the quest of the golden girl- 第3部分

Moreover；　much　about　the　same　time　as　Firenzuola　was　writing；　Botticelli's　blonde；　angular；　retrousse　women　were　breaking　every　one　of　that　beauty…　master's　canons；　perfect　in　beauty　none　the　less；　and　lovers　then；　and　perhaps　particularly　now；　have　found　the　perfect　beauty　in　faces　to　which　Messer　Firenzuola　would　have　denied　the　name　of　face　at　all；　by　virtue　of　a　quality　which　indeed　he　has　tabulated；　but　which　is　far　too　elusive　and　undefinable；　too　spiritual　for　him　truly　to　have　understood；a　quality　which　nowadays　we　are　tardily　recognising　as　the　first　and　last　of　all　beauty；　either　of　nature　or　art；the　supreme；　truly　divine；　because　materialistically　unaccountable；　quality　of　Charm！

〃Beauty　that　makes　holy　earth　and　heaven　May　have　faults　from　head　to　feet。〃

O　loveliest　and　best…loved　face　that　ever　hallowed　the　eyes　that　now　seek　for　you　in　vain！　　Such　was　your　strange　lunar　magic；　such　the　light　not　even　death　could　dim。　And　such　may　be　the　loveliest　and　best…　loved　face　for　you　who　are　reading　these　pages；faces　little　understood　on　earth　because　they　belong　to　heaven。

There　is　indeed　only　one　law　of　beauty　on　which　we　may　rely；that　it　invariably　breaks　all　the　laws　laid　down　for　it　by　the　professors　of　aesthetics。　　All　the　beauty　that　has　ever　been　in　the　world　has　broken　the　laws　of　all　previous　beauty；　and　unwillingly　dictated　laws　to　the　beauty　that　succeeded　it；laws　which　that　beauty　has　no　less　spiritedly　broken；　to　prove　in　turn　dictator　to　its　successor。

The　immortal　sculptors；　painters；　and　poets　have　always　done　exactly　what　their　critics　forbade　them　to　do。　　The　obedient　in　art　are　always　the　forgotten。

Likewise　beautiful　women　have　always　been　a　law　unto　themselves。　　Who　could　have　prophesied　in　what　way　any　of　these　inspired　law…breakers　would　break　the　law；　what　new　type　of　perfect　imperfection　they　would　create？

So　we　return　to　the　Perfect　Woman；　having　gained　this　much　knowledge　of　her；that　her　perfection　is　nothing　more　or　less　than　her　unique；　individual；　charming　imperfection；　and　that　she　is　simply　the　woman　we　love　and　who　is　fool　enough　to　love　us。



CHAPTER　VI

IN　WHICH　THE　AUTHOR　ANTICIPATES　DISCONTENT　ON　THE　PART　OF　HIS　READER

〃But　come；〃　I　imagine　some　reader　complaining；　〃isn't　it　high　time　for　something　to　happen？〃　　No　doubt　it　is；　but　what　am　I　to　do？　　I　am　no　less　discontented。　　Is　it　not　even　more　to　my　interest　than　to　the　reader's　for　something　to　happen？　　Here　have　I　been　tramping　along　since　breakfast…time；　and　now　it　is　late　in　the　afternoon；　but　never　a　feather　of　her　dove's　wings；　never　a　flutter　of　her　angel's　robes　have　I　seen。　　It　is　disheartening；　for　one　naturally　expects　to　find　anything　we　seek　a　few　minutes　after　starting　out　to　seek　it；　and　I　confess　that　I　expected　to　find　my　golden　mistress　within　a　very　few　hours　of　leaving　home。　　However；　had　that　been　the　case；　there　would　have　been　no　story；　as　the　novelists　say；　and　I　trust；　as　he　goes　on；　the　reader　may　feel　with　me　that　that　would　have　been　a　pity。　Besides；　with　that　prevision　given　to　an　author；　I　am　strongly　of　opinion　that　something　will　happen　before　long。　　And　if　the　worst　comes　to　the　worst；　there　is　always　that　story　of　my　First　Love　wherewith　to　fill　the　time。　　Meanwhile　I　am　approaching　a　decorative　old　Surrey　town；　little　more　than　a　cluster　of　ripe　old　inns；　to　one　of　which　I　have　much　pleasure　in　inviting　the　reader　to　dinner。



