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Benedict de Spinoza - "The Ethics [Part I]"

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The Woman Hater

C >> Charles Reade >> The Woman Hater




"I could hardly take such a liberty with an old gentleman of his age and
appearance--a man of honor too, and high sentiments. Why, I'd bet seven
to four he is one of Napoleon's old soldiers."

The ladies sided unanimously with Severne. "What! offer a _vieux de
l'Empire_ five pounds? Oh, fie!"

"Fiddle-dee-dee!" said the indomitable Vizard. "Besides, he will do it
with his usual grace. He will approach the son of Mars with that feigned
humility which sits so well on youth, and ask him, as a personal favor,
to invest five pounds for him at _rouge-et-noir._ The old soldier will
stiffen into double dignity at first, then give him a low wink, and end
by sitting down and gambling. He will be cautious at starting, as one who
opens trenches for the siege of Mammon; but soon the veteran will get
heated, and give battle; he will fancy himself at Jena, since the
croupiers are Prussians. If he loses, you cut him dead, being a humdrum
Englishman; and if he wins, he cuts you, and pockets the cash, being a
Frenchman that talks sentiment."

This sally provoked a laugh, in which Severne joined, and said, "Really,
for a landed proprietor, you know a thing or two." He consented at last,
with some reluctance, to take the money; and none of the persons present
doubted that he would execute the commission with a grace and delicacy
all his own. Nevertheless, to run forward a little with the narrative, I
must tell you that he never did hand that five pound to the venerable
sire; a little thing prevented him--the old man wasn't born yet.

"And now," said Vizard, "it is our last day in Homburg. You are all going
to gratify your mania--lunacy is contagious. Suppose I gratify mine."

"Do dear," said Zoe; "and what is it?"

"I like your asking that; when it was publicly announced last night, and
I fled discomfited to my balcony, and, in my confusion, lighted a cigar.
My mania is--the Klosking."

"That is not a mania; it is good taste. She is admirable."

"Yes, in an opera; but I want to know how she looks and talks in a room;
and that is insane of me."

"Then so you _shall,_ insane or not. I will call on her this morning, and
take you in my hand."

"What an ample palm! and what juvenile audacity! Zoe, you take my breath
away."

"No audacity at all. I am sure of my welcome. How often must I tell you
that we have mesmerized each other, that lady and I, and only waiting an
opportunity to rush into each other's arms. It began with her singling me
out at the opera. But I dare say that was owing, _at first,_ only to my
being in full dress.

"No, no; to your being, like Agamemnon, a head taller than all the other
Greeks."

"Harrington! I am not a Greek. I am a thorough English girl at heart,
though I am as black as a coal."

"No apology needed in our present frame. You are all the more like the
ace of spades."

"Do you want me to take you to the Klosking, sir? Then you had better not
make fun of me. I tell you she sung to _me,_ and smiled on _me,_ and
courtesied to _me;_ and, now you have put it into my head, I mean to call
upon her, and I will take you with me. What I shall do, I shall send in
my card. I shall be admitted, and you will wait outside. As soon as she
sees me, she will run to me with both hands out, and say, in excellent
_French,_ I hope, _'How,_ mademoiselle! you have deigned to remember me,
and to honor me with a visit.' Then I shall say, in school-French, 'Yes,
madame; excuse the intrusion, but I was so charmed with your performance.
We leave Homburg to-morrow, and as, unfortunately for myself, I cannot
have the pleasure of seeing you again upon the stage--' then I shall
stop, for her to interrupt me. Then she will interrupt me, and say
charming things, as only foreigners can; and then I shall say, still in
school-French, 'Madame, I am not alone. I have my brother with me. He
adores music, and was as fascinated with your Siebel as myself. May I
present him?' Then she will say, 'Oh, yes, by all means;' and I shall
introduce you. Then you can make love to her. That will be droll. Fanny,
I'll tell you every word he says."

