John Greenleaf Whittier - "Narrative and Legendary Poems: The Vaudois Teacher and Others"

George MacDonald - "St. George and St. Michael Vol. I"

Captain Wilbur Lawton - "The Boy Aviators in Africa"

Unknown - "Sri Vishnu Sahasranaamam"

The Woman Hater

C >> Charles Reade >> The Woman Hater




"And," says Vizard, "there is a French proverb founded on _experience:_

"C'est encore rouge qui perd, Et encore noir. Mais toujours blanc qui
gagne.'"

Severne, for the first time, looked angry and mortified; he turned his
back and was silent. Vizard looked at him uneasily, hesitated a moment,
then flung the remainder of his cigar away and seemed to rouse himself
body and soul. He squared his shoulders, as if he were going to box the
Demon of play for his friend, and he let out good sense right and left,
and, indeed, was almost betrayed into eloquence. "What!" he cried, "you,
who are so bright and keen and knowing in everything else, are you really
so blinded by egotism and credulity as to believe that you can invent any
method of betting at _rouge et noir_ that has not been tried before you
were born? Do you remember the first word in La Bruy'ere's famous work?"

"No," said Ned, sulkily. "Read nothing but newspapers."

"Good lad. Saves a deal of trouble. Well, he begins 'Tout est
dit'--'everything has been said;' and I say that, in your business, 'Tout
est fait'--'everything has been done.' Every move has been tried before
you existed, and the result of all is that to bet against the bank,
wildly or systematically, is to gamble against a rock. _Si monumenta
quoeris, circumspice._ Use your eyes, man. Look at the Kursaal, its
luxuries, its gardens, its gilding, its attractions, all of them cheap,
except the one that pays for all; all these delights, and the rents, and
the croupiers, and the servants, and the income and liveries of an
unprincipled prince, who would otherwise be a poor but honest gentleman
with one _bonne,_ instead of thirty blazing lackeys, all come from the
gains of the bank, which are the losses of the players, especially of
those that have got a system."

Severne shot in, "A bank was broken last week."

"Was it? Then all it lost has returned to it, or will return to it
to-night; for gamblers know no day of rest."

"Oh, yes, they do. It is shut on Good-Friday."

"You surprise me. Only three hundred and sixty-four days in the year!
Brainless avarice is more reasonable than I thought. Severne, yours is a
very serious case. You have reduced your income, that is clear; for an
English gentleman does not stay years and years abroad unless he has out
run the constable; and I feel sure gambling has done it. You had the
fever from a boy. Bullington Green! 'As the twig's bent the tree's
inclined.' Come, come, make a stand. We are friends. Let us help one
another against our besetting foibles. Let us practice antique wisdom;
let us 'know ourselves,' and leave Homburg to-morrow, instead of
Tuesday."

Severne looked sullen, but said nothing; then Vizard gave him too hastily
credit for some of that sterling friendship, bordering on love, which
warmed his own faithful breast: under this delusion he made an
extraordinary effort; he used an argument which, with himself, would have
been irresistible. "Look here," said he, "I'll--won't you have a
cigar?--there; now I'll tell you something: I have a mania as bad as
yours; only mine is intermittent, thank Heaven! I'm told a million women
are as good, or better, than a million men. It may be so. But when I, an
individual, stake my heart on lovely woman, she always turns out
unworthy. With me, the sex avoids alternation. Therefore I rail on it
wholesale. It is not philosophical; but I don't do it to instruct
mankind; it is to soothe my spleen. Well--would you believe it?--once in
every three years, in spite of my experience, I am always bitten again.
After my lucid interval has expired, I fall in with some woman, who seems
not like the rest, but an angel. Then I, though I'm averse to the sex,
fall an easy, an immediate victim to the individual."

"Love at first sight."

