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The Woman Hater

C >> Charles Reade >> The Woman Hater




The stalls were purchased, and the friends returned at once to the hotel,
to give the ladies timely intimation. They found Fanny and Zoe seated,
rather disconsolate, in the apartment Zoe had formally renounced: at
sight of the stall tickets, the pair uttered joyful cries, looked at each
other, and vanished.

"You won't see _them_ any more till dinner-time," said Vizard. "They will
be discussing dress, selecting dress, trying dresses, and changing
dresses, for the next three hours." He turned round while speaking, and
there was Severne slipping away to his own bedroom.

Thus deserted on all sides, he stepped into the balcony and lighted a
cigar. While he was smoking it, he observed an English gentleman, with a
stalwart figure and a beautiful brown beard, standing on the steps of the
hotel. "Halloo!" said he, and hailed him. "Hi, Uxmoor! is that you?"

Lord Uxmoor looked up, and knew him. He entered the hotel, and the next
minute the waiter ushered him into Vizard's sitting-room.

Lord Uxmoor, like Mr. Vizard, was a landed proprietor in Barfordshire.
The county is large, and they lived too many miles apart to visit; but
they met, and agreed, at elections and county business, and had a respect
for each other.

Meeting at Frankfort, these two found plenty to say to each other about
home; and as Lord Uxmoor was alone, Vizard asked him to dine. "You will
balance us," said he: "we are terribly overpetticoated, and one of them
is an old maid. We generally dine at the _table-d'hote,_ but I have
ordered dinner _here_ to-day: we are going to the opera at Homburg. You
are not obliged to do that, you know. You are in for a bad dinner, that
is all."

"To tell the truth," said Lord Uxmoor, "I don't care for music."

"Then you deserve a statue for not pretending to love it. I adore it, for
my part, and I wish I was going alone, for my hens will be sure to cackle
_mal 'a propos,_ and spoil some famous melody with talking about it, and
who sung it in London, instead of listening to it, and thanking God for
it in deep silence."

Lord Uxmoor stared a little at this sudden sally, for he was unacquainted
with Vizard's one eccentricity, having met him only on county business,
at which he was extra rational, and passed for a great scholar. He really
did suck good books as well as cigars.

After a few more words, they parted till dinner-time.





Lord Uxmoor came to his appointment, and found his host and Miss
Maitland, whom he knew; and he was in languid conversation with them,
when a side-door opened, and in walked Fanny Dover, fair and bright, in
Cambridge blue, her hair well dressed by Zoe's maid in the style of the
day. Lord Uxmoor rose, and received his fair country-woman with
respectful zeal; he had met her once before. She, too, sparkled with
pleasure at meeting a Barfordshire squire with a long pedigree, purse,
and beard--three things she admired greatly.

In the midst of this, in glided Zoe, and seemed to extinguish everybody,
and even to pale the lights, with her dark yet sunlike beauty. She was
dressed in a creamy-white satin that glinted like mother-of-pearl, its
sheen and glory unfrittered with a single idiotic trimming; on her breast
a large diamond cross. Her head was an Athenian sculpture--no chignon,
but the tight coils of antiquity; at their side, one diamond star
sparkled vivid flame, by its contrast with those polished ebon snakes.

Lord Uxmoor was dazzled, transfixed, at the vision, and bowed very low
when Vizard introduced him in an off-hand way, saying, "My sister, Miss
Vizard; but I dare say you have met her at the county balls."

"I have never been so fortunate," said Uxmoor, humbly.

"I have," said Zoe; "that is, I saw you waltzing with Lady Betty Gore at
the race ball two years ago."

"What!" said Vizard, alarmed. "Uxmoor, were you waltzing with Lady Betty
Gore?"

"You have it on too high an authority for me to contradict."

Finding Zoe was to be trusted as a county chronicle, Vizard turned
sharply to her, and said, "And was he flirting with her?"

