confiding. She can never carry her own parcels, put on her own
overshoes, or button her own gloves. A widow's shoe laces have never
been known to stay tied for any length of time, unless she has shapeless
ankles and expansive feet.
A widow's telegrams must always be taken to the office by some man.
Time-tables are beyond her understanding and she never knows about
trains. It frequently takes three or four men to launch a widow upon a
two-hundred-mile journey, while a girl can start across the continent
with considerably less commotion.
[Sidenote: The Inference]
The inference is, of course, that she has been accustomed to these
delicate attentions--that the dear departed has always done such things.
The pretty way in which she asks favours carries out the delusion. He
would be a brute, indeed, who could refuse the little service for which
she pleads.
The dear departed, naturally, was delighted to do these things, or he
would not have done them--such being the way of the married man.
Consequently, the lady was very tenderly loved--and men follow each
other like sheep in matters of the heart.
The attraction a widower has for a girl is in inverse proportion to a
widow's influence over a man. It is true that the second wife is usually
better treated than the first, and that the new occupant of a man's
heart reaps the benefit of her predecessor's training. But it is not
until spinsterhood is fully confirmed by grey hair and the family Bible
that a girl begins to look with favour upon the army of the detached.
[Sidenote: The Food of her Soul]
It seems to her that all the romance is necessarily gone--and it is
romance upon which her soul feeds. There can be none of that dear
delight in the first home building, which is the most beautiful part of
marriage to a girl. Her pretty concern about draperies and colours is
all an old story to the man. She may even have to buy her kitchen ware
all alone, and it is considered the nicest thing in the world to have a
man along when pots and pans are bought.
If widowers and widows would only mate with each other, instead of
trespassing upon the hunting grounds of the unmarried! It is an
exceptional case in which the bereaved are not mutually wary. They seem
to prefer the unfair advantage gained by having all the experience on
one side.
The normal man proposes with ease and carelessness, but the ceremony is
second nature to a widower. If he meets a girl he likes, he proceeds at
once to business and is slow indeed for his kind if he does not offer
his hand and heart within a week.
A clever man once wrote a story, describing the coming of a girl to a
widower's house. With care and forethought, the dying wife had left a
letter for her successor, which the man fearlessly gave her before she
had taken off her hat, because, as the story-teller naïevely adds, "she
was twenty-eight and very sane."
[Sidenote: A Nice Letter]
This letter proved to be various admonitions to the bride and earnest
hopes that she might make her husband happy. It was all very pretty and
it was surely a nice letter, but no woman could fail to see that it was
an exquisite revenge upon the man who had been rash enough to install
another in the place of the dead.
There was not a line which was not kind, nor a word which did not
contain a hidden sting. It would be enough to make one shudder all one's
life--this hand of welcome extended from the grave. Yet everything
continued happily--perhaps because a man wrote the story.
A woman demands not only all of a man's life, but all of his thoughts
after she is dead. The grave may hide much, but not that particular
quality in woman's nature. If it is common to leave letters for
succeeding wives, it is done with sinister purpose.
Romance is usually considered an attribute of youth, and possibly the
years bring views of marriage which are impossible to the younger
generation. No girl, in her wildest moments, ever dreams of marrying a
widower with three or four children, yet, when she is well on in her
thirties, with her heart still unsatisfied, she often does that very
thing, and happily at that.
[Sidenote: The Hidden Heartache]
Still, there must be a hidden heartache, for woman, with her love of
love, is unable to understand the series of distinct and unrelated
episodes which make up the love of a man. It is hard to take the crumbs
another woman has left, especially if a goodly portion of a man's heart
is suspected to lie in the grave.
It is harder still, if helpless children are daily to look into her
face, with eyes which are neither hers nor his, and the supreme
crucifixion in the life of a woman whose ideals have not changed, is to
go into a home which has been made by the hands of a dead and dearly
loved wife.
To a woman, material things are always heavily laden with memories.
There is not a single article of furniture which has not its own
individuality. She cannot consider a piece of embroidery apart from the
dead hands that made it, nor a chair without some association with its
previous occupants.
