A "Novel" Suggestion

— Glancing, let us say, over perhaps a dozen or a score of novels, of both older and more modern times, it would seem to be a natural conclusion that history does indeed repeat itself ; that all the mines of human interests, ambitions, and passions have been so well worked as to be almost exhausted, all possible combinations of character and plot worn so threadbare that scarcely any new design in the great tapestry of life can now be discovered or invented. But it seems to me there is one kind of character, and the unhappy entanglements almost sure to be brought about by its full manifestation, that has never yet received its due share of attention from writers of fiction : I mean the masculine counterpart of the very often depicted woman coquette, — that still more contemptible creature, the male flirt. Understand that I do not here have in mind the coarser types, such as the regular Lovelaces and Don Juans, whose doings have been abundantly chronicled for us in a dozen fashions, but refer to that species which I believe is exceedingly common in what is called “society,” — the man who finds his satisfaction in more subtle ways, and, flitting literally like a butterfly from flower to flower, makes it the chief business and interest of his life to win — and disappoint — the hearts of the women who cross his path, provided they are attractive enough to capture my lord’s attention at all. Little by little — a bit of delicate flattery here, an impulsive show of something that seems like marked preference there — he wins his stealthy way into those hearts, and induces them to reveal more and more of their own emotions. Yet the spiritual Don Juan — he may as well have that name —is always most carefully on his guard never to convey anything save subtle, if sometimes very strong impressions, often by look or tone or manner alone ; never to say anything positive enough to commit him to anything ; never to use language save such as is vague and ambiguous enough to be twisted afterwards into anything and everything that may suit him, if the woman should happen to mistake his meaning. The arts, indeed, that he may practice are countless, and the mischief he may do is incalculable, and of the kind against which there seems no protection and for which there is no redress.

Often, of course, in most cases, perhaps, he fortunately meets his match, succeeds in deceiving no one, and gets as good as he gives. And yet now and then it does happen that a really noble woman’s life is made miserable in that way, especially if the charmer is a man of brains, — which, strange to say, does happen, — and endowed besides with that most mysterious of all qualities, which no one seems able to define satisfactorily, “ personal magnetism,” as he needs to be, to prove successful in his career. Indeed, it is of the “ victims ” rather than of the “ slayers ” that I wish to speak. It has occurred to me that it would be very fine, as well as anything but hackneyed, to depict a woman (and necessarily she would have to be very deep-hearted and whole-souled, as well as of very strong character) who really loved a man of this kind, though fully knowing what he was, and conscious also that he could hardly be unaware (the Don Juans are not apt to be) of the true nature of her feeling for him, — loved him still, though he had made plain to her beyond the possibility of doubt that while, in a measure, her devotion was accepted (idols but rarely refuse the incense offered at their shrines), she too had at times only served for his amusement, had not been held too good to be toyed and played with, as he had played with dozens of other women ; and who yet, through the unutterable pain of it all, not only found it in her heart not to turn from him, but truly forgave him, and determined cheerfully to stand by him, his devoted, loyal friend to the end of their days, if it should appear that he had any need of her in his life !

This is a very different matter from the constancy of lovers to each other through all trials and separations ; from the devotion of a wife, faithful still through all coldness and perhaps ill treatment. Here is a woman who, perhaps half unconsciously, has been won not only to give of her deepest and richest and sweetest and best, without any adequate return, but even at times to have that best made sport of, and who yet forgives not only, but never falters in loyal devotion. Truly, I think that human magnanimity — and it takes a large nature, and one devoid of shallow and petty vanities, to be magnanimous — and womanly heroism could go no further. The pride and fortitude of the Spartan boy bitten by a wolf, who laughed, covered up his wound, and dropped dead, sinks into insignificance beside it. We have all heard of examples, in both ancient and modern history, where women who had revealed their love, and found it rejected, turned into furies of despairing hatred and vengeance, and either themselves wreaked it upon their ought-tobe lovers, or hired assassins to do the work for them, but never, I think, of just this effect upon the “eternal feminine.”

Perhaps there may be those to whom it would seem that true womanly pride and dignity would imperatively demand withdrawal from any such unequal relation as that, but I do not agree with them ; so far from it, indeed, that it rather appears to me true pride and dignity would counsel the very course this woman pursued, and I could easily show the reason why. For I have in mind some facts from real life that suggested this whole train of thought to me. True, the drawing of such a woman — of two such characters, and of the scenes and situations that would necessarily grow out of the circumstances — would be a difficult task, which would require a very delicate as well as very firm hand ; one touch of the pencil a little too black, one cut of the engraver’s tool a little too deep, might easily spoil the whole picture. Yet on that very account, it seems to me all the more worth attempting. I offer the suggestion gratis, — and will not some one take it up '?