Part 11

By this means she keeps her admirers at beck and call, and they all agree that she is “as clever as she knows how”—what odious expressions they do use nowadays!—but that “you have to mind your P’s and Q’s with her,” for she puts out her bristles of propriety at the least alarm. Still they do not propose marriage, and that is a subject of perennial annoyance to her. But perhaps Madame Brown-Smith may be in some measure accountable for this lapse of connubial courtesy on the part of Miss Diatone’s admirers. To tell the truth, she has an unmistakable way of intimating that any one who married Euterpe would find to his cost that mother and daughter were inseparable; though I cannot help thinking, from my personal observation of the young vocalist herself, that after marriage she would take an entirely different view of the matter from her mother. In the meanwhile, she realises with undisguised irritation that this mother of hers is spoiling all her matrimonial chances in her enthusiastic endeavours to further her daughter’s professional interests, and perhaps, in a greater degree, her own comforts.

It must not be supposed that Euterpe is not fond of her mother, or that she does not pay her sufficient attention; but she has acquired a habit of egotism, perhaps from the practice of constantly standing alone upon the platform, and facing the public on her own merits. When, therefore, Madame Brown-Smith’s idea of her own importance increases with her daughter’s professional and social status, and she monopolises the conversation with “_my_ daughter” this, and “_my_ daughter” that, and “_my_ daughter” the other, Euterpe feels that she could create so much more favourable an impression concerning her own doings with the personal persuasion of her “I.” As the Americans would say, she wants “to run her own show.” And what concert-agent, what composer, what publisher, or even what conscientious critic, would not be more inclined to listen favourably to the autobiographical details of a fair and winning egotist, with all her charm of personality, than to the obvious advertising and touting of the young artist’s aggressive mother? If Miss Euterpe Diatone makes herself amiable to us with an eye to business—knowing us to be in a position to assist her professionally, we amiably fall in with her views because, though one eye be to business, the other is to ourselves, and both are pretty. We are only men, after all. But with the mother, it is quite another thing. We respect her maternal solicitude and her business assiduity, but she is a bore—brutal though it sound to say so. Moreover, without her for show-woman I verily believe Euterpe Diatone would have been a truer artist and a nicer woman.

_THE “DEAREST FRIEND”_

Among women, I venture to think, friendship is not temperamental, it is an accomplishment; and, at the risk of bringing down upon my devoted head an avalanche of feminine contradiction, I make bold to say that real friendship, as understood by men, is rare between women, though nearly every woman cherishes a “dearest friend.”

A woman’s “dearest friend” is her familiar gossip, her partisan, but seldom, if ever, the companion of her soul, the true confidante of her inner self. Of course, both she and her “dearest friend” would indignantly repudiate this assertion, and vow that they severally tell each other _everything_, that their confidence is mutual and complete; but then dissimulation is so inherent in women that they are not aware of it. They are not analysing creatures as a rule, and they would as soon admit their natural dissimulation, or their incapacity for friendship with their own sex, from a man’s point of view, as any of us would own to lacking a sense of humour, or being no connoisseurs in matters of art.

I believe that men can teach women friendship, though, perhaps, not until they have learnt the great lesson of love, for which they have a natural intuition. Then, women may be the friends of men, and very true and enduring friends too; but between woman and woman I doubt, as a rule, whether you would find the same kind of friendship as between man and man, or even as between man and woman, for women seldom trust each other entirely—of course, always taking into consideration the necessary proof of exceptions. But of “dearest friends” there is no lack—indeed some women occupy this position in a kind of wholesale way. They make “dearest friendship” the business of their lives, and prosecute it in quite a professional fashion; and, of course, those who are “dearest friends” to a large _clientèle_ become obviously better and more comprehensive gossips.

Mrs. Meanwell is one of these; she is a general favourite, and carries with her an amiability as alluring as it is indiscriminate and universal. As a “dearest friend,” therefore, she is in constant and general demand, and consequently she is a veritable Pantechnicon of personal gossip. This vocation has been hers since her earliest schooldays, when she was the recipient of all the other little girls’ confidences in rotation, and, though uniformly cheery and good-tempered, she was often the cause of heart-burning in others. For, how could she be expected to respect the secrets of her quondam friends when they had quarrelled with her “dearest friend” of the moment?

