The Women Who, In The Stalls Of The Theatre, Talk Loudly All
Through The Performance; And Who, Having Arrived In
The middle of
the first act, and made as much disturbance as they know how, before
settling down in their
Seats, ostentatiously get up and walk out
before the piece is finished: the women who, at dinner-party and
"At Home" - that cheapest and most deadly uninteresting of all deadly
uninteresting social functions - (You know the receipt for a
fashionable "At Home," don't you? Take five hundred people, two-
thirds of whom do not know each other, and the other third of whom
cordially dislike each other, pack them, on a hot day, into a room
capable of accommodating forty, leave them there to bore one another
to death for a couple of hours with drawing-room philosophy and
second-hand scandal; then give them a cup of weak tea, and a piece
of crumbly cake, without any plate to eat it on; or, if it is an
evening affair, a glass of champagne of the you-don't-forget-you've-
had-it-for-a-week brand, and a ham-sandwich, and put them out into
the street again) - can do nothing but make spiteful remarks about
everybody whose name and address they happen to know: the women
who, in the penny 'bus (for, in her own country, the lady of the new
school is wonderfully economical and business-like), spreads herself
out over the seat, and, looking indignant when a tired little
milliner gets in, would leave the poor girl standing with her bundle
for an hour, rather than make room for her - the women who write to
the papers to complain that chivalry is dead!
B., who has been looking over my shoulder while I have been writing
the foregoing, after the manner of a Family Herald story-teller's
wife in the last chapter (fancy a man having to write the story of
his early life and adventures with his wife looking over his
shoulder all the time! no wonder the tales lack incident), says that
I have been living too much on sauerkraut and white wine; but I
reply that if anything has tended to interfere for a space with the
deep-seated love and admiration that, as a rule, I entertain for all
man and woman-kind, it is his churches and picture-galleries.
We have seen enough churches and pictures since our return to Munich
to last me for a very long while. I shall not go to church, when I
get home again, more than twice a Sunday, for months to come.
The inhabitants of Munich boast that their Cathedral is the ugliest
in Europe; and, judging from appearances, I am inclined to think
that the claim must be admitted. Anyhow, if there be an uglier one,
I hope I am feeling well and strong when I first catch sight of it.
As for pictures and sculptures, I am thoroughly tired of them. The
greatest art critic living could not dislike pictures and sculptures
more than I do at this moment.
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