Platonic Love.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXI, Issue II, 11 July 1903, Page 139

Platonic Love.

“In my country,” said the American woman, “the men are our more than subjects—they are our slaves.” And, being but British, he could make no comment. “But, in spite of all this subjection, this slavery, this worship,” she went on, “my country is a land—probably the only one in the world—where there can be a perfect state of camaraderie and good fellowship between men and ■women. Our mankind take us to the theatre, to the concert, they drive with us and ride with us, they call at our homes and we receive them all unchaperoned, we take walks with them and meet them at the Waldorf-Astoria for luncheon. They send us dollar roses when they can afford it, and nickel ones when they ean’t, and they buy for us peanuts and popcorn and candies, and make us presents of Florida water, and they buy us books and read poetry and history with us. It all means nothing but friendship — brotherliness. In short, we have in America what you cannot have in England—a perfected state of Platonic friendship between men and women.” Then, notwithstanding being British, he spoke: “And you, personally, have you had friendships of that sort with American men?” he asked. “Dozens of them!” she replieu. “I will be your Platonic Friend!” he said, suddenly. “And I yours,” she returned, ly“Although I am only British, I think I understand the game. There is to be absolutely no sentimentalism, and an avoidance of all approaches to lovemaking?” “Quite so,” she replied. So the next morning and the evening were the First Day. They lunched at a restaurant. She went in a hansom. He met her at the door and paid the cab fare, having learned that this was the American way. They wrote letters three times a week. He sent her flowers. She bought special vases to put them in. She always properly thanked him for the flowers, and once, when she had kown him two months, she pinned one of his roses at her throat, and was surprised that, he did not even appear to notice it. They visited the theatre together, and one night she spent an hour in dressing her hair. It was only by accident, to be sure, that an impertinent, tiny wave fe'l over her ear, although it was decidedly on purpose that again she wore a rose —this time in the knot of her hair. He treated her with all politeness and chivalry, and between the acts he discussed the play and ordered an iee. But several times she found herself comparing

him unfavourably with American men who had noticed straying locks, and she remembered how one friend, of the Purely Platonic kind, had surreptitiously placed in his pocket an amber hairpin which she had dropped in the aisle, and pretended that he could not find it, and the next day had sent her a new one in its place. That night she thought of the Briton resentfully. Surely, when one wore a man’s rose in one’s hair it was nothing more than mere politeness for him to speak of it! Yet he had not even seen it! In fact, he had been particularly, perversely unobservant. Her new net dress, with its garnishing of bebe ribbon velvet, which she knew was extremely becoming and took six years off her age, might have been a dowdy, shapeless robe for all he saw or said or cared. Pink was her colour, yet, when she wore it, he never told her so. She was conscious that at times she looked pale and melancholy, but he never knew it till one day she asked him if he thought she was looking as well as usual. She had thought she saw his mouth twitch, but he looked her squarely in the face and recommended her to go in for more fresh air and long walks in the country. English women did that, he said, and they were much more robust than American women.

In the third month they exchanged photographs. She never knew what he did with hers, but she noted that he made no remark upon the fact she had not framed his and hung it in her sittingroom with a dozen other men friends and acquaintances. She had really put it away in a bureau drawer, though just why she could not exactly tell. At the opening of the fourth month he brought her a bunch of violets and a low, flaring-shaped vase to put them in. She called him a “dear thing” jor being so thoughtful. Then she blushed, but he took no notice. He merely looked out into the garden and remarked that as soon as it was a bit warmer they must take a boat ride on the Thames, and she answered that she had heard that certain parts of the Thames were almost as pretty and picturesque as the Hudson. She had told him that in Platonics there was no approach to sentimentality. Yes! But was that any reason why he should be so conscientious and keep so closely to the rulees? She had bad news from America a week later, and on the evening of the mail he called. She told him about it, and she found herself crying. “I am so sorry—so sorry,” he said. “I am your friend. My sympathy ” “Friend! Sympathy! You ’ are no friend, and you have a soul devoid of pity!” she burst out bitterly. “I thought pity was forbidden by the rules,” he said more softly than she had ever yet heard him speak.

“Forbidden!” she repeated. “Yes, because of its dangerous relation—pity is akin to love, you know.” She looked up into his eyes. Her tears were dried. They both laughed. The spirit of Plato departed in anger and despair, and she was glad when she remembered that she had cut the thorns from the roses which she wore.—“Westminster Budget.”