"Not a bit of it. If she is as beautiful as an angel, with the voice of a
peacock or a guinea-hen--and, luckily for me, that is a frequent
arrangement--she is no more to me than the fire-shovel. If she has a
sweet voice and pale eyes, I'm safe. Indeed, I am safe against Juno,
Venus, and Minerva for two years and several months after the last; but
when two events coincide, when my time is up, and the lovely, melodious
female comes, then I am lost. Before I have seen her and heard her five
minutes, I know my fate, and I never resist it. I never can; that is a
curious part of the mania. Then commences a little drama, all the acts of
which are stale copies; yet each time they take me by surprise, as if
they were new. In spite of past experience, I begin all confidence and
trust: by-and-by come the subtle but well-known signs of deceit; so doubt
is forced on me; and then I am all suspicion, and so darkly vigilant that
soon all is certainty; for 'les fourberies des femmes' are diabolically
subtle, but monotonous. They seem to vary only on the surface. One looks
too gentle and sweet to give any creature pain; I cherish her like a
tender plant; she deceives me for the coarsest fellow she can find.
Another comes the frank and candid dodge; she is so off-handed she shows
me it is not worth her while to betray. She deceives me, like the other,
and with as little discrimination. The next has a face of beaming
innocence, and a limpid eye that looks like transparent candor; she gazes
long and calmly in my face, as if her eye loved to dwell on me, gazes
with the eye of a gazelle or a young hare, and the baby lips below outlie
the hoariest male fox in the Old Jewry. But, to complete the delusion,
all my sweethearts and wives are romantic and poetical skin-deep--or they
would not attract me--and all turn out vulgar to the core. By their
lovers alone can you ever know them. By the men they can't love, and the
men they do love, you find these creatures that imitate sentiment so
divinely are hard, prosaic, vulgar little things, thinly gilt and double
varnished."

"They are much better than we are; but you don't know how to take them,"
said Severne, with the calm superiority of success.

"No," replied Vizard, dryly, "curse me if I do. Well, I did hope I had
outgrown my mania, as I have done the toothache; for this time I had
passed the fatal period, the three years. It is nearly four years now
since I went through the established process--as fixed beforehand as the
dyer's or the cotton-weaver's--adored her, trusted her blindly, suspected
her, watched her, detected her, left her. By-the-by, she was my wife, the
last; but that made no difference; she was neither better nor worse than
the rest, and her methods and idiotic motives of deceit identical. Well,
Ned, I was mistaken. Yesterday night I met my Fate once more."

"Where? In Frankfort?"

"No: at Homburg; at the opera. You must give me your word not to tell a
soul."

"I pledge you my word of honor."

"Well, the lady who sung the part of Siebel."

"Siebel?" muttered Severne.

"Yes," said Vizard, dejectedly.

Severne fixed his eyes on his friend with a strange expression of
confusion and curiosity, as if he could not take it all in. But he said
nothing, only looked very hard all the time.

Vizard burst out, "'O miserae hominum mentes, O pectora caeca!' There I
sat, in the stalls, a happy man comparatively, because my heart, though
full of scars, was at peace, and my reason, after periodical abdications,
had resumed its throne, for good; so I, weak mortal, fancied. Siebel
appeared; tall, easy, dignified, and walking like a wave; modest, fair,
noble, great, dreamy, and, above all, divinely sad; the soul of womanhood
and music poured from her honey lips; she conquered all my senses: I felt
something like a bolt of ice run down my back. I ought to have jumped up
and fled the theater. I wish I had. But I never do. I am incurable. The
charm deepened; and when she had sung 'Le Parlate d'Amor' as no mortal
ever sung and looked it, she left the stage and carried my heart and soul
away with her. What chance had I? Here shone all the beauties that adorn
the body, all the virtues and graces that embellish the soul; they were
wedded to poetry and ravishing music, and gave and took enchantment. I
saw my paragon glide away, like a goddess, past the scenery, and I did
not see her meet her lover at the next step--a fellow with a wash-leather
face, greasy locks in a sausage roll, and his hair shaved off his
forehead--and snatch a pot of porter from his hands, and drain it to the
dregs, and say, 'It is all right, Harry: _that_ fetched 'em.' But I know,
by experience, she did; so _sauve qui peut._ Dear friend and
fellow-lunatic, for my sake and yours, leave Frankfort with me
to-morrow."

