Woman and Love by Rudolph Valentino

Woman and Love

By RUDOLPH VALENTINO

(seen in Photoplay Magazine, March 1922)


WHEN you ask me to write for you what I think
about woman, I feel that I must produce for you
something that would look like the Encyclopedia
Britannica. Yet when I should be through with
this great work, I shall still have said less than nothing about
woman.

We cannot know woman because she does not know herself.
She is the unsolvable mystery, perhaps because there is no
solution. The Sphinx has never spoken — perhaps because she
has nothing to say.

But since woman is the legitimate object of man's thoughts,
and mine have been somewhat distilled in the alcohol of ex-
perience, I may be able to give to you a little draft of truth.

English is not my own tongue as you know. In Italian,
French, Spanish, I might express myself better, for there we
have such little words that have fire and understanding and
delicate shades of meaning to
which I know not yet the Eng-
lish translations.

My point of the view on
woman is Latin — is continental.
The American man I do not
understand at all. I have lived
much in Paris, in Rome, in New
York, and from this traveling,
which is of the finest to de-
velop the mind and understand-
ing soul, I have composed my
little philosophy about woman.

For there is only one book in
which you may read about
Woman. That is the Book of
Life. And even that is written
in cipher.

But those who refuse to read
it are generally more deeply
wounded than those who digest
it thoroughly.

What comes to my mind first
as I try to put into some order
my ideas on this all-important
subject, I will tell you.

It is this. Which of the women I have known, have perhaps loved a little, do I remem-
ber instantly, and which have I forgotten, so that I must think
and think to recall them at all?

The most difficult thing in the world is to make a man love
you when he sees you every day. The next is to make him
remember that he has loved you when he no longer sees you
at all.

Strangely enough, I remember the women who told me per-
haps their little lonelinesses, who spoke in close moments true
and sweet and simple heart throbs.

Even the highest peak of emotion is finished. It has flamed,
gone out, and told us very little about life. It was to enjoy,
to drink deeply. But never is even that treasured in the heart
as are those moments of simple, tender confidences, when a
gentle, loving sigh opened the treasure house of a woman's
heart and she spoke truly of those things within.

A man likes even the bad
women he knows to be good.

To a woman who has revealed
her soul, who has given a brief
glimpse of her heart, no man
ever pays the insult to forget;
he pays her homage. I remem-
ber a little Italian girl I once
knew. She was very beautiful
— so young. We used to sit in
a tiny cafe we knew in Naples,
and hold hands quite openly. I
do not think I ever kissed her.
We talked little, for she was not
educated. It was not her mag-
nificent eyes, nor the glory of
her hair that was like a black-
bird's wing, nor the round white
curves of her young body — I
remember her because of those
little intimate moments when
our thoughts were bound to-
gether by her simple, tender,
gentle words. We were intimates,
and the soul is such a lonely
thing that it treasures those
moments of companionship.

And this, surrender to confidence, to real intimacy of the
soul and heart, speaks a much greater surrender to love, a
much deeper capacity to love, than all the passion of a Cleo-
patra.

There was another woman in France, an older woman, the
wife of a painter. I loved her because she was the only grave
woman I ever have known who did not depress. I never
saw her smile. But beneath that smooth, impartial beauty,
that pearl-like, moon-like
loveliness of hers, flowed a
moulten lava of shy, strong,
sentimentalism, which her
mind condemned. It has
remained with me like the
perfume of a cathedral.

THERE was a little
artist's model, too, in
Paris. Oh, of such a saucy,
impudent, swift little crea-
ture you have not heard.
She had eyes like black
coals and round little cheeks
where hung the scarlet ban-
ner of her youth and joie de
vivre. She was enchanting.
She danced like a bacchante.
Her red lips were always
laughing and singing and
flinging teasing little mots
at you. And she had a
little hat which she herself
made over every day, so
that I thought she must
have at least a dozen hats,
and I was madly jealous of
the man who must make
this extravagance possible.
Now it is not her coquetry,
nor her vivid young beauty
nor her wild youth that
makes her live in my mem-
ory, but the sweet little in-
congruity of that little hat
that her nimble fingers
changed each day.