Sometimes the rooms are heavily laden with portraits which are to
confront her from day to day with the taunting presence. She is obliged
to tell callers that the crayon upon the opposite wall is "the first
Mrs. ----." There are also pictures of the first wife's dead children,
and here and there the inevitable photograph, of years gone by, of bride
and groom in wedding garments--the man sitting down, of course, while
his wife stands behind him, as a servant might, with her hand upon his
chair.
[Sidenote: Day by Day]
Day by day, those eyes are fixed upon her in stern judgment. Her
failings and her conscious virtues are forever before that other woman.
Her tears and her laughter are alike subjected to that remorseless
scrutiny.
[Sidenote: A Sheeted Spectre]
Does she dare to forget and be happy? The other woman looks down upon
her like a sheeted spectre conveying a solemn warning. "You may die,"
those pictured lips seem to say, "and some other will take your place,
as you have taken mine." When the tactlessness, bad temper, or general
mulishness of man wrings unwilling tears from her eyes, there is no
sympathy to be gained from that impalpable presence. "You should not
have married him," the picture seems to say, or; "He treated me the same
way, and I died."
She is not to be blamed if she fancies that her husband also feels the
presence of the other. As she pours his coffee in the morning and he
looks upon her with the fond glance which men bestow upon women about to
give them food, she may easily imagine that he sees the other in her
place. Even the clasp of her hand or the touch of her lips may bring a
longing for that other, hidden in the far-off grave.
Broadly speaking, widowers make better husbands than widows do wives.
The presence of the dead wife may be a taunting memory, but seldom
more. It is not often that she is spoken of, unless it is to praise her
cooking. If she made incomparable biscuits and her coffee was fit to be
the nectar of the gods, there are apt to be frequent and tactless
comparisons, until painful experience teaches the sinner that this will
not do.
[Sidenote: "A Shining Mark"]
On the contrary, a widow's second husband is often the most sincere
mourner of her first. As time goes on, he realises keenly what a doleful
day it was for him when that other died. "Death loves a shining mark,"
and that first husband was always such a paragon of perfection that it
seems like an inadvertence because he was permitted to glorify this
sodden sphere at all. She keeps, in heart at least, and often by outward
observance, the anniversaries of her former engagement and marriage. The
love letters of the dead are put away with her jewels and bits of real
lace.
Small defections are commented upon and odious parallels drawn. Her home
is seen to be miserably inadequate beside the one she once had. Her
supply of pin money is painfully small, judged by the standard which has
hitherto been her guide. Callers are entertained with anecdotes of "my
first husband," and her dinner table is graced with the same stories
that famous raconteur was wont to tell.
If her present husband pays her a compliment, he is reminded that his
predecessor was accustomed to say the same thing. The relatives of the
first wife are gently made aware that their acquaintance is not desired.
His manner of life is carefully renovated and his old friendships put
away with moth balls and camphor, never to see the light again.
[Sidenote: The Best Advertisement]
Yet the best possible advertisement of matrimony is the rapidity with
which the bereaved seek new mates. There is no more delicate compliment
to a first marriage than a second alliance, even when divorce, rather
than death, has been the separating agency. A divorced man has more
power to charm than a widower, because there is always the supposition
that he was not understood and that his life's happiness is still to
come.
[Sidenote: Forgetting]
Forgetting is the finest art of life and is to be desired more than
memory, even though Mnemosyne stands close by Lethe and with her dewy
finger-tips soothes away all pain. The lowest life remembers; to the
highest only is it given to forget.
Yet, when the last word is said, this is the dread and the pity of
death. It is not "the breathless darkness and the narrow house," but the
certain knowledge that one's place can almost instantly be filled. The
lips that quiver with sobs will some day smile again, eyes dimmed by
long weeping will dance with laughter, hearts that once ached bitterly
will some day swell and overflow with a new love.
This knowledge lies heavily upon a woman's soul and saddens, though
often imperceptibly, the happiest marriage. All her toil and striving
may some day be for naught. The fruits of her industry and thrift may
some day gleam in jewels upon the white throat of another woman. Silks
and laces which she could not have will add to the beauty of the
possible woman who will ascend her vacant throne.
