Chapter IV: Book THREE: Treating of Modern Girls

I

THE EDUCATION OF DAUGHTERS

I have always looked with admiring astonishment on parents who have daughters on their minds, and yet are not broken by the responsibility; and next to the weight of immediate responsibility for a daughter I should place the burden, which some mothers still take upon themselves, of choosing a daughter-in-law. In my callous moods, I say that the ordinary run of children make as good matches for themselves as they deserve, and that they had better be left to their own devices. But if I were a parent and had successfully brought up to the “magnetic age” two such delightful children as Cornelia’s, I suspect that I myself shouldn’t be able to resist attempting to be a Providence to them. Over a daughter, especially, I suppose I should make a particular fool of myself. I should probably try to keep her for the most part like a bird-of-paradise in a cage, and when I let her out, should endeavor to control her flight by “a thread of my own heart’s weaving.” And I am positive that any youth who presented himself as a candidate for her hand would, unless he were the possessor of incredible perfections, have desperate difficulty in winning mine.

I did feel reasonably competent, nevertheless, to discuss eligible sons-in-law with Cornelia. The young men of to-day are not notably better or worse than the young men of twenty years ago, nor is the problem of choice among them essentially altered. I know a good man when I see him, as well as Cornelia does. But what is a good daughter or a good daughter-in-law nowadays? It is a horrid question. It leads one into the hot air of clashing ideals.

With respect to girls, I admit at once that I am in a state of confusion and uncertainty, and that I may appear to be in a place where the light is dim, not merely because girls, between the period of George Sand and the period of Miss Amy Lowell, are said to have changed rapidly and essentially, but also because in the vast and engrossing literature of this subject I have remained _homo unius libri_, a man of one book—of strictly limited experience. As I remarked to Cornelia in all humility, only a day or two ago, if there is one thing of which I am more densely ignorant than another, it is women, including girls. If I were suddenly called upon to indicate to a son my notion of the ideal woman for a lifelong companion, I fear that I should not get beyond faltering forth a vague and most likely quite unpersuasive description of the virtues of Cornelia; and he, if he were as acute as I should like a son of my own to be, would doubtless inform me that it isn’t the virtues of Cornelia that take me, but her charm, which I don’t understand. At any rate, my personal curiosity was so happily and completely arrested by my first discovery of perfection that, in the twenty years which have elapsed since that time, I have never felt impelled to explore any further.

I recall, for example, that when a few years ago I visited England in order to look up the baptismal record of an Elizabethan lawyer, I met on shipboard a vivacious young Frenchwoman who had compassion on my obviously lonely state and proposed one day that we make a couple of constitutional turns around the deck. At the end of the first turn, during which I had dallied a bit with the weather in my ingenious American fashion, she shrugged her shoulders—that is, I suppose she did, for she was very French—and exclaimed, “_Allons donc, causons de la femme_ (Well, now, let’s talk about women)!” I had read somewhere or other that Frenchwomen excel in the light discussion of serious themes and general ideas; and if she had proposed that we discuss palæography or epigraphy, I should have been delighted to observe how French feminine wit handles such subjects. But in the face of the topic proposed, I was aghast. I had no intention of talking Cornelia over with a perfect stranger; and feigning dizziness from the motion of the ship, I rather abruptly “saved myself,” as the French say, and went below.

It is, curiously enough, Cornelia herself who in these later years is driving me to reopen the subject, investigate it, and “take a stand.” I haven’t, till lately, felt myself to be in an uncertain position or in a dim light, but rather in a very certain position and at the radiant centre of light. I don’t wish to change my stand. Neither, of course, does she wish me to change it. Yet, if I alter, her own inflexibility will have been the prime mover.

