The Wavering Misogynist

-or- “A tame, vacant, doll-faced, idle gal!”

I came to the realization yeterday that there are no women worth any time whatsoever. Time is a most valuable commodity — even more so than heart, I think — and I refuse to bestow it where it would be wasted. (Heart may be wasted with more validity than may time, since a true bestowing of one’s heart precludes the tedium of waste — who’s to complain about truly enjoying something, even if it may not be the best thing to enjoy?) I cannot spend my life talking down to a beautiful, vacant woman.

That was yesterday. Today, I found that (even if this is deceiving myself) some women may be worth my time. You see, I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty girl (and might I cite Hemingway on “pretty, rather than beautiful”^*), so when I saw two such (whom I happened to be lucky enough to know) walking ahead of me, I naturally took notice. Picking up my pace, I caught up with them and greeted them in the name of Trouble. A quite enjoyable walk ensued, and I parted company in a graceful sense of satisfaction.

So women may not be so tedious after all.^◊ If I can find one truly at my level — one who will not ask condescension, the one boon I steadfastly refuse to grant — my time could I easily bestow, and that “unto the half of my kingdom.”^†

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*The Snows of Kilimanjaro, by Ernest Hemingway, included a story by the name of “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber,” in which Mrs. Macomber was described as “pretty, rather than beautiful”. I might add that, though the allure of “pretty” is that it is more trustworthy than is “beautiful” (see Ben Johnson’s “Still to be Neat”^§), Mrs. Macomber ended up killing her husband.

†

And when the daughter of the said Herodias came in, and danced, and pleased Herod and them that sat with him, the king said unto the damsel, Ask of me whatsoever thou wilt, and I will give it thee. And he sware unto her, Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me, I will give it thee, unto the half of my kingdom.

— Mark 6:22–23

◊ In 1873, Judge Thomas Chandler Haliburton wrote The Sayings and Doings of Samuel Slick, Esq., together with his opinion on matrimony (available from the University of Michigan’s Making of America division of their Humanities Text Initiative. While this book has been largely lost to time, Sam Slick's “sayings and doings” do deserve some consideration. Without further ado, I leave you to peruse an excerpt I have entitled “A Woman Worth Having”.

While musing on this subject, my attention was directed by Mr. Slick, who suddenly reined up his horse, to a scene of a different description. "There," said he, "there is a pictur' for you, squire. Now, that's what minister would call love in a cottage, or rural felicity, for he was fond of fine names was the old man." A neat and pretty little cottage stood before us as we emerged from a wood, having an air of comfort about it not often found in the forest, where the necessaries of life demand and engross all the attention of the settler. " Look at that crittur," said he, "Bill Dill Mill. There he sets on the gate, with his go-to-meetin' clothes on, a-doin' of nothin', with a pocket full of potatoes, cuttin' them up into small pieces with his jacknife, and teachin' a pig to jump up and catch 'em in his mouth. It's the schoolmaster to home, that. And there sets his young wife a-balancin' of herself on the top rail of the fence opposite, and a-swingin' her foot backward and forrerd, and a-watchin' of him. Ain't she a heavenly splice, that? By Jacob's spotted cattle, what an ankle she has! Jist look! a rael corn-fed heifer, that, ain't she! She is so plump she'd shed rain like a duck. Them Blue-noses do beat all in galls, I must say, for they raise some desperate handsome ones. But then there is nothin' in that crittur. She is nothin' but waxwork -- no life there; and he looks tired of his bargain already -- what you called fairly onswaggled. Now, don't speak loud, for if she sees us she'll cut and run like a weasel. She has got her hair all covered over with papercurls, and stuck thro' with pins, like a porcupine's back. She's for a tea-squall to-night, and nothin' vexes women like bein' taken of a nonplush this way by strangers. That's matrimony, squire, and nothin' to do; a honeymoon in the woods or young love grow'd ten days old. Oh, dear! if it was me, I should yawn so afore a week, I should be skeerd lest my wife should jump down my throat. To be left alone that way idle, with a wife that has nothin' to do and nothin' to say, if she was as pretty as an angel, would drive me melancholy mad. I should either get up a quarrel for vanity sake, or go hang myself to get out of the scrape. A tame, vacant, doll-faced, idle gall! O Lord! what a fate for a man who knows what's what, and is up to snuff! Who the plague can live on sugar-candy? I am sure I couldn't. Nothin' does for me like honey; arter a while I get to hate it like sin; the very sight of it is enough for me. Vinegar ain't half so bad; for that stimulates, and you can't take more nor enough of it if you would. Sense is better nor looks any time; but when sense and looks goes together, why, then a woman is worth havin', that's a fact.

§ Still to Be Neat

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast.
Still to be powdered, still perfumed.

Lady, it is to be presumed,
Though art’s hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet. All is not sound.

Give me a look, give me a face
That makes simplicity a grace.
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free,

Such sweet neglect more taketh me
Than all th’ adulteries of art.
They touch mine eyes, not mine heart.

— Ben Johnson