The Pioneer New Woman
“I think the topic for to-day’s discussion should be ‘The Pioneer New
Woman,’” observed the president of the Teacup Club. “Have you all got
that down in your note-books? You don’t know how it pleases me to see
your methodical ways; it shows the real intellectual advancement of our
club. Why, for my part, I have gained so much that I am not afraid to
discuss any subject with any one.”
“We have advanced,” said the brown-eyed blonde. “I feel it, too. By
the way, has any one seen my note-book? I haven’t had it for three
weeks—are you sure that none of you have gotten it by mistake? I forgot
to put my name in it, and—”
“I know where it is,” said the girl with the classic profile. “You
loaned it to Kate—she told me so herself,—in order that she might read
up on some of the topics we have already discussed, and so qualify for
admission to the club.”
“I shall blackball her, for my part,” spoke up the girl with the dimple
in her chin. “She is so frivolous that she would drag down our high
standard. Besides, she once left me out when she gave a luncheon, and
told people that it was because she had all the decorations in yellow,
and feared they would not shade with my complexion.”
“Oh, well, Kate is color blind, any way,” said the girl with the
eyeglasses.
“Yes, and she is a little deaf, too,” remarked the president, “and
really does not know just how sharp her own speeches sound.”
“Perhaps not,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, “but I shall
blackball her just the same. By the way, Alice is giving a birthday
dinner party next week—twenty-six covers, one for each year. Clever
idea, isn’t it?”
“For whose birthday?” asked the girl with the classic profile. “Her
own? Ah, really, I knew she was forgetful, but this is carrying it too
far.”
“I wonder why otherwise sensible people will tell such stories about
their ages,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said the brown-eyed blonde.
“Neither do I,” said the girl with the classic profile.
“Of course, it doesn’t matter who knows my age, as yet,” said the
brown-eyed blonde.
“Nor mine,” remarked the girl with the classic profile.
“Nor mine, either,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.
“No, indeed,” said the brown-eyed blonde; “I got twenty-two birthday
gifts the other day on my twenty-second birthday.”
“Are you twenty-two? Why, so am I!” cried the girl with the classic
profile.
“Just my own age, too,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.
“And mine; how odd!” cried the girl with the dimple in her chin.
“That is one of the advantages of the new womanhood,” said the
president; “its beautiful candor. Now, I tell everybody that I am
twenty-two years old.”
“I wish you would tell Mrs. Van Tompkins,” said the girl with the
classic profile. “She wouldn’t take my word for it the other day,
though I told her that I couldn’t be mistaken, as you had told me so at
least six times in the last eighteen months.”
“Cora asked me the other day if there was any age qualification for
membership in this club,” remarked the girl with the eyeglasses, during
the slight pause which followed the last speech. “She says she has not
yet celebrated her twenty-first birthday.”
“Born on the 29th of February, then, wasn’t she?” asked the brown-eyed
blonde. “Yes, it is true that the new womanhood is breaking down old
traditions. We are not at all jealous of each other now.”
“Of course not,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin; “we have
learned to value our own attractions properly. Why, the other day I
stopped Amy and Fred to tell her there was a dab of powder on her
nose. Formerly another girl would have been jealous of her dazzling
complexion, and let her go on as she was.”
“How sweet of you,” murmured the girl with the eyeglasses; “and yet, I
doubt if she was really grateful.”
“That was not the question, dear; I—”
“Oh, dear,” broke in the president, “if my watch is right it is time to
adjourn, and yet. Why, here is Elise! What has made you late to-day?”
“A discussion with a stupid man,” cried the girl with the Roman nose.
“Only think, he actually said that no woman was mathematician enough
to count up her own birthdays correctly. I was so enraged—why, he said
that ‘I am twenty-two’ is the same thing to a girl as ‘Polly wants a
cracker’ is to a parrot, or the Spanish fandango to a guitar player—but
what on earth is wrong? You all look so queer.”
“It’s nothing at all, dear,” said the blue-eyed girl. “We were just
looking at your new hat, that is all. I think your watch must have
stopped, Evelyn dear, for mine is only—”
“Perhaps it has,” said the president. “Tom talks so much, sometimes,
that I quite forget to wind it.”
“Oh, well, it needs a rest sometimes,” said the girl with the dimple in
her chin. “I know that mine—”
“Oh, dear!” said the president, “I know I am a fright to-day, and
nothing but a sense of duty has brought me here. Why, I actually have
not had a chance to curl my hair properly for six days, and—”
“Been getting ready your new gown, have you?” said the girl with the
classic profile. “I only wish I had mine off my mind.”
