NOTES ON AMERICAN WOMEN--COMPARISONS--HOW MEN TREAT WOMEN AND VICE
VERSA--SCENES AND ILLUSTRATIONS.
_New York, January 18._
A man was one day complaining to a friend that he had been married
twenty years without being able to understand his wife. "You should not
complain of that," remarked the friend. "I have been married to my wife
two years only, and I understand her perfectly."
The leaders of thought in France have long ago proclaimed that woman was
the only problem it was not given to man to solve. They have all tried,
and they have all failed. They all acknowledge it--but they are trying
still.
Indeed, the interest that woman inspires in every Frenchman is never
exhausted. Parodying Terence, he says to himself, "I am a man, and all
that concerns woman interests me." All the French modern novels are
studies, analytical, dissecting studies, of woman's heart.
To the Anglo-Saxon mind, this may sometimes appear a trifle puerile, if
not also ridiculous. But to understand this feeling, one must remember
how a Frenchman is brought up.
In England, boys and girls meet and play together; in America and
Canada, they sit side by side on the same benches at school, not only as
children of tender age, but at College and in the Universities. They get
accustomed to each other's company; they see nothing strange in being in
contact with one another, and this naturally tends to reduce the
interest or curiosity one sex takes in the other. But in France they are
apart, and the ball-room is the only place where they can meet when they
have attained the age of twenty!
Strange to reflect that young people of both sexes can meet in
ball-rooms without exciting their parents' suspicions, and that they
cannot do so in class-rooms!
When I was a boy at school in France, I can well remember how we boys
felt on the subject. If we heard that a young girl, say the sister of
some school-fellow, was with her mother in the common parlor to see her
brother, why, it created a commotion, a perfect revolution in the whole
establishment. It was no use trying to keep us in order. We would climb
on the top of the seats or of the tables to endeavor to see something of
her, even if it were but the top of her hat, or a bit of her gown across
the recreation yard at the very end of the building. It was an event.
Many of us would even immediately get inspired and compose verses
addressed to the unknown fair visitor. In these poetical effusions we
would imagine the young girl carried off by some miscreant, and we would
fly to her rescue, save her, and throw ourselves at her feet to receive
her hand as our reward. Yes, we would get quite romantic or, in plain
English, quite silly. We could not imagine that a woman was a reasoning
being with whom you can talk on the topics of the day, or have an
ordinary conversation on any ordinary subject. To us a woman was a being
with whom you can only talk of love, or fall in love, or, maybe, for
whom you may die of love.
This manner of training young men goes a long way toward explaining the
position of woman in France as well as her ways. It explains why a
Frenchman and a Frenchwoman, when they converse together, seldom can
forget that one is a man and the other a woman. It does not prove that a
Frenchwoman must necessarily be, and is, affected in her relations with
men; but it explains why she does not feel, as the American woman does,
that a man and woman can enjoy a _tete-a-tete_ free from all those
commonplace flatteries, compliments, and platitudes that
badly-understood gallantry suggests. Many American ladies have made me
forget, by the easiness of their manner and the charm and naturalness of
their conversation, that I was speaking with women, and with lovely
ones, too. This I could never have forgotten in the company of French
ladies.
On account of this feeling, and perhaps also of the difference which
exists between the education received by a man and that received by a
woman in France, the conversation will always be on some light topics,
literary, artistic, dramatic, social, or other. Indeed, it would be most
unbecoming for a man to start a very serious subject of conversation
with a French lady to whom he had just been introduced. He would be
taken for a pedant or a man of bad breeding.
In America, men and women receive practically the same education, and
this of course enlarges the circle of conversation between the sexes. I
shall always remember a beautiful American girl, not more than twenty
years of age, to whom I was once introduced in New York, as she was
giving to a lady sitting next to her a most detailed description of the
latest bonnet invented in Paris, and who, turning toward me, asked me
point-blank if I had read M. Ernest Renan's "History of the People of
Israel." I had to confess that I had not yet had time to read it. But
she had, and she gave me, without the remotest touch of affectation or
pedantry, a most interesting and learned analysis of that remarkable
work. I related this incident in "Jonathan and his Continent." On
reading it, some of my countrymen, critics and others, exclaimed: "We
imagine the fair American girl had a pair of gold spectacles on."
"No, my dear compatriots, nothing of the sort. No gold spectacles, no
guy. It was a beautiful girl, dressed with most exquisite taste and
care, and most charming and womanly."
An American woman, however learned she may be, is a sound politician,
and she knows that the best thing she can make of herself is a woman,
and she remains a woman. She will always make herself as attractive as
she possibly can. Not to please men--I believe she has a great contempt
for them--but to please herself. If, in a French drawing-room, I were to
remark to a lady how clever some woman in the room looked, she would
probably closely examine that woman's dress to find out what I thought
was wrong about it. It would probably be the same in England, but not
in America.
