“I am not saying it is the case among intelligent
thinkers,” explained the Philosopher, “but
in popular literature the convention still lingers.
To woman’s face no man cares to protest against
it; and woman, to her harm, has come to accept it
as a truism. ’What are little girls made
of? Sugar and spice and all that’s nice.’
In more or less varied form the idea has entered
into her blood, shutting out from her hope of improvement.
The girl is discouraged from asking herself the occasionally
needful question: Am I on the way to becoming
a sound, useful member of society? Or am I in
danger of degenerating into a vain, selfish, lazy piece
of good-for-nothing rubbish? She is quite content
so long as she can detect in herself no tendency to
male vices, forgetful that there are also feminine
vices. Woman is the spoilt child of the age.
No one tells her of her faults. The World with
its thousand voices flatters her. Sulks, bad
temper, and pig-headed obstinacy are translated as
‘pretty Fanny’s wilful ways.’
Cowardice, contemptible in man or woman, she is encouraged
to cultivate as a charm. Incompetence to pack
her own bag or find her own way across a square and
round a corner is deemed an attraction. Abnormal
ignorance and dense stupidity entitle her to pose
as the poetical ideal. If she give a penny to
a street beggar, selecting generally the fraud, or
kiss a puppy’s nose, we exhaust the language
of eulogy, proclaiming her a saint. The marvel
to me is that, in spite of the folly upon which they
are fed, so many of them grow to be sensible women.”
“Myself,” remarked the Minor Poet, “I
find much comfort in the conviction that talk, as
talk, is responsible for much less good and much less
harm in the world than we who talk are apt to imagine.
Words to grow and bear fruit must fall upon the earth
of fact.”
“But you hold it right to fight against folly?”
demanded the Philosopher.
“Heavens, yes!” cried the Minor Poet.
“That is how one knows it is Folly—if
we can kill it. Against the Truth our arrows
rattle harmlessly.”
CHAPTER VI
“But what is her reason?” demanded the
Old Maid.
“Reason! I don’t believe any of
them have any reason.” The Woman of the
World showed sign of being short of temper, a condition
of affairs startlingly unusual to her. “Says
she hasn’t enough work to do.”
“She must be an extraordinary woman,”
commented the Old Maid.
“The trouble I have put myself to in order to
keep that woman, just because George likes her savouries,
no one would believe,” continued indignantly
the Woman of the World. “We have had a
dinner party regularly once a week for the last six
months, entirely for her benefit. Now she wants
me to give two. I won’t do it!”
“If I could be of any service?” offered
the Minor Poet. “My digestion is not what
it once was, but I could make up in quality—a
recherche little banquet twice a week, say on Wednesdays
and Saturdays, I would make a point of eating with
you. If you think that would content her!”