“It wasn’t my new gown,” said the president. “It was Tom. He has had
a heavy cold, and the house smells so strong of camphor that there
will not be a moth within a block of it this year. I don’t mind being
bidden a tragic farewell at mid-day, but I do mind being waked up at
midnight for that purpose.”
“But it was nothing serious, was it?” asked the brown-eyed blonde. “I
thought the other day, when he came to the top of the stairs and called
to you that he was dying, that a man who was breathing his last would
manage to do it with less noise.”
“Oh, pshaw!” said the president. “That was nothing to the time he waked
me up at one o’clock in the morning to tell me that he was dying, but
if I let that mug-faced young preacher who used to come to see me,
officiate at his funeral he would come back and haunt me. It took a
hot-water bottle, a mustard plaster, two hot toddies, and the camphor
to quiet him that time.”
“Humph!” said the girl with the dimple in her chin; “I wonder why a man
always thinks a cold or a boil fatal—when he has it?”
“Perhaps he doesn’t himself,” said the girl with the Roman nose; “but
he always wants the women of the family to act as if they did.”
“Very true,” said the girl with the eyeglasses; “but do you know what
Dolly does? As soon as her husband complains of being ill she begins to
weep and tear her hair and lament that he will die, she knows he will.
That frightens him, and when she insists upon putting him to bed, and
giving him a bowl of hot ginger tea (which he detests), he pretends
that he was only joking, and flees to the office, when she calls him up
every half-hour to ask how he is. She says he seldom complains of his
health nowadays.”
“You know my sister Amelia, don’t you?” said the girl with the classic
profile. “Well, her husband had a heavy cold last week. He waked her
up at two o’clock to tell her that he was dying, and that he knew
he had not been a good husband to her, and could not go without her
forgiveness. She wept, and said that he had not been very nice to her,
and had never given her half enough money. Upon this, the dying man sat
up, and began to argue the case. From argument they passed to something
warmer. He went down to the office next day, and hasn’t said a word
about dying since.”
“I wouldn’t mind Tom thinking he was dying once in awhile,” said the
president, “if he’d only allow me the same privilege occasionally. He
won’t, though; he comes in and says, cheerfully, ‘Oh, you’ll soon be
all right. You should have seen how much worse I was once when I had
it, and never missed a day at the office, either!’ The last time he
did that my throat was too sore for me to reply properly, and I really
thought I should die of rage.”
“And no wonder,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin. “As if a
woman couldn’t always stand more than a man, anyhow! For instance,
I wonder how many of them could go out in thin shoes, and without
overshoes, as we do. And yet you never hear a girl say that she has
caught cold in that way.”
“Never,” said the blue-eyed girl; “we have too much fortitude. My
cousin Edith’s husband used to be always complaining of his health,
until this last winter, I wondered what had caused his miraculous
recovery, until she told me a few days ago. She was away from home, and
received a telegram, saying that she must come at once if she wanted to
see him alive. The message was delayed, being improperly addressed, and
when she reached home, expecting to find him dead, he met her at the
door. It seems that he had called in a new doctor, who was the cause of
his miraculous recovery. He said he would never have another physician
to prescribe for him as long as he lived.”
“Completely cured, eh?” said the president.
“Not that time. Next time he was ill, and the new doctor appeared, he
turned out to be an old admirer of Edith’s. Her husband is frightfully
jealous, and Edith’s potential second husband is a very real person to
him. Edith, as nurse, always went out into the hall to talk with the
doctor after his call. She says she is sure that she did not remain
away so _very_ long; but when she came back, after the first visit, her
husband sulked; after the second, he raved; and after the third, he
got up, declaring he’d live, if only to spite them both. And now, the
doctor points to him as an example of his remarkable healing powers,”
she added.
“Speaking of old sweethearts,” said the president, “what do you think
happened to me the other day? I was calling on Mrs. Vansmith and her
guest, as she had requested. Both of them happened to be out, and, to
my annoyance, I found I had no cards with me. At last I found one of
Tom’s in my card-case, and I left that, knowing that Mrs. Vansmith
would understand.”
“Well, and didn’t she?” asked the girl with the Roman nose.
“Perhaps. But the visitors didn’t. It turned out that she used to
be engaged to Tom; while I was in the kindergarten, I suppose. It
seems that his card was handed to her; and you should have seen the
unbelieving smile with which she listened to my explanation of the
matter!”
“You poor, dear,” said the blue-eyed girl, “you must have been as angry
as if somebody had trodden on your gown. A rather unpleasant thing
happened to Florence the other day, too; Molly was calling on her,
and a note was handed in. She thought it was from Teddy Crœsus, and
pretending that she had ink on her fingers, asked Molly to open it for
her, which she did.”
“How stupid of Molly; she might have known that it was some trick of
Florence’s,” said the girl with the eyeglasses. “Was it a proposal from
Teddy?”
