* * *

A great many people are wretched who would have been perfectly happy with another partner. 'In the inequalities of temperament lies the main cause of unhappiness in marriage. Want of harmony in tastes counts for much, but a misfit in temperament for more.' So ludicrously mismated are some couples that one wonders how they could ever have dreamed of finding happiness together. This again is frequently the fault of our absurd conventions, which make it so difficult for single young men and women to really get to know each other. However, things have improved so much in this direction during the last decade or two that we ought not to grumble, but, even now, if a man show a decided preference for a girl's company his name is at once coupled with hers in a manner which can but alarm a youth devoid of matrimonial intentions. That relic of the dark ages, the intention-asking parent, is by no means extinct, and many a promising friendship that might have ended in a happy marriage is spoilt by the clumsy intervention of this barbaric relative.

A young barrister friend of mine—we will call him Anthony—once tried, for reasons of professional policy, to make himself agreeable to a solicitor with a very large family of daughters. Being a shrewd man, he selected one of the girls still in the schoolroom to pay particular attention to, and thus escaped the necessity of showing special interest in her elder and marriageable sisters. His intimacy with the family prospered, and the father became a very useful patron. However, as time went on, he discovered to his dismay that his little friend, Amaryllis, had grown up and that he was regarded in the family as her special property. Speedily he transferred his attachment to Aphrodite, the youngest girl then in the schoolroom, and by this means saved himself from an entanglement with Amaryllis, whilst at the same time preserving the valuable friendship of her father. In an incredibly short time, however, Aphrodite was nubile, and the family once more expectant of securing Anthony as a permanent member. Once again he executed the same manoeuvre, choosing this time the little Andromeda, a plain child still in the nursery. The family, though disappointed, remained hopeful, and the years passed peacefully on, bringing a few sons-in-law in their train, and innumerable boxes of sweets to the unprepossessing Andromeda. When, however, Andromeda too grew up, the wily Anthony feared his fruitful friendship must inevitably come to an end, since the only remaining daughter had already reached the dangerous age of fifteen, and bore moreover the improper name of Anactoria!

A long friendship and a short engagement is perhaps the best combination. A prolonged engagement is the most trying relationship between the sexes possible to conceive. For the woman it means the drawbacks of matrimony without its charm of restful finality, or any of its solid worldly advantages. On the man's side it means the irksomeness of the marriage yoke without any of its satisfactions and comforts. On the man, indeed, a long engagement is especially hard, as at least the woman is spared the burden of ordering his food and coping with his servants. Many a sincere affection has been killed by the restraints and irritations of a long engagement. Many a genuine passion has waned during its dreary course, until but a feeble spark of the great flame is left to light the wedded life, and both man and woman carry the mark of that suppressed ardour which, under happier circumstances, might have come to a joyous fruition. Their children, too, sometimes lack vitality, and show the need of the fire that died before they were begotten.

* * *

I don't know who it was who first coined the phrase 'the appalling intimacy of married life'; certainly it is an apt expression, and one wonders at what period in the world's history men and women began to find that intimacy 'appalling.' It sounds a modern enough complaint, and somehow one feels sure it was never indulged in by our grandmothers, who looked upon their husbands as a kind of visible embodiment of the Lord's Will, and respected them accordingly. They would never have dreamed of finding irksome what Mrs Lynn Linton called the 'chair-a-chair closeness of the English home.'

Much has been written of the degradation of love by habit, and Alexandre Dumas expresses the whole question to perfection in one crystal sentence: 'In marriage when love exists habit kills it; when love does not exist habit calls it into being.' This is profoundly true, and for every passion habit has killed it must certainly have created more genuine affections.

The Spartan plan of allowing husband and wife to meet only by stealth shows an acute understanding of human nature and has much to recommend it, if the object in view is to prolong the period of passion. But we are not now dealing with passion, but with the ordinary affection between people who have to live together under the trying conditions of modern marriage, and in these circumstances one must agree with Dumas as to the wonders worked by habit.

Indeed, if people only realised it, habit is the cement which holds the edifice of matrimony together. With the passing of years, given the slightest basis of mutual harmony, one's partner becomes indispensable—not by reason of her charms or the love we bear him, but simply because she or he is a part of our lives. That is why I think the policy of constant separation foolish. It is based presumably on the erroneous supposition that absence makes the heart grow fonder. Where the basis of mutual harmony does not exist, it may be true; and if a couple dislike each other and get on badly, a short separation may serve to relieve the tension, and to send them back each resolved to try and make things smoother in future. But where affection exists, it is a mistake. One learns to do without the other; that linking chain of little daily intimacies, oft-repeated jests, endearing customs, is temporarily snapped, and it is not easily put together again. My friend Miranda said to me not long ago: 'If Lysander's been away from me a day I've heaps to talk about when he returns—if we've been parted a month, I've nothing on earth to say.'

I think it is de la Rochfoucauld who says: 'Absence deepens great passions and lessens little ones just as the wind puts out the candle and heightens the fire.' This is fine from the literary point of view, but is it true? My experience says No. Yet during the absence this aphorism seems true enough. Disillusion comes with reunion. Who does not remember that first departure of the Beloved—the innumerable letters, the endless meditation, the ceaseless yearning and the everlasting planning for the glorious return? What a meeting that is going to be! How one dwells in thought on that first goodly satisfaction of the desire of the eyes; goodlier still that joyous clasping of the hands; goodliest of all that glorious locking of the lips, that unending embrace in the ecstasy of which all the wretched hours of absence are to be forgotten—and, oh! laughter of the gods! how different it really proves! What a hideous disappointment the meeting is! How different the Beloved looks from our passionate dream; his hair wants cutting; we don't like his boots; his tie is not of our choosing; his speech does not please us; his kiss has no thrill; his remarks bore; his presence irritates: in short, we have learnt to do without him, so nothing he does seems right. Poor Beloved! and did you think the same of us? Are you disappointed too? Did you say to yourself: 'How fagged she looks! By Jove! she's getting a double chin. I thought pink used to suit her. What's she done to her hair? Her voice seems sharper. Why does she laugh like that? I don't like her teeth. Good heavens, the woman's hideous!' In short, he has learnt to do without us. When husbands and wives learn this lesson, the good ship 'Wedded Bliss' is getting into perilous waters where danger of utter wreck looms large.

But it is equally fatal to go to the other extreme, and I entirely agree with that authoress (who was she?) who said that no house could be expected to go on properly unless the male members of the family are out of it for at least six hours daily, Sundays excepted. The woman whose husband's occupation, or lack of it, keeps him at home all day has my profound sympathy. Merely to have to think out and order a man's lunch as well as his breakfast and dinner must be a bitter trial. For this reason among others women should never marry a man who does not work at something. If he has no bread-winning business to remove him from his wife's sphere of action for several hours daily, then he must have a hobby, or a game mania, or engrossing duties which serve the same purpose. Otherwise the wife must be constituted on a plane of inhuman goodness and possess infinite love, tact, and patience if the two are to live happily together.

The same principle applies to women, though it is not generally recognised. I am convinced that a great number of middle-class marriages prove unhappy merely because the woman has not enough to do. Possessed of sufficient servants, her household duties occupy a very small portion of her leisure, and if her children are at school (or perhaps she has none) she has nothing more engrossing to do than read novels and pay visits. The result is that one type of woman cultivates nerves and becomes a neurasthenic semi-invalid; another cultivates the opposite sex and fills her leisure hours with undesirable philandering; another develops temper or melancholy or jealous fancies; and so on—all of them spoilt as companions merely for want of sufficient occupation.



III

THE AGE TO MARRY

'To me the extraordinary thing is not that so many people remain unmarried, but that so many rush into marriage, as they might rush into a station to catch a train. And if you catch the wrong train, what then? All you have to comfort you is the fact that you have travelled.' —ROBERT HICHENS.

A great many unhappy unions might be prevented if people could find their right age for marrying. As it differs with the individual, it is impossible to lay down any exact rule. Some men are capable of making a good choice at twenty-two; others don't know their own minds at double that age. Some girls are fit for wifehood and maternity in their teens; others never.

In the interests of abstract morality early marriages are desirable, and in England everything the law can do is done to encourage them. In France the preservation of family authority is considered all-important, and the law apparently tries to check early unions by every means in its power, regardless of the high percentage of illegitimate births which is the direct consequence.[3]

[Footnote 3: In 1903 one tenth of all the children born in France were illegitimate. In Paris alone the percentage was higher still—about one in every four.]

Broadly speaking, no woman should wed until she understands something of life, has met a good many men, has acquired a certain knowledge of physiology and eugenics and a clear understanding of what marriage really means. No woman should marry until she has learnt the value of money, and how to manage a household—until she has had plenty of girlish fun and gaiety, and is thus ready for the more serious things of life. Not until then is she likely to be happy in the monotony of wedlock or capable of attuning her mind to the necessity of being faithful to one man only, in thought as well as in deed. Broadly speaking, also, no man is likely to marry happily until he has seen life and plenty of it, has hammered out for himself something of a philosophy and obtained considerable knowledge of women and a consequent understanding of how to make one happy.

