William Shakespeare - "The Comedy of Errors"

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The Woman Hater

C >> Charles Reade >> The Woman Hater




"What!" said he; "in, and dressed." He took her by the shoulders and gave
her a great kiss. "You young monkey!" said he, "I was afraid you were
washed away."

Zoe suggested that would only have been a woman obliterated.

"That is true," said he, with an air of hearty conviction. "I forgot
that."

He then inquired if she had had a nice walk.

"Oh, beautiful! Imprisoned half the time in a cow-shed, and then
drenched. But I'll have a nice walk with you, dear, up and down the
room."

"Come on, then."

So she put her right hand on his left shoulder, and gave him her left
hand, and they walked up and down the room, Zoe beaming with happiness
and affection for everybody and walking at a graceful bend.

Severne came in, dressed as perfect as though just taken out of a
bandbox. He sat down at a little table, and read a little journal
unobtrusively. It was his cue to divest his late _te'te-'a-te'te_ of
public importance.

Then came dinner, and two of the party absent. Vizard heard their voices
going like mill-clacks at this sacred hour, and summoned them rather
roughly, as stated above. His back was to Zoe, and she rubbed her hands
gayly to Severne, and sent him a flying whisper: "Oh, what fun! We are
the culprits, and they are the ones scolded."

Dinner waited ten minutes, and then the defaulters appeared. Nothing was
said, but Vizard looked rather glum; and Aunt Maitland cast a vicious
look at Severne and Zoe: they had made a forced march, and outflanked
her. She sat down, and bided her time, like a fowler waiting till the
ducks come within shot.

But the conversation was commonplace, inconsecutive, shifty, and vague,
and it was two hours before anything came within shot: all this time not
a soul suspected the ambushed fowler.

At last, Vizard, having thrown out one of his hints that the fair sex are
imperfect, Fanny, being under the influence of Miss Maitland's
revelations, ventured to suggest that they had no more faults than men,
and _certainly_ were not more deceitful.

"Indeed?" said Vizard. "Not--more--_deceitful!_ Do you speak from
experience?"

"Oh, no, no," said Fanny, getting rather frightened. "I only think so,
somehow."

"Well, but you must have a reason. May I respectfully inquire whether
more men have jilted you than you have jilted?"

'You may inquire as respectfully as you like; but I shan't tell you."

"That is right, Miss Dover," said Severne; "don't you put up with his
nonsense. He knows nothing about it: women are angels, compared with men.
The wonder is, how they can waste so much truth and constancy and beauty
upon the foul sex. To my mind, there is only one thing we beat you in; we
do stick by each other rather better than you do. You are truer to us. We
are a little truer to each other."

"Not a little," suggested Vizard, dryly.

"For my part," said Zoe, blushing pink at her boldness in advancing an
opinion on so large a matter, "I think these comparisons are rather
narrow-minded. What have we to do with bad people, male or female? A good
man is good, and a good woman is good. Still, I do think that women have
greater hearts to love, and men, perhaps, greater hearts for friendship:"
then, blushing roseate, "even in the short time we have been here we have
seen two gentlemen give up pleasure for self-denying friendship. Lord
Uxmoor gave us all up for a sick friend. Mr. Severne did more, perhaps;
for he lost that divine singer. You will never hear her now, Mr.
Severne."

The Maitland gun went off: "A sick friend! Mr. Severne? Ha, ha, ha! You
silly girl, he has got no sick friend. He was at the gaming-table. That
was his sick friend."

It was an effective discharge. It winged a duck or two. It killed, as
follows: the tranquillity--the good humor--and the content of the little
party.

Severne started, and stared, and lost color, and then cast at Vizard a
venomous look never seen on his face before; for he naturally concluded
that Vizard had betrayed him.

Zoe was amazed, looked instantly at Severne, saw it was true, and turned
pale at his evident discomfiture. Her lover had been guilty of
deceit--mean and rather heartless deceit.