“It wasn’t from Teddy at all; handwritings are so much alike nowadays.
It was a bill from the hairdresser, of whom Florence had bought those
lovely little curls which cluster around her brow—and Molly read it
aloud, as she had requested.”
“But who told you about it?” said the girl with the classic profile.
“Molly. You didn’t suppose it was Florence, did you? I declare, it made
me feel like trying to persuade both of them to join our club. There
isn’t a girl in it that would do such a mean thing, and the example
might—”
“No, it wouldn’t; they are too frivolous,” said the girl with the
eyeglasses. “Oh, girls, I sometimes wish that the men who dance with
us could hear the serious discussions which go on in this club,—so
harmoniously, too.”
“True,” said the president, “not one unkind word has been spoken, even
of the absent, since we organized. I wonder if as much can be said of
any other club.”
“I doubt it,” said the blue-eyed girl; “and it isn’t as if we couldn’t
think of clever things to say about people, either.”
“Of course not,” returned the girl with the Roman nose; “why, I know
some things, even about the other members, which—”
“So do I,” said the girl with the classic profile. “Why, I heard the
other day that you—”
“Of course I wouldn’t mention, for the world,” finished the girl with
the Roman nose, in some agitation.
“I thought not, dear; it would hardly be wise,” said the girl with the
eyeglasses, “for you, especially.”
“I’m sure, I don’t see why I, es—”
“Don’t you, dear? But, then, you never were clever,” said the
president. “Yes, I am very proud of the amiability we have all
displayed since joining the club. I must say that I didn’t expect—”
“I don’t see why not,” said the blue-eyed girl. “As for me, I can get
along with anybody, so I was not at all afraid.”
“Yes, dear,” said the brown-eyed blonde, “your tongue would be a
protection, even if—”
“Other people were even _more_ envious of me? That is hardly possible,
dear; but I thank you for your good opinion of me.”
“Don’t overwhelm me with gratitude, dearest; I really do not deserve
it.”
“But, luckily for you, love, people seldom get their deserts.”
“Oh, girls, don’t quarrel,” said the president, wringing her hands;
“I’ve always wanted this to be different from a man’s club, and now—”
“Really, Evelyn, you seem to be the one who is doing the quarreling,”
said the brown-eyed blonde, tartly. “As for me, I am naturally amiable,
and—”
“It is not your fault if your temper _is_ a bit soured by repeated
disappointments,” broke in the blue-eyed girl; “of course not.
Everybody says it is no wonder.”
“I—I resign from this club,” sobbed the brown-eyed blonde. “I’ll not
stay here another minute to be insulted!”
“Girls, girls,” said the president, “do be reasonable. I—”
“This is the first time _I_ was ever accused of being unreasonable,”
said the girl with the Roman nose; “and all I’ve got to say is, that I
pity Tom from the bottom of my heart, and—”
“I don’t doubt but that you’d be glad to comfort him—if I was dead,”
sobbed the president. “If this is all I am to get for keeping you at
peace during the meetings, I’ll just resign, and let you run the club
to suit yourselves. And a p-pretty mess you-you’ll make of it!” And
she retired behind her handkerchief.
“I’ll resign, too, this very minute,” said the girl with the Roman
nose. “I knew just how it would be when Dorothy asked me to join the
club, but—”
“You were afraid to refuse, lest something happen, and you didn’t know
all about it,” finished the blue-eyed girl. “Well, I wish to tender
_my_ resignation from the club, to take effect at once.”
“And so do I,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin.
“And I,” said the girl with the classic profile.
“I, too,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.
“W—why, then, there’s nobody left!” exclaimed the blue-eyed girl,
gazing about the room in astonishment. “Oh, w—what will all the men of
our set say when they hear of this!” she wailed.
“I never thought of that!” said the girl with the Roman nose. “I know
well enough, though, without thinking,” she added.
“They will say that women never _can_ agree among themselves,” sobbed
the girl with the dimple in her chin, “and they will keep on saying it,
in spite of the fact that it is a baseless libel!”
“Of—of course, I am not an—angry, only hurt,” sobbed the president.
“I am not angry at all,” said the blue-eyed girl, “only distressed that
the others—”
“I’m sure I—I haven’t a hard feeling against any—anybody,” wailed the
girl with the dimple in her chin.
“Nor I,” said the girl with the classic profile.
“Mercy, no,” said the girl with the eyeglasses.
“If anybody is sorry for having hurt my feelings, I am quite ready to
forgive it,” said the girl with the Roman nose.
“And so am I,” said the brown-eyed blonde.
“Then, I don’t see that any of us need resign,” said the president.
“Does anybody remember the topic under discussion?”
