Chapter 5

Most women fail to understand why they are unable to retain their rejected lovers. To me the explanation is plain. The average woman has nothing to give her lover, when he asks the all-important question, but a few tender, meaningless words to environ her _yes_ or _no_. Of course, when the answer is yes, they both feed on the thought of marriage until its consummation. But if she is forced to say no, it leaves her barren of any thing to offer in lieu of the affection demanded. She is at once destituted of resources. She has no mental reservoir out of which she may feed the man's desire, and gently but effectually turn it into an intellectual channel of her own making and directing. Therefore the man is lost to her--be he Platitude or Pleasure. She has made the fatal failure of neglecting to furnish--and at once--a sufficient amount of intellectual excitement to fascinate the man into lingering, and force him finally into a steadfast allegiance. Women ought never insult their rejected lovers by _asking_ them for their friendship. Those things come, if come they can, of themselves. It is such an ugly mistake to insist on giving every thing a name. Emotions thrive so much better when they are nameless. We rightly label poisons, but why should we label perfumes? I love a touch of the vague and of the mysterious. It is the mystery-man who wins the woman. Direct courtships--when found in novels--read well, but they are not advisable in real life. Women like to upset well-laid plans by perverse and counter movements. A man must always let a woman do a reasonable share of the courting. I know so many men who have been courted outright by their wives--of course in a gentle, womanly way. It is often done. I have sometimes been so much interested in a man that I have fancied myself at last in love. But it is always a fleet-footed fancy. Interest and Love are not always the same--Robert Fairfield once interested me, but I never loved him.

I lead an ideal, independent life. I have no uncongenial family ties. My wishes, yea, even my whims, find instant gratification, if gratification is possible. I am just delicate enough to gain the tenderest consideration from all who know me. My little social sins gain the readiest forgiveness--from those who love me--and, in the eyes of some, grow into positive virtues. I maybe outrageously tardy for an engagement, or, without any particular reason, break it altogether, yet be understood and upheld. Platitudes do not always understand, and sometimes foolishly rebel. But it is of no use. I have a little way of making them believe that it was actually they and not I who had committed the offense. And they plead for _me_ to forgive _them!_

My modes of life are somewhat peculiar--at least commonplace persons think them so. I give little lunches and dinners. I invite just whomsoever I please. Now and then, for the sake of good form, and of the good mother, I have regulation affairs, to which I bid the _society regulars_--the so-called first and best set, who take invitations as a matter of course, who consider themselves the social salt of the earth, who go every where, and move about the houses of other people as if they owned them. The _Society Regular_ is a well-dressed, bad-mannered, somewhat disagreeable animal, devoid of innate delicacy, and absolutely without gratitude. They are Platitudes of the first water. They do not frequent my house. They never dine or lunch with me, my Pleasures and other Platitudes.

This regulation affair is generally and afternoon tea. I leave out my retinue, the Kaleidoscopic Circle, and tell them about it afterward. My Social Exquisites and my Social Drifters are _reformed regulars_--brands snatched from the burning by me. Briefless Barristers delight me very much. I have several interesting specimens in the legal line. It is interesting to have "young men of great promise" around me. True, their fees are small and few between, yet that enables them to see just that much more of me. In the old days I used to read law with them; but I have very wisely abandoned that little habit--it was tiresome.

I have one or two Men Who Have Risen. They are crude, uncultured creatures, but full of excellent points. One of them is a widower, who made his large fortune killing hogs, and afterward canning peas, tomatoes, etc. Of course he talks all the time about how he made his money. I am always an attentive listener, and I verily believe that I now have a practical knowledge of the hog business and canning interests of the country.

Men Unsuccessful look to me for new inspiration, new hope. They are always interesting. They are mental fragments flung aside by God, and by Him held down--so they tell me. They are bitter, cynical, and nearly always dyspeptic. They are near of kin to my Sympathy Seekers, who are pale, light-haired creatures, continually making appeals for sympathy. But my Sympathy Finders are very near and dear to me. They are generally silent, melancholy men. They are always bearable, unless they chance to be in love with some other woman, and make me, along with a dozen other people, their _one and only_ confidant. Then is my life made a burden. I am privately interviewed on all occasions, the more inopportune the better. I am cornered and made a vessel for his pent-up feelings. I am told of her cruel treatment. I am told of her charms and of her faults--principally not loving him. I am worked up into a nervous state. My physical nature grants him tears, while my mental nature speculates about the sincerity of his passion and just to how many others he may have told the self-same story. Of course all this is wearing, yet it is very interesting.

Newspaper Reporters are a much-abused, downtrodden class. I have known many, and I have yet to know one unworthy of a true woman's confidence. Treat them as if they were dogs, and they will act like dogs--forever barking and biting at your heels; but treat them like human beings, with due and just consideration, and they will prove to you the wisdom of your course. Newspaper Poets gather about me in a body. I have all styles and gradations. They run the entire range from bad to fairly good; but there is one who writes a most exquisite verse. He is a tender, sympathetic, yet cynical man. Somehow he has slipped away. I was not able to hold him, nor did I wish or even dare to keep him. He is scornful of the world. He sees no reason why he should be here. He would rather not have been born--if _he_ had been consulted. After all, I may have idealized and overrated him. One of his rival poet friends once told me that my favorite and favored verse-maker was an inveterate poker-player and a continual loser! Ergo, the cynicism and scornfulness of the world. But banish tawdry thought!

Authors Private and Authors Public haunt my salon; men who have written and printed "little things of their own" for "private circulation only;" and men who have given their books to the world at large--generally to the detriment of the world. They are full of twists and notions. They seek me to gain admiration, and they do--for I am a generous person. People Of The Army and People Of The Navy are valuable to have around, for the sake of looks and manners. They never disappoint you. A man who has been on an Arctic expedition is especially desirable. You get material for a hero at small cost. I have one Arctic Explorer, and two army men who have been stationed in Yellowstone Park, and who fought with the dead Custer. My Bohemians are my chief delight, and they are many. They give the brightest, strongest colors to my Kaleidoscopic Circle. They give me new strength to fight the little battles and calms of every-day life. They give me the halo and the aroma of a new existence. This, in brief, the retinue.

I seldom have--and less here of late than ever--a desire to marry. To me marriage would be such an uncertain thing--a risk with so little to gain. I am unwilling to relinquish my hold on the center of this charming circle. As it is I am a possibility--unfulfilled, it is true, yet a possibility--to twenty men or more. So I am unwilling to give up _all_ of my Pleasures just for the sake of any _one_ particular Pleasure, who might in six months, aye six days, reduce himself into a miserable Platitude. I may and I may not be a great number of things; but alas, above all, I am critical. Platitudes as Platitudes may constantly afford even considerable interest, but Platitudes do not make ideal husbands for women of my peculiar temperament and mental caliber.

I would rather be a Queen of Possibilities reigning over many hearts than a Queen of just one heart, and that one, perhaps, a most unworthy heart.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Inner Sisterhood, by Douglass Sherley et al.