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  VII. HEROES

  THE NATURE AND THE FLOWER OF THEM--THE GALLANT D'ARTAGNAN OR THEGLORIOUS BUSSY.

  Let us agree at the start that no perfect hero can be entirely mortal.The nearer the element of mortality in him corresponds to the heelmeasure of Achilles, the better his chance as hero. The Egyptian andGreek heroes were invariably demi-gods on the paternal or maternal side.Few actual historic heroes have escaped popular scandal concerning theirorigin, because the savage logic in us demands lions from a lion; thatTheseus shall trace to Mars; that courage shall spring from courage.

  Another most excellent thing about the ideal hero is that the immortalquality enables him to go about the business of his heroism withoutbothering his head with the rights or wrongs of it, except as theprevailing sentiment of social honor (as distinguished from the inbornsentiment of honesty) requires at the time. Of course, there is a lowergrade of measly, "moral heroes," who (thank heaven and the innate senseof human justice!) are usually well peppered with sorrow and punishment.The hero of romance is a different stripe; Hyperion to a Satyr. Hedoesn't go around groaning page after page of top-heavy debates as tothe inherent justice of his cause or his moral right to thrust a tallowcandle between the particular ribs behind which the heart of his enemyis to be found--balancing his pros and cons, seeking a quo for eachquid, and conscientiously prowling for final authorities. When youinvade the chiropodical secret of the real hero's fine boot, or brushhim in passing--if you have looked once too often at a certain lady, orhave stood between him and the sun, or even twiddled your thumbs at himin an indecorous or careless manner--look to it that you be preparedto draw and mayhap to be spitted upon his sword's point, with honor.Sdeath! A gentlemen of courage carries his life lightly at the needleend of his rapier, as that wonderful Japanese, Samsori, used to make theflimsiest feather preside in miraculous equilibration upon the tip ofhis handsome nose.

  No hero who does more or less than is demanded by the best practicalopinion of the society of his time is worth more than thirty cents asa hero. Boys are literary and dramatic critics so far above the criticsformed by strained formulas of the schools that you can trust them.They have an unerring distrust of the fellow who moves around with hisconfounded conscientious scruples, as if the well-settled opinion of thebreathing world were not good enough for him! Who the deuce has got anybusiness setting everybody else right?

  Some of these days I believe it is going to be discovered that theatmosphere and the encompassing radiance and sweetness of Heaven arecomposed of the dear sighs and loving aspirations of earthly motherhood.If it turns out otherwise, rest assured Heaven will not have reachedits perfect point of evolution. Why is it, then, that motherswill--will--will--try, so mistakenly, to extirpate the jewel of honest,manly savagery from the breasts of their boys? I wonder if they knowthat when grown men see one of these "pretty-mannered boys," cocksureas a Swiss toy new painted and directed by watch spring, they feel anunholy impulse to empty an ink-bottle over the young calf? Fauntleroykids are a reproach to our civilization. Men, women and children, all ofus, crowd around the grimy Deignan of the Merrimac crew, and shout andcheer for Bill Smith, the Rough Rider, who carried his mate out of theruck at San Juan and twirls his hat awkwardly and explains: "Ef I hadn'ta saw him fall he would 'a' laid thar yit!"--and go straight home andpretend to be proud of a snug little poodle of a man who doesn't playfor fear of soiling his picture-clothes, and who says: "Yes, sir, thankyou," and "No, thank you, ma'am," like a French doll before it has hadthe sawdust kicked out of it!

  * * * * *

  Now, when a hero tries to stamp his acts with the precise quality ofexact justice--why, he performs no acts. He is no better than that poortongue-loose Hamlet, who argues you the right of everything, and then,by the great Jingo! piles in and messes it all by doing the wrong thingat the wrong time and in the wrong manner. It is permitted of course tobe a great moral light and correct the errors of all the dust of earththat has been blown into life these ages; but human justice has beenmeasured out unerringly with poetry and irony to such folk. They areadmitted to be saints, but about the time they have got too good fortheir earthly setting, they have been tied to stakes and lighted upwith oil and faggots; or a soda phosphate with a pinch of cyanide ofpotassium inserted has been handed to them, as in the case of our oldfriend, Socrates. And it's right. When a man gets too wise and goodfor his fellows and is embarrassed by the healthful scent of good humannature, send him to heaven for relief, where he can have the goodlyfellowship of the prophets, the company of the noble army of martyrs,and amuse himself suggesting improvements upon the vocal selectionsof cherubim and seraphim! Impress the idea upon these gentry withwarmth--and--with--oil!

  * * * * *

  The ideal hero of fiction, you say, is Capt. D'Artagnan, first nameunknown, one time cadet in the Reserves of M. de Troisville's companyof the King's Guards, intrusted with the care of the honor and safety ofHis Majesty, Louis XIV. Very well; he is a noble gentleman; thechoice does honor to your heart, mind and soul; take him and hold theremembrance of his courage, loyalty, adroitness and splendid endurancewith hooks of steel. For myself, while yielding to none who honorthe great D'Artagnan, yet I march under the flag of the Sieur Bussyd'Amboise, a proud Clermont, of blood royal in the reign of HenryIII., who shed luster upon a court that was edified by the wisdom of M.Chicot, the "King's Brother," the incomparable jester and philosopher,who would have himself exceeded all heroes except that he despised theactors and the audience of the world's theater and performed valiantfeats only that he might hang his cap and bells upon the achievements inridicule.

