The old Master has developed one quality of late for which I am afraid I hardly gave him credit.He has turned out to be an excellent listener.
--I love to talk,--he said,--as a goose loves to swim.Sometimes Ithink it is because I am a goose.For I never talked much at any one time in my life without saying something or other I was sorry for.
--You too!--said I--Now that is very odd, for it is an experience Ihave habitually.I thought you were rather too much of a philosopher to trouble yourself about such small matters as to whether you had said just what you meant to or not; especially as you know that the person you talk to does not remember a word of what you said the next morning, but is thinking, it is much more likely, of what she said, or how her new dress looked, or some other body's new dress which made--hers look as if it had been patched together from the leaves of last November.That's what she's probably thinking about.
--She!--said the Master, with a look which it would take at least half a page to explain to the entire satisfaction of thoughtful readers of both sexes.
--I paid the respect due to that most significant monosyllable, which, as the old Rabbi spoke it, with its targum of tone and expression, was not to be answered flippantly, but soberly, advisedly, and after a pause long enough for it to unfold its meaning in the listener's mind.For there are short single words (all the world remembers Rachel's Helas!) which are like those Japanese toys that look like nothing of any significance as you throw them on the water, but which after a little time open out into various strange and unexpected figures, and then you find that each little shred had a complicated story to tell of itself.
-Yes,--said I, at the close of this silent interval, during which the monosyllable had been opening out its meanings,--She.When I think of talking, it is of course with a woman.For talking at its best being an inspiration, it wants a corresponding divine quality of receptiveness; and where will you find this but in woman?
The Master laughed a pleasant little laugh,--not a harsh, sarcastic one, but playful, and tempered by so kind a look that it seemed as if every wrinkled line about his old eyes repeated, "God bless you," as the tracings on the walls of the Alhambra repeat a sentence of the Koran.
I said nothing, but looked the question, What are you laughing at?
--Why, I laughed because I couldn't help saying to myself that a woman whose mind was taken up with thinking how she looked, and how her pretty neighbor looked, wouldn't have a great deal of thought to spare for all your fine discourse.
--Come, now,--said I,--a man who contradicts himself in the course of two minutes must have a screw loose in his mental machinery.I never feel afraid that such a thing can happen to me, though it happens often enough when I turn a thought over suddenly, as you did that five-cent piece the other day, that it reads differently on its two sides.What I meant to say is something like this.A woman, notwithstanding she is the best of listeners, knows her business, and it is a woman's business to please.I don't say that it is not her business to vote, but I do say that a woman who does not please is a false note in the harmonies of nature.She may not have youth, or beauty, or even manner; but she must have something in her voice or expression, or both, which it makes you feel better disposed towards your race to look at or listen to.She knows that as well as we do;and her first question after you have been talking your soul into her consciousness is, Did I please? A woman never forgets her sex.She would rather talk with a man than an angel, any day.
--This frightful speech of mine reached the ear of our Scheherezade, who said that it was perfectly shocking and that I deserved to be shown up as the outlaw in one of her bandit stories.
Hush, my dear,--said the Lady,--you will have to bring John Milton into your story with our friend there, if you punish everybody who says naughty things like that.Send the little boy up to my chamber for Paradise Lost, if you please.He will find it lying on my table.
The little old volume,--he can't mistake it.
So the girl called That Boy round and gave him the message; I don't know why she should give it, but she did, and the Lady helped her out with a word or two.
The little volume--its cover protected with soft white leather from a long kid glove, evidently suggesting the brilliant assemblies of the days when friends and fortune smiled-came presently and the Lady opened it.---You may read that, if you like, she said,--it may show you that our friend is to be pilloried in good company.
The Young Girl ran her eye along the passage the Lady pointed out, blushed, laughed, and slapped the book down as though she would have liked to box the ears of Mr.John Milton, if he had been a contemporary and fellow-contributor to the "Weekly Bucket."--I won't touch the thing,--she said.---He was a horrid man to talk so: and he had as many wives as Blue-Beard.
--Fair play,--said the Master.---Bring me the book, my little fractional superfluity,--I mean you, my nursling,--my boy, if that suits your small Highness better.
The Boy brought the book.
The old Master, not unfamiliar with the great epic opened pretty nearly to the place, and very soon found the passage: He read, aloud with grand scholastic intonation and in a deep voice that silenced the table as if a prophet had just uttered Thus saith the Lord:--"So spake our sire, and by his countenance seemed Entering on studious thoughts abstruse; which Eve Perceiving "went to water her geraniums, to make a short story of it, and left the two "conversationists," to wit, the angel Raphael and the gentleman,--there was but one gentleman in society then, you know,--to talk it out.
