"So you've had your fight with a felis.A single encounter ought to be enough! If some one hadn't happened to step in and save you!--What do you suppose is the root of the idea universal in the consciousness of our race that if a man had not been a man he'd have been a lion; and that if a woman hadn't been a woman she'd have been a tigress? ""I don't believe there's any such idea universal in the consciousness of the race," replied John, laughing.
"It's universal in my consciousness," said the parson doggedly, "and my consciousness is as valid as any other man's.But I'll ask you an easier question: who of all men, do you suppose, knew most about women?""Women or Woman?" inquired John.
"Women," said the parson."We'll drop the subject of Woman: she's beyond us!
"I don't know," observed John."St.Paul knew a good deal, and said some necessary things.""St.Paul!" exclaimed the parson condescendingly."He knew a few noble Jewesses--superficially--with a scattering acquaintance among the pagan sisters around the shores of the Mediterranean.As for what he wrote on that subject--it may have been inspired by Heaven: it never could have been inspired by the sex.""Shakspeare, I suppose," said John.
"The man in the Arabian Nights," cried the parson, who may have been put in mind of this character by his own attempts to furnish daily entertainment.
"He knew a thousand of them--intimately.And cut off the heads of nine hundred and ninety-nine! The only reason he did not cut off the head of the other was that he had learned enough: he could not endure to know any more.
All the evidence had come in: the case was closed.""I suppose there are men in the world," he continued, "who would find it hard to stand a single disappointment about a woman.But think of a thousand disappointments! A thousand attempts to find a good wife--just one woman who could furnish a man a little rational companionship at night.Bluebeard also must have been a well-informed person.And Henry the Eighth--there was a man who had evidently picked up considerable knowledge and who made considerable use of it.But to go back a moment to the idea of the felis family.Suppose we do this: we'll begin to enumerate the qualities of the common house cat.
I'll think of the cat; you think of some woman; and we'll see what we come to.""I'll not do it," said John."She's too noble.""Just for fun!"
"There's no fun in comparing a woman to a cat.""There is if she doesn't know it.Come, begin!" And the parson laid one long forefinger on one long little finger and waited for the first specification.
"Fineness," said John, thinking of a certain woman.
"Fondness for a nap," said the parson, thinking of a certain cat.
"Grace," said John.
"Inability to express thanks," said the parson.
"A beautiful form," said John."A desire to be stroked," said the parson.
"Sympathy," said John.
"Oh, no!" said the parson; "no cat has any sympathy.A dog has: a man is more of a dog.""Noble-mindedness," said John.
"That will not do either," said the parson."Cats are not noble-minded; it's preposterous!""Perfect case of manner," said John.
"Perfect indifference of manner," said the parson.""No vanity," said John.
"No sense of humour," said the parson.
"Plenty of wit," said John.
"You keep on thinking too much about some woman," remonstrated the parson, slightly exasperated.
"Fastidiousness," said John.
"Soft hands and beautiful nails," said the parson, nodding encouragingly.
"A gentle footstep," said John with a softened look coming into his eyes."Aquiet presence."
"Beautiful taste in music," said John.
"Oh! dreadful!" said the parson."What on earth are you thinking about?""The love of rugs and cushions," said John, groping desperately.
"The love of a lap," said the parson fluently.
"The love of playing with its victim," said John, thinking of another woman.
"Capital!" cried the parson."That's the truest thing we've said.We'll not spoil it by another word;" but he searched John's face covertly to see whether this talk had beguiled him.
All this satire meant nothing sour, or bitter, or ignoble with the parson.
It was merely the low, far-off play of the northern lights of his mind, irradiating the long polar night of his bachelorhood.But even on the polar night the sun rises--a little way; and the time came when he married--as one might expect to find the flame of a volcano hidden away in a mountain of Iceland spar.
