Many men of genius have loved just such women,
and the world, of course, has wondered. How is it that men of genius
prefer some little Mathilde, when the presidents of so many women's
clubs are theirs for the asking? Perhaps the problem is not so
difficult as, at first sight, it may seem. After all, a man of
genius is much like other men. He is no more anxious than any other
man to marry an encyclopedia, or a university degree. And, more than
most men, he is fitted to realize the mysterious importance and
satisfaction of simple beauty--though it may go quite unaccompanied
by "intellectual" conversation--and the value of simple
woman-goodness, the woman-goodness that orders a household so
skillfully that your home is a work of art, the woman-goodness that
glories in that "simple" thing we call motherhood, the woman-goodness
that is almost happy when you are ill because it will be so wonderful
to nurse you. Superior persons often smile at these Mathildes of the
great. They have smiled no little at Mathilde Crescence Mirat; but
he who was perhaps the greatest mocker that ever lived knew better
than to laugh at Mathilde. The abysses of his brain no one can, or
even dare, explore--but, listen as we will at the door of that
infernal pit of laughter, we shall hear no laugh against his faithful
little Mathilde. It is not at Mathilde he laughs, but at the
precious little blue-stocking, who freshened the last months of his
life with a final infatuation--that still unidentified "Camille
Selden" whom he playfully called "la Mouche.
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