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CHAPTER XXI
THE ENGLISH WIFE

Her position – Family life less attractive and piquant in England than in France, but more solid – The English wife is the goddess of a beautiful home

The Englishman is no doubt cut out to make colonies, but less to make love, for the simple reason that he does not know how to forget himself, and spends the greater part of his life standing sentry at the door of his dignity.

The Englishman loves in his own fashion, in a true and manly way, according to his peculiar organization, which enables him to bring to the choice of a wife the very same cool reflection, care and discernment that he brings to all the other actions of his life. In a word, he seldom allows himself to be 'carried away.'

This is a great superiority he has over the Frenchman, because this cool and reflective way of loving has established the English family on a most solid basis. The Englishman does not seek beauty in a wife. After being married he wants to enjoy a perfect peace of mind, and, to do him justice, I will add that money will seldom make him take a wife who does not possess those moral and intellectual qualities that are the foundation-stone of happiness in matrimonial life. A cheerful face will attract him much more than a beautiful one. It is a cheerful and useful companion he wants, not a legal mistress or a well-dressed doll.

His honeymoon lasts a month. When he settles at home, he prepares to keep his wife in order and discipline, and to give her occupations to fill up all her time – a house to keep and a large family to bring up. Devotion and friendship are nowhere deeper than in the English family, but poetry and piquancy shine by their absence. It is a prosy life among the masses of the people.

Among these masses, even the well-to-do masses, of the people (I don't mention the upper tens, who are alike all the world over) there is no privacy between them – why, very often, not even a dressing-room.

The 'nonsense,' as I once heard an Englishman call the poetry of matrimony, is soon knocked out of them. One says, 'Oh, that's all right. It is not a man; it's only my husband'; while the other says, 'I would not do this or that before a woman for all the world; but this is the wife: it's all right.' And it is that kind of life that so often causes Englishwomen of the middle class to appear so unattractive. The blame is to be laid at the door of their husbands. In love the Englishman is a little selfish. He forgets that the sweetest pleasures are those we give.

When the French girl marries, she gains her liberty; when the English girl marries, she often loses hers (when the American girl marries, she retains hers). In France the wife is the friend and confidante of her husband and often his mistress. In England she is the mistress of the house only. And this is not always a sinecure; for she becomes something more than a house-keeper in point of rank, but at the same time something less, if we consider that no wages are due to her and that she cannot give notice to leave.

In England the wife is the partner of her husband at home only. In France she is his partner in business. It is she who keeps his books and his cash-box, and neither was ever entrusted to better guardianship.

An Englishman gives his wife so much a month for housekeeping and so much for dressing and pocket money. One morning he tells her they are going to remove to a sumptuous home. She did not know he was making his fortune. Or maybe he will tell her at breakfast: 'I have lost everything. We must go to Australia and start a new life.' She did not know they were on the way to ruin; so she merely replies: 'Very well, John. Give me time to put on my hat.'

When things are prosperous and matrimonial life happy, the Englishwoman makes the best of wives. Her mission, which she understands so well, is to cheer her husband in the comfort of his home and make him forget the worry, annoyance and heartburnings that beset him out of doors in his public, professional or commercial life; to provide for him a retreat in the soothing atmosphere of which he can find rest and renovated strength; to do the honours of his house with that liberality, that provident and large-hearted hospitality, which is only to be found in England. Such is the mission of the English wife. 'The companions of John Bull are beautiful, healthy girls, perhaps a little too bold; virtuous wives, perhaps a trifle too respected; excellent mothers, perhaps a little too neglected; above all, women whose ingenious attention to all the minor comforts of existence can turn the humblest cottage into a little palace of order, cleanliness and well-being.'¹

The more I examine the constitution of the English family, the more deeply convinced I become that it is the very pedestal on which stand solid the prosperity and the greatness of the British Empire.

CHAPTER XXII
THE BRITISH MATRON

The English woman the most charming of women – The British the most ridiculous one – English and British – The British matron is the produce of British soil – Her ways – Her fads and inconsistency – Her knowledge of French literature and her judgment thereof

When an Englishman, speaking of a woman, says, 'She is a thorough Englishwoman,' that is the greatest compliment he can pay to a countrywoman of his. It means the embodiment of all that is refined and delicate in a woman, of all the best domestic virtues, and of a style of beauty not so piquant, perhaps, as that of the belles of America and Southern Europe, but the beauty of delicate, regular features, clear skin, classical, sculptural outlines and an expression of repose, of modesty, and of healthy simplicity of life. In the eyes of English people the words 'English' and 'perfect' are synonymous. For once they are fairly right. I have said it elsewhere: 'When an Englishwoman is beautiful, she is beyond competition, she is a dream, a perfect angel of beauty.' When she is ugly – the Lord help her! – she has not a redeeming feature, not even that intelligent, bright expression which saves the plainest American woman from hopelessness.