Some people mysteriously inspire confidences, and Mrs. Meanwell has always done so, and even more now that she is a woman-of-the-world than when she was an unsophisticated school-girl. She has an amazing gift of dissimulation, which would be invaluable to an actress or a diplomatist, but which is of immense aid in cultivating that reputation for sympathy which is essential to the vocation of a “dearest friend.” She is able absolutely to absorb herself—to all outward appearance—in conversation with the person who is her companion for the time being, to seem to be interested in nothing else in the world beyond the topic of their talk, while all the time, perhaps, she is really calculating the favourable impression she has made upon the other person, and deciding how uncongenial that other is to her. But her stock of gossip and her range of personal experience have increased the while, as her sympathetic influence has widened. She has prepared the way to be “dearest friend” to her recent companion, if she chose, and though she may have no desire for this, she is content with the sense of her power.

I have often watched Mrs. Meanwell with infinite curiosity and amusement, and seen her, within brief periods, receiving the voluminous confidences of two women I knew to be jealous foes, and I have wondered how she was able to maintain such intimate and seemingly affectionate relations with both. But the secret lies in her pliable temperament, which she can temporarily assimilate to the idiosyncrasies of any person with whom she comes in contact. I have seen her apparently interested by men and women from whose tedious society I would commit almost any enormity to escape, and, I must say, from a philanthropic point of view, I have admired Mrs. Meanwell for this comprehensive amiability which could rescue these people from the awful consequences of their own boredom. I have admired it in the same way that I admire women who nurse the sick and solace the afflicted. She is a kind of Florence Nightingale among the dull and the bored, and a beautiful beneficence is hers—mentally cheering those who through their own inherent dulness cannot possibly cheer themselves. But, just as you hear hospital nurses and workers in the slums say they actually love their work, so does Mrs. Meanwell really find amusement even among the bores. She is, of course, fond of hearing herself talk—who is not that has anything to say?—and she certainly glories in extending her popularity.

It will be seen, therefore, that Mrs. Meanwell is naturally fitted to fill the position of “dearest friend” to all kinds and conditions of women, and, certainly, her experience has been as varied as are her qualifications. Therefore, it could hardly be expected that she would confine her sympathetic offices to one friend, or be content with a single stock of confidences. At the same time she is an enthusiastic partisan, and if any of her “dearest friends” be involved in any social squabbles, matrimonial troubles, or financial difficulties, she is on the warpath at once. She is like an Indian scout, and carries intelligence from camp to camp. Mrs. Meanwell has codes of loyalty of her own, and she is her own arbiter in the matter, women being proverbially unable to bind themselves arbitrarily to one code as men must do. For that reason we never talk of a woman of honour as we talk of a man of honour; it would be too unfair. Women have quite enough restrictions and responsibilities to bear without having to trouble themselves with an exacting code of loyalty towards each other. So a little elasticity in this matter is, perhaps, excusable—at all events, since feminine custom stales its infinite variety.

However, I daresay—in fact I feel sure—that Mrs. Meanwell is as loyal to her “dearest friends” as they are to her; and if mischief be sometimes made between them by the too officious repetition of some innocently-betrayed confidence, it is the fault of the person who made the mischief, not of Mrs. Meanwell, who never intended what she said to be told again. And, of course, it has been entirely distorted in the telling. Is it likely that _she_, her dearest friend’s “dearest friend,” would tell anything told to her in confidence, if she thought it would be repeated? Not that Mrs. Meanwell received it originally as a confidence; she thought other people knew it too, and after all it was such a good story, and if it sounded rather unkind in the repetition, _she_ never told it in that spirit. Had not her friend laughed herself when she told it to her originally? But some people have no tact, and never know when, where, or to whom a personal story may be told without offence. So Mrs. Meanwell was not really responsible for the ill-timed and unwarranted repetition, and to say she was disloyal is most unkind and unwomanly.

Who could resist such reasoning? Who could continue to regard Mrs. Meanwell other than as a “dearest friend” after such an unanswerable defence? Anyhow, the intermediary mischief-maker “it was who died,” or rather who fell into disfavour, and she, after all, was absolutely innocent in the matter, and acted in perfect good faith, for she merely wished to warn her friend against being too confidential with a woman who gossiped about other people’s affairs. Mrs. Meanwell a gossip! What next, I should like to know? How these “dearest friends” love one another.

Mrs. Meanwell fights her friends’ battles with the weapons of chaff and ridicule, and after her victories she generally manages to secure peace. That is one of the secrets of her success as a “dearest friend.” The friend who, in times of trouble or quarrel, enlists the help or advocacy of Mrs. Meanwell, feels as sure of everything being put right as the litigant when he has secured the legal services of a George Lewis.

