Fault Found With Forty

WHERE is that dainty sweet melancholy with which I hoped to regale a sentimental disposition on the approach of the middle of middle age?

It’s too provoking to find thirty-nine looking down the west road for forty with a come-hither in its eye. Is one never to become wistful, ironical, tender, resigned and interesting?

‘Can’t you feel sad over growing old?’inquired J. sympathetically. (J.’s interest in the phenomena of growing old is purely academic. She has n’t had any practical experience in that line, though her age by the Bible is a little more than mine.)

‘Why, the worst of it is, Miss Thoughtful, I don’t know what to make of this sense of competence, and calmness, and contented expectation of good luck. There’s nothing about it to harmonize with forty. I ’in at my wits’ end for sorrowful and cynical feelings: I have n’t been able to lose an ounce of cheerfulness; I don’t know which way to turn. Do you know I’m even beginning to be afraid that I’m getting over being afraid of death.’

‘But you’re still afraid of pain?’ she inquired hopefully, having wintered and summered with my physical cowardice.

‘Why, that’s another thing that I’m disappointed in, after all,’ I confessed. ‘I can generally imagine pain a good deal worse than anything I ever feel, unless it’s when a dentist touches a live nerve; and that’s really more a sort of frantic shudder —’

‘Don’t talk about it!’

‘Well, I don’t really care to, myself. But ordinary pain, — why, the only thing you notice much is that it makes you rather cross and feeble and silly. It used to wear such a horrible thrilling false face in my young dreams about it; and death used to have a whole outfit of melodramatic properties, blue lights, sepulchral music, and so on, — I do feel resentful at the idea of losing all those interesting shivers!’

‘I ’m afraid I can’t wait and hear you complain any longer,’ said J. ‘I’m off for the Tuesday dancing class.’

‘That’s another thing! ’ I called after her. ‘These new dances only make it harder and harder to get the proper tone for forty.’

I went on thinking about it after she ’d gone, and resigned myself as well as I could to the prospect of a frankly cheerful middle age. I resolutely gave up, once for all, trying to work up pensive moods and irrevocable regrets. It was too warm for such hard work, anyway; and I looked over my materials and found almost nothing suitable.

There were all my friendships of ’teens and twenties perfectly intact, fast colors, not shrunk a particle. On most of them, in fact, the pattern seemed to have spread, and stood out brighter: and on one in particular I found some gold-thread appliqué work which I can’t remember at all in the old days when D. and I were cutting it out and stitching it together.

My old Sunday silk, too, — since I made it over the fourth or fifth time, I believe the breadths have actually grown wider!

My working clothes have rather toughened with wear, and the sun and rain are steadily bleaching my aprons whiter.

I wish I had n’t been led to expect that my enthusiasms would wear thin by this time. I was going to trade them away, in that case, for a nice tin dipper when the rag-man came round; but I don’t see my way to dispense with them at present. I believe those durable old enthusiasms will make me an excellent one-piece everyday dress; it will be cool in summer, and warm in winter, and just right for spring and fall.

The fact is, reader, this so-called Middle-age is a consummate humbug. It’s nothing in the world but that poor little delicate Youth, grown bronzed, broad-shouldered, (becomingly) stout, and less addicted to amateur theatricals.

Ah, well! It’s only one more illusion gone!