I
I WILL take the extreme case of the social butterfly, because it
has the great advantage of simplicity. This favourite variety of
the lepidopteral insects is always spoken of as female. But as the
variety persists from generation to generation obviously it cannot be
of one sex only. And, as a fact, there are indubitably male social
butterflies, though the differences between the male and the female may
be slight. I shall, however, confine myself to the case of the female
social butterfly--again for the sake of simplicity.
This beautiful creature combines the habits of the butterfly with the
habits of the moth. For whereas the moth flies only by night and the
butterfly flies only by day, the social butterfly flies both by day
and by night. She is universally despised and condemned, and almost
universally envied: one of the strangest among the many strange facts
of natural history. She lives with a single purpose--to be for ever in
the movement--not any particular movement, but _the_ movement,
which is a grand combined tendency comprising all lesser tendencies.
For the social butterfly the constituents of the movement are chiefly
men, theatres, restaurants, dances, noise, and hurry. The minor
constituents may and do frequently change, but the major constituents
have not changed for a considerable number of years. The minor
constituents of the movement are usually ‘serious,’ and hence in a
minor way the social butterfly is serious. If books happen to be of the
movement, she will learn the names of books and authors, and in urgent
crises will even read. If music, she will learn to distinguish from
all other sounds the sounds which are of the movement, the sounds at
which she must shut her eyes in ecstasy and sigh. If social reform, she
will at once be ready to reform everybody and everything except herself
and her existence. If charity or mercifulness, she will be charitable
or merciful according to the latest devices and in the latest frocks.
Yes, and if war happens to be of the movement, she will be serious
about the war.
You observe how sarcastic I am about the social butterfly. It is
necessary to be so. The social butterfly never has since the earliest
times been mentioned in print without sarcasm or pity, and she never
will be. She is greatly to be pitied. What is her aim? Her aim, like
the aim of most people except the very poor (whose aim is simply to
keep alive), is happiness. But the unfortunate creature, as you and
I can so clearly see, has confused happiness with pleasure. She runs
day and night after pleasure--that is to say, after distraction:
eating, drinking, posing, seeing, being seen, laughing, jostling, and
the singular delight of continual imitation. She is only alive in
public, and the whole of her days and nights are spent in being in
public, or in preparing to be in public, or in recovering from the
effects of being in public. Habit drives her on from one excitement to
another. She flies eternally from something mysterious and sinister
which is eternally overtaking her. You and I know that she is never
happy--she is only intoxicated or narcotised by a drug that she calls
pleasure. And her youth is going; her figure is going; her complexion
is practically gone. She is laying up naught for the future save
disappointment, dissatisfaction, disillusion, and no doubt rheumatism.
And all this inordinate, incredible folly springs from a wrong and
childish interpretation of the true significance of happiness.