E. G.
VII
January, 1914.
SINCE you came out last May, Caroline dear, we have seen so much of each other at intervals that I have been able to tell you things, and have had no occasion to write. But as I shall be abroad for several months, and you in England, I shall have to begin again to help you in every way I can by letters,—as—far from my task being over after your presentation—we both found, did we not, dear child? that it had only just begun! Because there are always new questions cropping up, which you are sweet enough to want to ask my opinion about. And now I shall answer the one contained in your letter of yesterday. You write that you want to know what I think of the Tango and whether you ought to dance it?
Let us take the subject from its broadest point of view, first—that of new fads and fashions in general, and then we can get down to this particular one which seems to be agitating so many minds in various countries.
The first thing to realize is the utter futility of going against the spirit of the Age. From the earliest days of civilization, waves of an irresistible desire for some change—some freer expression of emotion—have periodically swept over society; all the people with limited horizons of thought have immediately launched forth their protests, and their horrified and outraged feelings upon whatever the subject happens to be have been expressed in frantic cries. But the spirit of the Age has just laughed at them, and gone its way and they have either eventually had to fall in with its mandates, or have been swept aside and left high and dry in loneliness. I have no space here, or desire to bore you, Caroline dear, by giving instances in the past of what I mean, and besides most of them have been already cited in the papers over this matter of the Tango. But to state two—everyone knows the horror the introduction of the valse created, and the thought of a lady bicycling would have made your grandmother shudder!