IS THE AMERICAN HUSBAND MADE ENTIRELY OF STAINED GLASS.
I AM glad I am not an American husband. At first sight this may appear aremark uncomplimentary to the American wife. It is nothing of the sort.It is the other way about. We, in Europe, have plenty of opportunity ofjudging the American wife. In America you hear of the American wife, youare told stories about the American wife, you see her portrait in theillustrated journals. By searching under the heading “ForeignIntelligence,” you can find out what she is doing. But here in Europe weknow her, meet her face to face, talk to her, flirt with her. She ischarming, delightful. That is why I say I am glad I am not an Americanhusband. If the American husband only knew how nice was the Americanwife, he would sell his business and come over here, where now and thenhe could see her.
Years ago, when I first began to travel about Europe, I argued to myselfthat America must be a deadly place to live in. How sad it is, I thoughtto myself, to meet thus, wherever one goes, American widows by thethousand. In one narrow by-street of Dresden I calculated fourteenAmerican mothers, possessing nine-and-twenty American children, and not afather among them—not a single husband among the whole fourteen. Ipictured fourteen lonely graves, scattered over the United States. I sawas in a vision those fourteen head-stones of best material, hand-carved,recording the virtues of those fourteen dead and buried husbands.
Odd, thought I to myself, decidedly odd. These American husbands, theymust be a delicate type of humanity. The wonder is their mothers everreared them. They marry fine girls, the majority of them; two or threesweet children are born to them, and after that there appears to be nofurther use for them, as far as this world is concerned. Can nothing bedone to strengthen their constitutions? Would a tonic be of any help tothem? Not the customary tonic, I don’t mean, the sort of tonic merelyintended to make gouty old gentlemen feel they want to buy a hoop, butthe sort of tonic for which it was claimed that three drops poured upon aham sandwich and the thing would begin to squeak.
It struck me as pathetic, the picture of these American widows leavingtheir native land, coming over in shiploads to spend the rest of theirblighted lives in exile. The mere thought of America, I took it, had forever become to them distasteful. The ground that once his feet hadpressed! The old familiar places once lighted by his smile! Everythingin America would remind them of him. Snatching their babes to theirheaving bosoms they would leave the country where lay buried all the joyof their lives, seek in the retirement of Paris, Florence or Vienna,oblivion of the past.
Also, it struck me as beautiful, the noble resignation with which theybore their grief, hiding their sorrow from the indifferent stranger.Some widows make a fuss, go about for weeks looking gloomy and depressed,making not the slightest effort to be merry. These fourteen widows—Iknew them personally, all of them, I lived in the same street—what abrave show of cheerfulness they put on! What a lesson to the common orEuropean widow, the humpy type of widow! One could spend whole days intheir company—I had done it—commencing quite early in the morning with asleighing excursion, finishing up quite late in the evening with a littlesupper party, followed by an impromptu dance; and never detect from theiroutward manner that they were not thoroughly enjoying themselves.
From the mothers I turned my admiring eyes towards the children. This isthe secret of American success, said I to myself; this high-spiritedcourage, this Spartan contempt for suffering. Look at them! the gallantlittle men and women. Who would think that they had lost a father? Why,I have seen a British child more upset at losing sixpence.
Talking to a little girl one day, I enquired of her concerning the healthof her father. The next moment I could have bitten my tongue out,remembering that there wasn’t such a thing as a father—not an Americanfather—in the whole street. She did not burst into tears as they do inthe story-books. She said:
“He is quite well, thank you,” simply, pathetically, just like that.
“I am sure of it,” I replied with fervour, “well and happy as he deservesto be, and one day you will find him again; you will go to him.”
“Ah, yes,” she answered, a shining light, it seemed to me, upon her fairyoung face. “Momma says she is getting just a bit tired of thisone-horse sort of place. She is quite looking forward to seeing himagain.”
It touched me very deeply: this weary woman, tired of her longbereavement, actually looking forward to the fearsome passage leading towhere her loved one waited for her in a better land.
For one bright breezy creature I grew to feel a real regard. All themonths that I had known her, seen her almost daily, never once had Iheard a single cry of pain escape her lips, never once had I heard hercursing fate. Of the many who called upon her in her charming flat, notone had ever, to my knowledge, offered her consolation or condolence. Itseemed to me cruel, callous. The over-burdened heart, finding no outletfor its imprisoned grief, finding no sympathetic ear into which to pourits tale of woe, breaks, we are told; anyhow, it isn’t good for it. Idecided—no one else seeming keen—that I would supply that sympatheticear. The very next time I found myself alone with her I introduced thesubject.
“You have been living here in Dresden a long time, have you not?” Iasked.
“About five years,” she answered, “on and off.”
“And all alone,” I commented, with a sigh intended to invite toconfidence.
“Well, hardly alone,” she corrected me, while a look of patientresignation added dignity to her piquant features. “You see, there arethe dear children always round about me, during the holidays.”
