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WOMEN, WOMEN, WOMEN! I am the slave of women, when I am not their buffoon. As if it was not bad enough to be a decorator, ten to twelve hours of the bloody day, obliged to listen to their yowls of dissatisfaction, to exchange and re-exchange acres of chairs, tables and breakfronts, to mix and remix square miles of blinding colors, to create and re-create parlors and dining halls on a scale that would have exhausted a Michelangelo, to smile bravely when a chef-dâoeuvre is pronounced âtoo ghastly,â and finally, when one has donned a black tie and escaped, exhausted, into the social fray for a little gin and gossip, to find oneself coupled at dinner with the other type, the lawyer in menacing black sequins, the surgeon in blood-red crĂȘpe de Chine, and be harangued on the injustices to females of which my sex has been guilty!
Of course, it will be argued, because my emotional life has not been notably solaced by the caresses of the fair sex, that I am jaundiced in its respect. But this is not really so. My closest friends and business associates have all been women. Nobody, I am convinced, has been less discriminatory in both his acts and his thinking. If I have a bias, it is in my suspicion that women are intellectually and intuitively superior to men. But I have certainly never thought they were ânicer.â And I very much doubt that anyone could think so who was raised, as I was, in a society in which the female had so many more privileges than the male. I remember replying, only last winter, to a young woman from my office who was handling my slides for a lecture at the Colony Club, and who, after gazing about in some awe, asked if that noble edifice was indeed a womenâs club.
âYes, honeybunch, it is. This club was built in the days when women ran New Yorkâbefore they got sidetracked in the dreary cul-de-sac of menâs jobs!â
Of course, my assistant retorted promptly and vigorously that women today did not want to control their mates by âbedroom wilesâ and that, thank you very much, they were quite willing to take their chances in those âdrearyâ jobs alongside men, and that, boss or no boss, I had just shown myself a prime chauvinist pig!
This may sound impertinent from an employee, but women today feel very strongly about these matters, and in justice to my assistant, I should explain that she had undoubtedly read this paragraph in a profile written by that bitch Rita Stern, this past winter (1979â1980) for Womenâs Wear Daily:
Happy Birthday to Christopher Gates! Our small, sly, sleek, plump, but oh-so-scintillating decorator is sixty. Oh, yes, my dears, he is sixty, bien comptĂ©s, if heâs a day. The little-read but poignantly appreciated author of vers de sociĂ©tĂ© and spicy romans Ă clef, who finally hit the big league in chintz and lampshades, may seem boyish for his age, but a certain drawn look under those big blue eyes and a few lines in those round red cheeks betray the inroads of the calendar. Chris, who defied the traditions of his blue-blooded banking forebears to take a hop, skip and flutter into a trade not usually associated with the stern countenances of ancestral Gateses and Gallatins caused a recent brouhaha at a symposium on Channel 13, when he aired his view that womenâs lib had cost our sex most of the domestic, economic and political power it had tĂĄken our ancestors two thousand years to achieve!
My mistake was in forgetting that persons involved in a crusade lose all sense of humor and proportion. What I was trying to describe at that silly symposium was the remarkable influence exerted by a particular group of American women in a particular place and time. And as that group happened to comprise the women who had dominated my destiny in the formative years of my life, I succumbed to the temptation, prompted, no doubt, by the myriad resentments of childhood, to overdramatize my theme. As a result, I have every womenâs libber in the city down on me.
I was at first amused, then irritated and at last fairly alarmed by the tempest I had aroused. I even began to wonder if it would shatter, not simply the teapot in which it should have been contained, but the whole set of porcelain and the tea party as well. I decided at last that I might have an obligation, not only to the women I had offended, but to myself, to state my contention in exact rather than hyperbolic terms.
For, to speak soberlyâand there are many who would say it is high timeâI never meant to offer a serious argument that women in the past, even in my past, had any real political or economic clout comparable to what men had. And so it may be incumbent upon me now to try to make an assessment of just what their âpowerâ did consist of and what it contributed to or subtracted from their own welfare. I might do well to take advantage of the milestone of my sixtieth birthday to evaluate what effect on my own anguished self these women had. Was I their victim or their product? Or am I simply their survivor?
