They have nothing of the coyness that
civilisation fosters in women, are as fearless and unsophisticated as
men. A `wooing' were wasted on them, for they have no sense of
antagonism, and seek not by any means to elude men. They meet men even
as rivers meet the sea. Even as, when fresh water meets salt water in
the estuary, the two tides revolve in eddies and leap up in foam, so
do these men and women laugh and wrestle in the rapture of
concurrence. How different from the first embrace which marks the
close of a wooing! that moment when the man seeks to conceal his
triumph under a semblance of humility, and the woman her humiliation
under a pretty air of patronage. Here, in the Garden of Love, they
have none of those spiritual reservations and pretences. Nor is here
any savour of fine romance. Nothing is here but the joy of satisfying
a physical instinct--a joy that expresses itself not in any exaltation
of words or thoughts, but in mere romping. See! Some of the women are
chasing one another through the grotto. They are rushing headlong
under the fountain. What though their finery be soaked? Anon they will
come out and throw themselves on the grass, and the sun will quickly
dry them.
Leave them, then, to their riot. Look upon these others who sit and
stand here in a voluptuous bevy, hand in hand under the brazen sun, or
flaunt to and fro, lolling in one another's arms and laughing in one
another's faces.
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