Behind and around us the laughter and chatter continued, and I was certain I caught a whiff—and sneaked a look around me—of cigarette smoke. I glanced at the Jotta Girl, and she nodded. “One of the young ones sneaking a smoke,” she said. “It’s all the rage. Glad you came?”
“Of course. Actually I’m a big fan of Madam Israel’s. Wouldn’t miss a lecture.”
Mrs. Israel stood up, smiling benignly out at us, one hand clasping the other on her stomach, serenely confident that the talk would quickly subside, and she was right. She began to speak, and what she said, as well as I can remember, was: “Welcome, my fellow social workers. How very pleasant to see you here this morning, so many leaders and leaders of the future of our New York Society willing to give of themselves.” She paused, looking out at us, her smile fading to let us know that now came the serious part. “In the course of your committee’s vigilant watch on the dance halls of New York, it has become necessary, we believe, to strike out at some of the forms of the Turkey Trot and the Grizzly Bear which have appeared even where Society dances. We are all of us, certainly, modern. But that there should be some standard of decency in social dancing we do not doubt.” I gave a quick sideways glance at the Jotta Girl just as she glanced at me, and we both held on to our serious expressions, facing front again. “What is good, however, and what is bad? How are the supervisors to answer the working girl when she protests that everyone is dancing the Turkey Trot? But an innocent version of the Turkey Trot may well be preserved, if rechristened”—I leaned toward the Jotta Girl to whisper, “The Buzzard Bounce?” and she folded her lips in—“rechristened lest the dancers of the poor be misled into thinking there is high sanction for the Turkey Trot as they see it in the ill-supervised halls that are their only refuge from dark and dismal homes. We should all of us here today know just what these things are; for the girl who dances at Sherry’s has just as much responsibility for the welfare of the girl who dances at the Murray Hill Lyceum as has the recreation supervisor in that district.”
Mrs. Charles Henry Israel was really saying these things up there on the platform. “We are met this morning to answer this question by observing the Turkey Trot and the other newer dances performed as they ought to be danced, if at all. The demonstration will be conducted, together with his charming wife, by one who, for many of you, will require no introduction. May I present Professor Duryea, a teacher of dancing who thinks about his art.” Smiling, supergracious, left hand splaying across her chest, she turned and, half bowing, nodded at the professor.
He stood up, taller than I’d thought, and thinner, his double-breasted frock coat like a tube with black silk lapels. He took a step forward, smiled for a moment, then said, “The Monkey Glide. The Lame Duck. The Turkey Trot, the Bunny Hug, the Grizzly Bear, the Bird Hop, all come hailed as ‘the newest thing,’ yet are only slight variations, if any, of the slow rag. Can these new dances, if properly done, offer an occasional variation of our repertoire? Perhaps. But I do not believe that Society can accept the uglier extremes of these dances. For there is no safety in retaining anything that departs from a correct position, as in the impeccable waltz, where the man has his right arm around the girl’s waist, and her right hand rests in his left, which must be extended. Only last Wednesday I dropped into Terrace Garden for observation, and saw a policeman there in the middle of the floor busy barring the Turkey Trot, and he did it by two gestures, one to indicate that the man’s left arm must be extended, and one that the languorous half-walk must not be substituted for the good old-fashioned twirl. These simple rules, born of the bluecoat’s own experience in suppression, cannot be improved upon. Yet without the presence of a bluecoat, closer and closer the partners dance. And more and more perceptible becomes the tremor that keeps time with the ‘ragging’ of the orchestra. This is the evolution so often followed, and can take place not only from season to season within the world of dancers but within a single evening.” With a professional smiling nod and gracious half-turn of left hand and wrist, he beckoned to his wife, who smiled and stood.
He took her hand, and they stepped down into the little area marked off by ribboned chairs. Both holding their smiles, they turned to face each other maybe eight or ten inches apart. She set her left hand on her hip, fingers to the back, elbow swung well forward. He put his right hand through the loop of her elbowed-out arm, his palm covering the back of her hand. They clasped their other hands, raising them well above their heads. Professor Duryea nodded at the musicians, the pianist struck a chord, nodded at the other two, and the group began—sedately, the violin strong and rich—Oh, you beautiful doll. And the Duryeas began—truly skilled and graceful about it—a kind of equally sedate hop from one foot to the other so that they rocked from side to side, their clasped hands moving in a wide overhead arc, the distance between them rigidly maintained.
Continuing to dance, the professor said, “The Turkey Trot as it can be danced, should be danced; who could object? But right here on Fifth Avenue I have seen the change of which I spoke. At the start the participants would be dancing with the hop and the arms held out. Four hours later, with the room more crowded and the dancers more weary and more in the spell of the music . . .” This seemed to be a cue, the trio now speeding up the tempo and—is this the word?—slurring it a bit, and to my ears it really did sound a little lewder. “The man and his partner would dance closer and closer.” And now so did the Duryeas. “And as they circle the floor, the hop becomes more of a glide.” Their two raised arms had gradually lowered as the Professor talked, and now their other arms lowered to each other’s waist. “Thus the Turkey Trot becomes almost indistinguishable”—both of them crouched a little, unclasping their upraised arms to bring them, too, down to the other’s waist—“from The Shiver?” They began shuddering their shoulders to You great big beautiful doll, and the audience murmured; just behind me a woman gasped, a little theatrically, I thought; and I saw a woman in our row sit bolt upright to frown dramatically. But I heard a good part of the audience behind us snicker.
Above the nice rhythmic piano, swooning violin, and tootling clarinet—I had the feeling the musicians liked this—Mrs. Israel called out, “How many have seen this very thing done in the dance hall!” The Jotta Girl’s hand flew up, and as I glanced around, dozens of younger women were raising their hands, and an indulgent laughter moved through the room. This was an audience more young than not, looking beautiful in their cloches and wide-brimmed hats, and I understood that the young ladies weren’t taking this too seriously.
And realized an instant later that they’d come for more reason than the Duryeas, because the room stirred, murmuring. I turned and now a young man and woman stood at the back of the hall. In a way I couldn’t quite figure out, they looked and were different from the rest of us. They stood quietly, polite and attentive to the dancing Duryeas, but they held the eye, and for a moment or two I forgot to turn front again. She was beautiful in a very young, innocent-faced way. Wore a long pink dress to just above her white-stockinged ankles, and a wide-brimmed pink hat set way back to frame her face and light brown hair with a pink wheel of brim. His hair, shiny black, was combed straight back, his face a thin cheerful triangle, and his suit—well, his suit was checked and sharp. She smiling, he grinning, they stood looking happy to be here, and I knew—how, I don’t know, but it was easy to see—that these were stage people, onstage right now, somehow far more alive and interesting, just standing there, than anyone else in this room: you wanted to go back and join them. People made themselves face front again, smiling excitedly, heads ducking to murmur or listen to quick whispering. But these were courteous, well-bred people, and they quickly silenced themselves, attentively watching the Duryeas through the final moments of their dance. Not quite final. As the last notes—Oh . . . you . . . beautiful doll!—plinked and tootled, the Professor “signaled to the pianist,” the Times said next morning, though I didn’t see the signal, and “the Gaby Glide strains floated out across the room and away they went with the dance at its worst. A faintly suppressed ripple of laughter could be heard”—that was true—“and there were frank chuckles when cheek touched cheek, and the languor of the movement was intensified.”