Sometimes a woman remains faithful to a memory, and sometimes, though
rarely, a man may do the same. There is only one relation in life which
may not be formed again--that between a mother and her child.
[Sidenote: The Child Upon Her Breast]
The little one may have lived but a few days, yet, if it has once lain
upon her breast, she has something Death may never hope to destroy.
Other children, equally dear, may grow to stalwart manhood and gracious
womanhood, but that face rises to immortality in a world of endless
change.
No single cry, no weak clasp of baby fingers is ever forgotten. Through
all the years, unchanging, and taking on new beauty with every fleeting
day, the little face is still before her. And thus in a way Death brings
her a blessing, for when the others have grown she has it still--the
child upon her breast.
Love's best gifts are not to be taken away. Tender memories must always
be inwoven with the sad, and the sympathy and unselfishness which great
loves ever bring are left to make sweet the nature of one who is
chastened by sorrow. Grief itself never stings; it is the accusing
conscience which turns the dagger remorselessly in the heart.
[Sidenote: Our unsuspected Kindness]
Life, after all, is a masquerade. We fear to show our tenderness and our
love. We habitually hide our best feelings, lest we be judged weak and
emotional, and unfit for the age in which it is our privilege to move.
Sometimes it needs Death to show us ourselves and to teach our friends
our deep and unsuspected kindness.
The woman who hungers throughout her marriage for the daily expression
of her husband's love, often looks longingly towards the day to come,
when hot tears will fall upon her upturned face and that for which she
has vainly thirsted will be laid upon her silent lips. But swiftly upon
the vision comes the thought, that even so, it would be of short
duration; that the newly awakened love would soon be the portion of
someone else.
It would be a beautiful world, indeed, if we were not at such pains to
hide our real selves--if all our kindly thoughts were spoken and all our
generous deeds were done. No one of us would think of Death as our best
friend, if we were not all so bitterly unkind. Yet we put into white
fingers the roses for which the living might have pleaded in vain, and
too often, with streaming eyes, we ask pardon of the dead.
[Sidenote: Atonement]
Atonement is not to be made thus. A costly monument in a public square
is tardy appreciation of a genius whose generation refused him bread. A
man's tears upon a woman's hands are not enough, when all her life she
has prayed for his love.
There is no law so unrelenting as that of compensation. Gravitation
itself may be more successfully defied. It is the one thing which is
absolutely just and which is universal in its action, though sometimes
as slow as the majestic forces which change rock to dust.
We cannot have more joy than we give--nor more pain. The eternal balance
swings true. The capacity for enjoyment and the capacity for suffering
are one and the same. He who lives out of reach of sorrow has sacrificed
his possible ecstasy. "He has seen only half the universe who has not
been shown the House of Pain."
[Sidenote: Emerson's "Compensation"]
"And yet the compensations of calamity are made apparent to the
understanding also after long intervals of time. A fever, a mutilation,
a cruel disappointment, a loss of friends, seems at the moment unpaid
loss and unpayable. But the sure years reveal the deep remedial force
that underlies all facts. The death of a dear friend, wife, brother,
lover, which seemed nothing but privation, somewhat later assumes the
aspect of a guide or genius; for it commonly operates revolutions in our
way of life, terminating an epoch of infancy or youth which was waiting
to be closed, breaks up a wonted occupation or a household or style of
living, and allows the formation of new ones more friendly to the growth
of character. It permits or constrains the formation of new
acquaintances, and the reception of new influences that prove of the
first importance to the next years; and the man or woman who would have
remained a sunny garden flower, with no room for its roots and too much
sunshine for its head, by the falling of the walls and the neglect of
the gardener is made the banian of the forest, yielding shade and fruit
to wide neighbourhoods of men."
[Sidenote: Upon the Upland Ways]
That life alone is worth the living which sets itself upon the upland
ways. To steel one's self against joy to be spared the inevitable hurt,
is not life. We are afraid of love, because the might and terror of it
has sometimes brought despair. We are afraid of belief, because our
trust has been betrayed. We are afraid of death, because we have seen
forgetfulness.
