nothing to us. To you it may even seem inexcusable that I should
allude to a character with which you have no sympathy, an abnormal
growth which sounds rather fantastic than real. It is the _argumentum
ad absurdum_, and has its value. This strange perversity which, by
reason of its startling contradictions, seems almost inhuman, and if,
in rare instances, met with, can only excite feelings of curiosity or
repugnance--this is the extreme case. The application of the moral will
come nearer home to us, if we make the changes from passionate love
to cold indifference a little less marked, the intervals between the
moods a little longer. It is well to know one’s own mind, not because
wavering and change hurt the fickle, but because some stupid person may
suffer by the purchase of experience; may take it to heart, and may
do himself an injury. It is well to know one’s own heart, and what
it can give; lest another put too high a value on the prize and lose
all in trying to win it. It is well to know our own weakness, and at
once recognise that we shall be guided by it; lest another think it is
strength, and make, for our sakes, sacrifices that only frighten and
perhaps even annoy us, especially when they are made in the absurd
belief that they will please us.
If you can give the extreme of happiness, do not forget that you can
also cause an infinity of pain. No one can blame you for declining to
accord favours; and if that refusal gives pain, there is no help for
it. There can be little sympathy for those who seek the battle and
then complain of their wounds. Such hurts do not rankle, and quickly
heal. But it is different when a woman gives love of her own free will,
uninfluenced by any consideration beyond her inclination, and then
takes it back, also without other cause than caprice. It is difficult
to use any other word--either it was a caprice to say she gave what
never was given, or it is a caprice to take it back. A confession of
thoughtlessness in estimating the character of her own feelings, or
of weakness and inability to resist any opposing influence, is a poor
pretext for a sudden withering of the tendrils of affection. Such a
confession is an indifferent consolation to the heart which realises
its loss, but cannot appreciate the situation. Do not mistake me; it is
so hard to be absolutely candid and fair in considering our own cases.
We are not less likely to make mistakes in matters of sentiment than
in the purely practical affairs of life. If we think we love, and then
become certain that we have made a mistake, the only safe and kind
course is to confess the error; but if we deliberately seek love and
give it, much protesting and much exacting, how shall we then deny it?
Would one say, “If you asked me, I would go down into hell with you,
now,” and then, ere twelve months had passed, for no crime but enforced
absence, speak or write, to that other, almost as a stranger?
There was Peter, I know; but even he was not altogether satisfied with
himself, and, besides denying his Lord, he stands convicted of physical
cowardice.
XIX
A REJOINDER
Thank you. Before my last letter could reach you, _vous m’aviez donné
affreusement à penser_, and this is what occurs to me:--
“Of all the lover’s sorrows, next to that
Of Love by Love forbidden, is the voice
Of Friendship turning harsh in Love’s reproof,
And overmuch of counsel--whereby Love
Grows stubborn, and recoiling unsupprest
Within, devours the heart within the breast.”
I dare say it is as well. I am beginning to recognise the real
attractions of what I may call a “surprise letter.” I have had several
lately. It is perhaps the irony of fate that, just after I had mildly
hinted to you that the phases of the moods of the feminine mind were
sometimes rather bewildering, you should write to me the sort of letter
which, had it been sent by me to a man I called my friend, I should
richly deserve death at his hands. There are certainly few things
more thoroughly enjoyable than to take up a letter that you see comes
from--well, let us say from a very dear friend--to dally a little
over the opening, in the mingled desire and hesitation to read the
contents; feverish desire to know that all is well, to hear some word
of affectionate regard--hesitation lest the news be bad, the letter
cold; and then to find such a missive as you have sent to me.
To begin with, there is a page and a half on which you have poured out
the vials of your wrath. I was quite hot before I had read half of it,
and my ears even were burning before I came to a page in which you told
me how greatly you were enjoying yourself. And then, at the end, there
was another page and a half, every word of which seemed to strike me in
the face like a blow. I suppose you introduced the middle section that
I might meditate on the difference between your circumstances and mine,
and duly appreciate the full weight of your displeasure. Well, yes, I
have done so; and, as God only knows when I shall see you again, I must
write one or two of the many words it is in my heart to say to you.
I am a very unworthy person; I have deeply offended you; and you
have felt it necessary to tell me gently how ill my conduct looks to
you. You leave me to infer that there are offences which cannot be
tolerated, and that it would not be difficult to dispense with my
acquaintance. I humbly accept this verdict, and as it is absolutely
just and right that the prisoner should first be condemned without
hearing, and then suffered to state his case, and say anything he
pleases in mitigation of sentence, I will try not to weary you by any
reference to ancient history, but simply confine myself to the charge.