  Can it be improper to compare D'Artagnan and Bussy--when the intentionis wholly respectful and the motive pure? If a single protest isheard, there will be an end to this paper now--at once. There are somecomparisons that strengthen both candidates. For, we must consider theextent of the theater and the stage, the space of time covering theachievements, the varying conditions, lights and complexities. As,for instance, the very atmosphere in which these two heroes moved, theaccompaniment of manner which we call the "air" of the histories, andwhich are markedly different. The contrast of breeding, quality andrefinement between Bussy and D'Artagnan is as great as that whichdistinguishes Mercutio from the keen M. Chicot. Yet each was his ownideal type. Birth and the superior privileges of the haute noblesseconferred upon the Sieur Bussy the splendid air of its own sufficientprestige; the lack of these require of D'Artagnan that his intelligence,courage and loyal devotion should yet seem to yield something of theirgreatness in the submission that the man was compelled to pay tothe master. True, this attitude was atoned for on occasion by bluntboldness, but the abased position and the lack of subtle distinction ofair and mind of the noble, forbade to the Fourth Mousquetaire the lastgracious touch of a Bayard of heroism. But the vulgarity was itselfheroic.

  * * * * *

  Compare the first appearance of the great Gascon at the Hotel deTroisville, or even his manner and attitude toward the King when hesought to warn that monarch against forgetfulness of loyalty proved,with the haughty insolence of indomitable spirit in which Bussy threwback to Henry the shuttle of disfavor on the night of that remarkablewedding of St. Luc with the piquant little page soubrette, Jeanne deBrissac.

  D'Artagnan's air to his King has its pathos. It seems to say: "I speakbluntly, sire, knowing that my life is yours and yet feeling that it istoo obscure to provoke your vengeance." A very hard draught for a manof fire and fearlessness to take without a gulp. But into Bussy's mannertoward his King there was this flash of lightning from Olympus: "Mylife, sire, is yours, as my King, to take or leave; but not even youmay dare to think of taking the life of Bussy with the dust of leastreproach upon it. My life you may blow out; my honor you do not dareapproach to question!"

  There are advantages in being a gentleman, which can not be denied.One is that it commands credit in the King's presence as well as at thetailor's.
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  It is interesting to compare both these attitudes with that of"Athos," the Count de la Fere, toward the King. He was lacking inthe irresistibly fierce insolence of Bussy and in the abasement ofD'Artagnan; it was melancholy, patient, persistent and terrible in itsrestrained calmness. How narrowly he just escaped true greatness. Iwould no more cast reproaches upon that noble gentleman than I wouldupon my grandmother; but he--was--a--trifle--serous, wasn't he? He wasbrave, prompt, resourceful, splendid, and, at need, gingerish as thebest colt in the paddock. It is the deuce's own pity for a man to beborn to too much seriousness. Do you know--and as I love my country, Imean it in honest respect--that I sometimes think that the gentlenessand melancholy of Athos somehow suggests a bit of distrust. One isalmost terrified at times lest he may begin the Hamlet controversies.You feel that if he committed a murder by mistake you are not absolutelysure he wouldn't take a turn with Remorse. Not so Bussy; he would throwthe mistake in with good will and not create worry about it. Hang itall, if the necessary business of murder is to halt upon the shufflingaccident of mistake, we may as well sell out the hero business and rentthe shop. It would be down to the level of Hamlet in no time. Unless, ofcourse, the hero took the view of it that Nero adopted. It is improbablethat Nero inherited the gift of natural remorse; but he cultivated oneand seemed to do well with it. He used to reflect upon his mother andhis wife, both of whom he had affectionately murdered, and justifiedhimself by declaring that a great artist, who was also the RomanEmperor, would be lacking in breadth of emotional experience andretrospective wisdom, unless he knew the melancholy of a two-prongedfamily remorse. And from Nero's standpoint it was one of the bestthoughts that he ever formulated into language.

  To return to Bussy and D'Artagnan. In courage they were Hector andAchilles. You remember the champagne picnic before the bastion St.Gervais at the siege of St. Rochelle? What light-hearted gayety amid theflying missiles of the arquebusiers! Yet, do not forget that--ignoringthe lacquey--there were four of them, and that his Eminence, theCardinal Duke, had said the four of them were equal to a thousand men!If you have enough knowledge of human nature to understand the finegame of baseball, and have at any time scraped acquaintance with theinteresting mathematical doctrine of progressive permutations, you willsee, when four men equal to a thousand are under the eyes of each other,and of the garrison in the fort, that the whole arsenal of logarithmswould give out before you could compute the permutative possibilitiesof the courage that would be refracted, reflected, compounded andconcentrated by all there, each giving courage to and receiving couragefrom each and all the others. It makes my head ache to think of it. Ifeel as if I could be brave myself.

  Certainly they were that day. To the bitter end of finishing the meal;and they confessed the added courage by gamboling like boys amid awfulthunders of the arquebuses, which made a rumble in their time like theirsuccessors, the omnibuses, still make to this day on the granite streetsof cities populated by deaf folks.

