No, no, my dear lady, into this life of renunciation I would not
take a companion, certainly not of the sex you are thinking of, even
would she care to come, which I doubt. There are times when a man
is better without the woman, when a woman is better without the man.
Love drags us from the depths, makes men and women of us, but if we
would climb a little nearer to the stars we must say good-bye to it.
We men and women do not show ourselves to each other at our best;
too often, I fear, at our worst. The woman's highest ideal of man
is the lover; to a man the woman is always the possible beloved. We
see each other's hearts, but not each other's souls. In each
other's presence we never shake ourselves free from the earth.
Match-making mother Nature is always at hand to prompt us. A woman
lifts us up into manhood, but there she would have us stay. "Climb
up to me," she cries to the lad, walking with soiled feet in muddy
ways; "be a true man that you may be worthy to walk by my side; be
brave to protect me, kind and tender, and true; but climb no higher,
stay here by my side." The martyr, the prophet, the leader of the
world's forlorn hopes, she would wake from his dream. Her arms she
would fling about his neck holding him down.
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