Post-Prandial Philosophy

5. American Duchesses

Every American woman is by birth a duchess.

There, you see, I have taken you in. When you saw the heading, "American

Duchesses," you thought I was going to purvey some piquant scandal about

high-placed ladies; and you straightway began to read my essay. That

shows I rightly interpreted your human nature. There's a deal of human

nature flying about unrecognised. Yet when I said duchesses, I actually

meant it. For the American woman is the only real aristocrat now living

in America.

These remarks are forced upon me by a brilliant afternoon on the

Promenade des Anglais. All Nice is there, in its cosmopolitan butterfly

variety, flaunting itself in the sun in the very ugly dresses now in

fashion. I don't know why, but the mode of the moment consists in making

everything as exaggerated as possible, and sedulously hiding the natural

contours of the human figure. But let that pass; the day is too fine for

a man to be critical. The band is playing Mascagni's last in the Jardin

Public; the carriages are drawn up beside the palms and judas-trees that

fringe the Paillon; the _sous-officiers_ are strolling along the wall

with their red caps stuck jauntily just a trifle on one side, as though

to mow down nursemaids were the one legitimate occupation of the _brav'

militaire_. And among them all, proud, tall, disdainful, glide the

American duchesses, cold, critical, high-toned, yet ready to strike up,

should opportunity serve, appropriate acquaintance with their natural

equals, the dukes of Europe.

"And the American dukes?"--There aren't any. "But these ladies' husbands

and fathers and brothers?"--Oh, _they're_ business men, working hard for

the duchesses in Wall Street, or on 'Change in Chicago. And that's why I

say quite seriously the American woman is the only real aristocrat now

living in America. Everybody who has seen much of Americans must have

noticed for himself how really superior American women are, on the

average, to the men of their kind. I don't mean merely that they are

better dressed, and better groomed, and better got up, and better

mannered than their brothers. I mean that they have a real superiority

in the things worth having--the things that are more excellent--in

education, culture, knowledge, taste, good feeling. And the reason is

not far to seek. They represent the only leisured class in America. They

are the one set of people from Maine to California who have time to

read, to think, to travel, to look at good pictures, to hear good music,

to mix with society that can improve and elevate them. They have read

Daudet; they have seen the Vatican. The women thus form a natural

aristocracy--the only aristocracy the country possesses.

I am aware that in saying this I take my life in my hands. I shall be

prepared to defend myself from the infuriated Westerner with the usual

argument, which I shall carry about loaded in all its chambers in my

right-hand pocket. I am also aware that less infuriated Easterners,

choosing their own more familiar weapon, will inundate my leisure with

sardonic inquiries whether I don't consider Oliver Wendell Holmes or

Charles Eliot Norton (thus named in full) the equal in culture of the

average American woman. Well, I frankly admit these cases and thousands

like them; indeed I have had the good fortune to number among my

personal acquaintances many American gentlemen whose chivalrous breeding

would have been conspicuous (if you will believe it) even at Marlborough

House. I will also allow that in New York, in Boston, and less

abundantly in other big towns of America, men of leisure, men of

culture, and men of thought are to be found, as wide-minded and as

gentle-natured as this race of ours makes them. But that doesn't alter

the general fact that, taking them in the lump, American men stand a

step or two lower in the scale of humanity than American women. One need

hardly ask why. It is because the men are almost all immersed and

absorbed in business, while the women are fine ladies who stop at home,

and read, and see, and interest themselves widely in numberless

directions.

The consequence is that nowhere, as a rule, does the gulf between the

sexes yawn so wide as in America. One can often observe it in the

brothers and sisters of the same family. And it runs in the opposite

direction from the gulf in Europe. With us, as a rule, the men are

better educated, and more likely to have read and seen and thought

widely, than the women. In America, the men are generally so steeped in

affairs as to be materialised and encysted; they take for the most part

a hard-headed, solid-silver view of everything, and are but little

influenced by abstract conceptions. Their horizon is bounded by the rim

of the dollar. Nay, owing to the eager desire to get a good start by

beginning life early, their education itself is generally cut short at a

younger age than their sisters'; so that, even at the outset, the girls

have often a decided superiority in knowledge and culture. Amanda reads

Paul Bourget and John Oliver Hobbes; she has some slight tincture of

Latin, Greek, and German; while Cyrus knows nothing but English and

arithmetic, the quotations for prime pork and the state of the market

for Futures. Add to this that the women are more sensitive, more

delicate, more naturally refined, as well as unspoilt by the trading

spirit, and you get the real reasons for the marked and, in some ways,

unusual superiority of the American woman.

That, I think, in large part explains the fascination which American

women undoubtedly exercise over a considerable class of European men. In

the European man the American woman often recognises for the first time

the male of her species. Unaccustomed at home to as general a level of

culture and feeling as she finds among the educated gentlemen of Europe,

she likes their society and makes her preference felt by them. Now man

is a vain animal. You are a man yourself, and must recognise at once the

truth of the proposition. As soon as he sees a woman likes him, he

instantly returns the compliment with interest. In point of fact, he

usually falls in love with her. Of course I admit the large number of

concomitant circumstances which disturb the problem; I admit on the one

hand the tempting shekels of the Californian heiress, and on the other

hand the glamour and halo that still surround the British coronet.

Nevertheless, after making all deductions for these disturbing factors,

I submit there remains a residual phenomenon thus best interpreted. If

anybody denies it, I would ask him one question--how does it come that

so many Englishmen, Frenchmen, and Italians marry American women, while

so few Englishwomen, French women, or Italian women marry American men?

Surely the American men have also the shekels; surely it is something

even in Oregon or Montana to have inspired an honourable passion in a

Lady Elizabeth or a dowager countess. I think the true explanation is

that our men are attracted by American women, but our women are not

equally attracted by American men, and that the quality of the articles

has something to do with it.

The American duchess, I take it, comes over to Europe, and desires

incontinently to drag the European duke at the wheels of her chariot.

And the European duke is fascinated in turn, partly by this very fact,

partly by the undeniable freshness, brightness, and delicate culture of

the American woman. For there is no burking the truth that in many

respects the American woman carries about her a peculiar charm ungranted

as yet to her European sisters. It is the charm of freedom, of ease, of

a certain external and skin-deep emancipation--an emancipation which

goes but a little way down, yet adds a quaint and piquant grace of

manner. What she conspicuously lacks, on the other hand, is essential

femininity; by which I don't mean womanliness--of that she has enough

and to spare--but the wholesome physical and instinctive qualities which

go to make up a sound and well-equipped wife and mother. The lack of

these underlying muliebral qualities more than counterbalances to not a

few Europeans the undoubted vivacity, originality, and freshness of the

American woman. She is a dainty bit of porcelain, unsuited for use; a

delicate exotic blossom, for drawing-room decoration, where many would

prefer robust fruit-bearing faculties.

I dropped into the Opera House here at Nice the other night, and found

they were playing "Carmen"--which is always interesting. Well, you may

perhaps remember that when that creature of passion, the gipsy heroine,

wishes to gain or retain a man's affections, she throws a rose at him,

and then he cannot resist her. That is M****'s symbolism. Art is full

of these sacrifices of realism to reticence. Outside the opera, it is

not with roses that women enslave us. But the American duchess relies

entirely upon the use of the rose; and that is just where she fails to

interest so many of us in Europe.

And now I think it's almost time for me to go and hunt up the material

arguments for that rusty six-shooter.