Even Fanny winced at the pointblank denunciation of a young man, who was
himself polite to everybody. She would have done it in a very different
way--insinuations, innuendo, etc.

"They have found you out, old fellow," said Vizard, merrily; "but you
need not look as if you had robbed a church. Hang it all! a fellow has
got a right to gamble, if he chooses. Anyway, he paid for his whistle;
for he lost three hundred pounds."

"Three hundred pounds!" cried the terrible old maid. "Where ever did he
get them to lose?"

Severne divined that he had nothing to gain by fiction here; so he said,
sullenly, "I got them from Vizard; but I gave him value for them."

"You need not publish our private transactions, Ned," said Vizard. "Miss
Maitland, this is really not in your department."

"Oh, yes, it is," said she; "and so you'll find."

This pertinacity looked like defiance. Vizard rose from his chair, bowed
ironically, with the air of a man not disposed for a hot argument.

"In that case--with permission--I'll withdraw to my veranda and, in that
[he struck a light] peaceful--[here he took a suck] shade--"

"You will meditate on the charms of Ina Klosking."

Vizard received this poisoned arrow in the small of the back, as he was
sauntering out. He turned like a shot, as if a man had struck him, and,
for a single moment, he looked downright terrible and wonderfully unlike
the easy-going Harrington Vizard. But he soon recovered himself. "What!
you listen, do you?" said he; and turned contemptuously on his heel
without another word.

There was an uneasy, chilling pause. Miss Maitland would have given
something to withdraw her last shot. Fanny was very uncomfortable and
fixed her eyes on the table. Zoe, deeply shocked at Severne's deceit, was
now amazed and puzzled about her brother. "Ina Klosking!" inquired she;
"who is that?"

"Ask Mr. Severne," said Miss Maitland, sturdily.

Now Mr. Severne was sitting silent, but with restless eyes, meditating
how he should get over that figment of his about the sick friend.

Zoe turned round on him, fixed her glorious eyes full upon his face, and
said, rather imperiously, "Mr. Severne, who is Ina Klosking?"

Mr. Severne looked up blankly in her face, and said nothing.

She colored at not being answered, and repeated her question (all this
time Fanny's eyes were fixed on the young man even more keenly than
Zoe's), "Who--and what--is Ina Klosking?"

"She is a public singer."

"Do you know her?"

"Yes; I heard her sing at Vienna."

"Yes, yes; but do you know her to speak to?"

He considered half a moment, and then said he had not that honor. "But,"
said he, rather hurriedly, "somebody or other told me she had come out at
the opera here and made a hit."

"What in--Siebel?"

"I don't know. But I saw large bills out with her name. She made her
_de'but_ in Gounod's 'Faust.'"

"It is _my_ Siebel!" cried Zoe, rapturously. "Why, aunt, no wonder
Harrington admires her. For my part, I adore her."

_"You,_ child! That is quite a different matter."

"No, it is not. He is like me; he has only seen her once, as I have, and
on the stage."

"Fiddle-dee-dee. I tell you he is in love with her, over head and ears.
He is wonderfully inflammable for a woman-hater. Ask Mr. Severne: he
knows."

"Mr. Severne, is my brother in love with that lady?"

Severne's turn had come; that able young man saw his chance, and did as
good a bit of acting as ever was extemporized even by an Italian mime.

"Miss Vizard," said he, fixing his hazel eyes on her for the first time,
in a way that made her feel his power, "what passed in confidence between
two friends ought to be sacred. Don't--you--think so?" (The girl
quivered, remembering the secret he had confessed to her.) "Miss Maitland
has done your brother and me the honor to listen to our secrets. She
shall repeat them, if she thinks it delicate; but I shall not, without
Vizard's consent; and, more than that, the conversation seems to me to be
taking the turn of casting blame and ridicule and I don't know what on
the best-hearted, kindest-hearted, truest-hearted, noblest, and manliest
man I know. I decline to take any further share in it."