We should not fear that someone might take our place in the heart that
loves us best--if we were only loved enough. The same love is never
given twice; it differs in quality if not in degree, and when once made
one's own, is never to be lost.
There are some natures whose happiness is a matter of persons and
things; some to love and some to be loved; the daily needs amply
satisfied, and that is enough for content.
There are others with whom persons and things do not suffice, whose love
is vital, elemental, and indestructible. It has no beginning and no end;
it simply is. With this the Grey Angel has no power; the grave is robbed
of its victory and death of its sting.
"Love never denied Death and Death will not deny Love." When the bond is
of that finer sort which does not rely upon presence for its permanence,
there is little bereavement to be felt. For mutely, like a guardian
angel, that other may live with us still; not as a shadowy presence,
but rather as a dear reality.
That little mound of earth upon the distant hill, over which the sun and
stars pass in endless sequence, and where the quiet is unbroken through
the change of spring to autumn, and the change of autumn to spring, has
not the power to destroy love, but rather to make it more sure.
The one who sleeps is forever beyond the reach of doubt and
misunderstanding. Separation, estrangement, and bitterness, which are
sometimes concealed in the cup that Life and Love have given, are
forever taken out by Death, who is never cruel and who is often kind.
[Sidenote: The Wanderer's Rest]
We tread upon earth and revile it, forgetting that at last it hides our
defects and that through it our dead hearts climb to blossom in violets
and rue. Death is the Wanderer's Rest, where there is no questioning,
but the same healing sleep for all. In that divine peace, there is no
room for regret, since the earthly loves are sure of immortality.
[Sidenote: While the Dream Seemed True]
As much as is vital will live on, unchanging, changeless, and taking on
new sweetness with the years. That which is not wholly given, which is
ours only for a little time, will fade as surely as the roses in the
marble hands. Death has saved many a heartache, by coming while the
dream still seemed true.
In a single passage, Emerson has voiced the undying beauty and the
everlasting truth which lie beneath the perplexities of life.
"Oh, believe as thou livest, that every sound which is spoken over the
round world, which thou oughtest to hear, will vibrate on thine ear.
Every proverb, every book, every byword which belongs to thee for aid or
comfort, shall surely come home, through open or winding passages. Every
friend, whom not thy fantastic will, but the great and tender heart in
thee craveth, shall lock thee in his embrace. And this, because the
heart in thee is the heart of all; not a valve, not a wall, not an
intersection is there anywhere in nature, but one blood rolls
uninterruptedly an endless circulation through all men, as the water of
the globe is all one sea, and, truly seen, its tide is one."
[Sidenote: The Everlasting Love]
Sometimes, into two hearts great enough to hold it, and into two souls
where it may forever abide, there comes the Everlasting Love. It is
elemental, like fire and the sea, with the depth and splendour of the
surge and the glory of the flame. It makes the world a vast cathedral,
in which they two may worship, and where, even in the darkness, there is
the peace which passeth all understanding, because it is of God.
When the time of parting comes, for there is always that turning in the
road, the sadness is not so great because one must go on alone. Life
grows beautiful after a time and even wholly sweet, when a man and a
woman have so lived and loved and worked together, that death is not
good-bye, but rather--"auf wiedersehen."
The Consolations of Spinsterhood
[Illustration]
The Consolations of Spinsterhood
[Sidenote: "A Great Miration"]
The attached members of the community are wont to make what Uncle Remus
called "a great miration," when a woman deliberately chooses
spinsterhood as her lot in life, rather than marriage.
There is an implied pity in their delicate inquiries, and always the
insinuation that the spinster in question could never have had an offer
of marriage. The husband of the lady leading the inquisition may have
been one of the spinster's first admirers, but it is never safe to say
so, for so simple a thing as this has been known to cause trouble in
families.
