always interesting. They are mental fragments flung aside by God, and
by Him held down--so they tell me. They are bitter, cynical, and nearly
always dyspeptic. They are near of kin to my Sympathy Seekers, who are
pale, light-haired creatures, continually making appeals for sympathy.
But my Sympathy Finders are very near and dear to me. They are generally
silent, melancholy men. They are always bearable, unless they chance to
be in love with some other woman, and make me, along with a dozen other
people, their _one and only_ confidant. Then is my life made a
burden. I am privately interviewed on all occasions, the more
inopportune the better. I am cornered and made a vessel for his pent-up
feelings. I am told of her cruel treatment. I am told of her charms and
of her faults--principally not loving him. I am worked up into a nervous
state. My physical nature grants him tears, while my mental nature
speculates about the sincerity of his passion and just to how many
others he may have told the self-same story. Of course all this is
wearing, yet it is very interesting.
Newspaper Reporters are a much-abused, downtrodden class. I have known
many, and I have yet to know one unworthy of a true woman's confidence.
Treat them as if they were dogs, and they will act like dogs--forever
barking and biting at your heels; but treat them like human beings, with
due and just consideration, and they will prove to you the wisdom of
your course. Newspaper Poets gather about me in a body. I have all
styles and gradations. They run the entire range from bad to fairly
good; but there is one who writes a most exquisite verse. He is a
tender, sympathetic, yet cynical man. Somehow he has slipped away. I was
not able to hold him, nor did I wish or even dare to keep him. He is
scornful of the world. He sees no reason why he should be here. He would
rather not have been born--if _he_ had been consulted. After all,
I may have idealized and overrated him. One of his rival poet friends
once told me that my favorite and favored verse-maker was an inveterate
poker-player and a continual loser! Ergo, the cynicism and scornfulness
of the world. But banish tawdry thought!
Authors Private and Authors Public haunt my salon; men who have written
and printed "little things of their own" for "private circulation only;"
and men who have given their books to the world at large--generally to
the detriment of the world. They are full of twists and notions. They
seek me to gain admiration, and they do--for I am a generous person.
People Of The Army and People Of The Navy are valuable to have around,
for the sake of looks and manners. They never disappoint you. A man
who has been on an Arctic expedition is especially desirable. You get
material for a hero at small cost. I have one Arctic Explorer, and two
army men who have been stationed in Yellowstone Park, and who fought
with the dead Custer. My Bohemians are my chief delight, and they are
many. They give the brightest, strongest colors to my Kaleidoscopic
Circle. They give me new strength to fight the little battles and calms
of every-day life. They give me the halo and the aroma of a new
existence. This, in brief, the retinue.
I seldom have--and less here of late than ever--a desire to marry.
To me marriage would be such an uncertain thing--a risk with so little
to gain. I am unwilling to relinquish my hold on the center of this
charming circle. As it is I am a possibility--unfulfilled, it is true,
yet a possibility--to twenty men or more. So I am unwilling to give
up _all_ of my Pleasures just for the sake of any _one_ particular
Pleasure, who might in six months, aye six days, reduce himself into
a miserable Platitude. I may and I may not be a great number of things;
but alas, above all, I am critical. Platitudes as Platitudes may
constantly afford even considerable interest, but Platitudes do not make
ideal husbands for women of my peculiar temperament and mental caliber.
I would rather be a Queen of Possibilities reigning over many hearts
than a Queen of just one heart, and that one, perhaps, a most unworthy
heart.
[Illustration:
Miss Lina Searlwood,
(of the Inner Sisterhood.)]
End of Project Gutenberg's The Inner Sisterhood, by Douglass Sherley et al.