Zoe colored a little, and said, "Now, Harrington, how can I tell?"

"You little hypocrite," said Vizard, "who can tell better?

At this retort Zoe blushed high, and the water came into her eyes.

Nobody minded that but Uxmoor, and Vizard went on to explain, "That Lady
Betty Gore is as heartless a coquette as any in the county; and don't you
flirt with her, or you will get entangled."

"You disapprove her," said Uxmoor, coolly; "then I give her up forever."
He looked at Zoe while he said this, and felt how easy it would be to
resign Lady Betty and a great many more for this peerless creature. He
did not mean her to understand what was passing in his mind; he did not
know how subtle and observant the most innocent girl is in such matters.
Zoe blushed, and drew away from him. Just then Ned Severne came in, and
Vizard introduced him to Uxmoor with great geniality and pride. The
charming young man was in a black surtout, with a blue scarf, the very
tint for his complexion.

The girls looked at one another, and in a moment Fanny was elected Zoe's
agent. She signaled Severne, and when he came to her she said, for Zoe,
"Don't you know we are going to the opera at Homburg?"

"Yes, I know," said he, "and I hope you will have a pleasanter evening
than I shall."

"You are not coming with us?"

"No," said he, sorrowfully.

"You had better," said Fanny, with a deal of quiet point, more, indeed,
than Zoe's pride approved.

"Not if Mr. Severne has something more attractive," said she, turning
palish and pinkish by turns.

All this went on _sotto voce,_ and Uxmoor, out of good-breeding, entered
into conversation with Miss Maitland and Vizard. Severne availed himself
of this diversion, and fixed his eyes on Zoe with an air of gentle
reproach, then took a letter out of his pocket, and handed it to Fanny.
She read it, and gave it to Zoe.

It was dated from "The Golden Star," Homburg.





"DEAR NED--I am worse to-day, and all alone. Now and then I almost fear I
may not pull through. But perhaps that is through being so hipped. Do
come and spend this evening with me like a good, kind fellow.

"Telegraph reply.

S. T."





"Poor fellow," said Ned; "my heart bleeds for him."

Zoe was affected by this, and turned liquid and loving eyes on "dear
Ned." But Fanny stood her ground. "Go to 'S. T.' to-morrow morning, but
don't desert 'Z. V.' and 'F. D.' to-night." Zoe smiled.

"But I have telegraphed!" objected Ned.

"Then telegraph again--_not,"_ said Fanny firmly.

Now, this was unexpected. Severne had set his heart upon _rouge et noir,_
but still he was afraid of offending Zoe; and, besides, he saw Uxmoor,
with his noble beard and brown eyes, casting rapturous glances at her.
"Let Miss Vizard decide," said he. "Don't let me be so unhappy as to
offend her twice in one day."

Zoe's pride and goodness dictated her answer, in spite of her wishes. She
said, in a low voice, "Go to your sick friend."

"There," said Severne.

"I hear," said Fanny. "She means 'go;' but you shall repent it."

"I mean what I say," said Zoe, with real dignity. "It is my habit." And
the next moment she quietly left the room.

She sat down in her bedroom, mortified and alarmed. What! Had it come to
this, that she felt her heart turn cold just because that young man said
he could not accompany her--on a single evening! Then first she
discovered that it was for him she had dressed, and had, for once,
beautified her beauty--for _him;_ that with Fanny she had dwelt upon the
delights of the music, but had secretly thought of appearing publicly on
_his_ arm, and dazzling people by their united and contrasted beauty.

She rose, all of a sudden, and looked keenly at herself in the glass, to
see if she had not somehow overrated her attractions. But the glass was
reassuring. It told her not one man in a million could go to a sick
friend that night, when he might pass the evening by her side, and visit
his friend early in the morning. Best loved is best served. Tears of
mortified vanity were in her eyes; but she smiled through them at the
glass; then dried them carefully, and went back to the dining-room
radiant, to all appearance.

