THE MODERN GIRL.
I.
In peace or war we cannot do without the ladies. They brighten this
weary world, cheer us when we are in the depths, and tend us ‘when
pain and anguish wring the brow.’ Our mothers mould our characters,
our sisters help to keep us clean, while other men’s sisters provide
the love and the inspiration so needful to man. And war is good for
the business of Cupid. Danger gives admiration scope, and promotes the
deeper affection.
Adela was my star. When drill and lectures were done, I basked in her
smiles and played the old, old game. But, like all women, she loved to
tease. It was, therefore, in keeping with her character to send me the
following:
‘MY DEAR JOHNNIE,—Don’t come on Saturday, as I shall be engaged. We are
having two Australians to lunch, and shall be busy all day. You will
understand. Love.
ADELA.’
That was all she said. Two Australians! I felt annoyed, for these
Cornstalks are the deadly rivals of the British Army. One of them had
stolen my little French girl in La Bassée, while another had eloped
with my V.A.D. from a Strand hotel. No, it wasn’t good enough, and I
loudly swore.
‘What’s wrong, John?’ inquired Beefy.
‘Adela is booked for Saturday. The Anzacs are cutting me out. I’m fed
up!’
‘I’m in your boat too, old chap. Her sister is apparently on the same
stunt. She sent me word this morning, but I am not worrying. There’s
lots of girls in this world. A little change will do us good. I’m fed
up being respectable. Women _are_ the limit. They’re getting too sure
of themselves. They’re like trout—want a lot of playing before you land
them. There’s nothing like cold indifference to bring them round.’
‘You’re an authority, Beefy.’
‘Well—yes. I’ve paid for my experience. I’ve loved everything from a
parlour–maid to a general’s daughter. They’re all the same. As Kipling
says:
The colonel’s lady
And Judy O’Grady
Are sisters under their skin.
‘Pursue them, lavish the wealth of a millionaire on them, yield them
your life and soul, and they’ll go round the corner to—_the other
fellow_.
They’re contrary,
And they’re wary;
They’re devils till they die.’
‘You’re a cynic, Beefy. You’ve met the wrong sort. You can’t expect
barmaids and ballet–girls to have souls. They trade their charms and
squander their affections, but the real decent kind are not half–bad.
I’ve a weakness for the opposite sex.’
‘Oh, you’re a ruddy idealist. You’re always up in the moon. You’re too
trusting. One can’t trust a woman. If I had my way, I’d go over to the
system of the Moslems.’
‘You’re _blasé_, Beefy. You have had such a good time that you think
the world has gone wrong. What’s the good of being a cynic? I’m not
posing, old chap, but I do think there’s a lot of goodness in modern
girls if you care to search for it. Why, they’re real sports! Look what
they’re doing to win the war. They’re nursing, driving, ploughing, and
cooking, without a grouse. It’s a great revelation! This war has given
them their opportunity. You can’t put these girls into harems after the
war. Your mentality is crooked, Beefy.’
‘Per–haps! All the same, I’m convinced the modern girl is neurotic. I
may be _blasé_ and all that, but I’d much sooner have the steady old
Mid–Victorian type than these short–skirted creatures, who love a naval
man on Monday and elope with a soldier on Tuesday. Seems to me they
want only a good time. A fellow with a Rolls–Royce has a better chance
than a man with a Ford. Women judge you by your cheque–book. They want
to hook the fellow who can give them everything from a pug–nosed poodle
to a collar of diamonds. They’re nearly all adventuresses, and the
only chap they understand is the primitive one who spanks them hard
when they get into their tantrums. Women are all right when they’re
mastered. We men are long–suffering, and much too generous to the
average girl.’
‘Love keeps a woman straight, Beefy.’
‘Yes—love and the whip. Force appeals to women. They admire pugilists,
and even the most beautiful women like to marry big, strong, ugly,
powerful creatures—Neros rather than Apollos. I tell you, John, that
women to–day are as primitive as Eve.’
‘You’re a jealous devil, Beefy. You want your own way. Freedom
apparently is made for you, and not for the girl. I’m no great
Christian, but I do think if you trust a girl she will always play the
game.’
‘Oh, you’re a blinkin’ ass!’
‘Why?’
‘Adela has just told you not to come to–day, as she is busy with the
Anzacs. And yet you talk about trust!’