It comes about in this way: she goes into the country as religious people go into a retreat—to escape from dusty contacts with the bustling democratic world, to collect her soul, to fortify her principles, and to renew her vows of allegiance to the conceptions of the good and the beautiful which she inherits from several generations of ancestors accustomed to giving the tone to the society in which they lived. It is utterly impossible to think of Cornelia at present as a _grande dame_—she is too young, there is too much of the morning clinging to her; and I cannot bear to dwell on the possibility of its ever deserting her; yet in the treasonable hours of the imagination I do occasionally steal forward on the straight highway of time, and I can see that, thirty years hence, if she holds her course, if she fulfills her destiny, she will be a beautiful and proud old lady, still giving the law to her children and to her grandchildren—what people call a _grande dame_.

But the tide of democratic vulgarity is running into the country havens and stealing insidiously into the securest retreats. One’s own friends and neighbors are tainted with it. One’s own husband brings a whiff of it up from the city at the week-end. One’s own children, in spite of all segregation and antiseptic precautions, show a mild infection with it in their speech, in their manners, and even in their tastes. One doesn’t compromise with it. One “stands firm”; but one stands ever more and more alone.

I admire Cornelia’s ability to stand alone against the world, against her own times, and against the practice of the city and the tyrannies of fashion; and, when she is wholly right, as I think she often is, it is the pleasantest thing imaginable for me to stand with her. But I am beginning, at an advanced age, to develop skepticism, and to look with an uneasy skeptical eye upon a rectitude of taste which isolates one too sharply from one’s own flesh and blood—such “pure and eloquent blood” as speaks in the faces of Cornelia’s children. When she expects me to side instantaneously with her against the budding ferment of her own son and daughter, I hesitate. I reluct, like a man called from the roadside to leave the sweet intoxication of an orchard in May. I become curious and loath to close the windows of apprehension to the rumors and fragrance of another springtime.

On the morning—Friday it was—after our windy walk by the lake, Cornelia, contrary to my expectation, did not appear at mail time under the big elm which shades our little grove of R.F.D. boxes. This was a surprise, because she had virtually agreed to be there and she habitually performs with precision whatever she has agreed to do. Later in the day, however, I learned that her husband had unexpectedly arrived in a hydroplane, with an officer in the naval flying corps, and that he would stay over Sunday, which was Dorothy’s birthday. We seldom make calls in our summer community, except, as we say, “on intimation.” Accordingly I waited for an intimation. All day Saturday, to my increasing wonder, there was nothing but silence from His Excellency’s household, and, in the phrase which high usage has now made classic, “damned little of that.” But I quite anticipated a birthday party on Sunday—for Oliver Senior makes much of these occasions—and probably a fire on the beach in the evening, with the latest gossip and best stories of the city. There was no party, and there was no fire.

On Monday I went down my path to the mail boxes with acute curiosity. The carrier’s Ford had apparently broken down on the mountain, for he was nowhere in sight. I found Cornelia sitting alone on the bench under the elm; the other pilgrims, weary of waiting, had scattered along the marshy lakeside in search of lady’s-slippers, which were abundant this year. She was all in white, and she sat with her bronze-gold head leaning against the gray trunk, and with one hand, lying listlessly across her knee, holding her soft white hat. If I were not afraid of being called bookish and pedantic, I should admit that as I approached she reminded me of Ariadne in Naxos; as it is, I content myself with remarking that she seemed a little languid. She did not rise.

I observed the point, because listlessness is not her “note.”

“I hoped you would come,” she said.

“It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it,” I exclaimed, in a sudden awareness of the truth of what I was saying.

“No, it isn’t a lovely morning,” she replied. “It’s a horrid morning. Come and sit down. I want to be comforted.” Looking into her cool gray eyes, I saw that I had been mistaken. It wasn’t a lovely morning; there was a cloud in the sky.

“You, comforted?” I said incredulously, and seated myself at the other end of the bench, for I felt my hopeless inexperience with Ariadnes. “I thought you were always happy. Where is Oliver? I heard he came Friday night, but I haven’t seen hoof or horn of him.”

Cornelia looked out for a moment silently over the deep, still, intense blueness of our lake, mirroring the blueness of the morning sky. I suppose in that rapt moment—I haven’t seen her look more purely poetic in years—she was deciding whether it was her duty to tell me a loyal lie or whether she might relax and tell the simple truth. As she was in one of her rare moments of languor, she decided for the truth.

