Delphi Complete Works of Jerome K. Jerome (Illustrated) (Series Four) (452 page)

“Well, ask them,” said the Girton Girl. “Here are three of them present. Now, honestly, when you talk about us among yourselves, do you gush about our virtue, and goodness, and wisdom?”

“‘Gush,’” said the Philosopher, reflecting, “‘gush’ would hardly be the correct word.”

“In justice to the truth,” I said, “I must admit our Girton friend is to a certain extent correct. Every man at some time of his life esteems to excess some one particular woman. Very young men, lacking in experience, admire perhaps indiscriminately. To them, anything in a petticoat is adorable: the milliner makes the angel. And very old men, so I am told, return to the delusions of their youth; but as to this I cannot as yet speak positively. The rest of us - well, when we are alone, it must be confessed, as our Philosopher says, that ‘gush’ is not the correct word.”

“I told you so,” chortled the Girton Girl.

“Maybe,” I added, “it is merely the result of reaction. Convention insists that to her face we show her a somewhat exaggerated deference. Her very follies we have to regard as added charms - the poets have decreed it. Maybe it comes as a relief to let the pendulum swing back.”

“But is it not a fact,” asked the Old Maid, “that the best men and even the wisest are those who have held women in most esteem? Do we not gauge civilization by the position a nation accords to its women?”

“In the same way as we judge them by the mildness of their laws, their tenderness for the weak. Uncivilised man killed off the useless numbers of the tribe; we provide for them hospitals, almshouses. Man’s attitude towards woman proves the extent to which he has conquered his own selfishness, the distance he has travelled from the law of the ape: might is right.

“Please don’t misunderstand me,” pleaded the Philosopher, with a nervous glance towards the lowering eyebrows of the Girton Girl. “I am not saying for a moment woman is not the equal of man; indeed, it is my belief that she is. I am merely maintaining she is not his superior. The wise man honours woman as his friend, his fellow-labourer, his complement. It is the fool who imagines her unhuman.”

“But are we not better,” persisted the Old Maid, “for our ideals? I don’t say we women are perfect - please don’t think that. You are not more alive to our faults than we are. Read the women novelists from George Eliot downwards. But for your own sake - is it not well man should have something to look up to, and failing anything better - ?”

“I draw a very wide line,” answered the Philosopher, “between ideals and delusions. The ideal has always helped man; but that belongs to the land of his dreams, his most important kingdom, the kingdom of his future. Delusions are earthly structures, that sooner or later fall about his ears, blinding him with dust and dirt. The petticoat-governed country has always paid dearly for its folly.”

“Elizabeth!” cried the Girton Girl. “Queen Victoria!”

“Were ideal sovereigns,” returned the Philosopher, “leaving the government of the country to its ablest men. France under its Pompadours, the Byzantine Empire under its Theodoras, are truer examples of my argument. I am speaking of the unwisdom of assuming all women to be perfect. Belisarius ruined himself and his people by believing his own wife to be an honest woman.”

“But chivalry,” I argued, “has surely been of service to mankind?”

“To an immense extent,” agreed the Philosopher. “It seized a natural human passion and turned it to good uses. Then it was a reality. So once was the divine right of kings, the infallibility of the Church, for cumbering the ground with the lifeless bodies of which mankind has paid somewhat dearly. Not its upstanding lies - they can be faced and defeated - but its dead truths are the world’s stumbling-blocks. To the man of war and rapine, trained in cruelty and injustice, the woman was the one thing that spoke of the joy of yielding. Woman, as compared with man, was then an angel: it was no mere form of words. All the tender offices of life were in her hands. To the warrior, his life divided between fighting and debauchery, his womenfolk tending the sick, helping the weak, comforting the sorrowing, must have moved with white feet across a world his vices had made dark. Her mere subjection to the priesthood, her inborn feminine delight in form and ceremony - now an influence narrowing her charity - must then, to his dim eyes, trained to look upon dogma as the living soul of his religion, have seemed a halo, deifying her. Woman was then the servant. It was naturally to her advantage to excite tenderness and mercy in man. Since she has become the mistress of the world. It is no longer her interested mission to soften his savage instincts. Nowadays, it is the women who make war, the women who exalt brute force. Today, it is the woman who, happy herself, turns a deaf ear to the world’s low cry of pain; holding that man honoured who would ignore the good of the species to augment the comforts of his own particular family; holding in despite as a bad husband and father the man whose sense of duty extends beyond the circle of the home. One recalls Lady Nelson’s reproach to her lord after the battle of the Nile. ‘I have married a wife, and therefore cannot come,’ is the answer to his God that many a woman has prompted to her lover’s tongue. I was speaking to a woman only the other day about the cruelty of skinning seals alive. ‘I feel so sorry for the poor creatures,’ she murmured; ‘but they say it gives so much more depth of colour to the fur.’ Her own jacket was certainly a very beautiful specimen.”

