She was proud--proud as an Indian; it was hard for her to make
admissions about her husband. But then--we were like two errant
school-girls, who had been caught m an escapade! "I don't know what
I'm going to do about him," she said, with a wry smile. "He really
won't listen--I can't make any impression on him."
"Did he guess that you'd come there on purpose?" I asked.
"I told him," she answered.
"You _told_ him!"
"I'd meant to keep it secret--I wouldn't have minded telling him a
fib about a little thing. But he made it so very serious!"
I could understand that it must have been serious after the telling.
I waited for her to add what news she chose.
"It seems," she said, "that my husband has a cousin, a pupil of Mrs.
Frothingham's. You can imagine!"
"I can imagine Mrs. Frothingham may lose a pupil."
"No; my husband says his Uncle Archibald always was a fool. But how
can anyone be so narrow! He seemed to take Mrs. Frothingham as a
personal affront."
This was the most definite bit of vexation against her husband that
she had ever let me see. I decided to turn it into a jest. "Mrs.
Frothingham will be glad to know she was understood," I said.
"But seriously, why can't men have open minds about politics and
money?" She went on in a worried voice: "I knew he was like this
when I met him at Harvard. He was living in his own house, aloof
from the poorer men--the men who were most worth while, it seemed to
me. And when I told him of the bad effect he was having on these men
and on his own character as well, he said he would do whatever I
asked--he even gave up his house and went to live in a dormitory. So
I thought I had some influence on him. But now, here is the same
thing again, only I find that one can't take a stand against one's
husband. At least, he doesn't admit the right." She hesitated. "It
doesn't seem loyal to talk about it."
"My dear girl," I said with an impulse of candour, "there isn't much
you can tell me about that problem. My own marriage went to pieces
on that rock."
I saw a look of surprise upon her face. "I haven't told you my story
yet," I said. "Some day I will--when you feel you know me well
enough for us to exchange confidences."
There was more than a hint of invitation in this. After a silence,
she said: "One's instinct is to hide one's troubles."
"Sylvia," I answered, "let me tell you about us. You must realise
that you've been a wonderful person to me; you belong to a world I
never had anything to do with, and never expected to get a glimpse
of. It's the wickedness of our class-civilization that human beings
can't be just human beings to each other--a king can hardly have a
friend. Even after I've overcome the impulse I have to be awed by
your luxury and your grandness; I'm conscious of the fact that
everybody else is awed by them. If I so much as mention that I've
met you, I see people start and stare at me--instantly I become a
personage. It makes me angry, because I want to know _you_."
She was gazing at me, not saying a word. I went on: "I'd never have
thought it possible for anyone to be in your position and be real
and straight and human, but I realise that you have managed to work
that miracle. So I want to love you and help you, in every way I
know how. But you must understand, I can't ask for your confidence,
as I could for any other woman's. There is too much vulgar curiosity
about the rich and great, and I can't pretend to be unaware of that
hatefulness; I can't help shrinking from it. So all I can say is--if
you need me, if you ever need a real friend, why, here I am; you may
be sure I understand, and won't tell your secrets to anyone else."
With a little mist of tears in her eyes, Sylvia put out her hand and
touched mine. And so we went into a chamber alone together, and shut
the cold and suspicious world outside.
20. We knew each other well enough now to discuss the topic which
has been the favourite of women since we sat in the doorways of
caves and pounded wild grain in stone mortars--the question of our
lords, who had gone hunting, and who might be pleased to beat us on
their return. I learned all that Sylvia had been taught on the
subject of the male animal; I opened that amazing unwritten volume
of woman traditions, the maxims of Lady Dee Lysle.
Sylvia's maternal great-aunt had been a great lady out of a great
age, and incidentally a grim and grizzled veteran of the sex-war.
Her philosophy started from a recognition of the physical and
economic inferiority of woman, as complete as any window-smashing
suffragette could have formulated, but her remedy for it was a
purely individualist one, the leisure-class woman's skill in trading
upon her sex. Lady Dee did not use that word, of course--she would
as soon have talked of her esophagus. Her formula was "charm," and
she had taught Sylvia that the preservation of "charm" was the end
of woman's existence, the thing by which she remained a lady, and
without which she was more contemptible than the beasts.
She had taught this, not merely by example and casual anecdote, but
by precepts as solemnly expounded as bible-texts. "Remember, my
dear, a woman with a husband is like a lion-tamer with a whip!" And
the old lady would explain what a hard and dangerous life was lived
by lion-tamers, how their safety depended upon life-long
distrustfulness of the creatures over whom they ruled. She would
tell stories of the rending and maiming of luckless ones, who had
forgotten for a brief moment the nature of the male animal! "Yes, my
dear," she would say, "believe in love; but let the man believe
first!" Her maxims never sinned by verbosity.
