Some wit has said that the worst vice in the world is advice, and it
is also quite true that one ignorant, though well-meaning person can
sometimes accomplish more damage in a short time, than a dozen people
who start out for the purpose of doing mischief.
The newspapers and periodicals of to-day are crowded with advice to
women, and while much of it is found in magazines for women, written
and edited by men, it is also true that a goodly quantity of it comes
from feminine writers; it is all along the same lines, however, the
burden of effort being to teach the weaker sex how to become more
attractive and more lovable to the lords of creation. It is, of
course, all intended for our good, for if we can only please the men,
and obey their slightest wish even before they take the trouble to
mention the matter, we can then be perfectly happy.
A man can sit down any day and give us directions enough to keep us
busy for a lifetime, and we seldom or never return the compliment.
This is manifestly unfair, and so this little preachment is meant for
the neglected and deserving men, and for them only, so that all women
who have read thus far are invited to leave the matter right here and
turn their attention to the column of "Advice to Women" which they can
find in almost any periodical.
In the first place, gentlemen, we must admit that you do keep us
guessing, though we do not sit up nights nor lose much sleep over your
queer notions.
We can't ask you many questions, either, dear brethren, for, as you
know, you rather like to fib to us, and sometimes we are able to find
it out, and then we never believe you any more.
We may venture, however, to ask small favours of you, and one of these
is that you do not wear red ties. You look so nice in quiet colours
that we dislike exceedingly to have you make crazy quilts of
yourselves, and that is just what you do when you begin experimenting
with colours which we naturally associate with the "cullud pussons."
And a cane may be very ornamental, but it's of no earthly use, and we
would rather you would not carry it when you go out with us.
Never tell us you haven't had time to come and see us, or write to us,
because we know perfectly well that if you wanted to badly enough, you
would take the time, so the excuse makes us even madder than does the
neglect. Still, when you don't want to come, we would not have you do
it for anything.
There is an old saying that "absence makes the heart grow fonder"--so
it does--of the other fellow. We don't propose to shed any tears over
you; we simply go to the theatre with the other man and have an
extremely good time. When you are very, very bright, you can manage
some way not to allow us to forget you for a minute, nor give us much
time to think of anything else.
When we are angry, for heaven's sake don't ask us why, because that
shows your lack of penetration. Just simply call yourself a brute, and
say you are utterly unworthy of even our faint regard, and you will
soon realise that this covers a lot of ground, and everything will be
all right in a few minutes.
And whatever you do, don't show any temper yourself. A woman requires
of a man that he shall be as immovable as the rock of Gibraltar, no
matter what she does to him. And you play your strongest card when you
don't mind our tantrums--even though it's a state secret we are
telling you.
Don't get huffy when you meet us with another man; in nine cases out
of ten, that's just what we do it for. And don't make the mistake of
retaliating by asking another girl somewhere. You'll have a perfectly
miserable time if you do, both then and afterward.
When you do come to see us, it is not at all nice to spend the entire
evening talking about some other girl. How would you like to have the
graces of some other man continually dinned into your ears? Sometimes
we take that way in order to get a rest from your overweening raptures
over the absent girl.
We have a well-defined suspicion that you talk us over with your chums
and compare notes. But, bless you, it can't possibly hold a candle to
the thorough and impartial discussions that some of you get when girls
are together, either in small bevies, or with only one chosen friend.
And we don't very much care what you say about us, for a man never
judges a woman by the opinion of any one else, but another woman's
opinion counts for a great deal with us, so you would better be
careful.
If you are going to say things that you don't mean, try to stamp
them with the air of sincerity--if you can once get a woman to fully
believe in your sincerity, you have gone a long way toward her heart.
Haven't you found out that women are not particularly interested in
anecdotes? Please don't tell us more than fifteen in the same evening.
And don't begin to make love to us before you have had time to make a
favourable impression along several lines--a man, as well as a woman,
loses ground and forfeits respect by making himself too cheap.
If a girl runs and screams when she has been caught standing under the
mistletoe, it means that she will not object; if she stiffens up and
glares at you, it means that she does. The same idea is sometimes
delicately conveyed by the point of a pin. But a woman will be able to
forgive almost anything which you can make her believe was prompted by
her own attractiveness, at least unless she knows men fairly well.
