morning； but is thinking； it is much more likely； of what she said；
or how her new dress looked； or some other body's new dress which
madehers look as if it had been patched together from the leaves of
last November。 That's what she's probably thinking about。
She！said the Master； with a look which it would take at least
half a page to explain to the entire satisfaction of thoughtful
readers of both sexes。
I paid the respect due to that most significant monosyllable；
which； as the old Rabbi spoke it； with its targum of tone and
expression； was not to be answered flippantly； but soberly；
advisedly； and after a pause long enough for it to unfold its meaning
in the listener's mind。 For there are short single words （all the
world remembers Rachel's Helas！） which are like those Japanese toys
that look like nothing of any significance as you throw them on the
water； but which after a little time open out into various strange
and unexpected figures； and then you find that each little shred had
a complicated story to tell of itself。
…Yes；said I； at the close of this silent interval； during which the
monosyllable had been opening out its meanings；She。 When I think
of talking； it is of course with a woman。 For talking at its best
being an inspiration； it wants a corresponding divine quality of
receptiveness； and where will you find this but in woman？
The Master laughed a pleasant little laugh；not a harsh； sarcastic
one； but playful； and tempered by so kind a look that it seemed as if
every wrinkled line about his old eyes repeated； 〃God bless you；〃 as
the tracings on the walls of the Alhambra repeat a sentence of the
Koran。
I said nothing； but looked the question； What are you laughing at？
Why； I laughed because I couldn't help saying to myself that a
woman whose mind was taken up with thinking how she looked； and how
her pretty neighbor looked； wouldn't have a great deal of thought to
spare for all your fine discourse。
Come； now；said I；a man who contradicts himself in the course of
two minutes must have a screw loose in his mental machinery。 I never
feel afraid that such a thing can happen to me； though it happens
often enough when I turn a thought over suddenly； as you did that
five…cent piece the other day； that it reads differently on its two
sides。 What I meant to say is something like this。 A woman；
notwithstanding she is the best of listeners； knows her business； and
it is a woman's business to please。 I don't say that it is not her
business to vote； but I do say that a woman who does not please is a
false note in the harmonies of nature。 She may not have youth； or
beauty； or even manner； but she must have something in her voice or
expression； or both； which it makes you feel better disposed towards
your race to look at or listen to。 She knows that as well as we do；
and her first question after you have been talking your soul into her
consciousness is； Did I please？ A woman never forgets her sex。 She
would rather talk with a man than an angel； any day。
This frightful speech of mine reached the ear of our Scheherezade；
who said that it was perfectly shocking and that I deserved to be
shown up as the outlaw in one of her bandit stories。
Hush； my dear；said the Lady；you will have to bring John Milton
into your story with our friend there； if you punish everybody who
says naughty things like that。 Send the little boy up to my chamber
for Paradise Lost； if you please。 He will find it lying on my table。
The little old volume；he can't mistake it。
So the girl called That Boy round and gave him the message； I don't
know why she should give it； but she did； and the Lady helped her out
with a word or two。
The little volumeits cover protected with soft white leather from a
long kid glove； evidently suggesting the brilliant assemblies of the
days when friends and fortune smiled…came presently and the Lady
opened it。…You may read that； if you like； she said；it may show
you that our friend is to be pilloried in good company。
The Young Girl ran her eye along the passage the Lady pointed out；
blushed； laughed； and slapped the book down as though she would have
liked to box the ears of Mr。 John Milton； if he had been a
contemporary and fellow…contributor to the 〃Weekly Bucket。〃I won't
touch the thing；she said。…He was a horrid man to talk so： and he
had as many wives as Blue…Beard。
Fair play；said the Master。…Bring me the book； my little
fractional superfluity；I mean you； my nursling；my boy； if that
suits your small Highness better。
The Boy brought the book。
The old Master； not unfamiliar with the great epic opened pretty
nearly to the place； and very soon found the passage： He read； aloud
with grand scholastic intonation and in a deep voice that silenced
the table as if a prophet had just uttered Thus saith the Lord：
〃So spake our sire； and by his countenance seemed
Entering on studious thoughts abstruse； which Eve
Perceiving 〃
went to water her geraniums； to make a short story of it； and left
the two 〃conversationists；〃 to wit； the angel Raphael and the