If it is known positively that some man has offered her his name and his
troubles, and there is still no solitaire to be seen, the logical
hypothesis is charitably advanced, that she has been "disappointed in
love." It is possible for a spinster to be disappointed in lovers, but
only the married are ever disappointed in love.
[Sidenote: A Cause of Stagnation]
The married women who ask the questions and who, with gracious kindness,
hunt up attractive men for the unfortunate young woman to meet, are, all
unknowingly, one great cause of stagnation in the marriage-license
market.
Nothing so pleases a woman safely inside the bonds of holy matrimony as
to confide her sorrows, her regrets, and her broken ideals to her
unattached friends. Many a woman thinks her ideal is broken when it is
only sprained, but the effect is the same.
Was the coffee weak and were the waffles cold, and did Monsieur express
his opinion of such a breakfast in language more concise than elegant?
Madame weeps, and gives a lurid account of the event to the visiting
spinster. By any chance, does a girl go from her own dainty and orderly
room into an apartment strewn with masculine belongings, confounded upon
confusion such as Milton never dreamed? Does she have to wait while her
friend restores order to the chaos? If so, she puts it down in her
mental note-book, upon the page headed "Against."
The small domestic irritations which crowd upon the attached woman from
day to day, leaving crow's feet around her eyes and delicate tracery in
her forehead, have a certain effect upon the observing. But worse than
this is the spectre of "the other woman," which haunts her friend from
day to day, to the grave--and after, if the dead could tell their
thoughts.
If she has been safely shielded from books which were not written for
The Young Person, Mademoiselle believes that marriage is a bond which is
not to be broken except by death. It is a severe shock when she first
discovers that death changes nothing; that it is only life which
separates utterly.
[Sidenote: That Pitiful Story]
That pitiful story of "the other woman" comes from quarters which the
uninitiated would never suspect. With grim loyalty, married women hide
their hearts from each other. Many a smile conceals a tortured soul.
When the burden is no longer to be borne, a spinster is asked to share
it.
A woman will forgive a man anything except disloyalty to herself. Crimes
which the law stands ready to punish rank as naught with her, if the
love between them is untarnished by doubt or mistrust. Any offence
prompted by her own charm, even a duel to the death with a rival suitor,
is easily condoned. But though God may be able to forgive disloyalty, in
her heart of hearts no woman ever can.
[Sidenote: An Idle Flirtation]
More often than not, it is simply an idle flirtation, or, at the most, a
passing fancy which the next week may prove transient and unreal. The
woman with the heartache will say, with wet eyes and quivering lips: "I
know, positively, that my husband has done nothing wrong. I would go to
the stake upon that belief. He is only weak and foolish and a little
vain, perhaps, and some day he will see his mistake, but I cannot bear
to see him compromise himself and me in the eyes of the world. Of
course, _I_ know," she will say, proudly, "but there are others who do
not,--who are always ready to suspect,--and I will not have them pity
me!"
When nearly all the married friends a spinster has have come to her with
the same story, the variations being individual and of slight moment,
she begins to have serious doubts of matrimony as a satisfactory
career. Women who have been married five, ten, and even twenty years;
women with children grown and whom the world counts safely and happily
married, will sob bitterly in the embrace of the chosen girl friend.
[Sidenote: Indifference]
Indifference is the only counsel one has to offer, but even so, it
gradually becomes the first of the steppes upon the heart-way which lead
to an emotional Siberia.
Of course there are women who are insanely jealous of their husbands,
and, more rarely, men who are jealous of their wives. Jealousy may be
explained as innate vanity and selfishness or as a defect in
temperament, but at any rate, it is a condition which is far past the
theoretical stage.
It is hard for a spinster to understand why any woman should wish to
hold a man against his will. A dog who has to be kept chained, in order
to be retained as a pet, is never a very satisfactory possession. It
seems natural to apply the same reasoning to human affairs, for surely
no love is worth having which is not a free gift.
No girl would feel particularly flattered by a proposal, if it were put
in this form: "Will you marry me? No one else will." Yet the same girl,
married, would gladly take her husband to a desert island, that she
might be sure of him forever.
[Sidenote: Behind Prison Bars]