“I am vexed with Oliver. I sent him back to town on Saturday. I told him that I didn’t wish to see him again this summer.”

“Why, Cornelia!” I cried, “What in the world has Oliver done? Is it proper for me to hear? Has he been flirting with his secretary? Or has he been beating you? Or what?”

“He has been beating me.” Cornelia dabbed at the corner of one eye with her handkerchief; and I imagine there may have been some occasion for it, though I did not see it. She held her lower lip for an instant compressed under her perfect teeth. I noticed these things because in twenty years’ acquaintance I had never witnessed them before—but once, and that was in the dark backward and abysm of time. Then she smiled faintly and repeated:—

“Yes, he has beaten me. Dreadfully.”

“The monster! What have you done to merit blows? You don’t look bruised, Cornelia. Now that you have wept, you look like a calla lily after rain.”

“What have I done? I have done nothing but try to bring up my children as children should be brought up. And I am bruised and beaten. Oliver has betrayed me. I am fond of Oliver. I am his best friend. Oliver is—Oliver is a good deal of a dear—in his way. But it does seem as if, when it comes to the children, he acted like an irresponsible boy. Oliver is fifty-two. He acts as if he were fifteen, or as if he wished that he were.”

“I don’t doubt that he does,” I said, “and I have always thought that his boyish gusto was a positive element in his charm, and the quality especially which makes his children so fond of him. But tell me, now, what he has done, and I’ll try to judge him as he deserves.”

Cornelia began doubtfully and far away from the main point, in accordance with the manual of tactics for women.

“Well, first of all,” she said, “he came up here in an aeroplane. I have forbidden him to fly. At his age and with his family, he has no right to take such hazards merely to amuse himself.”

“Perhaps not,” I said, “but you know that you like Oliver because he is the sort of person who does take hazards. If he weren’t, you would despise him.”

“Of course,” she replied. “If there were real occasion for it, I should despise him if he were not the first to risk his life. But he does it now—and these other things, I am convinced—mainly because he knows how much I dislike them. I don’t see what possesses him.”

“What other things does he do, Cornelia? Oliver is at one of the ‘dangerous ages.’ And perhaps his children are beginning to influence him. You mustn’t forget that Dorothy and Oliver Junior have reached an age at which offspring frequently have a very unsettling effect upon their parents.”

“Well, listen. You know how much I dislike what people call ‘the modern girl’ and all her works and ways?”

“Yes.”

“And you know how hard I have tried to keep Dorothy in her old-fashioned sweetness and innocence?”

“I don’t see what there is old-fashioned in Dorothy,” I said. “But she is sweet. I supposed God had made her so, and that the work couldn’t easily be changed, and that all you had to do was to stand aside and watch her blossoming. But since you say that has been a trial, I must believe that you have been tried by it.”

“Yes, and so does Oliver—I mean, he knows perfectly that it isn’t easy for me to keep the right influences here and the wrong ones away. But what do you suppose occurred to him as the most appropriate birthday present that he could send up here by express to his daughter, the day before he came last week? An expensive knicker-outfit, a handsome cigarette-case, and a big package of his own cigarettes.”

“Oliver has to have his little jest.”

“Little jest, indeed!” retorted Cornelia almost grimly. “When Dorothy opened the bundle, of course I supposed that Oliver had enclosed the cigarettes for his own use. But Dorothy said, ‘No, mother, they are for me. Father promised them to me on my birthday.’ She opened the box, and there was a poem from Oliver, addressed, ‘To my daughter Dorothy with her first box of cigarettes,’ with a lot of rigmarole warning her against the excess of smoking more than one at a time! I thought he had gone crazy, and I was so angry that I snatched the cigarettes and the case from her and threw them into the fireplace.”

