woman in English society. That she is popular is an admitted and
incontestable fact. She competes with the native British female
product at every turn,--in her dress, in her ways, in her irresistible
vivacity, and above all in her intelligence. When she knows things, she
lets people know that she knows things. She cannot sit with her hands
before her in stodgy silence, allowing other folks to talk. That is an
English habit. No doubt the English girl or woman knows quite as much
as her American sister, but she has an unhappy knack of assuming to
be a fool. She says little, and that little not to much purpose,--she
looks less,--it is dimly understood that she plays hockey, tennis and
golf, and has large feet. She is an athletic Enigma. I write this, of
course, solely concerning those British women, young, middle-aged
and elderly, who make “sport” and out-door exercise the chief aim and
end of existence. But I yield to none in my love and admiration for
the real, genuine, _un_modernised English maiden, at her gentlest and
best,--she is the rosebud of the world. And I tender devout reverence
and affection to the _un_-fashionable, single-hearted, dear, loving
and ever-beloved English wife and mother--she is the rose in all its
full-blown glory. Unfortunately, however, these English rosebuds
and roses are seldom met with in the sweltering, scrambling crowd
called “society.” They dwell in quiet country-places where the lovely
influences of their modest and retiring lives are felt but never seen.
Society likes to be seen rather than felt. There is all the difference.
And in that particular section of it whose aim is seeing to be seen,
and seen to be seeing, the American woman is as an oasis in the desert.
She also wants to be seen,--but she expresses that desire so naïvely,
and often so bewitchingly, that it is a satisfaction to every one to
grant her request. She also would see,--and her eyes are so bright and
roving and restless, that Mother Britannia is perforce compelled to
smile indulgently, and to open all her social picture-books for the
pleasure of the spoilt child of eternal Mayflower pedigree. It has to
be said and frankly admitted too, that much of the popularity attending
an American girl when she first comes over to London for a “season” is
due to an idea which the stolid Britisher gets into his head, namely,
that she has, she _must_ have, Money. The American girl and Money are
twins, according to the stolid Britisher’s belief. And when the stolid
Britisher fixes something--anything--into the passively-resisting
matter composing his brain, it would take Leviathan, with, not one,
but several hooks, to _un_fix it. And thus it often happens that the
sight of a charmingly dressed, graceful, generally “smart” American
girl attracts the stolid Britisher in the first place because he says
to himself--“Money!” He knows all the incomes of all the best families
in his own country,--and none of them are big enough to suit him. But
the American girl arrives as more or less of a financial mystery. She
may have thousands,--she may have millions,--he can never be quite
sure. And he does all he can to ingratiate himself with her and give
her a good time “on spec.” to begin with, while he makes cautious and
diplomatic enquiries. If his hopes rest on a firm basis, his attentions
are redoubled--if, on the contrary, they are built on shifting sand, he
gradually diminishes his ardour and like a “wilting flower” fades and
“fizzles” away.
I am here reminded of a certain Earl, renowned in the political and
social world, who, when he was a young man, went over on a visit to
America and there fell, or feigned to fall, deeply in love with a
very sweet, very beautiful, very gentle and lovable American girl.
In a brief while he became engaged to her. The engagement was made
public--the wedding day was almost fixed. The girl’s father was
extremely wealthy, and she was the only child and sole heiress. But an
unfortunate failure,--a gigantic collapse in the money market, made
havoc of the father’s fortunes, and as soon as his ruin was declared
beyond a doubt, the noble Earl, without much hesitation or ado, broke
off his engagement, and rapidly decamped from the States back to
his own country, where, as all the world knows, he did very well for
himself. Strange to say, however, the girl whom he had thus brutally
forsaken for no fault of her own, had loved him with all the romantic
and trusting tenderness of first love, and the heartless blow inflicted
upon her by his noble and honourable lordship was one from which she
never recovered. The Noble and Honourable has, I repeat, done very
well for himself, though it is rumoured that he sleeps badly, and that
he has occasionally been heard muttering after the fashion of Hamlet,
Prince of Denmark,--“Oh God, I could be bounded in a nutshell and count
myself a king of infinite space were it not that I have bad dreams!”