When an Englishman, speaking of a woman, says, 'She is a regular British matron,' that means the embodiment of all that is ridiculous in a woman – of all the British fads, social, religious, artistic (or, rather, inartistic), the everlasting laughing-stock of all the comic papers in the world. The English people call themselves Britons or Britishers when they want to make fun of themselves. In their eyes, the words 'British' and 'ridiculous' are pretty nigh being synonymous, except when the word 'British' is used as a patriotic adjective. They say the 'British Empire,' a 'British soldier,' a 'British General,' but they would not say a 'British bishop.' No, they would say 'English' – it sounds more sober and respectful to their ears. 'English Society' means the upper ten, the pick of society. On the other hand, an English author who had failed to be appreciated by the public might say: 'What can you expect from the British public?' And he would mean, like in the song, 'that pig of a public, that ass of a public.'

The British matron is not necessarily old, not even elderly. She is a product of the soil, not an evolution or a result, and she may be blooming at thirty.

Cant and inconsistency are the characteristic traits of the British matron. It is she who writes to the papers to demand of the Town Councils the exclusion of statues from the public parks, and of the museum curators the exclusion of the nude from the picture and sculpture galleries; and it is she who, at balls, theatres and dinner-parties, astonishes the world with the display of her charms. It is she who holds up her hands in holy indignation at the sight of men and women bathing in Continental and American seaside resorts, forgetting to observe and mention that at those places both sexes are dressed exactly alike, in dark, thick serge costumes, which invariably have a skirt; and it is she whom you may see on English beaches bathe in light, clinging, salmon-pink calico tights. I hope that my readers of puritanical proclivities will feel obliged and grateful to me for not giving that attire the name that would describe it best, that of an article of underclothing which you may see on the ladies' washing-list.

The British matron is a keenly sensitive person. She may not take any notice of such pieces of news as cases of starvation in the midst of London, of cruelty to wives, of Turkish or Chinese atrocities, and all that sort of everyday intelligence which she may read in the daily press; but she will air her Homeric indignation if she hears that an operation has been performed on a rabbit without giving anæsthetics to poor 'bunny.' She is the champion of dogs, cats, horses, rabbits, birds, and is invariably a member of the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, a society which includes neither men nor women among its protégés. In spite of that, the British matron witnesses pigeon-shooting matches, eats pâté de foie gras (which is obtained by slowly killing a goose inside a hot oven), wears furs which can be obtained only by skinning animals alive, sealskins among them, and trims her hats with the dead bodies of the most beautiful birds.

If you were to remark before the British matron that the trousers of Mr. So-and-so are always irreproachable, you would run the risk of creating a panic, and the lady might go into a fit. But you may see her watch men's races at Athletic Sports meetings. For all covering on their skin, the competitors have a thin flannel jersey, and drawers of the same material about the size of fig-leaves. Saturated with perspiration, these elementary articles of clothing will cleave to the human form as if the wearers had come straight up out of the water. The British matron looks on, applauds, and does not turn a hair. Her ears are most easily shocked, but not her eyes. She objects to the word, not to the thing. In her way she is a realist. The thing speaks for itself, it is the truth, whereas the word suggests to her fantastic imagination the most objectionable ideas.

The French and the American women call on you and, when they think they have stayed long enough, they shake hands and go. The British matron 'thinks' or 'is afraid she must be about going.'

What you have achieved does not amount to much to make a gentleman of you in her eyes. If your father is a gentleman, you may be in it; if, besides, your grandfather was a gentleman, then you will be of it. The British matron generally belongs to Thackeray's family of snobs.

Her knowledge of French literature is marvellous. She has read or heard of all the novels of M. Zola, and her verdict is that modern fiction in France is the abomination of desolation. Edmond About, André Theuriet, Anatole France, George Sand, she does not know.

Two young girls of my acquaintance, both aged about sixteen, were speaking of the books they had lately read. One mentioned that she had just finished 'Strathmore,' by Ouida, and that her mother thought it was quite the sort of novel a young girl could read.

'And what have you read?' she added.

'Last week I read 'L'Ami Fritz,' by Erckmann-Chatrian,' replied the other girl.

