not find her purse? The grizzled veteran never collects the "two cents
due" on the love letters that are a little overweight. He would not put
a value upon anything so precious, and he is seldom a cynic--perhaps
because, more than anyone else, he is the dispenser of daily joy.
The reading of old love letters is in some way associated with
hair-cloth trunks, mysterious attics, and rainy days. The writers may be
unknown and the hands that laid them away long since returned to dust,
but the interest still remains.
[Sidenote: Dead Roses]
Dead roses crumble to ashes in the gentle fingers that open the long
folded pages--the violets of a forgotten spring impart a delicate
fragrance to the yellowed spot on which they lay. The ink is faded and
the letter much worn, as though it had lain next to some youthful
breast, to be read in silence and solitude until the tender words were
graven upon the heart in the exquisite script of Memory.
The phrasing has a peculiar quaintness, old fashioned, perhaps, but with
a grace and dignity all its own. Through the formal, stately sentences
the hidden sweetness creeps like the crimson vine upon the autumn
leaves. Brave hearts they had, those lovers of the past, who were making
a new country in the wilderness, and yet there was an unsuspected
softness--the other "soul side" which even a hero may have, "to show a
woman when he loves her."
There are other treasures to be found with the letters--old
daguerreotypes, in ornate cases, showing the girlish, sweet face of her
who is a grandmother now, or perhaps a soldier in the trappings of war,
the first of a valiant line.
There are songs which are never sung, save as a quavering lullaby to
some mite who will never remember the tune, and fragments of nocturnes
or simple melodies, which awaken the past as surely as the lost shell
brings to the traveller inland the surge and thunder of the distant sea.
[Sidenote: The Mysteries of Life and Death]
All the mysteries of life and death are woven in with the letters; those
pathetic remembrances which the years may fade but never destroy. There
are old school books, dog-eared and musty, scraps of rich brocade and
rustling taffeta, the yellowed sampler which was the daily trial of
some little maid, and the first white robe of someone who has grown
children of his own.
[Sidenote: Memory's Singing]
Give Memory an old love letter and listen to her singing. There is quiet
at first, as though she were waiting for some step to die away, or some
childish laughter to cease. Then there is a hushed arpeggio, struck from
strings which are old and worn, but sweet and tender still.
Sometimes the song is of an old farmhouse on the western plains, where
life meant struggle and bitter privation. Brothers and sisters, in the
torn, faded clothes which were all they had; father's tremulous "God
bless you," when someone went away. Mother's never-ending toil, and the
day when her roughened hands were crossed upon her breast, at rest for
the first time, while the children cried in wonder and fear.
Then the plaintive minor swells for a moment into the full major chord,
when Love, the King, in royal purple, took possession of the desolate
land. Corn huskings and the sound of "Money Musk," scarlet ears and
stolen kisses under the harvest moon, youth and laughter, and the
eternal, wavering hope for better things. Long years of toil, with
interludes of peace and divine content, little voices, and sometimes a
little grave. Separation and estrangement, trust and misgiving,
heartache and defeat.
[Sidenote: A Magic in the Strings]
The tears may start at Memory's singing, but as the song goes on there
comes peace, for there is a magic in the strings which changes sadness
into something sweet. Memory's eyes are deep and tender and her heart is
full of compassion. So the old love letters bring happiness after
all--like the smile which sometimes rests upon the faces of the dead.
An Inquiry into Marriage
[Illustration]
An Inquiry into Marriage
[Sidenote: Like a Grape]
Marriage appears to be somewhat like a grape. People swallow a great
deal of indifferent good for the sake of the lurking bit of sweetness
and never know until it is too late whether the venture was wise.
Chaucer compared it to a crowded church. Those left on the outside are
eager to get in, and those caught inside are straining every nerve to
get out. There are many, in this year of grace, who have safely made
their escape, but, unfortunately, the happy ones inside say little about
it, and do not seem anxious to get out.
Fate takes great pleasure in confusing the inquiring spinster. Some of
the disappointed ones will advise her never to attempt it, and in the
voluble justification which follows, she sees clearly that the discord
was not entirely caused by the other. Her friends, who have been married
a year or so, regard her with evident pity, and occasionally suggest,
delicately enough, to be sure, that she could never have had a proposal.
