Part 8

Life is a constant carnival to Mrs. Merrysmile, and love is a delightful pastime which is necessary for her entertainment. There is no harm in it; her love-making is, indeed, of the most innocent kind, in fact, it is purely psychological, without a suspicion of passion, which would only seem incongruous to her. To be loved is essential to her; every one who comes in contact with her must give her of his heart’s best affection. She is satisfied with nothing else, and though she and her husband are on terms of mutual affection and perfect confidence, she takes all the love she can get as her absolute right. That she should give any in return never occurs to her; it is sufficient that she scatters her cheeriness broadcast, relieves her friends and relations of all their depressions, keeps them in good spirits, and, if they be dull or ill, bullies them with a view to mending their ways. But she loves, in her own way, as the butterfly loves the flower that it casually kisses in the garden, and surely the flower is all the sweeter for the butterfly’s kiss. I know I feel all the better for having touched hearts with Mrs. Merrysmile, though her way of loving was not my way, and my sentimental devotion was as congruous with her butterfly heart-flutterings as the Nasmyth steam-hammer with the tin-tack.

The humour of the situation was always uppermost in her mind though it had to compete for this place with the gratification of her vanity and the pleasure of passing the time cheerfully for us both, and she could not understand that the whole affair did not present itself to me in exactly the same light. As immunity from contradiction of any kind had been hers throughout her life, both as maid and as wife, my frequent failure to fall in with her ideas as to the humour of our flirtation—for to her it was really nothing more, though in her innocent way she pretended to regard it as a real love-affair—it was not to be wondered at that our confidential communings became less constant, until my lover-like attitude developed into that of the elderly friend. You cannot go on loving desperately a woman to whom everything is simply funny, or, at least, suggestion for a jest. And that is one of the drawbacks of a _par excellence_ cheery woman. You want to love the woman rather than her jokes, or even her bright spirits, charming as the faculty for these undoubtedly is. But as a man’s moods vary so does he expect the woman he loves to respond to them. Incessant cheeriness and readiness to see only the quaint or comic side of things, if unchecked in expression, is apt to turn life into a farce, and even the merriest farce jars when one is only in the temper for romantic drama, or when pathos is the dominant note of the moment.

Yet with all her irresponsibility of feeling, with all her irrelevance of mood, Mrs. Merrysmile is quite one of the most delightful companions for man or woman. She is a woman’s woman quite as much as a man’s, but I would specially recommend her at times of joy and frolic rather than of sorrow—however excellent her intention to cheer you and help you make the best of everything. For so casual is her nature that troubles will scarcely present their actual aspect to her in relation to all the surrounding facts of life; she will think they are not really as heavy and important as you think them, but rather chide you for making such a fuss. It is from no lack of sympathy that this charming little woman will not always understand your feelings, but simply that her native cheerfulness is so superabundant; she cannot realise that things can ever be as bad as less optimistic persons imagine. And if, when you feel ill, she tells you bluntly that there is little or nothing the matter with you, it is only because she believes too much sympathy is not conducive to effort towards recovery, and she hates to see people ill. It is perhaps very irritating, but it is her way, and it is quite good-natured.

I should hardly recommend Mrs. Merrysmile as a consoler in a house of mourning; the very brightness of her disposition might clash with the grief of the bereaved ones, and an obstinate contrariness of spirit, coupled with a desire to make everybody as cheerful as herself, might, perhaps, give pain where she intended comfort. Nor would Mrs. Merrysmile be a suitable wife for a man of melancholy mood or morose temper, for she would jar upon him with her intemperate cheerfulness and unmuzzled mirth, while he would bore her unutterably. But she is just happily placed as she is, with a husband ready to worship the ground she walks upon, with a host of friends and relations that defer to her autocratic word with infinite pleasure, and a friend, who is glad to have loved her, but is just as content, and after all, perhaps happier, to have won her friendship through the more subtle and intimate insight into her nature gained as a lover. She is a delightful little creature, but she should always live in the sunshine and amid the roses. There she is perfectly appropriate, and life is the richer and the fairer for her presence.

