There is no difficulty in understanding why a man marries. He gets a great deal for his money—a home, a housekeeper, some smoothness, a little fineness, the convenient inexpensive satisfaction of his sexual desires, a kind mature companion to spoil him and protect him against the harsh buffets of a world eternally different than he childishly and sentimentally fancies it.
But a woman? What does she get in return for marriage? Nothing, so far as I can see, save the satisfaction (at moments not of her choosing) of her sexual desires. Surely it cannot be for this alone that women marry. That would be like buying a whole house for the sake of one picture in it. In fact, in this matter women have, potentially, an immense advantage over men. Men, the childish dreamers, will (everywhere save in pure America) follow unknown attractive women about the streets of a city for hours, murmuring compliments from time to time, hoping against hope for some response. It is pathetic. But think of the field that would be open to women if they chose to behave in this manner! Even venal professionals are not without some success. The entire male sex would be at the service of a really ‘nice’ woman; for who ever heard of a man rejecting any woman’s advances, however indifferent he might be to her? His vanity would not let him. A man can have only an inconsiderable fraction of the women he desires; a woman could have any or all of the men who pleased her—and with the minimum of effort. She could select a lover at just the moment when she desired a lover. Equally, if she desired a child she could select a promising father for the child, and, supposing the combination not to work out so well as she hoped, could next time select another. True, at present such behaviour might be looked at askance by the most meticulous; but women could alter this attitude to a sensible one at any time they pleased.
Instead, they elect to marry. Oscar Wilde was wrong to call ‘woman’ ‘a sphinx without a secret.’ Women have their secret, and this is it.
Ministering Angels.
Well, marry they do and will probably continue to do despite my advice. It offers a field for useless but entertaining conjecture. Do they marry because they like to try everything? Or because they are sorry for men? Or because it requires more energy to repel a man’s repeated advances than is worth devoting to anything, either good or bad? At any rate, one thing is certain: unless they marry very, very young, it can hardly be because they expect much of marriage. They cannot fail to know that they must give a great deal and receive very little.
What they do give is amazing. It makes me feel almost as reverently toward them as Charles Dickens in his emotional moments. They are so very kind to men. They habitually smooth out all those difficulties, such as servant troubles, baby troubles, household difficulties, difficulties of the kitchen, which men fatuously call ‘the little problems of existence,’ not seeing that they are gigantic as compared with their own meagre business troubles. They are extraordinarily gentle with their husbands in illness or even in fancied illness, rarely showing any resentment at the impatience with which they were treated when they were ill. They put up with a turbulence, grossness and lack of all sense of what is seemly, that outrages their fastidiousness; they put up with men’s bragging, with men’s vanity, with their ridiculous assumption of gravity and importance (precisely like that of children dressed up in their parents’ clothes). In company they listen to their husbands relate the same, same, same jokes, and, instead of shrieking, smile, as though that were the first time they, too, had heard those jokes. They cajole and caress men out of infantile bad tempers, the logical cure for which would be a spanking. Themselves liking to eat little and delicately, they allow—nay, assist—men to eat much and grossly, and they watch the creatures’ mood change, in the process, from irascibility to mellow tenderness, and merely smile pleasantly, with scarcely perceptible irony. Have I really said that they are not artists? They are consummate artists to endeavour to work in such a hostile medium, to work with such material. But, no, they are not artists; for they do not do anything with the material, not really, not anything permanent. Still, that is not their fault, either. No one could, not even God.
Ah, well, it is not possible that women endure all this, do all this (both so unnecessarily), out of altruism, sheer self-sacrifice. Earth is not heaven. They must have some obscure, if probably simple, reason. In the meantime men flourish and grow fat.
LEGEND
Under the influence of that gentle optimism which once upon a time suffused the world with a warm twilight glow, I used to believe that in the very long run truth would out, and that accordingly history was an exact science. Conceding cheerfully that a veracious history of our own period or of other periods close behind it was impossible, I yet took it for granted that, given time enough, falsehoods and misconceptions would be weeded out and documented objective truth established. This condition, I assumed, had already been perfectly achieved in the history of the various western nations up to about the period of the French Revolution, which still lay in a sort of gradually clearing penumbra.
Now that the attractive twilight glow has given place to a bleak grey light (whether or not of dawn I have no idea, but, if so, of a singularly unpleasant November dawn), I have begun to question, among other things, that comfortable belief. And, questioned, it seems to me to reveal at once certain lacunae and incongruities that make it appear extremely dubious and lead me to wonder that I ever accepted it so unthinkingly.