Countless as the stars, and only too apposite, are the jokes about
lovers who evolve masterpieces of eloquence wherewith to lay their
hearts at their idol’s feet; but who, when the crucial moment of the
trial arrives, like Beckmesser in Wagner’s comic opera, stutter out the
veriest parody of their song of Love. And no wonder, considering what is
at stake; for the Yes or No decides whether the lover is to
be—literally—the happiest or the unhappiest of all men for weeks or
months to come.
Ovid cautions a man not to select a sweetheart in the twilight or
lamplight, since “spots are invisible at night and every fault is
overlooked; at that time almost every woman is held to be beautiful.”
But proposing is a different matter from selecting. When once the choice
is made, and her choice alone remains to be decided, twilight is the
only proper time to “pop the question.” For a maiden’s independence and
Coyness are inversely related to the degree of light. In the morning, in
broad daylight, she can boldly face even the terrible thought of being
left an old maid; but in the twilight she feels the need of a man’s
protection, and it is at that time that the imagination is least deaf to
the whispered and self-suggested fancies of Romantic Love and wedded
bliss. A man who proposes in the morning deserves, therefore, to be
disappointed.
Nature herself has provided a safeguard against morning proposals. No
woman is so beautiful in the daytime as is in the evening; and the
moon’s romantic associations are largely due to its magic effect of
beautifying the complexion and features of women, and thus urging the
lover’s courage to the point of amorous confession.
There is still another reason why a tender and considerate lover should
propose in the chiaroscuro of subdued light—to spare her blushes—
“But ’neath yon crimson tree,
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,
Her blush of maiden shame.”—BRYANT.
Not many years ago a plan was described in the newspapers by which a
number of Southern youths who had not the courage to propose were
happily mated and wedded. An elderly person was selected, vowed to
eternal secrecy, and to him each youth and maiden who was in love
confided in writing the name of the beloved. Those couples that had
chosen one another were informed of the fact, and went away rejoicing,
arm in arm.
A fairy story, on the face of it. A woman would sooner cut off her hand
than write with it the secret of her Love before she knew it was
returned; and that man that hath a tongue is, I say, no man, if he is
afraid to ask for a woman’s hand—or to take it unasked, and let it
respond to the touching question. “Love sought is good, but given
unsought is better,” says Shakspere. The only true proposals are those
where spoken words are dispensed with; where the magnetic thrill of the
hands, the eloquence of the tell-tale eyes, draw the lovers into mutual
embrace, and lips become glued on lips in unpremeditated ecstasy.