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Title: In Defense of Women

Author: H. L. Mencken

Release date: April 1, 1998 [eBook #1270]
Most recently updated: October 29, 2024

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1270

Credits: Joseph Gallanar and David Widger

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN DEFENSE OF
WOMEN ***

IN DEFENSE OF WOMEN

by H. L. Mencken

CONTENTS

Introduction

I. The Feminine Mind
1. The Maternal Instinct
2. Women’s Intelligence
3. The Masculine Bag of Tricks
4. Why Women Fail
5. The Thing Called Intuition

II. The War Between the Sexes
6. How Marriages are Arranged
7. The Feminine Attitude
8. The Male Beauty
9. Men as Aesthetes
10. The Process of Delusion
11. Biological Considerations
12. Honour
13. Women and the Emotions
14. Pseudo-Anaesthesia
15. Mythical Anthropophagi
16. A Conspiracy of Silence

III. Marriage
17. Fundamental Motives
18. The Process of Courtship

19. The Actual Husband
20. The Unattainable Ideal
21. The Effect on the Race
22. Compulsory Marriage
23. Extra-Legal Devices
24. Intermezzo on Monogamy
25. Late Marriages
26. Disparate Unions
27. The Charm of Mystery
28. Woman as Wife
29. Marriage and the Law
30. The Emancipated Housewife

IV. Woman Suffrage
31. The Crowning Victory
32. The Woman Voter
33. A Glance Into the Future
34. The Suffragette
35. A Mythical Dare-Devil
36. The Origin of a Delusion
37. Women as Martyrs
38. Pathological Effects
39. Women as Christians
40. Piety as a Social Habit
41. The Ethics of Women

V. The New Age
42. The Transvaluation of Values
43. The Lady of Joy
44. The Future of Marriage
45. Effects of the War
46. The Eternal Romance

47. Apologia in Conclusion

Introduction

As a professional critic of life and letters, my principal business in the
world is that of manufacturing platitudes for tomorrow, which is to say,
ideas so novel that they will be instantly rejected as insane and outrageous
by all right thinking men, and so apposite and sound that they will
eventually conquer that instinctive opposition, and force themselves into the
traditional wisdom of the race. I hope I need not confess that a large part of
my stock in trade consists of platitudes rescued from the cobwebbed shelves
of yesterday, with new labels stuck rakishly upon them. This borrowing and
refurbishing of shop-worn goods, as a matter of fact, is the invariable habit
of traders in ideas, at all times and everywhere. It is not, however, that all
the conceivable human notions have been thought out; it is simply, to be
quite honest, that the sort of men who volunteer to think out new ones
seldom, if ever, have wind enough for a full day’s work. The most they can
ever accomplish in the way of genuine originality is an occasional brilliant
spurt, and half a dozen such spurts, particularly if they come close together
and show a certain co-ordination, are enough to make a practitioner
celebrated, and even immortal. Nature, indeed, conspires against all such
genuine originality, and I have no doubt that God is against it on His
heavenly throne, as His vicars and partisans unquestionably are on this
earth. The dead hand pushes all of us into intellectual cages; there is in all
of us a strange tendency to yield and have done. Thus the impertinent
colleague of Aristotle is doubly beset, first by a public opinion that regards
his enterprise as subversive and in bad taste, and secondly by an inner
weakness that limits his capacity for it, and especially his capacity to throw
off the prejudices and superstitions of his race, culture anytime. The cell,
said Haeckel, does not act, it reacts—and what is the instrument of
reflection and speculation save a congeries of cells? At the moment of the
contemporary metaphysician’s loftiest flight, when he is most gratefully
warmed by the feeling that he is far above all the ordinary airlanes and has