But it is not only in times of tribulation or difficulty that Mrs. Meanwell acts the “dearest friend” in very earnest. If an engagement be announced in her social circle she is the one to keep all her friends posted up in all the details, how long the affair has been in progress, when he first spoke out, what he said, what are the mundane prospects of the young couple, what arrangements have been made for the wedding, and last, but not least, the component parts of her trousseau. All these details have been confided to Mrs. Meanwell in her capacity as “dearest friend” of somebody very nearly connected with the bride or bridegroom. It is indeed a noteworthy coincidence that when any interesting event is on the _tapis_, especially a wedding, an engagement or a jilting, a good romantic scandal, or a sensational illness, Mrs. Meanwell always happens to be on terms of closest friendship with somebody connected with it, so that she can ever be relied on for the very latest and most accurate information. She never minds how much trouble she takes on these occasions to gain this information or to give counsel when called upon. She has, by the way, a reputation for practical wisdom in all things, which has grown out of some occasional happy random hits in the way of advice on mundane matters, the result of a clear wit that dominates the sentiment in her nature, and thus enables her to keep her “dearest friendships” well under control and to the purpose.

Mrs. Meanwell’s friends, it will be seen, consult her on many things, but, perhaps, it is on the subject of dress that she is at her best and strongest. She has a veritable genius for costume, and has won many a friend with the turn of a hat, the cut of a bodice, the fall of a flounce, the hang of a skirt, or the harmonious hues of an evening-gown. In matters of clothes she has the critical eye of a Ruskin, combined with the constructive imagination of a Worth, and, consequently, she is simply invaluable as an adviser to her friends, for that they shall dress well is a _sine quâ non_ if they wish to retain her friendship.

Of course, this is not put in so many words, but it is a kind of tacit understanding, and half the confidences that pass between Mrs. Meanwell and her “dearest friends” bear on the absorbing topic of costume. She recognises it as an important social factor—and so do all the husbands and fathers when the dressmakers’, drapers’, and milliners’ bills come in. But Mrs. Meanwell’s friends, especially her “dearest” ones, have appointed her the arbiter of taste in costume, and, unfortunately for their husbands’ pockets, her ruling is governed by a superb optimism, which, as the dictionary defines, is “the doctrine that everything is ordered for the best”—and, of course, the best has to be paid for. Economy is, in Mrs. Meanwell’s opinion, a revolt against good taste, and her friends are easily persuaded by her superior logic, and those picturesque proofs of her judgment which their dressmakers turn out.

From the husband’s point of view, however, there is something to be said. Mrs. Meanwell, as “dearest friend,” is an expensive luxury for the wife. But then, after all, perhaps, a female “dearest friend” is safer than a male one, and, if there be also a male one, she acts as a sort of safety-valve to let off those little romantic confidences which might not amuse the husband, yet which might possibly lead eventually to complications if suppressed in the wife’s bosom, or entrusted to the loyal keeping of the male “dearest friend.”

Therefore, Mrs. Meanwell conquers the economic considerations of the husbands, and remains the “dearest friend” of the wives, because of her approved worldly wisdom. And, after all, if they be a little extravagant, their wives look ever so much better when Mrs. Meanwell advises their costumes. And—well, it is very pleasant to have a charming little woman like Mrs. Meanwell coming frequently to the house, and staying there.

_A “FIN-DE-SIÈCLE” WOMAN_

The habit of credulity is one of my peculiarities; some people indeed regard it as a fatal weakness, especially when it leads me to place implicit faith in women. Nevertheless I cannot bring myself to take Mrs. Reuben Neuralys quite seriously in all her social and psychical vagaries.

Every period grafts some special types of woman on to the Eternal Feminine, and Mrs. Neuralys represents quite a special type of the present. She is a very complex and not easily comprehended creature, and since it has lately become the fashion to describe anything that seems to elude ordinary classification as _fin-de-siècle_, I suppose I must regard Mrs. Neuralys as a _fin-de-siècle_ woman. Certainly she has no counterpart in the pages of Jane Austen or Miss Mitford, and if we would find any approach to her prototype in fiction, we must look to the works of the later “realists.” She is perfectly conscious of this; in fact, she studies that it shall be so, and acts up to it with picturesque effect. And “there’s the rub.” One is constantly led to suspect, by some little unconscious incongruous touch of naturalism, that she is only acting the part of the Emancipated Woman, that she is only playing at what she has read and talked about, that after all there is an artificial ring in this advanced development of womanhood, as represented by Mrs. Neuralys.

Not that I discredit in any way the advancing condition of women, the greater freedom, mental, moral and social, that they are gradually and justly assuming as their right. But I always find that they take an exaggerated view of their emancipation; to prove their independence they begin to shatter idols and scoff at sacred things, after the manner of all revolutionists. Yet though they consider their emancipation demands that they shall at least affect to regard children as intolerable nuisances and husbands as merely useful appendages to their own lives and quite irrelevant to their romances, only let a child of theirs be ill, or a lover give cause for jealousy, and it is the unemancipated, the real woman that will reveal herself in all her elemental femininity.