"Make love to her!" cried Vizard. "Is this your estimate of a brother's
motives. My object in visiting this lady is, not to feed my mania, but to
cure it. I have seen her on the stage, looking like the incarnation of a
poet's dream. I am _extasie'_ with her. Now let me catch her _en
de'shabille,_ with her porter on one side, and her lover on the other:
and so to Devonshire, relieved of a fatal illusion."

"If that is your view, I'll go by myself; for I know she is a noble
woman, and as much a lady off the stage as on it. My only fear is she
will talk that dreadful guttural German, with its 'oches' and its
'aches,' and then where shall we all be? We must ask Mr. Severne to go
with us."

"A good idea. No--a vile one. He is abominably handsome, and has the gift
of the gab--in German, and other languages. He is sure to cut me out, the
villain! Look him up, somebody, till we come back."

"Now, Harrington, don't be absurd. He must, and shall, be of the party. I
have my reasons. Mr. Severne," said she, turning on him with a blush and
a divine smile, "you will oblige me, I am sure."

Severne's face turned as blank as a doll's, and he said nothing, one way
or other.





It was settled that they should all meet at the Kursaal at four, to dine
and play. But Zoe and her party would go on ahead by the one-o'clock
train; and so she retired to put on her bonnet--a technical expression,
which implies a good deal.

Fanny went with her, and, as events more exciting than the usual routine
of their young lives were ahead, their tongues went a rare pace. But the
only thing worth presenting to the reader came at the end, after the said
business of the toilet had been dispatched.

Zoe said, "I must go now, or I shall keep them waiting."

"Only one, dear," said Fanny dryly.

"Why only one?"

"Mr. Severne will not go."

"That he will: I made a point of it."

"You did, dear? but still he will not go."

There was something in this, and in Fanny's tone, that startled Zoe, and
puzzled her sorely. She turned round upon her with flashing eye, and
said, "No mysteries, please, dear. Why won't he go with me wherever I ask
him to go? or, rather, what makes you think he won't?"

Said Fanny, thoughtfully: "I could not tell you, all in a moment, why I
feel so positive. One puts little things together that are nothing apart:
one observes faces; I do, at least. You don't seem, to me, to be so quick
at that as most girls. But, Zoe dear, you know very well one often knows
a thing for certain, yet one doesn't know exactly what makes one know
it."

Now Zoe's _amour propre_ was wounded by Fanny's suggestion that Severne
would not go to Homburg, or, indeed, to the world's end with her; so she
drew herself up in her grand way, and folded her arms and said, a little
haughtily, "Then tell me what is it you know about _him_ and me, without
knowing how on earth you know it."

The supercilious tone and grand manner nettled Fanny, and it wasn't
"brooch day;" she stood up to her lofty cousin like a little game-cock.
"I know this," said she, with heightened cheek, and flashing eyes and a
voice of steel, "you will never get Mr. Edward Severne into one room with
Zoe Vizard and Ina Klosking."





Zoe Vizard turned very pale, but her eyes flashed defiance on her friend.

"That I'll know!" said she, in a deep voice, with a little gasp, but a
world of pride and resolution.



CHAPTER VII.

THE ladies went down together, and found Vizard ready. Mr. Severne was
not in the room. Zoe inquired after him.

"Gone to get a sun-shade," said Vizard.

"There!" said Zoe to Fanny, in a triumphant whisper. "What is that for
but to go with us?"

Fanny made no reply.

They waited some time for Severne and his sun-shade.

At last Vizard looked at his watch, and said they had only five minutes
to spare. "Come down, and look after him. He _must_ be somewhere about."

They went down and looked for him all over the Platz. He was not to be
seen. At last Vizard took out his watch, and said, "It is some
misunderstanding: we can't wait any longer."