[Sidenote: The Consistent Lady]
Among her married friends who are more mature, there is usually one who
chooses her for a confidant. This consistent lady will sob out her
unhappiness on the girl's shoulder, and the next week ask her why she
doesn't get married. Sometimes she invites the girl to her house to meet
some new and attractive man--with the memory of those bitter tears still
in her heart.
A girl often loses a friend by heartily endorsing the things the weeper
says of her husband. The fact that he is an inconsiderate brute is
frequently confided to the kindly surface of a clean shirt-waist,
regardless of laundry bills. The girl remarks dispassionately that she
has noticed it; that he never considers the happiness of his wife, and
she doesn't see how the tearful one stands it. Behold the instant and
painful transformation! It is very hard to be a popular spinster when
one has many married friends.
That interesting pessimist, Herr Arthur Schopenhauer, advocates
universal polygamy upon the theory that all women would thus be
supported. To the unprejudiced observer who reads the comic papers and
goes to afternoon receptions, it would seem that each woman should have
several husbands, to pay her bills and see that she is suitably escorted
to various social affairs.
[Sidenote: Seven Husbands]
If a woman had seven husbands, for instance, it is possible that some
one of them would be willing to take her out whenever she wanted to go.
If she yearned for a sealskin coat or a diamond pin and no one of them
was equal to the occasion, a collection could be taken up. Two or three
might contribute to the good cause and be so beautifully rewarded with
smiles and favourite dishes that the remainder of the husbands would be
inspired to do something in the same line.
At least five of them could go out every night in the week. The matter
could be arranged according to a simple system of rotation, or they
might draw lots. There could be a club-room in the house, where they
might smoke without affecting the curtains and Madam's temper. Politics
and poker make more widows than war, but no woman could find it in her
heart to object to the innocent pastime under such happy circumstances,
because she would be deprived of nothing--not even her husband's
society. Six of them might play, while the other read to their wife, and
those who won could buy some lovely new china for the house.
The sweetness of the lady of their several hearts would be increased
seven-fold, while her frowns would be equally divided among them. There
would be a large and enviable freedom accorded everyone. There would
always be enough at home so dinner need not wait, and Madam would be
spared one great annoyance. If the servants left suddenly, as is not
unusual, there would be men enough to cook a dinner Epicurus might envy,
each one using his own chafing-dish. Men make better cooks than women
because they put so much more feeling into it.
The spirit of gentle rivalry, which would thus be developed, is well
worth considering. Some one of the seven would always be a lover. To
sustain the old relation continuously after marriage undoubtedly
requires gifts of tact and temperament which are not often vouchsafed
to men, and this would not prove so irksome if the tender obligation
were shared. Marriage would no longer be the cold potato of love.
Different men always admire different qualities of the same woman, and
the beauty of the much-married lady would be developed far beyond that
of her who had only one husband, because a recognised virtue is
stimulated.
If a man admires a woman's teeth, she gets new kinds of dentifrice and
constantly endeavours to add to their whiteness. If he speaks
approvingly of her hair, various tonics are purchased. If he alludes to
her mellow voice, she tries conscientiously to make it more beautiful
still.
There is a suspected but not verified relation between a man's affection
and his digestion. With this ideal method of marriage in force, the
dyspeptics could go off by themselves until they felt better, and not be
bothered with tender inquiries concerning their health. If the latch key
unaccountably refused to work at two o'clock in the morning, some other
member of the husband could always assist the absent ones in, and Madam
would never know how many were late.
[Sidenote: The Financial Burden]
The financial burden would indeed be light. The household expenses might
be divided equally and relieving the wife's necessities would be the
happiness of all. One might assume the responsibility of her gowns,
another of her hats and gloves, another might keep her supplied with
bonbons, matinée tickets, flowers, and silk stockings, another might
attend to her jackets and her club dues, her jewels might be the care of
another, and so on. It would be the joy of all of them to see their
peerless wife well dressed, and when she wanted anything in particular,
she need only smile sweetly upon the one whose happy lot it was to have
charge of that department of expense.