CHAPTER　VII

PRANDIAL

Dinner！

Is　there　a　more　beautiful　word　in　the　language？

Dinner！

Let　the　beautiful　word　come　as　a　refrain　to　and　fro　this　chapter。

Dinner！

Just　eating　and　drinking；　nothing　more；　but　so　much！

Drinking；　indeed；　has　had　its　laureates。　Yet　would　I　offer　my　mite　of　prose　in　its　honour。　　And　when　I　say　〃drinking；〃　I　speak　not　of　smuggled　gin　or　of　brandy　bottles　held　fiercely　by　the　neck　till　they　are　empty。

Nay；　but　of　that　lonely　glass　in　the　social　solitude　of　the　tavern；alone；　but　not　alone；　for　the　glass　is　sure　to　bring　a　dream　to　bear　it　company；　and　it　is　a　poor　dream　that　cannot　raise　a　song。　　And　what　greater　felicity　than　to　be　alone　in　a　tavern　with　your　last　new　song；　just　born　and　yet　still　a　tingling　part　of　you。

Drinking　has　indeed　been　sung；　but　why；　I　have　heard　it　asked；　have　we　no　〃Eating　Songs？〃for　eating　is；　surely；　a　fine　pleasure。　Many　practise　it　already；　and　it　is　becoming　more　general　every　day。

I　speak　not　of　the　finicking　joy　of　the　gourmet；　but　the　joy　of　an　honest　appetite　in　ecstasy；　the　elemental　joy　of　absorbing　quantities　of　fresh　simple　food；mere　roast　lamb；　new　potatoes；　and　peas　of　living　green。

It　is；　indeed；　an　absorbing　pleasure。　　It　needs　all　our　attention。　　You　must　eat　as　you　kiss；　so　exacting　are　the　joys　of　the　mouth；talking；　for　example。　　The　quiet　eye　may　be　allowed　to　participate；　and　sometimes　the　ear；　where　the　music　is　played　upon　a　violin；　and　that　a　Stradivarius。　　A　well…kept　lawn；　with　six…hundred…years…old　cedars　and　a　twenty…feet　yew　hedge；　will　add　distinction　to　the　meal。　　Nor　should　one　ever　eat　without　a　seventeenth…century　poet　in　an　old　yellow…leaved　edition　upon　the　table；　not　to　be　read；　of　course；　any　more　than　the　flowers　are　to　be　eaten；　but　just　to　make　music　of　association　very　softly　to　our　thoughts。

Some　diners　have　wine　too　upon　the　table；　and　in　the　pauses　of　thinking　what　a　divine　mystery　dinner　is；　they　eat。

For　dinner　IS　a　mystery；a　mystery　of　which　even　the　greatest　chef　knows　but　little；　as　a　poet　knows　not；


〃with　all　his　lore；　　　　　　　Wherefore　he　sang；　　or　whence　the　mandate　sped。〃


〃Even　our　digestion　is　governed　by　angels；〃　said　Blake；　and　if　you　will　resist　the　trivial　inclination　to　substitute　〃bad　angels；〃　is　there　really　any　greater　mystery　than　the　process　by　which　beef　is　turned　into　brains；　and　beer　into　beauty？　　Every　beautiful　woman　we　see　has　been　made　out　of　beefsteaks。　　It　is　a　solemn　thought；and　the　finest　poem　that　was　ever　written　came　out　of　a　grey　pulpy　mass　such　as　we　make　brain　sauce　of。

And　with　these　grave　thoughts　for　grace　let　us　sit　down　to　dinner。

Dinner！



CHAPTER　VIII

STILL　PRANDIAL

What　wine　shall　we　have？　　I　confess　I　am　no　judge　of　wines；　except　when　they　are　bad。　　To…night　I　feel　inclined　to　allow　my　choice　to　be　directed　by　sentiment；　and　as　we　are　on　so　pretty　a　pilgrimage；　would　it　not　be　appropriate　to　drink　Liebfraumilch？

Hock　is　full　of　fancy；　and　all　wines　are　by　their　very　nature　full　of　reminiscence；　the　golden　tears　and　red　blood　of　summers　that　are　gone。

Forgive　me；　therefore；　if　I　grow　reminiscent。　Indeed；　I　fear　that　the　hour　for　the　story　of　my　First　Love　has　come。　　But　first；　notice　the　waitress。　　I　confess；　whether　beautiful　or　plain；not　too　plain；women　who　earn　their　own　living　have　a　peculiar　attraction　for　me。