A Frenchwoman will seldom be jealous of another woman's cleverness. She
will far more readily forgive her this qualification than beauty. And in
this particular point, it is probable that the Frenchwoman resembles all
the women in the Old World.
* * * * *
Of all the ladies I have met, I have no hesitation in declaring that the
American ones are the least affected. With them, I repeat it, I feel at
ease as I do with no other women in the world.
With whom but an _Americaine_ would the following little scene have been
possible?
I was in Boston. It was Friday, and knowing it to be the reception day
of Mrs. X., an old friend of mine and my wife's, I thought I would call
upon her early, before the crowd of visitors had begun to arrive. So I
went to the house about half-past three in the afternoon. Mrs. X.
received me in the drawing-room, and we were soon talking on the hundred
and one topics that old friends have on their tongue tips. Presently the
conversation fell on love and lovers. Mrs. X. drew her chair up a little
nearer to the fire, put the toes of her little slippers on the fender
stool, and with a charmingly confidential, but perfectly natural,
manner, said:
"You are married and love your wife; I am married and love my husband;
we are both artists, let's have our say out."
And we proceeded to have our say out.
But all at once I noticed that about half an inch of the seam of her
black silk bodice was unsewn. We men, when we see a lady with something
awry in her toilette, how often do we long to say to her: "Excuse me,
madam, but perhaps you don't know that you have a hairpin sticking out
two inches just behind your ear," or "Pardon me, Miss, I'm a married
man, there is something wrong there behind, just under your waist belt."
Now I felt for Mrs. X., who was just going to receive a crowd of callers
with a little rent in one of her bodice seams, and tried to persuade
myself to be brave and tell her of it. Yet I hesitated. People take
things so differently. The conversation went on unflagging. At last I
could not stand it any longer.
"Mrs. X.," said I, all in a breath, "you are married and love your
husband; I am married and love my wife; we are both artists; there is a
little bit of seam come unsewn, just there by your arm, run and get it
sewn up!"
The peals of laughter that I heard going on upstairs, while the damage
was being repaired, proved to me that there was no resentment to be
feared, but, on the contrary, that I had earned the gratitude of Mrs. X.
* * * * *
In many respects I have often been struck with the resemblance which
exists between French and American women. When I took my first walk on
Broadway, New York, on a fine afternoon some two years and a half ago, I
can well remember how I exclaimed: "Why, this is Paris, and all these
ladies are _Parisiennes_!" It struck me as being the same type of face,
the same animation of features, the same brightness of the eyes, the
same self-assurance, the same attractive plumpness in women over thirty.
To my mind, I was having a walk on my own Boulevards (every Parisian
_owns_ that place). The more I became acquainted with American ladies,
the more forcibly this resemblance struck me. This was not a mere first
impression. It has been, and is still, a deep conviction; so much so
that whenever I returned to New York from a journey of some weeks in the
heart of the country, I felt as if I was returning home.
After a short time, a still closer resemblance between the women of the
two countries will strike a Frenchman most forcibly. It is the same
_finesse_, the same suppleness of mind, the same wonderful adaptability.
Place a little French milliner in a good drawing-room for an hour, and
at the end of that time she will behave, talk, and walk like any lady in
the room. Suppose an American, married below his _status_ in society, is
elected President of the United States, I believe, at the end of a week,
this wife of his would do the honors of the White House with the ease
and grace of a highborn lady.
In England it is just the contrary.
Of course good society is good society everywhere. The ladies of the
English aristocracy are perfect queens; but the Englishwoman, who was
not born a lady, will seldom become a lady, and I believe this is why
_mesalliances_ are more scarce in England than in America, and
especially in France. I could name many Englishmen at the head of their
professions, who cannot produce their wives in society because these
women have not been able to raise themselves to the level of their
husbands' station in life. The Englishwoman, as a rule, has no faculty
for fitting herself for a higher position than the one she was born in;
like a rabbit, she will often taste of the cabbage she fed on. And I am
bound to add that this is perhaps a quality, and proves the truthfulness
of her character. She is no actress.
In France, the _mesalliance_, though not relished by parents, is not
feared so much, because they know the young woman will observe and
study, and very soon fit herself for her new position.
And while on this subject of _mesalliance_, why not try to destroy an
absurd prejudice that exists in almost every country on the subject of
France?
It is, I believe, the firm conviction of foreigners that Frenchmen marry
for money, that is to say, that all Frenchmen marry for money. As a
rule, when people discuss foreign social topics, they have a wonderful
faculty for generalization.
