The Woman-Hater | Page 9

composition then in vogue.
"You play correctly, madam," said the spinster; "but your music--what
stuff! Such things are null. They vex the ear a little, but they never
reach the mind."
Ashmead was wroth, and could hardly contain himself; but the
Klosking was amused, and rather pleased. "Mademoiselle has positive
tastes in music," said she; "all the better."
"Yes," said the spinster, "most music is mere noise. I hate and despise
forty-nine compositions out of fifty; but the fiftieth I adore. Give me
something simple, with a little soul in it--if you can."
Ina Klosking looked at her, and observed her age and her dress, the

latter old-fashioned. She said, quietly, "Will mademoiselle do me the
honor to stand before me? I will sing her a trifle my mother taught me."
The spinster complied, and stood erect and stiff, with her arms folded.
Ina fixed her deep eyes on her, playing a liquid prelude all the time,
then swelled her chest and sung the old Venetian cauzonet, "Il
pescatore de'll' onda." It is a small thing, but there is no limit to the
genius of song. The Klosking sung this trifle with a voice so grand,
sonorous, and sweet, and, above all, with such feeling, taste, and purity,
that somehow she transported her hearers to Venetian waters, moonlit,
and thrilled them to the heart, while the great glass chandelier kept
ringing very audibly, so true, massive, and vibrating were her tones in
that large, empty room.
At the first verse that cross-grained spinster, with real likes and dislikes,
put a bony hand quietly before her eyes. At the last, she made three
strides, as a soldier marches, and fell all of a piece, like a wooden
_mannequin,_ on the singer's neck. "Take my piano," she sobbed, "for
you have taken the heart out of my body."
Ina returned her embrace, and did not conceal her pleasure. "I am very
proud of such a conquest," said she.
From that hour Ina was the landlady's pet. The room and piano were
made over to her, and, being in a great fright at what she had
undertaken, she studied and practiced her part night and day. She made
Ashmead call a rehearsal next day, and she came home from it
wretched and almost hysterical.
She summoned her slave Ashmead; he stood before her with an air of
hypocritical submission.
"The Flute was not at rehearsal, sir," said she, severely, "nor the Oboe,
nor the Violoncello."
"Just like 'em," said Ashmead, tranquilly.
"The tenor is a quavering stick. He is one of those who think that an

unmanly trembling of the voice represents every manly passion."
"Their name is legion."
"The soprano is insipid. And they are all imperfect--contentedly
imperfect, How can people sing incorrectly? It is like lying."
"That is what makes it so common--he! he!"
"I do not desire wit, but consolation. I believe you are Mephistopheles
himself in disguise; for ever since I signed that diabolical compact you
made me, I have been in a state of terror, agitation, misgiving, and
misery--and I thank and bless you for it; for these thorns and nettles
they lacerate me, and make me live. They break the dull, lethargic
agony of utter desolation."
Then, as her nerves were female nerves, and her fortitude female
fortitude, she gave way, for once, and began to cry patiently.
Ashmead the practical went softly away and left her, as we must leave
her for a time, to battle her business with one hand and her sorrow with
the other.
CHAPTER II.
IN the Hotel Russie, at Frankfort, there was a grand apartment, lofty,
spacious, and richly furnished, with a broad balcony overlooking the
Platz, and roofed, so to speak, with colored sun-blinds, which softened
the glare of the Rhineland sun to a rosy and mellow light.
In the veranda, a tall English gentleman was leaning over the balcony,
smoking a cigar, and being courted by a fair young lady. Her light-gray
eyes dwelt on him in a way to magnetize a man, and she purred pretty
nothings at his ear, in a soft tone she reserved for males. Her voice was
clear, loud, and rather high-pitched whenever she spoke to a person of
her own sex; a comely English blonde, with pale eyelashes; a keen,
sensible girl, and not a downright wicked one; only born artful. This
was Fanny Dover; and the tall gentleman--whose relation she was, and

whose wife she resolved to be in one year, three years, or ten,
according to his power of resistance--was Harrington Vizard, a
Barfordshire squire, with twelve thousand acres and a library.
As for Fanny, she had only two thousand pounds in all the world; so
compensating Nature endowed her with a fair complexion, gray,
mesmeric eyes, art, and resolution--qualities that often enable a