Bowen mildly stood his ground. "Well--doesn't he prove it? How much does
he let her share in the real business of life? How much does he rely on
her judgment and help in the conduct of serious affairs? Take Ralph for
instance--you say his wife's extravagance forces him to work too hard;
but that's not what's wrong. It's normal for a man to work hard for a
woman--what's abnormal is his not caring to tell her anything about it."
"To tell Undine? She'd be bored to death if he did!"
"Just so; she'd even feel aggrieved. But why? Because it's against the
custom of the country. And whose fault is that? The man's again--I don't
mean Ralph I mean the genus he belongs to: homo sapiens, Americanus.
Why haven't we taught our women to take an interest in our work? Simply
because we don't take enough interest in THEM."
Mrs. Fairford, sinking back into her chair, sat gazing at the
vertiginous depths above which his thought seemed to dangle her.
"YOU don't? The American man doesn't--the most slaving, self-effacing,
self-sacrificing--?"
"Yes; and the most indifferent: there's the point. The 'slaving's' no
argument against the indifference To slave for women is part of the old
American tradition; lots of people give their lives for dogmas they've
ceased to believe in. Then again, in this country the passion for making
money has preceded the knowing how to spend it, and the American man
lavishes his fortune on his wife because he doesn't know what else to do
with it."
"Then you call it a mere want of imagination for a man to spend his
money on his wife?"
"Not necessarily--but it's a want of imagination to fancy it's all
he owes her. Look about you and you'll see what I mean. Why does the
European woman interest herself so much more in what the men are doing?
Because she's so important to them that they make it worth her while!
She's not a parenthesis, as she is here--she's in the very middle
of the picture. I'm not implying that Ralph isn't interested in his
wife--he's a passionate, a pathetic exception. But even he has to
conform to an environment where all the romantic values are reversed.
Where does the real life of most American men lie? In some woman's
drawing-room or in their offices? The answer's obvious, isn't it? The
emotional centre of gravity's not the same in the two hemispheres. In
the effete societies it's love, in our new one it's business. In America
the real crime passionnel is a 'big steal'--there's more excitement in
wrecking railways than homes."
Bowen paused to light another cigarette, and then took up his theme.
"Isn't that the key to our easy divorces? If we cared for women in the
old barbarous possessive way do you suppose we'd give them up as
readily as we do? The real paradox is the fact that the men who make,
materially, the biggest sacrifices for their women, should do least for
them ideally and romantically. And what's the result--how do the women
avenge themselves? All my sympathy's with them, poor deluded dears, when
I see their fallacious little attempt to trick out the leavings
tossed them by the preoccupied male--the money and the motors and the
clothes--and pretend to themselves and each other that THAT'S what
really constitutes life! Oh, I know what you're going to say--it's less
and less of a pretense with them, I grant you; they're more and more
succumbing to the force of the suggestion; but here and there I fancy
there's one who still sees through the humbug, and knows that money and
motors and clothes are simply the big bribe she's paid for keeping out
of some man's way!"
Mrs. Fairford presented an amazed silence to the rush of this tirade;
but when she rallied it was to murmur: "And is Undine one of the
exceptions?"
Her companion took the shot with a smile. "No--she's a monstrously
perfect result of the system: the completest proof of its triumph. It's
Ralph who's the victim and the exception."
"Ah, poor Ralph!" Mrs. Fairford raised her head quickly. "I hear him
now. I suppose," she added in an undertone, "we can't give him your
explanation for his wife's having forgotten to come?"
Bowen echoed her sigh, and then seemed to toss it from him with his
cigarette-end; but he stood in silence while the door opened and Ralph
Marvell entered.
"Well, Laura! Hallo, Charles--have you been celebrating too?" Ralph
turned to his sister. "It's outrageous of me to be so late, and I
daren't look my son in the face! But I stayed down town to make
provision for his future birthdays." He returned Mrs. Fairford's kiss.
"Don't tell me the party's over, and the guest of honour gone to bed?"
As he stood before them, laughing and a little flushed, the strain of
long fatigue sounding through his gaiety and looking out of his anxious
eyes, Mrs. Fairford threw a glance at Bowen and then turned away to ring
the bell.
"Sit down, Ralph--you look tired. I'll give you some tea."
He dropped into an arm-chair. "I did have rather a rush to get here--but
hadn't I better join the revellers? Where are they?"
He walked to the end of the room and threw open the dining-room doors.
"Hallo--where have they all gone to? What a jolly cake!" He went up to
it. "Why, it's never even been cut!"