  There never was more of a gay, lilting, impudent courage than those fourmousquetaires displayed with such splendid coolness and spirit.

  But compare it with the fight which Bussy made, single-handed, againstthe assassins hired by Monsereau and authorized by that effeminatefop, the Due D'Anjou. Of course you remember it. Let me pay you theaffectionate compliment of presuming that you have read "La Dame deMonsereau," often translated under the English title, "Chicot, theJester," that almost incomparable novel of historical romance, by M.Dumas. If, through some accident or even through lack of culture, youhave failed to do so, pray do not admit it. Conceal your blemishand remedy the matter at once. At least, seem to deserve respect andconfidence, and appear to be a worthy novel-reader if actually you arenot. There is a novel that, I assure you on my honor, is as good asthe "Three Guardsmen;" but--oh!--so--much--shorter; the pity of it,too!--oh, the pity of it! On the second reading--now, let us speak withfrank conservatism--on the second reading of it, I give you my word, manto man, I dreaded to turn every page, because it brought the end nearer.If it had been granted to me to have one wish fulfilled that fine winternight, I should have said with humility: "Beneficent Power, string itout by nine more volumes, presto me here a fresh box of cigars, and theaccount of your kindness, and my gratitude is closed."

  * * * * *

  If the publisher of this series did not have such absurd sensitivenessabout the value of space and such pitifully small ideas about thenobility of novels, I should like to write at least twenty pages about"Chicot." There are books that none of us ever put down in our lists ofgreat books, and yet which we think more of and delight more in than allthe great guns. Not one of the friends I've loved so long and well hasbeen President of the United States, but I wouldn't give one of them forall the Presidents. Just across the hall at this minute I can hear thefrightful din of war--shells whistling and moaning, bullets s-e-o-uing,the shrieks of the dying and wounded--Merciful Heaven! the "Don Juanof Asturia" has just blown up in Manila Bay with an awful roar--again!Again, as I'm a living man, just as she has blown up every day, andseveral times every day, since May 1, 1898. There are two warriors overin the play-room, drenched with imaginary gore, immersed in the tendergrace of bestowing chastening death and destruction upon the Spanishfoe. Don't I know that they rank somewhat below Admiral Dewey as heroes?But do you suppose that their father would swap them for Admiral Deweyand all the rainbow glories that fine old Yankee sea-dog ever willenjoy--long may he live to enjoy them all!--do you think so? Of coursenot! You know perfectly well that his--wife--wouldn't--let--him!

  I would not wound the susceptibilities of any reader; but speaking formyself--"Chicot" being beloved of my heart--if there was a meanman, living in a mean street, who had the last volume of "Chicot" inexistence, I would pour out my library's last heart's blood to getit. He could have all of Scott but "Ivanhoe," all of Dickens but"Copperfield," all of Hugo but "Les Miserables," cords of Fielding,Marryat, Richardson, Reynolds, Eliot, Smollet, a whole ton of Germantranslations--by George! he could leave me a poor old despoiled,destitute and ruined book-owner in things that folks buy in costlybindings for the sake of vanity and the deception of those who alsodeceive them in turn.

  Brother, "Chicot" is a book you lend only to your dearest friend, andthen remind him next day that he hasn't sent it back.

  * * * * *

  Now, as to Bussy's great fight. He had gone to the house of Madame Dianade Monsereau. I am not au fait upon French social customs, but let uspresume his being there was entirely proper, because that excellent ladywas glad to see him. He was set upon by her husband, M. de Monsereau,with fifteen hired assassins. Outside, the Due D'Anjou and some othersof assassins were in hiding to make sure that Monsereau killed Bussy,and that somebody killed Monsereau! There's a "situation" for you,double-edged treachery against--love and innocence, let us say. Bussyis in the house with Madame. His friend, St. Luc, is with him; alsohis lacquey and body-physician, the faithful Rely. Bang! the doors arebroken in, and the assassins penetrate up the stairway. The brave Bussyconfides Diana to St. Luc and Rely, and, hastily throwing up a barricadeof tables and chairs near the door of the apartment, draws his sword.Then, ye friends of sudden death and valorous exercise, began a surfeitof joy. Monsereau and his assassins numbered sixteen. In less than threemoderate paragraphs Bessy's sword, playing like avenging lightning,had struck fatality to seven. Even then, with every wrist going, hereflected, with sublime calculation: "I can kill five more, because Ican fight with all my vigor ten minutes longer!" After that? Bessy couldsee no further--there spoke fate!--you feel he is to die. Once more theleaping steel point, the shrill death cry, the miraculous parry. Thevillain, Monsereau, draws his pistol. Bessy, who is fighting halfa dozen swordsmen, can even see the cowardly purpose; he watches;he--dodges--the--bullets!--by watching the aim--

  "Ye sons of France, behold the glory!"

  He thrusts, parries and swings the sword as a falchion. Suddenly apistol ball snaps the blade of
f six inches from the hilt.Bessy picks up the blade and in an instantsplices--it--to--the--hilt--with--his--handkerchief! Oh, good swordof the good swordsman! it drinks the blood of three more beforeit--bends--and--loosens--under--the--strain! Bessy is shot in the thigh;Monsereau is upon him; the good Rely, lying almost lifeless from abullet wound received at the outset, thrusts a rapier to Bessy's graspwith a last effort. Bessy springs upon Monsereau with the great boundof a panther andpins--the--son--of--a--gun--to--the--floor--with--the--rapier--and--watches--him--die!

