WHAT IS LOVE.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume IX, Issue 20, 14 May 1892, Page 504

WHAT IS LOVE.

hM'vSStxK ENTLEMEN, good evening,’ said the Seedy 'T Man - W/ _ ’Y7a * Good evening ; you don’t look well.’ * I am blue to-night, blue as the sea.’ ‘Love? You say the fishes love—perhaps they make the sea blue.’ ‘Gentlemen, you jest. Yes, I believe that flounders flirt in the deeps of the ocean. I saw a shad in a restaurant window the other day that was worn to a shadder, and I had a tomcod for breakfast this morning that looked as if it had died of love. But there’s a great difference in love—a great difference—only the result is always the same. You see, we love people for what they oughi to be, and they never are ; and we never are what we ought to be, and nothing ever is what it ought to be, and when we think it is we only find out afterward that it wasn’t. It’s very confusing. ’

‘You are queer to-night, aren’t you? There’s your drink.’

‘Here’s to you, gentlemen. Ah ’ I feel better now. By the way, I did not tell you w’hat happened in the Elysian Debating Society, did I ? We discussed that question up there. ’

‘ They do love one another up there ?’ ‘ Certainly. It is materially different, of course. There is no marrying for money. There’s no money. It changes things. The other day there was quite a scene. A lady who had preceded her husband would not speak to him when he arrived.

‘ “ You are not my husband,” she said. ‘“ I am,” he said. “ You were Mrs Jones on earth, were you not?” • “ Certainly.” ‘ “ You were twenty years married to me?” ‘ “ To you ! I never thought yon were this kind of man.” ‘ They would not be reconciled. But we took up the question, “ What is love?” We had, of course, all the old poets to refer to, but they were for the most part of no use. Wanting the inspiration of eyes and hair, and forms and bands and lips and cheeks, they could not even guess what real love was. The scientific people had a whack at it. They said that they had always believed it was the action of animal magnetism on the nerves, but as everybody had left their nerves behind them they could give no explanation. The philosophers had believed that it was a phase of the action of matter upon the mind, but as there was all mind and no matter there, they were inclined to admit that really mind had something to do with it. The dramatist came in swooping. Then there was a scene.’

‘ What about ?’ ‘ Well, the scientists despise the philosophers, they both despise the poets, the three despise the novelists, and they all despise the dramatists. The president rapped on the desk for order.

‘ “ Gentlemen," he cried, “ 1 command you to be silent. Let us call the novelists.”

‘ Dickens rose. He spoke of Agnes’love for David Copperfield, of Lady Dedlock’s love for the dead writer, of innumerable loves his stories told. He was listened to quietly ; but none of them seemed to quite define the proposition. Richardson got sneered at, Fielding was roundly abused and a lot of later novelists were frankly sat upon. When Thackeray rose there was a hush.

‘“Gentlemen,” he said, “I claim no more than human nature for my children. All I have written about, all the people I have drawn, have had some weakness in them, and if you ask me what to me is nearest my idea of true love in all my books, I may be wrong, but old Toin Newcome’s love for the French master’s daughter—and hers for him—” ‘ There was a burst of applause. He had evidently come very near it.

‘ “ Now, if you please, let’s hear the dramatists. I recognize Bulwer Lytton,” said the president. ‘ Bulwer rose, and with a great deal of affectation said :

‘ “ Gentlemen, as I am the author of the love speech which has had the widest range of popularity ” ‘ “ (Juote ! quote !” came from all parts. ‘ “ I quote,” he said.

