wait,” but at such a time and in such fashion as to make success even
more bitter than defeat. The lover wins his lass, or the lass her
lover, only to find that the apple of Sodom, fair and rosy without, was
all bitterness and dryness within, mere dust and ashes which, perforce,
the winner must swallow and put as good a face as possible upon the
unsavory morsel.
The young man wins his fortune when he is too old, too decrepit, too
world-worn to enjoy it. I knew one such man whom nature had intended
for an artist, and whose early dream was to earn money enough to go to
Italy and study. At fifty odd he told me of this youthful vision, and
added, “I have plenty of money now, and last year I went to Italy only
to find that pictures bored me, and looking at galleries tried me more
than Wall Street or the Corn Exchange.”
The literary hack, after years of thankless labor, hits upon a vein
which some critic recognizes as true metal, and kindly prophesies will
bring success at last, but the hand is palsied, the pen is worn out,
the brain after that one last flicker sinks into slumber. “Twenty years
ago,” the poor pale lips whisper, “I could have made a name and a
fortune out of this, but now--too late!”
Saddest of all, perhaps, is the love that comes too late--the pang with
which a weary heart recognizes that it has spent itself for naught, has
given its pure gold for the basest dross, and that now, when it is
bankrupt and discouraged and hopeless, here is the object to which it
should have turned; here is the diamond of purest water which it should
have purchased with all its wealth; here is the one opportunity life
has held for the happiness of that poor sorrowful heart, and it has
come too late, too late!
And such are the ironies of fate, and such is the true and most
frequent translation of that glittering generality, “All things come
round to him who will but wait!”
XXI.
HOW TO WRITE A LETTER.
I suppose everybody who is in the way of receiving many letters has
often noticed how many of them are, in one way or another, very
unsatisfactory letters, and wondered why they need be so.
Of course, this comment must most often arise in the minds of literary
persons, especially of those whose business it is to consider and
decide upon the products of other people’s pens; and as my experience
lies in these latter lines I am only too often led to wonder why
persons who can write well for the press, or, as one may say, for the
public, write so very poorly for their friends or for an individual
reader.
Perhaps the greatest wonder of all, in my mind, is that I don’t
write better letters myself, for I assure you, dear friends, that I
understand my own shortcomings quite as well as you do; but remember,
if you please, that there is a large class who “know the right and yet
the wrong pursue,” and so far as letter-writing goes, rank me among
them.
After this bit of salutary meekness, let me proceed to rehabilitate
myself by pointing out some of the most common faults in the letters I
peruse, some of which faults I confess as my own, and some others of
which I indignantly deny, and please don’t anybody intimate that I
“Compound for sins I am inclin’d to,
By d--ing those I have no mind to!”
In the first place let us consider letters of friendship, especially
those occurring in a correspondence. How many persons begin these with
apologies for long silence, “I don’t know what you have been thinking
or saying about me all this while,” or, more artlessly, “I suppose you
are provoked at me for not writing,” or some other form of deprecation
of wrath, and then follows a string of apologies and minute explanation
of the reasons why the letter has not been written sooner, and
promises of doing better in the future.
Now all this is very conceited and vain, since it takes for granted
that one’s letters are of great value, and have been watched and waited
for, whereas, in point of fact, your correspondent has very likely
been just as busy and just as preoccupied as you have been, and has
not had time to notice that your letter did not come, or even has been
glad that it did not, because it has not demanded an answer. One of
the sad lessons of life is that we are not of as much consequence to
anybody else as we are to ourselves, and that very many of our friends
do not much care whether they receive a letter from us to-day or this
day week. My own dearest and oldest woman friend and I correspond very
seldom, and never accuse each other or excuse ourselves concerning the
gaps between our letters, and yet we love each other more and more
deeply as the silent years go on.