The end of all this was not merely food and shelter, a home and
children, it was the supremacy of a sex, its ability to shape life
to its whim. By means of this magic "charm"--a sort of perpetual
individual sex-strike--a woman turned her handicaps into advantages
and her chains into ornaments; she made herself a rare and wonderful
creature, up to whom men gazed in awe. It was "romantic love," but
preserved throughout life, instead of ceasing with courtship.
All the Castleman women understood these arts, and employed them.
There was Aunt Nannie, when she cracked her whip the dear old
bishop-lion would jump as if he had been shot! Did not the whole
State know the story of how once he had been called upon at a
banquet and had risen and remarked: "Ladies and gentlemen, I had
intended to make a speech to you this evening, but I see that my
wife is present, so I must beg you to excuse me." The audience
roared, and Aunt Nannie was furious, but poor dear Bishop Chilton
had spoken but the literal truth, that he could not spread the wings
of his eloquence in the presence of his "better half."
And with Major Castleman, though it seemed different, it was really
the same. Sylvia's mother had let herself get stout--which seemed a
dangerous mark of c
onfidence in the male animal. But the major was
fifteen years older than his wife, and she had a weak heart with
which to intimidate him. Now and then the wilfulness of Castleman
Lysle would become unendurable in the house, and his father would
seize him and turn him over his knee. His screams would bring "Miss
Margaret" flying to the rescue: "Major Castleman, how dare you spank
one of _my_ children?" And she would seize the boy and march off in
terrible haughtiness, and lock herself and her child in her room,
and for hours afterwards the poor major would wander about the
house, suffering the lonelines of the guilty soul. You would hear
him tapping gently at his lady's door. "Honey! Honey! Are you mad
with me?" "Major Castleman," the stately answer would come, "will
you oblige me by leaving one room in this house to which I may
retire?"
21. I would give you a wrong idea of Sylvia if I did not make clear
that along with this sophistication as to the play-aspects of sex,
there went the most incredible ignorance as to its practical
realities. In my arguments I had thought to appeal to her by
referring to that feature of wage-slavery which more than even
child-labour stirs the moral sense of women, but to my utter
consternation I discovered that here was a woman nearly a year
married who did not know what prostitution was. A suspicion had
begun to dawn upon her, and she asked me, timidly: Could it be
possible that that intimacy which was given in marriage could become
a thing of barter in the market-place? When I told her the truth, I
found her horror so great that it was impossible to go on talking
economics. How could I say that women were driven to such things by
poverty? Surely a woman who was not bad at heart would starve,
before she would sell her body to a man!
Perhaps I should have been more patient with her, but I am bitter on
these subjects. "My dear Mrs. van Tuiver," I said, "there is a lot
of nonsense talked about this matter. There is very little sex-life
for women without a money-price made clear in advance."
"I don't understand," she said.
"I don't know about your case," I replied, "but when I married, it
was because I was unhappy and wanted a home of my own. And if the
truth were told, that is why most women marry."
"But what has THAT to do with it?" she cried. She really did not
see!
"What is the difference--except that such women stand out for a
maintenance, while the prostitute takes cash?" I saw that I had
shocked her, and I said: "You must be humble about these things,
because you have never been poor, and you cannot judge those who
have been. But surely you must have known worldly women who married
rich men for their money. And surely you admit that that is
prostitution?"
She fell suddenly silent, and I saw what I had done, and, no doubt,
you will say I should have been ashamed of myself. But when one has
seen as much of misery and injustice as I have, one cannot be so
patient with the fine artificial delicacies and sentimentalities of
the idle rich. I went ahead to tell her some stories, showing her
what poverty actually meant to women.
Then, as she remained silent, I asked her how she had managed to
remain so ignorant. Surely she must have met with the word
"prostitution" in books; she must have heard allusions to the
"demi-monde."
"Of course," she said, "I used to see conspicuous-looking women at
the race-track in New Orleans; I've sat near them in restaurants,
I've known by my mother's looks and her agitation that they must be
bad women. But you see, I didn't know what it meant--I had nothing
but a vague feeling of something dreadful."
I smiled. "Then Lady Dee did not tell you everything about the
possibilities of her system of 'charm.'"
"No," said Sylvia. "Evidently she didn't!" She sat staring at me,
trying to get up the courage to go on with this plain speaking.
And at last the courage came. "I think it is wrong," she exclaimed.
"Girls ought not to be kept so ignorant! They ought to know what
such things mean. Why, I didn't even know what marriage meant!"
"Can that be true?" I asked.
"All my life I had thought of marriage, in a way; I had been trained
to think of it with every eligible man I met--but to me it meant a
home, a place of my own to entertain people in. I pictured myself
going driving with my husband, giving dinner-parties to his friends.
I knew I'd have to let him kiss me, but beyond that--I had a vague
idea of something, but I didn't think. I had been deliberately
trained not to let myself think--to run away from every image that
came to me. And I went on dreaming of what I'd wear, and how I'd
greet my husband when he came home in the evening."
"Didn't you think about children?"
"Yes--but I thought of the CHILDREN. I thought what they'd look
like, and how they'd talk, and how I'd love them. I don't know if
many young girls shut their minds up like that."
