the quest of the golden girl-第2节

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So　I；　too；　with　the　rest　of　the　world；　was　following　in　the　wake　of　the　magical　music。　The　lie　it　was　drawing　me　by　is　perhaps　Spring's　oldest；　commonest　lie；the　lying　promise　of　the　Perfect　Woman；　the　Quite　Impossible　She。　　Who　has　not　dreamed　of　her；who　that　can　dream　at　all？　　I　suppose　that　the　dreams　of　our　modern　youth　are　entirely　commercial。　　In　the　morning　of　life　they　are　rapt　by　intoxicating　visions　of　some　great　haberdashery　business；　beckoned　to　by　the　voluptuous　enticements　of　the　legal　profession；　or　maybe　the　Holy　Grail　they　forswear　all　else　to　seek　is　a　snug　editorial　chair。　　These　quests　and　dreams　were　not　for　me。　　Since　I　was　man　I　have　had　but　one　dream；namely；　Woman。　　Alas！　till　this　my　thirtieth　year　I　have　found　only　women。　　No！　that　is　disloyal；　disloyal　to　my　First　Love；　for　this　is　sadly　true；that　we　always　find　the　Golden　Girl　in　our　first　love；　and　lose　her　in　our　second。

I　wonder　if　the　reader　would　care　to　hear　about　my　First　Love；　of　whom　I　am　naturally　thinking　a　good　deal　this　morning；　under　the　demoralising　influences　of　the　fresh　air；　blue　sky；　and　various　birds　and　flowers。　More　potent　intoxicants　these　than　any　that　need　licenses　for　their　purveyance；　responsible　see　the　poetsfor　no　end　of　human　foolishness。

I　was　about　to　tell　the　story　of　my　First　Love；　but　on　second　thoughts　I　decide　not。　It　will　keep；　and　I　feel　hungry；　and　yonder　seems　a　dingle　where　I　can　lie　and　open　my　knapsack；　eat；　drink；　and　doze　among　the　sun…flecked　shadows。




CHAPTER　IV

IN　WHICH　I　EAT　AND　DREAM　

The　girl　we　go　to　meet　is　the　girl　we　have　met　before。　　I　evolved　this　sage　reflection；　as；　lost　deep　down　in　the　green　alleys　of　the　dingle；　having　fortified　the　romantic　side　of　my　nature　with　sandwiches　and　sherry；　I　lazily　put　the　question　to　myself　as　to　what　manner　of　girl　I　expected　the　Golden　Girl　to　be。　　A　man　who　goes　seeking　should　have　some　notion　of　what　he　goes　out　to　seek。　Had　I　any　ideal　by　which　to　test　and　measure　the　damsels　of　the　world　who　were　to　pass　before　my　critical　choosing　eye？　Had　I　ever　met　any　girl　in　the　past　who　would　serve　approximately　as　a　model；any　girl；　in　fact；　I　would　very　much　like　to　meet　again？　　I　was　very　sleepy；　and　while　trying　to　make　up　my　mind　I　fell　asleep；　and　lo！　the　sandwiches　and　sherry　brought　me　a　dream　that　I　could　not　but　consider　of　good　omen。　　And　this　was　the　dream。

I　thought　my　quest　had　brought　me　into　a　strange　old　haunted　forest；　and　that　I　had　thrown　myself　down　to　rest　at　the　gnarled　mossy　root　of　a　great　oak…tree；　while　all　about　me　was　nought　but　fantastic　shapes　and　capricious　groups　of　gold…green　bole　and　bough；　wondrous　alleys　ending　in　mysterious　coverts；　and　green　lanes　of　exquisite　turf　that　seemed　to　have　been　laid　down　in　expectation　of　some　milk…white　queen　or　goddess　passing　that　way。

And　so　still　the　forest　was　you　could　have　heard　an　acorn　drop　or　a　bird　call　from　one　end　of　it　to　the　other。　　The　exquisite　silence　was　evidently　waiting　for　the　exquisite　voice；　that　presently　not　so　much　broke　as　mingled　with　it；　like　a　swan　swimming　through　a　lake。

〃Whom　seek　you？〃　said；　or　rather　sung；　a　planetary　voice　right　at　my　shoulder。　　But　three　short　unmusical　Saxon　words；　yet　it　was　as　though　a　mystical　strain　of　music　had　passed　through　the　wood。

〃Whom　seek　you？〃　　and　again　the　lovely　speech　flowered　upon　the　silence；　as　white　water…lilies　on　the　surface　of　some　shaded　pool。