_THE UNCONJUGAL WOMAN_

Lady Gladys Parchment is one of the most familiar, as she is one of the most admired, figures in London society, and to the ordinary observer she is one of the most happy and fortunate. For is she not exceedingly beautiful? Does she not come of an old and noble family, though it be more distinguished in these hard times for pedigree and nobility, perhaps, than for property? And is she not wedded to a man of splendid fortune and reputation? True he is some twenty years her senior; but then, if he were not, he would hardly be of sufficiently mature age to have attained the dignity of a judgeship, and in this intensely practical age we are obliged to pay a price for everything. In her case, Lady Gladys, the daughter of a poor Irish earl, had to pay for the advantage of marrying a wealthy English judge the price of heavy disparity in years, with its consequences. And was Sir Drury Parchment worth the price?

Had Lady Gladys not been born in the purple, so that, by the conventional aspirations of her order, and a kind of fictional duty to her rank and station, she was constrained to make a wealthy marriage or suffer social obscurity, would she not rather have wedded less advantageously, from a worldly point of view, and more congruously in a heart sense? But it is very difficult for a girl—with little experience of the world beyond the ball-room, the tennis-lawn, and the hunting-field, who cannot possibly realise all that matrimony means—to argue successfully against the logic of wealth and position, when her heart remains an unconcerned auditor. Yet marriage either makes or mars the life of the individual, it cannot leave it _in statu quo_, but must either complete or disintegrate it. Irrespective of material fortune, the life of a man or woman may be adjudged a success or a failure according as it is blessed with the right mate or cursed with the wrong one. So long as it remains actually mateless, and without the response of love, it is simply unfinished.

Now, when a beautiful and brilliant woman, with apparently every worldly advantage at her command, takes a pessimistic view of life, and assumes a cynical attitude towards the world, you may be sure that she has married the wrong man, and made a failure of her life. And you cannot converse long and familiarly with Lady Gladys Parchment without perceiving this. Her talk may sparkle with wit, and ripple over with humour, but it will be the keen, biting wit of the cynic, the bitter humour of the pessimist, and there is no mistaking it for the pleasantry of cheerful content. Her sarcasm has a grim laughter in it, but it is as the mocking laughter of disappointed genius when it hears superficial talent winning the popular plaudits. In society Lady Gladys shines because of her personal and mental gifts, she loves society simply for the enjoyment of conquest which it affords, and this has to make up for so much else in her life. Indeed, she finds so little else in life at all.

Sir Drury Parchment is a man of violent temper and dyspeptic temperament, but his moods are various, inconsequent, and unexpected. It is impossible to foresee the changes of his temper. He will sulk for days without any apparent cause, he will, for weeks together, exhibit no interest whatever in the doings of his wife and child, and then suddenly he will evince a fierce jealousy of every detail that concerns them, but this will never be accompanied by any show of affection. Sentiment of any kind is foreign to his nature, and, whatever his mood, it is always pure egotism that dominates it. How such a confirmed egotist came to be married at all has always been a puzzle to me, especially how he ever came to marry Lady Gladys, who is about the last woman in the world he should have chosen, if marriage means communion of any kind.

[Illustration]

Lady Gladys always had exceptional intellectual gifts and a singularly quick comprehension. She would, even as a girl, swoop down upon a subject and illuminate it with brilliant paradox which, if not convincing, would certainly be memorable. She would sum up a character in a few epigrammatic phrases, and, though the result might be a caricature, it was certainly a striking one. She would present an original view of any subject she discussed, and, though it might be a view which logical argument could easily prove fallacious, it would nevertheless leave a distinct personal impression. For Lady Gladys had the quality of imagination very strongly, and this coloured her talk as it mystified her life. She would never see life and things and people as they really were.

Sir Drury was struck by her mental faculties; her sparkling talk amused and interested him as her beauty delighted him. He was a widower, and did not regret the loss of his late wife, whose perpetual placidity and devoted docility had irritated him more than any contradiction. Now he decided that Lady Gladys should tempt him to a second venture in matrimony, so he proposed and was accepted; for, though there was no question of love in the matter, he was an exceedingly clever as well as wealthy and professionally distinguished man, and he interested her. She was flattered by his consideration, and she imagined a future of social triumph for them both.

