with my requirements, lie before me as I write. Yours, Number 4 (the
wife thoroughly happy in the wedded state), is suggestively typical of
American womanhood. I have merely to utilize my mind's eye in order to
behold you in the living flesh, tall, graceful, spare, and willowy;
earnest and piquant in expression, with an air which suggests both the
desire and the determination to accomplish great things, including no
less a range than the probing of the secrets of the infinite, and the
supplying of an ideal domestic dinner. Though willowy still, you have
a plumper person than before you were married, and your face has lost
the Amazonian tense look which it sometimes wore when you were a maid.
Your eyes are bright with happiness, and a shrewd humor plays about
the corners of your mouth; humor indicating, perhaps, that you find
the world less sorry and more alluring than you did in the days when,
grandly aspiring, but a little ignorant, cynical, and severe, you were
waiting for an ideal lover to come and lift you from this humdrum,
vulgar sphere to the stars. In other words, you have a drawing-room,
such as it is, and a baby such as never was, and a husband whose
faults (all of which you know) are more than balanced by his virtues,
so that you are able to love him devotedly with your eyes open, and
thus preserve your self-respect as an intelligent modern, and yet
satisfy that primal need of your nature, the capacity for adoring
affection. I see you thus in the living flesh, and I see you presently
lost in engaging thought. You are saying to yourself some such words
as these: "Everything is running smoothly. Alexander's (husband's
name) affairs are on a satisfactory financial basis; baby is well, and
has cut all her first teeth; the servants seem to be satisfied with
us; and now is my chance to do something. What shall it be?"
[_Note._--"Give an afternoon tea," ejaculated Josephine, to whom I was
reading what I had written.]
I have no doubt that my wife is right. That is the first thing you
would be likely to do. It is the never-failing resource of the young
bride and the aged matron alike when pricked by the spur of social
activity. Out go the cards of invitation, thin bread and butter is
cut, and presently, on the appointed day, a file or a throng,
according to weather and circumstances, of petticoats goes into and
from the house, and when the last skirt has disappeared you breathe a
sigh of relief and self-congratulation. "Thank heaven, that is over,
and I can start afresh with a clear conscience and an erect head."
Marvellous are the ways of the modern woman. It is thus that she
settles with her social creditors and wins a tranquil soul. What costs
less subtle man canvas-back ducks and cases of wine is accomplished by
the aid of a few tea-leaves and slices of thin bread and butter. And
then her slate is clear, and she can afford to sink back for a decade
into social greediness or inactivity, as the case may be, proud and
self-satisfied as a peacock.
Her slate, not yours, Number 4. Mrs. Alexander Sherman let me call you
by way of convenience, for a mere number suggests convict life. As
Josephine has intimated, you would probably begin with the tea, but
the last visitor would leave you only temporarily exhilarated. Within
a week carking, though praiseworthy, care would return, and you would
be asking yourself, "What shall it be next?"
I hear some bluff and old-fashioned man exclaim, "Let her look after
her husband and children, and attend to her domestic duties." Do not
be concerned by this superficial jibe, dear madam. I am here to defend
you, and I would be the last person in the world to aid and abet your
aspirations if I were not confident that you are a thoroughly devoted
wife and mother. Let me silence this stuffy censor at once by
informing him that in the interest of your baby you have familiarized
yourself with the laws of hygiene and the latest theories of
education, and that in no establishment among your contemporaries of
equal means is a better or more punctual dinner served. If I did not
believe this to be the case, I would have nothing more to do with you,
philosophically speaking.
I am taking for granted, too, that you are not nursing your social
ambitions in the same nest with a faith in your own artistic genius.