This is not so easily done as men suppose, and it takes time to learn. Few men under thirty are fit to have the care of a wife, and Heaven preserve a girl from a young husband who is still a cub! No doubt she will have glorious moments, for there is something intoxicating about the ardour of a very young heart, and that is why we find boy and girl marriages so charming—in theory. Sometimes in the case of an exceptional couple, well suited to each other, they really are charming, and then it is the most beautiful marriage conceivable—two young things, starting off hand in hand on life's journey, brave-hearted, loving, full of high hopes. But as a rule the glory is limited to moments only; young girls are mostly shallow and frivolous; very young men are often madly selfish and reckless. They are so proud of being the sole possessor of an attractive woman that their conceit, always immense, swells into monstrous proportions and they grow wholly unbearable. If dark days should come to the young couple, the boy-husband has no philosophy to support him, no knowledge of women to enable him to understand his wife and live happily with her, and little self-control for his help; she has the same defects of youth, and the result is failure. Stevenson puts it perfectly thus: 'You may safely go to school with hope, but before you marry you should have learned the mingled lesson of the world.' On the other hand, Grant Allen says that 'the best of men are, so to speak, born married,' and that it is only the selfish, mean, and calculating man who waits till he can afford to marry. 'That vile phrase scarcely veils hidden depths of depravity,' he continues. 'The right sort of man doesn't argue with himself at all on these matters. He doesn't say, with selfish coldness: "I can't afford a wife"; or "If I marry now I shall ruin my prospects." He feels and acts. He mates like the birds, because he can't help himself.'

I must say that these young men who do not think, but merely feel and act, scarcely seem of the highest type in my opinion, and if mating like the birds were to be generally accepted as a sign of a noble nature—well, nobility would be decidedly less rare than at present!



IV

WILD OATS FOR WIVES

'Nothing that is worth saying is proper.' —G. BERNARD SHAW.

'I don't believe in the existence of Puritan women. I don't think there is a woman in the world who would not be a little flattered if one made love to her. It is that which makes woman so irresistibly adorable.' —OSCAR WILDE.

If there be any readers whose susceptibilities are shocked by this headline, they are respectfully requested—nay, commanded—to read no further. If there be any whose susceptibilities waver without as yet experiencing any actual shock, they are affectionately asked—nay, implored—to re-read several times the above quotation from Mr Shaw's immortal Candida, to thereupon pull themselves together and take the plunge. I can promise them it won't be anything like as terrible as they half hope—in fact its essential propriety will probably disappoint them bitterly!

Curiously enough, though women are more anxious to marry than men, and do everything in their power to achieve what men often strive to resist—after marriage it is generally the woman who is most discontented. Of late years a spirit of strange unrest has come over married women, and they frequently rebel against conditions which our grandmothers would never have dreamed of murmuring at. There are a variety of causes for this: one that marriage falls short of women's expectations, as I said in the opening chapter, another that they have had no feminine wild oats. Please note the qualifying adjective, duly italicised, and do not attempt to misunderstand me. I am no advocate of the licence generally accorded to men being extended to women.

'Wild oats' of this nature, otherwise an ante-hymeneal 'fling,' was certainly not a necessity of our grandmothers, but a certain (fairly numerous) type of modern women seem to make better wives when they have reaped this harvest. Take for example the cases of Yvonne and Yvette which are personally known to me. Yvette was engaged at eighteen and married at twenty-one. At the age of twenty-six she was the mother of four children. She had scarcely time to realise what youth meant and begin to enjoy it before her girlhood was stifled under the responsibilities of marriage and maternity. She had accepted her first offer, and he was practically the only man she knew anything of. Beyond him she had seen nothing of men, or of the world; certainly she had never flirted or had men friends or enjoyed any admiration but that of her fiance.

At twenty-six Yvette began to realise that she had been cheated out of a very precious part of life and an invaluable experience. Though a fairly happy wife and a devoted mother, she felt that she might have had those lost delights as well as the domestic joys, and the knowledge enraged her.

A dangerous spirit of curiosity entered her heart, and a still more dangerous longing for adventure and excitement. She realised that there were other men in the world who admired her besides her Marcus, and that she was pretty and still quite a young woman. At thirty Yvette was a mistress of the art of intrigue—had engineered several dangerous affaires, and might have come to serious grief had not Marcus been a singularly wise, tender, and understanding husband.

'It isn't that I don't love him dearly,' she confided in me when resolving to turn over a new leaf. 'I wouldn't exchange him for anyone in the world, and you know what the children are to me—but somehow I want something else as well—some excitement. I feel I've had no fun in my life, and I wanted to have a fling before it was too late. When I was engaged I scarcely ever even danced with anyone but Marcus, and for the first four years of my married life I had a baby every eighteen months—it was nothing but babies, nursing the old one and getting ready for the new one! Not that I didn't love it, but the reaction was bound to come, and it did. If only I could have had the excitement and the gaiety and the glamour first, and then married when I was about twenty-five, I should have been perfectly satisfied then, like Yvonne!'

Yvonne certainly managed her affairs better. Fate saved her from the misfortune of falling in love too soon. She always had a train of admirers, and was enabled to enjoy the power of her womanhood to the full; she travelled, made delightful friendships with both sexes, learnt to know the world and acquired a philosophy of life. When she married, at twenty-nine, she had seen enough of other men to know exactly the kind of husband she wanted, and had had enough excitement to make her appreciate the peace and calm of matrimony.

The secrets of many wives lie heavily on my soul as I write, and more than one woman, with some real reason for remorse, has confided in me that it was only that fatal desire for excitement that primarily caused her undoing. I shall instruct my son to be sure to marry a woman who has got her wild oats safely over, or select a wife of the more old-fashioned type who does not require them. With the modern temperament they must almost inevitably come sooner or later, and to what extent the modern temperament will have evolved by the time the Boy of Boys is marriageable, the ironical gods alone know!

Bachelors take note! A woman—new style—who has knocked about over half the world and sown a mild crop of the delectable cereal will prove a far better wife, a more cheery friend and faithful comrade than the girl of more or less the same type whose first experience you are, and who will make enormous claims on your love and patience by reason of her utter ignorance of men. You will possibly even have to live up to an ideal founded on novel-reading, and that you will find very wearing, my friend! The experienced woman knows men so thoroughly, she will expect nothing more of you than you can give her, and will appreciate your virtues to the utmost and make the best of your vices. 'But she has flirted so outrageously,' you say? Well, so much the better, she is less likely to do it after marriage. 'But, hang it all, she has been kissed by other men,' you say? Well then, she has no need for further experiences of this kind and is not likely ever to give her lips again to others once she is yours. . . . How can you be sure? That is one of the innumerable risks of marriage. How can she be sure that your last crop is sown, still less reaped? . . . Oh, my dear man, you really make me very angry—do for heaven's sake try and get away from conventional ideas of right and wrong! Judge things for yourself, and as they would seem, say, at the edge of an active volcano! . . . All the things we fuss so much about would doubtless quickly assume their real value if viewed from this perilous situation.

And even in the sad cases where a woman has sown real wild oats in the man's sense of the word, how different the little moral rules and regulations which we keep for these occasions would appear in the face of an immediate and violent death. I heard not long ago of a very sad story which bears this out. A man very narrowly escaped death from drowning, shortly after he had broken his engagement with a girl he genuinely loved, on her confessing to him that, many years before, she had once yielded to the importunities of a passionate lover. I do not know what were his emotions in the awful moment when the waters closed over him, and he was experiencing that horrible fight for breath which those who have known it describe as the most terrible sensation conceivable. Apparently his hairbreadth escape from death tore from his eyes the swathings of conventional opinion with which he had been blinded. Instead of regarding himself as a deeply wronged man he realised that he had behaved horribly to the unfortunate girl, who had thus been doubly outraged by his sex. He sought her at once and begged to be taken back again, but she happened to be a woman of some spirit, and she refused to trust herself to a man of such narrow views, and given to such harsh judgment.

Of course this treatment increased his love a thousandfold. It obsessed him to a painful degree, and in the end his desperate entreaties prevailed on her deep affection for him and she relented. Their marriage was not very happy, as may be imagined; they both loved to madness and the ghost of that dead passion stood ever between them, an invisible, poisonous presence that killed their joy in each other. After a time a deep melancholy settled on the woman, and she allowed some trifling illness to take such a hold on her that it caused her death.

When she was dying, I am told, she said to her faithful friend: 'If ever you meet another woman who has made one little slip—a thing which at the time seemed so natural and inevitable as not to be sin at all—tell her never never to confess it to the man she is going to marry, least of all if she loves him. If that confession doesn't part them altogether, it will always be between them. One does it wishing to be straight, but it's the most dreadful mistake a woman can make.'