“If you take the jest seriously,” I said, “I don’t blame you for being perturbed. I haven’t any clear moral principle on this point. Many girls do smoke; and I think we shall ultimately have to concede that smoking isn’t a ‘sex function.’ But smoking and Dorothy don’t go together, in my feeling for the fitness of things. It seems like offering snuff to Viola or a Manila cigar to Rosalind. (You ought not to forget, by the way, that those two girls did wear knickers.) But smoking—why, I should as soon think of offering a plug of tobacco to you, Cornelia.”

“Ugh! Don’t be disgusting,” she pleaded.

“I’m not disgusting. I am only expressing my sense of the immeasurable gulf that lies between you and anything of questionable taste. But go on with your story.”

“Well, Oliver arrived that night. When I asked him what he meant by the performance, he laughed in that infectious, irresistibly disarming way he has, and said, ‘Oh, I have been reading Heywood Broun on the care and nurture of children. The young man has ideas. He thinks the way to equip youth for the battle of life is to gird upon them the sword of early experience, the buckler of knowingness, and the whole armor of sophistication. And I’ve decided to turn over a new leaf and meet my children halfway. Treat them like equals, instead of like superior beings. Dorothy will learn to smoke next fall, when she goes to college. It may be the only useful thing she will ever learn there. _Qui sait?_ But if she waits till then, she will learn with a parcel of silly goslings who will think it is devilish. Let’s try the effect of having her begin now at the domestic fireside with her own father and mother, who don’t think it devilish.”

I could seem to see a certain reckless experimental method in Oliver’s madness—as in the serious proposal of some other reformers for “communal bathing” in the household, as an antidote to precocious sexual curiosity. It was an experiment which I should be willing to have tried on a dog. It had something in common, indeed, with an undeveloped notion of my own on the use of moral antitoxins. But I could also see that Cornelia saw nothing of the sort. So I merely asked, “And what did you say?”

“I said,” she replied, “that Dorothy’s mother did think it devilish—that Dorothy had never seen her mother smoking and never would. He laughed again and said, ‘Then she will never learn to do it like a lady.’ I inquired whether he were incapable of distinguishing between what is permissible in a man, perhaps pardonable in his typist, and what is undesirable in his seventeen-year-old daughter. He reminded me that three fourths of the ladies he knows smoke, and that Russian women, French women, and English women can’t understand why we make a moral issue of it. I said, ‘So much the worse for them. I am sick of having something obviously bad in America excused merely because something obviously worse exists elsewhere.’ He said, ‘Cornelia, you are a Little American. You are out of step.’ And I lost my temper, and exclaimed, ‘Oliver, you are a great idiot! Dorothy hasn’t smoked yet, and she wouldn’t think of smoking now, if she hadn’t a fool for a father.’”

II

FLAGS OF REVOLT

As this was the first and remains the only occasion in my life on which any married woman has ever revealed to me any serious altercation between herself and her husband,—though I have been informed by others that such revelations are not uncommon,—I was astounded.

“Why, my dear Cornelia!” I exclaimed, “that was a fighting word. Was it then that Oliver beat you?”

“No,” she answered with a partially reassuring smile, “I wish he had. Oliver sulks when he is angry. I flash out what I feel, and have it over with. Oliver sulks and plots some revenge—some ingenious, horrid little revenge that he knows will make me furious.”

I gasped inwardly—if one can do that; but I tried to play the part of the unruffled confessor. I was learning so much that was new to me about happy family life. “Well, what did he do next?” I asked.

“He took a box of cigars and a novel and went up to his room, to bed. At six o’clock in the morning he got up and roused the household, apparently in the jolliest humor, ringing all through the house the big dinner-bell that we use to call the children from the woods. He made Dorothy put on her new knickers, and got the car out, and drove off to town with the children, ‘for a lark,’ he said. They came back about noon, and drove up to the door, and honked. I went out; and there was Dorothy in her knickers on the front seat with her father, both of them smoking, and Dorothy with her hair—her lovely soft hair—bobbed above her ears, and her neck shaved like a convict’s. I could have cried—either with grief or with rage. And Oliver, simply bubbling with joy, called out, ‘I’ve met them halfway, Cornelia darling!’ Wasn’t he horrid? Wasn’t he perfectly horrid? I didn’t cry. But Oliver went back to New York by the afternoon train. And now you know why there was no birthday party last night.”