The next most common fault in friendly letters is filling them with
discussion of the person to whom they are written, advice and
suggestions about that person’s movements or affairs, and questions
as to his or her health, opinions and domestic circle. Of course,
between intimate and familiar friends all this has its place, and there
are plenty of occasions when the very object of writing is to advise
or question, or in some fashion express one’s mind about the person
to whom one writes, but in the ordinary friendly letter this is not
advisable. When one takes up a letter in a familiar handwriting one
says to one’s self: “Ah! here’s a letter from A. Now I shall hear all
the Washington gossip;” or, “Now I shall get a little rest from all
this worry and bother of business.”
But lo and behold, the friendly letter is simply a raking over of all
the things which fret and weary you the most. How are you getting along
with your lawsuit, or is there any chance that those bonds or stocks
will recoup themselves? And how is your neuralgia, and did you ever
hear of this or that remedy--generally remedies that you have thrown
aside long ago; or how you must miss your dear little dog, and can’t
you trace the thief? Or perhaps the letter is filled with advice upon
some matter whose “true inwardness” nobody understands but yourself,
or some course upon which you have deliberately made up your mind and
fixed your resolution, although you have not announced it to the world,
or even to your correspondent.
No! In a friendly letter don’t try to avoid egotism, but rather
cultivate it. Your friend knows all about herself and her own affairs
and surroundings; what she wants now is to know something about yours;
some brief, bright little account of something you have done, some
person you have met, some amusement whereat you have assisted, and
where you have met acquaintances mutual to you and your correspondent.
Perhaps you live so quiet a life that you have no social anecdotes to
relate; perhaps it is so uneventful that you have done nothing and seen
nothing worth repeating. Well, then, fall back upon the things _not_
worth repeating so long as they are vividly in your mind. One of the
very most amusing letters I ever read in my life was from a young girl
living a very, very quiet life, and making no pretension to literary
ability. It was all about the adventures of a piece of sticky fly
paper on a windy day, ending with her father setting his silk hat down
upon it, and then, while nobody could speak for laughter, snatching
up the hat, clapping it upon his head and rushing out of the house in
masculine contempt of the senseless hilarity of his family.
A very trifling occurrence, you will say, and a very silly letter, but
all the same it gave me a good laugh and a merry mood, and I have had a
pleasant thought for that girl through all the years that have rolled
between that day and this.
If you have nothing whatever to tell about yourself, find some little
bit of news about other people; not the affairs of nations, which are
generally stupid, or of public characters, which every one may read in
the newspapers, but of the people around you. As, for instance, “We
have a new Biddy, and when I told her in making coffee to put in an egg
‘and the shells,’ she actually used an _unbroken egg_, and at least
half a pound of cocoa _shells_.” Or tell of Miss Brown’s appearance at
the polls, or Miss Smith’s astounding new gown, or in fact any little
incident that could make one smile, or give one a new view of humanity.
Perhaps somebody remarks, in a town full of “Prunes, Prisms and
Propriety,” “That thing is gossip, and I never gossip!”
To such an one I say, then you’d better learn, my dear, for I contend
that gossip--that is to say, good-natured, truthful, charitable
gossip--is a very useful element of social success either in
conversation or letter-writing. It takes one’s thoughts off of oneself,
and off of that perpetual question as to life being worth the living,
and off of those darker problems concerning the sin and misery and
needs of those around us in a great city, which, like the Sphinx, are
always threatening to devour us if we do not guess their riddle.
Yes, it is a great thing to some of us brain workers to have a bit of
amusing gossip presented as an attraction to our overburdened lives,
and I for one am always thankful to a correspondent who presents it to
me.
Another very frequent fault in friendly letters is the want of
proportion between value and space; that is to say, three-fourths of
the sheet will be covered with either those excuses for not having
written sooner, or some lamentation over a mistake already corrected,
as, for instance, “I was so sorry, I thought you said three instead
of two, but as I told you when we did finally meet I was thinking of
the last time you called for me, and you remember that was three,”
etc., a couple of pages utterly useless and uninteresting, since the
friends had already come to an explanation by word of mouth. And then
on the fourth page comes, “Oh, I must tell you I have at last made an
arrangement to sell my house and go abroad, but I have no time to tell
you about it now, as the bell has rung for dinner.”