Her wish to be straight had cost this poor woman not only her whole life's happiness, and her very life itself, but the happiness of the man she loved, in whose interests she had made the confession that wrought the harm. 'How dearly I have paid! how dearly I have paid!' she used to say over and over again in her last illness.

This is an absolutely true story, and it seems to me a burning injustice that a woman should suffer so bitterly for what would be absolutely disregarded in a man. I have no doubt there are many similar cases, and emphatically I say that such confessions are ill-advised. The ordinary conventional-thinking man placed in these circumstances would either throw a woman over, or marry her against his convictions. The extraordinary masculine code, for some reason beyond my feminine powers of comprehension, will not admit that a spinster who has had a lover, or even made one 'false step,' is a fit person to wed, though no man would object to marrying a widow, and many men take respondent divorcees to wife.

Even in the case of a rarely generous-minded, tolerant and understanding man, who judged the offence at its true computation, such knowledge would only prove disturbing and a source of insecurity to conjugal happiness. No good purpose of any kind can be served, and the ease which confession is proverbially supposed to gain for the sinner would be bought at a very heavy price.

'But two wrongs don't make a right, and surely it can't be proper for a woman to deceive a man on such a vital point,' the stern moralist may exclaim. Possibly not, according to the strictly ideal standard of ethics; but, viewed from the larger standpoints of life and of commonsense, this 'deceit' would appear to be advisable. And be assured, my unpleasant moralist (I'm sure you are an unpleasant person), that the sinner will not get off 'scot free,' as you seem to fear. Many and many a stab will be her portion, for memory is a potent poison, and every expression of love and trust from her husband will most likely carry its own special sting, whilst the round, innocent eyes of adoring little children, to whom she is a being that can do no wrong, will be a meet punishment for an infinitely greater fault. Meanwhile the man is in all probability in every way a gainer by the woman's silence, for doubtless he is doubly dear to her for the very fact that the first man treated her badly, and she may perhaps be a better wife, a stronger and sweeter woman, a more capable mother, by reason of the suffering she has undergone.

Now let no maliciously obtuse person attribute to me the pernicious doctrine that a woman with a past is the best wife for a man. I merely say that a good woman who has surrendered herself to an ardent lover and been afterwards deserted by him must necessarily have gone through such intense suffering that her character is probably deepened thereby and her capacity for love and faithfulness increased. It is another truism that suffering is necessary to bring out the best qualities in women.

Men too should keep the details of their wild oats severely to themselves. In married life there are bound to be secrets and the happiest couples are those who know how to keep them, each to him or her self. A very good motto for the newly betrothed would be that of Tom Broadbent in John Bull's Other Island—'Let us have no tellings—perfect confidence, but no tellings: that's the way to avoid rows!'



V

A PLEA FOR THE WISER TRAINING OF GIRLS

If girls were more reasonably trained with regard to matters of sex, there would be far fewer miserable wives in the world, and fewer husbands would be driven to seek happiness outside their home circle. If, when girls reach years of discretion, they were systematically taught some rudimentary outline of the fundamental principles of existence, instead of being left in utter ignorance as at present, the extraordinarily false notions of sex which they now pick up would cease to obtain, and a great deal of harm would thus be avoided. As it is, maidens are now given tacitly to understand that the subject of sex is a repulsive one, wholly unfit for their consideration, and the functions of sex are loathsome, though necessary. I write tacitly with intention, for little if anything is ever said to a girl on this subject; indeed, it is extraordinary how the ideas are conveyed to her without words, but inculcated somehow they certainly are, and it is difficult to understand how mothers manage to reconcile this teaching with their evident wish that their girls should marry. The ideal held up to girls nowadays is apparently the sexless sort of Diana one—not merely chastity, but sterility.

Most girls are aware from a very early age of the social advantages and importance of marriage, and grow up with a keen desire to accomplish it in due course, although secretly dreading it, because of their absurd perverted ideas of its physical side. Why cannot girls—and boys too, for that matter—be taught the plain truth (in suitable language of course) that sex is the pivot on which the world turns, that the instincts and emotions of sex are common to humanity, and in themselves not base or degrading, nor is there any cause for shame in possessing them, although it is necessary that they should be strenuously controlled. Why cannot girls be taught that all love, even the romantic love which occupies so large a portion of their dreams, springs from the instinct of sex?[4] This may be thought a dangerous lesson, but the present policy of silence on this subject is far more dangerous, inducing as it does a tendency to brood over the forbidden theme.

[Footnote 4: Schopenhauer's Metaphysics of Love.]

I remember when in my early teens a schoolfellow of about fifteen confided in me that 'a man'—he was a harmless boy of about twenty—had kissed her hand when passing her a tennis racquet. She drew her hand indignantly away, and said: 'How dare you insult me!' then left the tennis court and refused to play any more. I do not think many girls are so silly as this, but the incident illustrates the general tone inculcated at that school. And it shows what an emphasis on sex matters the girl's mind had received, when she saw an insult in a perfectly innocent and courteous act of admiring homage. What a harmful preparation for life such training must be! This is the kind of teaching that results in those wretched honeymoons which one occasionally hears of in secret, and which produces unwilling wives whose disdainful coldness is their husbands' despair. This lack of feeling and lack of comprehension of the needs of stronger, warmer natures is one of the deepest and most incurable causes of married misery.

Let us teach our girls to regard sex as a natural and ordinary fact, and the infinite evils which spring from regarding it as extraordinary and repulsive will thus be avoided. Let us bring them up to think that loving wifehood, passionate motherhood are the proper expression of a woman's nature and the best possible life for her.

In a very interesting book called Woman in Transition, recently published, this view of woman's destiny is repeatedly scoffed at. The writer, Annette B. Meakin, is a fellow of the Anthropological Institute, and evidently widely read and travelled. I will give a few quotations: 'In the happy future when higher womanly ideals have spread around us we shall all realise, no matter to which sex we belong, that to hold unqualified motherhood before every girl's eyes as her highest ideal is to play the traitor to our race and to humanity.' . . . 'English Head Mistresses—though often unmarried themselves—still consider it their pious duty to tell their pupils that motherhood is woman's highest destiny, and the pupils . . . make marriage their first aim, and other success in life has consequently to take a second place.' . . . 'Some very good women in England are still telling our young girls that motherhood is, for every woman, the worthiest goal, without suspecting that the doctrine they preach is dangerously conducive to that legal prostitution euphemistically known as loveless marriage, if not to greater evils.' . . . 'How can any girl who has been taught that maternity is woman's only destiny dare to run the risk of losing it?'

In answer to these objections: of course no sane person would hold unqualified motherhood up to girls as their noblest ideal. Nor does any thoughtful individual believe that maternity is woman's only destiny. But as to highest (i.e. most noble) destiny—if worthy motherhood (and by the word worthy I wish to imply all the fine qualities of body and mind that go to produce healthy, intelligent, and well-trained children) does not fulfil it, I should like to know what does? In answer to this question that naturally springs to the mind of every reader, Miss Meakin contents herself with the statement: 'In Finland and Australia, as in America and Norway, the young girl is taught that woman's highest destiny is within the reach of every woman; that her highest destiny and her highest ideals depend, not on some man who may or may not come her way, but on herself; and that the highest ideal of womanhood is to be a true woman.' This is well enough, but it is far too vague to be held up as woman's standard. We want a more definite ideal than this to aim at. What, for instance, is a 'true woman' specifically? I should have thought the most essential part of such a one's outfit was her potentialities for wifehood and motherhood.

Miss Meakin blames teachers for inculcating the importance of motherhood into their pupils' minds with the result that 'other success in life has to take a second place.' What then does this writer consider ought to take the first place? Does she seriously think the success of women in business or politics, as municipal councillors, as writers, artists, thinkers, is of more importance than the success of women as mothers? Is it possible? . . . I recall a poem of W. E. Henley's on the woman question, one line of which runs 'God in the garden laughed outright.' Surely there must often be uproarious laughter in heaven nowadays when the woman question is being discussed on earth!

So much for abstract ideals, but when we come to facts I must admit the lady's argument is sound. 'In a country where there are a million and a half more women than men,' she pertinently states, 'it is worse than foolish to teach young girls that motherhood is their highest destiny. Such teaching, if persisted in, will lead to greater evils than we care to contemplate even at a distance.' But what greater evil could there possibly be than the existence of 30,000 prostitutes in London alone, as is the case to-day? If every one of these unfortunate women had been made to believe firmly, as an article of faith, that worthy motherhood was her highest destiny, there might be a good many less noughts to this number.

Miss Meakin continues: 'Besides the sacred duties of motherhood, there are the equally sacred duties of fatherhood, yet man does not allow these latter to interfere with his mental growth.' Nor is there any need that woman should do so; the idea that a woman, to be a good wife and mother, must necessarily stunt her mental growth and forego all culture has long since been discarded.

