The Substance of a Dream | Page 2

of that
story: Noah's wife may have dropped some incriminating documents
into the water, for the Higher Criticism to unearth by and by: the
Eternal Feminine may have had a hand in it after all, as she is generally
to be found somewhere behind the scenes, wherever mischief brews for
mortal man. She comes down the ages, loaded with accusations; and
yet, somehow or other, they do not seem to have done her much harm.
And the reason is, that she possesses, in supreme perfection, the art of
disarming her antagonist, having been very cunningly constructed by
the Creator for that very purpose: she is like a cork; she will not drown,
under any flood of charges: she floats, quand même: (two words that
she might very well take, like the inimitable Sarah, for her motto:) so
that, be as angry as you please with her, you generally find yourself not
only unable to condemn her, but even ready to beg her pardon, and
rather glad, on the whole, to get it. It is a hopeless case. And all the
more, because no woman ever lived, bad or good, who could be got to
understand what is meant by "playing cricket": you cannot make her
keep the rules in any game: she plays to win, like a German, and
invariably cheats, if she can: international law counts, only as long as it
is for and not against her: if you find her out, and scold her, she pouts,
and will not play. And then, if, as is commonly the situation, you want
her to play, very badly, what are you to do? Yes, it is a hopeless case.
* * * * *
And yet, if we look into the matter with that stern impartiality which its
public importance demands, we may perceive, that though there is, it
must be candidly owned, an element of truth in the charges brought

against her, they are founded, for all that, largely on misunderstanding.
It is man himself, her accuser, who is very nearly always to blame. His
intelligence as compared with her own, is clumsy: (it is the difference
between the dog and the cat:) he does not realise the unfathomable gulf
that divides her nature from his own, and for lack of imaginative tact,
judging her by himself, he enormously overestimates the part played by
reason in her behaviour. Hence when, as she is always doing, she lets
him down, he breaks out, (obtusely) into denunciation and reproach,
taking it for granted, that what she did, she did, deliberately. But that is
his mistake. Women never act by deliberation, least of all in their
relations with men. Reason has hardly anything to do with it. A woman
is a weapon, designed by the Creator, who generally knows what he is
doing, to fascinate the other sex: that is her essence and her raison
d'être: the woman who does not do it is a failure, and she is Nature's
triumph and entelechy, who does it best. And this every woman knows,
by instinct, and feels, long before she knows it, almost as soon as she
can stand upon her feet: consequently, no artificially elaborated
compliment, no calculated flattery, ever touches her so near, as it does,
when she perceives that her personality tells, acts like a charm, on any
given man: a point about which no woman ever blunders, as a man
often so ridiculously does about himself: she invariably detects, by
unerring instinct, when her arrow hits its mark. And this involuntary
homage she finds so irresistibly delectable, going as it does down to the
very depths of her being, and endorsing it, that she literally cannot deny
herself the pleasure of basking in it, making hay, so to say, while her
sun shines, revelling in the consciousness of her power all the more
delicious because she knows only too well that she must lose it later on,
as youth flies: old age, i.e. the loss of her charm, being every woman's
ogre, the skeleton in her cupboard, which she dreads far more than
death, just as the only disease which she shudders to face is the
smallpox, for a similar reason. And so, when she finds her spell
working, she lets herself go: never dreaming what interpretation her
victim puts on her behaviour: and then, all at once, she awakes to
discover with what fire she was ignorantly playing. And then it is, that
she recoils, on the verge: and then it is, that thwarted in the very
moment that he deemed triumph secured, the baffled lover falls into
fury and abuse, because he imagines her to have been all along clearly

aware of what she was about, which is exactly what hardly one woman
in a million does. Not being a