Severne hung his head, and thought hard. Here was a new and wonderful
turn. He felt all manner of strange things--a pang of jealousy, for one.
He felt that, on every account, it would be wise to go, and, indeed,
dangerous to stay. But a mania is a mania, and so he could not. "Look
here, old fellow," he said, "if the opera were on to-morrow, I would
leave my three hundred behind me and sacrifice myself to you, sooner than
expose you to the fascinations of so captivating a woman as Ina
Klosking."

"Ina Klosking? Is that her name? How do _you_ know?"

"I--I--fancy I heard so."

"Why, she was not announced. Ina Klosking! It is a sweet name;" and he
sighed.

"But you are quite safe from her for one day," continued Severne, "so you
must be reasonable. I will go with you, Tuesday, as early as you like;
but do be a good fellow, and let me have the five hundred, to try my
system with to-morrow."

Vizard looked sad, and made no reply.

Severne got impatient. "Why, what is it to a rich fellow like you? If I
had twelve thousand acres in a ring fence, no friend would ask me twice
for such a trifling sum."

Vizard, for the first time, wore a supercilious smile at being so
misunderstood, and did not deign a reply.

Severne went on mistaking his man: "I can give you bills for the money,
and for the three hundred you did lend me."

Vizard did not receive this as expected. "Bills?" said he, gravely.
"What, do you do that sort of thing as well?"

"Why not, pray? So long as I'm the holder, not the drawer, nor the
acceptor. Besides, they are not accommodation bills, but good commercial
paper."

"You are a merchant, then; are you?"

"Yes; in a small way. If you will allow me, I will explain."

He did so; and, to save comments, yet enable the reader to appreciate his
explanation, the true part of it is printed in italics, the mendacious
portion in ordinary type.

_"My estate in Huntingdonshire is not very large; and there are mortgages
on it,_ for the benefit of other members of my family. I was always
desirous to pay off these mortgages; and took the best advice I could. _I
have got an uncle:_ he lives in the city. He put me on to a good thing. I
bought a share in a trading vessel; she makes short trips, and turns her
cargo often. She will take out paper to America, and bring back raw
cotton: she will land that at Liverpool, and ship English hardware and
cotton fabrics for the Mediterranean and Greece, and bring back currants
from Zante and lemons from Portugal. She goes for the nimble shilling.
Well, you know ships wear out: _and if you varnish them rotten, and
insure them high, and they go to glory, Mr. Plimsoll is down on you like
a hammer._ So, when she had paid my purchase-money three times over, some
fellows in the city made an offer for _The Rover_--that was her name. My
share came to twelve hundred, and my uncle said I was to take it. _Now I
always feel bound by what he decides._ They gave me four bills, for four
hundred, three hundred, three hundred, and two hundred. The four hundred
was paid at maturity. _The others are not due yet._ I have only to send
them to London, and I can get the money back by Thursday: but you want me
to start on Tuesday."

"That is enough," said Vizard, wearily, "I will be your banker, and--"

"You are a good fellow!" said Severne warmly.

"No, no; I am a weak fellow, and an injudicious one. But it is the old
story: when a friend asks you what he thinks a favor, the right thing is
to grant it at once. He doesn't want your advice; he wants the one thing
he asks for. There, get me the bills, and I'll draw a check on Muller:
Herries advised him by Saturday's post; so we can draw on Monday."

"All right, old man," said Severne, and went away briskly for the bills.

When he got from the balcony into the room, his steps flagged a little;
it struck him that ink takes time to dry, and more time to darken.