But marriage soon proved to them that they were eternally separate, that under no circumstances could there be any compromise between them. She conceived a loathing towards him from their marriage-day, and he was not slow to perceive this and to resent it. Her very beauty and brilliancy became hateful to him, because he felt that they were not really his, and yet he wished to be master of them. He was jealous that others should admire her, and he have no pride of possession, though she bore his name. So, though they lived before the world according to social conventions, he exercised a species of petty tyranny over her with a view to humiliating her before the society for which she lived, and so spiting her. He would allow her to go entirely her own way for some time, never caring whither she went, never accompanying her in public, never appearing when she “received” at home. Then, of course, people would begin to wonder and whisper, and in defiance she would go out alone all the more, and send out invitations to “At Homes” and dinner-parties, when she would always receive her guests with fictitious apologies for her husband.

But on one occasion, as the guests drove up to the door, they were told by the servants that Lady Gladys could not receive them. No excuse was given, and every one went away wondering. Sir Drury had ordered it so; but this was the crisis. He had humiliated his wife, not only before her friends, but before her servants. How could she continue to live under the same roof with him, to even pretend amicable relations with him! She must go and live elsewhere, and take her child with her. No, that he would not permit. _She_ might go where she liked, but the child must remain. So, of course, she remained; for, though she hated her husband more than ever, and now he watched her with jealous suspicion, she was a mother, and the ties of motherhood proved stronger than her conjugal repulsion.

And now her woman’s nature asserted itself. Her unfortunate marriage had kept the voices of love and passion till now dumb within her; but in her unhappiness they cried out in sad yearning tones. Her soul ached for true companionship, her womanhood craved for love. Her imagination had hitherto served her, and Society had furnished her with excitement, but now she wanted more, and with the demand came the supply. In fact, there was always a supply of lovers ready to her hand, had she wanted them, for she was beautiful; but she never did want them, though she would accept the constant escort of cavaliers in the Row, to the theatre, and elsewhere.

But these Guardsmen and men-of-fashion who would ride and drive with her, meant nothing to her beyond pleasant riding and driving escorts, and when they tried to be something more—which was not infrequent, considering her personal charms—she laughed it off with amiable sarcasm. One, however, at length appeared in her social circle who drew her to him magnetically. He was not one of the usual Society and club loungers, but a man who had lived a life of adventure in many lands, had seen many strange and wonderful sights, and known many remarkable people. He had explored unknown countries, and contributed new facts to knowledge, so that his name was honoured by learned societies. Yet there was no assumption of the hero about him; on the contrary, there was nothing he so genuinely disliked as being lionised. He was cosmopolitan in ideas, simple and graceful in manner, with a persuasive charm that was almost invincible. He was a born leader of men, had he chosen to lead them; he was a born wooer of women, and he did choose to woo them, for his weakness was a pretty face. But his method of wooing was very insidious. He did not worship at their feet, nor did he play much upon sentiment, but he would mock them with adoration, persuasively find fault with them, cunningly coax them into defending themselves and their sex against charges of inconstancy, frivolity, and frailty, and then perplex them with paradox and sophistry, until they were quite convinced that he was the most fascinatingly dangerous man they had ever met, and were simply mad to meet him again. Then he would make himself scarce.

He was just the man to interest Lady Gladys in her unhappy frame of mind; he was so different from all the other men about her. His cosmopolitan cynicism was so refreshing to her, his sophistry so seductive. She also, in her turn, interested him much, for there was no doubt she had brains. Women to him were usually more or less of toys, but Lady Gladys was an intellectual being, she exercised his mental fencing powers, and was difficult wooing. He hated Society, it was too silly to amuse him, but he was obliged to endure it for the sake of Lady Gladys. He meant to be her lover, so he allowed her to procure him invitations to a series of “at homes,” where he should meet her. He would attend her daily in the Park, he would drop in every afternoon at teatime, and if she was going to the theatre, he would, of course, have a stall next to hers. And all the while this love-making was prosecuted with masterly tactics, and she was falling deeply in love with him. She had never known love in her life before, and now it filled her life, and made it tolerable. What her lover lacked in emotional delicacies and sentimental refinements, she supplied out of her own imagination, and was not aware that he lacked them; and she was comparatively happy, and cared little or nothing for her husband’s petty tyrannies. She was becoming hardened to them—and had not she now a lover as well as her child to love? After all, love makes up the sum of our lives; it is the only thing we cannot miss without being wretched. Lady Gladys had had everything else till now, and now she loved and believed herself loved. Might she not be happy in spite of Sir Drury? Though she was tied to him for life, what happiness had he ever given her?