III

BLOOM

“Cornelia,” I said after a moment of intense meditation, “I think—I am not sure, but I think you are making a mistake.”

“I am sure!” she retorted. “I am not making a mistake. I know perfectly well what I am doing. I have never been more certain about anything in my life than that Oliver is wrong—utterly wrong. What mistake am I making?”

“You are making the mistake which nine tenths of the good people of our generation are making in dealing with their own children. You are making the mistake of trying to suppress the symptoms instead of diagnosing the disease. Knickers and the rest are symptoms. Of what? You ought to be thinking about that, but you are not. Cigarettes and bobbed hair are flags of revolt. You are interested only in capturing the flags and burning them. But what is the revolt about? That is what you ought to be thinking about; and you aren’t thinking about it at all.”

“I am thinking about it,” she protested. “I am thinking about nothing else. I am not a simpleton. Personally I do abominate bobbed hair and cigarettes, but I am not afraid of them. What I am afraid of is the disease, or the revolt, of which they are the signals. It is the state of mind which goes along with them. It is the precious and irrecoverable things that disappear when these things appear.”

“I don’t quite follow you.”

“I mean the sweetness and freshness of young girls—their bloom. Don’t you care, don’t you really care, even you—Oh, how shall I make you understand what I feel about the preciousness of the bloom on things, and on boys and girls who have been brought up happily and wisely in the right surroundings! Ever since I can remember I have had the strangest ecstatic sense about everything that has just come new into the world—dewy things, roses and morning glories early in the morning, little bits of babies, a pear tree all a soft mist of white blossoms, the slender little new moon in a green sky low in the west over treetops at nightfall, robin’s eggs, just peeped at, in a lilac bush, the rosy-white tips of old grapevines, the silvery mist of plums before they are picked—anything, everything lovely before dust or heat has touched it and before anyone, anyone, has pawed it over. When I was a young girl my heart fairly ached with tenderness for this quality in things—and with a passionate desire to preserve it. When one grows older, the desire doesn’t die out; it becomes only intenser, sharper, with years, till it goes through one like pain. And as I was walking over here this morning, I kept thinking of all these things that have it—have the bloom; and of my little Dorothy—who had it, till her own father brushed it off.”

Cornelia uttered this speech swiftly and with a kind of soft, eager, glowing sincerity which terribly disquieted my judgment. But I somehow felt that I had slipped into the position of advocate for the rest of Cornelia’s family, which stood at the moment in dire need of advocacy. I smothered my instinctive emotional response, and exclaimed:

“Nonsense! What you value in Dorothy can’t be brushed off. Bloom is only the transient breath of qualities that extend in her from rind to core, like the red in a blood orange. You are reveling in a mood, or you yourself would recognize that bloom—intactness—is preserved only by unsuccessful, undiscovered, sterile things. If it remains, it becomes a badge of uselessness. It is meant only for a brief seasonal show, which we may enjoy while it lasts; but it is silly to grieve over it. Other beauties follow—the full moon, and birds that break the lovely blue shells to bits and sing. Dorothy is breaking through her shell. That is all.”

Cornelia sighed: “If it only were! But you don’t know anything about the revolution that takes place in a girl’s mind, and in her character, the moment she puts on the badge of those who have ceased to care for ‘intactness!’”

“I’m not sure that I do.”

“Well, the next time that you see three girls with bobbed hair and knickers—abominable word!—and with cigarettes in their mouths, edge up to them and overhear if you can what they are talking about: some unmentionable novel, some unprintable verse, some unspeakable ideas of some outrageous ‘reformer,’ something revolting that is sanctioned in Europe but, alas, has not yet been sanctioned here, some silly ‘martyr’ who has got into jail for some offence against decency, some crazy girl who has ruined herself as completely as the heroine of the latest novel. Perhaps you will hear them discussing what I overheard a group of our modern maidens debating not long ago—whether if a man and a woman registered at a hotel as husband and wife, the laws of this state would not recognize them as such.”

