It is time for a waltz my sweetie. Put all your silver in it. I will tell you four tales from the cradle to the grave.
Look at the blue lady rocking the baby under a beam of smoky blue light. In a mofussil town four of these ladies decided to do something for humanity. The ladies all stood tall greedy for reform. The moneybag goodwill tyrant might pay for their altruistic love - they thought. In the pink light they waltzed to the tinkling music of silver coins. Light melodies of gaiety. They took each other's arms and danced gaily. Marvellously jolly. Light as the blue skies their peals of laughter. Firm handshakes and peacock feather fans and then the ladies danced with the gentlemen. A blue spell was cast in the ballroom. The bluebeards and witches were amiable all. Snowy cloud hair-dos and sparkling necklaces glitzed through the pinkish neon glow of the sweaty hall. Little affairs flourished in the corners of the ballroom as old ladies tasted second flushes of youth. Virgin blushes struggled through the thick rouge. The powdered faces were so fleshlike under the artificial flash. In the shadow of a black greatness a pink portion of life danced. A lower world peopled by silhouettes. A still life so spellbinding in its pretence to vivification, statuesque men and women made mockery of the lifesize triviality of the human race. Regal chairs, beautiful steps, and tall vases, the old ladies could not resist stealing glances at the unfading archness of their bosoms and the almost foolish greatness of their citadels. It was balmy in the ballroom. A stale pink breeze had stagnated there. Still there was a stale fin de siecle freshness about all the good noble people assembled.
There was a rich old lady almost Raphaelite in the sublimity of her virgin innocence. But alas! Only she could appreciate her own so savant womanliness. The willowy youths taken with each other had not a glance to spare for her. All about her young life was swirling as her tender loneliness stood trembling amidst the gaiety of birds and bees. The beaus all came one after the other to shake her hands and then left to look for unrealized sweethearts in the crowd. The gay scene receded away and away until it was a mere madding crowd dancing on a silver screen and her eyes were so alone in this theatre of a world as the dancers swayed and swirled slower and slower in very, very distant enchanted world. Then she put her hand over her mouth in an utterly sad gesture of an amply tragic heroine.
But our heroine is a young girl. Young and poor and happy. She has a father and friends, a garden and pets, and flowers and a Cinderella consciousness. So we will recount her tale now. The first tale. We see the geese and the pretty trees in her garden. They cackle and chuckle. And there comes the father out of the small cottage. Hatted for the day he is lighting his cigar when his darling child comes running after to hug and kiss him and wave a jolly pretty goodbye to dear dad. She is so pretty and gay and blooming youthful and light of heart and unseen of sorrow. Her frock is white and spotless as her sinless soul. Then when daddy is gone the immaculate maiden twirls around and runs back into her innocent virginal den. She is frolicsome and loves to watch the geese making love. Her innocent soul has a TASTE FOR THEIR UNTAINTED LOVE GAMES.
And she has a boy for her own. But she knows him not. And he is ignorant of her too. And he is an honest and hard-working lad. Fun loving too when it is an appropriate moment. Is kind and abhors the bottle which drank his father and widowed his pious mother. I see him milling around a speck in a great unwashed factory deluge. This pack-like-sardines mass of men is cruel - virulently antagonistic to youth and laughter. The boy is the child of an unlucky age.
So the vestal virgins arrived at the ball for the uplift of this benighted mass. Happily for the virgins the withered old lady and her gilded-tyrannical-patron-of-mankind brother were also at the ball. There was dancing and sumptuous food and real ancient wine.
Look at the blue lady rocking the baby under a beam of smoky blue light. In a mofussil town four of these ladies decided to do something for humanity. The ladies all stood tall greedy for reform. The moneybag goodwill tyrant might pay for their altruistic love - they thought. In the pink light they waltzed to the tinkling music of silver coins. Light melodies of gaiety. They took each other's arms and danced gaily. Marvellously jolly. Light as the blue skies their peals of laughter. Firm handshakes and peacock feather fans and then the ladies danced with the gentlemen. A blue spell was cast in the ballroom. The bluebeards and witches were amiable all. Snowy cloud hair-dos and sparkling necklaces glitzed through the pinkish neon glow of the sweaty hall. Little affairs flourished in the corners of the ballroom as old ladies tasted second flushes of youth. Virgin blushes struggled through the thick rouge. The powdered faces were so fleshlike under the artificial flash. In the shadow of a black greatness a pink portion of life danced. A lower world peopled by silhouettes. A still life so spellbinding in its pretence to vivification, statuesque men and women made mockery of the lifesize triviality of the human race. Regal chairs, beautiful steps, and tall vases, the old ladies could not resist stealing glances at the unfading archness of their bosoms and the almost foolish greatness of their citadels. It was balmy in the ballroom. A stale pink breeze had stagnated there. Still there was a stale fin de siecle freshness about all the good noble people assembled.
There was a rich old lady almost Raphaelite in the sublimity of her virgin innocence. But alas! Only she could appreciate her own so savant womanliness. The willowy youths taken with each other had not a glance to spare for her. All about her young life was swirling as her tender loneliness stood trembling amidst the gaiety of birds and bees. The beaus all came one after the other to shake her hands and then left to look for unrealized sweethearts in the crowd. The gay scene receded away and away until it was a mere madding crowd dancing on a silver screen and her eyes were so alone in this theatre of a world as the dancers swayed and swirled slower and slower in very, very distant enchanted world. Then she put her hand over her mouth in an utterly sad gesture of an amply tragic heroine.
But our heroine is a young girl. Young and poor and happy. She has a father and friends, a garden and pets, and flowers and a Cinderella consciousness. So we will recount her tale now. The first tale. We see the geese and the pretty trees in her garden. They cackle and chuckle. And there comes the father out of the small cottage. Hatted for the day he is lighting his cigar when his darling child comes running after to hug and kiss him and wave a jolly pretty goodbye to dear dad. She is so pretty and gay and blooming youthful and light of heart and unseen of sorrow. Her frock is white and spotless as her sinless soul. Then when daddy is gone the immaculate maiden twirls around and runs back into her innocent virginal den. She is frolicsome and loves to watch the geese making love. Her innocent soul has a TASTE FOR THEIR UNTAINTED LOVE GAMES.
And she has a boy for her own. But she knows him not. And he is ignorant of her too. And he is an honest and hard-working lad. Fun loving too when it is an appropriate moment. Is kind and abhors the bottle which drank his father and widowed his pious mother. I see him milling around a speck in a great unwashed factory deluge. This pack-like-sardines mass of men is cruel - virulently antagonistic to youth and laughter. The boy is the child of an unlucky age.
So the vestal virgins arrived at the ball for the uplift of this benighted mass. Happily for the virgins the withered old lady and her gilded-tyrannical-patron-of-mankind brother were also at the ball. There was dancing and sumptuous food and real ancient wine.
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