The venerable mother-in-law joke appears in the comic papers with
astonishing regularity. For a time, perhaps, it may seem to be lost in
the mists of oblivion, but even while one is rejoicing at its absence
it returns to claim its original position at the head of the
procession.
There are two sides to everything, even to an old joke, and the artist
always pictures the man's dismay when his wife's mother comes for a
visit. Nobody ever sees a drawing of a woman's mother-in-law, and yet,
the bitterness and sadness lie mainly there--between the mother and
the woman his son has chosen for his wife.
It is a pleasure to believe that the average man is a gentleman, and
his inborn respect for his own mother, if nothing else, will usually
compel an outward show of politeness to every woman, even though she
may be a constant source of irritation. Grey hair has its own claims
upon a young man's deference, and, in the business world, he is
obliged to learn to hold his tongue, hide his temper, and "assume a
virtue though he has it not."
The mother's welcome from her daughter's husband depends much upon
herself. Her long years of marriage have been in vain if they have not
taught her to watch a man's moods and tenses; when to speak and when
to be silent, and how to avoid useless discussion of subjects on which
there is a pronounced difference of opinion. Leaving out the personal
equation, the older and more experienced woman is better fitted to get
along peaceably with a man than the young girl who has her wisdom yet
to acquire.
Moreover, it is to the daughter's interest to cement a friendship
between her mother and her husband, and so she stands as a shield
between the two she holds dearest, to exercise whatever tact she may
possess toward an harmonious end.
"A son's a son till he gets him a wife,
But a daughter's a daughter all the days of her life."
Thus the old saying runs, and there is a measure of truth in it,
more's the pity. Marriage and a home of her own interfere but little
with a daughter's devotion to her mother, even though the daily
companionship be materially lessened. The feeling is there and remains
unchanged, unless it grows stronger through the new interests on both
sides.
If a man has won his wife in spite of her mother's opposition, he can
well afford to be gracious and forget the ancient grudge. It is his
part, too, to prove to the mother how far she was mistaken, by making
the girl who trusted him the happiest wife in the world. The woman who
sees her daughter happy will have little against her son-in-law,
except that primitive, tribal instinct which survives in most of us,
and jealously guards those of our own blood from the aggression of
another family or individual.
One may as well admit that a good husband is a very scarce article,
and that the mother's anxiety for her daughter is well-founded. No man
can escape the sensation of being forever on trial in the eyes of his
wife's mother, and woe to him if he makes a mistake or falters in his
duty! Things which a woman would gladly condone in her husband are
unpardonable sins in the man who has married her daughter, and taken
her from a mother's loving care.
A good husband and a good man are not necessarily the same thing. Many
a scapegrace has been dearly loved by his wife, and many a highly
respected man has been secretly despised by his wife and children.
When the prison doors open to discharge the sinners who have served
long sentences, the wives of those who have been good husbands are
waiting for them with open arms. The others have long since taken
advantage of the divorce laws.
Since women know women so well, perhaps it is only natural for a
mother to feel that no girl who is good enough for her son ever has
been born. All the small deceits, the little schemes and frailties,
are as an open book in the eyes of other women.
"If you were a man," said one girl to another, "and knew women as well
as you do now, whom would you marry?"
The other girl thought for a moment, and then answered unhesitatingly:
"I'd stay single."
Women are always suspicious of each other, and the one who can deceive
another woman is entitled to her laurels for cleverness. With the keen
insight and quick intuition of the woman on either side of him, when
these women are violently opposed to each other, no man need look for
peace.
In spite of their discernment, women are sadly deficient in analysis
when it comes to a question of self. Neither wife nor mother can
clearly see her relation to the man they both love. Blinded by
passionate devotion and eager for power, both women lose sight of the
truth, and torment themselves and each other with unfounded jealousy
and distrust.
In no sense are wife and mother rivals, nor can they ever be so.
Neither could take the place of the other for a single instant, and
the wife foolishly guards the point where there is no danger, for, of
all the women in the world, his mother and sisters are the only ones
who could never by any possibility usurp her place.
