Sylvia's Marriage

by Upton Sinclair

  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