Tenderness is absolutely
the strongest, most lasting,
most trustworthy emotion
that a woman can arouse
in a man. It is a great force that modern woman disregards.

All women are divided into two classes in the mind of a
man. Often they are so mixed up that you do not know which
is which until you go down very deep. Then it does not matter,
for in an affair of amour a counterfeit is often better than the
real thing.

In my poor English, let me say that there are what I would
call joy-women and duty-women. Now understand, the joy
woman may be very good and the duty woman might even
be bad. That is just their relation to man. The first kind are
the kind that you want to take with you on your joyful care-
free wanderings into life's highways and byways. The others
are the women who are possibilities to share the principal
things of life — home, family, children.

For a wife, a man should pick out a woman who is pretty,
has a good disposition, and is domestically inclined. They are
very rare, now, I admit. One is too apt to be deceived by
their easy method of comradeship. Let her be your inferior,
if possible. Then she will be happy with you. It is much
more essential to marriage that a woman be happy in it than
a man. I do not mean a butterfly that flits from beauty parlor
to beauty parlor. But a good woman who has the old-fashioned
virtues.

We Europeans do not expect too much of one woman.

The difficulty with love and marriage in this country is that
the man has let the game get out of his hand. A woman can
never have a happy love affair with a man unless he is her
superior. It just can't be done. The love affair where the
woman is the stronger in mind and knowledge is always a
tragedy or a farce.

I do not like women who know too much. Remember, it was from the serpent that Eve was given that apple from the
Tree of Knowledge. Just so would I make the Tree of
Knowledge of Life today — forbidden to women. If they must
eat of it, let them do so in secret and burn the core.

Do not misunderstand this that I say. I do not mean this
in regard to intelligence, to education, even to position. The
more cultured and accomplished a woman is, the more ex-
quisite she is to love, the more like gold that is soft to touch and handle. With her, all
is delicate and attractive,
all is beautiful and fine, her
mind is attuned to beauty
— and beauty is of itself a
religion.

No, when I speak thus of
an inferior — a superior — I
mean in experience of life,
in power to do, in ways of
love. The man may be a
digger in the ditch, and the
woman a teacher in the
school, but he is the master
of her if he knows more of
the world than she does. It
is not becoming that a
woman should know the
world. It is not proper
that a lady should go to
places or to things where
she acquires this knowledge.
If she knows these
things, she must be clever
enough to conceal her
knowledge, like the girl
who can swim a mile, yet
with much grace and helplessness she allows me to
teach her swimming.

How completely the
modern woman in America
tries to destroy romance.
How ugly and cut-and-dry
it has become — love.
Either it must be marriage
or it must be ugly scandal.
The brilliant, absorbing, delightful, dangerous, innocent — sometimes — sport of
love, how it goes. She
knows too much about life
and too little about emotion. She knows all of the bad and
none of the good about passion. She has seen everything,
felt nothing. She arouses in me disgust.

Sometimes a man may feel that he would rather a woman
had done many, many bad things — real bad things — and yet
been delicate, and quiet and dignified, than to see her common.
If the bloom has been rubbed from the peach, let her paint
it back on with an artistic hand.

SHOULD I try again to find me a wife, I say, let me find one
who wishes to have children and who when she has had
them, wishes to take care of them. That is the proper test for
the good woman who is to share the side of your life. No
other woman can ever mean to a man what his children's
mother means to him — if she does not let herself get fat and
ugly and old. No man can love a woman who lets herself
get fat, and careless and unpleasant. He must then constantly
make comparisons of her with the beautiful young girls about.
A wife's first duty is to keep her husband from making com-
parisons.

A man is always intrigued to see a woman with a child.
The Sistine Madonna is as famous and as beloved as Mona
Lisa.

But — for a sweetheart. Ah, that is different. To me, I
have been won always by the woman who has great ability
to feel. I have never yet seen a cold woman who interested
me. A reluctant woman, yes. But reluctant only as a flower
is reluctant to bloom in winter. Place it in the hot-house of
proper wooing — and it blossoms. She must have intelligence.

