Still Elbert parried me: “To hear you prate
Of truth—with women!—Why, you tried that once,
With Edith, not so?—and she liked it, eh?
Herself had love for that same truth?—What then?—
How very strange, when yesterday she pass’d,
She craved no more of it.”
“She pass’d?” I cried.
“Ay, ay,” said he; “while you, so wrapp’d in Grace,
Walk’d near, and noted nothing. How she turn’d!—
Then spoke of ‘haste, such haste, she could not stay’;
And bade me ‘not to tell’ you.—Thus, you see,
I keep my word; I promised nothing though.”
At this, I blush’d; it but encouraged him.
“This flame of sympathy you deem’d so bright
Extinguish’d was—you may have thought by me.
If so, I tell you, friend, ’twas lightly done.
I but outblew you; and the moral is:—
True flames, these women flicker with the wind.
But use you breath enough, their natures yield.
Yet blow for their sakes, not for your ideals.
One seldom finds a sweetheart sweet enough
To love her suitor’s pinings for mere whims.
Nay, they alone our all-in-all would be;
And so are jealous of our male ideals.
Then, too, they are creative less than we,
And cling more to the creature, love and serve
Embodied life that may be seen and felt.
You doubt me?—Test it.—Read that rhyme you wrote,
Inspired by fancy.—Say so;—still they hint.
‘Ah, this was she, or she, whom once he loved.’
It may be, Grace does waive your love of truth.
If so, ’tis better; more you seem her own.”
“More likely,” cried I, “I and all my truth
Seem like champagne,—a thing that pops and shocks,
But yet enlivens when the hour is dull.”
“She likes the shocking,” said he. “Know you not
Most maids love mastery? and the closest cling
To those who show the strength to hold them fast?
Full many a suitor, when he wins his love,
Will treat her merely like some petted puss,
Caress, then cuff her, till she yield at last,
Won solely through his wondrous wilfulness.
If one defer to her, she pities him;
And names him friend, because she feels him frail.
Her favorite cavalier seems less a friend,
At first, than foe who stays the brunt in time
To seem to save her when she seems to fall.”
“And should make him fall,” cried I. “’Tis not strange
Such onsets numb her senses! Heaven preserve
The world from women rear’d to feel but weak,
Whose whole experience, nurtur’d not to think,
Unfolds in passions pert of wishes dwarf’d,
Afraid of truth and dodging to deceit!
Let loose from home, their thing that ought to think
Is dry and hollow as a sounding-board
Behind a tongue that, like a weather vane,
Creaks with the windy scandal of the town
Till endless malice make one’s ear-drum ache,
At one spot hammer’d sore, and o’er and o’er,
With humdrum gossip of surrounding naught.
Small gain are they, to crown our courtships grand,
Prinked out with flowers and flattery! Wise man;
Flowers draw the bee, and flattery the fool.
One stings; the other—Laugh not, Elbert, nay,
You know it well, what friendship craves; and these
Light, simpering women, testing manhood’s woof
By worthless nap that tickles their vanity,—
O I shall wait some coming woman, I,
Who needs no suing since in soul we suit;
Nor ruling either.—Love shall rule us both.”
“You true Pygmalion,” cried he, “make a maid!—
But all maids grow to us, when wedded once;
For practical, they are, far more than men,
And bow to powers that be. Though caught, like fish,
Through bait they crave not ere men tender it,
They cleave to love once offer’d them; nor turn,
Like male-friends, clinging—true as iron, forsooth—
To each new stronger magnet! Were they thus,
Our homes might hardly hold our rivals there.
Accept the facts, friend; in this world of reals,
Ideals must give way. So look to Grace,—
Despite your protest, your true mate; and love
In maids like her is limitless when won.
You like her, too; now, now”—