absolutely novel concept by the tail, he is suddenly pulled up by the
discovery that what is entertaining him is simply the ghost of some ancient
idea that his school-master forced into him in 1887, or the mouldering
corpse of a doctrine that was made official in his country during the late
war, or a sort of fermentation-product, to mix the figure, of a banal heresy
launched upon him recently by his wife. This is the penalty that the man of
intellectual curiosity and vanity pays for his violation of the divine edict
that what has been revealed from Sinai shall suffice for him, and for his
resistance to the natural process which seeks to reduce him to the
respectable level of a patriot and taxpayer.
I was, of course, privy to this difficulty when I planned the present work,
and entered upon it with no expectation that I should be able to embellish it
with, almost, more than a very small number of hitherto unutilized notions.
Moreover, I faced the additional handicap of having an audience of
extraordinary antipathy to ideas before me, for I wrote it in war-time, with
all foreign markets cut off, and so my only possible customers were
Americans. Of their unprecedented dislike for novelty in the domain of the
intellect I have often discoursed in the past, and so there is no need to go
into the matter again. All I need do here is to recall the fact that, in the
United States, alone among the great nations of history, there is a right way
to think and a wrong way to think in everything—not only in theology, or
politics, or economics, but in the most trivial matters of everyday life. Thus,
in the average American city the citizen who, in the face of an organized
public clamour (usually managed by interested parties) for the erection of
an equestrian statue of Susan B. Anthony, the apostle of woman suffrage, in
front of the chief railway station, or the purchase of a dozen leopards for the
municipal zoo, or the dispatch of an invitation to the Structural Iron
Workers’ Union to hold its next annual convention in the town Symphony
Hall—the citizen who, for any logical reason, opposes such a proposal—on
the ground, say, that Miss Anthony never mounted a horse in her life, or that
a dozen leopards would be less useful than a gallows to hang the City
Council, or that the Structural Iron Workers would spit all over the floor of
Symphony Hall and knock down the busts of Bach, Beethoven and Brahms
—this citizen is commonly denounced as an anarchist and a public enemy.
It is not only erroneous to think thus; it has come to be immoral. And many
other planes, high and low. For an American to question any of the articles
of fundamental faith cherished by the majority is for him to run grave risks

of social disaster. The old English offence of “imagining the King’s death”
has been formally revived by the American courts, and hundreds of men
and women are in jail for committing it, and it has been so enormously
extended that, in some parts of the country at least, it now embraces such
remote acts as believing that the negroes should have equality before the
law, and speaking the language of countries recently at war with the
Republic, and conveying to a private friend a formula for making synthetic
gin. All such toyings with illicit ideas are construed as attentats against
democracy, which, in a sense, perhaps they are. For democracy is grounded
upon so childish a complex of fallacies that they must be protected by a
rigid system of taboos, else even half-wits would argue it to pieces. Its first
concern must thus be to penalize the free play of ideas. In the United States
this is not only its first concern, but also its last concern. No other
enterprise, not even the trade in public offices and contracts, occupies the
rulers of the land so steadily, or makes heavier demands upon their
ingenuity and their patriotic passion.
Familiar with the risks flowing out of it—and having just had to change
the plates of my “Book of Prefaces,” a book of purely literary criticism,
wholly without political purpose or significance, in order to get it through
the mails, I determined to make this brochure upon the woman question
extremely pianissimo in tone, and to avoid burdening it with any ideas of an
unfamiliar, and hence illegal nature. So deciding, I presently added a
bravura touch: the unquenchable vanity of the intellectual snob asserting
itself over all prudence. That is to say, I laid down the rule that no idea
should go into the book that was not already so obvious that it had been
embodied in the proverbial philosophy, or folk-wisdom, of some civilized
nation, including the Chinese. To this rule I remained faithful throughout. In
its original form, as published in 1918, the book was actually just such a
pastiche of proverbs, many of them English, and hence familiar even to
Congressmen, newspaper editors and other such illiterates. It was not
always easy to hold to this program; over and over again I was tempted to
insert notions that seemed to have escaped the peasants of Europe and Asia.
But in the end, at some cost to the form of the work, I managed to get
through it without compromise, and so it was put into type. There is no need
to add that my ideational abstinence went unrecognized and unrewarded. In
fact, not a single American reviewer noticed it, and most of them slated the
book violently as a mass of heresies and contumacies, a deliberate attack

