the angel and the author-第10节

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stopped　at；　or　did　I　address　two　to　Cousin　Lisa？〃

Then；　again；　maybe；　the　picture　postcard　led　to　disappointment。　　
Uninteresting　towns　clamoured；　as　ill…favoured　spinsters　in　a　
photographic　studio；　to　be　made　beautiful。

〃I　want；〃　says　the　lady；　〃a　photograph　my　friends　will　really　like。　　
Some　of　these　second…rate　photographers　make　one　look　quite　plain。　　I　
don't　want　you　to　flatter　me；　if　you　understand；　I　merely　want　
something　nice。〃

The　obliging　photographer　does　his　best。　　The　nose　is　carefully　toned　
down；　the　wart　becomes　a　dimple；　her　own　husband　doesn't　know　her。　　
The　postcard　artist　has　ended　by　imagining　everything　as　it　might　
have　been。

〃If　it　were　not　for　the　houses；〃　says　the　postcard　artist　to　himself；　
〃this　might　have　been　a　picturesque　old　High　street　of　mediaeval　
aspect。〃

So　he　draws　a　picture　of　the　High　street　as　it　might　have　been。　　The　
lover　of　quaint　architecture　travels　out　of　his　way　to　see　it；　and　
when　he　finds　it　and　contrasts　it　with　the　picture　postcard　he　gets　
mad。　　I　bought　a　postcard　myself　once　representing　the　market　place　
of　a　certain　French　town。　　It　seemed　to　me；　looking　at　the　postcard；　
that　I　hadn't　really　seen　Francenot　yet。　　I　travelled　nearly　a　
hundred　miles　to　see　that　market　place。　　I　was　careful　to　arrive　on　
market　day　and　to　get　there　at　the　right　time。　　I　reached　the　market　
square　and　looked　at　it。　　Then　I　asked　a　gendarme　where　it　was。

He　said　it　was　therethat　I　was　in　it。

I　said；　〃I　don't　mean　this　one；　I　want　the　other　one；　the　picturesque　
one。〃

He　said　it　was　the　only　market　square　they　had。　　I　took　the　postcard　
from　my　pocket。

〃Where　are　all　the　girls？〃　I　asked　him。

〃What　girls？〃　he　demanded。

＇The　Artist's　Dream。＇

〃Why；　these　girls；〃　I　showed　him　the　postcard；　there　ought　to　have　
been　about　a　hundred　of　them。　　There　was　not　a　plain　one　among　the　
lot。　　Many　of　them　I　should　have　called　beautiful。　　They　were　selling　
flowers　and　fruit；　all　kinds　of　fruitcherries；　strawberries；　rosy…
cheeked　apples；　luscious　grapesall　freshly　picked　and　sparkling　
with　dew。　　The　gendarme　said　he　had　never　seen　any　girlsnot　in　this　
particular　square。　　Referring　casually　to　the　blood　of　saints　and　
martyrs；　he　said　he　would　like　to　see　a　few　girls　in　that　town　worth　
looking　at。　　In　the　square　itself　sat　six　motherly　old　souls　round　a　
lamp…post。　　One　of　them　had　a　moustache；　and　was　smoking　a　pipe；　but　
in　other　respects；　I　have　no　doubt；　was　all　a　woman　should　be。　　Two　
of　them　were　selling　fish。　　That　is　they　would　have　sold　fish；　no　
doubt；　had　anyone　been　there　to　buy　fish。　　The　gaily　clad　thousands　
of　eager　purchasers　pictured　in　the　postcard　were　represented　by　two　
workmen　in　blue　blouses　talking　at　a　corner；　mostly　with　their　
fingers；　a　small　boy　walking　backwards；　with　the　idea　apparently　of　
not　missing　anything　behind　him；　and　a　yellow　dog　that　sat　on　the　
kerb；　and　had　given　up　all　hopejudging　from　his　expressionof　
anything　ever　happening　again。　　With　the　gendarme　and　myself；　these　
four　were　the　only　living　creatures　in　the　square。　　The　rest　of　the　
market　consisted　of　eggs　and　a　few　emaciated　fowls　hanging　from　a　
sort　of　broom　handle。