To my mind the whole trouble arises from the practice of teaching one set of catchwords to girls and another to boys, as Stevenson says. Since women cannot be mothers by themselves, it is useless to teach girls that motherhood is their highest destiny when we do not also teach boys that fatherhood is theirs, but—quite the contrary—give them to understand that marriage is something to be avoided, in early manhood at least.

If we were to instruct all young people of both sexes that worthy marriage and parenthood are the highest destiny for average mortals, and they acted on this precept, many of the problems of the day would be solved, the numbers of superfluous women would be greatly reduced, the social evil would perceptibly diminish, the physique of the race would improve, and the birth-rate would quickly rise. In short, there would be less ironical laughter in heaven, and a great deal more honest happiness and health on earth! I shall have more to say of parenthood as an ideal in Part IV.



VI

'KEEPING ONLY TO HER': THE CRUX OF MATRIMONY

'We make gods of men and they leave us; others make brutes of them and they fawn and are faithful!' —OSCAR WILDE.

'It is part of the curse of nature that a man ceases after a time to worship the body of a woman, and when after that there is nothing his mind and soul can revere—who shall remain true, as it is called?' —MARY L. PENDERED.

'And keep thee only to her as long as ye both shall live.' How many men have solemnly undertaken this exacting vow sincerely meaning to abide by it? I have no data for answering this question, but I have sufficient belief in the essential good in human nature to believe that most people start their married life meaning to be faithful. This belief was not even shattered by the shock of hearing a very modern bride remark the other day: 'Max says he can't promise to be faithful but he'll do his best.' The amazing complacency of the young woman was a thing to marvel at, though hardly to admire.

Schopenhauer asserts that 'Conjugal fidelity is artificial with men, but natural to women.' Judging by the Divorce Court returns, it would seem that this natural feminine trait has weakened somewhat, since this view was expressed some sixty years ago. According to the Society chroniclers—self-appointed—it certainly has in 'London's West End, littered with broken vows.'

It is dangerous to generalise on such a topic, but since people resist temptation far less often than moralists suppose, it is perhaps safe to state that when men are faithful, it is principally from lack of opportunity, or disinclination to be otherwise. This may disgust those of my feminine readers who refuse to acknowledge, with Professor Lester Ward, that man is essentially a polygamous animal, but the more experienced in the sorrowful facts of life will own the truth of this statement.

On the other hand, when women break their marriage vow, it is seldom for any merely frivolous or sordid reason (of course excepting the essentially wanton type, whom no man should be fool enough to marry), but nearly always either because they are under the spell of infatuation for the other man, or because they are utterly miserable in their marriage and seek to drug themselves to forgetfulness or indifference by means of the poison of some intrigue. Perhaps the Judge who is more merciful than men will count both these reasons as excuses and will pardon the sinners who have greatly loved or greatly sorrowed.

A doctor who is interested in the study of social questions once showed me some interesting statistics on this subject. From seventy-six men selected at random from his list of acquaintances, fourteen were childless, and all but two of these were much happier than most men, and gave their wives no cause for jealousy. This high percentage of happy though childless marriages is rather curious—I cannot account for it. Of the remaining sixty-two, all had families: five were fond of their wives, but not faithful; two lived apart with other women; three others were unhappily married, quarrelling bitterly and constantly. Of two others, my friend was doubtful. One other disliked his wife, but was too busy to bother about other women. The remaining forty-nine were comparatively happy and devoted: 'Most of them are kept free from any great temptation by busy lives and regular hours,' the doctor added, 'and those who are especially appreciative or susceptible in regard to the fair sex have had enough love-making, and want no more outside their homes.' I suspect this latter cause is applicable to a great many so-called 'model' husbands!

This list, however, can scarcely be considered representative, as it contained only two actors, three soldiers, one sailor, and no stockbrokers—four classes in which inconstant husbands are particularly numerous. The conditions of an actor's life obviously tend towards infidelity; the unhealthy excitement and alternating depression of a stockbroker's existence may have the same effect. Members of the services are popularly supposed to be less faithful than the rest of husbands, but possibly if the business and professional men had the same amount of opportunities and temptation, a similar excess of leisure and equally long intervals of separation from their wives, they would prove as inconstant as the country's defenders are supposed to be. My doctor's list also contains no members of the 'Smart Set,' a class containing practically no faithful husbands, according to Father Vaughan!

Although it is the little things that spoil conjugal happiness, it is the big things which separate husband and wife, and of these undoubtedly infidelity is the most frequent cause. It might truly be called the crux of marriage. Personally I think only three faults are bad enough to make it socially worth while for a woman to leave her husband: drunkenness with violence; misconduct with members of the household, temporary or permanent; and introducing a mistress under a wife's roof. In the case of a woman with children, even these are not enough if she cannot take the children with her. For the last-named act alone a wife could obtain a divorce under the code of Justinian.

Lapses from the marriage vow on the part of one's spouse are best treated, like all other troubles, in a philosophical spirit. It is, however, 'easy to talk!'—one often hears that sexual jealousy is the most frightful of mental tortures: Men are more keenly affected by it than women, and the man whose wife has been unfaithful seems to suffer more acutely, even when he does not care for her, than the woman in the reverse circumstances. That is because his passions are stronger, a man will tell you, or because he looks up to the mother of his children as a being above the sins of the flesh. Probably the real reason is that man has generally had his own way since the menage in Eden, and he resents having his belongings taken from him. Woman, however, can bear this deprivation better, being more accustomed to share her lord from the time when her sex began to multiply in excess of his—or is it that women have no instinctive antagonism to polygamy?

The world has become well accustomed to man's polygamous instinct by now, and even its laws are framed accordingly. In novels, the discovery of a husband's infidelity always causes a perfect cataclysm; the reader is treated to page after page of frenzied scenes; the wife almost loses her reason; her friends and relatives sit in gloomy council deciding 'what is to be done'; the news is shouted from the housetops; and everybody cuts the man dead.

But in real life, women keep these tragedies to themselves, sometimes bearing them with a strange calmness and philosophy. Fortunately a man is seldom so lacking in worldly wisdom as to let his wife discover his misconduct, and, as a rule, a woman would rather die than reveal such a wound to the world. The burden of a husband's infidelity is borne for years in silence with smiling face and head held high, by many a wife too proud to own herself incapable of keeping a man faithful. Only when years have accustomed her to the humiliation, and dulled the sharp edge of her grief, does she permit herself the relief of confidences.

Few women can understand why a husband, though fond of and devoted to his wife, should nevertheless seek elsewhere that which she has ceased to possess for him. She whose knowledge of the springs of life is deep enough to enable her to understand this, knows also that hers is the better part, that she represents to her husband the centre and mainspring of his existence, which remains steadfast long after his temporary amorous madnesses have burned away to ashes.

Nevertheless, after 'Alone'—'Unfaithful' is perhaps the saddest and most awful word in human speech. One can imagine it written innumerable times, in flaming letters, across the confines of Hell. . . . Unfaithful!



PART III

SUGGESTED ALTERNATIVES

'For me the only remedy to the mortal injustices, to the endless miseries, to the often incurable passions which disturb the union of the sexes, is the liberty of breaking up conjugal ties and forming them again.' —GEORGE SAND.

'Until the marriage tie is made more flexible, marriage will always be a risk, which men particularly will undertake with misgiving.' —H. B. MARRIOTT-WATSON.



I

LEASEHOLD MARRIAGE A LA MEREDITH

'Twenty years of Romance make a woman look like a wreck; twenty years of Marriage make her look like a public building.' —OSCAR WILDE.

Leasehold marriage was one of the customs of early Roman society. Nowadays it has a revolutionary savour, and is so apparently impracticable that it would be hardly necessary to do more than touch upon it here, but for the fact that its most recent and most distinguished advocate in modern times is Mr George Meredith. Any suggestion from such a source must necessarily receive careful consideration. It was also advanced by the great philosopher Locke, and was considered by Milton.

It is scarcely three years since our veteran novelist cast this bombshell into a delighted, albeit disapproving Press; but as memories are so short nowadays, perhaps a brief recapitulation of the circumstances might not be amiss.

The beginning of the business was a letter to The Times by Mr Cloudesly Brereton complaining of the 'growing handicap of marriage' and, according to invariable custom, attacking women as the cause of it. He stated that in the middle classes 'the exigences of modern wives are steadily undermining the attractions of matrimony; in her ever-growing demands on her husband's time, energy, and money the modern married woman constitutes a very serious drag, and in the lower classes of society, marriage even seriously militates against a man's finding work.' How women can be held responsible for this last injustice was wisely not stated. It would have been difficult to prove the indictment, I think.

This document's chief claim to interest was the discussion in The Daily Mail that followed it, and the curious fact that the writer was married a few weeks after its publication! The usual abuse on marriage in general and women in particular followed, until the late Mrs Craigie joined the discussion, and brought to bear on it that peculiar quality of tender understanding, that wonderful insight into women's hearts, which were among the most striking characteristics of her brilliant work. It would be a pity to quote from such a letter, so I reproduce it in full.

