SENTIMENTS OF A DISAPPOINTED LOVER ON THE SUBJECT OF WOMEN.
Hoffland had just met and made friends with Jack Denis--"embraced him
figuratively," to use his expression; and he and Mowbray were walking
down Gloucester street, inhaling the pleasant air of the fine morning
joyously.
Hoffland was smiling as usual. Mowbray's countenance wore its habitual
expression of collected calmness--his clear eye as usual betrayed no
emotion of any description.
"I feel better than if I was dead," said Hoffland, laughing, "and I
know _you_ are glad, Ernest, that I am still alive."
"Sincerely," said Mowbray, smiling.
"Wasn't it a good idea of mine to carry on all the correspondence?"
"Yes; the result proves it in this instance. I thought that I could
arrange the unhappy affair, but I believe you were right in taking it
out of my hands--or rather, in never delivering it to me. Well, I am
delighted that it is over. I could ill spare you or Denis; and God
forbid that you should ever fall victims to this barbarous child's
play, duelling."
"Ah! my dear fellow," replied Hoffland, "we men must have some
tribunal above the courts of law; and then you know the women dote
upon a duellist.
"Yes, Hoffland, as they dote upon an interesting monstrosity--the
worse portion. Women admire courage, because it is the quality they
lack--I mean animal courage, the mere faculty of looking into a
pistol-muzzle calmly; and their admiration is so great that they are
carried away by it. They admire in the same way a gay wild fellow;
they do not dislike even a 'poor fellow--ah! very dissipated!' and
this arises from the fact that they admire decided 'character' of any
description, more than the want of character--even when the possesser
of _character_ is led into vice by it."
"A great injustice!--a deep injustice!" said Hoffland "I wonder how
you can say so!"
"I can say so because I believe it to be true--nay, I know it."
"Conceited!--you know women indeed!"
"Not even remotely; but listen. I was about to add that women admire
reckless courage and excessive animal spirits. But let that courage
lead a man to shed another's blood for a jest, or let that animal
spirit draw a man into degrading and bestial advice--presto! they
leave him!"
"And they are right!"
"Certainly."
"Well, sir?"
"But they are not the less wrong at first: the importance they attach
to courage leads many boys and young men into murderous affrays--just
as their satirical comments upon 'milky dispositions' lead thousands
into vice."
"Oh, Ernest!"
"Do you deny it?"
"Wholly."
"Well, that only proves to me once more that you know nothing of
women."
"Do you think so?" said Hoffland, smiling.
"Yes: what I have said is the tritest truth. That women admire these
qualities excessively, and that men, especially young men, shape their
conduct by this feminine feeling, is as true as that sunlight."
"I deny it."
"Very well; that proves further, Charles, that you have not observed
and studied much."
"Have you?"
"Extensively."
"And you are a great master in the wiles of women by this time, I
suppose," said Hoffland satirically.
"No, you misunderstand me," replied Mowbray, without observing the
boy's smile. "I never shall pretend to understand women; but I can use
my eyes, and I can read the open page before me."
"The open page? What do you mean?"
"I mean that the history of the modern world, the social history, has
a great key-note--is a maze unless you keep constantly in view the
existence of this element--women."
"I should say it was: we could not well get on without them."
"The middle age originated the present deification of woman,"
continued Mowbray philosophically, "and the old knights left us the
legacy. We have long ago discarded for its opposite the scriptural
doctrine that the man is not of the woman, but the woman of the man;
and we justify ourselves by the strange plea, 'they are so weak.'"
"Well, are they not?"
"Woman weak? Poor Charles! Parliaments, inquisitions, secret tribunals
and executioners' axes are straws compared to them. They smile, and
man kneels; they weep, and his moral judgment is effaced like a
shadow: he is soft clay in their hands. One caress from a girl makes a
fool of a giant. Have you read the history of Samson?"
"Vile misogynist!" said Hoffland, "you are really too bad!"
Mowbray smiled sadly.
"Do not understand me to say that we should return to barbarous times,
and make the women labor and carry burdens, while we the men lounge in
the sun and dream," he said; "not at all. All honor to the middle age!
The knight raised up woman, and she made him a reproachless chevalier
in return; but it did not end there. He must needs do more--he loved,
and love is so strong! Divine love is strongest--he must deify her."
