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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.

"She means so well, poor dear," my wife continued with a genuinely worried air. "She fully intends to devote herself to that society and make it a success, and she does so for a few weeks. Indeed, she raises money enough to employ a superintendent, and through him to give an exhibition of a poor man's house as it ought to be furnished, and by way of speaking contrast a poor man's house as it is too apt to be furnished when he has money enough to furnish it gaudily. And then she helps get out the annual report, which mentions progress, and shows a balance of $1.42 in the treasury, which leads her to make the announcement that in order to insure the successful continuation of a movement calculated to serve as a potent æsthetic influence among the unenlightened, the liberal contributions made by friends must be renewed in the fall. And then, there are so many other things she has to do. Just listen, philosopher, to what the poor thing has become in less than a year since her life appeared in the newspaper, and tell me what she is to do.

§ 1. Second Vice-President of the American Cremation Society.

§ 2. Member of Text Committee of the Society to Improve the Morals of Persons Undergoing Sentence.

§ 3. Chairman of the Inspecting Committee of the Sterilized Milk Association.

§ 4. Vice-President of the American Mothers' Kindergarten Association.

§ 5. Life member of Society to Protect the Indians.

§ 6. Honorary member of the Press Women's Social and Beneficent Club.

§ 7. Member of the Forty Associates Sewing Bee (luncheon club).

§ 8. Third Vice-President of the Woman's Club, and active participator in the following courses of original work arranged by the members of the Club:

(a) Literary Course for 1897-98. Shakespeare's Women. The Dramatists of the Elizabethan Period.

(b) Scientific Course for 1897-98. Darwin's Theory of Earth-worms. The present Status of the Conflict between Science and Religion. Recent Polar Expeditions.

(c) Political Course for 1897-98. The Tariff Bills of American History. The Theory of Bimetallism.

§ 9. Member of The Molière Club. (Class to read French plays one evening a fortnight.)

§ 10. President of the Home Beautifying Society. (Her pet interest.)

§ 11. To say nothing of dinner-parties, receptions, ladies' luncheons, the opera, concerts, authors' readings, and other more or less engrossing social diversions and distractions.

"There!" continued Josephine. "And this does not include the thought and worry she spends upon Mrs. J. Webb Johnston."

"And who, pray, is Mrs. J. Webb Johnston?" I asked.

"Her fascinating, deadly, and demoralizing rival," answered Josephine, with a mournful wag of the head. "I am really very sorry, my dear philosopher, that this fresh complication has appeared, for I really think your Mrs. Sherman had all she could attend to already. But I must be faithful to the truth, even though our cherished hopes are thereby frustrated. Mustn't I, philosopher?"

"Certainly," said I; "but since you instead of me seem to be writing this letter, I suggest that it is time to give our correspondents time to breathe by beginning a fresh paragraph."

To A Modern Woman with Social Ambitions. III

Just as you men – merchants, lawyers, or doctors – " pursued Josephine, reflectively, "deliberately or unconsciously contrast yourselves with your fellows in the same calling and become friendly rivals yet competitors for success and renown, it seems to be inevitable that the modern woman with social ambitions should keep her eye on other modern women with social ambitions and try to make sure that they do not get ahead of her. Your Mrs. Sherman, at the time the newspaper woman visited her, had reached the point where it would naturally occur to her to scan the horizon to observe how the other feminine celebrities of her environment were progressing, and her attention was especially called to the matter by the article on 'Progressive Women.' There she had the opportunity to behold them in their respective glories, and to be jealous of or indifferent to them, according to her judgment as to what each amounted to. It was an interesting list, and she experienced in perusing it, in conjunction with the portraits, some qualms of mild envy on account of several of the progressionists, but the only face and career which really discouraged her were the face and career of the woman I have referred to, Mrs. J. Webb Johnston, or, as every one calls her, Mrs. Webb Johnston.