I　hope　the　Golden　Girl　will　not　turn　out　to　be　a　duchess。　　As　old　Campion　sings；


〃I　care　not　for　those　ladies　　　　　　　Who　must　be　wooed　and　prayed；　Give　me　kind　Amaryllis；　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　The　wanton　country…maid。〃


Town…maids　too　of　the　same　pattern。　Whether　in　town　or　country；　give　me　the　girls　that　work。　　The　Girls　That　Work！　　But　evidently　it　is　high　time　woe　began　a　new　chapter。




CHAPTER　IX

THE　LEGEND　OF　HEBE；　OR　THE　HEAVENLY　HOUSEMAID

Yes；　I　blush　to　admit　it；　my　First　Love　was　a　housemaid。　　So　was　she　known　on　this　dull　earth　of　ours；　but　in　heavenin　the　heaven　of　my　imagination；　at　all　eventsshe　was；　of　course；　a　goddess。　　How　she　managed　to　keep　her　disguise　I　never　could　understand。　To　me　she　was　so　obviously　dea　certe。　　The　nimbus　was　so　apparent。　　Yet　no　one　seemed　to　see　it　but　me。　　I　have　heard　her　scolded　as　though　she　were　any　ordinary　earthly　housemaid；　and　I　have　seen　the　butcher's　boy　trying　to　flirt　with　her　without　a　touch　of　reverence。

Maybe　I　understood　because　I　saw　her　in　that　early　hour　of　the　morning　when　even　the　stony　Memnon　sings；　in　that　mystical　light　of　the　young　day　when　divine　exiled　things；　condemned　to　rough　bondage　through　the　noon；　are　for　a　short　magical　hour　their　own　celestial　selves；　their　unearthly　glory　as　yet　unhidden　by　any　earthly　disguise。

Neither　fairies　nor　fauns；　dryads　nor　nymphs　of　the　forest　pools；　have　really　passed　away　from　the　world。　　You　have　only　to　get　up　early　enough　to　meet　them　in　the　meadows。　　They　rarely　venture　abroad　after　six。　　All　day　long　they　hide　in　uncouth　enchanted　forms。　　They　change　maybe　to　a　field　of　turnips；　and　I　have　seen　a　farmer　priding　himself　on　a　flock　of　sheep　that　I　knew　were　really　a　most　merry　company　of　dryads　and　fauns　in　disguise。　　I　had　but　to　make　the　sign　of　the　cross；　sprinkle　some　holy　water　upon　them；　and　call　them　by　their　sweet　secret　names；　and　the　whole　rout　had　been　off　to　the　woods；　with　mad　gambol　and　song；　before　the　eyes　of　the　astonished　farmer。

It　was　so　with　Hebe。　　She　was　really　a　little　gold…haired　blue…eyed　dryad；　whose　true　home　was　a　wild　white　cherry…tree　that　grew　in　some　scattered　woodland　behind　the　old　country…house　of　my　boyhood。　　In　spring…　time　how　that　naughty　tree　used　to　flash　its　silver　nakedness　of　blossom　for　miles　across　the　furze　and　scattered　birches！

I　might　have　known　it　was　Hebe。

Alas！　it　no　longer　bares　its　bosom　with　so　dazzling　a　prodigality；　for　it　is　many　a　day　since　it　was　uprooted。　　The　little　dryad　long　since　fled　away　weeping；fled　away；　said　evil　tongues；　fled　away　to　the　town。

Well　do　I　remember　our　last　meeting。　Returning　home　one　evening；　I　met　her　at　the　lodge…gate　hurrying　away。　　Our　loves　had　been　discovered；　and　my　mother　had　shuddered　to　think　that　so　pagan　a　thing　had　lived　so　long　in　a　Christian　house。　　I　vowedah！　what　did　I　not　vow？and　then　we　stole　sadly　together　to　comfort　our　aching　hearts　under　cover　of　the　woodland。　　For　the　last　time　the　wild　cherry…tree　bloomed；wonderful　blossom；　glittering　with　tears；　and　gloriously　radiant　with　stormy　lights　of　wild　passion　and　wilder　hopes。

My　faith　lived　valiantly　till　the　next　spring。　　It　was　Hebe　who　was　faithless。　The　cherry…tree　was　dead；　for　its　dryad　had　gone；fled；　said　evil　tongues；　fled　away　to　the　town！

But　as　yet；　in　the　time　to　which　my　thoughts　return；　our　sweet　secret　mornings　were　known　only　to　ourselves。　　It　was　my　custom　then　to　rise　early；　to　read　Latin　authors；thanks　to　H