My Daughter, she that heedeth my instructions shall find a man easier
to play upon than a pianola.
Behold, she hath but to press the right key, and he shall repeat all
his repertoire, even unto the _confession_ of his sins.
Yea, verily, a man rejoiceth in confessions; and nothing delighteth his
soul so much as to _repent_. For, then can he return unto his follies
with a clear conscience and renewed enthusiasm.
Go to! _Who_ is so virtuous as an husband that hath but _just_ received
a cold bath and his wife’s forgiveness?
Lo, he goeth forth feeling like unto an uncrowned saint.
He is puffed up with _righteousness_.
Yet, before the night cometh, peradventure, he shall again have wobbled
from the straight and narrow way.
How long, then, oh my Daughter, shalt thou encourage men to persecute
thee with their “I’m so-sorrys”, and their “Never-agains”? For, verily,
verily, every man believeth that a woman’s patience is a thing of India
rubber, which will stretch over a multitude of backslidings.
Yea, he hath not a _doubt_ that a broken promise may be glued together
with kisses, and a broken heart mended with softsoap.
Confessions are but the soothing syrup wherewith he stilleth his
conscience. And his sins would lack much joy if he had not the pleasure
of “_regretting_” them.
But I say unto thee, a woman’s faith is like unto a cobweb which cannot
be patched up, once it hath been shattered; and a woman’s heart is not
as a rubber ball, which reboundeth after it hath been cast down.
Nay, a bride sobbeth “Harold, tell me _all_!”
But after ten years, a wife saith, “Do whatsoever thou pleasest, but
come not unto _me_ with thy tale of woe. Lo, I am aweary of holding
onto Heaven with one hand and onto _thee_ with the other. Therefore go
thy ways and let me _sleep_!”
Verily, verily, in time, doth a man’s penitence _pall_ upon a woman;
and his kiss of remorse is more to be dreaded than his sins.
For, once love hath cooled, it _may_ be warmed-over, yet it is flat and
tasteless, even as a Monday luncheon.