The Love Affairs of an Old Maid | Page 8

nature responded with the utmost readiness to whatever appealed to
him from the side of right or justice.
He had noble hopes in many directions, hopes which inspired me to
believe in his truth and goodness, aside from his capabilities for
achieving greatness. His eagle sight, which read through other men's
shams and pretences; his moral sense, which bade him shun even the
appearance of evil, not only permitted, but urged him, seemingly, into
this marriage with Flossy, by which he effectually cut himself off from
his dearest aspirations. One by one I have seen him relinquish them,

holding to them lovingly to the last. The hours at home, which he
intended to give to study and research, have been sacrificed to the
petting and nursing of a perfectly well woman, who demanded it of him.
His home life, where he had dreamed of a congenial atmosphere, where
the centripetal force should be the love of wife and children, merged
into frequent journeys for Flossy--who would have been happy if she
never had been obliged to stay in one place over a week--and a shifting
of their one child Rachel into the care of nurses, because Flossy fretted
at the care of her and demanded all of Bronson's time for herself.
Thus was Bronson's life being twisted and bent from its natural course.
Was it a weakness in him? To be sure he might have shown his strength
by breaking loose from family ties, and, hardening his heart to his
wife's plaints, have carried out his ambitions with some degree of
success. He did attempt this, nor did he fail in his career. He was called
a fairly successful man. I dare say the majority of people never knew
that he was created for grander things. But something was sapping his
energy at the fountain-head. Was he realizing that he had helped to
shatter his ideals with his own hand?
I never am so well satisfied with my lot of single-blessedness as when I
contemplate the sort of wife Flossy makes. That may sound arrogant,
but this is a secret session of human nature, when arrogance and all
native-born sins are permissible.
Flossy is perfectly unconscious of the spectacle she presents to the
world. Ah, me! I know it is said, "Judge not, that ye be not judged." I
might have made him just such a wife, I suppose. O heavens! no, I
shouldn't. Tabby, that is making humility go a little too far.

IV
WOMEN AS LOVERS
"In every clime and country There lives a Man of Pain, Whose nerves,
like chords of lightning, Bring fire into his brain: To him a whisper is a

wound, A look or sneer, a blow; More pangs he feels in years or
months Than dunce-throng'd ages know."
I have had such a curious experience. I have been confided in, twice in
one day. Two more bits out of other lives have been given to me, and it
is astonishing to see how well they piece into mine.
To begin with, Rachel English came in early. There is something
particularly auspicious about Rachel. She fits me like a glove. She
never jars nor grates. When she is here, I am comfortable; when she is
gone, I miss something. If I see a fine painting, or hear magnificent
music, I think of Rachel before any other thought comes into my mind.
One involuntarily associates her with anything wonderfully fine in art
or literature, with the perfect assurance that she will be sympathetic and
appreciative. She understands the deep, inarticulate emotions in the
kindred way you have a right to expect of your lover, and which you
are oftenest disappointed in, if you do expect it of him. If I were a man,
I should be in love with Rachel.
Her sensitiveness through every available channel makes her of no use
to general society. Blundering people tread on her; malicious ones tear
her to pieces. Rachel ought to be caged, and only approached by clever
people who have brains enough to appreciate her. I should like to be
her keeper. But her organization is too closely allied to that of genius to
be happy, unless with certain environments which it is too good to
believe will ever surround her. She is so clever that she is perfectly
helpless. If you knew her, this would not be a paradox. Possibly it isn't
anyway.
I do not say that Rachel is perfect. She would be desperately
uncomfortable as a friend if she were. Her failings are those belonging
to a frank, impulsive, generous nature, which I myself find it easy to
forgive. Her gravest fault is a witty tongue. That which many people
would give years of their lives to possess is what she has shed the most