THE AMERICAN WOMAN--I
A new coat-of-arms for America--The American woman--Her ways--The
liberty she enjoys--'Oh, please make me an American woman!'
If I were asked to suggest a new coat-of-arms for the United States of
America, I would propose a beautiful, bright, intelligent-looking
woman, under the protection of an eagle spreading its wings over her,
with the motto: _Place aux Dames_--'Honour to the Ladies'; or, if
you prefer a freer translation, 'Make room for the Women.'
The Government of the American people is not a republic, it is not a
monarchy: it is a gynarchy, a government by the women for the women, a
sort of occult power behind the scenes that rules the country.
It has often been said that a wife is what a husband makes her. I
believe that the women of a nation are what the men of that nation make
them. Therefore, honour to the men of the United States for having
produced that modern national ideal the American woman.
I have been six times all over the United States. I have spent about
three years of my life in America, travelling from New York to San
Francisco, from British Columbia to Louisiana. If there is an
impression that becomes a deeper and deeper conviction every time that
I return to that country, it is that the most interesting woman in the
world is the American woman.
Now, let us compare her with the women of Europe. The English woman,
when beautiful, is an ideal symphony, an incomparable statue, but too
often a statue. The French woman is the embodiment of suppleness and
gracefulness, more fascinating by her manner than by either her face or
figure.
The Roman woman, with her gorgeous development, suggests the descendant
of the proud mother of the Gracchi. The American woman is a combination,
an _ensemble_.
I have never seen in America an absolutely, helplessly plain woman. She
is always in the possession of a redeeming something which saves her.
She may be ever so homely (as the Americans say), she looks
intelligent, a creature that has been allowed to think for herself,
that has never been sat upon. And I know no sight more pleasing than an
elderly American woman, with her white hair, that makes her look like a
Louis XV. marquise, and an expression which reflects the respect she
has inspired during a well and usefully spent life.
When women were born, a fairy attended the birth of every one of them.
Each woman received a special gift. The American woman arriving late,
the fairies gathered together and decided to make her a present of part
of all the attributes conferred on all the other women. The result is
that she has the smartness and the bright look of a French woman, and
the shapely, sculptural lines of an English woman. Ah! but, added to
that, she has a characteristic trait peculiarly her own, an utter
absence of affectation, a naturalness of bearing which makes her
unique, a national type. There is not in the world a woman to match
her in a drawing-room. There she stands, among the women of all
nationalities, a silhouette _bien decoupee_, herself, a queen.
Allowed from the tenderest age almost every liberty, accustomed to take
the others, she is free, easy, perfectly natural, with the
consciousness of her influence, her power; able by her intelligence and
education to enjoy all the intellectual pleasures of life, and by her
keen powers of observation and her native adaptability to fit herself
for all the conditions of life; an exquisite mixture of a coquette
without affectation and a blue-stocking without spectacles or
priggishness; the only woman, however beautiful and learned she may be,
with whom man feels perfectly at his ease--a sort of fascinating good
fellow, retaining all the best attributes of womanhood.
Now, if this should sound like an outburst of enthusiasm, please excuse
me. I owe to American women such pleasant, never-to-be-forgotten hours
that on merely hearing the mention of the American woman I take off my
hat.
Of all the women in the world, the American woman is the one who
receives the best attentions at the hands of men. The Frenchman, it is
true, is the slave of his womankind, but he expects her to be his
thorough partner--I mean, to share with him his labours as well as his
pleasures. The American man is the most devoted and hard-working
husband in the world. The poor, dear fellow! He works, and he works,
and he works, and the beads of perspiration from his brow crystallize
in the shape of diamonds all over the ears, the fingers and the neck of
his interesting womankind.
He invites her to share his pleasures, but he saves her the trouble of
sharing his anxieties. The burden of life from seven in the morning
till seven in the evening rests on his shoulders alone.
Yet, in spite of all this, I have seldom discovered in American women
the slightest trace of gratitude to men. The American woman expects a
triumphal arch to be erected over each doorway through which she has to
pass--and she gets it.
Well, she deserves it.
Almost throughout the length and breadth of the United States, you hear
of women seeking to extend the sphere of their influence, women
dissatisfied with their lot. But there is no satisfying spoiled
children. If they see the moon reflected in a pail of water, they must
have it.
I am perfectly convinced that the American woman has secured for
herself the best, the softest berth that it was possible to secure in
this world.
Let me finish by repeating an exclamation I uttered after my first
visit to the United States, twelve years ago: 'If I could choose my sex
and my birthplace, I would shout to the Almighty at the top of my
voice: "Oh, please make me an American woman!"'