The fact that many Frenchmen do marry for money is not to be denied, and
the explanation of it is this: We have in France a number of men
belonging to a class almost unknown in other countries, small
_bourgeois_ of good breeding and genteel habits, but relatively poor,
who occupy posts in the different Government offices. Their name is
legion and their salary something like two thousand francs ($400). These
men have an appearance to keep up, and, unless a wife brings them enough
to at least double their income, they cannot marry. These young men are
often sought after by well-to-do parents for their daughters, because
they are steady, cultured, gentlemanly, and occupy an honorable
position, which brings them a pension for their old age. With the wife's
dowry, the couple can easily get along, and lead a peaceful, uneventful,
and happy jog-trot life, which is the great aim of the majority of the
French people.
But, on the other hand, there is no country where you will see so many
cases of _mesalliance_ as France, and this alone should dispose of the
belief that Frenchmen marry for money. Indeed, it is a most common thing
for a young Frenchman of good family to fall in love with a girl of a
much lower station of life than his own, to court her, at first with
perhaps only the idea of killing time or of starting a _liaison_, to
soon discover that the girl is highly respectable, and to finally marry
her. This is a most common occurrence. French parents frown on this sort
of thing, and do their best to discourage it, of course; but rather than
cross their son's love, they give their consent, and trust to that
adaptability of Frenchwomen, of which I was speaking just now, to raise
herself to her husband's level and make a wife he will never be ashamed
of.
* * * * *
The Frenchman is the slave of his womankind, but not in the same way as
the American is. The Frenchman is brought up by his mother, and remains
under her sway till she dies. When he marries, his wife leads him by the
nose (an operation which he seems to enjoy), and when, besides, he has a
daughter, on whom he generally dotes, this lady soon joins the other two
in ruling this easy-going, good-humored man. As a rule, when you see a
Frenchman, you behold a man who is kept in order by three generations
of women: mother, wife, and daughter.
The American will lavish attention and luxury on his wife and daughters,
but he will save them the trouble of being mixed in his affairs. His
business is his, his office is private. His womankind is the sun and
glory of his life, whose company he will hasten to enjoy as soon as he
can throw away the cares of his business. In France, a wife is a
partner, a cashier who takes care of the money, even an adviser on stock
and speculations. In the mercantile class, she is both cashier and
bookkeeper. Enter a shop in France, Paris included, and behind "Pay
Here," you will see Madame, smiling all over as she pockets the money
for the purchase you have made. When I said she is a partner, I might
safely have said that she is the active partner, and, as a rule, by far
the shrewder of the two. She brings to bear her native suppleness, her
fascinating little ways, her persuasive manners, and many a customer
whom her husband was allowing to go away without a purchase, has been
brought back by the wife, and induced to part with his cash in the shop.
Last year I went to Paris, on my way home from Germany, to spend a few
days visiting the Exposition. One day I entered a shop on the Boulevards
to buy a white hat. The new-fashioned hats, the only hats which the man
showed me, were narrow-brimmed, and I declined to buy one. I was just
going to leave, when the wife, who, from the back parlor, had listened
to my conversation with her husband, stepped in and said: "But, Adolphe,
why do you let Monsieur go? Perhaps he does not care to follow the
fashion. We have a few white broad-brimmed hats left from last year
that we can let Monsieur have _a bon compte_. They are upstairs, go and
fetch them." And, sure enough, there was one which fitted and pleased
me, and I left in that shop a little sum of twenty-five francs, which
the husband was going to let me take elsewhere, but which the wife
managed to secure for the firm.
[Illustration: MADAM IS THE CASHIER.]
No one who has lived in France has failed to be struck with the
intelligence of the women, and there exist few Frenchmen who do not
readily admit how intellectually inferior they are to their
countrywomen, chiefly among the middle and lower classes. And this is
not due to any special training, for the education received by the women
of that class is of the most limited kind; they are taught to read,
write, and reckon, and their education is finished. Shrewdness is inborn
in them, as well as a peculiar talent for getting a hundred cents' worth
for every dollar they spend. How to make a house look pretty and
attractive with small outlay; how to make a dress or turn out a bonnet
with a few knick-knacks; how to make a savory dish out of a small
remnant of beef, mutton, and veal; all that is a science not to be
despised when a husband, in receipt of a four or five hundred dollar
salary, wants to make a good dinner, and see his wife look pretty. No
doubt the aristocratic inhabitants of Mayfair and Belgravia in London,
and the plutocracy of New York, may think all this very small, and these
French people very uninteresting. They can, perhaps, hardly imagine that
such people may live on such incomes and look decent. But they do live,
and live very happy lives, too. And I will go so far as to say that
happiness, real happiness, is chiefly found among people of limited
income. The husband, who perhaps for a whole year has put quietly by a
dollar every week, so as to be able to give his dear wife a nice present
at Christmas, gives her a far more valuable, a far better appreciated
present, than the millionaire who orders Tiffany to send a diamond
_riviere_ to his wife. That quiet young French couple, whom you see at
the upper circle of a theater, and who have saved the money to enable
them to come and hear such and such a play, are happier than the
occupants of the boxes on the first tier. If you doubt it, take your
opera glasses, and "look on this picture, and on this."