Dinner was just served, and her brother, to do honor to the new-comer,
waved his sister to a seat by Lord Uxmoor. He looked charmed at the
arrangement, and showed a great desire to please her, but at first was
unable to find good topics. After several timid overtures on his part,
she assisted him, out of good-nature, She knew by report that he was a
very benevolent young man, bent on improving the home, habits, wages, and
comforts of the agricultural poor. She led him to this, and his eyes
sparkled with pleasure, and his homely but manly face lighted, and was
elevated by the sympathy she expressed in these worthy objects. He could
not help thinking: "What a Lady Uxmoor this would make! She and I and her
brother might leaven the county."

And all this time she would not even bestow a glance on Severne. She was
not an angel. She had said, "Go to your sick friend;" but she had not
said, "I will smart alone if you _do."_

Severne sat by Fanny, and seemed dejected, but, as usual, polite and
charming. She was smilingly cruel; regaled him with Lord Uxmoor's wealth
and virtues, and said he was an excellent match, and all she-Barfordshire
pulling caps for him. Severne only sighed; he offered no resistance; and
at last she could not go on nagging a handsome fellow, who only sighed,
so she said, "Well, _there;_ I advise you to join us before the opera is
over, that is all."

"I will, I will!" said he, eagerly. "Oh, thank you."

Dinner was dispatched rather rapidly, because of the opera.

When the ladies got their cloaks and lace scarfs, to put over their heads
coming home, the party proved to be only three, and the tickets five; for
Miss Maitland pleaded headache.

On this, Lord Uxmoor said, rather timidly, he should like to go.

"Why, you said you hated music," said Vizard.

Lord Uxmoor colored. "I recant," said he, bluntly; and everybody saw what
had operated his conversion. That is a pun.

It is half an hour, by rail, from Frankfort to Homburg, and the party
could not be seated together. Vizard bestowed Zoe and Lord Uxmoor in one
carriage, Fanny and Severne in another, and himself and a cigar in the
third. Severne sat gazing piteously on Fanny Dover, but never said a
word. She sat and eyed him satirically for a good while, and then she
said, cheerfully, "Well, Mr. Severne, how do you like the turn things are
taking?"

"Miss Dover, I am very unhappy."

"Serves you right."

"Oh, pray don't say that. It is on you I depend."

"On me, sir! What have I to do with your flirtations?"

"No; but you are so clever, and so good. If for once you will take a poor
fellow's part with Miss Vizard, behind my back; oh, please do--pray do,"
and, in the ardor of entreaty, he caught Fanny's white hand and kissed it
with warm but respectful devotion. Indeed, he held it and kissed it again
and again, till Fanny, though she minded it no more than marble, was
going to ask him satirically whether he had not almost done with it, when
at last he contrived to squeeze out one of his little hysterical tears,
and drop it on her hand.

Now, the girl was not butter, like some of her sex; far from it: but
neither was she wood--indeed, she was not old enough for that--so this
crocodile tear won her for the time being. "There--there," said she;
"don't be a baby. I'll be on your side tonight; only, if you care for
her, come and look after her yourself. Beautiful women with money won't
stand neglect, Mr. Severne; and why should they? They are not like poor
me; they have got the game in their hands." The train stopped. Vizard's
party drove to the opera, and Severne ordered a cab to The Golden Star,
meaning to stop it and get out; but, looking at his watch, he found it
wanted half an hour to gambling time, so he settled to have a cup of
coffee first, and a cigar. With this view he let the man drive him to The
Golden Star.



CHAPTER III.

INA KLOSKING worked night and day upon Siebel, in Gounod's "Faust," and
upon the songs that had been added to give weight to the part.

She came early to the theater at night, and sat, half dressed, fatigued,
and nervous, in her dressing-room.