"When she had finished she felt herself essentially on a par with the others; but in the case of Mrs. Webb Johnston she experienced a frog in her throat, and she looked into distance with a harassed air for more than five minutes. Mrs. Webb Johnston was not a stranger to her, but she was comparatively a novelty. That is, she had appeared on the social stage since Mrs. Sherman herself had become prominent, and had been making mushroom-like progress; such rapid progress in fact that it was only when she read the text of the article that she realized the extent of it. Then it came over her with a rush that she was in peril of being distanced on her own ground. For, to all intents and purposes, they were rivals. Their visiting lists were practically the same; they represented and appealed to the same constituency. In personal appearance she could not justly claim any superiority to Mrs. Webb, who was at least three years her junior in age, and who possessed a certain luscious, Juno-like beauty which was calculated, without question, to dazzle undiscriminating eyes, and which would not be regarded except by the very subtle as inferior in type to her own refined effectiveness. Yes, there was no doubt about Mrs. Webb's physical charms, or her great executive ability, or her enthusiastic devotion to the entire range of interests over which she herself was aiming to hold undisputed sway. Her own ambition was to be the guiding spirit, the modern, original social force above all other modern social forces in her constituency; yet here was another with an evidently similar ambition, and a war-cry or shibboleth which was disconcertingly fetching. I trust you have appreciated, philosopher, that our Mrs. Sherman (I am really sorry for her now, so I call her 'our'), from the very first, has been decorously conservative in her point of view, eschewing cheap and vagabond devices and adhering to elegant and appropriately conventional usages, such as seemed to befit a conscientious woman eager to lead public opinion. If dignified conservatism has been her ruling motive, you will readily appreciate that it would disturb her to find that a Bohemian looseness of social vision distinguished her rival, who had been working her way to the front by the specious cry of 'liberty,' and a seductively expressed intention of freeing the community from the manacles of old fogy conventions. I am sure you will agree, philosopher, that it is natural she should have been worried, or, at least, distracted from settling down to her 'Art in Humble Homes' by this discovery. And investigation and reflection only serve to agitate her still further; for, as the weeks go by, it becomes more and more obvious that the things indicated in the article are true – that Mrs. Webb Johnston is hand in glove with authors, actors, opera-singers, and other celebrities, and that the entertainments which she gives and the conversation heard there lack the dull, cut-and-dried, mechanical flavor observable at ordinary social gatherings. You see the situation, don't you, dear?"

(As Josephine's prophecy has assumed an essay-like or argumentative form, it does not seem to me advisable to interrupt its flow for my correspondents by reciting our side observations, unless they would be material or elucidating. Although her appropriation of my Mrs. Sherman has proved to be a kidnapping of a very serious character, and her conversation is bracketed as a "note," still her remarks seem to me so pertinent that I am prepared to adopt them as a part of my letter.)

"The most perplexing thing, philosopher, for a modern woman with social ambitions who wishes to emulate Madame Récamier or Madame de Staël, is that we have no standards in this country. Public opinion is the only test of conduct. The progressive woman is expected on the one hand to be original, and yet on the other to guide correctly, and public opinion reserves the right to follow blindly and to applaud egregiously and afterward to condemn the leaders whom it has flattered into folly. An ambitious woman (or a man, for the matter of that) needs to-day a clear head, a high sense of responsibility, and a sense of humor if she or he would avoid being led astray by the will-o'-the-wisp crew of surface society livers which pursues talent and originality only to be amused, and who, provided it is amused, forgives everything else, and eggs the performer on to believe that its shallow approval is the real verdict of society. This crew, brought into being by mere wealth, lacking purpose and sneering at it if it threatens to interfere with the progress of the merry-go-round, and backed by the army of society reporters and tittle-tattlers, is a growing factor in our large cities and serves to debauch public sentiment by more and more audacious or frivolous ventures concerning the orthodoxy of which it claims to be the only intelligent judge. We are accustomed to sneer at the formal and confining conventions of older civilizations on the ground that liberty of action is thereby checked and life made artificial, but are we not beginning to discover that there are advantages in a definite prescription as to what gentlemen and ladies can do as compared with a happy-go-lucky system of individual competition in social experiments which, however vulgar and demoralizing, are invariably puffed and glorified by the social gossip editors of a host of newspapers? The subsequent course of Mrs. Sherman's career is an illustration of the plight in which a modern woman with social ambitions is liable to find herself as a result of the democratic habit of constituting the half-educated and often morally obtuse society reporter, her successors and assigns, the sole arbiter of what is socially elegant and invigorating.