upon all the known and revered truths about the woman question, a
headlong assault upon the national decencies. In the South, where the
suspicion of ideas goes to extraordinary lengths, even for the United States,
some of the newspapers actually denounced the book as German
propaganda, designed to break down American morale, and called upon the
Department of Justice to proceed against me for the crime known to
American law as “criminal anarchy,” i.e., “imagining the King’s death.”
Why the Comstocks did not forbid it the mails as lewd and lascivious I have
never been able to determine. Certainly, they received many complaints
about it. I myself, in fact, caused a number of these complaints to be
lodged, in the hope that the resultant buffooneries would give me
entertainment in those dull days of war, with all intellectual activities
adjourned, and maybe promote the sale of the book. But the Comstocks
were pursuing larger fish, and so left me to the righteous indignation of
right-thinking reviewers, especially the suffragists. Their concern, after all,
is not with books that are denounced; what they concentrate their moral
passion on is the book that is praised.
The present edition is addressed to a wider audience, in more civilized
countries, and so I have felt free to introduce a number of propositions, not
to be found in popular proverbs, that had to be omitted from the original
edition. But even so, the book by no means pretends to preach revolutionary
doctrines, or even doctrines of any novelty. All I design by it is to set down
in more or less plain form certain ideas that practically every civilized man
and woman holds in petto, but that have been concealed hitherto by the vast
mass of sentimentalities swathing the whole woman question. It is a
question of capital importance to all human beings, and it deserves to be
discussed honestly and frankly, but there is so much of social reticence, of
religious superstition and of mere emotion intermingled with it that most of
the enormous literature it has thrown off is hollow and useless. I point for
example, to the literature of the subsidiary question of woman suffrage. It
fills whole libraries, but nine tenths of it is merely rubbish, for it starts off
from assumptions that are obviously untrue and it reaches conclusions that
are at war with both logic and the facts. So with the question of sex
specifically. I have read, literally, hundreds of volumes upon it, and
uncountable numbers of pamphlets, handbills and inflammatory wall-cards,
and yet it leaves the primary problem unsolved, which is to say, the problem
as to what is to be done about the conflict between the celibacy enforced

upon millions by civilization and the appetites implanted in all by God. In
the main, it counsels yielding to celibacy, which is exactly as sensible as
advising a dog to forget its fleas. Here, as in other fields, I do not presume
to offer a remedy of my own. In truth, I am very suspicious of all remedies
for the major ills of life, and believe that most of them are incurable. But I
at least venture to discuss the matter realistically, and if what I have to say
is not sagacious, it is at all events not evasive. This, I hope, is something.
Maybe some later investigator will bring a better illumination to the subject.
It is the custom of The Free-Lance Series to print a paragraph or two
about the author in each volume. I was born in Baltimore, September 12,
1880, and come of a learned family, though my immediate forebears were
business men. The tradition of this ancient learning has been upon me since
my earliest days, and I narrowly escaped becoming a doctor of philosophy.
My father’s death, in 1899, somehow dropped me into journalism, where I
had a successful career, as such careers go. At the age of 25 I was the chief
editor of a daily newspaper in Baltimore. During the same year I published
my first book of criticism. Thereafter, for ten or twelve years, I moved
steadily from practical journalism, with its dabbles in politics, economics
and soon, toward purely aesthetic concerns, chiefly literature and music, but
of late I have felt a strong pull in the other direction, and what interests me
chiefly today is what may be called public psychology, ie., the nature of the
ideas that the larger masses of men hold, and the processes whereby they
reach them. If I do any serious writing hereafter, it will be in that field. In
the United States I am commonly held suspect as a foreigner, and during the
war I was variously denounced. Abroad, especially in England, I am
sometimes put to the torture for my intolerable Americanism. The two
views are less far apart than they seem to be. The fact is that I am
superficially so American, in ways of speech and thought, that the foreigner
is deceived, whereas the native, more familiar with the true signs, sees that
under the surface there is incurable antagonism to most of the ideas that
Americans hold to be sound. Thus I fall between two stools—but it is more
comfortable there on the floor than sitting up tightly. I am wholly devoid of
public spirit or moral purpose. This is incomprehensible to many men, and
they seek to remedy the defect by crediting me with purposes of their own.
The only thing I respect is intellectual honesty, of which, of course,
intellectual courage is a necessary part. A Socialist who goes to jail for his
opinions seems to me a much finer man than the judge who sends him