Crash!--the first _coup d'archet_ announced the overture, and roused her
energy, as if Ithuriel's spear had pricked her. She came down dressed, to
listen at one of the upper entrances, to fill herself with the musical
theme, before taking her part in it, and also to gauge the audience and
the singers.

The man Faust was a German; but the musical part Faust seems better
suited to an Italian or a Frenchman. Indeed, some say that, as a rule,
the German genius excels in creation and the Italian in representation or
interpretation. For my part, I am unable to judge nations in the lump, as
some fine fellows do, because nations are composed of very different
individuals, and I know only one to the million; but I do take on me to
say that the individual Herr who executed Doctor Faustus at Homburg that
night had everything to learn, except what he had to unlearn. His person
was obese; his delivery of the words was mouthing, chewing, and gurgling;
and he uttered the notes in tune, but without point, pathos, or passion;
a steady lay-clerk from York or Durham Cathedral would have done a little
better, because he would have been no colder at heart, and more exact in
time, and would have sung clean; whereas this gentleman set his windpipe
trembling, all through the business, as if palsy were passion. By what
system of leverage such a man came to be hoisted on to such a pinnacle of
song as "Faust" puzzled our English friends in front as much as it did
the Anglo-Danish artist at the wing; for English girls know what is what
in opera.

The Marguerite had a voice of sufficient compass, and rather sweet,
though thin. The part demands a better _actress_ than Patti, and this
Fraulein was not half as good: she put on the painful grin of a
prize-fighter who has received a staggerer, and grinned all through the
part, though there is little in it to grin at.

She also suffered by having to play to a Faust milked of his poetry, and
self-smitten with a _tremolo_ which, as I said before, is the voice of
palsy, and is not, nor ever was, nor ever will be, the voice of passion.
Bless your heart, passion is a manly thing, a womanly thing, a grand
thing, not a feeble, quavering, palsied, anile, senile thing. Learn that,
ye trembling, quavering idiots of song!

"They let me down," whispered Ina Klosking to her faithful Ashmead. "I
feel all out of tune. I shall never be able. And the audience so cold. It
will be like singing in a sepulcher."

"What would you think of them, if they applauded?" said Ashmead.

"I should say they were good, charitable souls, and the very audience I
shall want in five minutes."

"No, no," said Ashmead, "all you want is a discriminating audience; and
this is one. Remember they have all seen Patti in Marguerite. Is it
likely they would applaud this tin stick?"

Ina turned the conversation with feminine quickness. "Mr. Ashmead, have
you kept your promise; my name is not in the programme?"

"It is not; and a great mistake too."

"I have not been announced by name in any way?"

"No. But, of course, I have nursed you a bit."

"Nursed me? What is that? Oh, what have you been doing? No
_charlatanerie,_ I hope."

"Nothing of the kind," said Ashmead, stoutly; "only the regular
business."

"And pray what is the regular business?" inquired Ina, distrustfully.

"Why, of course, I sent on the manager to say that Mademoiselle Schwaub
had been taken seriously ill; that we had been fearing we must break
faith with the public for the first time; but that a cantatrice, who had
left the stage, appreciating our difficulty, had, with rare kindness,
come to our aid for this one night: we felt sure a Humbug audience--what
am I saying?--a Homburg audience would appreciate this, and make due
allowance for a performance undertaken in such a spirit, and with
imperfect rehearsals, etc.--in short, the usual patter; and the usual
effect, great applause. Indeed, the only applause that I have heard in
this theater to-night. Ashmead ahead of Gounod, so far."

Ina Klosking put both hands before her face, and uttered a little moan.
She had really a soul above these artifices. "So, then," said she, "if
they do receive me, it will be out of charity."

"No, no; but on your first night you must have two strings to your bow."

"But I have only one. These cajoling speeches are a waste of breath. A
singer can sing, or she can _not_ sing, and they find out which it is as
soon as she opens her mouth."

"Well, then, you open your mouth--that is just what half the singers
can't do--and they will soon find out you can sing."