There would be no friction, no discord. Madam would be blissfully
content, and men have claimed for years that they could live together
much more amicably than women, and that they never quarrel among
themselves, save in rare instances. This, they say, is because they are
so liberal in their views, but a great many men are so broad-minded that
it makes their heads flat.
It is strange that this happy form of polygamy did not occur to Herr
Schopenhauer. It may be because he was a pessimist--and a man.
[Sidenote: The Most Nervous Time]
The most nervous time of a man's life is the day of his wedding. The
bachelors and benedicts give different reasons for this when they are
gently approached upon the subject, but the majority admit, with lovable
and refreshing conceit, that it is because of their innate modesty and
their aversion to conspicuous prominence.
If this is truly the reason, the widespread fear may be much lessened,
for in the grand matrimonial pageant, the man is the most obscure member
of the procession. People are not apt to think of him at all until the
ceremony is over and the girl has a new name. What he wears is of no
consequence, and he has no wedding gifts, though he may be remembered
for a moment if he gives a diamond star to the bride. Yet it is this
ceremony which changes him from a vassal to a king. Before marriage he
is a low and useless trump, but afterward he is ace high in the game.
[Sidenote: A Trip Down Town]
A latter-day philosopher has beautifully likened marriage to a trip
down-town. A man leaves the house in the morning, his mind already
active concerning the affairs of the day. His newspaper is in his
pocket, he has plenty of time to reach the office, and his breakfast has
begun to assimilate. Suddenly he sees a yellow speck on the horizon.
He calculates the distance to the corner and quickens his pace, his eyes
nobly fixed meanwhile upon the goal of his ambition. Anxiety develops,
then fear. At last he surrenders all dignity and gallops madly toward
the approaching car, with his coat tails spread to the morning breeze
and tears in his eyes. Out of breath, but triumphant, he swings on just
as farther pursuit seemed well-nigh hopeless.
Does he stop to chat cheerily with the conductor? Does he dwell upon the
luxurious aspect of his conveyance? Does the comfort which he has just
secured fill his heart with gladness? Does the plush covering of the
seat appeal to his æsthetic sense? No mere woman may ever hope to know,
for he grudgingly gives the conductor five pennies, one of them badly
battered and the date beaten out of it--and devotes himself to his
paper.
[Sidenote: The Masculine Mental Process]
The thing which appears unattainable is ever desired by man. A girl who
wears an engagement ring upon her finger has a charm for which the
unattached sigh in vain. The masculine mental process in such a case,
briefly summarised, is something like this.
I. "Wonder who that girl is over there? Red hair and quite a bit of
style. Never cared much for red hair--suppose she's got freckles too.
Now she's coming this way. Why, there's a solitaire on her finger; she's
engaged. Well, he can have her--I won't cut him out. Wonder who she is!
II. "Really, she isn't so bad--I've seen worse. She knows how to dress,
and she hasn't so many freckles. Brown eyes--that means temper when
associated with red hair. Must be quite a little trick to tame a girl
like that. She doesn't look as though she were quite subdued.
III. "He probably doesn't know how to manage her. I could train her all
right. I wouldn't mind doing it; I haven't anything much on hand in the
girl line. So that's the cad she's engaged to? Poor little girl!
IV. "I feel sorry for that girl, I honestly do. She's throwing herself
away. She can't love that fellow. She'll get over it when she's married,
and be miserable all the rest of her life. I suppose I ought to save her
from him. I think I'll talk to her about it, but it will have to be done
cautiously.
V. "Fine young woman, that. Broad-minded, bright, vivacious, and not
half bad to look at. Seemed to take my advice in good part. Those great,
deep brown eyes are pathetic. That's the kind of a girl to be shielded
and guarded from all the hard knocks in the world.
VI. "The more I see of that girl, the more I think of her. Those Frenchy
touches of dress and that superb red hair make her beautiful. I always
did like red hair. Honestly, I think she's the prettiest girl I ever
saw. And her womanliness matches her beauty. Any man might be proud of
winning a girl like that.