“ Nay. dearest, nay ! If thou would’st have me paint The home to which ”

‘ “ I‘ah ! That’s sentimentality : that’s sickly. Sit down ! That is not love. That’s spoons.” ‘ The hubbub drove Bulwer Lytton into his seat. ‘ Wycherly and Congreve got up, but the meeting would not hear them. They declared that nobody who knew anything about love could so debase its name. Even Ben Jon-

son would not be heard. Richard Brinsley Sheridan offered in evidence Lydia Languish, and tried to prove that “ The School for Scandal ” was a lesson in love ; but they laughed at him. Sheridan Knowles got up and began to quote a speech of Julia's in “ The Hunchback,” but they groaned irreverent groans and rather mortified the old man. Henry J. Byron and Tom Robertson claimed something for their comedies, but the meeting simply pooh-poohed them. Boucicault was heard piping, but nobody took any notice of what he said. ‘“ We must have order,’’ called out the president. “ This is a most inappropriate way to discuss such a tender question as love. I call upon William Shakespeare.” ‘ The meeting came to order at once, except that for a little the applause was enthusiastic. Poet, philosopher, dramatist, the question was to be solved. ‘ “ I would rather, Mr President,” said Shakespeare, “hear the voices of this meeting decide upon my merits. What of all mv love pictures meets with most of your commendation ?” ‘ One got up and spoke of Viola’s love for the Duke. Pretty, tender, poetic, everybody agreed, but too sentimental, too romantic. Not the love that would live without the melancholy of the Duke; the kind of love that would be killed by a three days’ beard. Orsino’s love for Olivia was voted silly, only kept alive by her obstinacy. Romeo and Juliet were hardly discussed—youth’s fevered passion burning in the blood. Rosalind and Orlando were too much of the sighing furnace ever to be capable of serious sacritice. Othello and Desdemona were analysed to find little but an overweening admiration on Desdemona’s part of the physical qualities of Othello, and in Othello a jealousy born as much of wounded vanity as wounded love. Desdemona’s fairness was voted as stiong a factor in her attraction as her personal fascinations. It might have been a more distinct quality of love if Desdemona had been black. They went all through Shakespeare, and, euiiously enough, the general opinion seemed to be that the nearest to the real love, as they held it, was Ophelia’s love for Hamlet, the woman in all Shakespeare who loved the most and declared the least.’ ‘ Well, what conclusion did they come to?’ ‘ Then somebody asked Shakespeare if Ophelia ever really loved Hamlet. ‘ “ I don’t know,” said Shakespeare. ‘ That upset things again. ‘ “ Well, what do you think yourself about all those people ?” somebody asked Shakespeare. ‘ “ To tell the truth,” said Shakespeare, “I never knew that I meant so much until those commentators began coming up here. I never was so interested in anything in my life as in having my own plays explained to me. If I had known how clever a man I was I would have asked more money for my work.” ‘ “ Ah, you should have been born 300 years later,” I said.

‘ “ Why ?” asked Shakespeare. ‘ “ You were born just three centuries ahead of Henry Abbey and Maurice Grau,” I said. ‘ “ Who are they? Dramatists or artists?” ‘ “ No. They’re the men who make money for dramatists and artists.” ‘ “ How do they do it I” asked several. ‘ “ Advertise and charge big prices. They are making Sarah Bernhardt’s fortune now.” ‘ “ Gentlemen, this is a digression,” yelled the president. “ We have still, it appears, to discuss the question ‘ What is love ?’ ” ‘ “ May I make a suggestion ?” I asked. ‘ “ Certainly.” ‘“ We are all behind the times. I will show you what is love. Come down and see Sara Bernhardt.” ‘ They came. We saw “La Tosca.” ‘ “ Does that look like love ?” I asked. “ Here is a woman perjures herself, is ready to yield herself up to a man, murders and kills herself for love.” ‘ “ Yes, that has the expression of love,” said one, “ although it is not quite agreeable.” ‘ They came again. They saw “/Theodora. ” ‘ “ See. She is the Empress ; risks everything to be with her lover. She dies with him. That looks like love.” ‘ “ Is that the same woman ?” somebody asked. ‘ “ Certainly.” ‘ They came again. They saw “ Camille.” ‘ “ She leaves her life of shame for the love of Armand,” I said. “ She goes back to it for love of Armand. Does that look like love ?” ‘“ I suppose so,” said another. “Is that still the same woman ?” ‘ “Yes.” ‘ “And one woman can pretend so realistically to feel for Mario, and Angelo, and Armand, and ” ‘ “ Anybody else you like to put her in a play with.” ‘ “ Well, what in thunder’s the use of asking what love is ?” ‘ And they gave it up.’ Peter Robertson.