Part 3

Then there were some lady-novelists, attended at a respectful distance by their weary husbands, all alert to talk about their works; other writers who found everybody else overrated, and professed to despise popularity, or to regard it as a deadly microbe; critics who grumbled at being expected to criticise things they were unaccustomed to, and others who protested that life was too short for anything to be endured which they didn’t like; and ladies who, while industriously making notes of the costumes of the guests, talked largely of the claims of literature and the power of the Press. There were one or two A.R.A.’s run to seed, and two or three members of the Emancipated Art League, who held that it was a higher testimony to true artistic merit to be laughed at by the _Times_ than praised by Ruskin. There was a bountiful supply of “entertainers,” amateur and professional, all ready to sing, recite, ventriloquise, or perform card-tricks on the slightest provocation.

There were a few civic dignitaries, doctors, lawyers, and divines with a penchant for the stage; some “Society Actresses” to give the affair style; an Irish member or two, more or less connected with newspapers, the usual sprinkling of men-about-town, who go “everywhere,” and women of fashion, as reflected by the ladies’ journals, together with an indistinguishable crowd of persons whose evening’s enjoyment appeared to consist of asking, “Who is that?” and flattering themselves that they were in the company of genius and greatness. And this was “everybody who is anybody,” while Mrs. Vere Veneer was the Madame Recamier of this latter-day _salon_ of small “somebodies.”

To many of her acquaintances who delight to be her guests, Mrs. Veneer is merely a social mushroom. They did not observe her social growth till she was a full-fledged hostess, giving “At Homes,” to which they were ready to accept invitations. They know nothing of the patient struggle from obscurity; they saw not the persistent progress, step by step, towards the attainment of her ambition. To “get into Society” is, among the middle classes, the ruling passion in the average female breast, just as money-making is in the male. By getting into “Society” I do not mean necessarily being admitted into Court circles but the attainment of a more important social rating than the people next door, or being invested with a certain definite distinction that lifts one’s name above the crowd.

Now Mrs. Veneer began by being nobody, socially speaking. Her husband was a Midland manufacturer, in a fair way of business, and she had no knowledge of London Society and Bond Street dressmakers, save through the medium of the ladies’ journals, which she devoured in discontent. But there came a season of much profit to her husband’s factory; his foreman of works had introduced a novelty which became the fashion, and by aid of much advertising the fortune of the Veneers was made. Then they opened a branch house in the Metropolis, and Mrs. Veneer insisted that their home should henceforth be in London. Provincial life was ridiculous, she would say, nobody knew anything in the country. She yearned for society. She knew she was pretty, and could wear a good gown with grace. She knew that she had a bright intelligence, and that she was accomplished enough to be able to patronise the arts and artists without betraying her provincialism. So her husband, being well trained and not too assertive, assented to the change of residence, and tried hard to be content.

At first they had very few acquaintances, but among them was one little woman, who was a host in herself. She was an officer’s widow, and though her means were limited, her social connection was extensive. Her gentility was unimpeachable, and she had the _entrée_ into many good houses, for she was a genial little soul, and everybody was sorry for her, though no one knew exactly why. She always seemed to be working at something in somebody else’s interest, and was largely and energetically engaged in promoting bazaars and balls in aid of philanthropic institutions, so that the sympathy she evoked on their behalf appeared somehow to cling to herself. Besides, a busy woman with a mission, especially a philanthropic one, always commands a certain amount of respect. Now this little person added to her other energetic impulses a persistent passion for introducing people to one another. That anybody of any kind of personality should be introduced to her set, or be in her set, except through her medium, was a personal vexation, even a sorrow, to her; therefore she made it her business to know everybody, and always to be on the alert for introductions.

Of course she asked Mrs. Veneer to one of her afternoon-teas, and made much of her, for she was wealthy, pretty, and presentable, and at a glance Mrs. Cordial perceived that it was Mrs. Veneer’s ambition to become a social personage. So she took upon herself the pleasant, and not altogether unprofitable, task of showing Mrs. Veneer about, and introducing her here, there and everywhere, a service which the wealthy manufacturer’s wife recognised in many substantially generous ways. Mrs. Cordial, at the same time, was able to become a benefactress of singers and instrumentalists of the benefit-concert order, for Mrs. Veneer, having at present few engagements for which she had not paid, was, at the instance of Mrs. Cordial, a prolific purchaser of tickets for concerts and recitals, in addition to charity bazaars and amateur theatrical performances. As Mrs. Cordial always took care to impress upon the _bénéficiaires_ the extreme financial importance of Mrs. Veneer’s acquaintance, they eagerly sought the honour of an introduction, which flattered her as a would-be patron of the arts, and generally secured them engagements to sing or play at her little dinner-parties or afternoon-teas.