If you believe yourself to be an undiscovered queen of tragedy or an
undeveloped poet or sculptor, or feel yourself inspired to write a
novel or a play, please consider our correspondence at an end. In such
a case, the rest of this letter is not for you. Not because I doubt
your genius, but because I am certain that though artistic talent may
continue to flourish in spite of a husband and a baby, it must
inevitably languish and grow feeble when coupled as a running mate to
a career of general, elegant, social usefulness such as I know you
aspire to. If you possess artistic genius, or feel that you cannot be
happy without testing your own talent in this respect, be satisfied to
give one afternoon tea, and then practically renounce social
initiative, unless you are prepared to alienate your husband, neglect
your baby, or go to an asylum as a victim of triple-distilled nervous
prostration. Assuming, then, that you are simply eager to help in
working out the problems and fulfilling the destinies of your native
civilization with benefit to society and credit to yourself, I see you
again in your drawing-room a few days after your preliminary tea,
inquiring what you are to do next. I see, too, disporting themselves
in your thought, the images of the brilliant women of France of a
century ago--such women as Madame de Stael, Madame Recamier, Madame
Roland, and others, who influenced affairs of state by their
intelligence and social graces. It may be that they have been alike
your inspiration and your despair. You would fain follow in their
footsteps, but feel a washerwoman as compared with them. Your ambition
does you credit, Mrs. Alexander Sherman, and also, begging your
pardon, your humble-mindedness. But there is no occasion for you to
push either frame of mind to an extreme. Indeed, whether you be a
washerwoman or not as compared with these ladies, they were not
altogether admirable. I am writing to you as a woman thoroughly happy
in the wedded state. You will recollect that of no one of those
charming creatures could a similar statement be truthfully made.
Madame Recamier's husband was three times her age. He offered, poor
man, to consent to a divorce in order to allow his cherished wife to
marry another; but she, out of pity for him in his adversity, for he
had lost both royal favor and his estate, refused to take advantage of
his magnanimity. Madame Roland told her husband, who was some twenty
years her senior, her love for Buzot in order to protect herself from
herself, and did not allow her feelings an outlet until, every
possibility of meeting her lover having been removed by her
death-sentence, she could express her passion without violation of
duty. Very pretty behavior, but not exactly ideal marital relations,
Mrs. Alexander Sherman. They should be taken into account in any
comparison which you feel disposed to make between yourself and the
ladies in question.
And yet I would not have you fail to appreciate at their full worth
the exquisiteness of the heroines of the French salons; the grace and
nicety of their manners, the brilliancy of their intelligence, and the
thoroughness of their accomplishments. I have given you credit for
recurring to them instinctively as models of form, and I should grieve
to think that my reference to your superior domestic happiness should
lead you to think your humility amiss. Do you know the President of
any woman's club who reminds you, by her grace, her nicety, her
brilliancy, and her thoroughness of what you imagine Madame de Stael,
or Madame Recamier, or Madame Roland to have been? Possibly your
patriotism, or even your sincere convictions, would induce you to
answer this inquiry in the affirmative; and, indeed, I am ready to
admit that we may have their counterparts among us; but certainly the
country is not overrun with them, and I have no doubt that so
discriminating a person as I imagine you to be will agree that the
modern woman is often tempted to seek leadership on the strength of
bumptiousness, smart ignorance, and that bustling spirit which those
who possess it like to hear described as executive ability, instead of
by virtue of the talents and graces of old aristocratic society.
I quite realize, on the other hand, that the conditions under which
you live are very different from those which existed when the
brilliant and fascinating women whom I have specified, and others
resembling them, flourished. They were, of course, the quintessence of
civilized society, a small coterie living in the atmosphere of courts,
seeking to control events by the force of their engaging
personalities. I am writing to you, not as a member of a choice and
select organization, from which most women were excluded by reason of
their nothingness, but as the representative of a large and growing
constituency which is open, in theory at least, if not practically, to
the whole world of womanhood. For us, certainly, courts and their
atmosphere exist no longer, and the opportunities afforded women by
republican institutions to influence the course of political events
are slight; but in many respects the outlook of modern woman upon life
is essentially broader and no less interesting than the horizon of the
mistress of the French salon. Of necessity it is less exclusive and
more humanitarian, and by reason of the emancipation of woman as a
social factor it includes consideration of the whole range of
educational, philanthropic, and aesthetic interests in which democratic
civilization is concerned. It seems indeed a long cry from the
picturesque experience of a clever and fascinating Madame de Stael,
braving the enmity of a Napoleon, or a Madame Roland reading her
Tacitus and her Plutarch in the prison of St. Pelagie, to the nervous,
bustling, afternoon-tea-frequenting, problem-hunting modern woman of
workaday, social proclivities. And yet, I would not have you despair
merely because your surroundings lack the color which irradiates their
careers. To be different is not necessarily to be inferior. The
influence of a noble and beautiful woman may be no less real and no
less worthy of emulation in these days of comparatively humdrum
world-stage effects and common conditions. But it will be just as well
for you, whenever you are tempted to swell with conscious pride and to
fancy yourself abnormally illustrious as a consequence--for instance,
of being the President of a woman's club, or the triumphant promoter
of some reform movement--to stop and whisper to yourself "Madame de
Stael," "Madame Recamier."