"I hope they may. I do not know. I am discouraged. I'm terrified. I think
it is stage-fright," and she began to tremble visibly, for the time drew
near.

Ashmead ran off and brought her some brandy-and-water. She put up her
hand against it with royal scorn. "No, sir! If the theater, and the
lights, and the people, the mind of Goethe, and the music of Gounod,
can't excite me without _that,_ put me at the counter of a cafe', for I
have no business here."

The power, without violence, and the grandeur with which she said this
would have brought down the house had she spoken it in a play without a
note of music; and Ashmead drew back respectfully, but chuckled
internally at the idea of this Minerva giving change in a cafe'.

And now her cue was coming. She ordered everybody out of the entrance not
very ceremoniously, and drew well back. Then, at her cue, she made a
stately rush, and so, being in full swing before she cleared the wing,
she swept into the center of the stage with great rapidity and
resolution; no trace either of her sorrowful heart or her quaking limbs
was visible from the front.

There was a little applause, all due to Ashmead's preliminary apology,
but there was no real reception; for Germany is large and musical, and
she was not immediately recognized at Homburg. But there was that
indescribable flutter which marks a good impression and keen expectation
suddenly aroused. She was beautiful on the stage for one thing; her
figure rather tall and stately, and her face full of power: and then the
very way she came on showed the step and carriage of an artist at home
upon the boards.

She cast a rapid glance round the house, observed its size, and felt her
way. She sung her first song evenly, but not tamely, yet with restrained
power; but the tones were so full and flexible, the expression so easy
yet exact, that the judges saw there was no effort, and suspected
something big might be yet in store to-night. At the end of her song she
did let out for a moment, and, at this well-timed foretaste of her power,
there was applause, but nothing extravagant.

She was quite content, however. She met Ashmead, as she came off, and
said, "All is well, my friend, so far. They are sitting in judgment on
me, like sensible people, and not in a hurry. I rather like that."

"Your own fault," said Joseph. "You should have been announced. Prejudice
is a surer card than judgment. The public is an ass."

"It must come to the same thing in the end," said the Klosking firmly.
"One can sing, or one cannot."





Her next song was encored, and she came off flushed with art and
gratified pride. "I have no fears now," said she, to her Achates, firmly.
"I have my barometer; a young lady in the stalls. Oh, such a beautiful
creature, with black hair and eyes! She applauds me fearlessly. Her
glorious eyes speak to mine, and inspire me. She is _happy,_ she is. I
drink sunbeams at her. I shall act and sing 'Le Parlate d'Amor' for
_her_--and you will see."





Between the acts, who should come in but Ned Severne, and glided into the
vacant stall by Zoe's side.

She quivered at his coming near her; he saw it, and felt a thrill of
pleasure himself.

"How is 'S. T.'?" said she, kindly.

"'S. T.'?" said he, forgetting.

"Why, your sick friend, to be sure."

"Oh, not half so bad as he thought. I was a fool to lose an hour of you
for _him._ He was hipped; had lost all his money at _rouge et noir._ So I
lent him fifty pounds, and that did him more good than the doctor. You
forgive me?"

"Forgive you? I approve. Are you going back to him?" said she, demurely.

"No, thank you, I have made sacrifices enough."

And so indeed he had, having got cleaned out of three hundred pounds
through preferring gambling to beauty.

"Singers good?" he inquired.

"Wretched, all but one; and she is divine."

"Indeed. Who is she?"

"I don't know. A gentleman in black came out--"

"Mephistopheles?"

"No--how dare you?--and said a singer that had retired would perform the
part of 'Siebel, to oblige; and she has obliged me for one. She is, oh,
so superior to the others! Such a heavenly contralto; and her upper
notes, honey dropping from the comb. And then she is so modest, so
dignified, _and_ so beautiful. She is fair as a lily; and such a
queen-like brow, and deep, gray eyes, full of sadness and soul. I'm
afraid she is not happy. Once or twice she fixed them on me, and they
magnetized me, and drew me to her. So I magnetized her in return. I
should know her anywhere fifty years hence. Now, if I were a man, I
should love that woman and make her love me."