A love affair with a stupid woman no matter how beautiful,
is like cold coffee for breakfast. (Continued on page 106)

t is coffee of course — but one would almost
rather do without. The ancient Greeks
taught the art of love to their damsels.
They understood the necessity of doing well
and wisely the things that are important
to life. Today, every man is seeking the
woman who is intelligent about love, who
understands instinctively those fine, sensitive
cords that make up passion. Love is as
delicate as an orchid.

A WOMAN must have curiosity. I have
been most captivated by the sight in a
woman's eyes of that infinite curiosity about
life. Curiosity is not a fault. It is the
cocktails of the emotions.

In one point do I disagree greatly with
the American man's philosophy of love.
I believe that the most irresistible woman
in the world is the woman who is madly
in love with you. I can resist any temptation except the incense of adoration. Nothing is so flattering to a man as a woman's
adoration. More men are attracted and held
by a woman's passion for them than by
theirs for her. It is the emotion he is able
to arouse in a woman that thrills him most,
not the emotion she is able to arouse in
him.

The experienced man of the world returns'
again and again to the warm flame of a
woman's passion for him. It is the one
form of romance of which a man never
tires. He may tire of the particular flame
and see a new one, but difference in object
will not change singleness of passion.

The less experienced man, the man who
doesn't need to seek new sensations, is
thrilled by the coquette who plays with
him. But he has not yet discovered that
the most enthralling thing in the world is
an influence over the emotions and actions
and heart beats of another — when it is
genuine.

The most dangerous woman in the world
is a pretty woman who has deep wells of
passion in her nature but who has never
loved.

Of all the women I have known, the
Frenchwomen are the most nearly perfect.
No matter what their age or class may be,
they have that touch of domesticity, that
sweet and gentle something that lends a
delicacy even to the wildness of the senses.
Thy know how to amuse, how to touch
the heart, they have the sixth sense of
pleasing a man with their perfection. And
they are so very well dressed. All of them.

American women are terribly pretty.
Even when they are quite ugly, they are
pretty. They are always rather well dressed.
And they always behave as though they
were beautiful. Which gives them great
poise. But they lack softness, they lack
feminine charm and sweetness. You cannot
imagine them doing their bits of sewing,
washing, mending, and what not. They
dazzle but they do not warm. They are
magnificent when they are dressed up, but
I never have seen one who was likewise
at ease and delicious and feminine in the
kitchen or the nursery.

They are so restless, too. Nothing interferes with romance like restlessness. It
destroys those subtle shadings that are the
very breath of its life.

I do not blame the women for all this. I
blame the American man. He cannot hold
a woman, dominate and rule her. Naturally
things have come to a pretty pass. He is
impossible as a lover. He cares nothing for
pleasing the woman. He is not master in
his own house. He picks and nags about
little things, and then falls down in big ones.
He expects to feed a woman on the husk left from business and golf and money, and
satisfy her. He has learned nothing about
love and yet he expects to bestow upon her
everything she should desire.

In his blindness therefore, he despises the
young European who comes here. He laughs
at him, makes fun of him, calls him insult-
ing names. Why? Because this man, versed
and trained in all that goes to make every-
thing from the lightest philandering to the
deepest amour, exquisite and entertaining
and delicate, this man — what is it you say
— shows him up? Yes.

A woman will flirt with anybody in the
world so long as there are lots of other
people looking on. That is natural. But to
flirt in private without boredom and without
offending her delicate sensibilities, she desires
a partner whose experience of these things
is greater than her own.

The caveman method I abhor, and I do
not believe that it is ever successful with
the woman who is worth having. Who
could desire a woman taken by force? Who
would gain any pleasure from loving or
caressing a woman who did not give in
return? The giving of love to me is not
half so wonderful as the receiving. It may
be more blessed but it is not nearly so
exhilarating.

The mental caveman — ah, that is again
different. By cleverness, by diplomacy, by
superior mental force, by skill — that is the
way to win a woman. It is only a woman
who must be so won, but who after being
won can give great ardor to a love affair,
who proves attractive.

Even a woman whose passions are never
returned has a better chance of keeping
her illusions than the woman who has a
love affair with a man who is brutal and
uncouth. I have never known a woman in
my life who was not modest, who did not
have in her a certain feeling of delicacy and
a regard for herself if allowed to express it.