  You can feel faint for joy at that passage for a good dozen readings, ifyou are appreciative. Poor Bessy, faint from wounds and blood-letting,retreats valiantly to a closet window step by step and drops out,leaving Monsereau spitted, like a black spider, dead on the floor.Here hope and expectation are drawn out in your breast like chewinggum stretched to the last shred of tenuation. At this point I firmlybelieved that Bessy would escape. I feel sorry for the reader who doesnot. You just naturally argue that the faithful Rely will surely reachhim and rub him with the balsam. That balsam of Dumas! The same thatD'Artagnan's mother gave him when he rode away on the yellow horse,and which cured so many heroes hurt to the last gasp. That miraculousbalsam, which would make doctors and surgeons sing small today if theyhad not suppressed it from the materia medica. May be they can silencetheir consciences by the reflection that they suppressed it to enhancethe value and necessity of their own personal services. But let themlook at the death rate and shudder. I had confidence in Rely and thebalsam, but he could not get there in time. Then, it was forgone thatBessy must die. Like Mercutio, he was too brilliant to live. Depend uponit, these wizards of story tellers know when the knell of fate ringsmuch sooner than we halting readers do.

  Bessy drops from the closet window upon an iron fence that surroundedthe park and was impaled upon the dreadful pickets! Even then foranother moment you can cherish a hope that he may escape after all.Suspended there and growing weaker, he hears footsteps approaching. Isit a rescuing friend? He calls out--and a dagger stroke from the hand ofD'Anjou, his Judas master, finds his heart. That's the way Bessy died.No man is proof against the dagger stroke of treachery. Bessy waspowerful and the due jealous.

  Diana has been carried off safely by the trustworthy St. Luc. She musthave died of grief if she had not been kept alive to be the instrumentof retributive justice. (In the sequel you will find that this Queen ofHearts descended upon the ignoble due at the proper time like a thousandof brick and took the last trick of justice.)

  * * * * *

  The extraordinary description of Bussy's fight is beyond everything. Yougallop along as if in a whirlwind, and it is only in cooler moments thatyou discover he killed about twelve rascals with his own good arm. Itseems impossible; the scientific, careful readers have been known todeclare it impossible and sneer at it with laughter. I trust everynovel reader respects scientific folks as he should; but science is noteverything. Our scientific friends have contended that the whale did notengulf Jonah; that the sun did not pause over the vale of Askelon; thatBaron Munchausen's horse did not hang to the steeple by his bridle;that the beanstalk could not have supported a stout lad like Jack; thatGeneral Monk was not sent to Holland in a cage; that Remus and Romulushad not a devoted lady wolf for a step-mother; in fact, that loads ofthings, of which the most undeniable proof exists in plain print allover the world, never were done or never happened. Bessy was killed,Rely was killed later, Diana died in performing her destiny, St. Luc waskilled. Nobody left to make affidavits, except M. Dumas; in his lifetimenobody questioned it; he is now dead and unable to depose; whereupon thescientists sniff scornfully and deny. I hope I shall always continue torespect science in its true offices, but, brethren, are there not timeswhen--science--makes--you--just--a--little--tired?

  Heroes! D'Artagnan or Bessy? Choose, good friends, freely; as freely letme have my Bessy.

  VIII. HEROINES

  A SUBJECT ALMOST WITHOUT AN OBJECT--WHY THERE ARE FEW HEROINES FOR MEN.

  Notwithstanding the subject, there are almost no heroines in novels.There are impossibly good women, absurdly patient and brave women, butfew heroines as the convention of worldly thinking demands heroines.There is an endless train of what Thackeray so aptly described as "pale,pious, and pulmonary ladies" who snivel and snuffle and sigh andlinger irresolutely under many trials which a little common sense woulddissolve; but they are pathological heroines. "Little Nell," "LittleEva," and their married sisters are unquestionable in morals, purposeand faith; but oh! how--they--do--try--the--nerves! How brave and noblewas Jennie Deans, but how thick-headed was the dear lass!

  These women who are merely good, and enforce it by turning on the faucetof tears, or by old-fashioned obstinacy, or stupidity of purpose, canscarcely be called heroines by the canons of understood definition.On the other hand, the conventions do not permit us to describe as aheroine any lady who has what is nowadays technically called "a past."The very best men in the world find splendid heroism and virtue in Tessl'Durbeyfield. There is nowhere an honest, strong, good man, full ofweakness, though he may be, scarred so much, however with fault, whodoes not read St. John vii., 3-11, with sympathy, reverence and Amen!The infallible critics can prove to a hair that this passage is aninterpolation. An interpolation in that sense means something insertedto deceive or defraud; a forgery. How can you defraud or deceive anybodyby the interpolation of pure gold with pure gold? How can that be aforgery which hurts nobody, but gives to everybody more value in thething uttered? If John vii., 3-11, is an interpolation let us hopeHeaven has long ago blessed the interpolator. Does anybody--even theinfallible critic--contend that Jesus would not have so said and doneif the woman had been brought to Him? Was that not the very flower andsavor and soul of His teaching? Would He have said or done otherwise?If the Ten Commandments were lost utterly from among men there would yetremain these four greater:

  "Do unto others as ye would they should do unto you."

