially doing their own conducting. The book is humor, but I don't get the feeling that this scene is meant to be any sort of parody. I think it was an actual way a cotillion figure was danced, at least at an informal evening party.
And it gets even better: having had so much fun with that figure, after supper, they agree to dance
a peculiar variety of the cotillon, which Mr. Temple had seen danced, a few nights before, at a grand party at Lord Buttonhole’s, where it had been introduced by the Earl’s new daughter-in-law, who was a German Countess. Mr. Temple had explained the dance to us, and it was so extraordinary, that (I dare say) if we had not known that he had really seen it danced at an Earl’s house, we might have considered it rather a vulgar affair. But, as it was, we thought it very laughable; and being in high spirits—as is always the case, indeed, after a ball supper—we agreed to dance it.
The chair remained in the center of the room, and we all waltzed round it, until one of the gentlemen had seated his partner in the chair; then the German novelty part of the dance commenced. The gentleman brought up another gentleman, and they stood before the lady...if she did not like him she shook her head, and then another gentleman was brought to her. When she was at length satisfied, the gentleman whom she had selected had to undergo a most remarkable transformation, for he had to put on a lady’s nightcap (with the lace frills and all!), and tie the strings under his chin; and in this guise (or rather in this disguise) he waltzed round the room with the lady (all the other couples also dancing), until he had seated her on the chair, and had brought up some other gentleman to whom the nightcap might be transferred. But this was not all, for the second gentleman was obliged to follow (dancing) close behind the couple, holding over their heads an opened umbrella! It was the most extraordinary dance I ever saw.
Once again the couples are self-conducting and everyone is dancing at once. The figure is a variation on "The Umbrella", which is itself a variation on the "Three Chairs" figure I discussed way back in the early days of Kickery. The illustration from Love's Provocations is at left (click to enlarge). And here's Dodworth again with a description:
No. 158.
The Umbrella.
A lady, seated, is provided with an umbrella; two gentlemen are presented; she rises to dance with one, and presents the umbrella to the other, who opens it, following the dancing couple, and holding it over their heads.
I'm not aware of any variation of the figure in which the gentleman puts on a nightcap, so it's possible that that part is intended to be parody, but I don't think that's a given. There are plenty of figures with that sort of silliness (and much worse), so it doesn't strike me as out of the realm of possibility. The real humor in Love's Provocations comes in the execution of the figure, when the nightcap is first applied to a gentleman with a huge moustache, and later to Walter, who tangles the ties getting it off and ends up having his wig pulled off as well, revealing his shockingly red hair and that his whiskers had been dyed to match his wig. Oops!
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All the dance-related extracts quoted from above are reproduced in full below. The entire novel may be found online here.
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CHAPTER II. MY FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCE
p. 7
[page header: A DUCK OF A PARTNER]
...he would “see the Trotmans anywhere, first, before he was going to waste his evening by making himslf a wallflower in their rooms!” for unfortunately, Fred is not so fond of dancing as some one I could mention, who can waltz—oh! like a duck!
p. 12
“So glad you are going to the Trotmans’, Miss Mary!” said Mr. Joseph, in his silly, simpering way; “because your step suits mine so well, and I want to dance with you a great deal this evening.”
And the wretch took out some tablets, (fancy a man carrying tablets!) and asked me to tell him all the dances for which I was disengaged. But Madge, who knew I was looking forward to dance with dear Walter all the evening, told Mr. Joseph to put up his tablets, and not make a monopoly of any young lady; and the dear girl gave me a kiss, as she whispered in my ear, “You had better dance once or twice with Joe, because, if you were to dance with no one else than the one you wish, you might be talked about, Miss Polly.”
So I made Mr. Joseph happy (he said so at least) by promising him the first set, and perhaps another; reserving all the delightful valses and polkas for—somebody!
[The first evening party]
As soon as we had got to the Trotmans’ I, of course, looked about for Mr Vernon, but he had not yet come; so I was glad to occupy the time, which had otherwise been wasted, by at once giving my hand to Mr. Joseph for the first set of quadrilles, which were then being formed. Just when Mr. Joseph was pastorale-ing in the most grotesque way, dear Walter came—looking so handsome, and such a contrast to the wretch who was then capering in front of me.