VII. "The irony of Fate! The one soul in all the universe that is deep
enough to comprehend mine, the peerless queen of womankind, she for
whom I have waited all my life, is pledged to another! I shall go mad if
I bear this any longer. I simply must have her. 'All is fair in love and
war'--I'll go and ask her!"
[Sidenote: Gold-Brick Tactics]
When one man alludes to another as a "confidence man," it is no
distinguishing mark, for they instinctively adopt gold-brick tactics
when seeking woman in marriage.
Those exquisite hands shall never perform a single menial task! Yet,
after marriage, Her Ladyship finds that she is expected to be a cook,
nurse, housekeeper, seamstress, chambermaid, waitress, and practical
plumber. This is an unconscious tribute to the versatility of woman,
since a man thinks he does well if he is a specialist in any one line.
Her slightest wish shall be his law! Yet not only are wishes of no
avail, but even pleading and prayer fall upon deaf ears. It will be his
delight to see that she wants for nothing, yet she is reduced to the
necessity of asking for money--even for carfare--and a man will do for
his bicycle what his wife would ask in vain.
Many of the matrimonial infelicities of which both men and women
bitterly complain may be traced to the gold-brick delusion. A woman
marries in the hope of having a lover and discovers, too late, that she
merely has a boarder who is most difficult to please.
[Sidenote: A Certain Pitiful Change]
There is a certain pitiful change which comes with marriage. The sound
of her voice would thrill him to his finger-tips, the touch of her hand
make his throat ache, and the light in her eyes set the blood to singing
in his veins. With possession, ecstasy changes to content, and the
loving woman, dreaming that she may again find what she has so strangely
lost, tries to waken the old feeling by pathetic little ways which women
read at once, but men never know anything about.
In a way, woman is to blame, but not so much. Her superior insight
should give her a better understanding of courtship. A man may mean what
he says--at the time he says it--but men and seasons change.
[Sidenote: Value and Proportion]
The happiness of the after-years depends largely upon her sense of value
and proportion. No woman of artistic judgment would crowd her rooms
with bric-à-brac, even though comfort were not lacking. Pictures hung
together so closely that the frames touch lose beauty. Space has
distinct value, and solid colours, judiciously used, create a harmony
impossible to obtain by the continuous use of figured fabrics.
Yet many a woman whose house is a model of taste, whose rooms are
spacious and restful, insists upon crowding her marriage with the
bric-à-brac of violent affection. She is not content with undecorated
spaces; with interludes of friendship and the appreciation which is
felt, rather than spoken. She demands the constant assurances, the
unfailing devotion of the lover, and thus loses her atmosphere--and her
content.
It seems to be a settled thing that men shall do the courting before
marriage and women afterward. Nobody writes articles on "How to Make a
Wife Happy," and the innumerable cook books, like an army of
grasshoppers, consume and devastate the land.
If women did not demand so much, men in general would be more
thoughtful. If it were understood that even after marriage man was
still to be the lover, the one who sent roses to his sweetheart would
sometimes bring them to his wife. The pretty courtesies would not so
often be forgotten.
[Sidenote: The Tender Thought]
If the tender thought were in some way shown, and the loving word which
leaps to the lips were never forced back, but always spoken, marriage
and even life itself would take on new beauty and charm. If a woman has
daily evidence of a man's devotion, no matter in how small a way, her
hunger and thirst for love are bountifully assuaged. Misunderstandings
rapidly grow into coldness and neglect, and foolish woman, blind with
love, adopts retribution and recrimination as her weapons. There are a
great many men who love their wives simply because they know they would
be scalped if they didn't.
Making an issue of a little thing is one of the surest ways to spoil
happiness. One's personal pride is felt to be vitally injured by
surrender, but there is no quality of human nature so nearly royal as
the ability to yield gracefully. It shows small confidence in one's own
nature to fear that compromise lessens self-control. To consider
constantly the comfort and happiness of another is not a sign of
weakness but of strength.