'Women, where their feelings are in question, are not selfish enough: they appraise themselves not too dearly, but too cheaply: it is the suicidal unselfishness of modern women which makes the selfishness of modern bachelors possible. Bachelors are not all misogynists, and the fact that a man remains unmarried is no proof that he is insensible to the charm of woman's companionship, or that he does not have such companionship, on irresponsible terms, to a most considerable degree. Why should the average vain young man, egoistic by organism and education, work hard or make sacrifices for the sake of any particular woman, while so many are too willing to share his life without joining it, and so many more wait eagerly on his steps to destroy any chivalry or tenderness he may have been born with? Modern women give bachelors no time to miss them and no opportunity to need them. Their devotion is undisciplined and it becomes a curse rather than a blessing to its object. Why? Because women have this strange power of concentration and self-abnegation in their love; they cannot do enough to prove their kindness; and when they have done all and been at no pains to secure their own position, they realise they have erred through excess of generosity and the desire to please. This is the unselfishness shown towards bachelors.'

In answer to this letter, another woman novelist, Miss Florence Warden, challenged Mrs Craigie as to the existence of such women, but elicited no further reply. The Daily Mail commented on it thus: 'Hundreds of thousands of our readers can give an answer to this remarkable statement out of their own experience, and we have little doubt as to what the tenor of that answer will be.' One can imagine that this was written with a view to being read at the breakfast-tables of Villadom; but men and women of the world, whose experience is not confined to Villadom, nor their opinions of life coloured by the requirements of the Young Person, will recognise the undoubted truth of Mrs Craigie's statements. Whilst agreeing that the state of things between the sexes which she describes is a true one, I venture respectfully to differ as to women's motive for this 'excess of generosity.' There is an enormous amount of wonderful unselfishness among women, but it does not expend itself in this direction, in my opinion. Rather is the motive a passionate desire for their own enjoyment, the gratification of their own vanity by pleasing the opposite sex, often at the cost of their own self-respect. H. B. Marriott-Watson takes the same view in a subsequent letter, where he says: 'Women's unselfishness does not extend to the region of love. The sex attraction is practically inconsistent with altruism, and the measure of renunciation is inversely the measure of affection. This is the order which Nature has established, and it is no use trying to expel her. A woman may lay down her life for the man she loves, but she will not surrender him to a rival.'

Another letter of interest came from Miss Helen Mathers, who stated that 'all women should marry, but no men!'—the advantages of the conjugal state being, in her opinion, entirely on the woman's side.

At this point appeared Mr Meredith's contribution to the discussion in the less authoritative form of an interview—not a letter or article, as, after this lapse of time, so many people seem to imagine. On re-reading this interview recently, I was struck with Mr Meredith's peculiarly old-fashioned ideas about women. Where the woman question was concerned the clock of his observation seems to have stopped many decades ago.

'The fault at the bottom of the business,' he affirms, 'is that women are so uneducated, so unready. Men too often want a slave, and frequently think they have got one, not because the woman has not often got more sense than her husband, but because she is so inarticulate, not educated enough to give expression to her real ideas and feelings.'

This was before the vogue of the suffragettes, but it is a sufficiently surprising statement for 1904. He continues: 'It is a question to my mind whether a young girl, married, say, at eighteen, utterly ignorant of life, knowing little of the man she is marrying, or of any other man in the world at all, should be condemned to live with him for the rest of her life. She falls out of sympathy with him, say, has no common taste with him, nothing to share with him, no real communion except a physical one. The life is nearly intolerable, yet many women go on with it from habit, or because the world terrorises them.'

This is true enough, but Mr Meredith speaks as if it were still the rule, as in our grandmothers' day, for a girl to marry in the teens, whereas it is now quite the exception. Every year the marrying age seems to advance, and blushing brides decked in orange blossoms are led to the altar at an age when, fifty years ago, they would be resigned old maids in cap and mittens. If a girl is foolish enough to marry immediately she is out of the schoolroom, she must be prepared to take the enormous risk which the choice of a husband at such an immature age must entail.

Elsewhere Mr Meredith says: 'Marriage is so difficult, its modern conditions are so difficult, that when two educated people want it, nothing should be put in their way. . . . Certainly one day the present conditions of marriage will be changed. It will be allowed for a certain period, say ten years, or—well, I do not want to specify any particular period. The State will see sufficient money is put by to provide for and educate the children. Perhaps the State will take charge of this fund. There will be a devil of an uproar before such a change can be made. It will be a great shock, but look back and see what shocks there have been and what changes have nevertheless taken place in this marriage business in the past.'

'The difficulty,' he continues, 'is to make English people face such a problem. They want to live under discipline more than any other nation in the world. They won't look ahead, especially the governing people. And you must have philosophy, though it is more than you can hope to get English people to admit the bare name of philosophy into their discussion of such a question. Again and again, notably in their criticism of America, you see how English people will persist in regarding any new trait as a sign of disease. Yet it is a sign of health.'

It will be seen that Mr Meredith puts forward the ten-year limit merely as a suggestion. I recall in one of Stevenson's essays an allusion to a lady who said: 'After ten years one's husband is at least an old friend,' and her answer was: 'Yes, and one would like him to be that and nothing more.' The decade seems to have a special significance in marriage. After the trying first year is over, most couples settle down comfortably enough until nearing the tenth year. The president of the Divorce Court has called this the danger zone of married life. One of the subsequent letters in The Daily Mail, approving Mr Meredith's suggestion, alluded to the present form of marriage as 'the life-sentence,' and suggested a still shorter time limit, five years for choice, since during that time a couple would have found happiness or the reverse, and in the latter case ten years was too long to wait for freedom.

A writer in another paper cited America as an example of terminable marriage in full working order. 'It appears from the statement of an American bishop that the people of the United States are actually living under Mr Meredith's conditions already. Last year (1903) as many as 600,000 American marriages were dissolved. This means that there was one divorce to every four marriages. In some districts the proportion was more like one to two. And the most frequent cause of divorce was a desire for change!'

It seems to me that the establishment of a leasehold marriage system would only result in wholesale wretchedness and confusion, beside which the present sum of marital misery would be but a drop in the ocean. If our marriage laws must be modified, let us trust it will not be in this direction, though it is obvious enough that such a change would come as a boon to thousands of men and women, who from one cause or another have come to loathe the tie that binds them. Whether it would not also disturb the prosaic content that passes for happiness with millions more is too big a question to be more than mentioned here.

The fate of those who are tied for life to lunatics, criminals, and drunkards is pitiable indeed, but an extension of the laws of divorce would meet their exceptional case, without disturbing the marriage bond of normal people. I have endeavoured to indicate some of the many difficulties of leasehold marriage in the following dialogue.



II

LEASEHOLD MARRIAGE IN PRACTICE A DIALOGUE IN 1999

'There is one thing that women dread more than celibacy—it is repudiation.' —MARCEL PREVOST.

Katharine and Margaret, both attractive women on the borderland of forty, are lunching together. They are old friends and have not met for years.

Margaret. 'How nice it is to be together again, but I'm sorry to find you so changed; you don't look happy, what is the trouble?'

Katharine. 'I ought to look happy, I've had wonderful luck, but the truth is, I'm utterly tired. The conditions of marriage nowadays are horribly wearing, don't you think?'

M. 'Well, of course, we miss that feeling of peace and security that our mothers talked of, but then we also miss that ghastly monotony. Think of living year after year, thirty, forty, fifty years, with the same man! How tired one would get of his tempers.'

K. 'I'm not so sure of that. Monotony of tempers is better than variety. All people have them, anyway. Besides, I've a notion that our fathers were nothing like so difficult to live with as our husbands are. You see, in the old days they knew they were fixed up for life, and that acted as a curb. We seem to miss that curb nowadays.'

M. 'Yes, there's something in that. I remember my grandmother, who was married at the end of the last century, used to say that her husband was her Sheet Anchor, and he called her his Haven of Rest.'

K. 'Oh, I envy them! That's what I want so badly—a haven, an anchor! How peaceful life must have been then before this horrible new system came in.'

M. 'People evidently didn't seem to think so, or why should they have altered it? But what's your quarrel with the system? You've had four husbands and changed the first two almost as quickly as the law allowed.'

K. 'Yes, and I'm only forty-one. I began too young—at eighteen—but one naturally takes marriage lightly when one knows it's only for five years. One enters upon it as thoughtlessly as our happy mothers used to start their flirtations.'

M. 'The consequences are rather more serious though; we are disillusioned women at the age when they were still light-hearted girls.'

K. 'It's the families that make it so difficult. Fatherhood is quite a cult nowadays. All my husbands have been of a philoprogenitive turn, and I have eight children.'

M. 'Eight children! No wonder you look worried.'

K. 'Exactly! my mother would have been horrified. Two or three was the correct number in her days, four at the utmost, and five a fatality and very rare.'

