Conversations

When still I prefaced my name with ‘Miss,’ none but my intimates ever thought of engaging me in conversation about the qualifications of my laundress and the amount of her weekly charge; acquaintances did not ask me if I found it well-nigh impossible to secure satisfying food at a reasonable price, and anyone would have blushed to inquire whether or not I made my own clothes. But once I had changed Miss for Mrs., the veriest strangers began to take a surprising interest in the domestic machinery of my life; commonplaces assumed astounding conversational importance. And it is not that I resent kindly inquiries about the brand of macaroni we prefer, or whether we burn soft coal or briquets, but that I deplore the passing of a time when people talked to me about interesting, impersonal things and I did not have to intrigue them into such conversation.

As I study what seems to be the circumscribed conversational opportunities of married women, I wonder: Does some mischievous fairy go to marriage feasts, and cast a spell upon the bride that robs her of all interest in, or ability for, real conversation? Or does the world only think so? Whatever the answer, there are hundreds of us who have escaped the wicked fairy’s curse, escaped to protest and to plead.

I am quite sure that in both material and practice I am much better fitted for participation in worthy conversation than I was two years ago. But, unfortunately, I seem not only to have exchanged my name for that of my husband, but to have given my right to any ideas on any worth-while subjects ‘to boot.’ Do we have a chance caller, she settles herself with, ‘Dear me, how you’ve changed this house! Did n’t you have a great deal of trouble getting help?’ Then follow the usual questions about the butcher, the grocer, the laundress, the coal.

If John passes through the hall, and I ask him to come in and greet our neighbor, her face brightens and she cries, with genuine enthusiasm, ‘Oh, Mr. B—, I ’ve been wanting to meet you! Please tell me what to give my little ten-year-old girl to read’; and, ‘Do you approve of profusely illustrated books for children?’ This happens to be a subject which has claimed my profound interest, and about which I have well-defined opinions; but it never occurred to the mother of the tenyear-old to ask my advice. John carefully tells her what he knows to be my conclusions in the matter; she thanks him volubly and at length leaves, hoping that I will not lose my laundress, because ‘they are so hard to get in this town.’

We have a guest to tea. She compliments me on the quality of the strawberry-jam, asks if I made it myself, and if it was n’t hard to get sugar, and then turns to John with, ‘Mr. B—, what do you think of this new play? Is it possible, do you think, that the leading lady merits all the favorable comment she is receiving? ’ By chance, this gifted leading lady has been my friend for years — we have enjoyed many a pleasant dinner together; but I refrain from mentioning the fact and give my attention to John’s criticisms of the play and the further questions of our guest, who presently rewards my attention by asking me if I have seen any pictures of the star and if I don’t think her pretty.

When John and I first began to meet this boycott of wives in the field of conversation, we attempted to combat it. When conversation was directed to him which he felt that my experience fitted me to discuss better, he said so and passed the leadership to me. We soon discovered that the unusualness of this manœuvre so pained and surprised our guests that it made constructive conversation momentarily impossible for them. It was apparent that we must abandon our course, if we were not to suffer the charge of being boorish hosts and uncomfortable guests. We still protest occasionally, but, as a rule, we exchange an understanding glance, and then John talks, and I assume what seems to be the inevitable rôle of a married female person — that of serene onlooker at all conversations that have not to do with household matters that any Swedish maid-of-allwork is better equipped to discuss than am I.

Unmarried women, who are themselves engaged in interesting public work, are the leaders in this unconscious shut-out of their married sisters.

I know a very intelligent and talented woman whose husband is an architect. He has a studio in his home, where his wife works with him. There is not a plan he makes which has not incorporated in it some idea that was hers. Yet I have more than once seen bachelor-girl guests in their home all but exclude Mrs. M—from a spirited conversation on building art, and conclude the talk with that exasperating air which says plainly, ‘If only these clever men married women who could appreciate them!’

Last summer, at my express request, John and I devoted the leisure we could find in two months to the fascinating subject of French verse. Our guest, an unmarried girl of enviable attainments, came in from the verandah one evening, where she had been in conversation with John, and said, ‘It’s wonderful what John has got out of his study of French poetry.’

‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘we have enjoyed it, and l am convinced that the French idea of rhythm —’

I got no further. ‘Oh,’ said my guest in surprise, ‘I knew that John had been studying the subject, but I did n’t know that he had made you do it.'

I am still wondering if I was rude to her. I never can remember what I said, only what I felt. I know that we did not talk of poetry: we talked of the relative merits of cooked and uncooked breakfast-foods, and I was advised about what to give John for a summer breakfast.

What, I ask myself over and over, what do these clever girls imagine becomes of women like themselves? Many of them marry. Do they think that marriage miraculously invests all women with an abnormal interest in potatoes and pans, and inhibits their having ideas on the very subjects of which they were masters before marriage? Do they imagine that, with their names, they will gladly relinquish all right to an interest in the activities for which they were trained by college and work, and that they will be content ever after to lift their voices only in discussions of scalloped oysters, sheeting, and adenoids?

As I go about pondering these things, I keep my left glove on as much as possible, and often, on the car and in the station, I enjoy delightful conversations about opera, drama, Mr. Chesterton — yea, thigmotaxis, if I like! If my charming seat-mate knew what was under my glove, she would, — eight chances out of ten, — with perfunctory suiting of her mind to my pace, ask me if I had any children; and being answered in the negative, she would regard me reproachfully and then speak of the weather.

Yes, yes, surely, children and the high cost of living and jam and laundry and all these domestic subjects should be interesting to a married woman. I am interested in them. I love children, I like to make jam, my laundress is a wonderful person, and I appreciate her. But I do not want my mind condemned to an exclusive diet of domestic subjects. Only ignorant men are excused if they talk of their business to the exclusion of all other topics.

True, a woman can lead conversation into avenues that interest her, if she tries. I affirm it: she can, she does. But why, always, if she be a married woman, must she try? Why is she always compelled to prove that she can perform a housemaid’s duties without having a housemaid’s mind? Many of us are women who did vital public work before our marriage — we are the same women still. Why does no one ever pay us the compliment of taking our intelligence for granted?