She was speaking with agitation, and I was gazing into her eyes,
reading more than she knew I was reading. I was nearer to solving
the problem that had been baffling me. And I wanted to take her
hands in mine, and say: "You would never have married him if you'd
understood!"
22. Sylvia thought she ought to have been taught, but when she came
to think of it she was unable to suggest who could have done the
teaching. "Your mother?" I asked, and she had to laugh, in spite of
the seriousness of her mood. "Poor dear mamma! When they sent me up
here to boarding school, she took me off and tried to tell me not to
listen to vulgar talk from the girls. She managed to make it clear
that I mustn't listen to something, and I managed not to listen. I'm
sure that even now she would rather have her tongue cut out than
talk to me about such things."
"I talked to my children," I assured her.
"And you didn't feel embarrassed?"
"I did in the beginning--I had the same shrinkings to overcome. But
I had a tragedy behind me to push me on."
I told her the story of my nephew, a shy and sensitive lad, who used
to come to me for consolation, and became as dear to me as my own
children. When he was seventeen he grew moody and despondent; he ran
away from home for six months and more, and then returned and was
forgiven--but that seemed to make no difference. One night he came
to see me, and I tried hard to get him to tell me what was wrong. He
wouldn't, but went away, and several hours later I found a letter he
had shoved under the table-cloth. I read it, and rushed out and
hitched up a horse and drove like mad to my brother-in-law's, but I
got there too late, the poor boy had taken a shot-gun to his room,
and put the muzzle into his mouth, and set off the trigger with his
foot. In the letter he told me what was the matter--he had got into
trouble with a woman of the town, and had caught syphilis. He had
gone away and tried to get cured, but ha
d fallen into the hands of a
quack, who had taken all his money and left his health worse than
ever, so in despair and shame the poor boy had shot his head off.
I paused, uncertain if Sylvia would understand the story. "Do you
know what syphilis is?" I asked.
"I suppose--I have heard of what we call a 'bad disease'" she said.
"It's a very bad disease. But if the words convey to you that it's a
disease that bad people get, I should tell you that most men take
the chance of getting it; yet they are cruel enough to despise those
upon whom the ill-luck falls. My poor nephew had been utterly
ignorant--I found out that from his father, too late. An instinct
had awakened in him of which he knew absolutely nothing; his
companions had taught him what it meant, and he had followed their
lead. And then had come the horror and the shame--and some vile,
ignorant wretch to trade upon it, and cast the boy off when he was
penniless. So he had come home again, with his gnawing secret; I
pictured him wandering about, trying to make up his mind to confide
in me, wavering between that and the horrible deed he did."
I stopped, because even to this day I cannot tell the story without
tears. I cannot keep a picture of the boy in my room, because of the
self-reproaches that haunt me. "You can understand," I said to
Sylvia, "I never could forget such a lesson. I swore a vow over the
poor lad's body, that I would never let a boy or girl that I could
reach go out in ignorance into the world. I read up on the subject,
and for a while I was a sort of fanatic--I made people talk, young
people and old people. I broke down the taboos wherever I went, and
while I shocked a good many, I knew that I helped a good many more."
All that was, of course, inconceivable to Sylvia. How curious was
the contrast of her one experience in the matter of venereal
disease. She told me how she had been instrumental in making a match
between her friend, Harriet Atkinson and a young scion of an ancient
and haughty family of Charleston, and how after the marriage her
friend's health had begun to give way, until now she was an utter
wreck, living alone in a dilapidated antebellum mansion, seeing no
one but negro servants, and praying for death to relieve her of her
misery.
"Of course, I don't really know," said Sylvia. "Perhaps it was
this--this disease that you speak of. None of my people would tell
me--I doubt if they really know themselves. It was just before my
own wedding, so you can understand it had a painful effect upon me.
It happened that I read something in a magazine, and I thought
that--that possibly my fianc�e--that someone ought to ask him, you
understand--"
She stopped, and the blood was crimson in her cheeks, with the
memory of her old excitement, and some fresh excitement added to it.
There are diseases of the mind as well as of the body, and one of
them is called prudery.
"I can understand," I said. "It was certainly your right to be
reassured on such a point."
"Well, I tried to talk to my Aunt Varina about it; then I wrote to
Uncle Basil, and asked him to write to Douglas. At first he
refused--he only consented to do it when I threatened to go to my
father."
"What came of it in the end?"
"Why, my uncle wrote, and Douglas answered very kindly that he
understood, and that it was all right--I had nothing to fear. I
never expected to mention the incident to anyone again."
"Lots of people have mentioned such things to me," I responded, to
reassure her. Then after a pause: "Tell me, how was it, if you
didn't know the meaning of marriage, how could you connect the
disease with it?"
She answered, gazing with the wide-open, innocent eyes: "I had no
idea how people gave it to each other. I thought maybe they got it
Sylvia's Marriage Page 6