In any sociological examination the danger is to select a group so small as to be unrepresentative of anything, or one so large as to be meaningless. My danger will be the first, for I shall not be dealing with the South or with Boston. I shall not even be dealing with the City of New York. I am limiting myself to the skinny island of Manhattan, and to the eastern side of Central Park at that. I shall be dealing with the wives and daughters of the managers of money and industry in New York City, what is sometimes called âsociety,â and I have arbitrarily selected as representatives of this society my motherâs âBook Class.â These were the dozen women who instituted it as debutantes in 1908 and met every month (except, of course, in the torrid summertime) to discuss a selected title, old or new, until the death of Cornelia Gates sixty-four years later. Even then Mother was not the survivor of the groupâthere are still three living as I writeâbut by the time she expired, it was felt that it was too small to go on.
All twelve women were what are now called âwasps.â They were white, of course, and had started life as Protestants, although two later became Catholics, and they were âAnglo-Saxon,â if that word be stretched, as it is by some, to embrace persons of English, Scottish, German, Scandinavian and Swiss descent. All were listed in the New York Social Register; all were privately educated; all but one were married. Their means were more varied: Justine Bannard, Polly Travers and Mother were born rich; Mylo Jessup and Leila Lee married rich men; Adeline Bloodgood was almost poor; the others were what was called âcomfortable,â which in that group, in the ninteen thirties, meant owning an apartment or a brownstone in town, a house in the country, having five or six maids, two to three cars, several clubs and oneâs children all in private schools. None except Adeline ever held a regular job, although Polly Travers became an Assemblywoman from a district upstate, and several held responsible Red Cross or similar posts during both World Wars.
What to my young observing eyes was most remarkable about the group was the extraordinary amount of service that they received from everyone else. Their mothers, who had grown up just after the Civil War, in an America where servants, though numerous, had not yet, thanks to immigration, become numberless, had been trained to cook and sew and clean, to know, in short, the tasks that they were expected to supervise. But the girls of the Book Class could hardly boil water. They never had to go into the kitchen unless to inspect or give an order; they never had to darn a stocking or make a bed or clean a bathroom. As mothers, they never changed or washed a baby. Everything in the household, from marketing to cleaning, was taken off their hands. The bills were paid by their husbandsâ secretaries, unless they happened to enjoy keeping a checkbook; all business mattersâinsurance, taxes, even charitable contributionsâwere handled âdowntown.â Never, I earnestly maintain, in the history of the globe has a class of human beings had so little expected of it. Their decks, so to speak, were cleared for action. They floated, magnificently equipped, clean and shining, battleships on a benign sea ready to encounterâwell, what but other battleships?
What did they do, these princesses of privilege, these battle wagons in a world at peace, with all their endowments? Well, isnât the answer to that precisely the task that I have set myself? I think that all I am going to say at the outset is that they were serious. All twelve women were as serious as a jury drawn up and harangued by a judge at a murder trial. I see them staring at me now, those twenty-four encompassing orbs. Leila Leeâwas she serious? Yes, even Leila was serious. At least at the start. And at the end, the very end.
Ah, how I envied them! I saw my lot in the doomed faces of males, destined to the gray death-in-life of Wall Street. Perhaps had I been born to a European aristocracy and seen my father and brother in pink coats riding to hounds on a crystal-clear morning, or passing the port around the dining room table while their waiting wives yawned in the drawing room, I might have imagined diversions in a male future. But I could never believe that Father and his fellow officers at the Gallatin Bank really enjoyed themselvesâthey talked too much about how hard they toiled. It seemed to me that all the fun in life had been left to the wives. When I went in to say good morning to Mother on my way to school, her immunity from the dull routine inflicted on men was emphasized by her still being in bed, with the breakfast tray before her, letters and papers and magazines strewn about, the cook receiving the dayâs order, perhaps even her secretary writing on her pad, for all the world like Ruth Draperâs monologue of the society lady in âThe Italian Lesson.â And I had a vision of a morning in the back of her green Rolls-Royce, transported from shop to shop to look at beautiful things, with lunch at the Colony Club, or, better still, a French restaurant, an afternoon at a matinee and then home to dress at leisure for a stylish dinner party. Or, if it was a âworking day,â I saw her at the head of a boardroom table, in a comfortable armchair, receiving reports from a respectful staff about the running of a nursing school or settlement house, and leaving, after some perfunctory votes were taken, with a benign sense of duty well done. I would be envious of my sister, knowing that, when she had completed her dozen years at Miss Chapinâs School, she, too, would be eligible for this female existence of multiple delights.
