ON THE CARE AND MANAGEMENT OF WOMEN
I talked to a woman once on the subject of honeymoons.I said, "Would you recommend a long honeymoon, or a Saturday to Monday somewhere?" A silence fell upon her.I gathered she was looking back rather than forward to her answer.
"I would advise a long honeymoon," she replied at length, "the old-fashioned month.""Why," I persisted, "I thought the tendency of the age was to cut these things shorter and shorter.""It is the tendency of the age," she answered, "to seek escape from many things it would be wiser to face.I think myself that, for good or evil, the sooner it is over--the sooner both the man and the woman know--the better.""The sooner what is over?" I asked.
If she had a fault, this woman, about which I am not sure, it was an inclination towards enigma.
She crossed to the window and stood there, looking out.
"Was there not a custom," she said, still gazing down into the wet, glistening street, "among one of the ancient peoples, I forget which, ordaining that when a man and woman, loving one another, or thinking that they loved, had been joined together, they should go down upon their wedding night to the temple? And into the dark recesses of the temple, through many winding passages, the priest led them until they came to the great chamber where dwelt the voice of their god.There the priest left them, clanging-to the massive door behind him, and there, alone in silence, they made their sacrifice; and in the night the Voice spoke to them, showing them their future life--whether they had chosen well; whether their love would live or die.And in the morning the priest returned and led them back into the day; and they dwelt among their fellows.But no one was permitted to question them, nor they to answer should any do so.Well, do you know, our nineteenth-century honeymoon at Brighton, Switzerland, or Ramsgate, as the choice or necessity may be, always seems to me merely another form of that night spent alone in the temple before the altar of that forgotten god.Our young men and women marry, and we kiss them and congratulate them; and, standing on the doorstep, throw rice and old slippers, and shout good wishes after them; and he waves his gloved hand to us, and she flutters her little handkerchief from the carriage window; and we watch their smiling faces and hear their laughter until the corner hides them from our view.Then we go about our own business, and a short time passes by; and one day we meet them again, and their faces have grown older and graver; and I always wonder what the Voice has told them during that little while that they have been absent from our sight.But of course it would not do to ask them.
Nor would they answer truly if we did."
My friend laughed, and, leaving the window, took her place beside the tea-things, and other callers dropping in, we fell to talk of pictures, plays, and people.
But I felt it would be unwise to act on her sole advice, much as Ihave always valued her opinion.
A woman takes life too seriously.It is a serious affair to most of us, the Lord knows.That is why it is well not to take it more seriously than need be.
Little Jack and little Jill fall down the hill, hurting their little knees, and their little noses, spilling the hard-earned water.We are very philosophical.
"Oh, don't cry!" we tell them, "that is babyish.Little boys and little girls must learn to bear pain.Up you get, fill the pail again, and try once more."Little Jack and little Jill rub their dirty knuckles into their little eyes, looking ruefully at their bloody little knees, and trot back with the pail.We laugh at them, but not ill-naturedly.
"Poor little souls," we say; "how they did hullabaloo.One might have thought they were half-killed.And it was only a broken crown, after all.What a fuss children make!" We bear with much stoicism the fall of little Jack and little Jill.
But when WE--grown-up Jack with moustache turning grey; grown-up Jill with the first faint "crow's feet" showing--when WE tumble down the hill, and OUR pail is spilt.Ye Heavens! what a tragedy has happened.Put out the stars, turn off the sun, suspend the laws of nature.Mr.Jack and Mrs.Jill, coming down the hill--what they were doing on the hill we will not inquire--have slipped over a stone, placed there surely by the evil powers of the universe.Mr.
Jack and Mrs.Jill have bumped their silly heads.Mr.Jack and Mrs.
Jill have hurt their little hearts, and stand marvelling that the world can go about its business in the face of such disaster.
Don't take the matter quite so seriously, Jack and Jill.You have spilled your happiness, you must toil up the hill again and refill the pail.Carry it more carefully next time.What were you doing?
Playing some fool's trick, I'll be bound.
A laugh and a sigh, a kiss and good-bye, is our life.Is it worth so much fretting? It is a merry life on the whole.Courage, comrade.A campaign cannot be all drum and fife and stirrup-cup.
The marching and the fighting must come into it somewhere.There are pleasant bivouacs among the vineyards, merry nights around the camp fires.White hands wave a welcome to us; bright eyes dim at our going.Would you run from the battle-music? What have you to complain of? Forward: the medal to some, the surgeon's knife to others; to all of us, sooner or later, six feet of mother earth.
What are you afraid of? Courage, comrade.