“Besides,” she added, “the people here are real kind to me; they hardlyever let me feel myself alone. We make up little parties, you know,picnics and excursions. And then, of course, there is the Opera and theSymphony Concerts, and the subscription dances. The dear old king hasbeen doing a good deal this winter, too; and I must say the Embassy folkshave been most thoughtful, so far as I am concerned. No, it would not beright for me to complain of loneliness, not now that I have got to know afew people, as it were.”
“But don’t you miss your husband?” I suggested.
A cloud passed over her usually sunny face. “Oh, please don’t talk ofhim,” she said, “it makes me feel real sad, thinking about him.”
But having commenced, I was determined that my sympathy should not beleft to waste.
“What did he die of?” I asked.
She gave me a look the pathos of which I shall never forget.
“Say, young man,” she cried, “are you trying to break it to me gently?Because if so, I’d rather you told me straight out. What did he die of?”
“Then isn’t he dead?” I asked, “I mean so far as you know.”
“Never heard a word about his being dead till you started the idea,” sheretorted. “So far as I know he’s alive and well.”
I said that I was sorry. I went on to explain that I did not mean I wassorry to hear that in all probability he was alive and well. What Imeant was I was sorry I had introduced a painful subject.
“What’s a painful subject?”
“Why, your husband,” I replied.
“But why should you call him a painful subject?”
I had an idea she was getting angry with me. She did not say so. Igathered it. But I had to explain myself somehow.
“Well,” I answered, “I take it, you didn’t get on well together, and I amsure it must have been his fault.”
“Now look here,” she said, “don’t you breathe a word against my husbandor we shall quarrel. A nicer, dearer fellow never lived.”
“Then what did you divorce him for?” I asked. It was impertinent, it wasunjustifiable. My excuse is that the mystery surrounding the Americanhusband had been worrying me for months. Here had I stumbled upon theopportunity of solving it. Instinctively I clung to my advantage.
“There hasn’t been any divorce,” she said. “There isn’t going to be anydivorce. You’ll make me cross in anot
her minute.”
But I was becoming reckless. “He is not dead. You are not divorced fromhim. Where is he?” I demanded with some heat.
“Where is he?” she replied, astonished. “Where should he be? At home,of course.”
I looked around the luxuriously-furnished room with its air of cosycomfort, of substantial restfulness.
“What home?” I asked.
“What home! Why, our home, in Detroit.”
“What is he doing there?” I had become so much in earnest that my voicehad assumed unconsciously an authoritative tone. Presumably, ithypnotised her, for she answered my questions as though she had been inthe witness-box.
“How do I know? How can I possibly tell you what he is doing? What dopeople usually do at home?”
“Answer the questions, madam, don’t ask them. What are you doing here?Quite truthfully, if you please.” My eyes were fixed upon her.
“Enjoying myself. He likes me to enjoy myself. Besides, I am educatingthe children.”
“You mean they are here at boarding-school while you are gadding about.What is wrong with American education? When did you see your husbandlast?”
“Last? Let me see. No, last Christmas I was in Berlin. It must havebeen the Christmas before, I think.”
“If he is the dear kind fellow you say he is, how is it you haven’t seenhim for two years?”
“Because, as I tell you, he is at home, in Detroit. How can I see himwhen I am here in Dresden and he is in Detroit? You do ask foolishquestions. He means to try and come over in the summer, if he can sparethe time, and then, of course—
“Answer my questions, please. I’ve spoken to you once about it. Do youthink you are performing your duty as a wife, enjoying yourself inDresden and Berlin while your husband is working hard in Detroit?”
“He was quite willing for me to come. The American husband is a goodfellow who likes his wife to enjoy herself.”
“I am not asking for your views on the American husband. I am askingyour views on the American wife—on yourself. The American husbandappears to be a sort of stained-glass saint, and you American wives areimposing upon him. It is doing you no good, and it won’t go on for ever.There will come a day when the American husband will wake up to the facthe is making a fool of himself, and by over-indulgence, over-devotion,turning the American woman into a heartless, selfish creature. What sortof a home do you think it is in Detroit, with you and the children overhere? Tell me, is the American husband made entirely of driven snow,with blood distilled from moonbeams, or is he composed of the ordinaryingredients? Because, if the latter, you take my advice and get backhome. I take it that in America, proper, there are millions of realhomes where the woman does her duty and plays the game. But also it isquite clear there are thousands of homes in America, mere echoing rooms,where the man walks by himself, his wife and children scattered overEurope. It isn’t going to work, it isn’t right that it should work.”
“You take the advice of a sincere friend. Pack up—you and thechildren—and get home.”
I left. It was growing late. I felt it was time to leave. Whether shetook my counsel I cannot say. I only know that there still remain inEurope a goodly number of American wives to whom it is applicable.