〃And　where's　the　cathedral？〃　I　asked　the　gendarme。　　It　was　a　Gothic　
structure　in　the　postcard　of　evident　antiquity。　　He　said　there　had　
once　been　a　cathedral。　　It　was　now　a　brewery；　he　pointed　it　out　to　
me。　　He　said　he　thought　some　portion　of　the　original　south　wall　had　
been　retained。　　He　thought　the　manager　of　the　brewery　might　be　
willing　to　show　it　to　me。

〃And　the　fountain？〃　I　demanded；　〃and　all　these　doves！〃

He　said　there　had　been　talk　of　a　fountain。　　He　believed　the　design　
had　already　been　prepared。

I　took　the　next　train　back。　　I　do　not　now　travel　much　out　of　my　way　
to　see　the　original　of　the　picture　postcard。　　Maybe　others　have　had　
like　experience　and　the　picture　postcard　as　a　guide　to　the　Continent　
has　lost　its　value。

The　dealer　has　fallen　back　upon　the　eternal　feminine。　　The　postcard　
collector　is　confined　to　girls。　　Through　the　kindness　of　
correspondents　I　possess　myself　some　fifty　to　a　hundred　girls；　or　
perhaps　it　would　be　more　correct　to　say　one　girl　in　fifty　to　a　
hundred　different　hats。　　I　have　her　in　big　hats；　I　have　her　in　small　
hats；　I　have　her　in　no　hat　at　all。　　I　have　her　smiling；　and　I　have　
her　looking　as　if　she　had　lost　her　last　sixpence。　　I　have　her　
overdressed；　I　have　her　decidedly　underdressed；　but　she　is　much　the　
same　girl。　　Very　young　men　cannot　have　too　many　of　her；　but　myself　I　
am　getting　tired　of　her。　　I　suppose　it　is　the　result　of　growing　old。

＇Why　not　the　Eternal　Male　for　a　change？＇

Girls　of　my　acquaintance　are　also　beginning　to　grumble　at　her。　　I　
often　think　it　hard　on　girls　that　the　artist　so　neglects　the　eternal　
male。　　Why　should　there　not　be　portraits　of　young　men　in　different　
hats；　young　men　in　big　hats；　young　men　in　little　hats；　young　men　
smiling　archly；　young　men　looking　noble。　　Girls　don't　want　to　
decorate　their　rooms　with　pictures　of　other　girls；　they　want　rows　of　
young　men　beaming　down　upon　them。

But　possibly　I　am　sinning　my　mercies。　　A　father　hears　what　young　men　
don't。　　The　girl　in　real　life　is　feeling　it　keenly：　　the　impossible　
standard　set　for　her　by　the　popular　artist。

〃Real　skirts　don't　hang　like　that；〃　she　grumbles；　〃it's　not　in　the　
nature　of　skirts。　　You　can't　have　feet　that　size。　　It　isn't　our　
fault；　they　are　not　made。　　Look　at　those　waists！　　There　would　be　no　
room　to　put　anything？〃

〃Nature；　in　fashioning　woman；　has　not　yet　crept　up　to　the　artistic　
ideal。　　The　young　man　studies　the　picture　on　the　postcard；　on　the　
coloured　almanack　given　away　at　Christmas　by　the　local　grocer；　on　the　
advertisement　of　Jones'　soap；　and　thinks　with　discontent　of　Polly　
Perkins；　who　in　a　natural　way　is　as　pretty　a　girl　as　can　be　looked　
for　in　this　imperfect　world。　　Thus　it　is　that　woman　has　had　to　take　
to　shorthand　and　typewriting。　　Modern　woman　is　being　ruined　by　the　
artist。