[snip]
Though I had told him that I should come early, and though he must have known that I was there, yet he never came to look for me all through the quadrille. So, when the last figure was ended, I told Mr. Joseph (who must have found me very absent) that I would go into the next room to look for my fan. We went; and there was Walter, making himself very comfortable on a sociable with the Madder Brown girls, who looked quite elate with the conquest which (as they thought) they had effected.
[snip]
…so I brightened up, and told him that I would show my amiability by giving him my hand for the waltz which the band were just beginning to play. Saying this I stood up to take his arm, when Walter, looking very confused, said that he had promised to dance that waltz with Miss Brown.
“And the dance after that?” I asked.
[page header: THE BITER BIT]
“With Miss Rose Brown,” he answered.
“Oh! indeed, sir!” said I, quite coldly: “I am really delighted to think that you have such an agreeable evening before you.”
“And it will be so, dear Polly,” he whispered, “if you will make it so for me. Those two girls made me promise them; but as soon as I have done with them, I’ll come to you: so remember!”
But I was determined to show Walter that I would remember, and that I was not to be put after the Madder Brown girls for nothing; so I plucked up my spirit, and I told him that he was not the only person who had made their arrangements, and that after the next two dances I was engaged; as as Mr. Joseph just then joined us, I at once put my arm in his, and told him to take me to his sister. I got Madge up into a corner, and I told her all about it; and she said, (dear girl! she always gives me such good advice!) that my best plan would be to make Walter jealous, and bring him to his senses, and teach him to be properly attentive to one individual, and not to go flirting with every young lady that noticed him. I therefore determined to make Walter just a little bit jealous.
CHAPTER III. THE USE AND ABUSE OF ORANGES.
Mr. Joseph seemed to me to be the very person who would require the least encouragement to offer me marked attentions; and as I was on such intimate terms with his family, I could more easily risk this with him than any one else there; and besides, he was such a goose that I did not care about deceiving him. So I not only danced with him nearly every dance, but I walked about, and sat on the stairs with him, and went into the little orangery…
[snip]
Of course Walter saw how engrossed I appeared with Mr. Joseph, and the first time that I allowed him to dance with me, he spoke to me about it; but I told him that Mr. Joseph Whinney was a very old friend of mine, a much older friend to me than the Miss Browns were to Mr. Walter Vernon, and that his flirtations had not escaped my notice. Walter seemed quite put about by what I said; and when I told him that I was engaged for every other dance before supper, he said that if he had known I should only have danced once with him, he would never have come; but that he must see if the Miss Browns would have pity on him…
[snip]
So, as Mr. Joseph was gone, and as I thought that I had plagued Walter sufficiently, and given him a lesson that would teach him to behave better in future, I began to be very amiable, and was all smiles and sunshine. But Walter seemed determined to try to provoke me; for, though he waltzed with me most delightfully, yet he would talk about nothing else but those Madder Brown girls, and said that Hyacinth was a delightful girl, and so agreeable, and full of good-nature…
pp. 60-66 [The second evening party]
from Chapter IX. THE NIGHTCAP-AND-UMBRELLA DANCE.
Just before we went down to supper, we had a good deal of fun with the cotillon, which we danced in this way: —
A chair was placed in the centre of the room, and every one polked around the room, till some one couple polked up to the chair, and the lady was left seated there, and was given a hand-mirror. (Fred said that it looked as though the lady was going to dress her hair, and he called her the lady in the enchanted chair, in Comb-us [note: this is a punning reference to a scene in Milton's poem Comus], and said we were the rabble rout—which was quite true, for we made a great noise, and were very disorderly.) Of course the other couples ceased dancing when the lady was placed in the chair. Her partner then went and brought up another gentleman, and placed him behind the chair; and the lady looked in the mirror, and, if she pretended that she did not like the reflection, she rubbed her handkerchief over the glass. Her partner had then to bring up another gentleman; and, if she rubbed him out, a third gentleman had to be brought, and so on, until she was quite satisfied. And, when she saw in the mirror the reflection of anyone she approved, she jumped up, and the favoured individual took her as his partner, and polked off with her—her late partner seeking out the other gentleman’s partner, and all the company polking on round the room, until someone else was seated in the chair, and then the whole affair was da capo.
