It was when Beatrice was thirteen that she said something which
surprised Corinna.
“Mother,” she said, “when I get grown up and married, you bet I’m not
going to be a slave to a husband, the way you are to Dad.”
“The way I am, Bee? How can you talk like that? Your father is the
kindest man. Doesn’t he give you everything? He never....”
“He’s good to us, of course,” the child persisted. “It isn’t that.
It’s just—you’re sort of a slave to him. I guess all women are. You
bet I won’t be when I’m grown up and married. You were worried all day
yesterday for fear Miss Loftus would call last night, because she gets
on Father’s nerves.”
“You know how nervous he is; mustn’t be bothered....”
“Oh, I know. Only it doesn’t keep you from being a slave. You worry
about what he eats—and if he’s a little late, coming home from the
office—and if company stays too late—and if the matinée lasts too long
and he’ll be home first—and about his meals and clothes.”
“Nonsense,” said Corinna, “you don’t understand men, dear. They like to
have their meals on time, things regular. When you are grown up....”
When her daughter had gone away, Corinna looked back a little at her
own life, started to think about things, puzzled over things as she
had done when she was younger. With the children and all, there had
been little time for introspection. She remembered what she had said to
her mother, years before. She had believed—all this time—that she had
followed her original plan of independence. She—a slave—to a man—as her
mother had been—nonsense! Why—Arthur was no one to slave for—Arthur!
She had thought—all these years—indefinitely—that she still looked down
on Arthur, did as she pleased. But she knew, finally now, that after
the first year or two of matrimony she had never done that. She knew
that her daughter was right, as she had been right. All she was living
for was peace and quiet, a regular household, the children well, Arthur
satisfied.
There had been quarrels, a few years before. But Corinna had found that
Arthur hadn’t greatly minded quarrelling. There were always quarrels
in the office, it seemed. One quarrel more or less, in a day, hadn’t
mattered to him. But Corinna’s day was so tasteless—children, the
household—that it was Arthur’s coming home that added flavour to her
life. Arthur—whom she had so despised! She had wanted peace in the
evenings, because evenings were the pleasantest part of the day. She
knew now, as she must have recognized subconsciously then, that Arthur
was the important thing in her life, that his home-comings were the big
events for her.
Now she was fat and thirty-eight and already slightly wrinkled.
There was nobody—nothing—she was interested in. The children—her
home, of course—but outside of that. She doubted if she could take
shorthand notes if she tried. She knew she could no longer operate a
typewriter—older women couldn’t get positions, anyhow.
She thought of long days of dictation in an office, and shuddered.
Arthur made a good living. There were two servants, now, and a good
sized apartment and a little place up in the country for the summer.
They might even afford a small car next year. Arthur was particular,
of course, a bit cranky, even. He still cared for her, never looked
at other women, she knew that. He was not very affectionate, never had
been. She had been glad of that, at one time. Now she almost wished he
were a bit more demonstrative. But he still spoke of their marriage
as a success, of their affair as a “love match.” She was glad he felt
that way. After all, life was pleasant enough; little household things
during the day, shopping, bridge, matinées—Arthur in the evenings.
Other women envied her—her home and her children and Arthur. Why,
Arthur was nicer than most husbands. She went over in her mind all of
the women she knew—all the same—as they had been when she was a little
girl—all struggling, working to please the man—the man—
Corinna remembered how strongly she had felt against this when she was
a little girl. She knew how her daughter was beginning to feel now. It
wasn’t fair of course. It didn’t seem right—that the man should always
come first, that his wishes should come first—that she should spend
hours—her days—her life—planning for him, doing things for him—always
the man—the man.
Yet Corinna thought of the women she knew who had never married—fearing
each day that they’d be too old to be allowed to keep on
working—discontented, lonely. She knew that women, like herself, who
had accepted matrimony—or who had reached for and found matrimony—were
slaves. It wasn’t fair. But life wasn’t fair to women. You couldn’t
get out of it—do anything about it. If you weren’t married—and didn’t
have money—you were lonely, worked hard—had a difficult time of it.
If you were married—Corinna knew people only in her own class—you
were a slave—as much of a slave as if you had lived hundreds of years
ago. Life was not beautiful nor romantic nor lovely. She did not love
Arthur—yet, she certainly did not despise him—she really admired him
a great deal—getting ahead without pull or anything like that. He
worked hard—didn’t get much out of life, either, deserved peace and
quiet, things the way he wanted them at home. Life was funny, not
especially interesting—children—little things.... She was a slave, of
course—still, life was better than it might be—some one to look forward
to seeing in the evenings—to worry about pleasing—to do things for—a
man.