Marriage, however, is by no means the only, or even the chief
resource in life of the American woman. She evidently looks with a
certain favour on the holy estate of matrimony and is quite willing
to become an excellent wife and mother if the lines of her destiny
run that way, but if they should happen to branch out in another
direction, she wastes no time in useless pining. She is too vital,
too capable, too intelligent and energetic altogether to play the
_rôle_ of an interesting martyr to male neglect. She will teach, or
she will lecture,--she will sing, or she will act,--she will take her
degrees in medicine and surgery,--she will practise for the Bar,--she
will write books, and the days are fast approaching when she will
become a high priestess of the Church, and will preach to the lost
sheep of Israel as well as to the equally lost ones of New York or
Chicago;--she will be a “beauty doctor,” a “physical culture” woman,
a “medium,” a stock-broker, a palmist, a florist, a house-decorator,
a dealer in lace and old curiosities,--ay! she will even become a
tram-car conductor if necessity compels and the situation is open to
her,--and she will manage a cattle ranch as easily as a household,
should opportunity arise. Marriage is but one link in the long chain
of her general efficiency, and like Cleopatra, “age cannot wither her,
nor custom stale Her infinite variety.” A curious fact and one worth
noting is, that we seldom or never hear Americans use the ill-bred
expression “old maid” when alluding to such of their feminine relatives
or friends who may happen to remain unmarried. They know too well
that these confirmed and settled spinsters are as capable and as well
to the front in the rush of life as the wedded wives, if not more
so,--they know that among these unmarried feminine forces they have
to reckon with some of the cleverest heads of the day, to whom no
opprobrious term of contempt dare be applied,--women who are editors
and proprietors of great newspapers,--women who manage famous schools
and colleges,--women who, being left with large fortunes, dispense the
same in magnificently organized but _un_advertised charities,--women
who do so command by their unassisted influence certain social
movements and events, that if indeed they _were_ to marry, something
like confusion and catastrophe might ensue among the circles they
control by the introduction of a new and possibly undesirable element.
“Old maid,” may apply to the unfortunate female who has passed all the
days of her youth in talking about men and in failing to catch so much
as one of the wandering tribe, and who, on arriving at forty years,
meekly retires to the chimney corner with shawl over her shoulders and
some useful knitting,--but it carries neither meaning nor application
to the brisk, brilliant American spinster who at fifty keeps her trim
svelte figure, dresses well, goes here, there and everywhere, and
sheds her beaming smile with good-natured tolerance, and perchance
something of gratitude as well, on the men she has escaped from. Life
does not run only in one channel for the American Woman. She does not
“make tracks” solely from the cradle to the altar, from the altar
to the grave. She realizes that there is more fun to be got out of
being born than just this little old measure meted out to her by the
barbaric males of earliest barbaric periods, when women were yoked to
the plough with cattle. And it is the innate consciousness of her own
power and intelligent ability that gives her the dominating charm,--the
magnetic spell under which the stolid Britisher falls more or less
stricken, stupefied and inert. He is never a great talker; she is.
Her flow of conversation bewilders him. She knows so much too--she
chatters of Shakespeare, Byron, Shelley, Keats--and he thinks he has
heard of these people somewhere before. He listens dumbly. Sometimes
he scratches his head,--occasionally he feels his moustache, if he has
one. When she laughs, he smiles slowly and dubiously. He hopes she is
not laughing at _him_. He feels--he feels--dontcherknow--that she is
“ripping.” He couldn’t tell you what he means by “ripping” to save
his life. But painfully accustomed as he is to the dull and listless
conversation of the British materfamilias, and to the half-hoydenish
conduct of the British tom-boy girl who _will_ insist on playing golf
and hockey with him in order not to lose him out of her sight, he is
altogether refreshed and relieved when the American Woman dawns upon
his cloudy horizon, and instead of waiting upon _him_, commands him
to wait upon _her_, with one dazzling look of her bright, audacious
eye. The American Woman is not such a fool as to go play hockey with
him at all times and in all weathers, thereby allowing him to take the
unchecked measure of her ankles. She is too clever to do anything that
might possibly show her in an unlovely or ungraceful light. She takes
care to keep her hands soft and small and white, that they may be duly
caressable,--and makes the best and prettiest of herself on all and
every occasion. And that she has succeeded in taking English society
by storm is no matter of surprise. English society, unmixed with any
foreign element, is frequently said to be the dullest in the world. It
is an entertainment where no one is entertained. A civil apathy wraps
each man and woman in its fibrous husk, and sets them separately apart
behind barricades of the most idiotic conventionality. The American
Woman is the only being that can break down these barricades and tear
the husk to shreds. No wonder she is popular! The secret of her success
is in her own personal charm and vivacious intelligence,--in her light
scorn of stupid ceremonies,--in the frank geniality of her disposition
(when she can manage to keep it unspoilt by contact with the reserved
hypocrisy of the “Smart Set,”) and the delightful spontaneity of her
thoughts which find such ready expression in equally spontaneous
speech. Altogether the American Woman is a valuable importation into
Great Britain. She is an incarnation of the Present, and an embryo
of the Future. She is a gifted daughter of the British race, holding
within her bright, vital, ambitious identity many of the greater
possibilities of Britain. And to the question “Why is she popular?” the
answer is simple--“Because she deserves to be!”
