WOMEN AT SEA
Of all the pitiful sights, of all the pathetic figures in the world,
there is none to compare to women at sea.
Is it possible that these dejected, abject-looking bundles of misery
only yesterday were the bright, proud, elegant, queenly fashion-plates
whom I saw on Fifth Avenue? _Quantum mutatae ab illis!_ What a
metamorphosis!
Poor things! Even the most terrible home ruler is satisfied with the
lower berth, and gives her husband a chance to look down upon her. She
is meek and grateful, she is submissive, and her imploring eyes beg the
most hen-pecked husband not to take advantage of his temporary
superiority.
She arrived on board flamboyant, with her most bewitching finery on, or
a most becoming yachting-suit. She meant to 'fetch' all the men on deck.
She went radiant to the saloon and examined the lovely flowers which had
been sent to wish her _bon voyage_. _Bon voyage!_ What irony!
These flowers are the very emblem of all that is going to happen to
her--bright, fresh, and erect as the boat starts; wet, withered,
drooping, and dripping, with no life left, twenty-four hours later.
She is present at the first meal, and declares to her neighbours that
things at sea are not so bad as some people pretend, and the Atlantic is
too often libelled. Besides, she is used to travelling, and she knows a
remedy for sea-sickness.
Before sailing she doctored herself. She took an infallible drug--a
rather unpleasant one, it is true; but what is that compared to the
benefit derived from it? Yes, an infallible remedy--at any rate, one
that succeeds nine times out of ten. Alas! this time is going to be the
tenth.
You get outside the harbour, and leave Sandy Hook behind you. She has
taken soup and fish. Somehow she now feels she has had enough. Her
appetite is satisfied, and she goes on deck. When you see her again, she
is lying on an easy-chair, packed as carefully and tightly as a valuable
clock that is to be sent to the Antipodes.
There she now lies, motionless, speechless, helpless, and hopeless,
wondering if the infallible remedy is going to fail. The yachting-cap is
no longer roguish and cocky, but hanging over her eyes, or her beautiful
hat is replaced by a tam-o'-shanter. The damp air has already taken away
all her curls, and her hair, straight as drum-sticks, is hanging in
front and behind, and, worse than all, she doesn't care. Provided you
don't speak to her, don't shake her, and don't ask her to move, she
doesn't care.
The boat is heaving. All the different parts of her anatomy go up with
the boat, but they all come down again one by one, and she has to gather
them together. She is at sea with a vengeance! Her husband is all right,
the brute! so is pretty Miss So-and-So, who is chatting with him, the
cat!
Their smiles and insulting pictures of health are more than she can
bear. She is a good Christian, but if only that girl could be sick, too!
What business has she to be well?
Of course, her husband has packed her up, tucked her in most carefully,
and placed grapes and iced soda-water within her reach. He has done his
duty, and now he makes himself scarce. Maybe he is flirting on the
weather side, maybe he is in the smoke-room having a game of piquet or
poker.
Anyway, he is all right, having a good time. Why isn't he sick, too?
For six or seven days, that bright American woman, who runs household,
husband, children, and servants with one glance of the eye, is at the
mercy of everyone who belongs to her, suffering agonies, tortures of
body and mind, and you would imagine that a boat sees her on the
Atlantic for the last time.
You would think that all the beauties of American scenery, its
seashores, lakes, and mountains, will attract her next season. Not a bit
of it. In order to be seen at the dreary funereal functions of Mayfair
and Belgravia, she will cross again. She goes where duty calls her. She
has to be 'in it' first, in the hope of soon being 'of it.'
And, in order to secure her social standing on a sure basis, twice a
year she will pack her belongings and suffer death agonies. The pluck
and power of endurance of women is perfectly prodigious.