M. 'Well, my dear, you needn't have had so many; you should have curbed that cult of Fatherhood. No woman is compelled to bear children nowadays, as our unfortunate grandmothers were. Have you got all eight with you?'

K. 'No, that's just the trouble. I didn't want to have so many, but of course now I've got them I want them with me, and of course their fathers want them too.'

M. 'Oh dear! how tiresome; that's the worst of having children in these times. I'm sometimes glad I have none.'

K. 'Then perhaps you don't know the law about the children of our present marriage system? A sum of money has to be invested annually for each child, in the great State Infant Trust; when the marriage is dissolved the mother has the sole custody of them, unless the father wishes to share it; in the latter case they spend half the year with each parent.'

M. 'It's fair.'

K. 'I suppose so, but oh! so terribly hard on a mother! My two elder girls are almost grown up, they've been at a boarding school for some time, and it was easy and natural enough for George and I to share them in the holidays, but now, I can't keep them at the school any longer, and they will have to spend half the year with him. Thank heaven, he hasn't been married for some time, and isn't likely to again, so I haven't the horror of a strange woman influencing them, but how can I guide them? how have any real control or influence over them in such circumstances?'

M. 'Yes, that must be very sad for you.'

K. 'It's awful, but there's much worse than that. My second husband, Gordon, the father of Arthur and Maggie, is married again, and his wife is jealous of his eldest children, and hates the time when they come to stay. And my little Arthur is so delicate, he requires ceaseless care and studying—I never have a happy moment when he is with them; he doesn't get on well with the other children either, and always returns from the visits looking ill and wretched. I couldn't tell you all I have suffered on account of Arthur! Oh! when I think of him, I could curse this infamous marriage system—it is a sin against nature!'

M. 'But, my dear, it's no use abusing the laws. Why didn't you stay with Gordon, or in the first instance with George? It's often done, even now.'

K. 'I know, I know, but George and I were utterly unsuited—we married as boy and girl. Under the old system prudent parents generally intervened, and the young couple were obliged to wait until they were sure of their own minds. But you know how things are now; in one's first young infatuation, one is sure of five years ahead at least, and one doesn't need to look beyond that.'

M. 'Well, you were twenty-four when you married Gordon; why didn't you choose him more carefully?'

K. 'That was largely "a matter of economics" as I read in an old play called Votes for Women, not long ago—so quaint their ideas were in those days!—and there was something in it too about "twenty-four used not to be so young, but it's become so!" Still, I was old enough to know better, but I was light-hearted and luxury-loving, and I couldn't live on that pittance, which was all the law compelled George to allow me. I don't blame him, it was all he could do to save the necessary tax for the children. So I married Gordon for a home, and of course it was hateful!'

M. 'And your third husband died?'

K. 'Yes; the one who should have lived generally dies. I lost him after two years only, but I can't talk of him, dear; he was just my Man of Men.'

M. 'Ah! I'm glad you have had that.'

K. 'Oh! I have been lucky with all my troubles, as I told you. I was alone for four years after I lost my Best, and I should like to have been faithful to him for ever. But I wasn't strong enough; in spite of the dear children I was very lonely, as the elder ones were always at school.'

M. 'Yes, and one wants a man, somehow, to fuss round one.'

K. 'True, it's a fatal weakness. So at last I married my good little Duncan, just for companionship. I chose him carefully enough. Experience has taught me a lot, and I didn't mean to be left in the lurch at forty as so many are.'

M. 'I'm glad he's good to you. Yes; it's fearful how many women get left alone just when they need care and love most, when their looks and freshness are gone, and their energy weakened. But, as you haven't got that to fear, why should you be so worried now?'

K. 'It isn't exactly that I'm worried—I'm used up! Twenty years of uncertain domestic arrangements is enough to wear out anyone. I've never been able to feel settled in any house, or let myself get attached to a place, or plant out a garden even. One's set of friends is always breaking up; people never seem to buy houses and estates now, or to get rooted anywhere. In the novels of fifty years ago, how they used to complain about being in a groove! They little knew how miserable life could be for want of a permanent groove.'

M. 'I dislike monotony, but it certainly has its advantages. You remember my first husband, Dick?—such a good-looking boy—he was crazy about golf and outdoor games. I got quite into his way of living, and it was a great trial when I married Cecil Innes, who hated the open air, and cared only for books and grubbing about in museums.'

K. 'Why did you leave Dick?'

M. 'I didn't really want to, we were very comfy together, but he fell in love with another woman. He was mad about her, and asked me to release him. As I had no children, I thought it only fair to agree. Cecil interested me very much at first, and he adored me, but I had a very dreary time with him. You know I'm not a bit literary, and he was so "precious" and bookish, he bored me to death. I was glad to leave him for Jack, my present husband, but Cecil's grief at parting was so frightful I shall never forget it, and when he died soon after I felt like a murderess.'

K. 'It must have been a painful experience, but one gets accustomed to these tragedies, one hears of so many. There is always one who wants to be free, and one to remain bound.'

M. 'Yes; and the unwritten tradition that it is a matter of honour never to seek to hold an unwilling partner quite negatives the law that a marriage can only terminate when both parties desire it.'

K. 'I'm sure the tragedies of parting one hears of nowadays are far worse than the occasional tragedies in the old days, caused by being bound, and ever so much more frequent.'

M. 'It wouldn't be such an irony if anyone were benefited, but as far as I can see the men suffer nearly as much as the women, especially when they are old. According to our early century newspapers, an old bachelor or widower could always get a young and charming wife, but now nobody will marry an elderly man, except the old ladies, and the men don't want them.'

K. 'It's a pity they don't, that would solve a lot of the unhappiness one sees around. It must be awful to be deserted in one's old age.'

M. 'Talking about the old newspapers, it's very amusing to read them in the British Museum, and see what wonderful things were expected of the leasehold marriage system when it was first legalised. All the abuses of the old system were to disappear: divorce, adultery, prostitution, and seduction—all the social evils were to go in one clean sweep.'

K. 'How absurdly shortsighted people were then. Divorce is abolished, it's true, but the scandals and misery, broken hearts and broken homes that it caused are now multiplied a thousand times. Infidelity may be less frequent, but if people have the wish and the opportunity for it they're not likely to wait for a certain number of years, until it ceases to be technically a sin. The same with the other evils. There will always be a large number of men who postpone marriage for financial or other reasons, and a large number of women who can only earn a living in one way—the oldest profession in the world will always be kept going! Seduction, too, is not likely to cease as long as the law is so lenient to it. There will always be ignorant, silly, unprotected girls and always men to take advantage of them.'

M. 'There seem to be just as many elderly spinsters, too, as before; the women who don't attract men remain the same under any system, and often they are the best women.'

K. 'How strange it must be never to have had a husband!'

M. 'It must be peaceful, at anyrate; but spinsters don't look any happier than married women.'

K. 'I can only see one good result of the leasehold system—that women are as anxious for motherhood now as in the early century they were anxious to avoid it. We grow old with the fear of almost certain desertion and loneliness before us, and the one hope for our old age is our children——Oh! I am sorry, I forgot you had none.'

M. 'Never mind, I often think of it, and whenever Jack admires or pays attention to another woman, I am in terror for fear he has found a fresh attraction and may want to leave me. What stuff they used to write formerly about the necessity for love being free. As if freedom were such a glorious thing! Why, we are all slaves to some convention or passion or theory; none of us are free, really free, and we wouldn't like it if we were. It may be all very well for the fantastic love of novels to be free, but that strange need of each other, which we call "love" in real life, for want of a better term—that must be forged into a bond, or what help is it to us poor vacillating mortals? Love must be an Anchor in real life—nothing else is any use!'



III

THE FIASCO OF FREE LOVE

'The ultimate standards by which all men judge of behaviour is the resulting happiness or misery.'

'Conduct whose total results, immediate and remote, are injurious is bad conduct.' —HERBERT SPENCER.

Free love has been called the most dangerous and delusive of all marriage schemes. It is based on a wholly impossible standard of ethics. Theoretically, it is the ideal union between the sexes, but it will only become practical when men and women have morally advanced out of all recognition. When people are all faithful, constant, pure-minded, and utterly unselfish, free marriage may be worth considering. Even then, there would be no chance for the ill-favoured and unattractive.

Under present conditions no couple living openly in free love is known to have made a success of it—a solid, permanent success, that is. I believe there are couples who live happily together without any more durable bond than their mutual affection, but they wisely assume the respectable shelter of the wedding ring, and call themselves Mr and Mrs. Thus their little fledgling of free love is not required to battle against the overwhelming force of social ostracism. And moreover one has no means of knowing how long these unions stand the supreme test of time. The two notable modern instances of free love that naturally rise to the mind are George Eliot and Mary Godwin. But both the men with whom they mated were already married. As soon as Harriet was dead, Mary Godwin married Shelley, and when George Lewes had passed away, George Eliot married another man—an act which most people consider far less pardonable in the circumstances than her irregular union with Lewes. Even the famous Perfectionists of Oneida relapsed into ordinary marriage on the death of their leader, Noyes, and by his own wish.

