The _fin-de-siecle_ woman is literary in one sense, if not in another, for if she may not wield her pen, she can keep in touch with the leading thinkers of the day, and she will prove as pleasant a companion during the long winter evenings as the woman whose husband chose her for beauty and taste in dress.

The literary woman is not slipshod in her apparel, and she may, if she chooses, be a society and club woman as well. Surely there is nothing in literary culture which shall prevent neatness and propriety in dress as well as in conduct.

The devoted admirer of Browning is not liable to quote him in a promiscuous company and though a lady may be familiar with Shakespeare, it does not follow that she will discuss _Hamlet_ in social gatherings.

If she reads Greek as readily as she does her mother tongue, you may rest a.s.sured she will not mention Homer in ordinary conversation, for a cultivated woman readily recognises the fitness of things, and accords a due deference to the tastes of others. She has her club and her friends, as do the gentlemen of her acquaintance, but her children are not neglected from the fact that she sometimes thinks of other things. She is a helpmeet to her husband, and not a plaything, or a slave. If duty calls her to the kitchen, she goes cheerfully, and, moreover, the cook will not dread to see her coming; or if that important person be absent, the table will be supplied with just as good bread, and just as delicate pastry, as if the lady of the house did not understand the chemicals of their composition.

If trouble comes, she bears it bravely, for the cultured woman has a philosophy which is equal to any emergency, and she does the best she can on all occasions.

If her husband leaves her penniless, she will, if possible, clothe her children with her pen, but if her literary wares are a drug on the market, she will turn bravely to other fields, and find her daily bread made sweet by thankfulness. She does not hesitate to hold out her hands to help a fellow-creature, either man or woman, for she is in all things womanly--a wife to her husband and a mother to her children in the truest sense of the words.

Her knowledge of the cla.s.sics does not interfere with the making of dainty draperies for her home, and though she may be appointed to read a paper before her club on some scholarly theme, she will listen just as patiently to tales of trouble from childish lips, and will tie up little cut fingers just as sympathetically as her neighbour who folds her arms and who broadly hints that "wimmen's spear is to hum!"

Whether the literary woman be robed in silk and sealskin, or whether she rejoices in the possession of only one best gown, she may, nevertheless, be contented and happy.

Whether she lives in a modest cottage, or in a fashionable home, she may be the same sweet woman, with cheerful face and pleasant voice--with a broad human sympathy which makes her whole life glad.

Be she princess, or Cinderella, she may be still her husband's confidant and cherished friend, to whom he may confide his business troubles and perplexities, certain always of her tender consolation and ready sympathy. She may be quick and versatile, doing well whatever she does at all, for her creed declares that "whatever is honest is honourable."

She glories in her womanhood and has no sympathy with anything which tends to degrade it.

All hail to the woman of the twentieth century; let _fin de siecle_ stand for all that is best and n.o.blest in womanhood: for liberty, equality, and fraternity; for right, truth, and justice.

All hail the widespread movement for the higher education of woman, for in intellectual development is the future of posterity, in study is happiness, through the open door of the college is the key of a truer womanhood, a broader humanity, and a brighter hope. In education along the lines of the broadest and wisest culture is to be found the emanc.i.p.ation of the race.

The Moon Maiden

There's a wondrous land of misty gold Beyond the sunset's bars.

There's a silver boat on a sea of blue, And the tips of its waves are stars.

And idly rocking to and fro, Her cloud robes floating by, There's a maiden fair, with sunny hair, The queen of the dreamy sky.

Her Son's Wife

The venerable mother-in-law joke appears in the comic papers with astonishing regularity. For a time, perhaps, it may seem to be lost in the mists of oblivion, but even while one is rejoicing at its absence it returns to claim its original position at the head of the procession.

There are two sides to everything, even to an old joke, and the artist always pictures the man's dismay when his wife's mother comes for a visit. n.o.body ever sees a drawing of a woman's mother-in-law, and yet, the bitterness and sadness lie mainly there--between the mother and the woman his son has chosen for his wife.

It is a pleasure to believe that the average man is a gentleman, and his inborn respect for his own mother, if nothing else, will usually compel an outward show of politeness to every woman, even though she may be a constant source of irritation. Grey hair has its own claims upon a young man's deference, and, in the business world, he is obliged to learn to hold his tongue, hide his temper, and "a.s.sume a virtue though he has it not."

The mother's welcome from her daughter's husband depends much upon herself. Her long years of marriage have been in vain if they have not taught her to watch a man's moods and tenses; when to speak and when to be silent, and how to avoid useless discussion of subjects on which there is a p.r.o.nounced difference of opinion. Leaving out the personal equation, the older and more experienced woman is better fitted to get along peaceably with a man than the young girl who has her wisdom yet to acquire.

Moreover, it is to the daughter's interest to cement a friendship between her mother and her husband, and so she stands as a shield between the two she holds dearest, to exercise whatever tact she may possess toward an harmonious end.