So he and Zoe went to the train. Neither said much on the way to Homburg;
for they were both brooding. Vizard's good sense and right feeling were
beginning to sting him a little for calling on the Klosking at all, and a
great deal for using the enthusiasm of an inexperienced girl to obtain an
introduction to a public singer. He sat moody in his corner, taking
himself to task. Zoe's thoughts ran in quite another channel; but she was
no easier in her mind. It really seemed as if Severne had given her the
slip. Probably he would explain his conduct; but, then, that Fanny should
foretell he would avoid her company, rather than call on Mademoiselle
Klosking, and that Fanny should be right--this made the thing serious,
and galled Zoe to the quick: she was angry with Fanny for prophesying
truly; she was rather angry with Severne for not coming, and more angry
with him for making good Fanny's prediction.

Zoe Vizard was a good girl and a generous girl, but she was not a humble
girl: she had a great deal of pride, and her share of vanity, and here
both were galled. Besides that, it seemed to her most strange and
disheartening that Fanny, who did not love Severne, should be able to
foretell his conduct better than she, who did love him: such foresight
looked like greater insight. All this humiliated and also puzzled her
strangely; and so she sat brooding as deeply as her brother.

As for Vizard, by the time they got to Homburg he had made up his mind.
As they got out of the train, he said, "Look here, I am ashamed of
myself. I have a right to play the fool alone; but I have no business to
drag my sister into it. We will go somewhere else. There are lots of
things to see. I give up the Klosking."

Zoe stared at him a moment, and then answered, with cold decision, "No,
dear; you must allow me to call on her, now I am here. She won't bite
_me."_

"Well, but it is a strange thing to do."

"What does that matter? We are abroad."

"Come, Zoe, I am much obliged to you; but give it up."

"No, dear."

Harrington smiled at her pretty peremptoriness, and misunderstood it.
"This is carrying sisterly love a long way," said he. "I must try and
rise to your level. I won't go with you."

"Then I shall go alone."

"What if I forbid you, miss?"

She tapped him on the cheek with her fingers. "Don't affect the tyrant,
dear; you can't manage it. Fanny said something that has mortified me. I
shall go. You can do as you like. But, stop; where does she live?"

"Suppose I decline to tell you? I am seized with a virtuous fit--a
regular paroxysm."

"Then I shall go to the opera and inquire, dear. But" (coaxingly) "you
will tell me, dear."

"There," said Harrington, "you wicked, tempting girl, my sham virtue has
oozed away, and my real mania triumphs. She lives at 'The Golden Star.' I
was weak enough to send Harris in last night to learn." Zoe smiled.

He hailed a conveyance; and they started at once for "The Golden Star."

"Zoe," said Harrington gravely, "something tells me I am going to meet my
fate."

"All the better," said Zoe. "I wish you to meet your fate. My love for my
brother is not selfish. I am sure she is a good woman. Perhaps I may find
out something."

"About what?"

"Oh, never mind."



CHAPTER VIII.

ALL this time Ina Klosking was rehearsing at the theater, quite
unconscious of the impending visit. A royal personage had commanded "Il
Barbiere," the part of Rosina to be restored to the original key. It was
written for a contralto, but transposed by the influence of Grisi.

Having no performance that night, they began to rehearse rather later
than usual, and did not leave off till a quarter to four o'clock. Ina,
who suffered a good deal at rehearsals from the inaccuracy and apathy of
the people, went home fagged, and with her throat parched--so does a bad
rehearsal affect all good and earnest artists.

She ordered a cutlet, with potato chips, and lay down on the sofa. While
she was reposing, came Joseph Ashmead, to cheer her, with good
photographs of her, taken the day before. She smiled gratefully at his
zeal. He also reminded her that he had orders to take her to the Kursaal:
he said the tables would be well filled from five o'clock till quite
late, there being no other entertainment on foot that evening.

Ina thanked him, and said she would not miss going on any account; but
she was rather fatigued and faint.

"Oh, I'll wait for you as long as you like," said Ashmead, kindly.