“When I was editing a paper,” I said, “I opened my columns to a correspondence on this very subject. Many letters were sent to me - most of them trite, many of them foolish. One, a genuine document, I remember. It came from a girl who for six years had been assistant to a fashionable dressmaker. She was rather tired of the axiom that all women, at all times, are perfection. She suggested that poets and novelists should take service for a year in any large drapery or millinery establishment where they would have an opportunity of studying woman in her natural state, so to speak.”

“It is unfair to judge us by what, I confess, is our chief weakness,” argued the Woman of the World. “Woman in pursuit of clothes ceases to be human - she reverts to the original brute. Besides, dressmakers can be very trying. The fault is not entirely on one side.”

“I still fail to be convinced,” remarked the Girton Girl, “that woman is over-praised. Not even the present conversation, so far as it has gone, altogether proves your point.”

“I am not saying it is the case among intelligent thinkers,” explained the Philosopher, “but in popular literature the convention still lingers. To woman’s face no man cares to protest against it; and woman, to her harm, has come to accept it as a truism. ‘What are little girls made of? Sugar and spice and all that’s nice.’ In more or less varied form the idea has entered into her blood, shutting out from her hope of improvement. The girl is discouraged from asking herself the occasionally needful question: Am I on the way to becoming a sound, useful member of society? Or am I in danger of degenerating into a vain, selfish, lazy piece of good-for-nothing rubbish? She is quite content so long as she can detect in herself no tendency to male vices, forgetful that there are also feminine vices. Woman is the spoilt child of the age. No one tells her of her faults. The World with its thousand voices flatters her. Sulks, bad temper, and pig-headed obstinacy are translated as ‘pretty Fanny’s wilful ways.’ Cowardice, contemptible in man or woman, she is encouraged to cultivate as a charm. Incompetence to pack her own bag or find her own way across a square and round a corner is deemed an attraction. Abnormal ignorance and dense stupidity entitle her to pose as the poetical ideal. If she give a penny to a street beggar, selecting generally the fraud, or kiss a puppy’s nose, we exhaust the language of eulogy, proclaiming her a saint. The marvel to me is that, in spite of the folly upon which they are fed, so many of them grow to be sensible women.”

“Myself,” remarked the Minor Poet, “I find much comfort in the conviction that talk, as talk, is responsible for much less good and much less harm in the world than we who talk are apt to imagine. Words to grow and bear fruit must fall upon the earth of fact.”

“But you hold it right to fight against folly?” demanded the Philosopher.

“Heavens, yes!” cried the Minor Poet. “That is how one knows it is Folly - if we can kill it. Against the Truth our arrows rattle harmlessly.”

CHAPTER VI

“But what is her reason?” demanded the Old Maid.

“Reason! I don’t believe any of them have any reason.” The Woman of the World showed sign of being short of temper, a condition of affairs startlingly unusual to her. “Says she hasn’t enough work to do.”

“She must be an extraordinary woman,” commented the Old Maid.

“The trouble I have put myself to in order to keep that woman, just because George likes her savouries, no one would believe,” continued indignantly the Woman of the World. “We have had a dinner party regularly once a week for the last six months, entirely for her benefit. Now she wants me to give two. I won’t do it!”

“If I could be of any service?” offered the Minor Poet. “My digestion is not what it once was, but I could make up in quality - a
recherché
little banquet twice a week, say on Wednesdays and Saturdays, I would make a point of eating with you. If you think that would content her!”

“It is really thoughtful of you,” replied the Woman of the World, “but I cannot permit it. Why should you be dragged from the simple repast suitable to a poet merely to oblige my cook? It is not reason.”