And these were the germs of her present “crushes”, yet was her social progress not rapid enough to satisfy her ambition. So Mrs. Cordial proposed that her _protégé_ should invite to dinner the chairman of a company of which her husband was an influential director and who was an impecunious lordling of high degree, while she would send invitations to some of the most distinguished of her own acquaintances, on Mrs. Veneer’s behalf, to meet his lordship. At the same time she recommended, as being more stylish, the addition of the prefix Vere to the patronymic Veneer. And a very gorgeous dinner-party it was; for Gunter’s had _carte blanche_. I do not know why I was among the guests, except that Mrs. Vere Veneer wanted to show Mrs. Cordial that she, too, had friends of her own who knew something of London and its people.

I took into dinner an antagonistic old lady, who seemed to think that nobody who had not been in the army or the diplomatic service had any social existence whatever. I candidly confessed I had been in neither, and apologised for the abominable impertinence of existing in spite of it, and then she relaxed sufficiently to ask me, “Who _are_ these Vere Veneers?” As she was their guest, like myself, the question surprised me, but I replied that they were a lady and gentleman from the Midlands, whereupon she informed me that she knew nothing of them, but had come there to oblige her friend, Mrs. Cordial. When the ladies had left the table, a man drew his chair up to mine, and essayed a commonplace remark or two, then asked me, “Who _are_ these Vere Veneers?” He also had come to oblige Mrs. Cordial, and so had three-fourths of the guests.

Yet—would you believe it?—from that dinner-party dates Mrs. Vere Veneer’s rise as a London hostess. Of course everybody did not discover, as I did, that it was a kind of “complimentary benefit” party, but the dinner and the floral decorations were talked about, and Mrs. Cordial used her influence to obtain paragraphs in certain gossipy papers, to the effect that Lord Thingamy dined with Mrs. Vere Veneer, and that there were also present So-and-So and So-and-So, the best known of the guests, while the amiable hostess looked charming in something or other.

Since that time Mrs. Vere Veneer has been able to walk alone, and now she turns the tables, and “takes up” Mrs. Cordial or not, as she finds it expedient. It is now more useful to take a lady of title about with her as a companion; and as she buys tickets for everything, drives in handsome carriages, and always collects about her a little coterie of pleasant people, she never finds this difficult. It looks well in the papers that “Mrs. Vere Veneer brought Lady Snooks,” or that “those inseparables, Lady Clara Gushington and Mrs. Vere Veneer, looked in on their way from Mr. Lemon Yellow’s Studio Tea.” Mrs. Veneer has acquired the habit of regarding everything from the point of view of social advancement. She is of the world worldly, and though her provincial simplicity has quite worn off, she maintains a universal amiability that sometimes passes for it. She is charming to everybody, and her hospitality is proverbial, for she distributes her cards wherever she goes, but not to any one whose name is never heard. If she goes anywhere and there is an actor, an artist, a musician, or even a journalist in the room, with whom she was not previously acquainted, be sure you will meet him at her next party. Of course, any one who “receives” is promptly angled for, and they will be mutually visiting each other before the week is out. Mrs. Vere Veneer literally stalks drawing-rooms for social entities or Bohemian “somebodies,” and she is so pleasant about it that nobody attempts to resist her, and every one goes to her, and the lady-journalists look upon her with a sort of reverence, and thank Providence that there is a Mrs. Vere Veneer, for she is always profitable “copy” to them. And, indeed, there be many others who find her profitable, for she spends much money in her endeavours to exploit Society. It is an expensive business and a fatiguing, for she must be always on the move, always on the alert for the latest sensation. If a new form of entertainment for evening parties arise, Mrs. Vere Veneer promptly commissions one of the Bond Street agents to secure it for her next “At Home.” Failing this, she falls back upon those of her professional acquaintances who sing, or play, or ventriloquise for guineas and a good supper.

They talk about Mrs. Veneer’s parties, and there be now those born in the purple who are pleased to find them amusing, and it is said that next season Mrs. Vere Veneer will be presented at Court by her friend Lady Snooks—for a consideration. And who knows but in a few years Mrs. Vere Veneer may be actually received within Court circles, and play hostess to the most illustrious?