"No, my good comrade," said Ina. "I will ask you to go to the manager and
get me a little money, and then to the Kursaal and secure me a place at
the table in the largest room. There I will join you. If _he_ is not
there--and I am not so mad as to think he will be there--I shall risk a
few pieces myself, to be nearer him in mind."

This amazed Ashmead; it was so unlike her. "You are joking," said he.
"Why, if you lose five napoleons at play, it will be your death; you will
grizzle so."

"Yes; but I shall not lose. I am too unlucky in love to lose at cards. I
mean to play this afternoon; and never again in all my life. Sir, I am
resolved."

"Oh, if you are resolved, there is no more to be said. I won't run my
head against a brick wall."

Ina, being half a foreigner, thought this rather brusk. She looked at him
askant, and said, quietly, "Others, besides me, can be stubborn, and get
their own way, while speaking the language of submission. Not I invented
volition."

With this flea in his ear, the faithful Joseph went off, chuckling, and
obtained an advance from the manager, and then proceeded to the principal
gaming-table, and, after waiting some time, secured a chair, which he
kept for his chief.

An hour went by; an hour and a half. He was obliged, for very shame, to
bet. This he did, five francs at a time; and his risk was so small, and
his luck so even, that by degrees he was drawn into conversation with his
neighbor, a young swell, who was watching the run of the colors, and
betting in silver, and pricking a card, preparatory to going in for a
great _coup._ Meantime he favored Mr. Ashmead with his theory of chances,
and Ashmead listened very politely to every word; because he was rather
proud of the other's notice: he was so handsome, well dressed, and well
spoken.

Meantime Ina Klosking snatched a few minutes' sleep, as most artists can
in the afternoon, and was awakened by the servant bringing in her frugal
repast, a cutlet and a pint of Bordeaux.

On her plate he brought her a large card, on which was printed "Miss Zoe
Vizard." This led to inquiries, and he told her a lady of superlative
beauty had called and left that card. Ina asked for a description.

"Ah, madame," said Karl, "do not expect details from me. I was too
dazzled, and struck by lightning, to make an inventory of her charms."

"At least you can tell me was she dark or fair."

"Madame, she was dark as night; but glorious as the sun. Her earthly
abode is the Russie, at Frankfort; blest hotel!"

"Did she tell you so?"

"Indirectly. She wrote on the card with the smallest pencil I have
hitherto witnessed: the letters are faint, the pencil being inferior to
the case, which was golden. Nevertheless, as one is naturally curious to
learn whence a bright vision has emerged, I permitted myself to
decipher."

"Your curiosity was natural," said Ina, dryly. "I will detain you with no
more questions."

She put the card carefully away, and eat her modest repast. Then she made
her afternoon toilet, and walked, slowly and pensively, to the Kursaal.

Nothing there was new to her, except to be going to the table without the
man on whom it was her misfortune to have wasted her heart of gold.

I think, therefore, it would be better for me to enter the place in
company with our novices; and, indeed, we must, or we shall derange the
true order of time and sequence of incidents; for, please observe, all
the English ladies of our story met at the Kursaal while Ina was reposing
on her sofa.

The first-comers were Zoe and Harrington. They entered the noble hall,
inscribed their names, and, by that simple ceremony, were members of a
club, compared with which the greatest clubs in London are petty things:
a club with spacious dining-rooms, ball-rooms, concert-rooms,
gambling-rooms, theater, and delicious gardens. The building, that
combined so many rich treats, was colossal in size, and glorious with
rich colors and gold laid on with Oriental profusion, and sometimes with
Oriental taste.

Harrington took his sister through the drawing-rooms first; and she
admired the unusual loftiness of the rooms, the blaze of white and gold,
and of _ce'ladon_ and gold, and the great Russian lusters, and the mighty
mirrors. But when they got to the dining-room she was enchanted. That
lofty and magnificent _salon,_ with its daring mixture of red and black,
and green and blue, all melted into harmony by the rivers of gold that
ran boldly among them, went to her very heart. A Greek is half an
Oriental; and Zoe had what may be called the courage of color.
"Glorious!" she cried, and clasped her hands. "And see! what a background
to the emerald grass outside and the ruby flowers. They seem to come into
the room through those monster windows."

