Any woman, my dear young girls, can marry any man she likes, provided
that she is careful about two points. She must let him know that she
would accept a proposal from him, but she must never let him know that
she has let him know. The encouragement must be very strong but very
delicate. To let him know that you would marry him is to appeal to his
vanity, and this appeal never fails; but to let him know that you have
given him the information is to appeal to his pity, and this appeal
never succeeds. Besides, you awake his disgust. Half the art of the
woman of the world consists in doing disgusting things delicately. Be
delicate, be indirect, avoid simplicity, and there is hardly any limit
to your choice of a husband.
I need say nothing about detrimental people. The conflict between a
daughter and her parents on this point--so popular in fiction--very
rarely takes place. It is well understood. You may fall in love with
the detrimental person, and you may let him fall in love with you. But
at present we are talking about marriage. Never marry a man with the
artistic temperament. By the artistic temperament one means morbid
tastes, uncertain temper and excessive vanity. It may be witty at
dinner; it _must_ be snappish at breakfast. It never has any money.
In its dress it is dirty and picturesque, unless under the pressure of
an occasion. It flirts well, but marries badly. I have described, of
course, rather a pronounced case of artistic temperament. But it is
hardly safe to marry any man who appreciates things artistic, because,
as a rule, he only does it in order that people may appreciate his
appreciation; and after a time that becomes wearisome.
[Illustration]
Do not marry an imperial man. The young girl of seventeen believes in
strength; by this she means a large chin and a persistent neglect of
herself. She adores that kind of thing, and she will marry it if she
is not warned. It is not good to fall in love with Restrained Force,
and afterwards find that you have married Apathy.
The man whom you marry must, of course, have an income; he should have
a better social position than you have any right to expect. You know
all that--it is a commonplace. But also he must be perfectly even.
In everything he should remind you constantly of most other men.
Everything in him and about him should be uniform. Even his sins
should be so monotonous that it is impossible to call them romantic.
Avoid the romantic. Shun supreme moments. Chocolate-creams are very
well, but as a daily food dry toast is better. Seek for the man
who has the qualities of dry toast--a hard exterior manner, and an
interior temperament that is at once soft and insipid. The man that
I describe is amenable to flattery, even as dry toast is amenable to
butter. You can guide him. And, as he never varies, you can calculate
upon him. Marry the dry-toast man. He is easy to obtain. There are
hundreds of him in Piccadilly. None of them wants to marry, and all of
them will. He gives no trouble. He will go to the Club when he wants
to talk, and to the theatre when he wants to be amused. He will come
to you when he wants absolutely nothing; and in you--if you are the
well-bred English girl that I am supposing--he will assuredly find it.
And so you will both be contented.
Do not think that I am, for one moment, depreciating sentiment. I
worship it; I am a sentimentalist myself. But everything has its
place, and sentiment of this kind belongs to young unmarried life--to
the period when you are engaged, or when you ought to be engaged.
The young man whom I have described--the crisp, perfect, insipid,
dry-toast man--would only be bored by a wife who wanted to be on
sentimental terms with him. I remember a case in point. A young girl,
whom I knew intimately, married a man who was, as a husband, perfect.
They lived happily enough for three or four years; she had a couple
of children, a beautiful house, everything that could be desired. And
then the trouble came. She had been reading trashy novels, I suppose;
at any rate, she fell in love with her own husband. She went in daily
dread that he would find it out. I argued with her, reasoned with her,
entreated her to give up such ruinous folly. It was of no use. She
wrote him letters--three sheets, crossed and underlined. I warned her
that sooner or later he would read one of them. He did; and he never
forgave her. That happy home is all broken up now--simply because that
woman could not remember that there is a time for sentiment and a
time for propriety, and that marriage is the time for propriety. The
passions are all very well until you are married; but the fashions
will last you all your life.
I have no more to say on the choice of a husband. It is quite the
simplest thing that a young girl has to learn,--you must find a quite
colourless person, and flatter him a little; his vanity will do the
rest. And when you are married to him, you will find him much easier
to tolerate than a man who has any strong characteristic. Do not get
into the habit of thinking marriage important; it is only important in
so far as it affects externals; it need not touch the interior of your
life.
I have received several letters. ELLA has had poetry sent to her by
her _fiancé_, and wishes to know if this would justify her in breaking
the engagement. I think not. She can never be quite certain that it is
the man's own make; and, besides, plenty of men are like that during
the engagement period, but never suffer from it afterwards. The other
letters must be answered privately.
* * * * *
"THE DEADLY CIGARETTE."
[Illustration]
Have you heard the Yankee threat to suppress the Cigarette?
Ten dollars tax per thousand--as the French would say, _par
mille_--
Is the scheme proposed, forsooth, to protect the Yankee youth
From poisons just discovered in his _papier pur fil_!
Such things might well have been in staring emerald green,
Or even in the paler tint that's christened "_Eau-de-Nil_,"
But it simply makes one sick to imagine arsenic
Is lurking in the spotless white of _papier pur fil_!
Strange the smoking French survive! Surely none should be alive;
Fair France should be one mighty _morgue_ from Biarritz to Lille,
If there's also phosphorus, bringing deadly loss for us,
In Hygiene's new victim, luckless _papier pur fil_.
Yet some Frenchmen live to tell they are feeling pretty well;
From dozing _Concierge_ at home to marching _Garde Mobile_,
You might safely bet your boots that, with loud derisive hoots,
They'd scout the thought of poison in their _papier pur fil_.
Then how foolish to conclude that, because they hurt the dude,
Smoking all day in the country, half the night as well _en ville_,
After dinner Cigarettes, two or three, mean paying debts
Of nature, or mean going mad, from _papier pur fil_!
* * * * *