THE BRITISH MATRON
The English woman the most charming of women--The British the most
ridiculous one--English and British--The British matron is the
produce of British soil--Her ways--Her fads and inconsistency--Her
knowledge of French literature and her judgment thereof.
When an Englishman, speaking of a woman, says, 'She is a thorough
Englishwoman,' that is the greatest compliment he can pay to a
countrywoman of his. It means the embodiment of all that is refined and
delicate in a woman, of all the best domestic virtues, and of a style
of beauty not so piquant, perhaps, as that of the belles of America and
Southern Europe, but the beauty of delicate, regular features, clear
skin, classical, sculptural outlines and an expression of repose, of
modesty, and of healthy simplicity of life. In the eyes of English
people the words 'English' and 'perfect' are synonymous. For once they
are fairly right. I have said it elsewhere: 'When an Englishwoman is
beautiful, she is beyond competition, she is a dream, a perfect angel
of beauty.' When she is ugly--the Lord help her!--she has not a
redeeming feature, not even that intelligent, bright expression which
saves the plainest American woman from hopelessness.
When an Englishman, speaking of a woman, says, 'She is a regular
British matron,' that means the embodiment of all that is ridiculous in
a woman--of all the British fads, social, religious, artistic (or,
rather, inartistic), the everlasting laughing-stock of all the comic
papers in the world. The English people call themselves Britons or
Britishers when they want to make fun of themselves. In their eyes, the
words 'British' and 'ridiculous' are pretty nigh being synonymous,
except when the word 'British' is used as a patriotic adjective. They
say the 'British Empire,' a 'British soldier,' a 'British General,' but
they would not say a 'British bishop.' No, they would say 'English'--it
sounds more sober and respectful to their ears. 'English Society' means
the upper ten, the pick of society. On the other hand, an English
author who had failed to be appreciated by the public might say: 'What
can you expect from the British public?' And he would mean, like in the
song, 'that pig of a public, that ass of a public.'
The British matron is not necessarily old, not even elderly. She is a
product of the soil, not an evolution or a result, and she may be
blooming at thirty.
Cant and inconsistency are the characteristic traits of the British
matron. It is she who writes to the papers to demand of the Town
Councils the exclusion of statues from the public parks, and of the
museum curators the exclusion of the nude from the picture and
sculpture galleries; and it is she who, at balls, theatres and
dinner-parties, astonishes the world with the display of her charms. It
is she who holds up her hands in holy indignation at the sight of men
and women bathing in Continental and American seaside resorts,
forgetting to observe and mention that at those places both sexes are
dressed exactly alike, in dark, thick serge costumes, which invariably
have a skirt; and it is she whom you may see on English beaches bathe
in light, clinging, salmon-pink calico tights. I hope that my readers
of puritanical proclivities will feel obliged and grateful to me for
not giving that attire the name that would describe it best, that of an
article of underclothing which you may see on the ladies' washing-list.
The British matron is a keenly sensitive person. She may not take any
notice of such pieces of news as cases of starvation in the midst of
London, of cruelty to wives, of Turkish or Chinese atrocities, and all
that sort of everyday intelligence which she may read in the daily
press; but she will air her Homeric indignation if she hears that an
operation has been performed on a rabbit without giving anaesthetics to
poor 'bunny.' She is the champion of dogs, cats, horses, rabbits,
birds, and is invariably a member of the Royal Society for the
Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, a society which includes neither men
nor women among its proteges. In spite of that, the British matron
witnesses pigeon-shooting matches, eats _pate de foie gras_ (which
is obtained by slowly killing a goose inside a hot oven), wears furs
which can be obtained only by skinning animals alive, sealskins among
them, and trims her hats with the dead bodies of the most beautiful
birds.
If you were to remark before the British matron that the trousers of
Mr. So-and-so are always irreproachable, you would run the risk of
creating a panic, and the lady might go into a fit. But you may see her
watch men's races at Athletic Sports meetings. For all covering on
their skin, the competitors have a thin flannel jersey, and drawers of
the same material about the size of fig-leaves. Saturated with
perspiration, these elementary articles of clothing will cleave to the
human form as if the wearers had come straight up out of the water. The
British matron looks on, applauds, and does not turn a hair. Her ears
are most easily shocked, but not her eyes. She objects to the word, not
to the thing. In her way she is a realist. The thing speaks for itself,
it is the truth, whereas the word suggests to her fantastic imagination
the most objectionable ideas.
The French and the American women call on you and, when they think they
have stayed long enough, they shake hands and go. The British matron
'thinks' or 'is afraid she must be about going.'
What you have achieved does not amount to much to make a gentleman of
you in her eyes. If your father is a gentleman, you may be _in_ it; if,
besides, your grandfather was a gentleman, then you will be _of_ it.
The British matron generally belongs to Thackeray's family of snobs.
Her knowledge of French literature is marvellous. She has read or heard
of all the novels of M. Zola, and her verdict is that modern fiction in
France is the abomination of desolation. Edmond About, Andre Theuriet,
Anatole France, George Sand, she does not know.
Two young girls of my acquaintance, both aged about sixteen, were
speaking of the books they had lately read. One mentioned that she had
just finished 'Strathmore,' by Ouida, and that her mother thought it
was quite the sort of novel a young girl could read.
'And what have you read?' she added.
'Last week I read 'L'Ami Fritz,' by Erckmann-Chatrian,' replied the
other girl.
Now, this little idyll is about as proper and moral as the top lines of
school copy-books.
'Oh!' said the first young girl, 'does your mother allow you to read
French novels? Mine never does.'
Truly a strange being, the British matron!