neighbor, and if, in spite of this, they still had
a few spare moments on their hands, they occupied
them with discussions as to whose sweetheart was the
best looking, the arguments employed on both sides
being battle-axes, clubs, etc. Questions
of taste were soon decided in those days. When
a twelfth-century youth fell in love he did not take
three paces backward, gaze into her eyes, and tell
her she was too beautiful to live. He said he
would step outside and see about it. And if,
when he got out, he met a man and broke his head—the
other man’s head, I mean—then that
proved that his—the first fellow’s—girl
was a pretty girl. But if the other fellow broke
his head—not his own, you know,
but the other fellow’s—the other fellow
to the second fellow, that is, because of course the
other fellow would only be the other fellow to him,
not the first fellow who—well, if he broke
his head, then his girl—not the other
fellow’s, but the fellow who was the—
Look here, if A broke B’s head, then A’s
girl was a pretty girl; but if B broke A’s head,
then A’s girl wasn’t a pretty girl, but
B’s girl was. That was their method of
conducting art criticism.
Nowadays we light a pipe and let the girls fight it
out among themselves.
They do it very well. They are getting to do
all our work. They are doctors, and barristers,
and artists. They manage theaters, and promote
swindles, and edit newspapers. I am looking forward
to the time when we men shall have nothing to do but
lie in bed till twelve, read two novels a day, have
nice little five-o’clock teas all to ourselves,
and tax our brains with nothing more trying than discussions
upon the latest patterns in trousers and arguments
as to what Mr. Jones’ coat was made of and whether
it fitted him. It is a glorious prospect—for
idle fellows.
You’ve been in love, of course! If not
you’ve got it to come. Love is like the
measles; we all have to go through it. Also like
the measles, we take it only once. One never
need be afraid of catching it a second time.
The man who has had it can go into the most dangerous
places and play the most foolhardy tricks with perfect
safety. He can picnic in shady woods, ramble
through leafy aisles, and linger on mossy seats to
watch the sunset. He fears a quiet country-house
no more than he would his own club. He can join
a family party to go down the Rhine. He can,
to see the last of a friend, venture into the very
jaws of the marriage ceremony itself. He can
keep his head through the whirl of a ravishing waltz,
and rest afterward in a dark conservatory, catching
nothing more lasting than a cold. He can brave
a moonlight walk adown sweet-scented lanes or a twilight
pull among the somber rushes. He can get over
a stile without danger, scramble through a tangled
hedge without being caught, come down a slippery path
without falling. He can look into sunny eyes
and not be dazzled. He listens to the siren voices,
yet sails on with unveered helm. He clasps white
hands in his, but no electric “Lulu"-like force
holds him bound in their dainty pressure.