As _The Rover,_ with her nimble cargoes, was first cousin to _The Flying
Dutchman,_ with his crew of ghosts, so the bills received by Severne, as
purchase-money for his ship, necessarily partook of that ship's aerial
character. Indeed they existed, as the schoolmen used to say, in _posse,_
but not in _esse._ To be less pedantic and more exact, they existed as
slips of blank paper, with a Government stamp. To give them a mercantile
character for a time--viz., until presented for payment--they must be
drawn by an imaginary ship-owner or a visionary merchant, and indorsed by
at least one shadow, and a man of straw.

The man of straw sat down to inscribe self and shadows, and became a
dishonest writer of fiction; for the art he now commenced appears to fall
short of forgery proper, but to be still more distinct from justifiable
fiction. The ingenious Mr. De Foe's certificate by an aeial justice of
the peace to the truth of his ghostly narrative comes nearest to it, in
my poor reading.

Qualms he had, but not deep. If the bills were drawn by Imagination,
accepted by Fancy, and indorsed by Impudence, what did it matter to Ned
Straw, since his system would enable him to redeem them at maturity? His
only real concern was to conceal their recent origin. So he wrote them
with a broad-nibbed pen, that they might be the blacker, and set them to
dry in the sun.

He then proceeded to a change of toilet.

While thus employed, there was a sharp tap at his door and Vizard's voice
outside. Severne started with terror, snapped up the three bills with the
dexterity of a conjurer--the handle turned--he shoved them into a
drawer--Vizard came in--he shut the drawer, and panted.

Vizard had followed the custom of Oxonians among themselves, which is to
knock, and then come in, unless forbidden.

"Come," said he, cheerfully, "those bills. I'm in a hurry to cash them
now, and end the only difference we have ever had, old fellow."

The blood left Severne's cheek and lips for a moment, and he thought
swiftly and hard. The blood returned, along with his ready wit. "How good
you are!" said he; "but no. It is Sunday."

"Sunday!" ejaculated Vizard. "What is that to you, a fellow who has been
years abroad?"

"I can't help it," said Severne, apologetically. "I am
superstitious--don't like to do business on a Sunday. I would not even
shunt at the tables on a Sunday--I don't think."

"Ah, you are not quite sure of that. There _is_ a limit to your
superstition! Well, will you listen to a story on a Sunday?"

"Rather!"

"Then, once on a time there was a Scotch farmer who had a bonny cow; and
another farmer coveted her honestly. One Sunday they went home together
from kirk and there was the cow grazing. Farmer Two stopped, eyed her,
and said to Farmer One, 'Gien it were Monday, as it is the Sabba' day,
what would ye tak' for your coow?' The other said the price would be nine
pounds, _if it were Monday._ And so they kept the Sabbath; and the cow
changed hands, though, to the naked eye, she grazed on _in situ._ Our
negotiation is just as complete. So what does it matter whether the
actual exchange of bills and cash takes place to-day or to-morrow?"

"Do you really mean to say it does not matter to you?" asked Severne.

"Not one straw."

"Then, as it does not matter to you, and does to me, give me my foolish
way, like a dear good fellow."

"Now, that is smart," said Vizard--"very smart;" then, with a look of
parental admiration, "he gets his own way in everything. He _will_ have
your money--he _won't_ have your money. I wonder whether he _will_
consent to walk those girls out, and disburden me of their too profitable
discourse."

"That I will, with pleasure."

"Well, they are at luncheon--with their bonnets on."

"I will join them in five minutes."





After luncheon, Miss Vizard, Miss Dover, and Mr. Severne started for a
stroll.

Miss Maitland suggested that Vizard should accompany them.

"Couldn't think of deserting you," said he dryly.

The young ladies giggled, because these two rarely opened their mouths to
agree, one being a professed woman-hater, and the other a man-hater, in
words.

