themselves to these mild sports. She is of opinion that her personal
charms are peculiarly attractive to men, and it is impossible to talk
to her without becoming conscious that she is endeavouring to construe
your conversation into a flirtation. She really imagines that she is
in a chronic state of defence against siege from our sex, and the
various ruses of primitive coquetry by which she endeavours to bring on
a general engagement are amusing to watch for a little while, though
their sameness soon palls. She perpetually asserts her determination
never to marry, until one begins naturally to wonder why she finds it
necessary to be so emphatic. I believe there is sufficient chivalry
still left among us to protect Miss Kittenish from being forced to any
step so avowedly repugnant to her feelings. Yet she will take pains to
tell you what pretty things this young man said to her, what attention
that old man paid her, and to insinuate that no party is really
considered complete unless she graces it. Her enthusiastic eagerness
for entertainment is perfectly amazing; offer her tickets for anything,
and she will accept them, be it only an amateur theatrical performance,
or a dramatic recital at a local institute. Of course, if she be the
happy possessor of gratuitous orders for the theatre, she is almost as
proud as if she knew an actor off the stage, which, I need hardly say,
is considered, in suburban circles, a very high distinction.
Miss Kittenish still looks to attain to this, however, for a friend of
the curate’s with whom, of course, she is associated in Sunday-school
matters, has promised to bring to their next social gathering an actor
who is a member of his angling club. Though he is not perhaps a leading
actor, and he still lives domestically with his wife and children,
he did once play “Claude Melnotte,” and is now a low comedian at a
West-end theatre, so that Miss Kittenish will be quite justified in
talking with casual impressiveness of her new acquaintance, when the
introduction is an accomplished fact. She and her sisters will lionise
him, and make him play games, and expect him to do all sorts of funny
things, so that their friends will go away and tell everybody how
they met Shoppy, the actor, at the Kittenishes’, and how amusing he
was, and how he told them all about “behind the scenes,” the way he
studied his own parts and taught all the other actors theirs, and
showed the dramatist how to make his play a success, the manager how
to produce it, and the leading actress how to act, and then said such
clever things about the injustice of the critics. Miss Kittenish has
her ambitions and her hero-worship, you see, and she always says that
her proper vocation is the stage. Perhaps she will take to it yet,
who knows? She is for ever volatile, and she never tires of playing
charades.
But I often wonder what Miss Kittenish thinks about when she is
alone. She can hardly ask herself conundrums. Can she really persuade
herself that she is yet young and fascinating? Can she, at her time
of life, find self-delusion so easy? Or does she know the truth, and
realise it in solitude? There must be an infinite pathos in the lonely
meditations of this skittish old maid, in spite of her invulnerable
good nature. And perhaps, after all, one should look with charity upon
the parlour-games and the conundrums, for I’m sure Miss Kittenish means
well. Nothing bores _her_.
_THE “SMART” WOMAN_
Mrs. Mayfair Smartly is still a very beautiful woman; but when I
first knew her she was quite lovely, with all the freshness of youth
yet impearled upon her cheek, and in her eyes a newly-kindled light
of conscious triumph, for her beauty had brought her fame. From the
pretty and petted little wife of a gallant and good-natured major of
dragoons, she had suddenly become “the beautiful Mrs. Mayfair Smartly,”
thanks to the notice of an illustrious personage. Her photographs were
in every shop-window, and no social function was considered complete
without her. Admirers swarmed around her wherever she went; and, when
she did not put in an appearance anywhere, she was nevertheless talked
about—with candour.