THE AMERICAN BOUNDER
Everything in America is colossal, stupendous and pre-eminent,--it
follows, therefore, that the American “bounder” is the most colossal,
stupendous and pre-eminent bounder in existence. None of his tribe can
match him in “brass,”--none of his European forbears or connections
can equal him in brag. He is an inflated bladder of man, swollen out
well-nigh to bursting with the wind of the Yankee Doodle Eagle’s wing.
His aim in life appears to be to disgrace his country by his manners,
his morals and his conversation. He arrives in Europe with the air
of laying Europe under a personal debt of obligation to Providence
for having kindly permitted him to be born. As befits a son of the
goddess Liberty, he sets his proud foot on the “worn out” soil of the
Old World and prances there, even as the “wild ass” mentioned in Holy
Writ. As a citizen of the greatest Republic over which any starred or
striped flag ever flew, he extends his gracious patronage to tottering
monarchies, and allows it to be understood that he tolerates with an
amused compassion that poor, drivelling, aged and senile institution
known as the Aristocracy. He alludes to “my friend the Duke,” casually,
as one might speak of a blind beggar. He throws in a remark quite
unexpectedly at times concerning “Betty--_you’ve_ heard of her surely?
Countess Betty--the Countess of Hockyfield--oh yes!--you English snobs
rather ‘kotow’ to her, but _I_ call her Betty!--she likes it!” He may
frequently be found in residence on the fourth floor back of a swagger
hotel, occupying a “bed-sitting room” littered with guide books,
“yellow” journalism, and dubious French novels, with an impressionist
sketch of the newest Paris “danseuse” in her most suggestive want of
attire set conspicuously forward for inspection. If chance visitors
happen to notice flowers on his table, he at once seethes into a
simmering scum of self-adulation. “Charming, are they not!” he
says--“So sweet! So dear of the Duchess to send them!--she knows how
fond I am of Malmaisons!--did you notice that Malmaison?--the Duchess
gathered it for me herself--it is from one of the Sandringham stock.
Of course you know the carnation houses at Sandringham? Alex. delights
in Malmaisons!” And when guileless strangers gasp and blink as they
realize that it is England’s gracious Queen-Consort who is being spoken
of as “Alex.” in the company of the soiled literature and the portrait
of the Paris “danseuse” the Bounder is delighted. He feels he has made
a point. He chortles cheerfully on--“What a rotten old country this
is after all, eh? Just crawling alive with snobs! Everyone’s on their
knees to a title, and the sight of a lord seems to give the average
Britisher a fit. Now look at me! I don’t care a cent about your dukes
and earls. Why should I? I’m always with ’em--fact is, they can’t bear
to have me out of their sight! Lady Belinda Boomall--second daughter
of the Duke of Borrowdom,--she’s just mad on me! She thinks I’ve
got money, and I let her! It’s real fun! And as to the Marchioness
Golfhouse--she’s up to some games _I_ tell you! _She_ knows a thing or
two! My word!” Here he gives vent to a sound suggestive of something
between a sneeze and a snigger which is his own particular way of
rendering the laugh satirical. “I always get on with your blue-blooded
girls!”--he proceeds; “I guess they’re pretty tired of their own men
hulking round! They take to an Am_urr_ican as ducks take to water.
