Ever since resuming residence in New York, I have taken advantage of all the public masked balls to gratify my instinct to pose as a belle. Even those under the humble auspices of the Draymen’s Union, the “Tonsorial Artists,” and the “Société Universelle des Cuisiniers.”
A particularly great event has been the annual Masked Ball of the Philhedonic Society. Every pair of trousers may attend which can scrape together $10 for self and “lady.” The patrons range from scions of the aristocracy out for a lark, to crooks bent on thievery. For conditions at the Philhedonic Ball are ideal for the light-fingered fraternity, particularly because every patron is in disguise, with a mask covering at least the upper third of the face, and the millionaire and the thief dance and flirt together.
Our families have, of course, no suspicion that we hermaphroditoi are only pseudo-men. While marvelling because we have never courted a girl, they have not been so far enlightened as to discern what that signifies. That they may always remain in their ignorance, we hermaphroditoi—as you are aware—set out from our respective domiciles for a public Masked Ball in masculine attire. Later, with hired masculine escort, we depart from [Paresis] Hall bewigged, bepadded, bepowdered, bejewelled, and begowned to shine as belles on the bewaxed floor of X——Garden. After arrival there, we associate, without waiting for an introduction, with whatever pair of trousers—that is, presumably—appears fair to look upon. We hermaphroditoi do our best to converse like real belles. An accidental |America’s Most Impious.| gruff note does sometimes betray us. But usually the gallant comprehends, sympathizes, and merely laughs at a good joke on himself.
The Philhedonic Ball is the spectacle of a life-time. I do not approve all that transpires. The two large orchestras, playing alternately, pour forth continuously into the inebriated ears of the three thousand revellers the thrilling music of the most voluptuous dances, rightly tabooed by all decent society. The revellers are as impious a crowd as ever gathers in America. I would approve the police’s radically restricting the present license. I am sure we hermaphroditoi are not among those who give the ball a bad name.
Some of the costumes have been ordered from Paris and London. Many have already graced the Mardi Gras of New Orleans or Nice. Practically every romantic or grotesque character ever heard of is on the floor: monkeys, parrots, geese, yellow kids, foxy grandpa, Happy Hooligan, Cupid, Mephistopheles, and a thousand others.
At a Philhedonic Ball of about ten years ago—at which the most remarkable blackmail episode of my life had its origin—I impersonated Euterpe. Down to my debacle, money fortunately came easy with me. I therefore endeavored to adorn every Masked Ball with the most elaborate feminine costume on display there. My Euterpe gown, terminating at the knees, was of turquoise satin. It was ornamented with several flounces of miniature sleigh bells washed in gold. Whenever I moved, they emitted a melodious jingle. My silk, open-work stockings were of an azure hue, and the pumps of purple kid, with mother-of-pearl buckles. My chevelure was surmounted with a goldplated |The Belle of the Ball.| lyre, studded with hundreds of Paris diamonds, which, under the myriad gas flames, scintillated dazzlingly. I had had my beardal hair eradicated so that I could glory in a countenance of an infantile softness and an exquisite glabrity.
Until about three, everything transpired after a beauteous fashion. My unrivalled costume had attracted a score of flirts, begging a dance with me. I finally fell to chattering with an individual in a bearskin. He soon declared his conviction that I was merely a female-impersonator. But by exception he manifested irritation at being hoodwinked, and nausea at the very idea of cross-dressing. A panic supervened upon his strident tones. I was overwhelmed with mortification and trepidation on discovering myself in the clutches of what I supposed one of those charlatans who attend the function in order to unearth a moneyed female-impersonator of some prominence with chantage as objective. I lost all heart for mimicking a belle. Most terrible of all, the fellow next denuded my face of the mask. Horrified lest my identity be disclosed, I pressed the lacerated fabric to my countenance and proceeded toward the dressing-room.
In the corridor, the fellow blurted out: “I think I know you. Those eyes of yourn—how far apart they are! They give you a queer look that no guy kin forgit who has seen you several times. Any bloke’d recognize you anywhere, even with a girl’s wig on. I have often passed you down on Wall Street.”
Though actually employed a stone’s throw from that street and promenading it almost every lunch hour, I responded almost inaudibly, I was in a state of |Tony Neddo.| such trepidation: “You are in error. I am employed on 42d Street.”
“Don’t think I’m a fool! I’m so sure of meself that I’m goin’ to hang ‘round Wall Street till I run into you agin. And I’m sure comin’ up to say ‘Hoddo!’ Sure I remember your sissie stride and, most of all, the way you stare at young fellers as if you were goin’ to eat them up! I work on that street meself; elevator man in the Z—— Buildin’. Me name is Tony Neddo. I’m not ashamed to let any one know who I am! But you! Do you know you’ve done an awful dirty, disgustin’ thin’ in comin’ to the ball in a girl’s rig? For this you’ll have to pay dear! But if you know on which side your bread is buttered, no guy’ll ever be the wiser on account of what I’ve just found out.