With these last words in his mouth, he stuck his hands defiantly into his
pockets and stalked out into the veranda, looking every inch a man.

Zoe folded her arms and gazed after him with undisguised admiration. How
well everything he did became him; his firing up--his _brusquerie--_the
very movements of his body, all so piquant, charming, and unwomanly! As
he vanished from her admiring eyes, she turned, with flaming cheeks, on
Miss Maitland, and said, "Well, aunt, you have driven them both out at
the window; now, say something pretty to Fanny and me, and drive us out
at the door."

Miss Maitland hung her head; she saw she had them all against her but
Fanny, and Fanny was a trimmer. She said, sorrowfully, "No, Zoe. I feel
how unattractive I have made the room. I have driven away the gods of
your idolatry--they are only idols of clay; but that you can't believe. I
will banish nobody else, except a cross-grained, but respectable old
woman, who is too experienced, and too much soured by it, to please young
people when things are going wrong."

With this she took her bed-candle, and retired.

Zoe had an inward struggle. As Miss Maitland opened her bedroom door, she
called to her: "Aunt! one word. Was it you that ordered the fire in my
bedroom?"

Now, if she had received the answer she expected, she meant to say, "Then
please let me forget everything else you have said or done to-day." But
Miss Maitland stared a little, and said, "Fire in your bedroom? no."

"Oh! Then I have nothing to thank you for this day," said Zoe, with all
the hardness of youth; though, as a general rule, she had not her share
of it.

The old lady winced visibly, but she made a creditable answer. "Then, my
dear, you shall have my prayers this night; and it does not matter much
whether you thank me for them or not."

As she disappeared, Zoe flung herself wearily on a couch, and very soon
began to cry. Fanny ran to her and nestled close to her, and the two had
a rock together, Zoe crying, and Fanny coaxing and comforting.

"Ah!" sighed Zoe, "this was the happiest day of my life; and see how it
ends. Quarreling; and deceit! the one I hate, the other I despise. No,
never again, until I have said my prayers, and am just going to sleep,
will I cry 'O giorno felice!' as I did this afternoon, when the rain was
pouring on me, but my heart was all in a glow."

These pretty little lamentations of youth were interrupted by Mr. Severne
slipping away from his friend, to try and recover lost ground.

He was coolly received by Zoe; then he looked dismayed, but affected not
to understand; then Zoe pinched Fanny, which meant "I don't choose to put
him on his defense; but I am dying to hear if he has anything to say."
Thereupon Fanny obeyed that significant pinch, and said, "Mr. Severne, my
cousin is not a woman of the world; she is a country girl, with
old-fashioned romantic notions that a man should be above telling fibs. I
have known her longer than you, and I see she can't understand your
passing off the gambling-table for a sick friend."

"Why, I never did," said he, as bold as brass.

"Mr. Severne!"

"Miss Dover, my sick friend was at 'The Golden Star.' That's a small
hotel in a different direction from the Kursaal. I was there from seven
o'clock till nine. You ask the waiter, if you don't believe me."

Fanny giggled at this inadvertent speech; but Zoe's feelings were too
deeply engaged to shoot fun flying. "Fanny" cried she, eagerly, "I heard
him tell the coachman to drive him to that very place, 'The Golden
Star.'"

"Really?" said Fanny, mystified.

"Indeed I did, dear. I remember 'The Golden Star' distinctly.

"Ladies, I was there till nine o'clock. Then I started for the theater.
Unfortunately the theater is attached to the Kursaal. I thought I would
just look in for a few minutes. In fact, I don't think I was there half
an hour. But Miss Maitland is quite right in one thing. I lost more than
two hundred pounds, all through playing on a false system. Of course, I
know I had no business to go there at all, when I might have been by your
side."

"And heard La Klosking."

"It was devilish bad taste, and you may well be surprised and offended."

"No, no; not at that," said Zoe.