A woman need only ask herself if she would like to be the mother
of her husband--to exchange the love which she now has for filial
affection--for a temporary clearness of her troubled skies. The mother
need only ask herself if she would surrender her position for the
privilege of being her son's wife, if she seeks for light on her dark
path.
Yet, in spite of this, the two are often open and acknowledged rivals.
A woman recently wrote to the "etiquette department" of a daily paper
to know whether she or her son's fiancee should make the first call.
In answering the question, the head of the department, who, by the
way, has something of a reputation for good sense, wrote as follows:
"It is your place to make the first call, and you have my sympathy in
your difficult task. You must be brave, for you are going to look into
the eyes of a woman whom your son loves better than he does you!"
"Better than he does you!" That is where all the trouble lies, for
each wishes to be first in a relation where no comparison is possible.
When an American yacht first won the cup, Queen Victoria was watching
the race. When she was told that the _America_ was in the lead, she
asked what boat was second. "Your Majesty," replied the naval officer
sadly, "there is no second!"
So, between wife and mother there is no second place, and it is
possible for each to own the whole of the loved one's heart, without
infringing or even touching upon the rights of the other.
Few of the passengers on a lake steamer, during a trip in northern
waters a few years since, will ever forget a certain striking group.
Mother and son, and the son's fiancee, were off for a week's vacation.
The mother was tall and stately, with snow-white hair and a hard face
deeply seamed with wrinkles, and with the fire of southern countries
burning in her faded blue eyes. The son was merely a nice boy, with a
pleasant face, and the girl, though not pretty, had a fresh look about
her which was very attractive.
She wore an engagement ring, so he must have cared for her, but
otherwise no one would have suspected it. From beginning to end, his
attention was centred upon his mother. He carried his mother's wraps,
but the girl carried her own. He talked to the mother, and the girl
could speak or not, just as she chose. Never for an instant were the
two alone together. They sat on the deck until late at night, with the
mother between them. When they changed, the son took his own chair
and his mother's, while the girl dragged hers behind them. At the end
of their table in the cabin, the mother sat between them at the head.
Once, purely by accident, the girl slipped into the nearest chair,
which happened to be the mother's, and the deadly silence could be
felt even two tables away. The girl turned pale, then the son said:
"You'll take the head of the table, won't you, mother?"
The steely tone of her voice could be heard by every one as she said,
"No!"
The girl ate little, and soon excused herself to go to her stateroom,
but the next day things were as before, and the foolish old mother had
her place next to her son.
Discussion was rife among the passengers, till an irreverent youth
ended it by saying: "Mamma's got the rocks; that's the why of it!"
Perhaps it was, but one wonders why a man should slight his promised
wife so publicly, even to please a mother with "rocks!"
To the mother who adores her son, every girl who smiles at him has
matrimonial designs. When he falls in love, it is because he has been
entrapped--she seldom considers him as being the aggressive one of the
two. The mother of the girl feels the same way, and, in the lower
circles, there is occasionally an illuminating time when the two
mothers meet.
Each is made aware how the other's offspring has given the entrapped
one no peace, and how the affair has been the scandal of two separate
neighbourhoods, more eligible partners having been lost by both sides.
In the Declaration of Independence there is no classification of the
rights of the married, but the clause regarding "life, liberty, and
the pursuit of happiness" has been held pointedly to refer to the
matrimonial state. If the mother would accord to her daughter-in-law
the same rights she claimed at the outset of her own married life, the
relation would be perceptibly smoother in many instances.
When a woman marries, she has a right to expect the love of her
husband, material support, a home of her own, even though it be only
two tiny rooms, and absolute freedom from outside interference. It is
her life, and she must live it in her own way, and a girl of spirit
_will_ live it in her own way, without taking heed of the
consequences, if she is pushed too far.
On the other hand, the mother who bore him still has proprietary
rights. She may reasonably claim a share of his society, a part of his
earnings, if she needs financial assistance, and his interest in all
that nearly concerns her. If she expects to be at the head of his
house, with the wife as a sort of a boarder, she need not be surprised
if there is trouble.
Marriage brings to a girl certain freedom, but it gives her no
superiority to her husband's family. A chain is as strong as its
weakest link, and the members of a family do not rise above the
general level. Every one of them is as good as the man she has
married, and she is not above any of them, unless her own personality
commands a higher position.