Mrs. Mayfair Smartly had been married three or four years before she
became really “somebody.” Her husband, Major Mayfair Smartly, was a
typical cavalry officer—a tall, well-built man, of the Anglo-Saxon
breed, who would lead a forlorn hope or ride a steeplechase with equal
readiness and self-possession, a man who loved luxury and ease, but
would be dangerous in the face of an enemy. As it happened, however,
all his military service had been peaceful, and even in India he had
never had the chance of serving on one of the periodical punitive
expeditions, for his wife did not let him stay there long enough. She
did not like India, it injured her complexion, so she insisted on his
exchanging into a regiment at home. He never refused her anything,
and, after all, “there is no place like home”; so, having exhausted
all the complimentary adjectives of the reporters of the local Indian
papers, and furnished as much _gup_ for Simla and Calcutta coteries as
propriety would permit, pretty Mrs. Mayfair Smartly, accompanied by her
husband, bade farewell to Indian society, and sighing for new fields to
conquer, made for London.
[Illustration]
Major Mayfair Smartly’s new regiment was stationed at Aldershot,
therefore his wife arranged that she should take an elegant flat in
Mayfair, and that he should come up to town constantly, attend her at
any dinners, receptions, or balls to which she might be going, and
return to Aldershot by the early morning train in time for parade. She
was soon in the very whirl of Society, and her pretty face and ready
wit were attracting attention; but her actual fame as a beauty dated,
I think, from one afternoon at Hurlingham. She had been presented at
the last drawing-room, and an illustrious personage had made special
inquiries about her on account of her good looks. This fact had, of
course, reached her, and gladdened her immeasurably, and she was,
therefore, in no way surprised when at Hurlingham that afternoon
she received a gracious intimation of the Prince’s desire to make
her acquaintance. The presentation took place in the presence of a
representative Society gathering, and for the rest of the afternoon she
was honoured of royalty.
After that eventful day, people began to speak of “the new beauty”;
the photographers invited her to sit to them, which she did in every
instance, and the journalists began to take particular note of her
doings, and of her clothes. Henceforth Mrs. Mayfair Smartly was a
social notability; her presence could lend distinction to any party,
and her custom could make the fortune of any dressmaker, for she knew
how to dress.
This may sound trivial and frivolous, but I am not one of those
who profess to think lightly of women for paying much attention to
their dress. I have invariably found that those women who really
understand the art of dress, who know what to wear and how and when
to wear it, possess taste and intelligence of a more refined order
than those who regard costume in the light of mere clothing, and who
not only reveal no appreciation of a woman’s obligation to look her
best at all times, but affect to treat dress altogether as a subject
fit only for the attention of frivolous minds. Charles Lamb said he
hated a man who swallowed his food affecting not to know what he was
eating. He suspected his taste in higher matters. So, when I hear
a woman-of-the-world say she does not care how she looks, or what
she wears, I feel pretty sure she is a woman of no taste, in spite
of possibly much intellectual pretension, and that she is lacking
in personal charm. When a woman says she leaves her costume to her
dressmaker, I know that she has no mind of her own, no invention,
no resource, no sense of the fitness of things, and that, however
beautiful a gown her dressmaker may provide her with, she herself is
sure to wear some incongruous hat or cloak, gloves or shoes, which will
disturb the harmony of her appearance, and so assert her own ignorance.
Now, Mrs. Mayfair Smartly did none of these things; she was an artist
in the matter of attire, and her personal charm was thereby all the
greater. There be painters, musicians, and poets who may be as
daringly original as they will in their compositions, and yet one not
only feels that they are absolutely right, but that their innovations
must become precedents. So it was with Mrs. Mayfair Smartly. She could
dare to dress in styles that had not yet received the authority of the
fashion-plates, and so infallibly right was she always that Fashion
was bound to follow her. That Mrs. Mayfair Smartly wore such a colour,
such a material, or such a design, was sufficient to ensure its general
adoption by those who wished to dress well. In fashion, therefore, she
was a leader rather than a follower, and, oh, how she was envied while
she was admired.