“These are ‘strong’ topics,” I said. “I don’t think they are the only topics that girls with bobbed hair discuss, though they doubtless are discussed by girls with bobbed hair—and also by some girls whose hair reaches to their knees. But what you are always forgetting, Cornelia, is that life is full of strong topics. We can’t get away from them or keep them from the knowledge of our children, unless we are ready to abolish eyes and ears. At the most, we can only cover them over a little and keep still about them. I think you fall into the same fallacy regarding the conversational discussion of them which you fell into regarding the discussion of them in current fiction. You conceive it an error of the first magnitude to admit the existence of evils which every one knows exist. What I should try to ascertain, if I edged up to a group of ‘modern’ girls in conclave on these themes, is the point of view from which they were speaking—the amount of common sense which they were bringing to bear upon the vices and follies of their contemporaries.”

Cornelia likes the _ad hominem_ form of argument. “If you had a daughter of seventeen,” she said, “should you enjoy seeing her blow the smoke through her lips and hearing her wisely consider the legal consequences of registering at a hotel under the names of ‘John Doe and Wife’?”

“If I had a daughter,” I replied cautiously, “I have a sentimental notion that I should like to have one who at the age of seventeen would feel the æsthetic impropriety of smoking, and who at any rate would not feel her nerves on edge without tobacco. But suppose Heaven visited the sins of the father upon the child by giving me a—well, a ‘modern’ daughter. If my daughter, after emitting the smoke, ejaculated the word ‘Geese!’ with a good accent, and a clear cool sound of conviction, and a kind of contemptuous remoteness from Greenwich Village problems, why I think I should feel mightily reassured. I should be positively glad to have heard her express her mind on this strong topic. And if tobacco helped her to express her mind, as it helps me to express mine, I might even feel mildly grateful to the tobacco.”

“You know you would not,” said Cornelia.

“Perhaps you are right. But at any rate, I can conceive of no person more properly subject for satire than a man with the fifth cigar of the morning in his mouth taking up the battle axe to make war against the first cigarette of his wife or daughter.”

“You are merely talking for argument. I hate you when you do that. You get so far away from me that I can’t talk with you.”

“No,” I insisted, “I am not talking for argument. I am pleading in behalf of your sex, for equality of access to the good things of life, whatever we may finally decide are the good things. I am pleading for a little moral justice toward your sex, and for the necessity, if there is to be justice, of a little discrimination. You don’t seem to discriminate at all among your ‘modern’ girls. It simply isn’t true that they are all discussing suppressed novels and illicit love affairs. Many of them are far more interested in horseback riding, duck-shooting, hockey, golf, or hiking to Yellowstone Park. I am not sure what our girls are going to get out of their political activities; but I know what they are going to get out of their athletic activities. I am an uncompromising and enthusiastic adherent of athletic life for women—not Country Club women alone, but all women.”

“I approve of women exercising,” assented Cornelia, “if it can be done in a nice way. I don’t care for Marathon runners and champion swimmers and that vulgar display of limbs in the newspapers.”

“Cornelia,” I said, “you use the word ‘nice’ too much; you overwork it. Your son told me the other day that, whenever he mentions a new girl acquaintance in your presence, you have only one question about her: ‘Is she nice?’ ‘It gets on my nerves,’ he says, ‘to hear that everlasting: Is she nice?—Is she nice?—Is she nice?—till I don’t care whether she is nice or not; and I feel like saying, No, she is horrid; but she sings like an angel, and she dances like a wave, and she makes a sparkling quip, and she has brains of her own, and she is attractive, and she is reasonable, and she is a good sport, and she doesn’t squall when we get caught in the rain. I don’t go around asking girls whether they are nice. How should I know? Mother means well and is perfectly fine herself, and all that. But somehow, you know, it strikes me as kind of nasty for a fellow to be always thinking whether a girl is nice.’ And there, my dear Cornelia, you get a bit of the spirit of the younger generation, which is, I think, essentially sounder and healthier than the perpetual incensing of ‘purity’ by some earlier generations.”

