“Woman’s love saved Shakespeare. Shakespeare’s love saved the woman, although the world knows her not as yet. He never realized his power, and if it had been told him that his name would go thundering down the ages, the greatest literary name of all times, he would have been staggered with incredulity; for if a man ever realizes or imagines he is at the top, at once his head grows dizzy. But never fear, the heart of woman can hold him firm. Duality exists throughout all nature. A man alone is only half a man—a woman alone is only half a woman. The man and woman make the perfect man. There is the male man and the female man. Only where these two half spirits work together can they reach perfection. For every woman there is somewhere on the earth, or in the spirit realm a mate, for every man there is his other half; and some time in this life or in another they will meet, and no priest or justice of the peace can join what God has not ordained. But when the right man meets the right woman and they live rightly, there is an atmosphere formed where no poisonous draught can enter. These two will say, ‘Between us there must be honesty and truth for evermore.’ Then each will work for the approbation of the other; there will be no flattery, for there is honesty; there will be commendation always when deserved, but no fulsome praise. Neither will excel the other. Each may be able to do certain things better than the other, so there will ever be a friendly rivalry for good. The tendency to grow egotistical is ever corrected, the poison is constantly neutralized, for how can you be egotistical when you only work for the approbation of one who has contributed to your work as much as you? There is ever a sharing of every joy, of every exalted thought, of every acquisition; so the good gained is fused. There is a perfect commingling. It is not ‘mine,’ nor ‘thine,’ but ‘ours.’ No selfish satisfaction can you take in your own attainment when by your side stands another as great as yourself. You are gentle, modest, and you two working together cannot but recognize a higher power, a greater than you, a Source you look up to, and ever do you say, ‘Not unto us, not unto us.’ Thus is growth attained and thus only can perfection be reached.
“Of course I know that some men are not as able as some women; and that some men have wives who are only echoes; and that there are men who in their blindness desire nothing else—but a woman who can only applaud her husband is fixing him in untruth, and they are each dragging the other down. For we only need the applause of those who are our equals, otherwise they will not discern but will applaud simply because we say it. Then once having tasted blood we resort to sophistry, trickery and device, knowing we can deceive, to win this deadly thing our morbid souls do crave.
“Well do I know that as the highest joys of sense and soul come from love, and sadly do I say it, love misplaced, diverted, thwarted, causes more misery, heartaches, sickness, death, than all other causes combined. The throes of childbirth were sent as punishment for love wrongly used, and this awful curse can yet be cured; not in this life perhaps, but it will come, for God did not design that life should be sacrificed in order that others still might also have life.”
[CHAPTER XVI.
SIXTH SUNDAY—THE MAN CONTINUES THE TRUE STORY OF SHAKESPEARE.]
“The evening following what I have already told, the young man presented himself at the little red house where dwelt the Lady Bowenni, and was met at the door by Harriette, the daughter. Servant and stranger he no longer was, but friend. The young woman’s cheeks glowed, her eyes flashed with all the eagerness of restless purpose.
“Spread out on the table were sundry curiously-bound books and pamphlets, some written and some in print; for the nobleman had been a great collector, and had secured the best wherever literary treasures were to be found. The young man was cool, composed, and had not the slightest idea of what the work would be or where it should begin.
“‘Draw up your chair to yonder table, William, while I sit on the other side. Now look straight at me (‘I can’t do otherwise,’ he gravely said), and listen close while I the story tell which I have got from three old books—two of them from Spain were brought, one from France. I have dropped and left out this and that, and put in more, here interpolated, there proclaimed a truth I once did hear you say. Now let us get the plot all firmly fixed in our two hearts, and then you it is shall write; for you do toy with words—they are your playthings. You strive not, nor reach out, nor falter, search or look around, but straightway you do get the thought, words, gentle words come trooping to you like a thousand fairies, each in its own order, leading its mate full gently by the hand. For learned men may work and strive and sweat and never do they reach the smoothness you do bring even without a second thought. Careless, William, you are in manner. You know no rule, yet I might study a thousand years and could not thus express the feeling that within me burns; but hinted once by me to you, straightway you weave the beauteous thought into a chaplet gay, and then upon my brow you place it, and seriously you proclaim it mine, when ’tis not mine, nor thine, but ours.’
“Thus did speak this winsome girl after the story she had told, and thoughtful sat the man and not a word he seemed to hear as still she chatted on. When suddenly he aroused and said: