The trend of modern thought in art and literature is toward the real,
but fortunately the cherishing of the ideal has not vanished.
All of us, though we may profess to be realists, are at heart
idealists, for every woman in the innermost sanctuary of her thoughts
cherishes an ideal man. And every man, practical and commonplace
though he be, has before him in his quiet moments a living picture of
grace and beauty, which, consciously or not, is his ideal woman.
Every man instinctively admires a beautiful woman. But when he seeks a
wife, he demands other qualities besides that wonderful one which is,
as the proverb tells us, "only skin deep."
If men were not such strangely inconsistent beings, the world
would lose half its charm. Each sex rails at the other for its
inconsistency, when the real truth is that nowhere exists much of
that beautiful quality which is aptly termed a "jewel."
But humanity must learn with Emerson to seek other things than
consistency, and to look upon the lightning play of thought and
feeling as an index of mental and moral growth.
For those who possess the happy faculty of "making the best of
things," men are really the most amusing people in existence. To hear
a man dilate upon the virtues and accomplishments of the ideal woman
he would make his wife is a most interesting diversion, besides being
a source of what may be called decorative instruction.
She must, first of all, be beautiful. No man, even in his wildest
moments, ever dreamed of marrying any but a beautiful woman, yet, in
nine cases out of ten when he does go to the altar, he is leading
there one who is lovely only in his own eyes.
He has read Swinburne and Tennyson and is very sure he won't have
anything but "a daughter of the gods, divinely tall, and most divinely
fair." Then, of course, there is the "classic profile," the "deep,
unfathomable eyes," the "lily-white skin," and "hair like the raven's
wing," not to mention the "swan-like neck" and "tapering, shapely
fingers."
Mr. Ideal is really a man of refined taste, and the women who hear
this impassioned outburst are supremely conscious of their own
imperfections.
But beauty is not the only demand of this fastidious gentleman; the
fortunate woman whom he deigns to honour must be a paragon of
sweetness and docility. No "woman's rights" or "suffrage rant" for
him, and none of those high-stepping professional women need apply
either--oh, no! And then all of her interests must be his, for of all
things on earth, he "does despise a woman with a hobby!" None of these
"broad-minded women" were ever intended for Mr. Ideal. He is very
certain of that, because away down in his secret heart he was sure he
had found the right woman once, but when he did, he learned also that
she was somewhat particular about the man she wanted to marry, and the
applicant then present did not fill the bill! He is therefore very
sure that "a man does not want an intellectual instructor: he wants a
wife."
Just like the most of them after all, isn't he?
The year goes round and Mr. Ideal goes away on a summer vacation.
There are some pleasant people in the little town to which he goes,
and there is a girl in the party with her mother and brother. Mr.
Ideal looks her over disapprovingly. She isn't pretty--no, she isn't
even good-looking. Her hair is almost red, her eyes are a pale blue,
and she wears glasses. Her nose isn't even straight, and it turns up
too much besides. Her skin is covered with tiny golden-brown blotches.
"Freckles!" exclaims Mr. Ideal, _sotto voce_. Her mouth isn't bad, the
lips are red and full and her teeth are white and even. She wears a
blue boating suit with an Eton jacket. "So common!" and Mr. Ideal goes
away from his secluded point of observation.
A merry laugh reaches his ear, and he turns around. The tall
brother is chasing her through the bushes, and she waves a letter
tantalisingly at him as she goes, and finally bounds over a low fence
and runs across the field, with her big brother in close pursuit.
"Hoydenish!" and Mr. Ideal hums softly to himself and goes off to find
Smith. Smith is a good fellow and asks Mr. Ideal to go fishing. They
go, but don't have a bite, and come home rather cross. Does Smith know
the little red-headed girl who was on the piazza this morning?
Yes, he has met her. She has been here about a week. "Rather nice, but
not especially attractive, you know." No, she isn't, but he will
introduce Mr. Ideal.
Days pass, and Mr. Ideal and Miss Practical are much together. He
finds her the jolliest girl he ever knew. She is an enthusiastic
advocate of "woman" in every available sphere.
She herself is going to be a trained nurse after she learns to "keep
house." "For you know that every woman should be a good housekeeper,"
she says demurely.
He doesn't exactly like "that trained nurse business," but he admits
to himself that, if he were ill, he should like to have Miss Practical
smooth his pillow and take care of him.
And so the time goes on, and he is often the companion of the girl. At
times, she fairly scintillates with merriment, but she is so
dignified, and so womanly--so very careful to keep him at his proper
distance--that, well, "she is a type!"
In due course of time, he plans to return to the city, and to the
theatres and parties he used to find so pleasant. All his friends are
there. No, Miss Practical is not in the city; she is right here. Like
a flash a revelation comes over him, and he paces the veranda angrily.
Well, there's only one thing to be done--he must tell her about it.
Perhaps--and he sees a flash of blue through the shrubbery, which he
seeks with the air of a man who has an object in view.
* * * * *
His circle of friends are very much surprised when he introduces Mrs.
Ideal, for she is surely different from the ideal woman about whom
they have heard so much. They naturally think he is inconsistent, but
he isn't, for some subtle alchemy has transfigured the homely little
girl into the dearest, best, and altogether most beautiful woman Mr.
Ideal has ever seen.
She is domestic in her tastes now, and has abandoned the professional
nurse idea. She knows a great deal about Greek and Latin, and still
more about Shakespeare and Browning and other authors.
But she neglects neither her books nor her housekeeping, and her
husband spends his evenings at home, not because Mrs. Ideal would cry
and make a fuss if he didn't, but because his heart is in her keeping,
and because his own fireside, with its sweet-faced guardian angel, is
to him the most beautiful place on earth, and he has sense enough to
appreciate what a noble wife is to him.
* * * * *
The plain truth is, when "any whatsoever" Mr. Ideal loves a woman, he
immediately finds her perfect, and transfers to her the attributes
which only exist in his imagination. His heart and happiness are
there--not with the creatures of his dreams, but the warm, living,
loving human being beside him, and to him, henceforth, the ideal is
the real.
For "the ideal woman is as gentle as she is strong." She wins her way
among her friends and fellow human beings, even though they may be
strangers, by doing many a kindness which the most of us are too apt
to overlook or ignore.
No heights of thought or feeling are beyond her eager reach, and no
human creature has sunk too low for her sympathy and her helping hand.
Even the forlorn and friendless dog in the alley looks instinctively
into her face for help.
She is in every man's thoughts and always will be, as she always has
been--the ideal who shall lead him step by step, and star by star, to
the heights which he cannot reach alone.
Ruskin says: "No man ever lived a right life who has not been
chastened by a woman's love, strengthened by her courage and guided by
her discretion."
The steady flow of the twentieth-century progress has not swept away
woman's influence, nor has it crushed out her womanliness. She lives
in the hearts of men, a queen as royal as in the days of chivalry, and
men shall do and dare for her dear sake as long as time shall last.
The sweet, lovable, loyal woman of the past is not lost; she is only
intensified in the brave wifehood and motherhood of our own times. The
modern ideal, like that of olden times, is and ever will be, above all
things--womanly.