But the guests depart, the flutes are breathless, the last clash of
the impatient hoofs is heard in the distance, and the twain of the
household come back to see the Queen of Happiness on the throne amid
the parlor floor. But, alas! as they come back the flowers have faded,
the sweet odors have become the smell of a charnel-house, and instead
of the Queen of Happiness there sits there the gaunt form of Anguish,
with bitten lip and sunken eye, and ashes in her hair.
The romp and joyous step of the dancers who have left seems rumbling
yet, like jarring thunders that quake the floor and rattle the glasses
of the feast, rim to rim. The spilled wine on the floor turns into
blood. The wreaths of plush have become wriggling reptiles. Terrors
catch tangled in the canopy that overhangs the couch. A strong gust of
wind comes through the hall and the drawing-room and the bed-chamber,
in which all the lights go out. And from the lips of the wine-beakers
come the words: "Happiness is not in us!" And the arches respond: "It
is not in us!" And the silenced instruments of music, thrummed on by
invisible fingers, answer: "Happiness is not in us!" And the frozen
lips of Anguish break open, and, seated on the throne of wilted
flowers, she strikes her bony hands together, and groans: "It is not
in me!"