I cannot say that Mrs. Neuralys belongs to the strong-minded sections of the Emancipated Sisterhood; she stumps no platforms and professes no mission; she sets herself no philanthropic task; she has adopted no vocation, unless it be that of living so as to best please Mrs. Reuben Neuralys. She cultivates a kind of world-weariness, and professes to be hopelessly oppressed by custom. She is bored by everything in which her foremothers were wont to take pleasure. The ruling passion of her life is novelty of sensation, and in seeking this she is utterly without conscience. No consideration of conventionality can restrain her in the pursuit of a new experience in emotion; no respect for tradition has weight with her to restrict any experiment in sentiment or sensibility. Anything that produces new psychical or sensuous effects upon her is welcomed, irrespective of Mrs. Grundy, the Ten Commandments, or Mrs. Lynn Linton. Whether it be a new religion, a new social environment, a new specific for neuralgia, to which she is of course a martyr, a new personality to love and be loved by, a new artistic cult, she will make for it with unbridled eagerness, no matter what social or other susceptibility she may shock in the accomplishment. I believe that she really enjoys the sense of novelty, though I shrewdly suspect that she affects many fancies and pretends many enthusiasms merely because she thinks that not to do so would be “conventional.”

This word “conventional” is the bogie of her life, she is so afraid of it that she will run into any extravagance to escape its application. It is her own pet term of contempt—that and “suburban.” I believe she herself would rather be called improper than suburban. To her mind, conscious, of course, of its own innocence, there might be something piquant in being thought improper; it might lead to new experiences of other people’s real characters, shed side-lights on the world of men and women, and pluck for her the heart of many mysteries. For this reason she affects exceptional freedom of speech and licence of subject, and she expresses no anger, or only smiles, whenever mischievous persons couple her name with that of any man who may be openly admiring her at the moment, and whose escort to places of public resort she may constantly accept,—for of course, being an emancipated woman, it would be altogether too “suburban” to be seen about with her husband. Indeed she appears to deem it a point of honour, and an obligation due to the end of the century, to let it be clearly understood that her husband bores her, and that no sympathy of any kind exists between them. And certain of her friends, and I am told many wives of most affectionate disposition, consider that no self-respecting husband outside Peckham Rye and its like would wish it otherwise.

But, you may ask, what induced a woman like Mrs. Neuralys to marry at all, leastways this husband who bores her so? Might you not ask the same question about nine wives out of ten? Does any girl ever know exactly why she marries? Does she ever know really whether she is in love till after marriage? Is it not illusion in most cases—the love of a girl for a man? I do not think Mrs. Neuralys was ever really in love with Reuben, but she married him out of curiosity. I am betraying no confidence in saying this, for she herself has stated it frequently and openly, and I think she is rather proud of it. Certainly, the fact is characteristic of her, and in this wise.

Aline Aubyn, as she was then, was decidedly of a religious habit, but it was the mystery of religion that attracted her, while its shows appealed to her sensuous nature? To her it meant no spiritual communion, no divine faith, but the sounds of the organ and the choir and the church-bells caused her unspeakable emotions. She enjoyed the _sense_ of the church with its stained-glass windows and its mediæval architecture and the devotional attitude of the congregation. When therefore her parents took her abroad and she visited many cathedrals, the vestments of the priests, the scent of the incense, the pretty acolytes, the mass-music and the general colour and picturesqueness, quickly converted her to the Church of Rome. The novelty of her conversion delighted her for a time, and she was assiduous in her attendances at chapel. But novelties have a way of losing their freshness, and, as I have said, Aline was not spiritually religious. Therefore when she met Reuben Neuralys, her interest took another turn, for he was the first Jew she had ever encountered. She had read and heard much of the Jews and their wonderful history, of their persecutions and their ancient rites, and to her the very name of Jew meant mystery. Reuben therefore appealed to her imagination, and exercised for the time being an extraordinary fascination over her. His manners were at all times charming, the bent of his mind distinctly idealistic, and his nature emotional. Aline’s sensuousness and personal charms attracted him, though, in his idealistic way, he deceived himself into thinking the attraction was dominated by her spirituality. He loved her, and she fancied that being fascinated at the novelty of being loved by a member of a race she could not dissociate from mystery and mysticism was being in love. So they became engaged, and probably never would have married, but the parents on both sides made such strenuous opposition to the marriage, on the score of difference in religion, that the situation presented to Aline a romantically dramatic colour of irresistible and obstinate charm. There was one drawback however. The Registry office was so ugly, the ceremonial seemed so bare and common. It was a novelty to Aline certainly; but it was all unbeautiful, unbridal, and she hated it.