a landmark in the years. It was not the first grey hair! That means
nothing nowadays. Nor was it a touch of rheumatism. Do not babies of nine
or ten experience that cramping ill? No! It was merely seeing ourselves as
reflected from the mind of another. My companion had heard himself, in
some legal proceedings, in which he had been a witness, described as a
middle-aged man. With a shock of surprise he had realised that this
really applied to him! To every one of us comes this horrid moment of
recognition. Feeling young, and with daily sight of ourselves unrealising
the marks that Time indites upon our faces, we go on from year to year
with a vague idea that we are always as we were, or nearly so. And then
comes the rough quarter of an hour in which enlightenment arrives. It is
good and salutary, but very unpleasant!
[Sidenote: The inevitable moment.]
One of the most beautiful women I know, whose hair is prematurely white,
with an exquisitely picturesque effect of snowiness above the pink of soft
cheeks, and the youthful light of deep grey eyes, was a little over forty
when, talking one day with a comparatively new acquaintance, she was
astonished to hear her say, "My husband says you are a dear old lady."
"Old lady!" The husband was, himself, her elder. The remark rankled for a
long time, though I tried to convince her that only the most superficial
and careless of observers would ever connect the idea of age with her.
[Sidenote: Time, the thief.]
The reason that women feel growing old so much more than men is that they
know very well that they are more or less failures if they are not
ornamental. Even the plainest of women can be decorative in her home
surroundings so long as she has the bright eyes, fresh cheeks, and the
rounded, yet slight contours of youth. But after awhile Time begins
"throwing white roses at us" instead of red, and every passing year puts
into his laden wallet a little light from the eyes, a little bloom and
softness from the cheeks, a little gloss and colour from the hair, a
little lightness from the step, a little blitheness from the smile, and
bestows upon us, in their stead, a varied assortment of odds and ends,
which are, as to value, exactly what we choose to make them. It needs a
little moral alchemy to turn them to gold and diamonds, pearls and opals;
and, failing this transforming touch, Time's exchanges seem sorry enough.
_THREE WAYS OF GROWING OLD._
[Sidenote: The best way.]
[Sidenote: Growing old in thought.]
[Sidenote: Regions to be conquered.]
There are three ways of growing old. In two of them there lies a
possibility of benefiting by the New Year's gifts of the old man with the
scythe. The best way is to face things, and deliberately accept the
situation, stepping out briskly to climb that steep bit of hill, and enter
the shadows that lie beyond the crest. It is a good time to be optimistic.
Like Mark Tapley's cheerfulness, it is most valuable in moments of
depression. To believe, with Browning, that--
"God's in His heaven! All's well with the world,"
is the best restorative for sinking spirits that see the best and
brightest part of life behind them, and shrink from the bleakness of old
age that lies before them. To feel young in one's own thoughts and
emotions is not always a consolation. The young ones have interests of
their own, apart from ours. They may be too kind and gentle to let us
perceive it, but there is almost always some _gene_ or constraint upon
them in the presence of the middle-aged. They enjoy themselves more when
in the society of their contemporaries. The expression of their faces,
bright and sunny, tells us that. It clouds over with seriousness, if not
with gloom, when they leave the young ones and share the companionship of
the elders. The latter, if young at heart, feel this with many a recurrent
pang; but if they are elderly in their thoughts it gives them no trouble.
They accept it calmly, as in the natural course of things. But with some
of us it seems most unnatural that we should grow old. The whole being
cries out against it, almost as urgently rebellious as we feel against an
injustice. But all this emotion has to be conquered, and we have only to
take ourselves in hand, once for all, and the thing is done. Let the young
ones be happy in their own way. We had our day! Let them have theirs. It
will, at best, be sadly brief. Let them make the most of it.
_THE SECOND WAY._
[Sidenote: Too easy submission.]
[Sidenote: Middle age and dress.]
[Sidenote: Good sense.]
[Sidenote: A crushing conspiracy.]
But there is a way of too freely submitting to grow old. A friend of mine
sometimes says, "If you will insist on making yourself into a doormat you
need not feel surprised if people wipe their boots on you." Quite so.
Well, if we women lie down and regard friendly old Time as an inimical
Juggernaut there is nothing to prevent us from sinking into dreary
dowdiness, from wearing prunella shoes, and filling our husbands with the
consternation that is inseparable from this elderly kind of footgear and
false fronts. We need not too literally accept the warnings of
disinterested friends, who think we should be told that we "dress too
young," or that the fashion of our coiffure is inappropriate to advancing
years. Far better is it to dress too young than too old; to keep our heads
in consonance with the coiffures of the day than to date ourselves in any
conspicuous way. The women of our upper classes are sensible in this
matter. So long as they can cover their heads with hair they do not wear
caps. Not until seventy or so do they envelop themselves in the cumbrous
mantles that once were devised especially for middle age, a period of life
which, after all, is not adapted to weight-carrying. In travelling they
wear hats or toques, and for everyday costume the tailor-made suit is
generally adopted; while for afternoon wear handsome and elaborate dresses
are prepared. There is no reason why elderly women should carry weight for
age when the latter becomes a disability instead of an advantage. And yet,
in the fashion journals, as well as in the shops, all the heaviest and
ugliest gowns, and all the least attractive of the mantles, to say nothing
of the most hopelessly hideous bonnets, are presented to the elderly
customer for her choice.
[Sidenote: Shining examples.]
And with regard to other things, middle-aged women make themselves into
doormats for Time to tread upon. Because no enterprise or variety in life
is expected of them, they never dream of originating any. There is no
thought of foreign travel, of seeing all the interesting places where
history is made, of keeping alive and awake and intent. It is only
exceptional women, like the Duchess of Cleveland, Lord Rosebery's
wonderful mother, who go round the world at seventy, and begin to write a
book involving a visit to the eastern lands, where Lady Esther Stanhope,
her great aunt, lived such a romantic life. Our Queen began to learn
Hindustani when nearly seventy years of age. These shining examples are
the ones to follow!
_THE THIRD WAY._
[Sidenote: Defying time.]
The third way of growing old is to attempt to defy Time--regard him as an
enemy to be thwarted, and endeavour to hide his detested ravages under a
false array of cosmetics, dyes, and other appliances. It is a despicable
and silly way, but one cannot refuse a meed of compassion to those who
practise it. They are generally women who have been beautiful, and it is
so hard to let beauty go without an attempt to detain her. It is a great
gift, and to lose it is, to those who have possessed it, a terrible thing.
Small wonder that they hug its remnants close, and wrap its rags about
them. And, after all, the day must come when the tawdry imitations stand
revealed for the useless things they are, even to those who pinned their
faith upon them.
[Sidenote: "The best is yet to be."]
But time gives us all something in return; a growing patience which brings
sweetness and gentleness in its train; a wider outlook on the world and a
deeper insight into the hearts of friends; a tender sympathy with those
who suffer, and a truer sense of comradeship with our fellow-travellers on
life's road. And all these things write themselves clearly enough on the
ageing faces, sometimes beautifying what once was almost destitute of
charm; and sometimes spiritualising what once was beautiful in form and
colour, but lacked the loveliness that results from an equal balance of
mind and heart.
UNWIN BROTHERS, PRINTERS, WOKING AND LONDON.
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LONDON: JAMES BOWDEN, 10, HENRIETTA ST., W.C.