As an institution, free love seems widely practised in the East End of London, but judging by the evidence of the police courts its results are certainly not encouraging. I am told that the practice is common among the cotton operatives of Lancashire. The collage system is also very prevalent in France among the working classes, and seems to answer well enough. But only when women have the ability and the opportunity to support themselves is free marriage at all feasible from the economic standpoint, and even then there remains the serious question of illegitimacy. All right-minded persons must acknowledge that the attitude of society towards the illegitimate is unjust and cruel in the extreme, resulting as it does in punishing the perfectly innocent. But every grown man and woman is aware of this attitude, and those who act in defiance of it, to please themselves or to satisfy some whim of experiment, do so in the full knowledge that on their child will fall a certain burden of lifelong disadvantage. Many perhaps are deterred from breaking the moral law by this knowledge, but the number of illegitimates born in England and Wales in 1905 was 37,300; and, in the interests of these unfortunate victims of others' selfishness, I think it is high time a more kindly and broad-minded attitude towards their social disability was adopted.

I remember as a young girl going to see a play called A Bunch of Violets. The heroine discovers that her husband's previous wife is alive and that her child is therefore illegitimate. She tells her daughter to choose between the parents, explaining the worldly advantages of staying with her rich, influential father. The harangue concludes with words to the effect: 'With me you will be poor and shamed, and you can never marry.' Doubtless this ridiculous point of view was adopted solely for the benefit of the young girls in the audience, but its unreasonableness disgusted me for one. Even to the limited intelligence of seventeen it is obvious that, since a name is of so much importance in life, an illegitimate girl had better marry as quickly as she possibly can, in order to obtain one!

Free love has recently been much discussed in connection with socialism, and, thanks no doubt to the misrepresentations of certain newspapers, the idea seems to have gained ground that the abolition of marriage and the substitution of free love was part of the socialist programme. No more untrue charge could possibly be made, as inquiries at the headquarters of the various socialist bodies will quickly prove.

The people who advocate free love are very fond of arguing that so personal a matter only concerns themselves. All who think thus should have had a grave warning in a recent cause celebre, in which murder, attempted suicide, permanent maiming, and a tangle of misery involving innocent children down to the third generation, were proved to have resulted from a 'free' union entered on nearly thirty years before. This and the many other tragedies of free love, which appear in the newspapers from time to time, seem to prove the mistake of imagining that we are accountable to none for our actions. A relationship which affects the future generation can never be a private and personal matter. E. R. Chapman in a very interesting essay on marriage published some years ago says: 'To exchange legal marriage for mere voluntary unions, mere temporary partnerships, would be not to set love free, but to give love its death blow by divorcing it from that higher human element which is the note of marriage, rightly understood, and which places regard for order, regard for the common weal above personal interest and the mere self-gratification of the moment.'



IV

POLYGAMY AT THE POLITE DINNER-TABLE

'Last and hardest of all to eradicate in our midst, comes the monopoly of the human heart which is known as marriage . . . this ugly and barbaric form of serfdom has come in our own time by some strange caprice to be regarded as of positively divine origin.' —GRANT ALLEN.

We call it the polite dinner-table, because we never hesitate to be extremely rude to each other, when necessary for the purposes of argument. On this particular occasion, the inevitable marriage discussion, which is always to be found in one or other of the newspapers, was the subject of conversation, and the Good Stockbroker (unmarried) was vigorously defending the Holy Estate. His moral attitude is certainly somewhat boring, but nevertheless the Good Stockbroker is one of those people to whom one really is polite. Although obvious irritation was visible on the face of the Family Egotist we listened respectfully, with the exception of the Wicked Stockbroker, whose dinner was far too important in his scheme of life to be trifled with by moral conversations.

Whatever the Good Stockbroker says the Weary Roue is of course bound to contradict as a matter of honour. I may mention that the Weary Roue is a man of the highest virtue and a model husband and father. His pose of evil experience has gained him his sarcastic nickname, but in no way has he earned it by his conduct. 'You forget,' he interposed languidly, when the Good Stockbroker paused, 'that no less a philosopher than Schopenhauer said that the natural tendency of man is towards polygamy, and of woman towards monogamy.'

'I deny the first statement,' said the Good Stockbroker heatedly. He was always heated where questions of morality were concerned, and was proceeding to give chapter and verse for what promised to become a somewhat dull discussion when the Bluestocking firmly interposed in her small staccato pipe:

'To hear you, one would suppose monogamic marriage was a divine institution.'

'Absurd, isn't it?' grinned the Weary Roue. The Good Stockbroker looked pained and cleared his throat. At this formidable signal, the Family Egotist—whose irritation had been increasing like the alleged circulation of a newspaper—showed every sign of hurling the boomerang of his opinion into the fray. This would have meant the death of all liveliness for some hours to come, and a general sigh had begun to heave, when once more our brave Bluestocking stemmed the tide.

'You make rather a cult of the Bible,' she quacked scornfully, directing her remarks principally at the Good Stockbroker; 'but you don't seem very conversant with the Old Testament. You will find there ample proof that monogamic marriage is no more divine than—than polygamy or free love. Nor has it any celestial origin, since it varies with race and climate. It is simply an indispensable social safeguard.'

'I'll have a shilling each way on it,' murmured the Ass (an incorrigible youth, quite the Winston Churchill of our family cabinet), using his customary formula. Unheeding, the Bluestocking chirruped on severely: 'You must know, if you have ever studied sociology, that marriage is essentially a social contract, primarily based on selfishness. At present it still retains its semi-barbarous form, and those who preach without reason of its alleged sacredness would be better employed in suggesting how the savage code now in vogue can be modified to meet the necessities of modern civilisation.'

She paused for breath. The Good Stockbroker was pale, but faced her manfully. 'Well done, Bluestocking!' said the Weary Roue. 'Wonderful woman, our Quacker,' said the Ass, 'I'll have a shilling each way on her.' The Wicked Stockbroker took a second helping of salad, and ate on unheeding, whilst the Gentle Lady at the head of the table anxiously watched the Family Egotist, who looked apoplectic and was toying truculently with a wineglass with evident danger of shortening its career of usefulness.

'I was taught,' said the Good Stockbroker slowly, 'to regard marriage as a sacred institution—a holy mystery.'

'Then you were taught rot,' snapped the Bluestocking, thus living up to the worst traditions of the polite dinner-table, and quivering with intellectual fury.

'Recrimination—' began the Good Stockbroker.

('Good word that, I'll have a shilling each way on it,' murmured the Ass.)

'—is not argument,' continued the Good Stockbroker.

'It may not be, but what you said was rot,' replied the Bluestocking, '"a holy mystery, instituted in the time of man's innocency"—I recognise the quotation! And when was that time, pray? Are you referring to the Garden of Eden, or to what part of the Bible? The chosen people, the Hebrews, were polygamists from the time of Lamech, evidently with the approval of the Deity. Even the immaculate David had thirteen wives, and the saintly Solomon a clear thousand. Not much of a holy mystery in those days, eh?'

'Dear Bluestocking, you really are—' murmured the Gentle Lady.

'Not at all; she's perfectly sound,' interposed the Weary Roue, gloating with ghoulish joy over the Good Stockbroker's apparent discomfort.

'I give in,' said the latter, and a yell of joy burst from the Ass and the Weary Roue. 'I really cannot argue against a lady of such overwhelming eloquence,' he continued, bowing in his delightful courtly way. 'All the same, I shall always believe that marriage is a holy institution.'

'My dear old chap,' said the Weary Roue, hastily, with one eye on the Family Egotist, who was certainly being treated badly that evening: 'your high-mindedness is admirable, quite admirable, but it won't work; it doesn't fit into modern conditions. Theoretically, Marriage is a Holy Mystery no doubt—in practice it's apt to be an Unholy Muddle, sometimes a Mess. Personally I believe in polygamy.'

Roars of laughter were stifled in their birth, as we thought of the Weary Roue's circumspect spouse, and his several circumspect children, discreet from birth upwards.

'So do I—a shilling each way,' said the Ass, inevitably.

'Not for myself, of course,' continued the Weary Roue, without a trace of a smile, 'that is to say, not—er—not now, but speaking for the majority and—er, in the abstract, polygamy would be a sensible institution. Just think how it would simplify all our modern complications, how it would mend our two worst social evils.'

'Yes, think, please—thinking will do,' interposed the Gentle Lady, hastily.

'How it would solve the superfluous woman question,' continued the Weary Roue, enthusiastically. 'Think of the enormous number of miserable spinsters who would be happily provided for.' An indignant quack came from the Bluestocking.

'Think of the expense,' remarked the Good Stockbroker, dryly, and the Weary Roue collapsed like a pricked gas-bag.