[Illustration: THE UPPER CIRCLE.]
In observing nations, I have always taken more interest in the
"million," who differ in every country, than in the "upper ten," who are
alike all over the world. People who have plenty of money at their
disposal generally discover the same way of spending it, and adopt the
same mode of living. People who have only a small income show their
native instincts in the intelligent use of it. All these differ, and
these only are worth studying, unless you belong to the staff of a
"society" paper. (As a Frenchman, I am glad to say we have no "society"
papers. England and America are the only two countries in the world
where these official organs of Anglo-Saxon snobbery can be found, and I
should not be surprised to hear that Australia possessed some of these
already.)
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE SAD-EYED OCCUPANTS OF THE BOX.]
The source of French happiness is to be found in the thrift of the
women, from the best middle class to the peasantry. This thrift is also
the source of French wealth. A nation is really wealthy when the
fortunes are stable, however small. We have no railway kings, no oil
kings, no silver kings, but we have no tenement houses, no Unions, no
Work-houses. Our lower classes do not yet ape the upper class people,
either in their habits or dress. The wife of a peasant or of a mechanic
wears a simple snowy cap, and a serge or cotton dress. The wife of a
shopkeeper does not wear any jewelry because she cannot afford to buy
real stones, and her taste is too good to allow of her wearing false
ones. She is not ashamed of her husband's occupation; she does not play
the fine lady while he is at work. She saves him the expense of a
cashier or of an extra clerk by helping him in his business. When the
shutters are up, she enjoys life with him, and is the companion of his
pleasures as well as of his hardships. Club life is unknown in France,
except among the upper classes. Man and wife are constantly together,
and France is a nation of Darbys and Joans. There is, I believe, no
country where men and women go through life on such equal terms as in
France.
* * * * *
In England (and here again I speak of the masses only), the man thinks
himself a much superior being to the woman. It is the same in Germany.
In America, I should feel inclined to believe that a woman looks down
upon a man with a certain amount of contempt. She receives at his hands
attentions of all sorts, but I cannot say, as I have remarked before,
that I have ever discovered in her the slightest trace of gratitude to
man.
I have often tried to explain to myself this gentle contempt of American
ladies for the male sex; for, contrasting it with the lovely devotion of
Jonathan to his womankind, it is a curious enigma. Have I found the
solution at last? Does it begin at school? In American schools, boys and
girls, from the age of five, follow the same path to learning, and sit
side by side on the same benches. Moreover, the girls prove themselves
capable of keeping pace with the boys. Is it not possible that those
girls, as they watched the performances of the boys in the study,
learned to say, "Is that all?" While the young lords of creation, as
they have looked on at what "those girls" can do, have been fain to
exclaim: "Who would have thought it!" And does not this explain the two
attitudes: the great respect of men for women, and the mild contempt of
women for men?
Very often, in New York, when I had time to saunter about, I would go up
Broadway and wait until a car, well crammed with people, came along.
Then I would jump on board and stand near the door. Whenever a man
wanted to get out, he would say to me "Please," or "Excuse me," or just
touch me lightly to warn me that I stood in his way. But the women! Oh,
the women! why, it was simply lovely. They would just push me away with
the tips of their fingers, and turn up such disgusted and haughty noses!
You would have imagined it was a heap of dirty rubbish in their way.
* * * * *
Would you have a fair illustration of the respective positions of woman
in France, in England, and in America?
Go to a hotel, and watch the arrival of couples in the dining-room.
Now don't go to the Louvre, the Grand Hotel, or the Bristol, in Paris.
Don't go to the Savoy, the Victoria, or the Metropole, in London. Don't
go to the Brunswick, in New York, because in all these hotels you will
see that all behave alike. Go elsewhere and, I say, watch.
In France, you will see the couples arrive together, walk abreast toward
the table assigned to them, very often arm in arm, and smiling at each
other--though married.
[Illustration: IN FRANCE.]
In England, you will see John Bull leading the way. He does not like to
be seen eating in public, and thinks it very hard that he should not
have the dining-room all to himself. So he enters, with his hands in
his pockets, looking askance at everybody right and left. Then, meek and
demure, with her eyes cast down, follows Mrs. John Bull.
[Illustration: IN ENGLAND.]
In America, behold the dignified, nay, the majestic entry of Mrs.
Jonathan, a perfect queen going toward her throne, bestowing a glance on
her subjects right and left--and Jonathan behind!
[Illustration: IN AMERICA.]
They say in France that Paris is the paradise of women. If so, there is
a more blissful place than paradise; there is another word to invent to
give an idea of the social position enjoyed by American ladies.
If I had to be born again, and might choose my sex and my birthplace, I
would shout at the top of my voice:
"Oh, make me an American woman!"
[Illustration]