XVI. THE DECEITS OF LOVE.

One of the advantages proposed to themselves by those ingenious persons who “make love” to other persons of the opposite sex is the coming into possession of a kindred soul to which he or she may communicate every thought as it arises, find an echo for every opinion, and sympathy for each emotion.

Those of us who have ever experienced the tender passion probably “have our opinion” as to the working advantages of this theory. We know how easy it is to find a soul, kindred or otherwise, of which it is wise or profitable to make a mirror of our own, and have proved quite thoroughly the comfort of expressing each sentiment as it arises, our likes and dislikes, wishes, prejudices, and opinions. Let me state just here, for fear of misapprehension, that in the words of Artemus Ward, “this is intended to be sarkastikal,” and that my sober and serious opinion is, that this absolute sincerity and perfect unity of mind, speech and conviction is merely one of those rose-colored delusions hanging like sunrise clouds about the dawn of love, and sure to be dispelled when the orb of light either arises in his strength or goes behind a cloud.

People who have found time to study the subject say that no two leaves upon a tree, no two flowers upon a stalk, no two pebbles or grains of sand or crystals upon the shore, are exactly alike, but the microscope, if not the naked eye, will discern enough difference to insure individuality, and it is said that a trained shepherd knows every one of the sheep in a flock of hundreds as positively as his wife does the lambs of her nursery. And if grains of sand, leaves and sheep each have an individuality, and can never become precise fac-similes of each other, is it not rather a foolish idea to try to force two personalities into the same mold; and shouldn’t we suppose even lovers might retain sense enough to see that their two minds, hearts or souls are and will remain two, and would be valueless if they were only the half of one, as they persist in calling them?

Frederic likes Limburger cheese and lager beer; Laura detests both, and dotes upon caramels and sweet champagne. A little lunch is in question, and Laura insists upon the Limburger and lager, “because I like everything you do, darling,” and so makes herself ill for the day. Frederic does not generally imitate this example, for, while a man may be quite willing to surrender his politics, his religion and his literary tastes to the lady of his love—that is, for a little while—he does not, as a general thing, sacrifice his stomach; and if Laura is not quite bereft of common sense she will not ask him to do so, for, even if he complies with her request, he will never forgive either himself or her.

And why should she attempt the folly of forcing her own palate into identity with his? And why should she pretend to succeed? And why, with her little nose pink in its effort not to curl up at the scent of the cheese, and her eyes red and watery with her effort to quaff the effervescent beer, should she perjure herself by declaring that she likes it “ever so much,” and prefers it to champagne and frozen pudding just as much as he does? Frederic, probably, does not believe her, and thinks her a little fool for her pains, or, if he does believe her, fails to feel any gratitude or admiration for the conversion. His highest meed of praise is, “That’s where you show your good sense, my dear,” and if the cheese lingers in her breath or the beer reddens her nose, he is ever so faintly repelled by the likeness to himself.

They go out and meet Araminta, who is much prettier than Laura. Frederic appreciates the fact, and when Laura jealously taxes him with it he swears he doesn’t think so at all, didn’t know they met her, never noticed her costume, had forgotten the color of her eyes. Now if, like Laura, Frederic is resolved that there shall be only one mind and one taste between them, he should reply: “Yes, my dear, Araminta is far prettier than you, and her dress is far richer and more stylish. We appreciate the fact, and we hate her for it, and wish we could deny it.” But perfect frankness in this case would probably not conduce to perfect harmony, and Frederic is too wise to attempt it, although in avoiding Scylla he tumbles into Charybdis, and disparages the rival beauty so much as to leave the impression that he is concealing a far greater admiration than he really possesses.

What, then, should he do or say, and by what cunningly devised deceit of love shall he conceal the fact that he perceives Araminta’s beauty, while still loyal to Laura? For my part, I have no answer ready, for I never yet have met a man clever enough to disguise his true sentiments upon such subjects. And here let me once more warn the Frederics—that is to say, the lovers and admirers among the male sex—that even a very silly little woman is generally acute enough to follow the workings of a man’s mind in matters relating to herself, and sees through those little deceits and pretenses of his far quicker than he can fathom her similar arts.

Supposing a case like the above, I really think a judicious sincerity is better than attempt at diplomacy. “Yes, Araminta is very handsome, no doubt, and I dare say the crowd would admire her more than they do you; but I am not the crowd; I am your lover, and to me you are the woman of the world. Let Araminta and the crowd go by; I am satisfied so long as you remain.”

Some such speech as this, truthfully uttered, will be to most women far more “fetching” than a wholesale disparagement of their rival, which they know must be insincere.

Another very common class of the deceits of love is for either the man or the woman to feign virtues they do not possess, and do not really care to acquire except for the occasion. The admirer, with matrimony in his eye, is invited to visit at the home of the fair one who, although as sweetly unconscious as a lamb cropping daisies, understands perfectly why he is there and what he intends. How amiable and gentle she is with her little brothers! How attentive and dutiful to her mother! How bright and patient under her big brother’s teasing! How quick to see that papa is tired, and give him his slippers, his newspaper, his favorite seat. With what filial piety she listens to her maiden aunt’s thrice-told tales, and finds grandmamma’s spectacles.