"A son's a son till he gets him a wife, But a daughter's a daughter all the days of her life."

Thus the old saying runs, and there is a measure of truth in it, more's the pity. Marriage and a home of her own interfere but little with a daughter's devotion to her mother, even though the daily companionship be materially lessened. The feeling is there and remains unchanged, unless it grows stronger through the new interests on both sides.

If a man has won his wife in spite of her mother's opposition, he can well afford to be gracious and forget the ancient grudge. It is his part, too, to prove to the mother how far she was mistaken, by making the girl who trusted him the happiest wife in the world. The woman who sees her daughter happy will have little against her son-in-law, except that primitive, tribal instinct which survives in most of us, and jealously guards those of our own blood from the aggression of another family or individual.

One may as well admit that a good husband is a very scarce article, and that the mother's anxiety for her daughter is well-founded. No man can escape the sensation of being forever on trial in the eyes of his wife's mother, and woe to him if he makes a mistake or falters in his duty! Things which a woman would gladly condone in her husband are unpardonable sins in the man who has married her daughter, and taken her from a mother's loving care.

A good husband and a good man are not necessarily the same thing. Many a scapegrace has been dearly loved by his wife, and many a highly respected man has been secretly despised by his wife and children.

When the prison doors open to discharge the sinners who have served long sentences, the wives of those who have been good husbands are waiting for them with open arms. The others have long since taken advantage of the divorce laws.

Since women know women so well, perhaps it is only natural for a mother to feel that no girl who is good enough for her son ever has been born. All the small deceits, the little schemes and frailties, are as an open book in the eyes of other women.

"If you were a man," said one girl to another, "and knew women as well as you do now, whom would you marry?"

The other girl thought for a moment, and then answered unhesitatingly: "I'd stay single."

Women are always suspicious of each other, and the one who can deceive another woman is ent.i.tled to her laurels for cleverness. With the keen insight and quick intuition of the woman on either side of him, when these women are violently opposed to each other, no man need look for peace.

In spite of their discernment, women are sadly deficient in a.n.a.lysis when it comes to a question of self. Neither wife nor mother can clearly see her relation to the man they both love. Blinded by pa.s.sionate devotion and eager for power, both women lose sight of the truth, and torment themselves and each other with unfounded jealousy and distrust.

In no sense are wife and mother rivals, nor can they ever be so.

Neither could take the place of the other for a single instant, and the wife foolishly guards the point where there is no danger, for, of all the women in the world, his mother and sisters are the only ones who could never by any possibility usurp her place.

A woman need only ask herself if she would like to be the mother of her husband--to exchange the love which she now has for filial affection--for a temporary clearness of her troubled skies. The mother need only ask herself if she would surrender her position for the privilege of being her son's wife, if she seeks for light on her dark path.

Yet, in spite of this, the two are often open and acknowledged rivals.

A woman recently wrote to the "etiquette department" of a daily paper to know whether she or her son's fiancee should make the first call.

In answering the question, the head of the department, who, by the way, has something of a reputation for good sense, wrote as follows: "It is your place to make the first call, and you have my sympathy in your difficult task. You must be brave, for you are going to look into the eyes of a woman whom your son loves better than he does you!"

"Better than he does you!" That is where all the trouble lies, for each wishes to be first in a relation where no comparison is possible.

When an American yacht first won the cup, Queen Victoria was watching the race. When she was told that the _America_ was in the lead, she asked what boat was second. "Your Majesty," replied the naval officer sadly, "there is no second!"

So, between wife and mother there is no second place, and it is possible for each to own the whole of the loved one's heart, without infringing or even touching upon the rights of the other.

Few of the pa.s.sengers on a lake steamer, during a trip in northern waters a few years since, will ever forget a certain striking group.

Mother and son, and the son's fiancee, were off for a week's vacation.

The mother was tall and stately, with snow-white hair and a hard face deeply seamed with wrinkles, and with the fire of southern countries burning in her faded blue eyes. The son was merely a nice boy, with a pleasant face, and the girl, though not pretty, had a fresh look about her which was very attractive.

She wore an engagement ring, so he must have cared for her, but otherwise no one would have suspected it. From beginning to end, his attention was centred upon his mother. He carried his mother's wraps, but the girl carried her own. He talked to the mother, and the girl could speak or not, just as she chose. Never for an instant were the two alone together. They sat on the deck until late at night, with the mother between them. When they changed, the son took his own chair and his mother's, while the girl dragged hers behind them. At the end of their table in the cabin, the mother sat between them at the head.

Once, purely by accident, the girl slipped into the nearest chair, which happened to be the mother's, and the deadly silence could be felt even two tables away. The girl turned pale, then the son said: "You'll take the head of the table, won't you, mother?"

The steely tone of her voice could be heard by every one as she said, "No!"

The girl ate little, and soon excused herself to go to her stateroom, but the next day things were as before, and the foolish old mother had her place next to her son.