  "Suffer little children to come unto me."

  "Go and sin no more."

  "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do."

  My lords and ladies, men and women, the Ten Commandments, by the side ofthese sighs of gentleness, are the Police Court and the Criminal Code,which are intended to pay cruelty off in punishment. These Four arethe tears with which sympathy soothes the wounds of suffering. Blessedinterpolator of St. John!

  There are three marvelous novels in the Bible--not Novels in the senseof fiction, but in the sense of vivid, living narratives of humanemotions and of events. A million Novels rest on those nine verses inJohn, and the nine verses are better than the million books. The storyof David and Uriah's wife is in a similar catalogue as regards qualityand usefulness; the story of Esther is a pearl of great beauty.

  * * * * *

  But to return to heroines, let us make a volte face. There is an oldstory of the lady who wrote rather irritably to Thackeray, asking,curtly, why all the good women he created were fools and the brightwomen all bad. "The same complaint," he answered, "has been made,Madame, of God and Shakespeare, and as neither has given explanation Ican not presume to attempt one." It was curt and severe, and, of course,Thackeray did not write it as it would appear, even though he may havesaid as much jestingly to some intimate who understood the epigram;but was not the question rather impudently intrusive? Thackeray, youremember, was the "seared cynic" who created Caroline Gann, the gentle,beautiful, glorious "Little Sister," the staunch, pure-hearted womanwhose character not even the perfect scoundrelism of Dr. George BrandFirmin could tarnish or disturb. If there are heroines, surely she hasher place high amid the noble group!

  There are plenty of intelligent persons sacramentally wedded to mereconventions of good and bad. You could never persuade them that RebeccaSharp--that most perfect daughter of Thackeray's mind--was a heroine.But of course she was. In that world wherein she was cast to live shewas indubitably, incomparably, the very best of all the i
nhabitantsto whom you are intimately introduced. Capt. Dobbin? Oh, no, I am notforgetting good Old Dob. Of all the social door mats that ever Iwiped my feet upon Old Dob is certainly the cleanest, most patient,serviceable and unrevolutionary. But, just a door mat, with the virtuesand attractions of that useful article of furniture--the sublime,immortal prig of all the ages, or you can take the head of anynovel-reader under thirty for a football. You may have known many women,from Bernadettes of Massavielle to Borgias of scant neighborhoods, butyou know you never knew one who would marry Old Dob, except as thatemotional dishrag, Amelia, married him--as the Last Chance on thestretching high-road of uncertain years. No girl ever willingly marriesdoor mats. She just wipes her feet on them and passes on into thedrawing room looking for the Prince. It seems to me one of thetriumphant proofs of Becky as a heroine that she did not marry CaptainDobbin. She might have done it any day by crooking her little finger athim--but she didn't.

  Madame Becky, that smart daughter of an alcoholic gentleman artistand of his lady of the French ballet, inherited the perfect non-moralmorality of the artist blood that sang mercurially through her veins.How could she, therefore, how could she, being non-moral, be immoral? Itis clear nonsense. But she did possess the instinctive artistmorality of unerring taste for selection in choice. Examine the factsmeticulously--meticulously--and observe how carefully she selected thatbest in all that worst she moved among.

  In the will I shall some day leave behind me there will be devised, inprimogenitural trust forever, the priceless treasure of conviction thatBecky was innocent of Lord Steyne. I leave it to any gentleman who hashad the great opportunity to look in familiarly upon the outer and upperfringes of the world of unclassed and predatory women and the noblelords that abound thereamong. Let him read over again that famous scenewhere Becky writes her scorn upon Steyne's forehead in the noble bloodof that aristocratic wolf. Then let him give his decision, as an honestjuryman upon his oath, whether he is convinced that the most nobleMarquis was raging because he was losing a woman, or from the discoverythat he was one of two dupes facing each other, and that he was the foolwho had paid for both and had had "no run for his money!" Marquises ofSteyne do not resent sentimental losses--they can be hurt only in theirsportsmanship.

  You may begin with the Misses Pinkerton (in whose select school Beckyabsorbed the intricate hypocrisies and saturated snobbery of the highestEnglish society) and follow her through all the little and big turmoilsof her life, meeting on the way of it all the elaborated differentialsof the country-gentleman and lady tribe of Crawley, the line officersand bemedalled generals of the army (except honest O'Dowd and his lady),the most noble Marquis and his shadowy and resigned Marchioness, theR--y--l P--rs--n--ge himself--even down to the tuft-hunters Punter andLoder--and if Becky is not superior to every man and woman of them inevery personal trait and grace that calls for admiration--then, why, byGeorge! do you take such an interest, such an undying interest, in her?You invariably take the greatest interest in the best character in astory--unless it's too good and gets "sweety" and "sticky" and so sourson your philosophical stomach. You can't possibly take any interest inDobbin--you just naturally, emphatically, and in the most unreflectingway in the world, say "Oh, d--n Dobbin!" and go right ahead aftersomebody else. I don't say Becky was all that a perfect Sunday Schoolteacher should have been, but in the group in which she was born to moveshe smells cleaner than the whole raft of them--to me.

