the quest of the golden girl-第3章

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Woman　Who　Is　Worthy　Of　Us；　but　the　improbability　which　every　healthily　conceited　young　man　must　feel　of　ever　finding　such　a　one　made　the　definition　seem　a　little　unserviceable。　　Or；　if　you　prefer；　since　we　seem　to　be　dealing　with　impossibles；　we　might　turn　about　and　more　truly　define　her　as　The　Woman　of　Whom　We　are　Worthy；　for　who　dare　say　that　she　exists？　　If；　again；　she　were　defined　as　the　Woman　our　More　Fortunate　Friend　Marries；　her　unapproachableness　would　rob　the　definition　of　any　practical　value。　　Other　generalisations　proving　equally　unprofitable；　I　began　scientifically　to　consider　in　detail　the　attributes　of　the　supposititious　paragon；attributes　of　body　and　mind　and　heart。　This　was　soon　done；　but　again；　as　I　thus　conned　all　those　virtues　which　I　was　to　expect　united　in　one　unhappy　woman；　the　result　was　still　unsatisfying；　for　I　began　to　perceive　that　it　was　really　not　perfection　that　I　was　in　search　of。　　As　I　added　virtue　after　virtue　to　the　female　monster　in　my　mind；　and　the　result　remained　still　inanimate　and　unalluring；　I　realised　that　the　lack　I　was　conscious　of　was　not　any　new　perfection；　but　just　one　or　two　honest　human　imperfections。　　And　this；　try　as　I　would；　was　just　what　I　could　not　imagine。

For；　if　you　reflect　a　moment；　you　will　see　that；　while　it　is　easy　to　choose　what　virtues　we　would　have　our　wife　possess；　it　is　all　but　impossible　to　imagine　those　faults　we　would　desire　in　her；　which　I　think　most　lovers　would　admit　add　piquancy　to　the　loved　one；　that　fascinating　wayward　imperfection　which　paradoxically　makes　her　perfect。

Faults　in　the　abstract　are　each　and　all　so　uninviting；　not　to　say　alarming；　but；　associated　with　certain　eyes　and　hair　and　tender　little　gowns；　it　is　curious　how　they　lose　their　terrors；　and；　as　with　vice　in　the　poet's　image；　we　end　by　embracing　what　we　began　by　dreading。　　You　see　the　fault　becomes　a　virtue　when　it　is　hers；　the　treason　prospers；　wherefore；　no　doubt；　the　impossibility　of　imagining　it。　　What　particular　fault　will　suit　a　particular　unknown　girl　is　obviously　as　difficult　to　determine　as　in　what　colours　she　will　look　her　best。

So；　I　say；　I　plied　my　brains　in　vain　for　that　becoming　fault。　　It　was　the　same　whether　I　considered　her　beauty；　her　heart；　or　her　mind。　　A　charming　old　Italian　writer　has　laid　down　the　canons　of　perfect　feminine　beauty　with　much　nicety　in　a　delicious　discourse；　which；　as　he　delivered　it　in　a　sixteenth…　century　Florentine　garden　to　an　audience　of　beautiful　and　noble　ladies；　an　audience　not　too　large　to　be　intimate　and　not　too　small　to　be　embarrassing；　it　was　his　delightful　good　fortune　and　privilege　to　illustrate　by　pretty　and　sly　references　to　the　characteristic　beauties　of　the　several　ladies　seated　like　a　ring　of　roses　around　him。　　Thus　he　would　refer　to　the　shape　of　Madonna　Lampiada's　sumptuous　eyelids；　and　to　her　shell…like　ears；　to　the　correct　length　and　shape　of　Madonna　Amororrisca's　nose；　to　the　lily　tower　of　Madonna　Verdespina's　throat；　nor　would　the　unabashed　old　Florentine　shrink　from　calling　attention　to　the　unfairness　of　Madonna　Selvaggia's　covering　up　her　dainty　bosom；　just　as　he　was　about　to　discourse　upon　〃those　two　hills　of　snow　and　of　roses　with　two　little　crowns　of　fine　rubies　on　their　peaks。　　〃How　could　a　man　lecture　if　his　diagrams　were　going　to　behave　like　that！　Then；　feigning　a　tiff；　he　would　close　his　manuscript；　and　all　the　ladies　with　their　birdlike　voices　would　beseech　him　with　〃Oh；　no；　Messer　Firenzuola；　please　go　on　again；　it's　SO　charming！〃　while；　as　if　by　accident；　Madonna　Selvaggia's　moonlike　bosom　would　once　more　slip　out　its　heavenly　silver；　perceiving　which；　Messer　Firenzuola　would　open　his　manuscript　again　and　proceed　with　his　sweet　learning。

Happy　Firenzuola！　　Oh；　days　that　are　no　more！

By　selecting　for　his　illustrations　one　feature　from　one　lady　and　another　from　another；　Messer　Firenzuola　builds　up　an　ideal　of　the　Beautiful　Woman；　which；　were　she　to　be　possible；　would　probably　be　as　faultily　faultless　as　the　Perfect　Woman；　were　she　possible。