Now, what is my crime? You asked me a question; I am sure you have long
ago forgotten what it was, and I need not remind you; but I, like an
idiot, thought you really wanted an answer, and that it was my bounden
duty to find a means of sending it. The question gave me infinite
pleasure, and, again like an idiot, I thought the answer I longed to
send would be welcome. I could not send it in the ordinary way, as you
will admit, and, a sudden thought striking me that there was a safe
and easy means of transmission, I acted on it, and your letter is the
result. You tell me your pride is wounded, your trust in my word gone,
and your conscience scandalised. It is useless for me now to express
regret. I have been convicted, and I am only pleading in mitigation of
sentence. Well, mine was a deliberate sin. I had to decide whether I
would answer you or not, and, though I disliked the means, I thought
the end would justify them. To me they did not then, and do not now,
seem very objectionable; and it certainly did not occur to me that I
could thereby wound the most sensitive feelings. Of course I was an
imbecile, and ought to have realised that a question like that was only
a phrase, with no serious meaning. I gave a promise, you say, and have
broken it. It is a pity. I had rather have sinned in any other way,
for I have my pride too, and it asserts itself chiefly in the keeping
of promises, rather than the gift of them. As to the conscience, I
deeply sympathise. An offended conscience must be a very inconvenient,
not to say unpleasant, companion. But you were greatly enjoying
yourself (you impress that upon me, so you will not be offended if I
mention it), therefore I conclude your conscience was satisfied by the
uncompromising expression of your sense of my misdeeds. Might I ask
which way your conscience was looking when you wrote this letter to me,
or does it feel no call to speak on my behalf? I would rather my hand
were palsied than write such a letter to any one, and you know that
I have forfeited your favour in trying to do your will. I think your
quarrel was rather with your conscience than with me; but it is well to
keep friends with those of one’s own household.
Truly it is an evil thing to stake one’s happiness upon the value
of _x_ in an indeterminate equation. It is possible to regard the
unknown quantity with philosophy; it is like the unattainable. The
mischief all comes with what looks like solution, but proves in the end
to be drawn from false premises. Lines can be straight, and figures
may be square, but sentient beings are less reliable, and therefore
more interesting--as studies. The pity is that we sometimes get too
close, in our desire to examine minutely what looks most beautiful
and most attractive. Then proximity destroys the powers of critical
judgment, and, from appearances, we draw conclusions which are
utterly unreliable, because our own intelligence is obscured by the
interference of our senses. We have to count with quantities that not
only have no original fixed value, but vary from day to day, and even
from hour to hour.
You will say that if I can liken you to an algebraic sign, speak of
you as a “quantity” and “an indeterminate equation,” it cannot matter
much whether you write to me in terms of hate or love. If, however,
you consider where you are and where I am, and if, when this lies in
your hand, you are on good terms with your pride and your conscience,
you may be able to spare, from the abundance you lavish on them, a
grain of sympathy for me in my loneliness. Is it a crime for the humble
worshipper to seek to assure the deity of his unaltered devotion? It
used not to be so; and though the temple has infinite attractions for
me, the tavern none, I could say with the Persian--
“And this I know: whether the one True Light
Kindle to love, or Wrath-consume me quite,
One Flash of It within the Tavern caught
Better than in the Temple lost outright.”
Life is too short, and too full of storm and stress, to induce any one
to stake it on a proved uncertainty, however attractive. It is better
never to take ship at all than to be constantly meeting disaster on
the shoals and rocks of the loveliest summer sea. Of the end of such a
venture there is no uncertainty. The bravest craft that ever left port
will be reduced to a few rotting timbers, while the sea smiles anew on
what is but a picturesque effect.