See all those cards?”--pointing in a casual way to half a dozen or
so of pasteboard slips littered on the mantelshelf, among which
the discerning observer might certainly see one or two tradesmen’s
advertisements--“They just shower ’em on me! I’ve got an ‘at home’
to-night and a ball afterwards--to-morrow I breakfast at Marlborough
House;--then lunch with Lady Adelaide Sparkler,--she drives me in the
Park afterwards--and in the evening I dine at St. James’ Palace and go
to the Opera with the Rothschilds. It’s always like that with me! I
never have a moment to myself. All these people want me. Lady Adelaide
Sparkler declares she cannot possibly do without me! I ought to have
been at Stafford House this afternoon--great show on there--but I can’t
be bothered!--the Duchess is just too trying for words sometimes! Of
course it’s all a question of connection;--they know who I am and all
about my ancestors, and that makes ’em so anxious to have me. You know
who my ancestors were?”
Now when the American Bounder puts this question, he ought to receive a
blunt answer. Perhaps if Britishers were as rude as they are sometimes
reported to be, one of them would give such an answer straight. He
would say “No, I do not; but I expect you sprang from a convict root of
humanity thrown out as bad rubbish from an over-populated prison and
cast by chance into American soil beside an equally rank native Indian
weed--and that in your present bad form and general condition, you are
the expressive result of that disastrous combination.” But, as a rule,
even the most truculent Britisher’s natural pluck is so paralysed by
the American Bounder’s amazing capacity for lying, that in nine cases
out of ten, he merely murmurs an inarticulate negative. Whereat the
Bounder at once proceeds to enlighten him--“I am the direct descendant
of the Scroobys of Scrooby in Yorkshire,”--he resumes--“_My_ name’s
not Scrooby--no!--but that has nothing to do with it. The families
got mixed. Scrooby of Scrooby went over to Holland in 1607 and joined
the Pilgrim Fathers. He was quite a boy, but Elder Brewster took care
of him! He held the Bible when Brewster first fell upon his knees
and thanked God. So you see I really come from Yorkshire. Real old
Yorkshire ham ‘cured’ into an Am_urr_ican!”
After this, there is nothing more to be said. Questions of course might
be asked as to how the “Yorkshire ham” not being “Scrooby” now, ever
started from “Scrooby” in the past, only it is not worth while. It
never is worth while to try and certify an American Bounder’s claim to
being sprung from a dead and gone family of English gentlemen. Regard
for the dead and gone English gentlemen should save them from this
affront to their honourable dust.
Perhaps the most amazing thing about the American Bounder after his
free and easy familiarities with “Bertie” (the King) “Alex.” (the
Queen) and “Georgie and May” (the Prince and Princess of Wales) is
his overweening, self-satisfied, complacent and arrogant ignorance.
The most blatant little local tradesman who, through well-meaning
Parliamentary short-sightedness in educational schemes, becomes
a “governor” of a Technical School in the provinces, is never so
blatantly ignorant as he. He talks of everything and knows nothing.
He assumes to have the last word in science, art and literature. He
will tell you he is “great chums” with Marconi and Edison, and that
these famous discoverers and inventors always lay their heads on his
bosom and tell him their dearest confidences. He knows just what is
going to be done by everybody with everything. He is friends with the
Drama too. Beerbohm Tree rings him up on the telephone at all manner
of strange hours, thirsting for his advice on certain “scenes” and
“effects.” He is--to use his own words--“doing a great thing” for
Tree! Sarah Bernhardt is his very dearest of dear ones! She has fallen
into his arms, coming off the stage at the side wings, exhausted, and
exclaiming--“Toi, mon cher! Enfin! Maintenant, je respire!” Madame
Réjane is always at home to him. In fact all Paris hails him with a joy
too deep for tears. He would not be a true “Am_urr_ican” if _he_ did
not love Paris, and if Paris did not love _him_.