‘That’s true. Still, on reflection, it would be an impertinence for
us to warn all the other fellows off the track. If I’m annoyed, I’m
not going to be narrow–minded about it. Besides, I’m not engaged to
the girl. I’ve an open mind so far as a mate is concerned. I’m simply
looking around, and I won’t endorse your barbarian creeds. Why, Beefy,
you’re almost a Hun where the other sex is concerned. Come on, you
silly old ass; let’s go and get some fresh air,’
‘All right, John Bunyan,’ mumbled Beefy, shoving on his cap and
sauntering out of the camp.
II.
We took a train to the nearest town, a manufacturing place, alive with
munition–girls and other war–workers. As we ambled along we had time to
observe the manners and methods of the crowd. A healthy Amazon gave us
‘the glad eye.’
‘There, John, didn’t I tell you they’re as primitive as in the Bronze
Age?’
‘That’s just the fun of the uneducated. Hang it all! I thought you
rather liked that sort of thing.’
‘That’s not the point. What I want to prove is this. You can “pick up”
almost every girl in this street. These girls are man–mad.’
‘You judge by superficial things. Of course, there may be a little in
what you say; but you must remember that men now and after the war
will be scarce in the marriage–market. I’m sorry for all the nice
girls who are being left on the perch. As for the lady who smiled, she
doesn’t represent her sex. You know it, too, but you are simply bent on
“chewing the rag.” You’re a fat–headed old’——
‘Excuse me,’ said a sweet–faced girl at that moment, touching my arm.
‘Yes,’ I answered, a little abashed.
‘Are you in the Cadet Battalion at Windmoor?’
‘Yes,’ I replied more pleasantly, observing how charming she and her
companion looked. Beefy was grinning like a nigger.
‘I wonder if you could give this note to your fellow–cadet, Robert
Clarke.’
‘Oh, Nobby Clarke.’
‘I believe you call him “Nobby.”’
‘Certainly—delighted! May I have the pleasure of telling him the name
of the sender?’
‘His sister—Marjory. I do hope you will excuse my asking you, but
I want him to come to–morrow for tea, and I thought I should meet
somebody from the camp. I was rather nervous about stopping you, for
you appeared so engrossed in some discussion.’
‘Yes, we were discussing girls. My friend here is a bit of a cynic.’
‘Don’t believe him,’ interjected Beefy.
‘I think you are all very gay at the Cadet School. Now, will you excuse
me? My sister and I have to go on to hospital. We’re V.A.D.’s, you
know.’
‘Oh, don’t go yet,’ pleaded Beefy. ‘I wonder if we may ask you to tea
at the picture–house.’
‘It’s hardly conventional, is it?’
‘But it’s war–time, Miss Clarke, and of course—we know your brother. He
will be quite pleased, I am sure.’
‘That sounds consoling to my conscience.’ Then, turning, she called her
sister Hilda over, and away we went to the tea–rooms.
They were well–educated and most charming girls, and Marjory dispensed
tea like a duchess.
‘Do tell me, Mr Brown, what you two were fighting about when I stopped
you.’
‘A simple matter. Beefy, here, was saying women are neurotic and cheap
these days. I took a brief in defence of your sex—that’s all.’
‘Mr Jones is saucy, I think,’ muttered Marjory, just as she was about
to put her pretty teeth into a cherry–cake.
‘Per–haps; but don’t you think you girls get it all your own way these
days?’ answered Beefy.
‘Yes, after thousands of years of bondage. It was surely time to
break the shackles. We’ve been cooped up like canaries. There’s a big
difference between freedom and folly. I don’t think the average girl
makes a mess of things. Ours is not the easy path you think, Mr Jones.
Why shouldn’t we do things? We can’t all get married, so we have to
carve out our careers. If we do have our innocent pleasures, I think we
work mighty hard for them, especially in war–time.’
‘Yes; but aren’t you girls a fickle lot?’
‘That depends on the sort of girl. Many of you boys chase powdered
creatures, who are as brainless as they are hopeless. They are the
moths who rush at every bright candle, but they don’t represent the
nice girls in the provinces or away in the decent West–End homes.
These stupid girls are getting our sex a bad name. You boys are so
silly.—Do have more tea,’ she said, peering into Beefy’s cup.
‘Thanks—I will.’
‘I think you boys learn a lot of nonsense when you go to public
schools. Some schools have a rotten atmosphere. You dabble in Wilde and
Zola, and feed yourselves on Oriental and degenerate trash. What you
want is fresh air and plenty of tennis or golf with real nice girls!
You won’t get the best of our sex at stage–doors or in saloon–bars. And
that’s where many boys form their views. However, we’ve got the vote,
and we’ll help you through. Have a cherry–cake.’
‘Come, come, Miss Clarke! You’re not all saints; you know that.’