To _A Modern Woman_ with Social Ambitions. II.
_Note._--My wife, Josephine, interposed again at this point. "I have
been trying to make up my mind while you were writing," said she,
"what she would do next. I mean this Mrs. Alexander Sherman of yours,
or whatever her real name is. That is, supposing she had never written
to you and sent you her photograph, and she were left to her own
devices. I can't blame her exactly for sending the photograph, because
you make it a condition of the correspondence; but I can see from her
face that she was glad of the opportunity, and that she hopes you will
admire it."
"Well, I have," said I.
"Yes, and I agree with you in your enthusiasm. She is handsome, and
interesting looking, and ladylike. I was merely considering what she
would be apt to do if she had no philosopher to advise her. She has a
glad air as you have stated, indicating that she has no domestic or
financial grievances, and I don't believe she thinks herself an
artistic genius or intends to write a novel. I think, though, that her
first tea would elate her a little. She would be glad it was over, but
surprised that so many people came. It would set her thinking, and
presently she would give a dinner or two and a luncheon or so, and she
would go to other teas and dinners and luncheons, and would gradually
become the fashion, so that when her friends and acquaintances wished
to entertain they would think instinctively of Mr. and Mrs. Alexander
Sherman. I am assuming, of course, that her husband is an amiable
being and does not thwart her, and is willing to go to a reasonable
number of entertainments. She would be punctilious about her calls,
and make a point of appearing to remember people, even if she didn't
have the least conception who they were, and would be generally
blithe, tactful, and gracious. What is the matter, Mr. Philosopher?
What would you have her do?" I had said nothing to induce this
inquiry, but I suppose I must have writhed involuntarily.
"I dare say it's all right. I don't see that she could help it; but it
sounds conventional," I answered.
"Of course it is conventional; yet, pray, how is she to avoid
conventions? I know you are thinking to yourself that the calls are a
waste of time--all men, whether they are philosophers or not, think
that. I agree with you that if she were content to shut herself up and
be an artistic genius, or merely an every-day wife and mother without
social ambitions, she could lead a sane and sufficiently exemplary
life without ever owning a visiting card. Remember, though, that this
Mrs. Sherman of yours _has_ social ambitions, and does not intend
to hide her light under a bushel. I assume that she is too sensible to
make herself a mere slave to her visiting list, but if you intend to
advise her not to call on people who have asked her to dinner, and not
to practise the polite observances of civilized society all over the
world, I wash my hands of her at the start, and hand her right over to
you. Besides, I'm only saying what I think from her face she'd be
likely to do. You can give her any instructions you please, and--and
we'll see if she follows them."
"I have no doubt it's necessary, if you say so," I answered, meekly.
"I shall not venture to offer any radical advice on this point
contrary to your judgment. I was merely surmising that the modern
woman would find a way to free herself from the manacles of
conventional call-paying, which I have heard you yourself declare eat
into the flesh and poison the joy of life."
"I have said it in my weary moments," said Josephine, stoutly. "The
modern woman uses her common-sense and does not let the manacles
hamper her movements; but she knows that she cannot reap social
rewards without performing social duties. The modern woman is free, if
she sees fit, to disdain social life and all its concomitants and shut
herself up in a studio or a college settlement; it is her affair to
decide what she wishes to do. But if she decides to be a social
promoter and leader, she must continue to call on the people who
invite her to dinner, or she is not likely to be asked again."
"I am ready to accept the programme which you have laid out for my
correspondent," I replied; "but I should like to know what you mean by
social rewards."
"I perceive from your tone, my dear philosopher, that you think I have
in mind for your Mrs. Sherman merely a career of social frivolity.
Nothing of the kind. I assure you that I appreciate the seriousness of
her intention no less clearly than you do. I desire to help the poor
thing, not to pull her down. I was simply amusing myself by letting
her do the things she would be likely to do if deprived of the benefit
of your wisdom. But you need not be afraid that I underestimate her.
Her teas, her dinners, and her luncheons are merely a stepping-stone
toward higher usefulness. Of course, if she comes to grief without
accomplishing anything, it will be her fault, not mine. I am giving
her her head, and I trust to her not to lose her mental balance. Shall
I go on?"
"Certainly," said I. "I am all attention."