"Then I am very glad you are not a man," said Severne, tenderly.

"So am I," whispered Zoe, and blushed. The curtain rose.

"Listen now, Mr. Chatterbox," said Zoe.

Ned Severne composed himself to listen; but Fraulein Graas had not sung
many bars before he revolted. "Listen to what?" said he; "and look at
what? The only Marguerite in the place is by my side."

Zoe colored with pleasure; but her good sense was not to be blinded. "The
only good black Mephistophe-_less_ you mean," said she. "To be
Marguerite, one must be great, and sweet, and tender; yes, and far more
lovely than ever woman was. That lady is a better color for the part than
I am; but neither she nor I shall ever be Marguerite."

He murmured in her ear. "You are Marguerite, for you could fire a man's
heart so that he would sell his soul to gain you."

It was the accent of passion and the sensitive girl quivered. Yet she
defended herself--in words, "Hush!" said she. "That is wicked--out of an
opera. Fanny would laugh at you, if she heard."

Here were two reasons for not making such hot love in the stalls of an
opera. Which of the two weighed most with the fair reasoner shall be left
to her own sex.

The brief scene ended with the declaration of the evil spirit that
Marguerite is lost.

"There," said Zoe, naively, "that is over, thank goodness: now you will
hear _my_ singer."

Siebel and Marta came on from opposite sides of the stage. "See!" said
Zoe, "isn't she lovely?" and she turned her beaming face full on Severne,
to share her pleasure with him. To her amazement the man seemed
transformed: a dark cloud had come over his sunny countenance. He sat,
pale, and seemed to stare at the tall, majestic, dreamy singer, who stood
immovable, dressed like a velvet youth, yet looking like no earthly boy,
but a draped statue of Mercury,

"New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill."

The blood left his lips, and Zoe thought he was faint; but the next
moment he put his handkerchief hastily to his nose, and wriggled his way
out, with a rush and a crawl, strangely combined, at the very moment when
the singer delivered her first commanding note of recitative.

Everybody about looked surprised and disgusted at so ill-timed an exit;
but Zoe, who had seen his white face, was seriously alarmed, and made a
movement to rise too, and watch, or even follow him; but, when he got to
the side, he looked back to her, and made her a signal that his nose was
bleeding, but it was of no great consequence. He even pointed with his
finger out and then back again, indicating he should not be long gone.

This re-assured her greatly; for she had always been told a little
bleeding of that sort was good for hot-headed young people. Then the
singer took complete hold of her. The composer, to balance the delightful
part of Marguerite, has given Siebel a melody with which wonders can be
done; and the Klosking had made a considerable reserve of her powers for
this crowning effort. After a recitative that rivaled the silver trumpet,
she flung herself with immediate and electrifying ardor into the melody;
the orchestra, taken by surprise, fought feebly for the old ripple; but
the Klosking, resolute by nature, was now mighty as Neptune, and would
have her big waves. The momentary struggle, in which she was loyally
seconded by the conductor, evoked her grand powers. Catgut had to yield
to brains, and the whole orchestra, composed, after all, of good
musicians, soon caught the divine afflatus, and the little theater seemed
on fire with music; the air, sung with a large rhythm, swelled and rose,
and thrilled every breast with amazement and delight; the house hung
breathless: by-and-by there were pale cheeks, panting bosoms, and wet
eyes, the true, rare triumphs of the sovereigns of song; and when the
last note had pealed and ceased to vibrate, the pent-up feelings broke
forth in a roar of applause, which shook the dome, followed by a clapping
of hands, like a salvo, that never stopped till Ina Klosking, who had
retired, came forward again.

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