"You are a great student, forsooth!"
"Deny it if you can: but you cannot, Charles. The central idea of the
middle age--the age of chivalry--is woman. That word interprets all;
it is the open sesame which throws wide the portals. Without it, that
whole era is a mere jumble of bewildering anomalies--events without
causes--actions without motives. Well, see how truly we are the
descendants of those knights. To this day our social god is woman."
"Scoffer!"
"No; what I say is more in sorrow than anger. It will impede our
national and spiritual growth, for I declare to you that one hundred
years hence, women in my opinion will not be satisfied with this
poetic and chivalric homage: they will demand a voice in the
government. They will grow bolder, and learn to regard these chivalric
concessions to their purity and weakness as their natural rights.
Woman's rights!--that will be their watchword."
"And I suppose you would say they have no rights."
"Oh, many. Among others, the right to shape the characters and
opinions of their infant children," said Mowbray with a grave smile.
"And no more, sir?"
"Far more; but this discussion is unprofitable. What I mean is simply
this, Charles: that the middle age has left us a national idea which
is dangerous--the idea that woman should, from her very weakness, rule
and direct; especially among us gentlemen who hold by the traditions
of the past--who reject Sir Galahad, and cling to Orlando and
Amadis--who grow mad and fall down worshipping and kissing the feet of
woman--happy even to be spurned by her."
"Really, sir!--but your conversation is very instructive Who, pray,
was Sir Galahad?--for I have read Ariosto, and know about Orlando."
"Sir Galahad is that myth of the middle age, Charles, who went about
searching for the holy Graal--the cup which our Saviour drank from in
his last supper; which Joseph of Arimathea collected his precious
blood in. You will understand that I merely repeat the monkish
tradition."
"Well, what sort of a knight was this Sir Galahad; and why do you hold
him up as superior to Orlando and Amadis?"
"Because he saw the true course, and loved woman as an earthly
consoler, did not adore her as a god. Read how he fought and suffered
many things for women; see how profoundly he loved them, and smiled
whenever they crossed his path; how his whole strength and every thing
was woman's. Was she oppressed? Did brute strength band itself against
her? His chivalric arm was thrown around her. Was she threatened with
shame, or hatred and wrong? His heart, his sword, all were hers, and
he would as willingly pour out his blood for her as wander on a sunny
morning over flowery fields."
"Well," said Hoffland, "he was a true knight. Have you not finished?"
"By no means. With love for and readiness to protect the weak and
oppressed woman--with satisfaction in her smiles, and rejoicing in the
thanks she gave him--the good knight's feelings ended. He would not
give her his heart and adore her--he knelt only to his God. He refused
to place his arm at her disposal in all things, and so become the tool
of her caprice; he would not sell himself for a caress, and hold his
hands out to be fettered, when she smiled and offered him an embrace.
A child before God, and led by a grand thought, he would not become a
child before woman, and be directed by her idle fancies. He was the
'knight of God,' not of woman; and he grasped the prize."
Hoffland listened to these earnest words more thoughtfully.
"Well," he said, "so Sir Galahad is your model--not the mad worshipper
of woman, Orlando!"
"A thousand times."
"Ah! we have neither now."
"We have no Galahads, for woman has grown stronger even than in the
old days. She would not tolerate a lover who espoused her cause from
duty: she wants adoring worship."
"No! no!--only love!" said Hoffland.