"But hang it all, don't make a fellow worse than he is! Why should I
invent a sick friend? I suppose I have a right to go to the Kursaal if I
choose. At any rate, I mean to go to-morrow afternoon, and win a pot of
money. Hinder me who can."

Zoe beamed with pleasure. "That spiteful old woman! I am ashamed of
myself. Of course you _have._ It becomes a man to say _je veux;_ and it
becomes a woman to yield. Forgive our unworthy doubts. We will all go to
the Kursaal to-morrow."





The reconciliation was complete; and, to add to Zoe's happiness, she made
a little discovery. Rosa came in to see if she wanted anything. That, you
must know, was Rosa's way of saying, "It is very late. _I_'m tired; so
the sooner _you_ go to bed, the better." And Zoe was by nature so
considerate that she often went to bed more for Rosa's convenience than
her own inclination.

But this time she said, sharply, "Yes, I do. I want to know who had my
fire lighted for me in the middle of summer."

"Why, squire, to be sure," said Rosa.

"What--_my_ brother!"

"Yes, miss; and seen to it all hisself: leastways, I found the things
properly muddled. 'Twas to be seen a man had been at 'em."

Rosa retired, leaving Zoe's face a picture.

Just then Vizard put his head cautiously in at the window, and said, in a
comic whisper, "Is she gone?"

"Yes, she is gone," cried Zoe, "and you are wanted in her place." She ran
to meet him. "Who ordered a fire in my room, and muddled all my things?"
said she, severely.

"I did. What of that?"

"Oh, nothing. Only now I know who is my friend. Young people, here's a
lesson for you. When a lady is out in the rain, don't prepare a lecture
for her, like Aunt Maitland, but light her fire, like this dear old duck
of a woman-hating impostor. Kiss me!" (violently).

"There--pest!"

"That is not enough, nor half. There, and there, and there, and there,
and there, and there."

"Now look here, my young friend, " said Vizard, holding her lovely head
by both ears, "you are exciting yourself about nothing, and that will end
in one of your headaches. So, just take your candle, and go to bed, like
a good little girl."

"Must I? Well, then, I will. Goodby, tyrant dear. Oh, how I love you!
Come, Fanny."

She gave her hand shyly to Severne, and soon they were both in Zoe's
room.

Rosa was dismissed, and they had their chat; but it was nearly all on one
side. Fanny had plenty to say, but did not say it. She had not the heart
to cloud that beaming face again so soon; she temporized: Zoe pressed her
with questions too; but she slurred things, Zoe asked her why Miss
Maitland was so bitter against Mr. Severne. Fanny said, in an off-hand
way, "Oh, it is only on your account she objects to him."

"And what are her objections?"

"Oh, only grammatical ones, dear. She says his _antecedents_ are obscure,
and his _relatives_ unknown, ha! ha! ha!" Fanny laughed, but Zoe did not
see the fun. Then Fanny stroked her down.

"Never mind that old woman. I shall interfere properly, if I see you in
danger. It was monstrous her making an _esclandre_ at the very
dinner-table, and spoiling your happy day."

"But she hasn't!" cried Zoe, eagerly. "'All's well that ends well.' I am
happy--oh, so happy! You love me. Harrington loves me. _He_ loves me.
What more can any woman ask for than to be _ambata bene?"_

This was the last word between Zoe and Fanny upon St. Brooch's day.

As Fanny went to her own room, the vigilant Maitland opened her door that
looked upon the corridor and beckoned her in. "Well," said she, "did you
speak to Zoe?"

"Just a word before dinner. Aunt, she came in wet, to the skin, and in
higher spirits than Rosa ever knew her."

Aunt groaned.

"And what do you think? Her spoiled dress, she ordered it to be ironed
and put by. _It is a case."_





Next day they all met at a late breakfast, and good humor was the order
of the day. This encouraged Zoe to throw out a feeler about the
gambling-tables. Then Fanny said it must be nice to gamble, because it
was so naughty. "In a long experience," said Miss Dover, with a sigh, "I
have found that whatever is nice is naughty, and whatever is naughty is
nice."