"She is pretty well-known as a social figure by this time. She has
more invitations than she can accept, and her name appears frequently
in the newspapers as a guest at this and at that entertainment. She is
invited to be a patroness of a series of subscription parties, which
flatters her, and presently to be a patroness of college theatricals,
and of a fair in aid of proletarian infants. It has been her intention
to become earnestly interested in something worthy--the education of
the blind, for instance--and she is trying to make up her mind what it
shall be when she begins to be deluged with applications to take an
interest in all sorts of things, educational, literary, and
philanthropic. She receives by the same mail a request to be present
at a meeting to promote the moral and hygienic welfare of prisoners,
and a notice that she has been elected a Vice-President of the
American Mothers' Kindergarten Association. The next day an author
asks for the use of her name for a reading to be given 'under the
auspices of leading society women.' One evening the servant brings up
a card inscribed Miss Madeline Pollard. 'Who is Miss Madeline
Pollard?' she asks herself perplexedly. She concludes that it must be
one of the educational or philanthropic people she has met of late;
then a sudden flush rises to her cheeks, a flush of half-amused,
half-indignant excitement. 'Nonsense, it can't be,' she murmurs; then
with a stealthy glance at her husband, but without a word to him, she
goes down to meet the visitor. She finds a free-spoken and insinuating
young woman with an air of pathos. I will give you their conversation,
philosopher." (Here is the dialogue as detailed to me by Josephine.)
_Visitor._ Mrs. Alexander Sherman, I believe?
_Mrs. Sherman (with dignity)._ That is my name.
_Visitor._ Though we have never met, your person is so familiar to me,
that I have taken the liberty of calling. I have admired you at a
distance for nearly two years, and I feel sure that you will not
refuse me the privilege of knowing you in your home and among your
domestic associations. May I sit down?
_Mrs. Sherman._ Certainly. You have come--er--I don't understand
exactly.
_Visitor._ With your permission to ask you a few questions--to obtain
an interview.
_Mrs. Sherman (with a manifestation of alarm)._ You are a reporter? An
interview for a newspaper? Oh, I couldn't consent on any account. I
shouldn't like anything of the kind at all. You must excuse me.
_Visitor (saccharinely)._ I should not think of publishing anything
contrary to your wishes.
_Mrs. Sherman._ It would be quite impossible. My husband would be very
much annoyed. Besides, it would be so ridiculous. I have nothing to
say.
_Visitor._ Mr. Sherman is such a distinguished-looking man. I admire
iron-gray hair and mustaches. Indeed, every one would be very much
interested in anything you were to say. You are a woman of ideas--a
progressive woman. The public is interested in progressive women, and
I think such women owe it to the public to let them understand and
appreciate them.
_Mrs. Sherman._ But I'm only a private individual. It might be
different if I were an author or other public character; though I
don't approve at all of people who parade themselves and their ideas
in the newspapers. There! I have hurt your feelings.
_Visitor (with her air of pathos)._ No, dear lady. I'm only a little
discouraged. If the public wish to know and progressive people refuse
to tell them, what becomes of the reporter who is obliged to furnish
copy and to obey orders?
_Mrs. Sherman._ It is a hard life, I'm sure. But--but, if I'm not
impertinent----
_Visitor (interrupting)._ You're going to ask how I came to take it up
as a profession. Yes, it is hard; but I glory in it _(proudly)._ I'm
not ashamed of it. It's a progressive life, too. But it is a little
discouraging at times _(sadly)._ You have such a lovely home, Mrs.
Sherman; elegance without ostentatious display; taste everywhere
without extravagance. I should so like to describe it.
_Mrs. Sherman._ Oh, but you mustn't. Were you ordered to--er--write
about me?
_Visitor._ Yes, dear lady. You are to be one of a series--"Half-hour
Chats with our Progressive Women," that's the title.
_Mrs. Sherman._ Have you--er--been to see any one else?
_Visitor._ Yes, and they all felt as you did at first (she enumerates
the names of three or four other modern women with social ambitions).
_Mrs. Sherman._ And did they all consent to talk to you?
_Visitor._ Every one, and they all gave me their photographs.
_Mrs. Sherman (faintly)._ Photographs? You don't mean that you wish a
photograph? That would be too dreadful.
_Visitor (soothingly)._ You wouldn't wish to mar the completeness of
the series. People like to see those who talk to them.
_Mrs. Sherman._ But I have nothing to say to them.