“‘The Pioneer New Woman,’” said the blue-eyed girl, “and a very
interesting topic it is, I’m sure.”
“Hear, hear,” said the girl with the Roman nose, as she tucked her
handkerchief into her belt.
“One thing is always a mystery to me,” said the girl with the dimple in
her chin; “why does no female creature ever acknowledge that she is a
new woman until she is quite an old one?”
“Oh, well, by that time her years will entitle her to a seat in a
street car, even if she wears bloomers,” thoughtfully replied the
president.
“Who really _was_ the pioneer new woman?” asked the girl with the
classic profile.
“Eve; although, she did not call herself by that name, I believe,”
returned the blue-eyed girl. “So far as I can see, the new woman is
just like all the rest of us—she wants to get everything she can out
of the world, and give as little as possible in return.”
“And it is perfectly natural that she should,” said the girl with the
eyeglasses. “The only way we can make the men give us what we really
want, is by asking for a great deal more, so that they will think
themselves lucky if we compromise on what we originally decided to
have.”
“Hear! hear!” said the girl with the Roman nose, making an entry into
her note-book, “I’ve been acting on that theory all my life, but I
never thought to formulate it.”
“Pardon me for the suggestion,” said the president, “but I hope you are
not in the habit of leaving that note-book around where any man can see
it.”
“It wouldn’t make any difference if I did, dear. I went to such
a fashionable school that no one but myself can ever read my
chirography—I can’t myself, if it was written long enough ago for me to
have quite forgotten what I said.”
“Then, you needn’t be uneasy about any old love letters which have not
been returned,” said the brown-eyed blonde.
“Not at all. Nobody could tell whether I had written a promise of
undying affection or a recipe for hair tonic.”
“I do wish my father had sent me to the same school,” said the
brown-eyed blonde, sorrowfully.
“Pshaw, old letters don’t tell half as many tales as old photographs,”
said the girl with the eyeglasses, sighing. “I know a girl who had been
engaged to a man who returned everything she had given him except one
photograph. She couldn’t refuse to let him keep it when he begged so
hard.”
“He had probably lost it, and didn’t know how to account for its
absence,” said the president.
“No, he hadn’t. Well, six years later, she became engaged to another
man. I fancy she must have told him some stories about her age.”
“It’s always better to understate rather than overstate a case,” said
the blue-eyed girl.
“So my old nurse used to say. Well, when she was about to be married,
her old lover sent her a beautiful present, and with it an envelope
addressed to her fiancé.”
“Which she should have opened herself,” said the president, promptly.
“He happened to be present when the box was opened, dear. The envelope
contained the photograph taken seven years before—”
“Why didn’t she say that—”
“It was a picture of her elder sister? She did, dear. What really
caused the trouble was her own name, and the date on the back of it,
coupled with the statement that it was taken on her twenty-second
birthday!”
“Oh, my goodness, how sly men are?” said the president. “And to think
that never, as long as she lived, could that girl tell him what she
really thought of him!”
“I know. She used to say that she sometimes regretted that she _hadn’t_
married him.”
“Oh, well, he is probably married to somebody else, by this time,
anyhow,” said the president, “though I doubt if his wife would fully
appreciate the enormity of his behavior, since it was toward another
woman.”
“Never mind,” said the brown-eyed blonde, “people are sure to be
punished in some way or another. I wouldn’t get up early on Sunday
morning, and go to church if I did not firmly believe that.”
“Goodness me,” said the president, “it must be awfully late, girls, and
I promised Tom to adjourn early and meet him down town. I do wonder if
he has been waiting for me all this time!”
“I’ve seen Jack,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, as the
friends went down the stairs; “met him on the street this morning.”
“And, I suppose you hurried right on, and never said a civil word to
him,” returned the blue-eyed girl.
“Indeed I didn’t. I called after him to wait for me, and—”
“And I suppose he thought that I had told you to talk to him, since
you were so eager. You needn’t tell me a word that you said—I don’t
want to hear anything about it. Did—did he look sort of hollow-eyed and
worn?”
“‘M—I can’t say that he did. But he said that he thought he must give
up chafing-dish suppers.”
“I should think he must have bad dreams,” said the blue-eyed girl,
viciously.
“He—he told me that he had called at your house the other day, and—”
“I suppose you let him go on thinking that I meant that message for
him. A nice friend you are, Emily Marshmallow!”
“Why, Dorothy, I—”
“You don’t surely mean that you explained it all, and actually let him
think that I wanted to apologize! Well, if anybody had told me such a
thing of you, I never would have believed it.”
“No, I didn’t,” said the girl with the dimple in her chin, “I didn’t
say a word, for just then Frances joined us; and if _you_ are clever
enough to get a private word with any man, after Frances sees him, I am
not!”