How many such letters we all receive; yes, and unhappily so many of
us write! Letters filled with what might just as well be left out,
and omitting or minimizing the most important subject at our command.
It is always better before one puts pen to paper to cast a little
comprehensive glance over what one has to say, and select the one thing
that must be said to begin upon; give the best time and attention to
that in the very first place, and then if there is still room and the
dinner bell doesn’t ring, fill up your letter with as many “frills” as
you like.
Another very provoking kind of friendly (?) letter is one I too often
receive. It is a very brief and scrawly kind of note, written merely
to say that the writer has no time for a letter, although she has a
thousand things to say, and loves me very dearly. To such an one I have
sometimes replied, “If you have no time for a letter, wait for a few
hours until you have, and if you love me show your affection by making
a little time.”
Yet another irritating sort of letter is a half-confidential one: “I
had such a strange interview with--you know who! If I should tell you
about it you would--well, I don’t know how you’d feel nor what you’d
say, but I ought not to tell you nor anybody else, so I won’t. It
wouldn’t be right to let you see how far--well, there, we won’t say any
more about it. Have you heard Patti this season?”
Now if one’s intimate friend undertakes to talk in that fashion face
to face, one can soon shake the whole story out of her, or if she is
too exasperating can say, “Pray don’t tell me it unless you want to;
I really don’t take any interest in the subject.” But when the friend
is miles, or even oceans away, it is not worth while to slap at her
in this fashion, and, of course, one wouldn’t choose to urge for a
confidence, even if quite sure it would come in the end.
So much for friendly letters. As for business letters, their merit,
like that of wit, lies mostly in their brevity. A person who has a
business proposition to present, or a business question or a business
reply to make, should have a mathematical capacity for extracting the
“square root” of the matter, and giving that to his correspondent, pure
and simple. I always distrust a business correspondent who indulges
in fine language or graceful verbiage; the truth, the whole truth and
nothing but the truth should be the criterion of business letters as
well as of legal testimony. You have something definite to say--a
proposal, a petition, a question, a reply, or whatever it may be--well,
turn it over in your own mind for a few moments, get at the pith of it,
the “true inwardness,” and then clothe it in simple, straightforward
language, and sign your name to it. Of course, there are some little
forms of courtesy to be observed, but don’t garnish your plain roast
beef with paper frills or carrot flowers; it will go down better
without them.
There is one kind of business, or semi-business letter which every
editor receives only too often, and is more or less grieved threat,
although it seldom effects its object. It is written by some poor
soul who has been left a widow with little children, or has a sick
mother to support, or is struggling to get the means for a collegiate
education, or from some other highly respectable cause is in need of
money, and has persuaded him or herself that it may be wrung from the
hand of a sympathetic editor in exchange for a manuscript, accompanying
the letter. Of course, if the manuscript proves available, the hope is
fulfilled, and all goes upon velvet; but, unfortunately, it generally
isn’t available, for few persons who have the gift of authorship find
it out for the first time when misfortune comes upon them. One must
have learned to use one’s weapon before the hour of combat arrives.
Now, editors are but men and women, and are often moved by these
appeals to a very considerable extent, but if they are honest editors
and good business men and women, the sympathy leads to no results.
The editor is the servant of the public, and is bound to furnish his
employer with the best wares that are in the market, so far as he can
obtain them. The editor who prints a trashy story or poem because the
writer is unfortunate and needs money, fails to carry out his contract
with the public, and the public will very soon show its resentment by
withdrawing its patronage. No, the plaintive appeal only frets and
annoys the editor, and very, very seldom produces any other result.
Once, to be sure, I was so betrayed by my weaker nature as to pay
for a MS. story immediately thrown into the waste basket, but I was
thoroughly punished for my folly by an inundation of worthless matter
from the same writer, who was grievously offended and rather abusive
because none of it was accepted.
There is one more class of letters, namely, love letters, of which I
might speak, but--“the dinner bell rings, so good-by!”
