I think of houses where you walk on precious stones. Valuables are scattered in every corner. The ceiling itself glows with brilliant paint. An entire nation of servants follows the owner around as he spends his way to bankruptcy. What can I say about crystal-clear pools that flow around dinner guests? Or banquets so elaborate they belong on a theater stage? After years of simple, careful living, I suddenly find myself surrounded by dazzling luxury. It sparkles and gleams everywhere I look. My eyes are overwhelmed more than my mind. I can steel my heart against it more easily than I can shield my vision. When I leave these places and return home, I feel sadder — though not morally worse. I can't walk among my modest belongings with the same confident stride as before. A quiet irritation creeps over me, along with doubt about whether their way of life might be better than mine. None of these experiences change my core beliefs. But all of them shake me up.
I think of houses too, where one treads on precious stones, and where valuables lie about in every corner, where the very roof is brilliantly painted, and a whole nation attends and accompanies an inheritance on the road to ruin. What shall I say of waters, transparent to the very bottom, which flow round the guests, and banquets worthy of the theatre in which they take place? Coming as I do from a long course of dull thrift, I find myself surrounded by the most brilliant luxury, which echoes around me on every side: my sight becomes a little dazzled by it: I can lift up my heart against it more easily than my eyes. When I return from seeing it I am a sadder, though not a worse man, I cannot walk amid my own paltry possessions with so lofty a step as before, and silently there steals over me a feeling of vexation, and a doubt whether that way of life may not be better than mine. None of these things alter my principles, yet all of them disturb me.