But Mrs. Mayfair Smartly was not one of those stolid and superior human
beings who can bear success with equanimity. It intoxicated her. She
was “a very woman,” and she loved to be admired. It may have been very
vain on her part, but nothing delighted her so much as to read or hear
praise of her beauty, her dress, or her talk. She went everywhere,
because wherever she went she won fresh admiration. In Society
everybody knew her, of course, but she would tire herself to death
sooner than miss any reception where she felt that she might shine,
while she would never miss the Park, the “private views,” the opera,
or the fashionable cricket-matches, or race-meetings. For at these she
would always be a centre of attraction, and people would crowd about
her, and those who knew her not would ask who she was, and those who
knew her would gladly show their knowledge; and much admiration would
call forth much envious deprecation, which was a sign of her power, for
no success is won without provoking envy.
But it is not possible to sustain the reputation of a Society beauty
and leader of fashion without much expenditure of money, and, truth
to tell, though in comfortable circumstances, Major Mayfair Smartly
was by no means wealthy. What he lacked in wealth, however, he made
up in lavish generosity and devotion to his wife. He felt that such
a beautiful and charming woman deserved to have her own way in
everything; and since she had been good enough to marry him, who had
nothing but his good-humour and his stalwart figure, which looked so
well in uniform, to recommend him, the least he could do would be to
give her all she asked. So he began to sell out stock when her monetary
demands far exceeded his income; and so by rapid degrees he encroached
upon his principal.
But Mrs. Mayfair Smartly, though very practical in the pursuit of
pleasure and admiration, was as innocent as a child in the matter
of money. She needed it, and her husband supplied it, but it never
occurred to her that to pay for the present it was necessary to draw
upon the future—that, in fact, her husband’s income could not expand
in proportion to her extravagances. She lived in a fashionable set,
and she was not only bound to do as others did, but her fame as a
Society beauty demanded that she should do more. She felt that she
needed more dresses, more bonnets, and more diamonds, because she was
not plain Mrs. Smartly, but the “beautiful Mrs. Mayfair Smartly.”
Society expected to see her always in new costumes and she could not
disappoint Society. But Mrs. Mayfair Smartly could not dress as she
dressed, and live as luxuriantly as she lived, on her husband’s income.
So she acquired a habit of accumulating debts, and assuming an innocent
surprise when the amounts were brought to her notice by requests for
immediate payment. And the Major had to begin to borrow money; for he
was too good-natured to suggest to his wife that she should moderate
her expenditure, and too considerate to trouble her with such a sordid
detail as his financial position.
In the meanwhile she went on as usual, the smartest of the smart,
appearing in costumes and jewellery which a princess might have envied,
driving in a turn-out that an empress would not have scorned, and
living as expensively and pleasantly as ever. But kind friends, who
knew that the Major was not a millionaire, began to wonder where all
the money came from; and then people began to say unkind things about
Mrs. Mayfair Smartly, to couple her name with, not one, but half a
dozen wealthy “lords and gentlemen,” who were each and all trusty
friends of her husband. This was a scandalous shame, for never was
woman more impervious to that kind of temptation; and, after all, Major
Mayfair Smartly used to come up from Aldershot nearly every evening,
escort his wife to many places, and never interfere with her at any,
so that she was really quite fond of him. And a capital fellow he was,
except that he erred perhaps on the side of excessive amiability. This
it was that brought him to his ruin. He was too amiable, too fond of
his wife to take her extravagance in hand, and curb it with a strong
rein. Besides, he could spend a pretty penny or two on his own account.
So the crash came at last, and it was quite a surprise to poor Mrs.
Mayfair Smartly. She was amazed, she could not understand it at all.
Why had her husband never told her about it? He treated her like a
child, whereas, had he realised that she was a woman, and told her of
the financial crisis at hand in their household, she would willingly
have made several retrenchments. But now it was too late. Major
Mayfair Smartly was obliged to sell out from the army, and sell up the
elegant flat in Mayfair. Then he and his wife retired from Society.
The beautiful Mrs. Mayfair Smartly no longer figured in the Society
journals or the photographers’ shop-windows. Worth’s knew her no more,
and she began to entertain an absolute affection for individual dresses
because she wore them—those that she had not sold—so frequently.
