Adelaida always has a handkerchief. And still I cannot resist it. I say,
‘There’s the hanky!’ Nevertheless, in two minutes it has worked its way
with me. She squeezes it in her poor, plump hand as the tears begin to
rise; Fate, or man, is Free 5.0 V4 Mens inexorable, so cruel. There is a sob, a cry; she presses
the fist and the hanky to her eyes, one eye, then the other. She weeps real
tears, tears shaken from the depths of her soft, vulnerable, victimized female
self. I cannot stand it. There I sit in the padrone’s little red box and
stifle my emotion, whilst I repeat in my heart: ‘What a shame, child, what
a shame!’ She is twice my age, but what is age in such circumstances?
‘Your poor little hanky, it’s sopping. There, then, don’t cry. It’ll be all
right. I’ll see you’re all right. All men are not beasts, you know.’ So I cover
her protectively in my arms, and soon I shall be kissing her, for comfort,
in the heat and prowess of my compassion, kissing her soft, plump
cheek and neck closely, bringing my comfort nearer and nearer.
It is a pleasant and exciting role for me to play. Robert Burns did the
part to perfection:
O wert thou in the cauld blast On yonder lea, on yonder lea.
How many times does one recite that to all the Ophelias and
Gretchens in the world:
Thy bield should be my bosom.
How one admires one’s bosom in that capacity! Looking down at one’s
shirt-front, one is filled with strength and pride.
Why are the women so bad at playing this part in real life, this
Ophelia-Gretchen role? Why are they so unwilling to go mad and die for
our sakes? They do it regularly on the stage.
But perhaps, after all, we write the plays. What a villain I am, what a
black-browed, passionate, ruthless, masculine villain I am to the leading
lady on the stage; and, on Free 5.0 V2 Womens the other hand, dear heart, what a hero, what a
fount of chivalrous generosity and faith! I am anything but a dull and
law-abiding citizen. I am a Galahad, full of purity and spirituality, I am
the Lancelot of valour and lust; I fold my hands, or I cock my hat in one
side, as the case may be: I am myself. Only, I am not a respectable citizen,
not that, in this hour of my glory and my escape.
Dear Heaven, how Adelaida wept, her voice plashing like violin music,
at my ruthless, masculine cruelty. Dear heart, how she sighed to rest
on my sheltering bosom! And how I enjoyed my dual nature