Part 6 (1/2)
You have no idea, fair Reader, how large a man's heart is: that is his trouble--sometimes yours.
May I not admire the daring tulip, because I love also the modest lily?
May I not press a kiss upon the sweet violet, because the scent of the queenly rose is precious to me?
”Certainly not,” I hear the Rose reply. ”If you can see anything in her, you shall have nothing to do with me.”
”If you care for that bold creature,” says the Lily, trembling, ”you are not the man I took you for. Good-bye.”
”Go to your baby-faced Violet,” cries the Tulip, with a toss of her haughty head. ”You are just fitted for each other.”
And when I return to the Lily, she tells me that she cannot trust me.
She has watched me with those others. She knows me for a gad-about. Her gentle face is full of pain.
So I must live unloved merely because I love too much.
My wonder is that young men ever marry. The difficulty of selection must be appalling. I walked the other evening in Hyde Park. The band of the Life Guards played heart-lifting music, and the vast crowd were basking in a sweet enjoyment such as rarely woos the English toiler. I strolled among them, and my attention was chiefly drawn towards the women. The great majority of them were, I suppose, shop-girls, milliners, and others belonging to the lower middle-cla.s.s. They had put on their best frocks, their bonniest hats, their newest gloves. They sat or walked in twos and threes, chattering and preening, as happy as young sparrows on a clothes line. And what a handsome crowd they made! I have seen German crowds, I have seen French crowds, I have seen Italian crowds; but nowhere do you find such a proportion of pretty women as among the English middle-cla.s.s. Three women out of every four were worth looking at, every other woman was pretty, while every fourth, one might say without exaggeration, was beautiful. As I pa.s.sed to and fro the idea occurred to me: suppose I were an unprejudiced young bachelor, free from predilection, looking for a wife; and let me suppose--it is only a fancy--that all these girls were ready and willing to accept me. I have only to choose! I grew bewildered. There were fair girls, to look at whom was fatal; dark girls that set one's heart aflame; girls with red gold hair and grave grey eyes, whom one would follow to the confines of the universe; baby-faced girls that one longed to love and cherish; girls with n.o.ble faces, whom a man might wors.h.i.+p; laughing girls, with whom one could dance through life gaily; serious girls, with whom life would be sweet and good, domestic-looking girls--one felt such would make delightful wives; they would cook, and sew, and make of home a pleasant, peaceful place. Then wicked-looking girls came by, at the stab of whose bold eyes all orthodox thoughts were put to a flight, whose laughter turned the world into a mad carnival; girls one could mould; girls from whom one could learn; sad girls one wanted to comfort; merry girls who would cheer one; little girls, big girls, queenly girls, fairy-like girls.
Suppose a young man had to select his wife in this fas.h.i.+on from some twenty or thirty thousand; or that a girl were suddenly confronted with eighteen thousand eligible young bachelors, and told to take the one she wanted and be quick about it? Neither boy nor girl would ever marry.
Fate is kinder to us. She understands, and a.s.sists us. In the hall of a Paris hotel I once overheard one lady asking another to recommend her a milliner's shop.
”Go to the Maison Nouvelle,” advised the questioned lady, with enthusiasm. ”They have the largest selection there of any place in Paris.”
”I know they have,” replied the first lady, ”that is just why I don't mean to go there. It confuses me. If I see six bonnets I can tell the one I want in five minutes. If I see six hundred I come away without any bonnet at all. Don't you know a little shop?”
Fate takes the young man or the young woman aside.
”Come into this village, my dear,” says Fate; ”into this by-street of this salubrious suburb, into this social circle, into this church, into this chapel. Now, my dear boy, out of these seventeen young ladies, which will you have?--out of these thirteen young men, which would you like for your very own, my dear?”
”No, miss, I am sorry, but I am not able to show you our up-stairs department to-day, the lift is not working. But I am sure we shall be able to find something in this room to suit you. Just look round, my dear, perhaps you will see something.”
”No, sir, I cannot show you the stock in the next room, we never take that out except for our very special customers. We keep our most expensive goods in that room. (Draw that curtain, Miss Circ.u.mstance, please. I have told you of that before.) Now, sir, wouldn't you like this one? This colour is quite the rage this season; we are getting rid of quite a lot of these.”