  * * * * *

  Thackeray was, next to Shakespeare, the writer most wonderfully combinedof instinct and reason that English literature of grace has produced. Hehas been compared with the Frenchman, Balzac. Since I have no desire toprovoke squabbles about favorite authors, let us merely definitely agreethat such a comparison is absurd and pass on. Because you must havenoticed that Balzac was often feeble in his reason and couldn't make itkeep step with his instinct, while in Thackeray they both step togetherlike the Siamese twins. It is a very striking fact, indeed, that duringall Becky's intense early experiences with the great world, Thackeraydoes not make her guilty. All the circumstances of that world wereguilty and she is placed amidst the circumstances; but that is all.

  "The ladies in the drawing room," said one lady to Thackeray, when"Vanity Fair" in monthly parts publishing had just reached thecatastrophe of Rawdon, Rebecca, old Steyne and the bracelet--"Theladies have been discussing Becky Sharpe and they all agree that she wasguilty. May I ask if we guessed rightly?"

  "I am sure I don't know," replied the "seared cynic," mischievously. "Iam only a man and I haven't been able to make up my mind on that point.But if the ladies agree I fear it may be true--you must understand yoursex much better than we men!"

  That is proof that she was not guilty with Steyne. But straightway then,Thackeray starts out to make her guilty with others. It is so much themore proof of her previous innocence that, incomparable artist as hewas in showing human character, he recognized that he could convincethe reader of her guilt only by disintegrating her, whipping himselfmeanwhile into a ceaseless rage of vulgar abuse of her, a thing of whichThackeray was seldom guilty. But it was not really Becky thatbecame guilty--it was the woman that English society and Thackerayremorselessly made of her. I wouldn't be a lawyer for a wagon load ofdiamonds, but if I had had to be a lawyer I should have preferred tobe a solicitor at the London bar in 1817 to write the brief for therespondent in the celebrated divorce case of Crawley vs. Crawley.Against the back-ground of the world she lived in Becky could have beenpainted as meekly white and beautiful as that lovely old picture of St.Cecilia at the Choir Organ.

  Perhaps Becky was not strictly a heroine; but she was a honey.

  * * * * *

  Men can not "create" heroines in the sense of shadowing forth whatthey conceive to be the glory, beauty, courage and splendor of womanlycharacter. It is the indescribable sum of womanhood corresponding to theunutterable name of God. The true man's love of woman is a spirit senseattending upon the actual senses of seeing, hearing, feeling, tastingand smelling. The woman he loves enters into every one of these sensesand thus is impounded five-fold upon that union of all of them, which,together with the miracle of mind, composes what we call the human soulas a divine essence. She is attached to every religion, yet enters withauthority into none. She is first at its birth, the last to stayweeping at its death. In every great novel a heroine, unnamed, unspoken,undescribed, hovers throughout like an essence. The heroism of womanis her privacy. There is to me no more wonderful, philosophical,psychological and delicate triumph of literary art in existence than thefew chapters in "Quo Vadis" in which that great introspective genius,Sienkiewicz, sets forth the growth of the spell of love with which Lygiahas encompassed Vinicius, and the singular development and progress ofthe emotion through which Vinicius is finally immersed in human love ofLygia and in the Christian reverence of her spiritual purity at the sametime. It is the miracle of soul in sex.

  Every clean-hearted youth that has had the happiness to marry a goodwoman--and, thank Heaven, clean youths and good women are thick asleaves in Vallambrosa in this sturdy old world of ours--every such youthhas had his day of holy conversion, his touch of the wand conferringupon him the miracle of love, and he has been a better and wiser manfor it. Not sense love, not the instinctive, restless love of matter formatter, but the love that descends like the dove amid radiance.

  * * * * *

  We've all seen that bridal couple; she is as pretty as peaches; he is asproud of her as if she were a splendid race horse; he glories in knowingshe is lovely and accepts the admiration offered to her as a tribute tohis own judgment, his own taste and even his merit, which obtained her.There is a certain amount of silliness in her which he soon detects,a touch of helplessness, and unsophistication in knowledge of worldlythings that he yet feels is mysteriously guarded against intrusionupon and which makes companionship with her sometimes irksome. He feelssuperior and uncompensated; from the superb
isolation of his greaterknowledge, courage and independence, he grants to her a certain tenderpity and protection; he admits her faith and purity and--er--but--yousee, he is sorry she is not quite the well poised and noble creature heis! Mr. Youngwed is at this time passing through the mental digestiveprocess of feeling his oats. He is all right, though, if he is half asgood as he thinks he is. He has not been touched by the live wire ofexperience--yet; that's all.

  Well, in the course of human events, there comes a time when he isfrightened to death, then greatly relieved and for a few weeks becomesas proud as if he had actually provided the last census of the UnitedStates with most of the material contained in it. A few months later,when the feeble whines and howls have found increased vigor of utteranceand more frequency of expression; when they don't know whether MasterJack or Miss Jill has merely a howling spell or is threatened with fatalconvulsions; when they don't know whether they want a dog-muzzle or adoctor; when Mr. Youngwed has lost his sleep and his temper, together,and has displayed himself with spectacular effect as a brute, selfish,irritable, helpless, resourceless and conquered--then--then, my dearmadame, you have doubtless observed him decrease in self-estimated sizelike a balloon into which a pin has been introduced, until he looks, infact, like Master Frog reduced in bulk from the bull-size, to which heaspired, to his original degree.