Says Misander, in a sourish way, "Since you value my conversation so,
perhaps you will be good enough not to smoke for the next ten minutes."

Misogyn consented, but sighed. That sigh went unpitied, and the lady
wasted no time.

"Do you see what is going on between your sister and that young man?"

"Yes; a little flirtation."

"A great deal more than that. I caught them, in this very room, making
love."

"You alarm me," said Vizard, with marked tranquillity.

"I saw him--kiss--her--hand."

"You relieve me," said Vizard, as calmly as he had been alarmed. "There's
no harm in that. I've kissed the queen's hand, and the nation did not
rise upon me. However, I object to it. The superior sex should not play
the spaniel. I will tell him to drop that. But, permit me to say, all
this is in your department, not mine.

"But what can I do against three of them, unless you support me? There
you have let them go out together."

"Together with Fanny Dover, you mean?"

"Yes; and if Fanny had any designs on him, Zoe would be safe--"

"And poor Ned torn in two."

"But Fanny, I am grieved to say, seems inclined to assist this young man
with Zoe; that is, because it does not matter to her. She has other
views--serious ones."

"Serious! What? A nunnery? Then I pity my lady abbess."

"Her views are plain enough to anybody but you."

"Are they? Then make me as wise as my neighbors."

"Well, then, she means to marry _you."_

"What! Oh, come!--that is too good a joke!"

"It is sober earnest. Ask Zoe--ask your friend, Mr. Severne--ask the
chambermaids--ask any creature with an eye in its head. Oh, the blindness
of you men!"

The Misogyn was struck dumb. When he recovered, it was to repine at the
lot of man.

"Even my own familiar cousin--once removed--in whom I trusted! I depute
you to inform her that I think her _adorable,_ and that matrimony is no
longer a habit of mine. Set her on to poor Severne; he is a ladies' man,
and 'the more the merrier' is his creed."

"Such a girl as Fanny is not to be diverted from a purpose of that sort.
Besides, she has too much sense to plunge into the Severne
and--pauperism! She is bent on a rich husband, not a needy adventurer."

"Madam, in my friend's name, I thank you."

"You are very welcome, sir--it is only the truth." Then, with a swift
return to her original topic: "No; I know perfectly well what Fanny Dover
will do this afternoon. She sketches."

"It is too true," said Vizard dolefully: "showed me a ship in full sail,
and I praised it _in my way._ I said, 'That rock is rather well done.' "

"Well, she will be seized with a desire to sketch. She will sit down
apart, and say, 'Please don't watch me--it makes me nervous.' The other
two will take the hint and make love a good way off; and Zoe will go
greater lengths, with another woman in sight--but only just in sight, and
slyly encouraging her--than if she were quite alone with her _mauvais
sujet."_

Vizard was pleased with the old lady. "This is sagacious," said he, "and
shows an eye for detail. I recognize in your picture the foxy sex. But,
at this moment, who can foretell which way the wind will blow? You are
not aware, perhaps, that Zoe and Fanny have had a quarrel. They don't
speak. Now, in women, you know, vices are controlled by vices-- see Pope.
The conspiracy you dread will be averted by the other faults of their
character, their jealousy and their petulant tempers. Take my word for
it, they are sparring at this moment; and that poor, silly Severne
meditating and moderating, and getting scratched on both sides for trying
to be just."

At this moment the door opened, and Fanny Dover glittered on the
threshold in Cambridge blue.

"There," said Vizard; "did not I tell you? They are come home."

"Only me," said Fanny gayly.

"Where are the others?" inquired Miss Maitland sharply.

"Not far off--only by the riverside."

"And you left those two alone!"

"Now, don't be cross, aunt," cried Fanny, and limped up to her. "These
new boots are so tight that I really couldn't bear them any longer. I
believe I shall be lame, as it is."

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself. What will the people say?"

"La! aunt, it is abroad. One does what one likes--out of England."