_Visitor._ Leave that to me. You have spoken already. Everything about
you speaks--your face, your personal belongings, your household
usages. While I have been sitting here I have observed a host of
things which talk eloquently of your ideas, your principles, and your
tastes. Just the things the public thirst to know about a woman like
you. Leave it all to me. I will write it out and send you the proof,
and, if it isn't just right, you can alter it to suit yourself
(_blithely_). And the photograph?
_Mrs. Sherman_. Must I?
_Visitor (firmly and boldly)._ Public people think nothing of that
nowadays. It's a matter of course. You would have had a right to feel
offended if I hadn't included you in my article. You wouldn't have
been pleased, would you now, to see interviews with other progressive
women, and your face and personality excluded? Just look at it in that
light. It is disagreeable to me to intrude and force my way, and
invade privacy, but I have a duty to the public to perform, and from
that point of view I count on you to help me.
_Mrs. Sherman._ Perhaps I ought. Er--would you like it now?
_Visitor._ If you please.
(_Mrs. Sherman goes upstairs and returns presently with a choice of
photographs._)
_Visitor._ They are both exquisite. I choose this one for my article,
and, if you don't object, I should like so much to keep the other for
myself as a memento of this delightful interview. May I, dear lady?
_Mrs. Sherman._ If you wish it.
_Visitor._ Thank you. And there is one thing more. Please write your
name on both. An autograph adds so much to the value of a photograph
whether it be for the public eye or the album of a friend.
_Mrs. Sherman (resignedly)._ What shall I write?
_Visitor._ Oh, anything. "Yours faithfully," or "Very cordially
yours," are very popular just at present. Thank you so much. And I do
hope to meet you soon again. If I should happen to give a little tea
at my rooms for Mr. Hartney Collier, the actor, later in the winter, I
shall take the liberty of sending you a card. You would like him so
much. And now, goodby, dear lady. _Exit._
I have given this conversation without the various comments and
interjections made either by myself or Josephine during the course of
it. To have set them forth would merely have served to mar the
sequence of the dialogue. After announcing the departure of the
visitor, there was a little pause and my wife regarded me almost
pathetically.
"Poor thing!" she murmured, brushing away the semblance of a tear with
her pocket-handkerchief. "I am sorry for her. I can understand just
how it happened."
"For which of the two are you sorry?" I asked.
"I meant for your woman. But I'm sorry for them both. It almost seems
like fate. The whole thing is disgusting, but the times are to blame.
The public encourages the reporter and the interview, and when a woman
is told that she is progressive, and that it is her duty to make
herself felt still more, I can imagine her being goaded into it if she
is the sort of woman your woman is. I suppose you think I've ruined
her. I didn't mean to; I merely gave her her head, and that's what she
did. I will hand her over to you now, and you can do what you like
with her."
"Excuse me, Josephine. She is your creation. I shouldn't think of
interfering at this stage. You have taken her in hand and you must
work out her destiny for her."
"You mean let her work out her own destiny. That's all I was doing. I
see your point; and, if you won't take her back, I'm willing to give
her her head to the end. I'm interested in her, and I don't despair of
her at all, in spite of the fact that you have washed your hands of
her. I shall have to think a little before I give her her head again."
Hereupon Josephine assumed an attitude of reflection. When she began
to speak presently, her words and manner suggested the demeanor of a
trance medium, or seer--as though she were peering into the abyss of
the future.
"The interview appears, and her husband is less disturbed than she
expects. He declares that the press portrait is an abomination and
libellous, but he admits that the text is considerately done for a
newspaper interview, and that, barring a few inaccuracies and a little
exaggeration due to poetic license, she is made to appear less of a
fool than she had a right to expect. This cheers and encourages her,
and helps to allay the consciousness that the publication of her face
and doings was purely a gratuitous advertisement. She firmly resolves
that she will reform and live up to the description of her, and she
resolves to devote herself to a more definite field of action.
Accordingly, after deliberation, she rejects the case of the blind,
and decides to take up the problem of how to make humble homes
attractive by simple art. She buys a complete edition of Ruskin, and
writes to a half-dozen prominent men and as many women for the use of
their names as a nucleus for a club to be known as "The Home
Beautifying Society." A meeting is held, and she is elected President
and a member of the Executive Committee, facts of which the public is
duly informed by her pathetic newspaper admirer. There, philosopher,
you see she is doing something serious already."
"You are incorrigible, Josephine," I asserted.