And, in the meanwhile, what of Mr. Vere Veneer? Is there a Mr. Vere Veneer? you doubtless ask, with most people. Oh, yes; he is not much to look at, he is rather _gauche_ in his manner, and cannot wear even Poole’s clothes to look as though they were made for him, and his conversation is not very entertaining. But he pays the bills with prompt satisfaction, he tries hard to look as though he were leading the happiest life in the world, and he rejoices in his wife’s successes, and cherishes every smile she spares him; but when he can find an excuse to visit the mills in the Midlands, he does not hesitate to avail himself of it. However, as he does not know one from the other of the young men who follow in his wife’s train, or of the women who are jealous of her gowns, or of the Bohemians who make themselves at home in his house, and as none of these ever seem to know him from Adam, he is satisfied to watch the comedy as a spectator, content so long as his wife plays her part well, and is duly applauded. If he appears on the programme at all it is simply as “the husband of Mrs. Vere Veneer.”

_THE DOMESTIC WOMAN_

I once heard a woman, whose only care in life was the effect she produced on her social surroundings, contemptuously describe Mrs. Hearthside as “a dull person who sits at home making flannel petticoats for the children, gives her husband his slippers, and has an egg with her afternoon tea.” And, it is true, she does all this, and more. But I knew Mrs. Hearthside before domestic drudgery claimed her for its own; when she was a young romantic girl, to whom life presented a symphony of sweet possibilities.

She was the youngest of five daughters, and all had their admirers. To her the rivalry of the youths, who were proud to consider themselves her slaves, was a constant source of flattering amusement, but her heart remained untouched. If she saw any sign of real feeling on the part of any one of her swains, she was sorry, and her pity would perhaps incline her to some show of tenderness, which was really but the expression of her womanly sensibility, but it would flatter the poor youth into fictitious hopes. And then the comradeship being disturbed by an intrusion of sentimentality, she would discontentedly ask, “Why cannot we be chums, without you pretending to be in love and talking nonsense about marriage?” And he would sulkily answer that he loved her, and insist on knowing if she cared for any one better. When she replied that she did not care for any one at all in that way, he was not satisfied, but would sulk and reproach her for not loving him, which irritated her. Then she would take to avoiding the love-sick youth altogether, which would make him moody and disagreeable; and, her first pity having given place to disappointment, she would seek to enjoy herself with newer “slaves,” who had not entered the sentimental stage. But it was always the same thing over again, they all went through the various stages of comradeship, love, false hope, despondency, and jealous moodiness, until she came to the conclusion that the game was not worth the candle. She was romantic, keenly susceptible to sentiment, but her heart was still unmoved, sentimentality bored her, passion was quite unknown to her, and she had an ideal of love, born of day-dreams rather than of actual experience. Her love episodes had hitherto been pastimes, and the score had always counted “one love.”

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But the days of her boy-lovers passed over, and, to their despair, she ceased to take interest in any of them, for a man’s love had taken possession of her soul, and opened the floodgates of feeling. The sweet, latent passion of a pure woman’s nature was awakened by this love, and herself became revealed to her, amazing her by the infinite range of feeling that lay open. And yet life became narrowed to her, for all the various interests of her earlier years were now absorbed in the one great passion that made it appear a divine blessing to be alive. Nothing seemed to matter except that which concerned her lover, or herself in relation to him. Her love was her life; and that fact comprised all that it was needful to know.

But he fell grievously ill and died, and she was left with only the sad memory of their love. She fully intended never to marry; but circumstances were too strong for her. The other girls did not “go off,” and a family of five girls is a heavy responsibility for a father with a limited income. Something had to be done, and after all Dr. Hearthside was in a fair practice, and would certainly prove “an excellent husband.”

Of course, ideas vary with regard to the essentials of an “excellent husband.” With many persons the _desideratum_ is reached when the tradesmen’s bills are punctually paid, and there is no conjugal quarrel over the dressmaker’s account. With some the model husband is he who belongs to no club, and always stays at home in the evenings; while others there are who consider that connubial perfection consists in the husband going his own way, and allowing his wife to go hers and find her own amusements quite irrespective of him. But there is really no fixed standard of excellence in husbands. The temperament, and even the temper, of the wife must determine this in each separate case.