But did these privileged souls ever acknowledge their privileges? Never! That was part of the game. Just as men always emphasized the grimness of their labor (though this, to some extent, may have been true), so did the ladies of the Book Class invariably maintain that they had never a free minute to themselves, that they were expected to be the slaves of their households and offspring, that in entertaining they were constantly encumbered with a required guest list of their husbandsâ business associates and that vacation resorts were selected for reasons of golf alone. They did not feel sorry for themselvesâthat was not their noteâbut they did want it known, perhaps in anticipation of the doubt in such an observer as myself, that this life was not all beer and skittles.
What did they look like? Of course, they were all approaching middle age when I first started to observe them critically, but I cannot say that, despite a considerable financial outlay on clothes, they did much to resist its onset. Leila Lee told me once that, at fifty, she was the only member of the group that still remembered she was a woman. Had I been able to mold them into a single female, I think she would have been tall, a bit bony, brown-faced, quick-striding, abrupt and of assertive manners, but always polite to inferiors (those, anyway, who werenât âuppityâ), rapid of speech, capable of hearty laughter, and wearing rather bigger jewels than might have been expected. A vulgar observer might have been tempted to use the term âhorsy,â but it would have been exaggerated.
Their marriages, on the whole, were known as âhappy,â but it had never been their principle that a man should be snared by lures or that, once secured, he should be retained by any sacrifice of candor or normal deportment. It was a manâs duty, if he married at all, to marry within his social sphere, and what was that but the Book Class? One waited; a suitor came. It was the nature of things. And once he had taken the fatal step, well, he had to stick, that was all. Society ordained it. It would be degrading, would it not, for a respectable matron, the mother of a family, to slather her lips with rouge, her cheeks with powder, and swing her hips to induce a man to keep a vow he had already made to God? Of course, there were men who walked out in spite of everything, and others who âmade their wives unhappy,â the accepted euphemism for adultery, but there was only one divorce among the dozen members of the Class.
As parents, they wereâhow shall I put itâmore human? They gave in here, anyway, to the possessive urge. I think they would all have agreed that a womanâs first duty was to her babes. The most loving wife among them was certainly Mylo Jessup, yet Mother used to quote even her as saying, when it was learned that Franklin Roosevelt had been stricken with polio, âHow glad Eleanor must have been it wasnât one of her children!â And this sacred obligation to the issue of oneâs womb was stretched to embrace grandchildren. I have only to reflect on my own past jealousy of small nephews and nieces to gauge the extent of Motherâs concern for them.
Of their âpublic lives,â their relation to society in the small as well as the larger sense, I shall have enough to say later, but I should like now to consider them in action, and how better can I do this than show them at one of their book lunches? I reach into the past for a sample, and the one that jumps to mind is at Motherâs on a winter day in Seventieth Street, some time in the mid-nineteen thirties. The book to be discussed is The Scarlet Letterâfor only in later years did they confine themselves to current produceâand I, home as usual from Chelton School with bronchitis or asthma or even a heart palpitation, am watching covertly from behind the screen before the pantry door, to the amusement of the two waitresses. Our butler, George, who would never have permitted me to eavesdrop, has been temporarily relieved of his duties on Motherâs theory that a male presence might clog her guestsâ ease if a âsexualâ topic were to arise.
The ladies have gathered promptly at half-past twelve in the parlor for sherry or tomato juice, and by a quarter to one they are all seated in the dining room. It is agreed, in deference to afternoons presumably crowded, that they will be out by two-thirty. The book will not be discussed until the second course. Soup is for a social âcatching up,â and the sound, to me behind the screen, comes like a roar. The ladies all talk at once, yet all hear everything that is said. If there is any significant difference between the sexes, it may be that a woman can talk as she listens, while a man hears only himself.