"Here's a code of morals!" said Vizard, who must have his slap.

"Nonsense," said Miss Maitland: "she will be sure to meet somebody. All
England is on the Rhine at this time of the year; and, whether or no, is
it for you to expose that child to familiarity with a person nobody
knows, nor his family either? You are twenty-five years old; you know the
world; you have as poor an opinion of the man as I have, or you would
have set your own cap at him--you know you would--and you have let out
things to me when you were off your guard. Fanny Dover, you are behaving
wickedly; you are a false friend to that poor girl."

Upon this, lo! the pert Fanny, hitherto so ready with her answers, began
to cry bitterly. The words really pricked her conscience, and to be
scolded is one thing, to be severely and solemnly reproached is another;
and before a man!

The official woman-hater was melted in a moment by the saucy girl's
tears. "There--there," said he, kindly, "have a little mercy. Hang it
all! Don't make a mountain of a mole-hill."

The official man-hater never moved a muscle. "It is no use her crying to
_me:_ she must give me a _proof_ she is sorry. Fanny, if you are a
respectable girl, and have any idea of being my heir, go you this moment
and bring them home."

"Yes, aunt," said Fanny, eagerly; and went off with wonderful alacrity.

It was a very long apartment, full forty feet; and while Fanny bustled
down it, Miss Maitland extended a skinny finger, like one of Macbeth's
witches, and directed Vizard's eye to the receding figure so pointedly
that he put up his spyglass the better to see the phenomenon.

As Fanny skipped out and closed the door, Miss Maitland turned to Vizard,
with lean finger still pointing after Fanny, and uttered a monosyllable:

"LAME!"

Vizard burst out laughing. "La fourbe!" said he. "Miss Maitland, accept
my compliments; you possess the key to a sex no fellow can unlock. And,
now I have found an interpreter, I begin to be interested in this little
comedy. The first act is just over. There will be half an hour's wait
till the simulatrix of infirmity comes running back with the pilgrims of
the Rhine. Are they 'the pilgrims of the Rhine' or 'the pilgrims of
Love?' Time will show. Play to recommence with a verbal encounter; you
will be one against three; for all that, I don't envy the greater
number."

"Three to one? No. Surely you will be on the right side for once.

"Well, you see, I am the audience. We can't be all _dramatis personae,_
and no spectator. During the wait, I wonder whether the audience, having
nothing better to do, may be permitted to smoke a cigar."

"So long a lucid interval is irksome, of course. Well, the balcony is
your smoking-room. You will see them coming; please tap at my door the
moment you do."

Half an hour elapsed, an hour, and the personages required to continue
the comedy did not return.

Vizard, having nothing better to do, fell to thinking of Ina Klosking,
and that was not good for him. Solitude and _ennui_ fed his mania, and at
last it took the form of action. He rang, and ordered up his man Harris,
a close, discreet personage, and directed him to go over to Homburg, and
bring back all the information he could about the new singer; her address
in Homburg, married or single, prude or coquette. Should information be
withheld, Harris was to fee the porter at the opera-house, the waiter at
her hotel, and all the human commodities that knew anything about her.
Having dismissed Harris, he lighted his seventh cigar, and said to
himself, "It is all Ned Severne's fault. I wanted to leave for England
to-day."

The day had been overcast for some time and now a few big drops fell, by
way of warning. Then it turned cool: then came a light drizzling rain,
and, in the middle of this, Fanny Dover appeared, almost flying home.

Vizard went and tapped at Miss Maitland's door. She came out.

"Here's Miss Dover coming, but she is alone."

The next moment Fanny bounced into the room, and started a little at the
picture of the pair ready to receive her. She did not wait to be taken to
task, but proceeded to avert censure by volubility and self-praise.
"Aunt, I went down to the river, where I left them, and looked all along
it, and they were not in sight. Then I went to the cathedral, because
that seemed the next likeliest place. Oh, I have had such a race!"

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