"There's a short code of morals," observed Vizard, "for the use of
seminaries. Now let us hear Severne; he knows all the defenses of
gambling lunacy has discovered."

Severne, thus appealed to, said play was like other things, bad only when
carried to excess. "At Homburg, where the play is fair, what harm can
there be in devoting two or three hours of a long day to _trente et
quarante?_ The play exercises memory, judgment, _sangfroid,_ and other
good qualities of the mind. Above all, it is on the square. Now, buying
and selling shares without delivery, bulling, and bearing, and rigging,
and Stock Exchange speculations in general, are just as much gambling;
but with cards all marked, and dice loaded, and the fair player has no
chance. The world," said this youthful philosopher, "is taken in by
words. The truth is, that gambling with cards is fair, and gambling
without cards a swindle."

"He is hard upon the City," said the Vizard; "but no matter. Proceed,
young man. Develop your code of morals for the amusement of mankind,
while duller spirits inflict instruction."

"You have got my opinion," said Severne. "Oblige us with yours."

"No; mine would not be popular just now: I reserve it till we are there,
and can see the lunatics at work."

"Oh, then we are to go," cried Fanny. "Oh, be joyful!"

"That depends on Miss Maitland. It is not in my department."

Instantly four bright eyes were turned piteously on the awful Maitland.

"Oh, aunt," said Zoe, pleadingly, "do you think there would be any great
harm in our--just for once in a way?"

"My dear," said Miss Maitland, solemnly, "I cannot say that I approve of
public gambling in general. But at Homburg the company is select. I have
seen a German prince, a Russian prince, and two English countesses, the
very _e'lite_ of London society, seated at the same table in the Kursaal.
I think, therefore, there can be no harm in your going, under the conduct
of older persons--myself, for example, and your brother."

"Code three," suggested Vizard--"the chaperonian code."

"And a very good one, too," said Zoe. "But, aunt, must we look on, or may
we play just a little, little?"

"My dear, there can be no great harm in playing a little, in _good
company_--if you play with your own money." She must have one dig at
Severne.

"I shan't play very deep, then," said Fanny; "for I have got no money
hardly."

Vizard came to the front, like a man. "No more should I," said he, "but
for Herries & Co. As it is, I am a Croesus, and I shall stand one hundred
pounds, which you three ladies must divide; and between you, no doubt,
you will break the bank."

Acclamations greeted this piece of misogyny. When they had subsided,
Severne was called on to explain the game, and show the young ladies how
to win a fortune with thirty-three pounds six shillings and eight pence.

The table was partly cleared, two packs of cards sent for, and the
professor lectured.

"This," said he, "is the cream of the game. Six packs are properly
shuffled, and properly cut; the players put their money on black or red,
which is the main event, and is settled thus: The dealer deals the cards
in two rows. He deals the _first_ row for black, and stops the moment the
cards pass thirty. That deal determines how near _noir_ can get to
thirty-one."

Severne then dealt for _noir,_ and the cards came as follows:

Queen of hearts--four of clubs--ten of spades--nine of diamonds: total,
thirty-three."

He then dealt for red:

Knave of clubs--ace of diamonds--two of spades--king of spades--nine of
hearts: total, thirty-two.

"Red wins, because the cards dealt for red come nearer thirty-one.
Besides that," said he, "you can bet on the color, or against it. The
actual color of the first card the player turns up on the black line must
be black or red. Whichever happens to be it is called 'the color.' Say it
is red; then, if the black line of cards wins, color loses. Now, I will
deal again for both events.

"I deal for _noir."_

"Nine of diamonds. Red, then, is the actual color turned up on the black
line. Do you bet for it, or against it?"

"I bet for it," cried Zoe. "It's my favorite color."

