Whenever I read a testimonial given to a candidate for some vacant post, I invariably take it for granted that the candidate does not possess the virtues, attainments, or qualities which are not mentioned in that testimonial.
This must have evidently been what that clever American writer, Mrs. Winifred Black, thought when she read an article of mine on American women which appeared in the Editorial section of the New York Sunday Journal some time ago. My admiration for American women is, I think, pretty well known to the public, but more particularly to my most intimate friends. In that article I said: 'I firmly believe the American women to be the most fascinating, the most interesting, and the most brilliant women in the world; and I do not see why I could not proclaim it from the housetops, if I like, even in America.' And after mentioning the respect which woman inspires in American men of all classes, the liberty she enjoys, the attentions that are lavished upon her, I concluded the article by exclaiming: 'If I could choose again my sex and my birthplace, I would shout to the Almighty at the top of my voice: "Oh, please make me an American woman!"'
'Now,' exclaims Mrs. Winifred Black, 'look between the words of that cleverly constructed sentence, and he who runs may read that Max O'Rell means to say in the still small voice of his innermost convictions: "Make me anything on earth except an American man!"'
'And,' she goes on, 'our friend is covering himself with well-earned glory, telling us all about the American woman. "She is beautiful, clever, adored, a queen"; but he does not mention that she is good, honest, true, unselfish, loving. Not a syllable about her heart and her soul. Do you know why? Because Max O'Rell thinks that the American woman has neither heart nor soul.'
Oh, oh! my dear lady, how quickly you set to work and jump at conclusions!
Mrs. Winifred Black evidently believes that when I propose the toast, 'The American ladies—God bless them!' I whisper under my breath all the time: 'The gentlemen—God help them!'
Now, madam, let me tell you that this is witty, smart, but not fair criticism. If I ever should have the honour of being introduced to you, I would say to you: 'When a foreigner attempts to describe the character of the people he visits, he either receives impressions, if he keeps his eyes fairly well open, or he forms opinions, if he resides in that country for a long time or happens to be a born conceited idiot. Impressions are not opinions. Impressions mean nothing more than this: how a nation strikes a foreigner who pays a short visit to it. You see a town for a day, you meet a person for ten minutes. That town, that person, has left an impression on you, but you hold no opinion on either. I know a charming little book on Denmark, honestly entitled by its author, 'A Week in Denmark.' Now, surely you would not expect to find in such a book a study of the institutions of Denmark or opinions on the idiosyncrasies of the Danish people. You would not expect the writer to tell you whether the Danish women have or have not a heart and a soul. No, you would expect to find an impression such as the following, which I find in that delightful, chatty, and unpretentious little volume: 'The Danish women wear the national colours of France—blue eyes, white complexion, and red lips.' I have been six times in the United States. I have seen the whole continent from New York to San Francisco, from British Columbia to Louisiana, but all the time I have been on the move, seldom spending two days in the same town. How could I form opinions worth repeating?
The qualities which, for instance, I may have discovered in American women are superficial ones—I mean outward ones, those that would be noticed by the casual visitor—brilliancy, conversational power, beautiful figures, attractive, intelligent faces, smartness in dress, gait, and carriage. To get at their hearts and their souls, I should have to settle in the country, and for years and years live among the people.
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