XXII.
ON BEING EXACTING.
“What is the secret of all the marital unhappiness we see nowadays?” a
young friend asked me recently in a most discouraged voice. I looked at
her in astonishment, for both the tone and manner indicated that she
was experiencing some of the first pangs of discovering that her idol
was only made of common clay, after all.
I also remembered, as I noted the pretty, worried face, the day, but a
year ago, when she had called on me with eyes radiant with joy to tell
of her approaching marriage, of her intense love and admiration for the
man who was to become her husband, and of all the bright hopes which
encircled her future.
“Why, what makes you ask such questions?” I inquired, trying to laugh
this dear little friend out of her despondent mood.
“Oh, well, everything seems to be clouded,” she responded sorrowfully.
“I used to think it must be lovely to be married to the man I adored,
but George and I don’t seem half as happy as I thought we should be;
and, in fact, I have been noticing carefully all of the girls who are
in our married set, and I don’t know of one genuinely happy couple.”
This seemed at first a terrible commentary on either one of the sexes
or both, and yet when I commenced to mentally review the lists of
unhappy marriages I had heard of during the past year, there was no
gainsaying the fact that somebody or something was all wrong.
Taking it for granted, then, as a tangible, recognizable fact that
genuinely happy unions are rare and illusive things, to what direct
cause shall we assign such a state of affairs? Why is it that a young,
beautiful, loving girl should, after a few years of wedded life, either
develop into a worldly, married flirt, or a careworn, sad-looking
woman, and that a bright, handsome fellow oftentimes becomes miserly
and disagreeable, and also that when one chances upon what appears to
be a thoroughly contented couple the fact is commented on as marvelous?
I have spent much thought in endeavoring to solve the problem, and
even called in the assistance of friends to the extent of asking their
opinions on the subject.
One man who I thought would be just in his views said:
“My dear madam, girls and women expect too much nowadays. They want
too many bonnets, too many dresses. In short, they insist upon living
with a poor husband as they have lived with a rich father, and most men
nearly kill themselves in trying to meet these demands.”
This may be in part true, but it is not wholly the girl’s fault. Who
can blame her for wanting pretty things? She can usually get them if
she works for herself, and she naturally expects a loving husband to
exert himself to procure what a fond father was willing to work hard to
obtain for her.
When it comes to being extravagant, then the fault lies with the
parents, particularly the mother, who ought always to bring daughters
up with the constant admonition that they must never forget that riches
have wings, and that a true, loving heart is worth much more than
jewels. Indeed it is often mothers who put mercenary thoughts into
their daughters’ brains. I heard one not long ago say to a caller on
her pretty daughter--“It would not be well for a poor man to ask for my
child Addie,” and in that remark lay the whole matter in a nutshell,
plainly indicating the kind of tuition this future wife had received.
According to several women’s opinions on the question, it is men who
expect too much from their wives. “They give so little, and want so
much,” as one little rebel expresses it. Yes, they do demand a great
deal, it is true; but did it ever occur to you in what different
environments they are brought up, and that when they select you for
the head of their house, and give you what they usually think the most
of--their name--they are paying you what they consider the greatest
compliment possible? No, it is quite evident that we must use the lash
a little on both sides. There are faults in the man and woman which
need correction. Much thought and study and careful weeding out of
selfishness is required to render them congenial companions to each
other.
Now, I consider daintiness of habit and dress a great factor toward
marital happiness. A man who is fond of seeing everything neat and
in order is often irritated and made absolutely cross by his wife’s
lack of tidiness, her absolute disregard of what she terms his finicky
ways, and a gross negligence in the care of his clothing as well as
of her own person and dress. I have often wondered in my own mind if
women were really aware what a powerful influence lies in daintiness
of attire and surroundings. If they did, would they persist in wearing
old black gowns or soiled dressing sacks and wrappers in the house?
Would they save the lovely clothes, pretty frills and _chic_ boots for
outsiders to admire and throw on some shabby gown or faded finery and
down-at-the-heel slippers the moment they enter the home, and there is
“no one but husband to see them?”
Do women realize what a subtle fascination for most men exists in her
toilet table, with its dainty brushes and pincushions and perfume
bottles, all of which possess more or less of an air of mystery which
is wonderfully attractive? The toilet articles need not of necessity
be extremely expensive. It is principally the absolute cleanliness and
purity of the silk and muslin draperies and silver-tipped glass bottles
which prove so irresistible. I have often seen men walk around a fair
woman’s pretty table and admiringly examine the quaint conceits her own
personality had devised, and lovingly touch the dozen small objects
which he knew were for her personal use.
The very man for whom they put on their most delicate laces and
“fetching” hats to attract before marriage, they oftentimes give
themselves little trouble to hold afterward. While the husband may
preserve silence, he notices all this, considers it in the light of a
direct slight, and it frequently serves to form the first layer of a
strata of future unhappiness. You may always be absolutely certain that
other women are on the lookout for him, and are always daintily and
becomingly dressed when he is expected, and that the wife suffers by
contrast.
Now, while the husband is not so apt to allow himself to become
slovenly in appearance, his habits may be exasperatingly untidy. Is
there anything more trying to a woman’s nerves and temper, I wonder,
than to go into her pretty bedroom or parlor and find a clothes-brush
in one corner, clothes tossed in another direction, while pipes, stumps
of cigars, and above all, dozens of burnt matches, decorate bureau and
mantel?
“Well,” he says in answer to her remonstrances, “where shall I put
them, and isn’t it part of women’s duties to tidy up?” Yes, it may
belong to woman’s province to set her house in order, but wouldn’t
the task be made much easier if the men of the household threw their
cigars and matches in the receiver made for them and hung back the
brush on the nail from which they took it?
I cannot but feel convinced that much of the misery which we know
exists among many of our married friends is due to the dissipated past
of the husbands. From boyhood up men invariably dissipate in a greater
or less degree, according to their temperaments and dispositions. When
they marry young, their habits are of necessity changed, and, if they
possess the requisite qualities to be steadfast and true, prove good
husbands and fathers, harmed but little by their former worldliness;
but in the generality of cases men in comfortable circumstances do not
marry early in life. They are having too good a time to settle down.
They want to continue to enjoy the forbidden sweets and fascinations
of “life,” as they call it, before becoming Benedicts. It is only when
wearied with the glamor of the show lights and blaze within the glare
of dancing halls that most men long for home and a wife. But the woman
must be young, perfect and spotless. Yes, indeed, notwithstanding the
knowledge of his own shortcomings, he demands beauty, purity and,
as a usual thing, a woman’s first affection, if he can secure it.
He may be a wreck, body and soul, yet he accepts the sacrifice of a
woman’s health, strength and good looks--for that is what it amounts
to in the end. She meets him at some reception, say. He looks the
personification of manly beauty. When she bids him adieu, she fondly
imagines he also retires at that time to dream of her. She does not
see him again until the next afternoon, and then he is well-groomed
and attentive. How can she know that in the meantime he had spent most
of the night in revelry? She is a lady, and cannot visit his club or
apartments, and assuredly no friend of his will turn informer, so she
has no possibility of a knowledge of his habits, unless she fortunately
possesses a father or brother, and even these are often worldly enough
to condone courses which they probably have followed or are following
themselves.
“The cause of this state of affairs?” some old-fashioned person asks.
The low moral standard which pervades what we call society, I answer
unhesitatingly, together with the false custom of having one law of
morals for men and another one--decidedly another one--for women.
No man living likes to be judged, or, in fact, will allow himself to
be judged, by the same moral standard that governs women. There is
one rule for him, an entirely different path for her, and all the
arguments in the world cannot change his ideas. It was but recently,
in discussing this subject with a gentleman born, that he boasted of
his own charity, and that of his sex in general toward women, whereas
women, he declared, made no allowance for men’s natural weaknesses.