When Madge was seated in the chair, she pretended to be very difficult to please; and she had—oh! at least a dozen gentlemen brought up to her; and sometimes, after carefully examining the reflection, she would rub away at the glass as though she violently hated the man, and would not have him on any account; and, perhaps, the gentleman was making faces in the glass, and doing all kinds of ridiculous things. Hyacinth Brown kept on rubbing out people until dear Walter was led up behind her chair, and then she very quickly put down the mirror, and danced off with him, looking as pleased as—yes, as Punch!
After awhile, the dance was varied by a gentleman taking his seat on the chair, while his partner brought up ladies behind him. And the gentlemen were often more difficult to please than the ladies had been, and would rub the glass across their knees with the most provoking assumption of indifference. When that goose of a Mr. Joseph Whinney did this to me, I declare that I could have slapped him for it!—not that I wanted to dance with the idiot—quite the reverse; but then it is galling to be — However, never mind.
[page header: A REMARKABLE DANCE]
Well, this cotillon was thought such fun, and so much was said about it while we were at supper, that it was proposed by my brother Fred, and seconded by a very presentable friend of his, a Mr. Temple, from the Foreign Office, that we should dance a peculiar variety of the cotillon, which Mr. Temple had seen danced, a few nights before, at a grand party at Lord Buttonhole’s, where it had been introduced by the Earl’s new daughter-in-law, who was a German Countess. Mr. Temple had explained the dance to us, and it was so extraordinary, that (I dare say) if we had not known that he had really seen it danced at an Earl’s house, we might have considered it rather a vulgar affair. But, as it was, we thought it very laughable; and being in high spirits—as is always the case, indeed, after a ball supper—we agreed to dance it.
The chair remained in the center of the room, and we all waltzed round it, until one of the gentlemen had seated his partner in the chair; then the German novelty part of the dance commenced. The gentleman brought up another gentleman, and they stood before the lady (who did not use the Comb-us glass), and if she did not like him she shook her head, and then another gentleman was brought to her. When she was at length satisfied, the gentleman whom she had selected had to undergo a most remarkable transformation, for he had to put on a lady’s nightcap (with the lace frills and all!), and tie the strings under his chin; and in this guise (or rather in this disguise) he waltzed round the room with the lady (all the other couples also dancing), until he had seated her on the chair, and had brought up some other gentleman to whom the nightcap might be transferred. But this was not all, for the second gentleman was obliged to follow (dancing) close behind the couple, holding over their heads an opened umbrella! It was the most extraordinary dance I ever saw.
The first gentleman who had to put on the nightcap was a guardsman, with large loves of moustachoes [sic], and such exquisite whiskers, six feet two—of course, I mean in height, not in whiskers; and it was a most ludicrous sight to see him deliberately and gravely waltzing with a lady’s nightcap on his head, while another gentleman danced about behind him, and held over him and his partner an opened umbrella.
The nightcap-and-umbrella dance caused great laughter; and all we girls enjoyed it amazingly—much more than I fancy one or two of the gentlemen did, who appeared not to be over-pleased at making great exhibitions of themselves, and having their hair disarranged by nightcaps. I should have had nothing but pleasing memories of the dance, if it had not been for a most unfortunate accident which befel [sic] poor Walter.
I had seen that he was very unwilling to put on the nightcap; so, of course, I had not made choice of him when it came to my turn to choose, but had selected Mr. Joseph Whinney, who looked more than usually silly in his new headgear. But when Hyacinth Brown was seated in the chair, Fred (passing by many others) came straight up to dear Walter (who was talking to me in a nice corner), and led him up to Miss Hyacinth, who immediately made him put on the nightcap. Well, when they had finished dancing, Walter had somehow got the nightcap strings into a knot, and could not untie them; and Fred (whose turn it was to put on the cap) said, “Let me help you, Vernon!” and then (I am convinced that he did it on purpose) he tried to undo the strings (in spite of dear Walter’s opposition), and saying, “This is the shortest method,” he twitched the cap from Walter’s head; and with the cap, away went his poor wig.