‘Granted, Mr Jones. But what about the men? Don’t you think there are
faults on both sides? The world was never perfect, and never will be,
but it’s silly to abuse each other. Come now, let’s be friends. You’re
much too nice to have those silly cynical views. I really think you’re
just arguing the point.’
‘Not exactly. Just look at the bunch of girls around us here. They’ve
got bags of flour on their faces, red paint all over their lips, and
they _do_ fancy themselves. They’ll pick up anything in trousers.’
‘These are the drones, not the busy bees. All the best girls, like the
best boys, are helping to win the war. They haven’t time to idle all
day here. But the average man is a queer creature. He doesn’t want a
“W.A.A.C.,” a “Wren,” or even a humbly dressed “V.A.D.” They haven’t
got enough frills or fripperies. When he gets his leave he hobnobs with
the girl slackers. After a day he is disillusioned; then he turns round
on the sex. You men are so inconsistent. You want the lilies, but you
always grasp the deadly nightshades. Do have another cake.’
‘Ah, well, you’re different,’ mumbled Beefy.
‘Thanks—but I’m really “feeding the brute.” You boys want mothering.
It doesn’t do to let you have it all your own way. The world, somehow,
has gone mad. This war is making all of us catty. It’s much nicer to be
chummy, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I think you are right on the chummy point.’
‘Good! You’re really not so pagan as I imagined. At first I thought you
were a wild man of the woods.’
‘I thought girls preferred that kind.’
‘Perhaps; but they’re not reliable. Still, I believe the average girl
likes a blend of the saint and the sinner.’
‘You women are certainly a mystery.’
‘To a man—yes. That’s our armour. You are all so fickle that we daren’t
put all our goods in the window. You’re really better when on the end
of a string and kept in suspense. It stops you chasing our rivals.
Women have no use for polygamy. When we find a good thing we hang on to
it.’
‘We’re certainly not so subtle as women.’
‘That’s easily explained. You are the hunter; we are the hunted. We
need a lot of tricks to dodge you. For all that, a woman is quite
simple. What she really craves for is affection. That’s what she is
here for; give her that and she’ll give you the moon.’
‘Well, you’re a marvel.’
‘No; I’m only a girl.’
‘But other girls don’t talk like you.’
‘More’s the pity! You men are so scarce that girls frequently sink
opinions and principles to catch you. It’s really not worth the
trouble. There are more things in heaven and earth than chocolates or
trousers. Why should a girl let a man be the great I–Am? It’s not good
for him! It makes him a Turk! Equality of intellect and opportunity is
surely reasonable.’
‘By Jove! I believe you’re a suffragette.’
‘Why not? You’ve had it all your own way for centuries. You’ve flooded
the world with materialism. There _are_ better things. Surely you don’t
want us to be German Fraus—fat frumps, exclusively absorbed in cooking,
kids, and kirks. You need Idealism. Girls have more of it than men. And
it’s your pagan code that’s really upset our sex. You’d sooner have
omelet than love.’
‘But we must have omelets.’
‘Omelets, without love, are like chickens without breasts. You don’t
want a woman simply to preside over jam–jars. If the German women had
only asserted themselves there would never have been a war.’
‘Explain.’
‘You must know that German women were locked in their kitchens, trained
to prostrate themselves at the feet of man, and squashed when they
asserted the sweeter and more reasonable philosophy which women have
been given, so as to neutralise the barbarism of the world.’
‘There’s something in that, I grant you,’ conceded Beefy.
‘Now you are really coming round.’
‘You are such a good advocate, you know. But I never thought pretty
girls like you could be suffragettes. You don’t need to be.’
‘Heavens! What a thought! Must a suffragette have flat feet and a
pug–nose? It isn’t really a question of votes; it’s a question of
broadening out our philosophy and making the world more happy. There
will be no more Hohenzollerns once we take a hand in the legislation of
the world.’
‘I’ll vote for you—by Jove, I will!’
‘How nice of you!’ said Marjory, smiling sweetly and collecting her
umbrella, gloves, &c.
‘Must you go?’ I asked regretfully. The discussion had been so
interesting.
‘Oh yes; we’re on duty at four. Now, good–bye, Mr Brown.—Good–bye, Mr
Jones.’
‘Good–bye. Oh, by the way’——
‘What?’
‘Will you come to tea again?’
‘Delighted.... Good–bye.’ And away she and her sister went—a couple of
dream–pictures in the garb of the V.A.D.
As they disappeared I turned to Beefy and said, ‘Well, old chap, what
about women now?’
‘Marvellous! Marvellous!’
I thought so too, for I had been thinking hard about Adela.
Was she flirting with the Australians?