Moreover；　much　about　the　same　time　as　Firenzuola　was　writing；　Botticelli's　blonde；　angular；　retrousse　women　were　breaking　every　one　of　that　beauty…　master's　canons；　perfect　in　beauty　none　the　less；　and　lovers　then；　and　perhaps　particularly　now；　have　found　the　perfect　beauty　in　faces　to　which　Messer　Firenzuola　would　have　denied　the　name　of　face　at　all；　by　virtue　of　a　quality　which　indeed　he　has　tabulated；　but　which　is　far　too　elusive　and　undefinable；　too　spiritual　for　him　truly　to　have　understood；a　quality　which　nowadays　we　are　tardily　recognising　as　the　first　and　last　of　all　beauty；　either　of　nature　or　art；the　supreme；　truly　divine；　because　materialistically　unaccountable；　quality　of　Charm！

〃Beauty　that　makes　holy　earth　and　heaven　May　have　faults　from　head　to　feet。〃

O　loveliest　and　best…loved　face　that　ever　hallowed　the　eyes　that　now　seek　for　you　in　vain！　　Such　was　your　strange　lunar　magic；　such　the　light　not　even　death　could　dim。　And　such　may　be　the　loveliest　and　best…　loved　face　for　you　who　are　reading　these　pages；faces　little　understood　on　earth　because　they　belong　to　heaven。

There　is　indeed　only　one　law　of　beauty　on　which　we　may　rely；that　it　invariably　breaks　all　the　laws　laid　down　for　it　by　the　professors　of　aesthetics。　　All　the　beauty　that　has　ever　been　in　the　world　has　broken　the　laws　of　all　previous　beauty；　and　unwillingly　dictated　laws　to　the　beauty　that　succeeded　it；laws　which　that　beauty　has　no　less　spiritedly　broken；　to　prove　in　turn　dictator　to　its　successor。

The　immortal　sculptors；　painters；　and　poets　have　always　done　exactly　what　their　critics　forbade　them　to　do。　　The　obedient　in　art　are　always　the　forgotten。

Likewise　beautiful　women　have　always　been　a　law　unto　themselves。　　Who　could　have　prophesied　in　what　way　any　of　these　inspired　law…breakers　would　break　the　law；　what　new　type　of　perfect　imperfection　they　would　create？

So　we　return　to　the　Perfect　Woman；　having　gained　this　much　knowledge　of　her；that　her　perfection　is　nothing　more　or　less　than　her　unique；　individual；　charming　imperfection；　and　that　she　is　simply　the　woman　we　love　and　who　is　fool　enough　to　love　us。



CHAPTER　VI

IN　WHICH　THE　AUTHOR　ANTICIPATES　DISCONTENT　ON　THE　PART　OF　HIS　READER

〃But　come；〃　I　imagine　some　reader　complaining；　〃isn't　it　high　time　for　something　to　happen？〃　　No　doubt　it　is；　but　what　am　I　to　do？　　I　am　no　less　discontented。　　Is　it　not　even　more　to　my　interest　than　to　the　reader's　for　something　to　happen？　　Here　have　I　been　tramping　along　since　breakfast…time；　and　now　it　is　late　in　the　afternoon；　but　never　a　feather　of　her　dove's　wings；　never　a　flutter　of　her　angel's　robes　have　I　seen。　　It　is　disheartening；　for　one　naturally　expects　to　find　anything　we　seek　a　few　minutes　after　starting　out　to　seek　it；　and　I　confess　that　I　expected　to　find　my　golden　mistress　within　a　very　few　hours　of　leaving　home。　　However；　had　that　been　the　case；　there　would　have　been　no　story；　as　the　novelists　say；　and　I　trust；　as　he　goes　on；　the　reader　may　feel　with　me　that　that　would　have　been　a　pity。　Besides；　with　that　prevision　given　to　an　author；　I　am　strongly　of　opinion　that　something　will　happen　before　long。　　And　if　the　worst　comes　to　the　worst；　there　is　always　that　story　of　my　First　Love　wherewith　to　fill　the　time。　　Meanwhile　I　am　approaching　a　decorative　old　Surrey　town；　little　more　than　a　cluster　of　ripe　old　inns；　to　one　of　which　I　have　much　pleasure　in　inviting　the　reader　to　dinner。



CHAPTER　VII

PRANDIAL

Dinner！

Is　there　a　more　beautiful　word　in　the　language？

Dinner！

Let　the　beautiful　word　come　as　a　refrain　to　and　fro　this　chapter。

Dinner！

Just　eating　and　drinking；　nothing　more；　but　so　much！

Drinking；　indeed；　has　had　its　laureates。　Yet　would　I　offer　my　mite　of　prose　in　its　honour。　　And　when　I　say　〃drinking；〃　I　speak　not　of　smuggled　gin　or　of　brandy　bottles　held　fiercely　by　the　neck　till　they　are　empty。

Nay；　but　of　that　lonely　glass　in　the　social　solitude　of　the　tavern；alone；　but　not　alone；　for　the　glass　is　sure　to　bring　a　dream　to　bear　it　company；　and　it　is　a　poor　dream　that　cannot　raise　a　song。　　And　what　greater　felicity　than　to　be　alone　in　a　tavern　with　your　last　new　song；　just　born　and　yet　still　a　tingling　part　of　you。

Drinking　has　ind