[page header: THE DANCE ENDS IN A NOVEL STEP.]
What was my horror on perceiving that, under the wig, Mr. Vernon had a head of real hair of the most brilliant scarlet! Yes, complete carrots—cut very short, indeed, so that they might not peep out from under those false black locks; for, that they were false, there could not now be a doubt; and all that he had told us about the wig being his own hair, that had been cut off from his catching a fever while visiting a poor sick man on his father’s estate—all this must have been literally a story.
A nightcap cotillion is apparently real!
I had my doubts, especially since it earned an illustration in the book even before the wig mishap.
From “Dancing Amongst the Germans” by A Correspondent Abroad, in Sargent's New Monthly Magazine, April 1843, New-York, Vol. 1. No. IV, pg. 165:
“The ball generally opens with a quadrille: a German cotillion, which lasts about two hours, more or less, succeeds, and then a waltz. This German cotillion is the most beautifully interesting of dances. There is a never-ending variety of figures. I have now danced it at six different balls, and the figures were not alike at any two. At the festival on New Year's eve, of which I speak, it was particularly amusing and not ungraceful. First, they placed four chairs in the centre of the room: four gentlemen then seated their partners on these chairs: each gentleman presented his partner with a beautiful little lantern and a ruffled nightcap. Then they each led two other gentlemen up to these partners, making a pantomime gesture, by which the lady was requested to select the one with whom she chose to waltz. Each lady in making her choice, adorns the head of the gentleman accepted with a nightcap, and presents a lantern to the gentleman refused. These rejected suitors light their lanterns, and as the triumphant fair ones with their favored night-capped partners whirl around the room, dance after them, shedding light from the lanterns upon their airy steps. You cannot imagine the ludicrous effect this pantomime, produces nor the peals of merriment that resound from every side, only subsiding to burst forth afresh as long as the dance continues.”
[https://books.google.com/books?id=YNzVAAAAMAAJ&newbks=0&printsec=frontcover&source=gbs_ge_summary_r&cad=0#v=twopage&q&f=false]
This magazine account has a lantern instead of an umbrella, and there are four chairs for ladies instead of one, but the essentials are there.
In Love's Provocations, the dance also has the comic element of If I Didn’t Know It Was High-Class, I Would Think It Was Uncouth:
“Mr. Temple had explained the dance to us, and it was so extraordinary, that (I dare say) if we had not known that he had really seen it danced at an Earl’s house, we might have considered it rather a vulgar affair. But, as it was, we thought it very laughable; and being in high spirits—as is always the case, indeed, after a ball supper—we agreed to dance it.”
Oliver Goldsmith used that theme earlier in his book The Vicar of Wakefield (1766). Two “ladies of the town” visit the naïve vicar’s family in Chapter 9:
“The two ladies threw my girls quite into the shade; for they would talk of nothing but high life, and high lived company; with other fashionable topics, such as pictures, taste, Shakespear, and the musical glasses. ‘Tis true they once or twice mortified us sensibly by slipping out an oath; but that appeared to me as the surest symptom of their distinction, (tho’ I am since informed that swearing is perfectly unfashionable.) Their finery, however, threw a veil over any grossness in their conversation. My daughters seemed to regard their superior accomplishments with envy; and whatever appeared amiss was ascribed to tip-top quality breeding.”
All this, despite the vicar’s reflection earlier in the evening:
“After the dance had continued about an hour, the two ladies, who were apprehensive of catching cold, moved to break up the ball. One of them, I thought, expressed her sentiments upon this occasion in a very coarse manner, when she observed, that by the living jingo, she was all of a muck of sweat.”
(SPOILER ALERT—or not: They are not actually high-born ladies, but impostors involved in a set up for a nefarious scheme. This is discovered MUCH later in the book.)
Posted by: KKS | May 06, 2019 at 09:35 PM