  At that time Mrs. Youngwed is very busy with little Jack or Jill, as thecase may be. Her husband's conduct she probably regards with resignationas the first heavy burden of the cross she is expected to bear. Shedoes not reproach him, it is useless; she has perhaps suspected thathis assumed superiority would not stand the real strain. But, he is thefather of the dear baby and, for that precious darling's sake, she willbe patient. I wonder if she feels that way? She has every right to, and,for one, I say that I'll be hanged if I find any fault with her if shedoes. That is the way she must keep human, and so balance the littleopen accounts that married folks ought to run between themselves forthe purpose of keeping cobwebs and mildew off, or rather of maintainingtheir lives as a running stream instead of a stagnant pond. A littlegood talking back now and then is good for wives and married men.Don't be afraid, Mrs. Youngwed; and when the very worst has come, whycry--at--him! One tear weighs more and will hit him harder than an ax.In the lachrymal ducts with which heaven has blessed you, you are moresurely protected against the fires of your honest indignation than youare by the fire department against a blaze in the house. And bepatient, also; remember, dear sister, that, though you can cry, he hasa gift--that--enables--him--to--swear! You and other wedded wives veryproperly object to swearing, but you will doubtless admit that thereis compensation in that when he does swear in his usual good formyou--never--feel--any--apprehension--about--the--state--of--his--health!

  This natural outburst of resentment has not lasted three minutes. Mr.Y. has returned to his couch, sulky and ashamed. He pretends to sleepostentatiously; he--does--not! He is thinking with remarkable intensityand has an eye open. He sees the slender figure in the dim light,hanging over the crib, he hears the crooning, he begins to suspect thatthere is an alloy in his godlikeness. He looks to earth, listens to thethin, wailing cries, wonders, regrets, wearies, sleeps. At that momentMrs. Y. should fall on her knees and rejoice. She would if she couldleave young Jack or Jill; but she can't--she--never--can. That'swhat sent Mr. Y. to sleep. It is just as well perhaps that Mrs. Y. isunobservant.

  A miracle is happening to Mr. Y. In an hour or two, let us say, thereis a new vocal alarm from the crib. Almost with the first suspicionof fretfulness or pain the mother has heard it. Heaven's mysterioustelepathy of instinct has operated. Between angels, babies and mothersthe distance is no longer than your arm can reach. They understand, feeland hear each other, and are linked in one chain. So, that, when Mr.Y. has struggled laboriously awake and wondersif--that--child--is--going--to--howl--all----. Well, he goes no further.In the dim light he sees again the slender figure hanging over the crib,he hears the crooning and the retreating sobs. It is just as he sawand heard before he fell asleep. No complaints, no reproaches, noirritation. Oh, what a brute he feels! He battles with his reason andhis bewilderment. Had he fallen asleep and left her to bear that strain;or has she gone anew to the rescue, while he slept without thought? Upout of his heart the tenderness wells; down into his mind the revelationcomes. The miracle works. He looks and listens. In the figure hangingthere so patiently and tenderly he sees for the first time the wonderfulvision of the sweetheart wife, not lost, but enveloped in the mystery ofmotherhood; he hears in the crooning voice a tone he never before knew.Mother and child are united in mysterious converse. Where did that girlwhom he thought so unsophisticated of the world learn that marvel ofacquaintance with that babe, so far removed from his ability to reach?It must be that while he knew the world, she understood the secret ofheaven. She is so patient. What a brute he is to grow impatient, whenshe endures day and night in rapt patience and the joy of content! Shecan enter a world from which he is barred. And, that is his wife!That was his sweetheart, and is now--ah, what is she? He feels somehowabashed; he knows that if he were ten times better than he is he mightstill feel unworthy to touch the latchet of her shoes; he feels thatreverence and awe have enveloped her, and that the first happy love andlonging are springing afresh in his heart. It is his wife and hischild; apart from him unless he can note and understand that miracleof nature's secret. Can he? Well, he will try--oh, what a brute! And hewatches the bending figure, he hears the blending of soft crooning andretreating sobs--and, listening, he is lost in the wonder and fallsunder the spell asleep.

  Mrs. Y., you are happy henceforth, if you will disregard certain smallmatters, such as whether chairs or hat-racks are for hats, or whetherthe marble mantelpiece or the floor is intended for polishing bootheels.

  * * * * *

  Of course, such an incident as has been suggested is but one ofthousands of golden moments when to the husband comes the suddendazzling recognition of the mergence of that half-sweetheart,half-mistress, he has admired and a little tired of, into thereverential glory and loveliness of wifehood, motherhood, companionhood,through all life and on through the eternity of inheritance they shallleave to Jacks and Jills and their little sisters and brothers. Inthat lies the priceless secret of Christianity and its influence.The unspeakably immoral Greeks reared a temple to Pity; the grossestmythologies of Babylon, Greece, Rome and Carthage could not changehuman nature. There have been always persons whose temperament madethem sympathize with grief and pity the suffering; who, caring nonefor wealth, had no desire to steal; who purchased a little pleasure forvanity in the thanks received for kindness given. But Christianity sawthe jewel underneath the passing emotion and gave it value bycleansing and cutting it. In lust-love is the instinctive secret of thepreservation of the race; but the race is not worth preserving that itmay be preserved only for lust. Upon that animal foundation is to bebuilt the radiant home of confident, enduring and exchanging lovein which all the senses, tastes, hopes, aspirations and delights offriendship, companionship and human society shall find hospitalityand comfort. When it has been achieved it is beautiful, a twin to thedelicate rose that lies in its own delicious fragrance, happy on thepure bosom of a lovely girl--the rose that is finest and most exquisitebecause it has sprung from the horrid heat of the compost; but who shallthink of the one in the presence of the pure beauty of the other?