It is not all deceit, of course. She feels happy, and the world has long since amended the old proverb into “Be happy and you’ll be good,” and fully conscious that critical eyes and ears follow her every action, she takes pleasure in making it an admirable one.

But if this new departure comes from no deeper motive; if, in fact, it is only one of the deceits of love, it is worse than useless, for there is nothing more murderous to love than the knowledge that it has been obtained by false pretenses.

If, courtship over and marriage established, the bride gradually drops all the amiable and ready observances that so pleased her lover; if a nipping and peevish temper succeeds to the sweet patience he has admired; if she is careless and negligent toward her parents, now that there is nothing more to gain from them; if she shows herself selfish and indolent and unsympathetic toward himself, she may be sure that his disillusionment will be all the more rapid and thorough because he had been led to believe in other things.

No, if a girl begins by deceiving her lover as to her own character she had better resolve, in the interest of her own comfort, to keep up the deceit for life, and never let him find out that any other course is possible to her. She may, in fact, very wisely adapt to her own career the advice, “If you are going to tell a lie, tell a good one, and then stick to it.”

And I have seen cases where this course has been so successfully pursued that the husband and the former friends of his wife remained at variance for life as to her character; one looked upon the golden, and the other upon, let us say, the (German) silver of the shield, and neither could believe that the other saw straight.

I do not think men, even when in love, make such wholesale pretense of a “change of heart” as this. In the first place, they seldom think their own faults are objectionable, and in the next they have a lordly fashion of expecting the women to accept them, faults and all.

“How your coat always smells of tobacco smoke!” says she, making a little moue as she withdraws from close contact with said coat.

“Oh, no, it doesn’t; I went up in the smoking room at the club, but the wind has blown it all away—you don’t smell it,” replies he, which statement can hardly be called a deceit, but is often satisfactory to the weaker vessel.

No, men’s deceits of love are more generally with regard to the shady corners of their lives, past or present. Probably no woman ever accepted a man’s love without at once demanding a confession as to his ever having proffered love to any other woman, etc.

Now there are very few men, very few indeed, who both can and will answer these questions truthfully. Sometimes there are tender memories which he shrinks from offering to his new love, as one might toss a ball to a kitten. Sometimes he has loved where he could not offer marriage, and honor demands that the whole affair shall remain secret, even from the wife of his later life. Sometimes there are dark and disgraceful secrets which it would be suicide to reveal, and sometimes, one is ashamed to confess, a man deliberately plans to carry on two lives, with one of which the innocent girl he asks to marry him has no concern.

In whichever of these channels the truth may run, it is pretty certain that it will not come to the surface in reply to the tender inquiries of the fair one, and it is only a very young or a very credulous woman who will believe, though he swear it that her lover has never kissed other lips than hers, or whispered love to other ears. Nor, to my mind, is it altogether desirable that it should be true; the nature of man is versatile, and his appetite is omnivorous; his teeth are adapted for the tearing of lamb as well as for the mashing of strawberries and cherries. If he has never tasted the one or the other, be sure his instinct will impel him to do so first or last, and it is better that it should have been before we knew him than after we have committed our own hearts to his keeping.

But if this omnivorous appetite has been fully tested, and if the strawberries appeal to the palate more highly than the stronger meats, there is a certain amount of probability of constancy in the last direction so long as the delicate fruit retains its sweet and alluring flavor. But how foolish of the human strawberry to insist upon those grinders saying they had never crushed meat, or those incisors that they had never cut into an apple or a banana!

A man cannot be sincere as to his past experiences if he is no better than the average man, and to insist upon his being so is to drive him into a labyrinth of deceit, where to be sure he is generally quite content to dwell. But this deceit is utterly unjustifiable and unpardonable when it concerns not only the past but the present and the proposed future.

A man, like a woman, may, under the influence of a real love, assume a character which has never hitherto been his; he may resolve sincerely to close the gates of those dark ways wherein he has hitherto walked, and to let his future path be open to the light of day and to the closest scrutiny of his wife’s eyes; and although he does not quite truthfully reply to the inquisition she is sure to make into his ancient history, he may be forgiven if he is really going to make the future as fair as he is now representing the past.

So the moral of that is, my dear sisters, don’t be too severe upon the deceits of love, however transparent you may find them, so long as it is your own unwise persistence that has forced them upon your lover.

But there are other deceits practiced by both sexes, especially by lovers who are no longer young—little deceits as to age, as to infirmities, as to weariness, as to former experiences, in fact as to all landmarks that might reveal just how much of life’s course has been traversed, and, although neither party is very much deceived, he or she accepts the other’s little pretenses on the tacit understanding that his or her own shall pass muster.

But saddest of all deceits of love, because it is only of self-love, is the picture of an apparition that does not exist. A girl brought up in the worship of the world, and its needs and amusements, all of which require money, has the opportunity of marrying a man who can give her all those things if she will give him her youth and beauty and—her love. The latter is perhaps already bestowed, perhaps it has not yet awakened, perhaps it is altogether wanting. At any rate she must feign it, or she cannot complete her share of the bargain. Well, women can generally do whatever they set their hands to, and this among the rest, but is it not true that no deceit of love is so pitiful as this feigning of a love that does not exist? None so pitiful and none so transparent, although so often practiced that both you and I can think of more than one example—more’s the pity of it, more’s the pity!