You know, of course, that we will not show your letters, nor tell when
you ask us to marry you and are refused. This much a woman owes to
any man who has honoured her with an offer of marriage--to keep his
perfect trust sacredly in her own heart. Even her future husband has
no business to know of this--it is her lover's secret, and she has no
right to betray it.
Keeping the love-letters and the offers of marriage from any
honourable man safe from a prying world are points of honour which all
good women possess, although we may sometimes quote certain things
from your letters, as you do from ours.
There's nothing you can tell a woman which will please her quite so
much as that knowing her has made you better, especially if you can
prove it by showing a decided upward tendency in your morals. That's
your good right bower, but don't play it too often--keep it for
special occasions.
There's one mistake you make, dear brethren, and that is telling a
woman you love her as soon as you find it out yourself, and the most
of you will do that very thing. There is one case on record where a
man waited fifteen minutes, but he nearly died of the strain. The
trouble is that you seldom stop to consider whether we are ready to
hear you or not, nor whether the coast is clear, nor what the chances
are in your favour. You simply relieve your mind, and trust in your
own wonderful charms to accomplish the rest.
And we wish that when the proper time comes for you to speak your mind
you'd try to do it artistically. Of course you can't write it, unless
you are far away from her, for if you can manage an opportunity to
speak, a resort to the pen is cowardly. And don't mind our evading the
subject--we always do that on principle, but please don't be scared,
or at least don't show it, whatever you may feel. If there is one
thing a woman dislikes more than another it is a man who shows
cowardice at the crucial point in life.
Every man, except yourself, dear reader, is conceited. And one
particular sort of it makes us very, very weary. You are so blinded by
your own perfections, so sure that we are desperately in love with
you, that you sometimes give us little unspoken suggestions to that
effect, and then our disgust is beyond words.
Another cowardly thing you sometimes do, and that is to say that we
have spoiled your life--that we could have made you anything we
pleased--and that you are going straight to perdition. If one woman
is all that keeps you from going to ruin, you have secured a through
ticket anyway, and it's too late to save you. You don't want a woman
who might marry you only out of pity, and you are not going to die of
a broken heart. Men die of broken vanity, sometimes, but their hearts
are pretty tough, being made of healthy muscle.
You get married very much as you go down town in the morning. You run,
like all possessed, until you catch your car, and then you sit down
and read your newspaper. When you think your wife looks unusually
well, it would not hurt you in the least to tell her so, and the way
you leave her in the morning is going to settle her happiness for the
day, though she may be too proud to let you know that it makes any
difference. Women are quick to detect a sham, and they don't want you
to say anything that you don't feel, but you are pretty sure to feel
tenderly toward her sometimes, careless though you may be, and then is
the time to tell her so. You don't want to wait until she is dead, and
then buy a lily to put on her coffin. You'd better bring her the lily
some time when you've been cross and grumpy.
But don't imagine that a present of any kind ever atones for a hurt
that has been given in words. There's nothing you can say which is
more manly or which will do you both so much good as the simple
"forgive me" when you have been wrong.
Rest assured, gentlemen, that you who spend the most of your evenings
in other company, and too often find fault with your meals when you
come home, are the cause of many sorrowful talks among the women who
are wise enough to know, even though your loyal wife may put up a
brave front in your defense.
How often do you suppose the brave woman who loves you has been
actually driven in her agony to some married friend whom she can trust
and upon her sympathetic bosom has cried until she could weep no more,
simply because of your thoughtless neglect? How often do you think she
has planned little things to make your home-coming pleasant, which you
have never noticed? And how often do you suppose she has desperately
fought down the heartache and tried to believe that your absorption in
business is the reason for your forgetfulness of her?
Do you ever think of these things? Do you ever think of the days
before you were sure of her, when you treasured every line of her
letters, and would have bartered your very hopes of heaven for the
earthly life with her?
But perhaps you can hardly be expected to remember the wild sprint
that you made from the breakfast table to the street-car.