From The Baron Would Be Proud
Chapter 67 – The Chemise Skirt
Every man in the Baron‘s crew had his own particular bent when it came to the thing known as love. Of course, Ten ha was not invited to this frequent commentary because obviously she was far too young and not enough ‘of the world‘ to know anything about the subject.
Pigby, Oswald, and Fletcher were separated three-musketeers-style by the age-old philos, agape, and eros.
Pigby happened to believe that the purest form of love came from genuine concern and care for another‘s well-being, and—because he was actually exceptionally shy when it came to actually flirting with women—mostly found such a connection through brothers he adopted over the course of his travels. In other words, Clemens was not so exceptional as you may have thought.
Oswald held that a beautiful rose, accompanied by a beautiful ballad, given to a beautiful woman on a moonlit night constituted romance supreme, but then he was from a different age, and was often mocked for his old-fashion sentiments. Bear in mind that even though it had been the eighteenth century, he was still born in the fifties.
Fletcher would defend to his last that love at first sight occurred when the sway of a barmaid‘s hips are caught in the reflection of spilt ale, and that proof of said love occurred when said hips were in one‘s (namely Fletcher‘s) very enthusiastic hands.
Geru tended to drag down the whole discussion by announcing, ―Love! It‘s just a flood of hormones whose delusions are necessary for the survival of the species.‖ Hormones which Geru found quite obsolete, seeing as by the turn of the nineteenth century, he felt the world to be quite overcrowded already, thank you very much.
The Baron kept out of this debate for fear that too many people might listen to what he had to say. Not that he had a particular problem with misleading those persons gullible enough to take poor advice; no, the Baron simply knew that were he to make a stab on love, romance, or even that old bugaboo sex, his words would be remembered, he‘d risk them being quoted back at him, and then he could never change his opinion on the matter. And as he was getting on in years, the ripe middle age of thirty, no doubt there was far more expectation for him to drop a pearl of wisdom regarding love. Should his comrades (or anyone else) pick up that pearl, string it on a necklace, and wear it every day, then surely he would never be free of his own testament. First and foremost, the Baron believed that it was the sacred right and duty of every well-read, well-bred young man to change his fancy whenever it so suited him. He liked to call this stance tactful neutrality; no member of his crew used so polite a phrase.