XX
OF IMPORTUNITY
I must unburden myself to you, because I may do so without offence,
without shocking you beyond forgiveness; for I feel that if my letter
were to another, I should either have to use such self-control that
I should gain no relief for my injured feelings, or else the other
would think I had gone mad, and blot my name out of the book of her
correspondents--two r’s, please. You see I am in an evil mood, the
bad tense of the evil mood; so I may as well begin in the green leaf
what is sure to come in the brown. Besides, you are partly to blame! Is
not that like a man? You supplied me with the fruit of this knowledge
which has set my teeth on edge, but it is also true that you gave it
in furtherance of my request and to oblige me. I fancy that was the
case with Eve. Adam probably sent her up a tree (the expression has
lasted to our own time), looked the other way, and pretended he had
forgotten all about it when the obliging lady came down and tendered
the result of her painful efforts. It is bad enough to climb with your
clothes on, as I saw the other day, when I induced a friend to swarm
up a fern-tree by telling him I did not believe he could do it. But
this is all beside the mark;--what has roused my ire is a parcel of new
books, kindly selected by you to cheer my solitude. As they came direct
from the bookseller, I do not know whether you have read them, but
they are very new indeed, and, from what you say, I think you must at
least have wrestled with some of them. Very recent publications, like
many of these, are rather a rarity here, and, as I was particularly
busy, I lent some of them to friends who are always hungering for
new literature. Now I am rather sorry, though I washed my hands of
the transaction by saying that I would not take the responsibility
of recommending anything, but they were at liberty to take what they
liked. In due time the volumes were returned, without comment, but
with the pages cut. I did not think anything of that at the time, the
realities of the moment interested me a great deal more than any book
could; but now I have read some of the batch, and I am suffering from
an earnest desire to meet the authors and “have it out with them.” As
however, that is not in my power, I am going to victimise you. There
is one story, of a kind that is now common enough, that is specially
aggravating. If you have read it you will know which I refer to; if
not, I won’t tell you. It is written by a woman, and discourses in
a very peculiar fashion on the ways of men. That is of no particular
moment, for the writer has either a very indifferent knowledge of men,
or she is not to be congratulated on her male friends, or she has had
some very unfortunate personal experiences, and judges the species by
some repulsive individuals. It was a man who said that women do not
possess the sentiment of justice, and he might, if he had wished to
be fair, have added that it is comparatively rare in men. Men have
written many unkind and untrue things about women as a sex, but they
cannot have harmed them much, since their influence over the beings,
derisively styled “Lords of Creation” is certainly on the increase,
especially in new countries like America.
What, however, is rather strange is that, in the book I speak of, there
are two women--joint-heroines, as it were--held up for the reader’s
admiration, but described as perfectly odious creatures. The story,
however, is practically confined to the life and character of one of
these ladies, and the exact position of the other, in relation to
her friend, is not altogether clear, nor of any concern as regards
my point. Let me then speak of the one woman as the heroine; it is
to her I wish to apply the epithet odious. The writer, I take it, is
very pleased and satisfied with the lady of her creation, and, whilst
she never loses an opportunity of enlarging on the very objectionable
characteristics of all men of birth and education, she evidently means
the reader to understand that she has drawn and coloured the picture of
a very perfect and altogether captivating woman. A young, beautiful,
intelligent, highly educated, perfectly dressed woman, surrounded by
every luxury that great wealth and good taste can secure, may easily be
captivating, and it might be counted something less than a crime that
a number of admirers should be anxious to marry her. When it comes to
character it is different; and even though the spectacle of a woman
with fewer attractions than I have named, and a disposition that left
something to be desired, enslaving men of renown, is not unknown to
history, it seems a little unusual to design a heroine as the very
embodiment of selfishness, and then exhibit her as the perfect woman.
The life that is shown to us is chiefly that of a girl,--old enough,
and independent and intelligent enough, to know perfectly what she was
doing,--constantly allowing, or alluring, men to make love to her; and
then, when they wished to marry her, telling them in language which,
if not considerate, was certainly plain, how deeply insulted she felt.
If they wasted years and years, or lost their useless, sinful lives
altogether, over her, that was a matter of such absolute indifference
that it never gave her a second thought or a moment of regret. She
did not avoid men altogether; on the contrary, she seemed rather fond
of their society, as she had only one woman friend, and is described
as giving them all ample opportunities of declaring their passionate
admiration for her beauty and intelligence. The lovers were many and
varied; coming from the peerage, the squirearchy, the army, the Church,
and other sources; but they all met with the same fate, and each in
turn received a special lecture on the vice and amazing effrontery of
his proposal.
I suppose it is a book with a purpose, and, unlike a Scotch sermon, it
is divided into only two heads. As to one, I could imagine the reply
might be in the form of another book styled “Her Lord the Eunuch.”
Biblical history deals with the species. It is less common now, but if
a demand again arises, no doubt there will be a supply to meet it. That
is the head I cannot discuss, even in these days of _fin de siècle_
literature, wherein it is a favourite subject, and would have fewer
difficulties than the case of a nineteenth-century Virgin Mary, which
formed the text of one volume in the parcel. The other consideration
seems to rest on safe ground, with no treacherous bogs or dangerous
quicksands, and therefore I venture to ask you what you think of this
paragon of all the virtues. Is she the type of a woman’s woman? One
sometimes, but very, very rarely, meets a woman like this, in England
at any rate; and though the lady’s girdle is certain to be decorated
with a collection of male scalps of all ages and many colours, very few
of her own sex will be found in the number of her friends or admirers.