They buried themselves in the country, and she tried to convince
herself that she liked rural life. He did, because she was part of
it to him—all that he knew of it—and he would have liked existence
in Timbuctoo if she had only shared it with him. Now, too, he was
relieved of those tiring journeys to Aldershot after balls and
receptions, and he had his beloved wife all to himself.
But Mrs. Mayfair Smartly was not born for country life, and she felt
that she was stagnating. If she could not live in London, in her old
set, she would make a set for herself; and if the small remnant of
her husband’s income would not support them both in the Metropolis,
she must make some money herself. There are many fields of usefulness
and profit open to ladies nowadays, she would essay one of them. She
knew Society, its ways and persons, why should she not make use of her
knowledge, and become a Society journalist? Why should she not write
racy sketches of people she had met during her meteoric social career?
Few women knew more of dress than she, or had more taste; why should
she, then, not employ her pen to impart some of her ideas upon the
gentle art of dressing well?
It was a happy thought, and Mrs. Mayfair Smartly has returned to town
to regard Society from a new point of view. She is now the critic
instead of the criticised. The necessity to live has impelled her
to industry, and though she would sooner be spending her days in
luxurious ease, which is really in accordance with her disposition, she
devotes herself assiduously to work. She always had a ready pen, and
now she writes clever stories and articles, and, continuing to dress
fashionably and harmoniously, though less expensively, she preserves
her reputation as a “smart” woman, though it is now many seasons since
she was the much-talked-about Mrs. Mayfair Smartly, the beauty of the
season.
_THE GAMBLING WOMAN_
Mrs. Hazard is a very charming and interesting woman; she is
affectionately attached to her husband—a good, amiable, honest man, who
denies her nothing; she is the mother of some sweet little children,
and the mistress of an elegant household. She entertains a good deal of
very congenial society, and every one agrees that she is an admirable
hostess, her manners being engaging, and her powers of conversation
decidedly above the average, with one specially remarkable quality,
the power of concentration. Indeed, Mrs. Hazard has apparently all
the domestic and worldly advantages generally regarded as conducive
to a woman’s happiness; yet she is never content. She is a confirmed
gambler, and her life is one of continuous restlessness. The passion
for play dominates all her finer feelings, and every other interest
becomes subordinate when the excitement of gambling takes possession
of her nature.
She is no avaricious person, who is lured to the gaming table by the
greed of gain, but she goes there to drain excitement to the dregs,
as drunkard’s drink brandy. She sets little value on money in the
ordinary way, for her husband is in easy circumstances, and can give
her all that she can reasonably require for her expenditure, and she
spends it freely and with little heed. But money which she stakes
upon the turn of a card, the cast of a die, the chances of roulette,
or the speed of a race-horse, she hoards like a miser, gathering and
seeking to increase her winnings with the avarice of a usurer. She
gambles for gambling’s sake, and the money is part of the game. It is
the excitement of risk and suspense that she craves for, and while she
is under its spell she concentrates every intellectual and emotional
faculty upon it. Hence, of course, Monte Carlo is her Mecca, and her
pilgrimages thither are frequent.
Mrs. Hazard does not take her children with her when she goes to the
Riviera. She leaves them at home with her husband, who cannot often
absent himself from the City, and, when he does, prefers salubrious
Eastbourne to seductive Monte Carlo. He hates gambling of all kinds, he
never plays cards or bets, and he rigorously avoids speculating on the
Stock Exchange, although he is frequently told a “good thing” by his
friends who are “in the swim.” That his wife is a gambler, therefore,
is a bitter grief to him, and he watches her craving for excitement
with uneasiness, but, beyond an occasional persuasive protest, he never
reproaches her. He thinks she will tire of it, but it has become part
of her nature—it will never be eradicated—nor does her husband quite
know how far the passion for play has absorbed her, or to what extent
she indulges it. As a matter of fact, it has become so necessary to
her, that when she cannot manage to go to Monte Carlo, she runs over
to convenient Boulogne for a day or two, and there she spends her
entire time at the Casino, at the _Petits Chevaux_, and only leaves the
green table to go into the baccarat room beyond, where she varies her
gambling excitement. She is generally a lucky player, but even when
she loses she is just as intense in her pursuit of the nervous tension
of suspense while the horses are going round, or the cards are being
dealt. That is what feeds her craving, not the gaining of gold, but
the pulsating sense of risk and the ecstasy of expectation.