"Setting aside the matter of the ethics of her egotism, our lady in question is animated by a conscientious desire to be a refining and admirable influence. It is her ambition to lead, but to lead nobly and unimpeachably. Her entertainments and her posture in and toward society have been pursued on this principle, and she has believed the effect produced by her to be irreproachable intellectual elegance, redeemed from formalism or dullness by scintillating vivacity. The suggestion, therefore, that she is behind the times gives her a genuine shock. She has hitherto prided herself on her mental acumen and on her knowingness. She has considered that she knew life to the dregs, so to speak, for she had passed through a course of French, and translated Russian novels, and acquired thereby a knowledge of things evil, which she kept stored in her inner consciousness as a source of pride and an antidote against undue primness in matters sexual and social. She begins to ask herself if it can possibly be true that she is an old fogy, and lacks breadth of view, and that society in its demands for liberty of conduct and agreeable entertainment is prepared to discard, as outworn and futile, conventions and limitations which she has been disposed to consider essential to civilized and decent deportment. As the result of this reasoning she resolves to cap her rival's next venture with something of her own. So it happens that not long after Mrs. Webb Johnston has summoned a few select spirits to sup and witness Miss Almira Wing, a visiting coryphée, do a skirt dance, Mrs. Sherman issues notes of invitation to what is mysteriously specified as 'An Eclipse Smoke Talk.' This proves to be a small gathering of choice souls to observe a total eclipse of the moon due at two o'clock in the morning from her own roof, and to listen to remarks by a leading astronomer secured for the occasion. This entertainment is a success, and serves to give her new heart. It was bold, still decent. She has preserved her self-respect, yet shown herself alive to the necessity of being original. She is prompt to reinforce it by an evening with a Russian Nihilist, a young woman reputed to have been prominent in plots to assassinate the Czar, and who makes a specialty of narrating her experiences after a Welsh rabbit, cigarette in mouth. Naturally, these enterprises spur Mrs. Webb Johnston to fresh efforts of the imagination. Her guests are beguiled at her next evening by a paper on 'Life among the Mormons,' delivered by one of the early female disciples of that community. No men are invited on this occasion. A fortnight later a very small and secretly invited company are bidden to behold an exhibition of the vagaries of a hypnotic patient.

"This enlargement of her horizon, though stimulating, puts Mrs. Sherman on tenter-hooks. It becomes necessary for her to keep accurately posted as to the comings of celebrities in order to get the first 'go' at them, so to speak, before they fall into the clutches of her rival. As a consequence, aspirants in every line of art or accomplishment who desire to win the patronage of the public ask for the use of her name and receive it. She had been nervous and over-occupied before, but now her days are passed in a ferment. She has recourse to tonics and to sleeping draughts. She feels elated at the success of her enfranchisement, but a feverish interest as to what Mrs. Webb Johnston will do next keeps her uneasy. Nor has she forgotten her serious intentions. She tries to assure herself that her progressiveness is for the benefit of society, and that she is leading it in noble directions. She still retains her scruples. She draws the line on women celebrities of unchaste life. In this she refuses to be led astray by her rival's practices. Mrs. Webb Johnston's openly avowed theory had been that where art was concerned, she chose to ask no questions. Accordingly, she took to her bosom, socially, any one who was brilliant or attractive; and every notoriously erotic actress, singer, dancer, or other artist whose talent had caught the public fancy was invited to her house, and became privileged on very short acquaintance to kiss her and call her by her first name.

"Mrs. Sherman's conscience obliges her to draw this line, but she is conscious that it is an inconvenience to do so, which puts her at a disadvantage. Mrs. Webb Johnston has merely to swoop down on the hotel, or insinuate herself behind the scenes, and offer her visiting card, and presently her cheek, in order to carry off the prize. She cannot but feel that there are advantages in the Bohemian democratic point of view which asks no questions, but takes the good without heeding the ill.