But now people began to busy themselves with gossip about Lady Gladys, to wonder how long it would be before Sir Drury woke up to the state of affairs. It was only a whisper here and there, of course; but still it was a whisper, and even whispers are sometimes heard by those not intended to hear. So Sir Drury heard, not that he had not known before; but it was only the whisper that gave him a weapon to strike with. She loathed him; she had told him so more than once; then she should not love another.

So when her lover called as usual one day, he was told that Lady Gladys could not receive him, but that Sir Drury would be glad to see him in his study; and then the cold-blooded old judge told him of the whisper, and left it to him to discontinue his visits. Lady Gladys waited long for her lover that day, and when she heard at length that he had come and gone, she was furiously indignant. Of course, he felt bound in honour to give her the option of running away with him, but he was not sorry when she refused on account of her child. “She would only have run away with some one else later on,” was the reflection with which he cynically consoled himself.

And now I often wonder, when I see the chilling scorn with which Lady Gladys and Sir Drury treat one another, whether she ever regrets not having taken that step which might possibly have given her happiness, and certainly cost her her social status; but when I see her fondling her curly-haired little boy, I feel sure she does not regret it. But she is more cynical than ever; her faith in man and woman, love and the world, is hopelessly shaken. She is a confirmed pessimist, because conjugal happiness has been unknown to her.

_THE BUSY-IDLE WOMAN_

Mrs. Restless I shall call her. Not that she would object to my proclaiming her actual identity. In fact, I think she would prefer it, for she loves to be talked about; and, as for seeing her name in print, I fancy she would do much for the privilege, and then carefully cut out the page for the edification of her friends, and wonder how she had obtained, not merited, such publicity. Not merited, because she will confess to knowing all about that. Who but she does so much for everybody? Who is so active in every matter of public interest? Then why should not she deserve newspaper recognition, as much as Mrs. Montmorency Dazzle or Lady Capel-Courtney, who only occupy their time in the frivolous amusements of Society, and employ expensive dressmakers to win them paragraphs by making them “look well” in the fashionable material of the moment?

This is a sore point with little Mrs. Restless, for she really believes that her continuous occupiedness, in spite of the vast amount of nothing she achieves, is of infinite value to the community at large, and her own personal acquaintances in particular, whereas Mrs. Dazzle is of no use to any one, except, as an ornament for the ball-room, and a walking advertisement for her costumier. These are Mrs. Restless’s views, and she has very strong views on every subject, though perhaps they would not amount to much if subjected to the slightest analysis. But she does not know that; for she is always too busy to analyse anything. She is a woman of action, she will tell you; she must always “be up and doing.” And so she wastes a great deal of valuable time which might otherwise be devoted to idling that is worth living for, that is full of pleasurable suggestion, instead of commonplace and pretentious time-frittering; busy-idleness, in fact, which is neither the one thing nor the other, neither good idling nor good business.

[Illustration]

Women seldom idle well; they do not understand the art. They make it too much of a business, and so miss the spirit of true idling. Now I reckon myself something of a _connoisseur_ in this matter, for if there be one art with which I am familiar in all its branches, and on terms of perfect understanding, it is this art of idling. A fine art, look you, that must be studied with the same assiduity and sympathy as painting, poetry, music, love-making, lying, or any other of those accomplishments that have been reckoned among the fine arts. Your true idler is born, not made, but in the easy and happy evasion of work and its responsibilities he proves himself the artist. The obligation to effort is a necessity to him, but his art teaches him how to make a virtue of necessity by shunting the obligation on to pleasanter lines, while the effort fails naturally upon other shoulders which perhaps ought to bear it for some penance they have no doubt deserved. At least, your idler consoles himself so, if he concern himself at all about the matter. Thus, to idle artistically is not to vulgarly waste time, but to adorn it as with May-day garlands. And every one who cultivates this most delightful of arts may build himself a Castle of Pleasaunce in the midst of this workaday world, wherein he may joyously live at ease, and listen to the hearty songs of the toilers, who have never dreamed of Arcady, and who know nought but that each hour must produce its full profit of work.