Her charity is generally a form of perversity; for if she occasionally
lavishes it on some animal or human being, it is a caprice that costs
her little, and to the horse or dog which fails in instant obedience,
to the beggar or relative who importunes, she is passionately or coldly
cruel. Yet her fascination is real enough, but it seldom endures. There
is no need to sympathise with the would-be lovers, who are rejected yet
still importunate. When, as sometimes happens in a world of change,
there has been mutual love between man and woman, and one has ceased to
love, it is natural enough that the other should desire to retain what
may still be, to him or her, the only thing worth living for. But to
importune a woman to give herself, her body and soul, her whole destiny
till death, when she does not wish it, is to ask for something that
it were better not to precisely define. Presumably if the man thinks
he is in love, it is the woman’s love he wants. She says she does
not love him, and he is a fool, or worse, to take anything less, even
when she is willing to sacrifice or sell herself for any conceivable
reason. Surely, if the man had any real regard for her, he would think
first of her happiness, and refuse to take advantage of her weakness or
necessities. Besides, her misery could not be his advantage, and the
worn-out sophism of parents or other interested persons, that “she did
not know her own mind, and would get to like him,” is too hazardous a
chance on which to stake the welfare of two lives. Of course men plague
women to marry them after they have been refused. The world is full of
people who want what is not for them, and are not too particular as to
the means, if they can secure the end. But I wonder what a man would
say if some woman he did not care about worried his life out to marry
her. Man is easily flattered, the sensation is with him comparatively
rare, and he is very susceptible to the agreeable fumes of that
incense; but only the very weakest would be lured to the altar, and the
after-life of the lady who took him there would not be an altogether
happy one. Man and his descendants have had a grudge against the first
woman for thousands of years, for an alleged proposal of hers that is
said to have interfered with his prospects. It is not chivalrous for a
man to press a woman to “let him love her, if she can’t love him;”
it is not a very nice proposition, if he will take it home and work
it out quietly; it is something very like an insult to her, and it is
certainly not likely to be anything but a curse to him. That is when
she is endowed with those charming qualities common to most women.
When, however, as in the case I have referred to, she has a special
aversion to men generally, and him in particular, and prides herself
on the possession of characteristics that he could not admire in his
own mother, to still insist upon forcing the lady into a union with
him is to be vindictively silly. It is hardly necessary to go as far
as this to prove his determination and his title to a sort of spurious
constancy.
XXI
OF COINCIDENCES
In spite of the testimony of many worthy and some unworthy people,
I have not yet been able to accept spiritual manifestations and the
reappearance of the dead as even remotely probable. I think most of
the current ghost stories are capable of a simple explanation, if
one could only get an unvarnished statement of real facts from the
witnesses. Usually, however, those on whose authority these stories
rest, are constitutionally of such a nervous organisation that they
are physically incapable of describing with exact accuracy what they
saw or heard. When, as not infrequently happens, those who have seen
visions admit to having felt that extremity of fear which bathes
them in a cold perspiration, or makes their hair rise up straight
on their heads (this last is not, I think, alleged by women), then
there is all the more reason to doubt their testimony. Undoubtedly
curious things happen which do not admit of easy explanation, but
they are not necessarily supernatural, or connected in any way with
the return of the dead to the sight of the living. Dreams, again, are
sometimes very curious, and it might be difficult to offer a reasonable
explanation of some dream-experiences, especially those which lead to
the backing of winning horses or the purchase of prize-tickets in a
lottery. A really reliable dreamer of this kind would be a valuable
investment; but, unfortunately, there is a want of certainty about even
those who have, once in a lifetime, brought off a successful _coup_.
Still, it has happened. I myself have heard a dreamer--who was also a
dream-talker--place accurately the three first horses in a coming race;
but I had not sufficient confidence in the “tip” to take advantage of
it. In that case, too, the winner was a very pronounced favourite. Many
people say they have dreamt of strange places, and _afterwards_ seen
those places in reality, and even been able to find their way about
in them. It may be so. For myself, I cannot say I have ever had such
an experience, but I believe (I say it doubtfully, because one may be
deceived about journeys in dreamland) that I have often seen the same
places in different dreams, dreamed after intervals of years, so that,
while dreaming, I have at once recognised the place as a familiar scene
in my dreamland. But those places I have never beheld on earth. In my
early youth, scared by tales of the bottomless pit and the lake of
brimstone, I used to dream, almost nightly, of those places of torment;
but it is a long time ago, and I have quite forgotten what they were
like. I have no ambition to renew my acquaintance, or to be given the
opportunity of comparing the reality with the nightmare of my childish
imagination and a cramped position. Apart from these more or less vain
considerations, I have known some very curious coincidences, and I will
tell you the story of one of them.