But what is Edith to do? Where is her overflow? This is a very one-sided friendship: the companionship of giant and dwarf, which sooner or later must come to an end or be very uncomfortable for the dwarf. The friends, as I said, need not be alike, need not even be of equal capacity, intellectually or practically, but the sympathy, rooted in affection, must be mutual; it must be equal give and take, or the friendship is miserably stunted and incomplete.
And this brings me to speak of the third ingredient in what I have defined as a perfect friendship—mutual help, which, of course, supposes the two friends to be somewhat different, whether in character, tastes, or surroundings, so that one can supply what the other lacks.
ALICE AND MAUD.
If two countries in friendly relations both produce one article abundantly, and are both lacking in some other article, there can be no commerce—which is the symbol of friendly relations—between them. Both must apply to a third country for that in which both are deficient. And if Edith cannot get help from Amy when she is in need of it, not necessarily advice, but some new view of the situation occasioned by Amy's different character or life, and which would enable Edith to face the trouble or difficulty with more courage or intelligence—if, I say, Edith cannot get this help from Amy, before long she will find Clara, and the friendship will be dissolved or cooled; while undiscerning people will say, "How fickle these girls are!"
Not at all. They obey a subtle, spiritual law, which makes it impossible for friendship long to exist on insufficient food, and when it is said that women are unreasoning and exacting in their friendships, it is simply because people don't see that it is the nature which is in them crying out to be fed with that without which it must die.
But if after, it may be, years of affectionate intercourse, you still find that your friend gives you absolutely nothing which you have not already got—that she communicates no thought or experience to you that will stimulate your mind or aid you in the practical work of life—do you not begin to lose interest in her, strive as you will against the consciousness of it? Does not the friend quit her hold on you and slide down to the level of those of whom an hour or a letter every few weeks gives you enough? You may feel affectionately towards such, but not friendship.
Our ideal friends, Alice and Maud, are very different. Alice is studious and thoughtful, leading a quiet, uneventful life; Maud is high-spirited, devoted to art and music, and sees considerably more of "the world," as it is called. But they are a constant source of interest and assistance to each other. Alice's thoughtful mind finds the meaning to the puzzles of Maud's more superficial existence, who in turn puts the light touches to Alice's grave conclusions, which often give them reality. These two, as it were, sketch life's island from different points. One takes the outline of cliff or shore, dashing in what I may call the aggregated tints of forest and hill; the other paints by turns each special crag or ravine, with their colours in detail; yet both are correct, and we want both if we are to understand the island.
I can imagine Maud in difficulty thinking, "I must go and see Alice, she will help me out of my perplexity; she takes such different views of things from those I do, and I have really come to an end of my ideas."
Or Alice, also in difficulty, though probably of a very different character, exclaiming, "I only wish Maud were here. She would know just how to arrange this; and I cannot imagine what to do."