"And what do you say on the main event?"

"Oh, red on that too."

"Very good. I go on dealing for _noir._ Queen of diamonds, three of
spades, knave of hearts--nine of spades: thirty-two. That looks ugly for
your two events, black coming so near as thirty-two. Now for red. Four of
hearts, knave of spades, seven of diamonds, queen of clubs--thirty-one,
by Jove! _Rouge gagne, et couleur._ There is nothing like courage. You
have won both events."

"Oh, what a nice game!" cried Zoe.

He then continued to deal, and they all bet on the main event and the
color, staking fabulous sums, till at last both numbers came up
thirty-one.

Thereupon Severne informed them that half the stakes belonged to him.
That was the trifling advantage accorded to the bank.

"Which trifling advantage," said Vizard, "has enriched the man-eating
company, and their prince, and built the Kursaal, and will clean you all
out, if you play long enough."

"That," said Severne, "I deny. It is more than balanced by the right the
players have of doubling, till they gain, and by the maturity of the
chances: I will explain this to the ladies. You see experience proves
that neither red nor black can come up more than nine times running.
When, therefore, either color has come up four times, you can put a
moderate stake on the other color, and double on it till it _must_ come,
by the laws of nature. Say red has turned four times. You put a napoleon
on black; red gains. You lose a napoleon. You don't remove it, but double
on it. The chances are now five to one you gain: but if you lose, you
double on the same, and, when you have got to sixteen napoleons, the
color must change; uniformity has reached its physical limit. That is
called the maturity of the chances. Begin as unluckily as possible with
five francs, and lose. If you have to double eight times before you win,
it only comes to twelve hundred and eighty francs. Given, therefore, a
man to whom fifty napoleons are no more than five francs to us, he can
never lose if he doubles, like a Trojan, till the chances are mature.
This is called 'the Martingale:' but, observe, it only secures against
loss. Heavy gains are made by doubling judiciously on the _winning_
color, or by simply betting on short runs of it. When red comes up, back
red, and double twice on it. Thus you profit by the remarkable and
observed fact that colors do not, as a rule, alternate, but reach
ultimate equality by avoiding alternation, and making short runs, with
occasional long runs; the latter are rare, and must be watched with a
view to the balancing run of the other color. This is my system."

"And you really think you have invented it?" asked Vizard.

"I am not so conceited. My system was communicated to me, in the Kursaal
itself--by an old gentleman."

_"An_ old gentleman, or _the_--?"

"Oh, Harrington," cried Zoe, "fie!"

"My wit is appreciated at its value. Proceed, Ned."

Severne told him, a little defiantly, it was an old gentleman, with a
noble head, a silvery beard, and the most benevolent countenance he ever
saw.

"Curious place for his reverence to be in," hazarded Vizard.

"He saw me betting, first on the black, then on the red, till I was
cleaned out, and then he beckoned me."

"Not a man of premature advice anyway."

"He told me he had observed my play. I had been relying on the
alternations of the colors, which alternation chance persistently avoids,
and arrives at equality by runs. He then gave me a better system."

"And, having expounded his system, he illustrated it? Tell the truth now;
he sat down and lost the coat off his back? It followed his family
acres."

"You are quite wrong again. He never plays. He has heart-disease, and his
physician has forbidden him all excitement."

"His nation?"

"Humph! French."

"Ah! the nation that produced _'Le philosophe sans le savoir.'_ And now
it has added, _'Le philosophe sans le vouloir,'_ and you have stumbled on
him. What a life for an aged man! _Fortunatus ille senex qui ludicola
vivit._ Tantalus handcuffed and glowering over a gambling-table; a hell
in a hell."

"Oh, Harrington!--"

"Exclamations not allowed in sober argument, Zoe."

"Come, Ned, it is not heart-disease, it is purse disease. Just do me a
favor. Here are five sovereigns; give those to the old beggar, and let
him risk them."

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