And now, the soup plates removed, a soufflĂ© is served, amid cries of âOh, Cornelia, one eats too well here!â Hawthorneâs masterpiece is introduced by the chairman, Justine Bannard, whose job it has been to âbone up.â A few dates and facts are given, and they are off. The voices come to me from across the decades.
I hear Polly Travers, the âpoliticianâ of the group. She was born a Wadsworth, of the great upstate landowning family, and she has enjoyed a term in the Assembly in Albany.
âIâm afraid I must confess, Justine, I couldnât get through the book. It may be the penalty of living in such troubled times. When I think of just one dayâs mail! The countless appeals I have to write to this or that committee of the legislature! I found myself actually envying dear old Hawthorne, who could hole up in Salem and write beautiful prose about a woman taken in adultery. If that was all one had to face in a dayâs work!â
Even behind the screen I can feel the reaction. The Book Class is fatigued by Pollyâs superior airs, and I wait for Mother to invoke the crushing shade of a father who had been Ambassador to England.
âI donât feel that the classics are all that remote, Polly. I think they have a relevance, even in troubled times. I know that when my father was en poste in London during one of the Moroccan crises, he used to read a chapter of Emma every night before going to sleep. He maintained that Jane Austen restored his sense of proportion.â
âAnd I suggest itâs an open question if Hawthorne is remote.â This is the voice of Georgia Bristed, renowned for her âsalonâ of journalists and politicians. Like Polly Travers, she is also guilty of condescension. But arenât they all? Doesnât any group with a shared childhood meet for the primary purpose of showing off how much further each has progressed than the others? âWasnât there a good deal about the Puritans in the Bay Colony to make us think of Germany today? I had the good fortune of getting Dr. Frankel to address a group in my house the other night. He spoke of the horrors of the prison camps. I know people say these are very much exaggerated, but if one tenth of what Frankel told us is true, itâs an abomination! For example, he told us that the mayor of his village, who had shown sympathy to a Jewish family, was taken out to...â
âOh, please!â cries Leila Lee. âI canât bear atrocities. Didnât we agree to that, Madame Chairman? No atrocities?â
âThatâs right, no atrocities, Georgia,â Justine Bannard rules, no doubt with a smile.
âAll right, all right, if you want to be ostriches!â
âBut I think Georgia has a point.â I recognize the soft voice of Mylo Jessup, my favorite of the group. âI wonder if we shouldnât discipline ourselves to a certain minimum of horror stories. On Kiplingâs theory: âLest we forget, lest we forget.â We wouldnât want to overdo it, of course. That might be morbid. But shouldnât we dedicate at least one meeting a year to the violation of basic human rights?â
Leila again: âWell, thatâs fine. Let me know in advance so that I can be sure to skip it. But to get back to The Scarlet Letter, have any of you stopped to consider what a ridiculous plot it has? Hester Prynne is married off as a child to an elderly cripple for whom she hasnât a grain of affection. They go to the New World, where he is captured and presumably slaughtered by Indians. Two years later, living alone, without friends or family, she is seduced by a handsome young clergyman, with whom half the women of the town are in love. And for this she is made to stand in the pillory and be ostracized for life! Think, girls, of the city we live in today! I mean, can anyone possibly take seriously a book that tells how a girl is tormented for doingâletâs face itâwhat half the people one knows are doing?â
If, a few minutes before, I could feel the resentment against the State Assemblywoman through the screen, the feeling evoked by Leilaâs comments almost blows it down. The group will not give her the satisfaction of a rebuttalâthe smallest comment might be construed as evidence that her fancied pre-eminence in the sexual game has even been noticed. She must simply be put down. The chairman now handles this. Justine turns Leilaâs point with a scholarly argument. âI went to the Society Library to look up the question of just what did happen to convicted adulterers in the Bay Colony. I found my answer in John Winthropâs own journal. He records, in the most matter-of-fact fashion, how he sat on a court that condemned a man and woman to be hanged under just thes...