“In what way is it sounder and healthier?”

“Why, I mean that it isn’t the presence of sexual characteristics and impulses in an adolescent or in an adult that renders him or her ‘not nice.’ That is a part of nature and of humanity. What is not nice is perpetual preoccupation with these impulses. And perpetual preoccupation with them results from isolation with them, and exclusion from anything else of equal or superior interest. I am convinced that many of your ‘modern’ girls are discovering that fact for themselves. And it is because they dread the bondage and guess the degradation of confinement to a single instinct—it is because of this that they are groping so eagerly for other interests. For many of them, bobbed hair and cigarettes are signs that they are filling and freeing their minds with advertising, real estate, journalism, medicine, law, field geology, geographical exploration, and political organization.”

IV

CAREERS FOR WOMEN

“Is that the sort of woman that you would have married,” said Cornelia, “if you had married?”

“Let us not discuss the woman I would have married. Or rather let me remind you of this about her: the reason why the woman I would have married decided not to marry me was her clear-eyed perception, after some tears and emotional stress, that love was not enough to live on: that what I could offer her was not enough to make up a life for the many-sided being that she knew herself to be.”

I paused a moment for a response. But Cornelia kept silence, looking out over the blue water. I continued:—

“If a girl is so placed in the world that she can find expression for the versatility of human nature in a really satisfactory domestic life and really satisfactory society and luxurious travel and beautiful surroundings and the fine things in literature and art and the rearing of really superior children—why, then she may not be tempted at all by advertising and real estate. But can’t you see, Cornelia, that for the immense majority of girls the only way of getting anything but their conjugal and maternal capacities valued or expressed, and the only way of getting even their feminine charms to a suitable market lies through some such avenues as I have mentioned?”

“Yes,” said Cornelia, “I know girls are going in for these things more and more; that is why I am so much worried about my son. I don’t want him to become interested in that sort of girl. She wouldn’t make him happy. She wouldn’t be a good wife for him. Yet, just now, he seems to have a mania for ‘girls that do things.’ I know it’s the fashion for girls to ‘do things’ nowadays; but don’t you hate to see them doing them?”

“I truly do not. I admit that ‘careers’ for women are still in a more or less experimental stage. But the results from the ancient experiment in keeping women out of careers are all in. I am curious to see the results of the more recent experiment. Professional men, as life wears on, come to look upon a career, with all its burdens, as literally the one indispensable element, without which existence would be intolerable. For ages, men have lied to their sweethearts; have deceived them into thinking sweethearts and wives are the indispensable elements in the happiness of men. But it really is not so.”

“Oh, isn’t it?”

“No. And the girls themselves are finding it out, and are very sensibly claiming a share in the substantial satisfactions of life.”

“You have no imagination. You don’t understand. It’s so simple, so perfectly simple. Substantial satisfactions for men are not substantial satisfactions for women. That is all there is to it. The things that please you and fill your lives are sawdust to us—after the first novelty wears off; and they leave our hearts aching and burning. I am certain there isn’t a mature woman in business who wouldn’t admit, if she were honest, that if the choice were open, she would choose even a moderately successful marriage in preference to a brilliant success in business. They are making a mistake—such a mistake. I am sure that, in their hearts, they know from the outset that it isn’t what their hearts desire.”

“About the hearts of young girls,” I admitted, “I know next to nothing. I am still curious about them because I have heard so much about them. But the only occasion on which I ever asked a girl for her heart, she gave me a stone. And I believe that, far oftener than most men suspect, the place in the pectoral cavity of women assigned to the heart is occupied by some far harder substance. You remember that lovely creature in Balzac whose lover overheard her in solitude exclaiming, ‘My God! O my God!’; and the words seemed to him to come from the uttermost depths of her heart and made him love her more passionately than ever, till he learned that she had merely been anxious about her stock speculations—and that the deep suspiration really came from the woman’s purse.”