Now, Dr. Hearthside was spoken of as an “excellent husband” in embryo, and many mothers angled for him, and their daughters encouraged hopes. He was a ladies’ doctor, and his ways with women were soft and tender, his voice was musical and sympathetic, and his manner seemed to invite confidence and promise protection. Yet he was before everything professional. Tenderly as he seemed to treat them, women were to him interesting cases, psychologically as well as medically, and his lover-like methods were part and parcel of his practice. He knew women, and knew that personal confidence is half the battle in successful medical practice. Women always like to feel that a man is a possible lover, if even they only require his services as a doctor. They do not admit this to themselves, of course, but it is the case, for all that. Dr. Hearthside was deceptive; his tender manner with women covered merely a spirit of scientific investigation. When he was specially attentive to a woman—and his attention meant a sort of respectful devotion—he was deeply diagnosing her mental, moral, and physical condition; but she most probably thought he was making love to her. Mrs. Hearthside had been attracted to him in this manner. He found her melancholy, and she interested him as a study in disappointed love. He drew her out by speaking constantly to her about love, and she gave herself up gradually to his persuasive influence. She had hungered for love since death, by taking from her the man in whom her soul was wrapped up, had made life empty for her. She fed her heart on the memories of her love; but her soul had been awakened, and it yearned again for loving communion such as it had once known. Dr. Hearthside suggested the possibilities of love to her. When he analysed sentiment to her in quite a scientific way, her heart responded with emotion, for she thought he was pouring out his own feelings before her. So she consented to marry him, because she believed he could love, and love was the pressing need of her soul; while he, finding her a sympathetic and ready listener, and being pleased with her looks and her manners, thought she would make an excellent doctor’s wife, and help him to enlarge his practice through her social qualities. So these two married, and the love-dream of the girl died in the arms of the husband.

How many ideals are shattered by the intimacy of marriage, simply because the antenuptial love has been based upon fiction and misunderstanding. If only a man and woman made their several motives for marrying quite clear to one another, and were not so anxious to preserve a veneer of romance up to the very altar, matrimony would not be the terrible iconoclast it too often is. Unless it supplies the true complement to a single life, of what value is it? It is all very well to talk about individualism, but everything in the world is relative. The wife is what the husband makes her, and _vice versâ_; but the former is the more important consideration, since woman is more dependent. Pray forgive me, ye Amazons of the platform, ye of the Emancipated Sisterhood!

Mrs. Hearthside went to her husband with a soul yearning for poetry, and he gave her the plainest prose. The soft speech and gentle ways were for his patients, not for his wife. His domestic manner was as brusque as his professional was persuasive and engaging. He had no time to show his wife any of those little tender attentions which had previously touched her, and had made her recognise that this man might realise for her the dream of happiness which another had revealed to her. On the contrary, he did not take long to teach her that life was a scientific fact, specially intended to prove the value of the medical profession, and of Dr. Hearthside in particular; that all emotion was ridiculous, except in so far as it concerned a professional diagnosis, and that the aim and end of domestic happiness was to keep a comfortable home, and make a respectable show to invite patients. And for this she had given up the freedom of her soul; for this she had stopped all supplies of the love her nature needed. Henceforth her heart must feed upon itself, for Mrs. Hearthside holds very select views with regard to a wife’s duties. If a husband do not answer all her spiritual longings, no other man must; if she cannot nestle her heart against his for warmth and comfort, her heart must go separate, cold, and lonely. Marriage has been a bitter disillusioning to her but she must bear with it, she must hide her romance away in the recesses of her memory, and live on the matter-of-fact of marriage, present a brave front, and pretend not to care, until in time, perhaps, she will delude herself into the belief that it is all the better so, at all events for her husband, and certainly for her children.

Happily, Mrs. Hearthside has several children, she has been a patient and considerate wife, and has contentedly accepted all the responsibilities of marriage. But when the children began to come Mrs. Hearthside’s life really began to change. The interests of individual sentiment became absorbed in the preponderating interest of the nursery, and the woman was mother before everything; for children satisfied a craving which had grown out of the unanswered longings for a man’s love.

So Mrs. Hearthside came to think of her children even before her husband; not that she ever neglects any one of his domestic comforts, or ceases to think of his professional interests—only his heart and hers have never mixed, whereas her children are part of herself. She feels that their lives are of her making, that their hearts are for her to feed with her own; that she is responsible for them, body and soul, and no nurse, no governess, could ever do for them all that she can. So she will spend her days with them in the nursery, see to every detail of their daily comfort, wash them, dress them, make clothes for them. If her husband wishes her to pay afternoon calls on patients whom he is particularly anxious to cultivate, she is sure to have to stop with Tommy, who shows signs of incipient whooping-cough; or to take Cissie out to buy a new hat; or to help Jack with his lessons. There is always something to be done for the children, or some housekeeping detail to be seen to which indirectly relates to them.