第7章 ON BEING IN LOVE(3)

We want to think of women not--as their own sex would show them-- as Lorleis luring us to destruction, but as good angels beckoning us upward.They have more power for good or evil than they dream of.It is just at the very age when a man's character is forming that he tumbles into love, and then the lass he loves has the making or marring of him.Unconsciously he molds himself to what she would have him, good or bad.I am sorry to have to be ungallant enough to say that I do not think they always use their influence for the best.Too often the female world is bounded hard and fast within the limits of the commonplace.Their ideal hero is a prince of littleness, and to become that many a powerful mind, enchanted by love, is "lost to life and use and name and fame."And yet, women, you could make us so much better if you only would.It rests with you, more than with all the preachers, to roll this world a little nearer heaven.Chivalry is not dead: it only sleeps for want of work to do.It is you who must wake it to noble deeds.You must be worthy of knightly worship.

You must be higher than ourselves.It was for Una that the Red Cross Knight did war.For no painted, mincing court dame could the dragon have been slain.Oh, ladies fair, be fair in mind and soul as well as face, so that brave knights may win glory in your service! Oh, woman, throw off your disguising cloaks of selfishness, effrontery, and affectation! Stand forth once more a queen in your royal robe of simple purity.A thousand swords, now rusting in ignoble sloth, shall leap from their scabbards to do battlefor your honor against wrong.A thousand Sir Rolands shall lay lance in rest, and Fear, Avarice, Pleasure, and Ambition shall go down in the dust before your colors.

What noble deeds were we not ripe for in the days when we loved? What noble lives could we not have lived for her sake? Our love was a religion we could have died for.It was no mere human creature like ourselves that we adored.It was a queen that we paid homage to, a goddess that we worshiped.

And how madly we did worship! And how sweet it was to worship! Ah, lad, cherish love's young dream while it lasts! You will know too soon how truly little Tom Moore sang when he said that there was nothing half so sweet in life.Even when it brings misery it is a wild, romantic misery, all unlike the dull, worldly pain of after-sorrows.When you have lost her-- when the light is gone out from your life and the world stretches before you a long, dark horror, even then a half-enchantment mingles with your despair.

And who would not risk its terrors to gain its raptures? Ah, what raptures they were! The mere recollection thrills you.How delicious it was to tell her that you loved her, that you lived for her, that you would die for her! How you did rave, to be sure, what floods of extravagant nonsense you poured forth, and oh, how cruel it was of her to pretend not to believe you! In what awe you stood of her! How miserable you were when you had offended her! And yet, how pleasant to be bullied by her and to sue for pardon without having the slightest notion of what your fault was! How dark the world was when she snubbed you, as she often did, the little rogue, just to see you look wretched; how sunny when she smiled! How jealous you were of every one about her! How you hated every man she shook hands with, every woman she kissed--the maid that did her hair, the boy that cleaned her shoes, the dog she nursed--though you had to be respectful to the last-named! How you looked forward to seeing her, how stupid you were when you did see her, staring at her without saying a word! How impossible it was for you to go out at any time of the day or night without finding yourself eventually opposite her windows! You hadn't pluck enough to go in, but you hung about the corner and gazed at theoutside.Oh, if the house had only caught fire--it was insured, so it wouldn't have mattered--and you could have rushed in and saved her at the risk of your life, and have been terribly burned and injured! Anything to serve her.Even in little things that was so sweet.How you would watch her, spaniel-like, to anticipate her slightest wish! How proud you were to do her bidding! How delightful it was to be ordered about by her! To devote your whole life to her and to never think of yourself seemed such a simple thing.You would go without a holiday to lay a humble offering at her shrine, and felt more than repaid if she only deigned to accept it.How precious to you was everything that she had hallowed by her touch--her little glove, the ribbon she had worn, the rose that had nestled in her hair and whose withered leaves still mark the poems you never care to look at now.

And oh, how beautiful she was, how wondrous beautiful! It was as some angel entering the room, and all else became plain and earthly.She was too sacred to be touched.It seemed almost presumption to gaze at her.You would as soon have thought of kissing her as of singing comic songs in a cathedral.It was desecration enough to kneel and timidly raise the gracious little hand to your lips.

Ah, those foolish days, those foolish days when we were unselfish and pure-minded; those foolish days when our simple hearts were full of truth, and faith, and reverence! Ah, those foolish days of noble longings and of noble strivings! And oh, these wise, clever days when we know that money is the only prize worth striving for, when we believe in nothing else but meanness and lies, when we care for no living creature but ourselves!