"A mistake," said Mowbray; "she does not wish a mere knightly respect
and love--that of the real knight; she demands an Amadis, to grow mad
for her--to be crazed by her beauty, and kneel down and sell himself
for a kiss. She wishes power, and scouts the mere chivalric smile and
homage. She claims and exacts the fullest obedience, and her claim is
pronounced just. She says to-day--returning to what we commenced
with--she says, 'Go and murder that man: he has uttered a jest;' or,
'On penalty of my pity and contempt, make yourself the slave of my
caprice, and kill your friend, who has said laughing that I am not an
angel.' The unhappy part of all this is," said Mowbray, "that the men,
especially young men, obey. And then, when the blood is poured out,
the tragedy consummated; when the body which was a breathing man is
taken from the bloody grass where it lies like a wounded bird, its
heart-blood welling out--when it is home cold and pale before her, and
the mother, sister, daughter wail and moan--then the beautiful goddess
who has gotten up this little drama for her amusement, finds her false
philosophy broken in her breast, her deity overthrown, her supreme
resolution crushed in presence of this terrible spectacle; and she
wrings her hands, and sobs and cries out at the evil she has done; but
cries much louder, that the hearts of men are horrible and bloody;
that their instincts are barbarous and terrible; that she alone is
tender and soft-hearted and forgiving; that she would never have
plunged the sword into the bosom, or sent the ball tearing its way
through the heart; that man alone is horrible and cruel and depraved;
that she is noble and pure-hearted, true and innocent; that woman is
above this miserable humanity--great like Diana of the Ephesians, pure
and strong and immaculate--without reproach! That is a tolerably
accurate history of most duels," added Mowbray coldly; "you will not
deny it."
Hoffland made no reply.
"You will not deny it because it is true," said Mowbray; "it is what
every man knows and feels and sees. You think it strange, then, that
they act as they do, in this perfect subservience to woman, knowing
what I have said is true. It is not more strange than any other
ludicrous inconsequence which men are guilty of. Look at me! I know
that what I have said is as true as the existence of this earth; and
now, what would I do? I will tell you. Were I in love with a woman, I
would make myself a child, and adore her, and sell my soul for her
caresses; and make my brain the tool of my infatuation by yielding to
her false, fatal sophistry, because that sophistry would be uttered by
red lips, and would become truth in the dazzling light of her
seductive smiles. Do you expect me, because I know it is all a lie, to
resist sighs and murmurs, and those languid glances, which women
employ to gain their ends? If you wish me to resist them, give me a
lump of ice instead of a heart--a freezing stream instead of a warm
current in my veins--make me a thinking machine, all brain; but take
care how you leave one particle of the man! That particle will fire
all; for the age tells me that woman is all pure, all-knowing, all
true--how can I go astray? I am not a machine--the atmosphere of that
old woman-worshipping world has nourished me, because I breathe it
now; and if the woman I loved madly wished a little murder enacted for
the benefit of her enemies, why, I cannot, dare not say, I would not
go and murder for her, thinking I was serving nothing but the cause of
purity and justice."
Hoffland listened to these coldly uttered words with some agitation,
but made no reply. They walked on for some moments in silence, and
Mowbray then said:
"The discussion is getting too grave, Charles; and I am afraid I have
spoken very harshly of women--led away in the discussion of this
subject. But remember that most of these unhappy affairs indirectly
arise from this fatal philosophy; and I have reason to suppose that
the present one, which has so nearly taken from me one or both of my
dearest friends, originated indirectly in such a source. Do not
understand me as undervaluing the fine old chivalrous devotion to
women: the hard task is for me to believe that any devotion to a good
and pure woman is exaggerated. They are above us, Charles, in all the
finer and nobler traits, and we are responsible for this weakness in
them. What wonder if they believed us when we told them that they were
more than human, something angelic? Their duty was to listen to us,
and act by our judgment; and when we have told them now for ages that
our place is at their feet, the hem of their garments for our lips,
their smiles brighter than the sunshine of heaven, should we feel
surprise at their acquiescing in our _dicta_, and assuming the
enormous social influence which we yield to them, beg them upon our
knees to take? For my part, I rejoice that man has not a power as
unlimited; and if one sex must rule, spite of every thing, I am almost
ready to give up to the women. They go right oftener; and if this
tyranny must really exist, I know not that Providence has not
mercifully placed the sceptre in her hands. See where all my great
philosophy ends--I can't help loving while I speak against them. The
sneer upon my lips turns to a smile--my indignation to good-humor.
Oh, Charles! Charles! right or wrong, they rule us; and if we must
have sexual tyranny, it is best in the hands of mothers. But rather
let us have no tyranny at all: let the man take his place as lord
without, the woman her sovereignty over the inner world. Let her grace
perfect his strength; her bosom hold his rude head and dusty brow; let
her heart crown his intellect--each fill the void in each. Vain
thought, I am afraid; and this, I fear, is scarcely more than
dreaming. Let us leave the subject."
And Mowbray sighed; nodding, as he passed on, to a young gentleman on
horseback. This was Jacques.