So far as I can make out, no woman of the sort worth hearing—that is,
no woman of intelligence, humour and charm, and hence of success in the
duel of sex—has ever publicly denied this; the denial is confined
entirely to the absurd sect of female bachelors of arts and to the
generality of vain and unobservant men. The former, having failed to
attract men by the devices described, take refuge behind the sour
grapes doctrine that they have never tried, and the latter, having
fallen victims, sooth their egoism by arrogating the whole agency to
themselves, thus giving it a specious appearance of the volitional, and
even of the audacious. The average man is an almost incredible
popinjay; he can think of himself only as at the centre of situations.
All the sordid transactions of his life appear to him, and are depicted
in his accounts of them, as feats, successes, proofs of his acumen. He
regards it as an almost magical exploit to operate a stock-brokerage
shop, or to get elected to public office, or to swindle his fellow
knaves in some degrading commercial enterprise, or to profess some
nonsense or other in a college, or to write so platitudinous a book as
this one. And in the same way he views it as a great testimony to his
prowess at amour to yield up his liberty, his property and his soul to
the first woman who, in despair of finding better game, turns her
appraising eye upon him. But if you want to hear a mirthless laugh,
just present this masculine theory to a bridesmaid at a wedding,
particularly after alcohol and crocodile tears have done their
disarming work upon her. That is to say, just hint to her that the
bride harboured no notion of marriage until stormed into acquiescence
by the moonstruck and impetuous bridegroom.
I have used the phrase, “in despair of finding better game.” What I
mean is this that not one woman in a hundred ever marries her first
choice among marriageable men. That first choice is almost invariably
one who is beyond her talents, for reasons either fortuitous or
intrinsic. Let us take, for example, a woman whose relative naivete
makes the process clearly apparent, to wit, a simple shop-girl. Her
absolute first choice, perhaps, is not a living man at all, but a
supernatural abstraction in a book, say, one of the heroes of Hall
Caine, Ethel M. Dell, or Marie Corelli. After him comes a
moving-picture actor. Then another moving-picture actor. Then, perhaps,
many more—ten or fifteen head. Then a sebaceous young clergyman. Then
the junior partner in the firm she works for. Then a couple of
department managers. Then a clerk. Then a young man with no definite
profession or permanent job—one of the innumerable host which flits
from post to post, always restive, always trying something new—perhaps
a neighborhood garage-keeper in the end. Well, the girl begins with the
Caine colossus: he vanishes into thin air. She proceeds to the moving
picture actors: they are almost as far beyond her. And then to the man
of God, the junior partner, the department manager, the clerk; one and
all they are carried off by girls of greater attractions and greater
skill—girls who can cast gaudier flies. In the end, suddenly terrorized
by the first faint shadows of spinsterhood, she turns to the ultimate
numskull—and marries him out of hand.
This, allowing for class modifications, is almost the normal history of
a marriage, or, more accurately, of the genesis of a marriage, under
Protestant Christianity. Under other rites the business is taken out of
the woman’s hands, at least partly, and so she is less enterprising in
her assembling of candidates and possibilities. But when the whole
thing is left to her own heart—i.e., to her head—it is but natural that
she should seek as wide a range of choice as the conditions of her life
allow, and in a democratic society those conditions put few if any
fetters upon her fancy. The servant girl, or factory operative, or even
prostitute of today may be the chorus girl or moving picture vampire of
tomorrow and the millionaire’s wife of next year. In America,
especially, men have no settled antipathy to such stooping alliances;
in fact, it rather flatters their vanity to play Prince Charming to
Cinderella. The result is that every normal American young woman, with
the practicality of her sex and the inner confidence that goes
therewith, raises her amorous eye as high as it will roll. And the
second result is that every American man of presentable exterior and
easy means is surrounded by an aura of discreet provocation: he cannot
even dictate a letter, or ask for a telephone number without being
measured for his wedding coat. On the Continent of Europe, and
especially in the Latin countries, where class barriers are more
formidable, the situation differs materially, and to the disadvantage
of the girl. If she makes an overture, it is an invitation to disaster;
her hope of lawful marriage by such means is almost nil. In
consequence, the prudent and decent girl avoids such overtures, and
they must be made by third parties or by the man himself. This is the
explanation of the fact that a Frenchman, say, is habitually
enterprising in amour, and hence bold and often offensive, whereas an
American is what is called chivalrous. The American is chivalrous for
the simple reason that the initiative is not in his hands. His chivalry
is really a sort of coquetry.