the quest of the golden girl-第3节

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ly　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　indeed　been　sung；　but　why；　I　have　heard　it　asked；　have　we　no　〃Eating　Songs？〃for　eating　is；　surely；　a　fine　pleasure。　Many　practise　it　already；　and　it　is　becoming　more　general　every　day。

I　speak　not　of　the　finicking　joy　of　the　gourmet；　but　the　joy　of　an　honest　appetite　in　ecstasy；　the　elemental　joy　of　absorbing　quantities　of　fresh　simple　food；mere　roast　lamb；　new　potatoes；　and　peas　of　living　green。

It　is；　indeed；　an　absorbing　pleasure。　　It　needs　all　our　attention。　　You　must　eat　as　you　kiss；　so　exacting　are　the　joys　of　the　mouth；talking；　for　example。　　The　quiet　eye　may　be　allowed　to　participate；　and　sometimes　the　ear；　where　the　music　is　played　upon　a　violin；　and　that　a　Stradivarius。　　A　well…kept　lawn；　with　six…hundred…years…old　cedars　and　a　twenty…feet　yew　hedge；　will　add　distinction　to　the　meal。　　Nor　should　one　ever　eat　without　a　seventeenth…century　poet　in　an　old　yellow…leaved　edition　upon　the　table；　not　to　be　read；　of　course；　any　more　than　the　flowers　are　to　be　eaten；　but　just　to　make　music　of　association　very　softly　to　our　thoughts。

Some　diners　have　wine　too　upon　the　table；　and　in　the　pauses　of　thinking　what　a　divine　mystery　dinner　is；　they　eat。

For　dinner　IS　a　mystery；a　mystery　of　which　even　the　greatest　chef　knows　but　little；　as　a　poet　knows　not；


〃with　all　his　lore；　　　　　　　Wherefore　he　sang；　　or　whence　the　mandate　sped。〃


〃Even　our　digestion　is　governed　by　angels；〃　said　Blake；　and　if　you　will　resist　the　trivial　inclination　to　substitute　〃bad　angels；〃　is　there　really　any　greater　mystery　than　the　process　by　which　beef　is　turned　into　brains；　and　beer　into　beauty？　　Every　beautiful　woman　we　see　has　been　made　out　of　beefsteaks。　　It　is　a　solemn　thought；and　the　finest　poem　that　was　ever　written　came　out　of　a　grey　pulpy　mass　such　as　we　make　brain　sauce　of。

And　with　these　grave　thoughts　for　grace　let　us　sit　down　to　dinner。

Dinner！



CHAPTER　VIII

STILL　PRANDIAL

What　wine　shall　we　have？　　I　confess　I　am　no　judge　of　wines；　except　when　they　are　bad。　　To…night　I　feel　inclined　to　allow　my　choice　to　be　directed　by　sentiment；　and　as　we　are　on　so　pretty　a　pilgrimage；　would　it　not　be　appropriate　to　drink　Liebfraumilch？

Hock　is　full　of　fancy；　and　all　wines　are　by　their　very　nature　full　of　reminiscence；　the　golden　tears　and　red　blood　of　summers　that　are　gone。

Forgive　me；　therefore；　if　I　grow　reminiscent。　Indeed；　I　fear　that　the　hour　for　the　story　of　my　First　Love　has　come。　　But　first；　notice　the　waitress。　　I　confess；　whether　beautiful　or　plain；not　too　plain；women　who　earn　their　own　living　have　a　peculiar　attraction　for　me。

I　hope　the　Golden　Girl　will　not　turn　out　to　be　a　duchess。　　As　old　Campion　sings；


〃I　care　not　for　those　ladies　　　　　　　Who　must　be　wooed　and　prayed；　Give　me　kind　Amaryllis；　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　The　wanton　country…maid。〃


Town…maids　too　of　the　same　pattern。　Whether　in　town　or　country；　give　me　the　girls　that　work。　　The　Girls　That　Work！　　But　evidently　it　is　high　time　woe　began　a　new　chapter。




CHAPTER　IX

THE　LEGEND　OF　HEBE；　OR　THE　HEAVENLY　HOUSEMAID

Yes；　I　blush　t