”NO, sir! Well, of course, it would not do for every one's taste to be the same. Perhaps something dark would suit you better. Bring out those two brunettes, Miss Circ.u.mstance. Charming girls both of them, don't you think so, sir? I should say the taller one for you, sir. Just one moment, sir, allow me. Now, what do you think of that, sir? might have been made to fit you, I'm sure. You prefer the shorter one. Certainly, sir, no difference to us at all. Both are the same price. There's nothing like having one's own fancy, I always say. NO, sir, I cannot put her aside for you, we never do that. Indeed, there's rather a run on brunettes just at present. I had a gentleman in only this morning, looking at this particular one, and he is going to call again to-night.
Indeed, I am not at all sure--Oh, of course, sir, if you like to settle on this one now, that ends the matter. (Put those others away, Miss Circ.u.mstance, please, and mark this one sold.) I feel sure you'll like her, sir, when you get her home. Thank YOU, sir. Good-morning!”
”Now, miss, have YOU seen anything you fancy? YES, miss, this is all we have at anything near your price. (Shut those other cupboards, Miss Circ.u.mstance; never show more stock than you are obliged to, it only confuses customers. How often am I to tell you that?) YES, miss, you are quite right, there IS a slight blemish. They all have some slight flaw.
The makers say they can't help it--it's in the material. It's not once in a season we get a perfect specimen; and when we do ladies don't seem to care for it. Most of our customers prefer a little faultiness. They say it gives character. Now, look at this, miss. This sort of thing wears very well, warm and quiet. You'd like one with more colour in it?
Certainly. Miss Circ.u.mstance, reach me down the art patterns. NO, miss, we don't guarantee any of them over the year, so much depends on how you use them. OH YES, miss, they'll stand a fair amount of wear. People do tell you the quieter patterns last longer; but my experience is that one is much the same as another. There's really no telling any of them until you come to try them. We never recommend one more than another. There's a lot of chance about these goods, it's in the nature of them. What I always say to ladies is--'Please yourself, it's you who have got to wear it; and it's no good having an article you start by not liking.' YES, miss, it IS pretty and it looks well against you: it does indeed. Thank you, miss. Put that one aside, Miss Circ.u.mstance, please. See that it doesn't get mixed up with the unsold stock.”
It is a useful philtre, the juice of that small western flower, that Oberon drops upon our eyelids as we sleep. It solves all difficulties in a trice. Why of course Helena is the fairer. Compare her with Hermia!
Compare the raven with the dove! How could we ever have doubted for a moment? Bottom is an angel, Bottom is as wise as he is handsome. Oh, Oberon, we thank you for that drug. Matilda Jane is a G.o.ddess; Matilda Jane is a queen; no woman ever born of Eve was like Matilda Jane. The little pimple on her nose--her little, sweet, tip-tilted nose--how beautiful it is. Her bright eyes flash with temper now and then; how piquant is a temper in a woman. William is a dear old stupid, how lovable stupid men can be--especially when wise enough to love us.
William does not s.h.i.+ne in conversation; how we hate a magpie of a man.
William's chin is what is called receding, just the sort of chin a beard looks well on. Bless you, Oberon darling, for that drug; rub it on our eyelids once again. Better let us have a bottle, Oberon, to keep by us.
Oberon, Oberon, what are you thinking of? You have given the bottle to Puck. Take it away from him, quick. Lord help us all if that Imp has the bottle. Lord save us from Puck while we sleep.
Or may we, fairy Oberon, regard your lotion as an eye-opener, rather than as an eye-closer? You remember the story the storks told the children, of the little girl who was a toad by day, only her sweet dark eyes being left to her. But at night, when the Prince clasped her close to his breast, lo! again she became the king's daughter, fairest and fondest of women. There be many royal ladies in Marshland, with bad complexion and thin straight hair, and the silly princes sneer and ride away to woo some kitchen wench decked out in queen's apparel. Lucky the prince upon whose eyelids Oberon has dropped the magic philtre.
In the gallery of a minor Continental town I have forgotten, hangs a picture that lives with me. The painting I cannot recall, whether good or bad; artists must forgive me for remembering only the subject. It shows a man, crucified by the roadside. No martyr he. If ever a man deserved hanging it was this one. So much the artist has made clear.