〃The　Golden　Girl；〃　I　answered　simply；　turning　my　head；　and　looking　half　sideways　and　half　upwards；　and　behold！　the　tree　at　whose　foot　I　lay　had　opened　its　rocky　side；　and　in　the　cleft；　like　a　long　lily…bud　sliding　from　its　green　sheath；　stood　a　dryad；　and　my　speech　failed　and　my　breath　went　as　I　looked　upon　her　beauty；　for　which　mortality　has　no　simile。　　Yet　was　there　something　about　her　of　the　earth…sweetness　that　clings　even　to　the　loveliest；　star…ambitious；　earth…　born　thing。　　She　was　not　all　immortal；　as　man　is　not　all　mortal。　　She　was　the　sweetness　of　the　strength　of　the　oak；　the　soul　born　of　the　sun　kissing　its　green　leaves　in　the　still　Memnonian　mornings；　of　moon　and　stars　kissing　its　green　leaves　in　the　still　Trophonian　nights。

〃The　maid　you　seek；〃　said　she；　and　again　she　broke　the　silence　like　the　moon　breaking　through　the　clouds；　〃what　manner　of　maid　is　she？　　For　a　maid　abides　in　this　wood；　maybe　it　is　she　whom　you　seek。　　Is　she　but　a　lovely　face　you　seek？　　Is　she　but　a　lofty　mind？　　Is　she　but　a　beautiful　soul？〃

〃Maybe　she　is　all　these；　though　no　one　only；　and　more　besides；〃　I　answered。

〃It　is　well；〃　she　replied；　〃but　have　you　in　your　heart　no　image　of　her　you　seek？　Else　how　should　you　know　her　should　you　some　day　come　to　meet　her？〃

〃I　have　no　image　of　her；〃　I　said。　　〃I　cannot　picture　her；　but　I　shall　know　her；　know　her　inerrably　as　these　your　wood　children　find　out　each　other　untaught；　as　the　butterfly　that　has　never　seen　his　kindred　knows　his　painted　mate；　passing　on　the　wing　all　others　by。　　Only　when　the　lark　shall　mate　with　the　nightingale；　and　the　honey…bee　and　the　clock…beetle　keep　house　together；　shall　I　wed　another　maid。　　Fair　maybe　she　will　not　be；　though　fair　to　me。　Wise　maybe　she　will　not　be；　though　wise　to　me。　　For　riches　I　care　not；　and　of　her　kindred　I　have　no　care。　　All　I　know　is　that　just　to　sit　by　her　will　be　bliss；　just　to　touch　her　bliss；　just　to　hear　her　speak　bliss　beyond　all　mortal　telling。〃

Thereat　the　Sweetness　of　the　Strength　of　the　Oak　smiled　upon　me　and　said；

〃Follow　yonder　green　path　till　it　leads　you　into　a　little　grassy　glade；　where　is　a　crystal　well　and　a　hut　of　woven　boughs　hard　by；　and　you　shall　see　her　whom　you　seek。〃

And　as　she　spoke　she　faded　suddenly；　and　the　side　of　the　oak　was　once　more　as　the　solid　rock。　　With　hot　heart　I　took　the　green　winding　path；　and　presently　came　the　little　grassy　glade；　and　the　bubbling　crystal　well；　and　the　hut　of　wattled　boughs；　and；　looking　through　the　open　door　of　the　hut；　I　saw　a　lovely　girl　lying　asleep　in　her　golden　hair。　She　smiled　sweetly　in　her　sleep；　and　stretched　out　her　arms　softly；　as　though　to　enfold　the　dear　head　of　her　lover。　　And；　ere　I　knew；　I　was　bending　over　her；　and　as　her　sweet　breath　came　and　went　I　whispered：　　〃Grace　o'　God；　I　am　here。　　I　have　sought　you　through　the　world；　and　found　you　at　last。　Grace　o'　God；　I　have　come。〃

And　then　I　thought　her　great　eyes　opened；　as　when　the　sun　sweeps　clear　blue　spaces　in　the　morning　sky。　　〃Flower　o'　Men；〃　then　said　she；　low　and　sweet；〃Flower　o'　Men；　is　it　you　indeed？　　As　you　have　sought；　so　have　I　waited；　waited　。　。　。〃　　And　thereat　her　arms　stole　round　my　neck；　and　I　awoke；　and　Grace　o'　God　was　suddenly　no　more　than　a　pretty　name　that　my　dream　had　given　me。

〃A　pretty　dream；〃　said　my　soul；　〃though　a　little　boyish　for　thirty。〃　　〃And　a　most　excellent　sherry；〃　added　my　body。



CHAPTER　V

CONCERNING　THE　PERFECT　WOMAN；　AND　THEREFORE　CONCERNING　ALL　FEMININE　READERS

As　I　once　more　got　under　way；　my　thoughts　slowly　loitered　back　to　the　theme　which　had　been　occupying　them　before　I　dropped　asleep。　　What　was　my　working　hypothesis　of　the　Perfect　Woman；　towards　whom　I　was　thus　leisurely　strolling？　　She　might　be　defined；　I　reflected；　as　The　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