“It is not enough,” said Lady Buck-and-Balk. “Think how tender are the Hearts of Women, at their toughest! One small Trickle of Blood on that dear Torso (and here she starved toward her choice) and I should be less than any Man! And I dare say Tilly would be as distracted were she to perceive in me one Rib gone astray, or one Wrist most horribly bleeding! Nay, we could never come to a Killing, for women have not, like brutal Man,” she concluded, “and Death between them, but Pity only, and a resuscitating Need! Like may not spit Like, nor Similarity sit in Inquest upon Similarity!”
“I could do it with most disconcerting Ease,” said Dame Musset, “but then there is in me no Wren’s Blood or Trepidation. Why should a Woman be un-spit? Love of Woman for Woman should increase Terror. I see that so far it does not. All is not as it should be!”
“Ah never, never, never,” sighed a soft Voice, and the trio thus became aware of that touch of Sentiment known as Masie Tuck-and-Frill, erstwhile Sage-femme but now, because of the Trend of the Times, lamentably out of a Job, though it was said, nothing could cure her of her Longing, for though she was called to no Beds, but those of Sisters mingled in the Bond of no Relativity, nevertheless looked with a hoping Eye between the Sheets, and put a loving Hand at the Crook of every Arm, and between the Knees, though she found nothing ever requiring Attention, nor any small Voice saying “Where am I?” she still cherished a fond Delusion that in one Way or another, the Pretties would yet whelp a little Sweet, by fair Means or foul, and was heard in many a dim Corridor admonishing a Love of nine Months not to overtake her strength, and to be particularly careful not to slip in going down Stairs. “For”, as she said, “Creation has ever been too Marvellous for us to doubt of it now, and though the Medieval way is still thought good enough, what is to prevent some modern Girl from rising from the Couch of a Girl as modern, with something new in her Mind? To stick to the old Tradition is Credulity, and Credulity has been worn to a Thread. A Feather", she said, “might accomplish it, or a Song rightly sung, or an Exclamation said in the right Place, or a Trifle done in the right Spirit, and then you would have need of me indeed!” and here she began to sing the first Lullaby ever cast for a Girl’s Girl should she one day become a Mother. And with this as a Preface, every Woman of every sort, found her Everywhere. So it was that the Three saw her sitting among the Cushions sewing a fine Seam, and saying in the Wistful, lost Voice of those with a Trade too tender for Oblivion, “Women are a little this side of Contemplation, their Love has the Poignancy of all lost Tension. Men are too early, Women too tardy, and Religion too late for Religion.
“Love in Man is Fear of Fear. Love in Woman is Hope without Hope. Man fears all that can be taken from him, a Woman’s Love includes that, and then Lies down beside it. A Man’s love is built to fit Nature. Woman’s is a Kiss in the Mirror. It is a Farewell to the Creator, without disturbing him, the supreme Tenderness toward Oblivion, Battle after Retreat, Challenge when the Sword is broken. Yea, it strikes loudly on the Heart, for thus she gives her Body to all unrecorded Music, which is the Psalm.”
“You speak,” said Dame Musset, turning a charmed Eye upon her, “in the Voice of one who should be One of Us!”
“I speak”, said Masie Tuck-and-Frill, “in that Voice which has been accorded ever to those who go neither Hither nor Thither; the Voice of the Prophet. Those alone who sit in one Condition, their Life through, know what the plans were, and what the Hopes are, and where the Spot the two lie, in that Rot you call your Lives. Time goes with the Beast also, the Centuries fold him down, the Cry of his Young comes upward about him, the sigh of his Elders is as high as his Horns, yet above his Horns is also a Voice crying “Too hoo! I would,” she added, “that the Mind’s Eye had not been so bent upon the Heart.”
“It’s a good Place,” said Dame Musset in a Tone advertising her a Person well pleased a long time.
“A good place indeed,” returned Masie Tuck-and-Frill, “but a better when seen Indirectly.”
“I”, said Lady Buck-and-Balk — for Spirits had made her a little Callous to Nuance, “would that we could do away with Man altogether!”
“It cannot be,” sighed Tilly Tweed-in-Blood, “we need them for carrying of Coals, lifting of Beams, and things of one kind or another.”
“Ah the dears!” said Patience Scalpel, that moment bounding in upon them, divesting herself of her furs, “and is there one hereabouts?”
“Most certainly not!” cried Lady Buck-and-Balk in one Breath with Tilly Tweed-in-Blood, as if a large Mouse had run over their Shins, “What a thing to say!”
“Oh Fie, and why not!” said Patience sipping a cognac. “Were it not for them, you would not be half so pleased with things as they are. Delight is always a little running of the Blood in Channels astray!”
“When I wish to contemplate the highest Pitch to which Irony has climbed, and when I really desire to wallow in impersonal Tragedy”, said Dame Musset, “I think of that day, forty years ago, when I, a Child of ten, was deflowered by the Hand of a Surgeon! I, even I, came to it as other Women, and I never a Woman before nor since!”
“Oh my Darling!” wailed Tilly, in an Anguish on the second. My poor, dear betrayed mishandled Soul! To think of it! Why I don’t know whom to strike first! But someone shall suffer for it I tell you. These Eyes shall know no Sleep until you are revenged!”
“Peace!” said Dame Musset, putting a Hand upon her Wrist, “I am my Revenge!”
“I had not thought of that,” said Tilly happily, “You have, verily, hanged, cut down, and re-hung Judas a thousand times!”
“And shall again, please God!” said Dame Musset.
“That Man’s Hand,” said Patience Scalpel, “must drip more Agony and Regret than the Hand of Lady Macbeth, and must burn hotter than a Serpent’s Tongue!”
“He mutters in his Sleep,” said Tuck-and-Frill,” and turns from Side to Side, and finds no Comfort!”
“He be one Man,” said Dame Musset peacefully, “who does not brag.”
ZODIAC
THIS is the part about Heaven that has never been told. After the Fall of Satan (and as he fell, Lucifer uttered a loud Cry, heard from one End of Forever-and-no-end to the other), all the Angels, Aries, Taurus, Gemini, Cancer, Leo, Virgo, Libra, Scorpio, Sagittarius, Capricornus, Aquarius, Pisces, all, all gathered together, so close that they were not recognizable, one from the other. And not nine Months later, there was heard under the Dome of Heaven a great Crowing, and from the Midst, an Egg, as incredible as a thing forgotten, fell to Earth, and striking, split and hatched, and from out of it stepped one saying “Pardon me, I must be going!” And this was the first Woman horn with a Difference.
After this the Angels parted, and on the Face of each was the Mother look. Why was that?
APRIL hath 30 days
THEIR SIGNS:
ACUTE Melancholy is noticeable in those who have gone a long Way into this Matter, whereas a light giggling, dancing Fancy seems to support those in the very first Stages; brief of Thought; cut of Concentration; a Tendency to hop, skip and jump, and to misplace the Eye at every single or several Manifestation of Girl in like Distemper.
Chill succeeds, and Restlesness at Night, or unaccountable Tabulation of unimportant Objects, such as FlagStones (Busbys an she be in London!) Steeples, Mulberries in Baskets, Tabs to Dresses, Hooves to Horses, and Stars in the Sky.