She treasonably violates the confidence placed in her if she makes
a discreditable use of any information coming to her through her
association with her husband's family. There are skeletons in every
closet, and she may not tell even her own mother of what she has seen
in the other house. A single word breathed against her husband's
family to an outsider stamps her as a traitor, who deserves a
traitor's punishment.
The girl who tells her most intimate friend that the mother of her
fiance "is an old cat," by that act has lowered herself far below the
level of any self-respecting cat. Even if outward and visible disgrace
comes to the family of her husband, she is unworthy if she does not
hold her head high and let the world see her loyalty.
Marriage gives her no right to criticise any member of her husband's
family; their faults are out of her reach except by the force of
tactful example. Her concern is with herself and him, not his family,
and a wise girl, at the beginning of her married life, will draw a
sharp line between her affairs and those of others, and will stay on
her own side of the line.
When a man falls in love with a thoughtless butterfly, his womenfolk
may be pardoned if they stand aghast a moment before they regain their
self-command. In a way it is like a guest who is given the freedom of
the house, and who, when her visit is over, tells her friends that the
parlour carpet was turned, and the stairs left undusted.
Another household is intimately opened to the woman whom the son has
married, and the members of it can make no defence. She can betray
them if she chooses; there is nothing to shield them except her love
for her husband, and too often that is insufficient.
A girl seldom stops to think what she owes to her husband's mother.
Twenty-five or thirty years ago, the man she loves was born. Since
then there has been no time, sleeping or waking, when he has not been
in the thoughts of the mother who has sought to do her best by him.
She gave her life wholly to the demands of her child, without a
moment's hesitation.
She has sacrificed herself in countless ways, all through those years,
in order that he might have his education, his pleasures, and his
strong body. With every day he has grown nearer and dearer to her;
every day his loss would have been that much harder to bear.
In quiet talks in the twilight, she teaches him to be gentle and
considerate, to be courteous to every woman because a woman gave him
life; to be brave, noble, and tender; to be strong and fine; to choose
honour with a crust, rather than shame with plenty.
Then comes the pretty butterfly, with whom her son is in love. Is it
strange that the heart of the mother tightens with sudden pain?
With never a thought, the girl takes it all as her due. She would
write a gracious note of thanks to the friend who sent her a pretty
handkerchief, but for the woman who is the means of satisfying her
heart's desire she has not even toleration. All the sweetness and
beauty of his adoring love are a gift to her, unwilling too often,
perhaps, but a gift nevertheless, from his mother.
Long years of life have taught the mother what it may mean and what,
alas, it does too often mean. Memories only are her portion; she need
expect nothing now. He may not come to see his mother for an old
familiar talk, because his wife either comes with him, or expects
him to be at home. He has no time for his mother's interests or his
mother's friends; there is scant welcome in his home for her, because
between them has come an alien presence which never yields or softens.
Strangely, and without any definite idea of the change, he comes to
see his mother as she is. Once, she was the most beautiful woman in
the world, and her roughened hands were lovely because they had
toiled for him. Once, her counsel was wise, her judgment good, and the
gift of feeling which her motherhood brought her was seen as generous
sympathy.
Now, by comparison with a bright, well-dressed wife, he sees what an
"old frump" his mother is. She is shabby and old-fashioned, clinging
to obsolete forms of speech, hysterical and emotional. When the mists
of love have cleared from her boy's eyes, she may just as well give
up, because there is no return, save in that other mist which comes
too late, when mother is at rest.
The wife who tries to keep alive her husband's love for his family,
not only in his heart, but in outward observance as well, serves her
own interests even better than theirs. The love of the many comes with
the love of the one, and just as truly as he loves his sweetheart
better because of his mother and sisters, he may love them better
because of her.
The poor heart-hungry mother, who stands by with brimming eyes,
fearful that the joy of her life may be taken from her, will be
content with but little if she may but keep it for her own. It is only
a little while at the longest, for the end of the journey is soon, but
sunset and afterglow would have some of the rapture of dawn, if her
son's wife opened the door of her young heart and said with true
sincerity and wells of tenderness: "Mother--Come!"