Now, this little idyll is about as proper and moral as the top lines of school copy-books.

'Oh!' said the first young girl, 'does your mother allow you to read French novels? Mine never does.'

Truly a strange being, the British matron!

CHAPTER XXIII
THE AMERICAN WOMAN – I

A new coat-of-arms for America – The American woman – Her ways – The liberty she enjoys – 'Oh, please make me an American woman!'

If I were asked to suggest a new coat-of-arms for the United States of America, I would propose a beautiful, bright, intelligent-looking woman, under the protection of an eagle spreading its wings over her, with the motto: Place aux Dames– 'Honour to the Ladies'; or, if you prefer a freer translation, 'Make room for the Women.'

The Government of the American people is not a republic, it is not a monarchy: it is a gynarchy, a government by the women for the women, a sort of occult power behind the scenes that rules the country.

It has often been said that a wife is what a husband makes her. I believe that the women of a nation are what the men of that nation make them. Therefore, honour to the men of the United States for having produced that modern national ideal the American woman.

I have been six times all over the United States. I have spent about three years of my life in America, travelling from New York to San Francisco, from British Columbia to Louisiana. If there is an impression that becomes a deeper and deeper conviction every time that I return to that country, it is that the most interesting woman in the world is the American woman.

Now, let us compare her with the women of Europe. The English woman, when beautiful, is an ideal symphony, an incomparable statue, but too often a statue. The French woman is the embodiment of suppleness and gracefulness, more fascinating by her manner than by either her face or figure.

The Roman woman, with her gorgeous development, suggests the descendant of the proud mother of the Gracchi. The American woman is a combination, an ensemble.

I have never seen in America an absolutely, helplessly plain woman. She is always in the possession of a redeeming something which saves her. She may be ever so homely (as the Americans say), she looks intelligent, a creature that has been allowed to think for herself, that has never been sat upon. And I know no sight more pleasing than an elderly American woman, with her white hair, that makes her look like a Louis XV. marquise, and an expression which reflects the respect she has inspired during a well and usefully spent life.

When women were born, a fairy attended the birth of every one of them. Each woman received a special gift. The American woman arriving late, the fairies gathered together and decided to make her a present of part of all the attributes conferred on all the other women. The result is that she has the smartness and the bright look of a French woman, and the shapely, sculptural lines of an English woman. Ah! but, added to that, she has a characteristic trait peculiarly her own, an utter absence of affectation, a naturalness of bearing which makes her unique, a national type. There is not in the world a woman to match her in a drawing-room. There she stands, among the women of all nationalities, a silhouette bien découpée, herself, a queen.

Allowed from the tenderest age almost every liberty, accustomed to take the others, she is free, easy, perfectly natural, with the consciousness of her influence, her power; able by her intelligence and education to enjoy all the intellectual pleasures of life, and by her keen powers of observation and her native adaptability to fit herself for all the conditions of life; an exquisite mixture of a coquette without affectation and a blue-stocking without spectacles or priggishness; the only woman, however beautiful and learned she may be, with whom man feels perfectly at his ease – a sort of fascinating good fellow, retaining all the best attributes of womanhood.

Now, if this should sound like an outburst of enthusiasm, please excuse me. I owe to American women such pleasant, never-to-be-forgotten hours that on merely hearing the mention of the American woman I take off my hat.

Of all the women in the world, the American woman is the one who receives the best attentions at the hands of men. The Frenchman, it is true, is the slave of his womankind, but he expects her to be his thorough partner – I mean, to share with him his labours as well as his pleasures. The American man is the most devoted and hard-working husband in the world. The poor, dear fellow! He works, and he works, and he works, and the beads of perspiration from his brow crystallize in the shape of diamonds all over the ears, the fingers and the neck of his interesting womankind.

He invites her to share his pleasures, but he saves her the trouble of sharing his anxieties. The burden of life from seven in the morning till seven in the evening rests on his shoulders alone.

Yet, in spite of all this, I have seldom discovered in American women the slightest trace of gratitude to men. The American woman expects a triumphal arch to be erected over each doorway through which she has to pass – and she gets it.

Well, she deserves it.

Almost throughout the length and breadth of the United States, you hear of women seeking to extend the sphere of their influence, women dissatisfied with their lot. But there is no satisfying spoiled children. If they see the moon reflected in a pail of water, they must have it.

I am perfectly convinced that the American woman has secured for herself the best, the softest berth that it was possible to secure in this world.