“I was thinking rather of you,” continued the Minor Poet.

“I’ve half a mind,” said the Woman of the World, “to give up housekeeping altogether and go into an hotel. I don’t like the idea, but really servants are becoming impossible.”

“It is very interesting,” said the Minor Poet.

“I am glad you find it so!” snapped the Woman of the World.

“What is interesting?” I asked the Minor Poet.

“That the tendency of the age,” he replied, “should be slowly but surely driving us into the practical adoption of a social state that for years we have been denouncing the Socialists for merely suggesting. Everywhere the public-houses are multiplying, the private dwellings diminishing.”

“Can you wonder at it?” commented the Woman of the World. “You men talk about ‘the joys of home.’ Some of you write poetry - generally speaking, one of you who lives in chambers, and spends two-thirds of his day at a club.” We were sitting in the garden. The attention of the Minor Poet became riveted upon the sunset. “‘Ethel and I by the fire.’ Ethel never gets a chance of sitting by the fire. So long as you are there, comfortable, you do not notice that she has left the room to demand explanation why the drawing-room scuttle is always filled with slack, and the best coal burnt in the kitchen range. Home to us women is our place of business that we never get away from.”

“I suppose,” said the Girton Girl - to my surprise she spoke with entire absence of indignation. As a rule, the Girton Girl stands for what has been termed “divine discontent” with things in general. In the course of time she will outlive her surprise at finding the world so much less satisfactory an abode than she had been led to suppose - also her present firm conviction that, given a free hand, she could put the whole thing right in a quarter of an hour. There are times even now when her tone suggests less certainty of her being the first person who has ever thought seriously about the matter. “I suppose,” said the Girton Girl, “it comes of education. Our grandmothers were content to fill their lives with these small household duties. They rose early, worked with their servants, saw to everything with their own eyes. Nowadays we demand time for self-development, for reading, for thinking, for pleasure. Household drudgery, instead of being the object of our life, has become an interference to it. We resent it.”

“The present revolt of woman,” continued the Minor Poet, “will be looked back upon by the historian of the future as one of the chief factors in our social evolution. The ‘home’ - the praises of which we still sing, but with gathering misgiving - depended on her willingness to live a life of practical slavery. When Adam delved and Eve span - Adam confining his delving to the space within his own fence, Eve staying her spinning-wheel the instant the family hosiery was complete - then the home rested upon the solid basis of an actual fact. Its foundations were shaken when the man became a citizen and his interests expanded beyond the domestic circle. Since that moment woman alone has supported the institution. Now she, in her turn, is claiming the right to enter the community, to escape from the solitary confinement of the lover’s castle. The ‘mansions,’ with common dining-rooms, reading-rooms, their system of common service, are springing up in every quarter; the house, the villa, is disappearing. The story is the same in every country. The separate dwelling, where it remains, is being absorbed into a system. In America, the experimental laboratory of the future, the houses are warmed from a common furnace. You do not light the fire, you turn on the hot air. Your dinner is brought round to you in a travelling oven. You subscribe for your valet or your lady’s maid. Very soon the private establishment, with its staff of unorganised, quarrelling servants, of necessity either over or underworked, will be as extinct as the lake dwelling or the sandstone cave.”

“I hope,” said the Woman of the World, “that I may live to see it.”

“In all probability,” replied the Minor Poet, “you will. I would I could feel as hopeful for myself.”

“If your prophecy be likely of fulfilment,” remarked the Philosopher, “I console myself with the reflection that I am the oldest of the party. Myself; I never read these full and exhaustive reports of the next century without revelling in the reflection that before they can be achieved I shall be dead and buried. It may be a selfish attitude, but I should be quite unable to face any of the machine-made futures our growing guild of seers prognosticate. You appear to me, most of you, to ignore a somewhat important consideration - namely, that mankind is alive. You work out your answers as if he were a sum in rule-of-three: ‘If man in so many thousands of years has done so much in such a direction at this or that rate of speed, what will he be doing - ?’ and so on. You forget he is swayed by impulses that can enter into no calculation - drawn hither and thither by powers that can never be represented in your algebra. In one generation Christianity reduced Plato’s republic to an absurdity. The printing-press has upset the unanswerable conclusions of Machiavelli.”