"Splendid!" said Harrington, to whom all this was literally Greek. "I'm
so excited, I'll order dinner."

"Dinner!" said Zoe, disdainfully; and sat down and eyed the Moresque
walls around her, and the beauties of nature outside, and brought them
together in one picture.

Harrington was a long time in conclave with M. Chevet. Then Zoe became
impatient.

"Oh, do leave off ordering dinner," said she, "and take me out to that
other paradise."

The Chevet shrugged his shoulders with pity. Vizard shrugged his too, to
soothe him; and, after a few more hurried words, took the lover of color
into the garden. It was delicious, with green slopes, and rich foliage,
and flowers, and enlivened by bright silk dresses, sparkling fitfully
among the green leaves, or flaming out boldly in the sun; and, as luck
would have it, before Zoe had taken ten steps upon the greensward, the
band of fifty musicians struck up, and played as fifty men rarely play
together out of Germany.

Zoe was enchanted. She walked on air, and beamed as bright as any flower
in the place.

After her first ejaculation at the sudden music, she did not speak for a
good while; her content was so great. At last she said, "And do they
leave this paradise to gamble in a room?"

"Leave it? They shun it. The gamblers despise the flowers."

"How perverse people are! Excitement! Who wants any more than this?"

"Zoe," said Vizard, "innocent excitement can never compete with vicious."

"What, is it really wicked to play?"

"I don't know about wicked; you girls always run to the biggest word.
But, if avarice is a vice, gambling cannot be virtuous; for the root of
gambling is mere avarice, weak avarice. Come, my young friend, _as we're
quite alone,_ I'll drop Thersites, and talk sense to you, for once.
Child, there are two roads to wealth; one is by the way of industry,
skill, vigilance, and self-denial; and these are virtues, though
sometimes they go with tricks of trade, hardness of heart, and taking
advantage of misfortune, to buy cheap and sell dear. The other road to
wealth is by bold speculation, with risk of proportionate loss; in short,
by gambling with cards, or without them. Now, look into the mind of the
gambler--he wants to make money, contrary to nature, and unjustly. He
wants to be rewarded without merit, to make a fortune in a moment, and
without industry, vigilance, true skill, or self-denial. 'A penny saved
is a penny gained' does not enter his creed. Strip the thing of its
disguise, it is avarice, sordid avarice; and I call it weak avarice,
because the gambler relies on chance alone, yet accepts uneven chances,
and hopes that Fortune will be as much in love with him as he is with
himself. What silly egotism! You admire the Kursaal, and you are right;
then do just ask yourself why is there nothing to pay for so many
expensive enjoyments: and very little to pay for concerts and balls; low
prices at the opera, which never pays its own expenses; even Chevet's
dinners are reasonable, if you avoid his sham Johannisberg. All these
cheap delights, the gold, the colors, the garden, the music, the lights,
are paid for by the losses of feeble-minded Avarice. But, there--I said
all this to Ned Severne, and I might as well have preached sense to the
wind."

"Harrington, I will not play. I am much happier walking with my good
brother--"

"Faute de mieux."

Zoe blushed, but would not hear--"And it is so good of you to make a
friend of me, and talk sense. Oh! see--a lady with two blues! Come and
look at her."

Before they had taken five steps, Zoe stopped short and said, "It is
Fanny Dover, I declare. She has not seen us yet. She is short-sighted.
Come here." And the impetuous maid dragged him off behind a tuft of
foliage.

When she had got him there she said hotly that it was too bad.

"Oh, is it?" said he, very calmly. "What?"