Let me finish by repeating an exclamation I uttered after my first visit to the United States, twelve years ago: 'If I could choose my sex and my birthplace, I would shout to the Almighty at the top of my voice: "Oh, please make me an American woman!"'

CHAPTER XXIV
THE AMERICAN WOMAN – II

She walks first, Jonathan behind her – The educational system of America explains the idiosyncrasies of the American woman

The first time that I was in America, some twelve years ago, I one day mentioned to a newspaper reporter that I could not find a cup of tea to please me anywhere in America. The next day a paragraph about me appeared in the paper, headed, 'Max is going to abuse everything in America.'

A few days later I had an opportunity to mention to another reporter that, however bad meals were in some hotels in the small cities, I could everywhere get a cup of coffee quite as good as in France, if not even better. The next day a paragraph appeared headed: 'Max wants our dollars.'

I have many times lectured in the United States on women, including a sketch on American women. After the lecture I have generally been introduced to some ladies of the audience, who kindly expressed the desire of shaking hands with me.

Almost every time one or two have taken me aside, and said: 'I have read in your books and your magazine articles and heard in your lectures all you have to say about American women; but now, tell me, what do you really think of them?'

My dear ladies, there are some men who do occasionally speak the truth, or what they believe to be the truth, and who do say what they mean, and mean what they say.

The English, long ago, warned me that I would not be able to do in America what I had successfully done in England, because the Americans, they said to me, were much more susceptible and sensitive than the English. They were mistaken.

No doubt the Americans had resented, and justly, too, the criticisms of Trollope and Dickens (the latter had to write a permanent apology in the preface of 'Martin Chuzzlewit'). Criticism that never offends, and praises that never flatter, are, I believe, everywhere acceptable when they are taken in the spirit of fairness and good-humour in which they are expressed. I believe, and firmly believe, the American women to be the most interesting and the most brilliant women in the world, and I do not see why I could not proclaim it from the house-tops if I like, even in America.

They are picturesque, vivacious, natural, stylish, smart, clever, unconventional, and the best educated. They are typical, perfectly labelled.

Take me to a drawing-room in Paris or in London, and, without being introduced to anyone, I think I should be able to pick out all the American women in the room.

Once, after a lecture in England, I received the card of a young American lady who wished to speak to me. She came and brought in her mother, and also a man, who all the time stood in the rear. When we parted, she left, followed by her mother. Then I discovered the man, who said to me most meekly, 'I'm the father.' Poor dear man! he looked so small as he emerged from the background!

I cannot help thinking that there exists in some American women a little mild contempt for that poor creature that is called a man.

And how is that in a country where the women receive such delightful, and, for that matter, well-deserved attentions at the hands of the men, and that throughout the length and breadth of the country?

Well, I think the educational system of America explains the phenomenon.

In Europe the sexes are kept apart in youth – I mean at school, and, in France especially, young boys and young girls entertain for one another very strange feelings, most of them founded on ignorance.

In Europe even now the education received by girls cannot be compared to the education received by boys. That's being changed now – some say improved. H'm! we shall see.

It was not a long time ago that, in England and in France, when a girl could read, write, add, and subtract, name the capitals of Europe, and play 'The Maiden's Prayer' on the piano, her education was finished; she was prepared for the world and ready for her husband – and her neighbours.

Very often I have been invited to be present at the distribution of prizes in large English public schools and colleges. When I was in a girls' school, I never once failed to hear those poor girls told, and by men, too, that practically the only thing they should think about was to prepare to become one day good wives and good mothers.

I have been many times present at the distribution of prizes in boys' schools in England, and I know that I never heard those boys told that now and then they might think of preparing to become one day decent fathers and tolerable husbands.

In America things are different. In every grade of educational life, among the masses of the people, boys and girls are educated together, side by side; on each bench a boy, a girl, a boy, a girl.

Now, the official statistics of the Education Department declare that in every State of the Union the number of diplomas and certificates obtained by girls is larger than the number obtained by boys.

When I heard that statement, I said this to myself (kindly follow my little argument): 'Is it not just possible that the young American boys, when they saw what those girls next to them could do, said to themselves, "Heaven! who would have thought so?"'

Is it not also possible that the young American girls, when they saw what those boys next to them could do, exclaimed, 'Good gracious! is that all?'

Does not that, to a certain extent, explain to you the respect that young boys acquire at school for young girls, and perhaps, also, that little mild absence of respect that girls get for boys? I believe there is something in it.

Ah, my dear European men, who clamour at the top of your voices for the higher education of women, be careful! You will be found out, and, like your fellow-men of America, by-and-by you will have to take the back-seat.