at belief, will calmly announce
that I don't know what I am talking about.
Well, perhaps I don't. A woman's aim is never quite true. I could not
hit the bull's-eye. But in this case, please to remember that I am
firing at a barn-door with bird-shot.
I don't blame you for not believing me. It is against your whole
theory of life. Not to believe in yourself were a great calamity. My
grandfather was so unfortunately accurate that with advancing years he
came whimsically to consider himself infallible. And when, urged by
the clamoring of his equally accurate family, he sometimes consented
to consult the dictionary, and he found that he differed from it, it
never disturbed his belief in himself. He closed the book, saying,
placidly, "But the dictionary is wrong." He considered such a trifle
not worth even getting heated about. He dismissed it with a wave of
his hand. But there was a twinkle in his eye. A typical man, you see,
was my grandfather. And, in consequence, a great many other people
besides himself believed in him.
But to return. Know, first of all, that you cannot cover me with
confusion by pointing to your wives to prove that you have been
successful lovers. I never said you could not get married. There is
nothing intricate about that. Anybody can marry.
Nor am I to be daunted by the fact that you have been so good a lover
as to make your wife happy. You may not be considered a perfect lover
even if you have compassed that very laudable end. In fact, the very
ones I mean are the apparently successful lovers with happy or
contented wives.
No shadow of a doubt as to your success as lovers has ever crossed
your dear old satisfied minds. To you I am alluding--to the very ones
who never gave the subject a thought before. Wake up, now, and listen.
Your wives have thought about it enough, even if you have not.
Remember then that I am only trying to tell you, not _why_ men fail as
lovers, but _how_ they fail--in how much you fail.
Leave out all flirting, all precarious engagements, all unhappy
Carriages, and presuppose a sweet, lovable woman, contentedly married
to a real man--a man who truly loves, even if he has not completely
mastered the gentle art of love-making. No skeleton in the closet; no
wishing the marriage undone; with no eternal fitnesses of things to
make the gods envious; no great joys of having met each other's
star-soul; with plenty of little every-day rubs, either in the shape
of hateful
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