"Why, don't you see what she has done? You, so sensible, to be so slow
about women's ways; and you are always pretending to know them. Why, she
has gone and bought that costume with the money you gave her to play
with."

"Sensible girl!"

"Dishonest girl, _I_ call her."

"There you go to your big words. No, no. A little money was given her for
a bad purpose. She has used it for a frivolous one. That is 'a step in
the right direction'--jargon of the day."

"But to receive money for one purpose, and apply it to another, is--what
do you call it--_chose?--de'tournement des fonds_--what is the English
word? I've been abroad till I've forgotten English. Oh, I
know--embezzlement."

"Well, that is a big word for a small transaction; you have not dug in
the mine of the vernacular for nothing."

"Harrington, if you don't mind, I do; so please come. I'll talk to her."

"Stop a moment," said Vizard, very gravely. "You will not say one word to
her."

"And why not, pray?"

"Because it would be unworthy of us, and cruel to her; barbarously cruel.
What! call her to account before that old woman and me?"

"Why not? She is flaunting her blues before you two, and plenty more."

"Feminine logic, Zoe. The point is this--she is poor. You must know that.
This comes of poverty and love of dress; not of dishonesty and love of
dress; and just ask yourself, is there a creature that ought to be pitied
more and handled more delicately than a _poor lady?_ Why, you would make
her writhe with shame and distress! Well, I do think there is not a
single wild animal so cruel to another wild animal as a woman is to a
woman. You are cruel to one another by instinct. But I appeal to your
reason--if you have any."

Zoe's eyes filled. "You are right," said she, humbly. "Thank you for
thinking for me. I will not say a word to her before _you."_

"That is a good girl. But, come now, why say a word at all?"

"Oh, it is no use your demanding impossibilities, dear. I could no more
help speaking to her than I could fly; and don't go fancying she will
care a pin what I say, if I don't say it before _a gentleman."_

Having given him this piece of information, she left her ambush, and
proceeded to meet the all-unconscious blue girl; but, even as they went,
Vizard returned to his normal condition, and doled out, rather
indolently, that they were out on pleasure, and might possibly miss the
object of the excursion if they were to encourage a habit of getting into
rages about nothing.

Zoe was better than her word. She met Fanny with open admiration: to be
sure, she knew that apathy, or even tranquillity, on first meeting the
blues, would be instantly set down to envy.

"And where did you get it, dear?"

"At quite a small shop."

"French?"

"Oh, no; I think she was an Austrian. This is not a French mixture: loud,
discordant colors, that is the French taste."

"Here is heresy," said Vizard. "Why, I thought the French beat the world
in dress."

"Yes, dear," said Zoe, "in form and pattern. But Fanny is right; they
make mistakes in color. They are terribly afraid of scarlet; but they are
afraid of nothing else: and many of their mixtures are as discordant to
the eye as Wagner's music to the ear. Now, after all, scarlet is the king
of colors; and there is no harm in King Scarlet, if you treat him with
respect and put a modest subject next to him."

"Gypsy locks, for instance," suggested Fanny, slyly.

Miss Maitland owned herself puzzled. "In my day," said she, "no one ever
thought of putting blue upon blue; but really, somehow, it looks well."

"May I tell you why, aunt?--because the dress-maker had a real eye, and
has chosen the right tints of blue. It is all nonsense about one color
not going with another. Nature defies that; and how? by choosing the very
tints of each color that will go together. The sweetest room I ever saw
was painted by a great artist; and, do you know, he had colored the
ceiling blue and the walls green: and I assure you the effect was
heavenly: but, then, he had chosen the exact tints of green and blue that
would go together. The draperies were between crimson and maroon. But
there's another thing in Fanny's dress; it is velvet. Now, blue velvet is
blue to the mind; but it is not blue to the eye. You try and paint blue
velvet; you will be surprised how much white you must lay on. The high
lights of all velvets are white. This white helps to blend the two tints
of blue."

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