[Sidenote: Spoiled Children]
Too many men and women are only spoiled children at heart. The little
maid of five or six takes her doll and goes home because her playmates
have been unkind. Twenty years later she packs her trunk and goes to her
mother's because of some quarrel which had an equally childish
beginning.
But the hurts of the after-years are not so easily healed. The children
kiss and make up no later than the next day, but, grown to manhood and
womanhood, they consider it far beneath their dignity and importance to
say "Forgive me," and thus proceed to the matrimonial garbage box by way
of the divorce court.
Lovers are wont to consider a marriage license a free ticket to
Paradise. Sometimes happiness may be freely given by the dispenser of
earthly blessings, but it is more often bought. It is a matter of
temperament rather than circumstance, and is to be had only by the two
who work for it together, forgiving, forgetting, graciously yielding,
and looking forward to the perfect understanding which will surely
come.
Matches are not all made in heaven. Even the parlour variety sometimes
smell of brimstone, and Cupid is blamed for many which are made by
cupidity. The gossips and the busybodies would die of mal-nutrition were
it not for marriage and its complications.
[Sidenote: The Tabbies]
Two people who have quarrelled cheerfully before marriage and whose
engagement has been broken three or four times often surprise the
tabbies who prophesy misfortune by settling down into post-nuptial
content. Two who are universally pronounced to be "perfectly suited to
each other" are soon absolutely miserable. Marriage is the one thing
which everyone knows more about than people who are intimately
concerned.
[Sidenote: "Unequal Marriages"]
We hear a great deal of "unequal marriages," not merely in degree of
fortune, but in taste and mental equipment. A man steeped to his
finger-tips in the lore of the ancients chooses a pretty butterfly who
does not know the difference between a hieroglyph and a Greek verb, and
to whom Rome and Carthage are empty names. His friends predict misery,
and wonder at his blindness in passing by the young woman of equal
outward charm who delivered a scholarly thesis at her commencement and
has the degree of Master of Arts.
A talented woman marries a man without proportionate gifts and the
tabbies call a special session. It is decided at this conclave that "she
is throwing herself away and will regret it." To everyone's surprise,
she is occasionally very happy with the man she has chosen, though about
some things of no particular importance she knows much more than he.
The law of compensation is as certain in its action as that of
gravitation, though it is not so widely understood. Nature demands
balance and equality. She is constantly chiselling at the mountain to
lower it to the level of the plain, and welding heterogeneous elements
into homogeneous groups.
[Sidenote: The Certain Instinct]
The pretty butterfly may easily prove a balance wheel to the man of much
wisdom. She will add a vivid human interest to his abstract pursuits and
keep him from growing narrow-minded. He chose the element he needed to
make him symmetrical, with the certain instinct which impels isolated
atoms of hydrogen and oxygen to combine in the proportion of two to one.
It never occurs to the tabbies that no talent or facility can ever
stifle a woman's nature. The simple need of her heart is never taken
into account in the criticism of these marriages which are deemed
"unequal." If a woman holds an assistant professorship of mathematics in
a university, it is a foregone conclusion that she should fall in love
with someone who is proficient in trigonometry and holds his tangents
and cosines in high esteem. Happy evenings could then be spent with a
book of logarithms and sheets of paper specially cut to accommodate a
problem.
Similarity of tastes may sometimes prove an attraction, but very seldom
similarity of pursuit. Musicians do not often intermarry, and artists
and writers are more apt to choose each other than exponents of their
own cult.
[Sidenote: Appreciation and Accomplishment]
It is not surprising if a man who is passionately fond of music falls in
love with a woman who has a magnificent voice, or a power which amounts
to magic over the strings of her violin. Appreciation is as essential
to happiness as accomplishment, and when the two are balanced in
marriage, comradeship is inevitable. An artist may marry a woman who
does not understand his pictures, but if she had not appreciated him in
ways more vital to his happiness, there would have been no marriage.
It is pathetic to see what marriage sometimes is, compared with what it
might be--to see it degraded to the level of a business transaction when
it was meant to be infinitely above the sordid touch of the dollar and
the dime. It is a perverted instinct which leads one to marry for money,
for it will not buy happiness, though it may secure an imitation which
pleases some people for a little while.