A man who is brutal and direct and uncouth in his advances to a woman — and you
would be surprised to learn how many men
today push aside all the ordinary conventions when they see a woman who attracts
them — looks at that woman and his purpose
with her is written in his eyes. It is plain
and ugly and it offends her at once, even
though the man himself attracts.

The second or the third time he sees her,
he — again I am American — he gets fresh.
Maybe he tries to kiss her. Then if she is
a woman worth having, she slaps his face
and says to him, "How dare you?"

QUITE right. I would not care to kiss
the woman whose lips were mine at our
second or third meeting.

The preliminaries of a love affair are the
most enticing part of the game. Let a
woman in them be sweet but cool, promising
but never encouraging, never exhibiting braz-
enly her familiarity with life.

Now we come to the skilled lover — the
European lover. He veils his purpose.
Back in his mind may be the same thought,
the same desire to kiss that woman. He
does not let her see it. No, no. He is
gentle, he is sweet. He is deferential. He
flatters her, because all woman love flattery,
though not so much as men. He tells her
that she is beautiful, that she is good, that
she is wonderful beyond all woman.

He pets her, caresses her a little to let
her become accustomed to his touch. He
lets her see that he enjoys her company,
even when they sit the length of a room
apart. He lets her know that he likes to
be near her, to speak of books and music
and paintings. He reads poetry to her.


Then when he kisses her, she gives him
back his kiss. No caveman can ever know
the sweetness of that returned kiss. What
she does, she does for love. So she is
happy in it, and makes neither herself nor
him miserable with reproaches. Even if he
never sees her again, she will cherish a fond
memory of him. She has not lost her self-
respect. The affair may last a long time,
and much happy companionship is possible
to them.

A woman loves finesse. In Europe, we
are taught to be most polite, to be courteous,
to entertain the ladies. When we go into
a drawing room, we talk of art, music,
books, we tell a witty remark or two.
Everyone is happy, and amused. One is
never rude but tries to show the greatest
attentions and charms he possesses. Then
when he goes, the ladies — and maybe one
upon whom he has his eyes, says, "What a
charming and amusing person."

You see women love with their ears, men
with their eyes.

Ah yes, in the small matters one is a
slave. But in the big things — he is master.
To argue about little things with a woman,
to get angry, is one thing that no man versed
in the arts of love ever does. After all, it
is the woman who decides whether she finds
you charming. It is only after you have
won her love that you dare be master.

One can always be kind to a woman one
cares nothing about — and to a woman by
whom one is attracted. But only cruel to
a woman one loves or has loved.

THERE are several kinds of women,
several kind of methods of wooing on
their part that are irresistible to me.

I love the dainty, little woman, who plays
seriously at being domestic. She fascinates
me. Everything womanly, distinctly femi-
nine, in a woman, appeals to me. I adore
her bird-like ways, her sweet pretenses, her
delicious prettiness. I love her almost as
one loves a cunning child, and when to this
is added the filipe of sex, she becomes
perfect. I do not like in her flippant, cold-
blooded little tricks, but those soft, lovable
ways of a little woman, those melting, help-
less little ways of hers — that bring tears to
your eyes and fire to your lips.

Then there is the silent, mysterious woman
who fences divinely. Who knows silently
and secretly the secrets of the couquette —
that last art of woman, in always leaving
herself an opportunity to retreat. Who has
always at hand that last weapon of woman
— surrender.

The greatest asset to a woman is dignity.
It is her shield. With it, she may commit
indiscretions that a vulgar puritan could
never attempt. Dignity in a woman always
puzzles a man. He likes it. He admires it.
He feels confidence in the woman who dis-
plays it. He knows that she will never
make a fool of herself or of him.

Nothing so fascinates me as the ability of
a woman to get great pleasure from life.
It is so short. The tragedy of age is not
that one grows old, but that one's heart
stays young. Life that develops the soul,
slowly disintegrates the body. Therefore,
let us make merry while we can. I cannot
stand a woman who is afflicted with ennui.
My countrywomen possess the gorgeous
quality of enjoying life, of loving it, of
getting from it all that there is to get, more
than all other women. But they are never
hoydenish, nor restless. They have grace
and poise and polish.

Love is honey. It is a flower. It may
be fierce as a tiger lily, but it must be
beautiful, delicate, gentle too.