  Nature and art are entirely unlike each other, though the one simulatesthe other. The art of beauty in writing, said Balzac, is to be ableto construct a palace upon the point of a needle; the art of beautyin living and loving is to build all the beauty of social life andaspiration upon the sordid yet solid and persisting instincts ofsavagery that lie deep at the bottom of our gross natures.

  * * * * *

  Now, it is in this tender sacred atmosphere, such as Mr. and Mrs.Youngwed always pass through, that the man worthy of a woman'sconfidence finds the radiant ideal of his heroine. H
e may with proprietyspeak of these transfigured personalities to his intimates or write ofthem with kindly pleasantry and suggestion as, perhaps, this will beconsidered. But, there is a monitor within that restrains him fromanalyzing and describing and dragging into the glare of publicity thesacred details that give to life all its secret happiness, faith anddelight. To do so would be ten times worse offense against the ethicsof unwritten and unspoken things than describing with pitiless precisionthe death beds of children, as Little Nell, Paul Dombey, Dora, LittleEva, and, thank heaven! only a few others.

  How can anybody bear to read such pages without feeling that he isan intruder where angels should veil their faces as they await thetransformation?

  "It is not permitted to do evil," says the philosopher, "that good mayresult."

  There are some things that should remain unspoken and undescribed. Haveyou never listened to some great brute of a sincere preacher of thegospel, as he warned his congregation against the terrible dangersattending the omission of purely theological rites upon infants? Haveyou thought of the mothers of those children, listening, whose littleones were sick or delicate, and who felt each word of that hard, ominouswarning as an agonizing terror? And haven't you wanted to kick theminister out of the pulpit, through the reredos and into the middleof next week? How can anybody harrow up such tender feelings? How cananybody like to believe that a little child will be held to account?Many of us do so believe, perhaps, whether or no; but is it not cruelto shake the rod of terror over us in public? "Suffer little childrento come unto Me," said the Master; He did not instruct us to drive themwith fear and terror and trembling. Whenever I have heard such sermons Ihave wanted to get up and stalk out of the church with ostentatiousnessof contempt, as if to say to the preacher that his conductdid--not--meet--with--my--approval. But I didn't; the philosopher hashis cowardice not less than the preacher.

  But there is something meretricious and cheap in the use of materialand subjects that lie warm against the very secret heart of nature. Themystery of love and the sanctity of death are to be used by writers andartists only in their ennobling aspect of results. A certain class ofFrench writers have sickened the world by invading the sacredness ofpassion and giving prostitution the semblance of self-abnegated love; acertain class of English and American writers have purchased popularityby the meretricious parade of the scenes of death-beds. Both areviolations of the ethics of art as they are of nature. True love astrue sorrow shrinks from exhibition and should be permitted to enjoythe sacredness of privacy. The famous women of the world, Herodias,Semiramis, Aspasia, Thais, Cleopatra, Sapho, Messalina, Marie deMedici, Catherine of Russia, Elizabeth of England--all of them have beenimmoral. Publicity to women is like handling to peaches--the bloom comesoff, whether or not any other harm occurs. In literature, the greatfeminine figures, George Sand, Madame de Sevigne, Madame de Stael,George Eliot--all were banned and at least one--the first--was out ofthe pale. Creative thought has in it the germ of masculinity. Genius ina woman, as we usually describe genius, means masculinity, which, of allthings, to real men is abhorrent in woman. True genius in woman is theantithesis of the qualities that make genius in man; so is her heroism,her beauty, her virtue, her destiny and her duty.

  Let this be said--even though it be only a jest--one of those smartattempts at epigram, which, ladies, a man has no more power to resistthan a baby to resist the desire to improve his thumb by suckingit--that: whenever you find a woman who looks real--that is, whoproduces upon a real man the impression of being endowed withthe splendid gifts for united and patient companionship inmarriage--whenever you find her advocating equal suffrage, equal rights,equal independence with men in all things, you may properly run away.Equality means so much, dear sisters. No man can be your equal; you cannot be his, without laying down the very jewels of the womanlinessthat men love. Be thankful you have not this strength and daring;he possesses those in order that he many stand between you and morepowerful brutes. Now, let us try for a smart epigram: But no! hang theepigram, let it go. This, however, may be said: That, whenever you finda woman wanting all rights with man; wanting his morals to be judgedby hers, or willing to throw hers in with his, or itching to enter hisemployments and labors and willing that he shall--of course--nurse thechildren and patch the small trousers and dresses, depend upon it thatsome weak and timid man has been neglecting the old manly, savage dutyof applying quiet home murder as society approves now and then.