But though he is completely “at one,” according to his own statement,
with most of the celebrated personages of the day, if not all, he
cannot tell you the most commonly known facts about them to save his
life. And though--again according to his own statement--he has read
every book ever published, visited every picture gallery, “salon”
and theatre in Europe, he cannot pronounce the name of one single
foreign author or artist correctly. His English is bad enough, but
his French is worse. He seldom makes excursions into the Italian
language--“Igh--talian” as he calls it, but it is quite enough for
the merest beginner in the Tuscan tongue to hear him say “gondòla”
to take the measure of his capacity. “Gòndola” is a word so easily
learned and so often used in Italian, that one might think any
child could master its pronunciation from twice hearing it--but the
American Bounder makes the whole tour of Italy without losing a scrap
of his own special nasal lingo, and returns in triumph to talk of
the “gondòla” and the “bella ràgg-azza” (instead of ragàzza) till
one’s ears almost ache with the hideous infliction of his abominable
accent. In Switzerland he is always alluding to “Mount Blank”--the
“Can_tone_ Gry-son”--“N_oo_-shatell”--and the “Mountain Vert”--and
in Great Britain he has been heard to speak of Lo_che_ Kay-trine and
Ben _Nee_vis, as well as of Con_iss_ton and Cornwàll. But it is quite
“correct” he will tell you--it is only the English people who do not
know how to talk English. The actual, true, pure pronunciation of the
English language went over to the States with the Scroobys of Scrooby,
and he their descendant and Bounder, has preserved it intact. Even
Shakespeare’s river Avon becomes metamorphosed under the roll of his
atrocious tongue. He will not pronounce it with the English A, as in
the word “b_a_y,”--he calls it A’von, as the “a” is sounded in the word
_av_arice--so that the soft poetic name of the classic stream appears
to have been bitten off by him and swallowed like a pop-corn. But it
would be of no use to argue with him on this or on any other point,
because he is always right. No real American Bounder was ever wrong.
One cannot but observe what a close acquaintance the Bounder has with
Debrett and various “County” Directories. His study of these volumes
is almost as profound as that of Mr. Balfour must have been when
writing “The Foundations of Belief.” Between Debrett and Baedeker he
manages to elicit a certain useful stock of surface information which
he imparts in a kind of cheap toy-cracker fashion to various persons,
who, politely listening, wonder why he appears to think that they
are not aware of facts familiar to them from their childhood. His
modes of appearing “to know, you know!” are exceedingly simple. For
example, suppose him to be asked to join a “house-party” in Suffolk. He
straightway studies the “County Directory” of that quarter of England,
and looks up the principal persons mentioned therein in various other
books of handy reference. When, in due course, he arrives at the
house to which he has been invited, he manages to faintly surprise
uninitiated persons by his (apparently) familiar acquaintance with
the pedigree and history of this or that “county” magnate, and his
(apparently) intimate knowledge of such and such celebrated paintings
and “objets d’art” as adorn the various historical mansions in the
district--knowledge for which he is merely indebted to Baedeker. He
is as loquacious as a village washerwoman. He will relate any number
of scandalous stories in connection with the several families of
whose ways and doings he pretends to have such close and particular
information--and should any listener interrupt him with a mild “Pardon
me!--but, having resided in this neighbourhood all my life I venture
to think you must be mistaken”;--he merely smiles blandly at such a
display of “native” ignorance. “Lived here all your life and not know
that!” he exclaims--“My word! It takes an Am_urr_ican to teach you
what’s going on in your own country!”
Offensive as is this more or less ordinary type of American Bounder
who makes his “home in Yew-rope” on fourth floors of fashionable
hotels, a still worse and more offensive specimen is found in the
Starred-and-Striped Bounding Millionaire. This individual--who
has frequently attained to a plethora of cash through one of two
reprehensible ways--either by “sweating” labour, or by fooling
shareholders in “trust” companies,--comes to Great Britain with
the fixed impression that everything in the “darned old place”
can be bought for money. Unfortunately he is often right. The
British--originally and by nature proud, reserved, and almost savagely
tenacious of their freedom and independence--have been bitten by
the Transatlantic madness of mere Greed, and their blood has been
temporarily poisoned by infection. But one may hope and believe that it
is only a passing malady, and that the old healthy life will re-invest
the veins of the nation all the more strongly for partial sickness and
relapse. In the meantime it occasionally happens that the “free” Briton
bows his head like a whipped mongrel cur to the bulging Bank-Account of
the American Millionaire-Bounder. And the American Millionaire-Bounder
plants his flat foot on the so foolishly bent pate and walks over it
with a commercial chuckle. “You talk of your ‘Noblesse oblige,’ your
honour, your old historic tradition and aristocratic Order!” he says,
sneeringly--“Why there isn’t a man alive in Britain that I couldn’t
buy, principles and all, for fifty thousand pounds!”