A WOMAN’S WILL
HERE you will have seen two views of the same woman, one from the
mountain summit, rarified, enfolded almost in the very air of Paradise;
the other at the mountain base, to say the least of the earth earthy.
Justice demands that I show you some third view of her, and that as
dispassionate as may be. From the three you may chose your own view, see
it perhaps from a _via media_.
And here my task is no easy one, since to deal with the many intricacies
of the human mind, and above all the mind of a woman, needs first a
clear perception, secondly a careful adjustment of values, and lastly a
nicety of phrase in setting them forth, that those to whom I would show
them may see the truth as I believe it, whatever conclusions they may
draw therefrom. Partially to achieve this object is all I can hope for;
if I give you a glimpse of the truth it must suffice. The rest I must
leave to you, trusting to your imagination, your power to mould from the
material I will give you. At least I will endeavour that the material be
not too hard cast; plastic as may be you shall have it.
And first, by your leave, I would say this: I write, it is true, of days
now some six hundred years old, yet human nature has been human nature
from the time of our first parents. It is a melody composed at the
beginning of the ages; it is repeated throughout the centuries, the air
ever the same, underlying the many variations woven around it.
And now to Isabel. Of her outward seeming I have shown you, in so far as
I am able with mere pen to portray what should verily be limned by
painter’s art. Of herself, the inward woman, there is this to say. She
desired power. There, in three words, you will perceive the keynote.
That given we will on to the further composition. It is by no means
certain how far she knew that she desired it. We desire air that we may
live and breathe, yet we are not always seeking it, since it is ever
with us; it surrounds us, and we accept it with no thought on our own
part. Let it be withdrawn and we are conscious of the lack, go forth to
seek it. Power was then to Isabel as air is to mankind at large. From
childhood—babyhood even—it had been hers to command. All had been ready
to do her homage, first on account of her beauty, secondly on account of
her charm, since charm she had. There were those, truly, who gave her
homage somewhat against their own will, drawn thereto mainly by the
example of others. Belonging to a court it is ill to stand aloof from
the worship the mistress of the court demands, that worship which her
courtiers freely accord her. And this reason may well count for thirdly.
Full homage then was done to Isabel; the power she desired was hers for
the most part without effort. Peregrine alone denied it to her.
Personally I see in her neither the heights now accorded her by
Peregrine, nor the depths her maids saw in her. Had the heights been
hers she surely would have been indifferent to the thought that one man
alone refused to do her homage; had the depths been hers she would have
borne him malice, set herself to conquer and then to slay. But there was
not then, I believe, any definite thought of ill towards him. Of later I
am none so sure. It was merely the fruit beyond her reach which had
excited her desire. Peregrine the Jester, whose presence she had first
demanded with the same indifference she had times out of number demanded
the presence of his sire, had, from the moment of his entrance, stirred
interest in her. She saw in him, as you have already seen, something
more than Jester. The perception was elusive enough to bring the
interest to full awakening, to set it as it were on the scent of
something further to be discovered. She had heard his song, had seen his
face, and had read therein, something of a challenge, or perhaps more
rightly had seen a barrier thrown down by the man.
“As fool I give you my allegiance,” she might have heard him say. “In
that rôle you shall exact from me your due to the uttermost farthing.
One iota beyond you shall never gain.”
In imagery she had seen him standing aloof, proud, cold, very sure that
as man he would never bend the knee to her. Outwardly his rôle should be
as perfect as might be, a very skilled art of play-acting, every
entrance exact to time, every word carefully conned, faultlessly
delivered. She saw him here forcing her to play the part he would assign
to her; to deliver, half unconsciously, the speeches that would bring
from him the response he desired to make. The very knowledge that he
would have the power to do this drew admiration from her, and I am by no
means sure that the admiration was grudging. Yet Jester on the stage, he
would be man in the wings, smiling at his own skill, mocking at her.
This knowledge tantalized, stung, brought her will swiftly yet lightly
to the fray. To my thinking this shows her very shallow: her charm I
have never denied.
To the mere onlooker the conflict may well seem ignoble, unworthy one of
her degree. Yet she saw it in other fashion. Rank, degree, sank for the
time being into abeyance. It became the conflict—though lightly
undertaken—for a soul that had denied her power. Ignoble we may well
call it for the one who recognised the conflict, yet ignoble in other
meaning than her courtiers might have termed it. It would be, too, no
open fight with trumpet call to battle, lances displayed. In such she
might well see herself worsted. The castle of the man’s soul must be
approached by soft stealth. Guile must take the place of sword and
spear.
And Peregrine had no hint of that which was about to befall; there was
the pity of it. Forewarned might have been forearmed. It is very true
that his father’s words had caused him to enclose his soul within a
castle, from which, he held, none should lure it forth. Should one use
the terms of parable one might name the castle pride. Without, his soul
might have had clearer view of approaching dangers. Within, believing
himself secure, he saw not the guile which crept towards the walls.
Yet direct speech rather than parable will best serve us in the
pursuance of the matter.
Isabel the woman brought every woman’s art—and of these not one was
lacking her—to conquer Peregrine the man. You have seen the result. I
have not given you the details of the conflict nor will do so. Though
truly to call it a conflict when never once was seen the flash of naked
steel seems somewhat of an anomaly. Isabel’s art in this matter would
need great skill to set forth. Perchance after some fashion I might show
it you were I so minded, yet will I leave it to your imagination. To
know the wiles by which a man’s spirit is enslaved is not the most
pleasing of knowledge. It certainly holds somewhat of sadness, even
possibly of distaste.
Peregrine saw no ill in the enslaving, held himself a willing captive;
while Isabel for the moment found pleasure in her captive. Recognizing
his capitulation it amused her to reward him with many favours. At the
present, too, he interested her. She felt his strength, saw in his mind
much that she had not yet fully fathomed. That fact pleased her, left
her with the possibility of discovery. The joy in the possession of an
empty casket, however fair it may be exteriorly, soon palls. One
containing much has ever interest. Its contents may be examined at
leisure, there is ever that to be found, probably the unexpected,
possibly treasure.
You see now how matters stand at the moment. Therefore we will on with
the further story.
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