[Illustration]
Sometimes she takes her family during the summer months to Boulogne,
since her husband can run over there every now and then, when he can
tear himself from the calls of business, and his longing to see his
wife and children will not be gainsaid. But does he find her playing
with their little ones on the sands? No, she kisses them in the
morning, and bids the nurse and governess look carefully after them,
and let them enjoy themselves, and she sees no more of them that day,
unless, perhaps, when she returns to the hotel to change her dress for
the evening. Nevertheless, she is intensely fond of her children, and
if one should have ever so slight an ailment she will be beside herself
with anxiety, send for the doctor two or three times a day, and never
leave the child’s bedside, while she will lavish caresses upon her.
But so long as the children are well and enjoying themselves on the
seashore or in the gardens, she gives no heed to them during the day,
her mind being absorbed by the question whether the nine will turn up
at baccarat, or else whether the horse she has put her money on will
be a winning one. It is not as exciting at Boulogne as at Monte Carlo,
but it is a substitute, and it helps to keep up that feverish heat her
nature needs to sustain it.
It is at Monte Carlo, however, that Mrs. Hazard really feels the full
expansive joy of living. There she breathes excitement in the air,
there she vents the full passion of her nature. The gaming tables at
Monte Carlo appear to her the proper sphere of her life. The wonderful
blue skies of the Riviera, the exquisite colour of the scenery, the
beautiful exuberance of the flowers, the light and gaiety of the
careless life, the variety of character and nationality that is lured
to the sunny, seductive South—all this has little meaning for her
except as an adjunct to the passionate pleasure of play. That draws her
to Monte Carlo with the irresistible force of a magnet. When she first
arrives she perceives that the sky is blue, but afterwards it might be
yellow or red for all she would know from ocular observation. She knows
that the gaming table is green; but for the sky and the flowers she
simply feels that they are beautiful, for she is intoxicated with the
atmosphere of the place. All else but the tables is a kind of sensation
in a dream—the tables alone are distinct and tangible. She is sensibly
conscious that the rest exists, but she gives no thought to it. If, as
she dresses herself in the morning, she looks out of the windows at the
beautiful “blue deep” of the sky, it is only with a sense of gladness
that another day of delicious excitement has dawned, and her thoughts
are not concerned with the beauty of the earth and the sky in that land
of sunshine and flowers, but with the chances of the table, the hazards
of a “system,” and the calculation of gains and losses.
And the sweet, peaceful moonlight resting over the place, cut by the
dark shadows of the tall, straight palms and the eucalyptus-trees—does
its gentle enchantment fall upon her soul after the excitements of
the day? No, it only whispers fresh awakenings of the gambling fever
in her, as she mentally recapitulates all the incidents of the day’s
play. But you must see her at the tables! There she sits, a picturesque
figure in the midst of a motley, _bizarre_ group of gamblers gathered
around the table, all eager and intense, most of them maintaining a
deliberate coolness, but all linked by a common passion, the chance of
gain. She was at the doors of the Casino before noon, so as to secure
her seat, waiting amid a crowd which comprised some of the gambling
scum of Monte Carlo as well as illustrious members of our own nobility.
Then as she went in, she made straight for the cloak-room, that she
might leave her wrap there and get a numbered ticket in exchange.
She was very eager about this, reading the number excitedly, for
Mrs. Hazard, like most gamblers, is superstitious, and her present
superstition is to place her stakes upon the numbers on the roulette
table corresponding with those on her cloak-ticket. She feels that her
luck to-day depends upon this, just as on another day, perhaps, she
will only play when a certain _croupier_ is officiating, believing that
he alone will bring her good fortune.