The Opinions of a Philosopher | Page 7

a little fresh paint and new
coverings for the dining-room chairs, we should be happy where we
were for another five years.
Cockroaches? Bah! Was there not insect powder?
The married man who knows in his secret soul that he cannot afford to
move and who has made up his mind that nothing on earth shall induce
him to, is terribly morose for the first few weeks after his wife has
unbosomed herself upon the subject. He peruses with a savage frown
the real estate columns of the daily newspapers, while he mutters
vicious sentences such as, "I'll be blessed if I will!" or, "Not if I know
myself, and I think I do!" He observes moodily every house in process
of erection, and scrutinizes those "To Let" with an animosity not quite
consistent with his determination to put his foot down for once and
crush the whole project in the bud. Why is it that he slyly visits after
business hours the outlying section of the city, where the newest and
most desirable residences are offered at fashionable prices? Why at odd
moments does he make rows of figures on available scraps of paper and
on the blotter at his office, and abstractedly compute interest on various
sums at four and a half and five per cent.? Why? Because the leaven of
his wife's threat that her life will be shortened is working in his bosom
and he beholds her in his restless dreams crushed to death beneath a
myriad of waterbugs, all for the lack of an inch of closet-room. Why?
Because he is haunted perpetually by the countenances of his daughters,
on which he reads sorrowfully written that they are wasting away for
lack of the bedchamber apiece promised them by their mother. Why?
Because, in brief, he is a philosopher, and recognizes that what is to be
is to be, and that it is easier to dam up the waters of the Nile with
bulrushes (to adopt an elegant and well-seasoned exemplar of
impossibility) than to check the progress of maternal pride.

Some four months after Josephine's announcement that she would live
ten years longer elsewhere, I returned home one afternoon with what
she subsequently stigmatized as a sly expression about the corners of
my mouth. I doubt if I did look sly, for I pride myself on my ability to
control my features when it is necessary. However that may be, having
persuaded Josephine to take a walk, I conducted her to the door of a
newly finished house in the fashionable quarter.
"It might be amusing to go in and look it over," I murmured. "I should
rather like to see the ramifications of a modern house."
Josephine, albeit a little surprised, was enraptured. She promptly took
the lead and I tramped at her side religiously from cellar to attic, while
she peeped into all the closets and investigated the laundry and kitchen
accommodations and drew my attention to the fact that the furnace and
the ice-chest would be amply separated.
"You know, Fred, that in our house they are side by side and we use a
scandalous amount of ice as a consequence," she said, hooking her arm
in mine lovingly.
"The whole house strikes me as very well arranged," I retorted, in a
bluff tone, as much as to say that I saw through her blandishments. I
think she appreciated this. Nevertheless, a few minutes later when we
were on the dining-room story, she rubbed her head against my
shoulder and said, "Just see what a love of a pantry, Fred. Mine is a
hole compared to it. Servants in a house like this would never leave one.
And do look at this ceiling. It is simple, but divinely clean and
appropriate."
"It is well enough," said I, coldly.
After indulging in various other raptures, to which I seemed to turn a
deaf ear, and examining everything to her heart's discontent, Josephine
moved toward the front door with a sigh. Then it was that I remarked:
"So the house suits you, my dear?"

"It is ideal," she murmured, "simply ideal."
"There are things about it which I don't fancy altogether," said I.
"Oh, Fred, if we only had a house like it, I should be perfectly
satisfied."
"Should you? It is yours," I answered.
"Don't be unkind, Fred."
"It is yours," I repeated, a little more explicitly.
Josephine devoured me with inquiring eyes. As she gazed, the
expression of my countenance brought the blood to her cheeks and she
cried with the plaintiveness of a wounded animal, "What do you mean,
dear? It is cruel of you to make sport of me."
"I am not making sport of you, Josephine. The house is yours--ours. I
bought it yesterday. Here is the deed, if you