'Herbert Spencer says,' continued the Good Stockbroker, 'that the tendency to monogamy is innate, and all the other forms of marriage have been temporary deviations, each bringing their own retributive evils. After all, monogamous marriage was instituted for the protection of women, and has been held sacred in the great and noble ages of the world. Quite apart from the moral point of view, however, polygamy could only be possible in a tropical climate, where the necessities of life were reduced to a minimum, and one could live on dates and rice, but as the average man in our glorious Free Trade country can't afford to keep one wife, in decent comfort, let alone several—I ask, how in the name of the bank rate—?'

'You stockbroking chaps are so devilish sordid,' returned the Weary Roue. 'Didn't I say in the abstract? Of course I know it wouldn't do practically, not yet anyway, but honestly I believe it would go far to solve the whole sex problem.'

'You neither of you seem to take the woman into consideration at all,' piped the Bluestocking. 'Do you suppose we modern women with our resources and our education would consider such an idea for a moment?'

'Well, what do you think?' asked the Weary Roue, with diplomatic deference.

To our surprise the Bluestocking began to blush, and her blush is not the coy, irresponsible flushing of an ordinary girl, but a painful rush of blood to the face under stress of deep earnestness, the kind of blush which forces one to look away.

'Well,' she said, with a gulp, 'I think, perhaps—they might.' It was obvious the admission had cost her something. We were all dumfounded. The Family Egotist forgot his burning desire for speech and ceased to threaten his wineglass; the Gentle Lady was quite excited; the Weary Roue became almost alert, and the Good Stockbroker looked as if he were about to burst into tears.

'I think women might not be averse from polygamy—as a choice of evils,' continued the little Bluestocking bravely, 'for the present waste of womanhood in this country is a very serious evil. Of course the financial conditions make it impossible, as the Good Stockbroker says, but if it were possible, if it were instituted for highest motives, and in an entirely honourable, open manner authorised and sanctioned by the—er—the proper people—I think women could concur in it without any loss of self-respect, especially if the first ardent love of youth were over. After that, and when a woman forgets herself, having truly found herself, in the love and care of her children and a larger view of life and its duties—then I think most women could be happy in such circumstances. I think a great deal of utterly untrue stuff is talked about the agony of sexual jealousy, and women's jealousy especially. Men may suffer thus, I can't say, but I'm sure women don't. It's the humiliation, the unkindness, the being deceived and supplanted that hurts so when a man is unfaithful. But if it were all fair and above-board, if it were grasped that polygamy is more suited to men's nature, and more likely to make for the happiness of the greatest number of women—their numerical strength being so far in advance of men that they couldn't possibly expect to have a mate each—then I really think, after women had had time to readjust their ideas to this new condition—it may take a generation or more—I think they would accept it gladly, and find peace and contentment in it.'

The Bluestocking paused and looked round the circle of interested faces. Even the Ass was intent on her words, but the Good Stockbroker's eyes were averted and the Bluestocking was quite pale as she continued:

'Of course the word at once recalls the harem, the zenana, but nothing of that kind would do. The wives would have to live separately, as the Mormons do, each in her own home, with her own circle of interests and duties, her own lifework. No one ought to live in idleness, which is the cause of all sorts of discord and trouble. Every woman should work at something, and to help someone. I'm not thinking now, of course, of happily married and contented women, but of the thousands leading miserable, dull, and lonely lives, who would be infinitely happier if they had a certain week to look forward to, at regular recurring intervals, when their husbands would be living with them. It would bring love and human interest and, what is most important of all, a motive into their existence. I know it sounds dreadfully immoral,' she went on, blushing again painfully, 'but, oh! I don't mean it like that. After all, the chief reason why people marry is for companionship, and it is companionship that unmarried women, past the gaiety of first youth, chiefly lack. The natural companion of woman is man; therefore, as there aren't enough husbands to go round, it follows that one might do worse than share them. I don't say it would be as satisfactory as having a devoted husband all to oneself, but it might be for the greatest good of the greatest number, and it would surely solve to a certain extent the—the social evils.'

They all clapped when she had finished somewhat breathlessly. It was obvious that the brave Bluestocking so far lacked the courage of her opinions as to be agonisingly embarrassed at this public expression of them. The Gentle Lady, who is the most tactful creature in existence, accordingly rose before anyone had time to speak, and the two women left the room together.

A babble of talk arose from the men, under cover of which the Good Stockbroker also slipped quietly away.

'Pass the port,' said the Wicked Stockbroker, briskly. 'She's a deuced bright little woman, but how even the brainy ones can be so ignorant of life beats me, and how you chaps can be such hypocrites. . . . !'

'Hypocrites! what d'you mean?' blustered the Family Egotist, who was by now almost bursting with suppressed talk.

'Not you, old chap, but the Weary Roue and the Good Stockbroker, jawing away as if they really thought monogamy was in the majority in this country, and polygamy was something new! Of course one expects it from the G. S., but you, W. R., really ought to know better—by the way, where is the G. S?'

'I think he must have gone to propose to the Bluestocking—to save her from polygamy and her own opinions,' drawled the Weary Roue, lighting his cigarette.

'Stout fella! I believe he has!' cried the Ass, excitedly. 'I'll have a shilling each way on it with any of you—I mean it, really!'

'Oh! what if he has?' said the Family Egotist, irritably. 'What does one fool more in the world matter? Do stop rotting, you fellows, and pass the port.'



V

IS LEGALISED POLYANDRY THE SOLUTION?

In Mr W. Somerset Maugham's very interesting psychological study, Mrs Craddock, he makes one of his characters say: 'The fact is that few women can be happy with only one husband. I believe that the only solution of the marriage question is legalised polyandry.'

This is the kind of statement which it is only respectable to receive with horror, but if the secrets of feminine hearts could be known it might prove that a goodly amount of this horror is assumed. I decline to commit my sex either way. Mr Maugham is evidently a gentleman very deeply experienced in feminine hearts, and I daresay he knows what he is talking of. He is, moreover, safely unmarried, but even he entrenches himself behind one of the characters in his novel, and who am I that a greater courage should be expected of me?

There is, of course, a marvellous virtue in the word 'legalised.' The most unholy and horrible marriages between fair young girls and rich or titled dotards, drunkards, or cretins are considered perfectly proper and respectable because 'legalised.' Yet the people who countenance these abominations would probably be unutterably shocked by the very whisper of polyandry—an infinitely more decent relation, because regulated by honest sex attraction, and free presumably from mercenary considerations. But whether legalised polyandry is THE solution to the marriage question or not, it is clearly an impossible one for women-ridden England, and though of late years women have made startling strides, and shown themselves possessed of unsuspected vitality, it seems unlikely that their superfluous energies will be expended in this direction.



VI

A WORD FOR DUOGAMY

'God made you, but you marry yourself.' —R. L. STEVENSON.

The day after the polite dinner-party, Isolda, Miranda, and Amoret came in to tea, and I retailed to them the discussion of the previous evening on polygamy.

'I see the Bluestocking's point,' said Isolda, thoughtfully: 'polygamy might be acceptable to the superfluous woman who can't marry under present conditions—the discontented spinster to whom the single state is so detestable that even polygamy would be preferable—but it would never be acceptable to the woman who can and does marry.'

'Yet how many married women put up with it nowadays?' said Miranda; 'aren't there ever so many wives who condone their husband's infidelity, and endure it as best they can, for the sake of the children, or for social reasons, or because they're sufficiently attached to the man to prefer a share of him to life alone without him? And what is that but countenancing polygyny?'

'Ah! but then the other women are only mistresses,' exclaimed Isolda. 'One might tolerate that unwillingly, but another legal wife, with rights equal to one's own or, worse, with children to compete with one's own—never!'

'Well, perhaps not,' agreed Miranda; 'I suppose a legal and permanent rival would be somewhat different, but, after all, it's only the middle class in England who can be termed strictly monogamous—the upper and lowest are as polygynous as can be. It's only our British hypocrisy that makes us pretend monogamy is our rule!'

'Don't quarrel with British hypocrisy,' said Amoret, lazily, 'it's our most valuable national asset. Hypocrisy simply holds the fabric of society together.'

'Agreed,' said Isolda, 'we must pretend to believe monogamy is the rule, for peace sake, and for the ideal's sake. Of course everybody knows there are plenty of polygynous husbands about, and, for the matter of that, polyandrous wives, but hypocrisy is a great aid to decency, and a nation must have decency of theory at least, if not of practice, or we should—er—h'm—decline like the Romans.'

'I was waiting for one of you to mention the Romans,' interposed Amoret, who for all her frivolity has a certain humorous shrewdness of her own. 'It's an invariable feature of all discussions on marriage. Directly one so much as breathes a suggestion that the marriage tie should be made more flexible to suit modern conditions, everyone present, except the unhappily married, pulls a long face and quotes the awful example of the Romans. Now I've got a gorgeous idea for solving the marriage problem.'

'Tell us,' cried three voices in unison.

'Not yet, let's get rid of the Romans first. I confided my idea to a man the other day, and when he had floored me with the Romans as usual, I went and looked up Gibbon.'