第40章

And speaking of purses, reminds one of another essential difference between the male and female human animal.A man carries his money in his pocket.When he wants to use it, he takes it out and lays it down.This is a crude way of doing things, a woman displays more subtlety.Say she is standing in the street, and wants fourpence to pay for a bunch of violets she has purchased from a flower-girl.

She has two parcels in one hand, and a parasol in the other.With the remaining two fingers of the left hand she secures the violets.

The question then arises, how to pay the girl? She flutters for a few minutes, evidently not quite understanding why it is she cannot do it.The reason then occurs to her: she has only two hands and both these are occupied.First she thinks she will put the parcels and the flowers into her right hand, then she thinks she will put the parasol into her left.Then she looks round for a table or even a chair, but there is not such a thing in the whole street.Her difficulty is solved by her dropping the parcels and the flowers.

The girl picks them up for her and holds them.This enables her to feel for her pocket with her right hand, while waving her open parasol about with her left.She knocks an old gentleman's hat off into the gutter, and nearly blinds the flower-girl before it occurs to her to close it.This done, she leans it up against the flower-girl's basket, and sets to work in earnest with both hands.

She seizes herself firmly by the back, and turns the upper part of her body round till her hair is in front and her eyes behind.Still holding herself firmly with her left hand--did she let herself go, goodness knows where she would spin to;--with her right she prospects herself.The purse is there, she can feel it, the problem is how to get at it.The quickest way would, of course, be to take off the skirt, sit down on the kerb, turn it inside out, and work from the bottom of the pocket upwards.But this simple idea never seems to occur to her.There are some thirty folds at the back of the dress, between two of these folds commences the secret passage.

At last, purely by chance, she suddenly discovers it, nearly upsetting herself in the process, and the purse is brought up to the surface.The difficulty of opening it still remains.She knows it opens with a spring, but the secret of that spring she has never mastered, and she never will.Her plan is to worry it generally until it does open.Five minutes will always do it, provided she is not flustered.

At last it does open.It would be incorrect to say that she opens it.It opens because it is sick of being mauled about; and, as likely as not, it opens at the moment when she is holding it upside down.If you happen to be near enough to look over her shoulder, you will notice that the gold and silver lies loose within it.In an inner sanctuary, carefully secured with a second secret spring, she keeps her coppers, together with a postage-stamp and a draper's receipt, nine months old, for elevenpence three-farthings.

I remember the indignation of an old Bus-conductor, once.Inside we were nine women and two men.I sat next the door, and his remarks therefore he addressed to me.It was certainly taking him some time to collect the fares, but I think he would have got on better had he been less bustling; he worried them, and made them nervous.

"Look at that," he said, drawing my attention to a poor lady opposite, who was diving in the customary manner for her purse, "they sit on their money, women do.Blest if you wouldn't think they was trying to 'atch it."At length the lady drew from underneath herself an exceedingly fat purse.

"Fancy riding in a bumpby bus, perched up on that thing," he continued."Think what a stamina they must have." He grew confidential."I've seen one woman," he said, "pull out from underneath 'er a street doorkey, a tin box of lozengers, a pencil-case, a whopping big purse, a packet of hair-pins, and a smelling-bottle.Why, you or me would be wretched, sitting on a plain door-knob, and them women goes about like that all day.Isuppose they gets used to it.Drop 'em on an eider-down pillow, and they'd scream.The time it takes me to get tuppence out of them, why, it's 'eart-breaking.First they tries one side, then they tries the other.Then they gets up and shakes theirselves till the bus jerks them back again, and there they are, a more 'opeless 'eap than ever.If I 'ad my way I'd make every bus carry a female searcher as could over'aul 'em one at a time, and take the money from 'em.Talk about the poor pickpocket.What I say is, that a man as finds his way into a woman's pocket--well, he deserves what he gets."But it was the thought of more serious matters that lured me into reflections concerning the over-carefulness of women.It is a theory of mine--wrong possibly; indeed I have so been informed--that we pick our way through life with too much care.We are for ever looking down upon the ground.Maybe, we do avoid a stumble or two over a stone or a brier, but also we miss the blue of the sky, the glory of the hills.These books that good men write, telling us that what they call "success" in life depends on our flinging aside our youth and wasting our manhood in order that we may have the means when we are eighty of spending a rollicking old age, annoy me.

We save all our lives to invest in a South Sea Bubble; and in skimping and scheming, we have grown mean, and narrow, and hard.We will put off the gathering of the roses till tomorrow, to-day it shall be all work, all bargain-driving, all plotting.Lo, when to-morrow comes, the roses are blown; nor do we care for roses, idle things of small marketable value; cabbages are more to our fancy by the time to-morrow comes.

Life is a thing to be lived, not spent, to be faced, not ordered.