MUNDANE MUSINGS

Sun (Auckland), Volume 1, Issue 26, 22 April 1927, Page 4

MUNDANE MUSINGS

THE THING CALLED LOVE (Written for THE SUN.) Nowadays folk are fond of saying that true love is dead . . . that the mad, sweet wildness that removed all bar--0 riers has departed forever from the life of the modern woman. . Some of them, of course, declare that Milady has now become so mercenary that unless there is a decided monetary attraction, she has little use for matrimony. And, of course, we are all accused periodically, whan some soured soul js suffering from dyspepsia, of wanting to start where our grandmothers left off. Taken altogether, the stuff our critics talk about love having gone forever j is pretty average rubbish. It hasn’t gone, nor, in my opinion, have women become any worse than they were in the days when Grandmama married “for love.” For, of course, all our grandmothers do love to tell us how they married for love and for love alone. Haven't you often wished that they’d remember that in those days they were not brought up to expect anything but marriage as the bee-all and end-all of their careers. Marriage in their day was as much the average young maiden’s business in life as is ours to wring cheques from reluctant employers . . . and didn’t she just set about it with the same grim, albeit nicely disguised, determination! She had an advantage over us too in the person of a tactful mama who never for an instant lost sight of the business end of the transaction. No, I’m certain women are not worse than they were. If anything they are more honest . . . more ready to face squarely the facts that grand mama covered up snugly with d’oyleys and antimaccassars. As for love being dead . . .rot! Real love is as much alive as- ever it was. It comes to but one in a hundred of us * . . yet we talk as' though it belonged to all of us, as a matter of course. And, even though the big lqve affairs may pass us by, the little domestic variety may - yet be made passably svyej&t. We’ll admit frankly that the little flutter of feeling most of us experience and marry on has about as much relation to love as the average vaudeville joke to humour. . . . but its an •excellent substitute-and can be wellrecommended for. domestic purposes.

That leads to one point that the Victorians did beat us on. They were decidedly cleverer-at the decent game of make-believe, that is so necessary to cover the whole marriage-business, than are we restless, intolerant-of-hypocrisy moderns.

But then . . .they knew that their one aim in l # ife was to marry some man, be womanly, and raise a littie (or big!) family, that was their only escape from the dread bogey of “old njaidbood” and so they quickly contrived to fall “in love” with the most eligible young man in that state of life “unto which it had pleased God to call ’em.” Even when disillusionment came, they rejoiced that at least they had escaped being old maids! Nowadays, being very much saner, despite our unfavourable critics, we are not afraid of continued spinsterhood and so we have ceased somewhat our reckless marrying “for love.” When there are so many other tempting doors open for women, is it to be wondered at that we wait-and demand that marriage hold some extra attraction, before we are prepared to-enter for the matrimonial stakes.

It sounds nice and romantic to listen to how the old world lovers stormed the coy hearts of fair ladies* by whispering to them, in the rose-garden or by the sun-dial, that “I would die for you, my beautiful!”- ■ But. .. .we don’t want anyone to die for us. ... romantic as it sounds. ..nothing so grand and imposing will be demanded of our husbands. Yet, methinks, it will take a lot more courage of a practical sort to rise early every morning and prepare breakfast for some unshaven monster, who'll grab a paper' to bury himself behind, and to whom an understanding. . . oh, that word!... wife mustn’t chatter!

Those roseate glories of old no longer blind our eyes to- such an extentthat we forget the long intervals between “married-kisses”. . . the soiled linen to be counted on Monday. .. the dishes to be washed. . . the sheets to be hemmed and socks to be darned. . ! N 0... its not the big, splendid things that might be asked of us that make us hesitate. . . if we were asked them . . few of us would fail!

In recent times, a woman’s whole viewpoint has changed. . . and she sees with clearer vision that there are many things to be said against throwing her career to the winds. . . that she may marry for a “love” that perhaps does not exist for her.

That is not saying that love is dead. I don’t for a minute believe it is. Like the postman, love is forever passing up and down the streets. But, unlike the postman, he doesn’t whistle to let us know he is there. ..and he often steals by so softly that we miss the rustle of his wings. Perhaps the trouble is that we are all brought up to expect that love will come, like old age, quietly and inevitably, once and for alb and that it must always lead in the traditional fashion of the story books, to wedding bells and confetti, and a life that is “happy ever afterwards.” After all, real love has little place in our modern civilisation. . . .and when it does come it makes hash of rules and regulations and stupid man-made laws. Poor consolation, perhaps, for the thought that a big, splendid love passes, the most of us by, but still it is some kind of consolation! Was it Stevenson who said that the lion was the King of beasts? To me the thought of real love is of something akin to a lion. But. ..1 don’t think it would make a good domestic pet! For the fireside, the common or garden cat is much to be preferred! And perhaps it’s all that most of us can hope for. . . .to have mutual inter-

ests. . . iCompanship. . . .a joke or so to shaue.. .and sympathy in the hour of trouble. After all, even that is getting a good deal out of life, and ought to be sufficient to console us when we think that the wild, sweet madness that barges through every convention. . . counting the world well lost, and sweeping all before it. . .has not visited us. We who are the many dwell forever in cities. . . among poky houses and streets, and-a thousand other stifling things, with. bills to pay, and clothes to mend, and municipal regulations to limit our water and light, and fussy by-laws to keep us off the grass. But all that doesn’t prove that love is dead. Somewhere, outside, with drooping head and trailing wings . . . our love that didn’t notice the light in our window wanders alone among the stars and moondust.