Cornelia was not impressed by this reference to Balzac. She has a capable business head herself, and manages her property, which is considerable, with more judgment than her husband displays. She ignored the malice in my speech and merely remarked:—

“A nice woman need not be a fool in money matters.”

“No,” I continued, “and many of them aren’t. That is why I believe many of them are not making a mistake but following a real vocation when they turn to business. I don’t know much about their hearts, but I have had extensive opportunity to observe their brains, and, in some respects, I am tremendously impressed by them.”

“Oh, we have some common-sense among us,” she agreed.

“It isn’t common-sense so much,” I corrected, “in which girls excel. It is a special faculty of their sex, a kind of darting velocity of mind, which men of other races, the Jews and the Chinese, for example, display more abundantly than Anglo-Saxon men. In manual deftness, in celerity of apprehension, in executive readiness, in a kind of swift practical insight, in flying straight to the point, girls and young women are proving dangerous competitors. They remind me of turtle doves, which, you know, have two very different notes. They coo and coo in the woods, till you think that a mournful amorousness is all they are good for; but if you start them up, they go ‘piet, piet, piet’ at ninety miles an hour to their next destination.”

“Oliver is quicker than I am,” said Cornelia, whose generalizations on the virtues rest largely on observation of her own family, “but Dorothy is quicker than her brother; and I am quicker than you are. Yes, I think you are right. Girls are quicker. But quickness isn’t very important in itself. The important thing is to know where one is going.”

“Girls show,” I proceeded, “very many of them, what the advocates of mental tests recognize as officer quality. I suspect that, if the draft were made universal, and if the army tests were applied to all the women in the country, not only would the disgrace of our moron percentage be greatly abated, but ninety-nine per cent of the men would be obliged to serve in the ranks. Among women, there is an immediacy of reaction to stimuli, a freedom from dubitation, subordinate considerations, and inhibiting afterthoughts, which make them invaluable members of a General Staff, when the General Staff is infested with doubting Thomases, Hamlets, and authorities on red tape.”

“If you think that,” inquired Cornelia, “why don’t you, and why doesn’t Oliver, give more attention to what I tell him is right?”

“Because,” I replied, “we are harassed by subordinate considerations and afterthoughts. But that is just what makes women want to get their hands on things and manage them. I am astounded every day to discover in how many big businesses and even political organizations there is some woman, who has perhaps risen from a stenographic position, sitting in with the chiefs of the concern at the centre of the web and actually telling the ‘big wigs’ what to do—actually ruling the whirlwind and directing the storm.”

After this speech, I glanced at Cornelia to see whether she would admit to herself her own master passion, her suppressed desire. I could see that she was doing something which she ordinarily would no more think of doing in my presence than of doing up her hair: she was reflecting.

“Possibly,” she conceded.

“Not possibly,” I pursued, “but certainly. All women crave mastery, beginning with the government of their own husbands; and their happiness, after the first feigning delight of amorous surrender, is to extend their jurisdiction, to enlarge the limits of their empire. It is the quality that makes queens. It is the quality that made Elizabeth and not Burleigh the ruler of England, and Catherine, not her minister,—whoever he was,—ruler of all the Russias. It is a quality which you yourself possess, my dear Cornelia, in abundance, only you haven’t an adequate throne to display it on; and so, instead of sending Raleigh to South America for galleons of treasure or telling the president of your company which railroad to buy next, you have to take it out in sending Oliver back to the city in disgrace because he has had Dorothy’s hair bobbed.”

“How I hate him!” cried Cornelia, as if still nursing the bitterness of defeat.

“Really?” I asked, in a momentary flutter of hope.

“But if queens feel as miserable as I do,” she added, “since I have had to discipline him, I don’t wish to be a queen.”

“You have no choice,” I murmured.

“But here comes the mail,” she exclaimed, rising suddenly and putting on her hat. “Come! Let’s go and meet it.”

My secret hope sank like a stone into cold depths of resignation.

“All right,” I assented sadly; “but why such eagerness for the mail this morning?”

“Why, I am hoping,” she lilted, “I am hoping, of course, for a letter from Oliver, you idiot!”