gentleman；there was but one gentleman in society then； you know；
to talk it out。
〃Yet went she not； as not with such discourse
Delighted； or not capable her ear
Of what was high； such pleasure she reserved；
Adam relating； she sole auditress；
Her husband the relater she preferred
Before the angel； and of him to ask
Chose rather； he she knew would intermix
Grateful digressions； and solve high dispute
With conjugal caresses： from his lips
Not words alone pleased her。〃
Everybody laughed； except the Capitalist； who was a little hard of
hearing； and the Scarabee； whose life was too earnest for
demonstrations of that kind。 He had his eyes fixed on the volume；
however； with eager interest。
The p'int 's carried；said the Member of the Haouse。
Will you let me look at that book a single minute？said the
Scarabee。 I passed it to him； wondering what in the world he wanted
of Paradise Lost。
Dermestes lardarius；he said； pointing to a place where the edge of
one side of the outer cover had been slightly tasted by some insect。
Very fond of leather while they 're in the larva state。
Damage the goods as bad as mice；said the Salesman。
Eat half the binding off Folio 67；said the Register of Deeds。
Something did； anyhow； and it was n't mice。 Found the shelf covered
with little hairy cases belonging to something or other that had no
business there。
Skins of the Dermestes lardaraus；said the Scarabee；you can always
tell them by those brown hairy coats。 That 's the name to give them。
What good does it do to give 'em a name after they 've eat the
binding off my folios？ asked the Register of Deeds。
The Scarabee had too much respect for science to answer such a
question as that； and the book； having served its purposes； was
passed back to the Lady。
I return to the previous question；said I；if our friend the Member
of the House of Representatives will allow me to borrow the phrase。
Womanly women are very kindly critics； except to themselves and now
and then to their own sex。 The less there is of sex about a woman；
the more she is to be dreaded。 But take a real woman at her best
moment；well dressed enough to be pleased with herself； not so
resplendent as to be a show and a sensation； with those varied
outside influences which set vibrating the harmonic notes of her
nature stirring in the air about her； and what has social life to
compare with one of those vital interchanges of thought and feeling
with her that make an hour memorable？ What can equal her tact； her
delicacy； her subtlety of apprehension； her quickness to feel the
changes of temperature as the warm and cool currents of talk blow by
turns？ At one moment she is microscopically intellectual； critical；
scrupulous in judgment as an analyst's balance； and the next as
sympathetic as the open rose that sweetens the wind from whatever
quarter it finds its way to her bosom。 It is in the hospitable soul
of a woman that a man forgets he is a stranger； and so becomes
natural and truthful； at the same time that he is mesmerized by all
those divine differences which make her a mystery and a bewilderment
to
If you fire your popgun at me； you little chimpanzee； I will stick a
pin right through the middle of you and put you into one of this
gentleman's beetle…cases！
I caught the imp that time； but what started him was more than I
could guess。 It is rather hard that this spoiled child should spoil
such a sentence as that was going to be； but the wind shifted all at
once； and the talk had to come round on another tack； or at least
fall off a point or two from its course。
I'll tell you who I think are the best talkers in all probability；
said I to the Master； who； as I mentioned； was developing
interesting talent as a listener；poets who never write verses。 And
there are a good many more of these than it would seem at first
sight。 I think you may say every young lover is a poet； to begin
with。 I don't mean either that all young lovers are good talkers；
they have an eloquence all their own when they are with the beloved
object； no doubt； emphasized after the fashion the solemn bard of
Paradise refers to with such delicious humor in the passage we just
heard；but a little talk goes a good way in most of these cooing
matches； and it wouldn't do to report them too literally。 What I
mean is； that a man with the gift of musical and impassioned phrase
（and love often deeds that to a young person for a while）； who
〃wreaks〃 it； to borrow Byron's word； on conversation as the natural
outlet of his sensibilities and spiritual activities； is likely to
talk better than the poet； who plays on the instrument of verse。 A
great pianist or violinist is rarely a great singer。 To write a poem
is to expend the vital force which would have made one brilliant for
an hour or two； and to expend it on an instrument with more pipes；
reeds； keys； stops； and pedals than the Great Organ that shakes New
England every time it is played in full blast。
Do you mean that it is hard work to write a poem？said the old
Master。…I