A young and rather haughty woman hoped to find a husband also young and yet accomplished, handsome and agreeable, and neither cold nor jealous. Furthermore, she wanted him to be well-off, well-born, well-witted, well- . . . well, everything. But who can boast of everything?
It seemed the fates were eager to oblige her nonetheless, for many noble suitors courted her.
She thought they were a puny lot. “Such men propose to me? Pathetic. Look at them!” One’s mind lacked grace, another’s nose; some flaw was found with each: with this one that, with that one this. —Fastidiousness is oftenest disdainful.
After these, less worthy swains came calling next. She laughed at them, and felt a saint for even opening her door to them.
“Do they imagine I’m so sick of my own company? I sleep alone, not lonelily, thank God.”
Subsisting on such sentiments as these, the woman aged—and was by age abased. Her callers called no more; the laughing games of love were played no more with her. A year of worrying, and then another, passed. Her beauty waned, and she resorted to cosmetics; but no thousand tricks of make-up could reverse time’s depredations. Ruined faces aren’t repairable like ruined houses are.
Her preciosity was last to go. Her mirror told her, “Marry, quick.” Perhaps desire compelled her too. In any case, she made a choice that none foresaw, and wed, with evident content, a frightful boor.
On earth, perfection’s nowhere to be had. Not good enough is death to not so bad.