But life is not a ball
(more's the pity, truly, for these butterflies), nor is its sole duty
and delight dancing. When I consider this spectacle--when I remember
what a noble and beautiful woman is, what a manly man,--when I reel,
dazzled by this glare, drunken by these perfumes, confused by this
alluring music, and reflect upon the enormous sums wasted in a pompous
profusion that delights no one--when I look around upon all this rampant
vulgarity in tinsel and Brussels lace, and think how fortunes go, how
men struggle and lose the bloom of their honesty, how women hide in a
smiling pretense, and eye with caustic glances their neighbor's newer
house, diamonds or porcelain, and observe their daughters, such as
these--why, I tremble, and tremble, and this scene to-night, every
'crack' ball this winter, will be, not the pleasant society of men and
women, but--even in this young country--an orgie such as rotting Corinth
saw, a frenzied festival of Rome in its decadence."
There was a sober truth in this bitterness, and we turned away to escape
the sombre thought of the moment. Addressing one of the panting houris
who stood melting in a window, we spoke (and confess how absurdly) of
the Duesseldorf Gallery.
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