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[Many men are notorious for having a long list of “requirements” which the woman of their dreams must satisfy. Women, too, must have such lists, but whether their specifications are quite so outrageously self-indulgent is open to doubt. In these matters there is a streak of realism in most women which, for better or worse, is absent in the masculine temperament. To explore this male predilection for the unattainable, Ed Howe’s observation, ‘Men have as exaggerated an idea of their rights as women have of their wrongs’ might be replaced by the following: ‘Men have a rather unrealistic idea of what they are entitled—or at least hope—to find in the opposite sex.’ The fictional Captain Orselli in the 1950 best seller, The Cardinal, is an extreme case in point. Part renaissance man, part libertine, the handsome Florentine has little trouble seducing the attractive women who regularly turn up among the passengers of his ocean going liner. His sophisticated European outlook and old world charm are also irresistible to Stephan Fermoyle, a young Irish-American priest on his way to study in Rome just after the First World War. In fact, the anti-clerical sensualist and his polar opposite are drawn to one another. Some years later they meet again on the high seas and effortlessly pick up their old friendship. But now Orselli is dissatisfied and confesses to his friend, “My way of life wearies me, Stephen. In the midst of these scented seductions I am lonely.” Sensing an opportunity Fermoyle tries to steer the aging Lothario in the direction of monogamy. Baiting his hook with a nautical metaphor he replies, “You must settle on a fixed love, something to steer by, like Polaris up there. Put a period to these saloon-deck conquests and get married.” But as Fermoyle must be only too well aware, being the captain of a large ship has enabled Orselli to become accustomed to very high standards of feminine beauty and allure. In consequence, the attributes of his ‘ideal woman’ have risen proportionately, ascending from the highly unlikely to the wildly unrealistic—as he eagerly explains in the passage below.]

“Sweet, innocent Stefano! Clearly you have no idea of my requirements. Even a marriage broker with angels as his stock in trade would be staggered by them.” Orselli seemed eager to prove his point. “Shall I run over, lightly, my list of specifications?”

“By all means.”

Buoyed by the oral prospect before him, Orselli nipped a fresh cigar. “You have an ear for wonders, Stephen. Life is renewed whenever I talk to you.” The Captain went through the ritual of lighting his Havana. “I may soar slightly. Do you grant me full freedom of rhetoric?”

“Within limits of clarity.”

“Well then, this treasure that I seek, this most-improbable she, must have, primo, a serene mind already ripened on the vine of maturity. No acid grape that sets the teeth on edge. And especially, no bubbling. She must be a still wine of delicate bouquet, a quiet Falernian that endears itself to nostril and palate before plunging into the deep veins that flood the heart.” Orselli paused to inhale his Havana from cupped hands. “Is the first specification clear?”

“Most graphically.”

Next—to explore the practical side—she must be a woman of independent means and of an accepted family. A title would help, but is not obligatory. I shun the arriviste trollop, the social adventuress. I might forfeit my good name. I see this paragon wife-to-be solidly established in the intimate upper set of a world city—Rome, Vienna, Paris. To a cosmopolitan like myself this makes no difference.” Orselli expanded the real-estate motif. “There is, of course, the matter of a residence: I should require a house in the best quarter of town, and a country estate, not more than twenty-five miles—thirty at most—from the city. Neither isolated nor suburban, capisce?”

“Perfectly. But your conditions grow a trifle difficult.”

“You speak of difficulties? We have not yet touched upon the most intimate difficulty of all—the problem of beauty.” A nice delicacy prompted Orselli’s question, “I have your permission to develop this theme, Stephen? It will not prove—overstimulating?”

“This is your scenario, not mine. Write it out; you’ll feel better.”

“Physician seraphic, practitioner to the troubled heart—I could lift litanies to your understanding.” Orselli curbed his own rhetoric. “But to the subject. As you may know”—the Captain became a man admitting a weakness—“I am addicted to the tipo guionico, the Juno type, with a punta, a mere dash of Rubens. Bluntly, I like big women. I will be candid: there is a danger here—the risk of fat. Fortunately, Italian women have the secret of keeping the flesh firm till they are well past fifty. Indeed, I knew a Milanese countess, you will not believe this, Stephen, who at sixty—olà, what am I doing in Milan? The point is, one must select shrewdly. Otherwise”—Orselli’s cigar traced gigantic billows in the dark—“the end would be tragic.”

“I hate to interrupt you,” said Stephen, “but is this dream woman animated by a soul?”

“But a soul of such sensibility! It will enliven her every feature.” Orselli was off on another rhetorical flight. “The eye tranquil as it contemplates inner goodness. The mouth a spiritual enigma—Gioconda lips vibrating between a prayer and a caress, a taunt and an invitation. The chin, despite its soft rondure, a proud guarantee of constancy. The throat marbling in purity to a . . .” Orselli pulled up contritely. “Forgive me, Stephen. On a night such as this, a man should be spared anatomical details.”

“Thank you, Gaetano.”

Stephen recognized easily enough the elements of Orselli’s portrait: the woman part earth, part drug, part flight. He saw also the same components of aspiration and yearning Dante had poured into Beatrice, transforming her thereby from flesh to essence.

“Do you see that haze filling the heavens?” Orselli was asking.

Gazing upward, Stephen saw the glow caused by clouds of star dust whirling through the universe. Light mysterious and original, an aureole of loneliness shining for itself, smiling on itself alone.

“Yes, I see it,” said Stephen.

“Such a glow will surround the head of the woman I seek. Do you think I shall ever find her?”

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