＇How　Women　are　ruined　by　Art。＇

Mr。　Anstey　tells　a　story　of　a　young　barber　who　fell　in　love　with　his　
own　wax　model。　　All　day　he　dreamed　of　the　impossible。　　Shethe　young　
lady　of　wax…like　complexion；　with　her　everlasting　expression　of　
dignity　combined　with　amiability。　　No　girl　of　his　acquaintance　could　
compete　with　her。　　If　I　remember　rightly　he　died　a　bachelor；　still　
dreaming　of　wax…like　perfection。　　Perhaps　it　is　as　well　we　men　are　
not　handicapped　to　the　same　extent。　　If　every　hoarding；　if　every　
picture　shop　window；　if　every　illustrated　journal　teemed　with　
illustrations　of　the　ideal　young　man　in　perfect　fitting　trousers　that　
never　bagged　at　the　knees！　　Maybe　it　would　result　in　our　cooking　our　
own　breakfasts　and　making　our　own　beds　to　the　end　of　our　lives。

The　novelist　and　playwright；　as　it　is；　have　made　things　difficult　
enough　for　us。　　In　books　and　plays　the　young　man　makes　love　with　a　
flow　of　language；　a　wealth　of　imagery；　that　must　have　taken　him　years　
to　acquire。　　What　does　the　novel…reading　girl　think；　I　wonder；　when　
the　real　young　man　proposes　to　her！　　He　has　not　called　her　anything　
in　particular。　　Possibly　he　has　got　as　far　as　suggesting　she　is　a　
duck　or　a　daisy；　or　hinting　shyly　that　she　is　his　bee　or　his　
honeysuckle：　　in　his　excitement　he　is　not　quite　sure　which。　　In　the　
novel　she　has　been　reading　the　hero　has　likened　the　heroine　to　half　
the　vegetable　kingdom。　　Elementary　astronomy　has　been　exhausted　in　
his　attempt　to　describe　to　her　the　impression　her　appearance　leaves　
on　him。　　Bond　Street　has　been　sacked　in　his　endeavour　to　get　it　
clearly　home　to　her　what　different　parts　of　her　are　likeher　eyes；　
her　teeth；　her　heart；　her　hair；　her　ears。　　Delicacy　alone　prevents　
his　extending　the　catalogue。　　A　Fiji　Island　lover　might　possibly　go　
further。　　We　have　not　yet　had　the　Fiji　Island　novel。　　By　the　time　he　
is　through　with　it　she　must　have　a　somewhat　confused　notion　of　
herselfa　vague　conviction　that　she　is　a　sort　of　condensed　South　
Kensington　Museum。

＇Difficulty　of　living　up　to　the　Poster。＇

Poor　Angelina　must　feel　dissatisfied　with　the　Edwin　of　real　life。　　I　
am　not　sure　that　art　and　fiction　have　not　made　life　more　difficult　
for　us　than　even　it　was　intended　to　be。　　The　view　from　the　mountain　
top　is　less　extensive　than　represented　by　the　picture　postcard。　　The　
play；　I　fear　me；　does　not　always　come　up　to　the　poster。　　Polly　
Perkins　is　pretty　enough　as　girls　go；　but　oh　for　the　young　lady　of　
the　grocer's　almanack！　　Poor　dear　John　is　very　nice　and　loves　usso　
he　tells　us；　in　his　stupid；　halting　way；　but　how　can　we　respond　when　
we　remember　how　the　man　loved　in　the　play！　　The　〃artist　has　fashioned　
his　dream　of　delight；〃　and　the　workaday　world　by　comparison　seems　
tame　to　us。



CHAPTER　VIII



＇The　Lady　and　the　Problem。＇

She　is　a　good　woman；　the　Heroine　of　the　Problem　Play；　but　accidents　
will　happen；　and　other　people　were　to　blame。

Perhaps　that　is　really　the　Problem：　　who　was　responsible　for　the　
heroine's　past？　　Was　it　her　father？　　She　does　not　say　sonot　in　so　
many　words。　　That　is　not　her　way。　　It　is　not　for　her；　the　silently…
suffering　victim　of　complicated　antecedent　inciden