there, though I disagree with all the ideas of the Socialist and agree with
some of those of the judge. But though he is fine, the Socialist is
nevertheless foolish, for he suffers for what is untrue. If I knew what was
true, I’d probably be willing to sweat and strive for it, and maybe even to
die for it to the tune of bugle-blasts. But so far I have not found it.
H. L. Mencken

I. The Feminine Mind

1. The Maternal Instinct

A man’s women folk, whatever their outward show of respect for his
merit and authority, always regard him secretly as an ass, and with
something akin to pity. His most gaudy sayings and doings seldom deceive
them; they see the actual man within, and know him for a shallow and
pathetic fellow. In this fact, perhaps, lies one of the best proofs of feminine
intelligence, or, as the common phrase makes it, feminine intuition. The
mark of that so-called intuition is simply a sharp and accurate perception of
reality, an habitual immunity to emotional enchantment, a relentless
capacity for distinguishing clearly between the appearance and the
substance. The appearance, in the normal family circle, is a hero, magnifico,
a demigod. The substance is a poor mountebank.
The proverb that no man is a hero to his valet is obviously of masculine
manufacture. It is both insincere and untrue: insincere because it merely
masks the egotistic doctrine that he is potentially a hero to everyone else,
and untrue because a valet, being a fourth-rate man himself, is likely to be
the last person in the world to penetrate his master’s charlatanry. Who ever
heard of valet who didn’t envy his master wholeheartedly? who wouldn’t
willingly change places with his master? who didn’t secretly wish that he
was his master? A man’s wife labours under no such naive folly. She may
envy her husband, true enough, certain of his more soothing prerogatives
and sentimentalities. She may envy him his masculine liberty of movement
and occupation, his impenetrable complacency, his peasant-like delight in
petty vices, his capacity for hiding the harsh face of reality behind the cloak
of romanticism, his general innocence and childishness. But she never
envies him his puerile ego; she never envies him his shoddy and
preposterous soul.
This shrewd perception of masculine bombast and make-believe, this
acute understanding of man as the eternal tragic comedian, is at the bottom
of that compassionate irony which paces under the name of the maternal

instinct. A woman wishes to mother a man simply because she sees into his
helplessness, his need of an amiable environment, his touching self
delusion. That ironical note is not only daily apparent in real life; it sets the
whole tone of feminine fiction. The woman novelist, if she be skillful
enough to arise out of mere imitation into genuine self-expression, never
takes her heroes quite seriously. From the day of George Sand to the day of
Selma Lagerlof she has always got into her character study a touch of
superior aloofness, of ill-concealed derision. I can’t recall a single
masculine figure created by a woman who is not, at bottom, a booby.

2. Women’s Intelligence

That it should still be necessary, at this late stage in the senility of the
human race to argue that women have a fine and fluent intelligence is surely
an eloquent proof of the defective observation, incurable prejudice, and
general imbecility of their lords and masters. One finds very few professors
of the subject, even among admitted feminists, approaching the fact as
obvious; practically all of them think it necessary to bring up a vast mass of
evidence to establish what should be an axiom. Even the Franco
Englishman, W. L. George, one of the most sharp-witted of the faculty,
wastes a whole book up on the demonstration, and then, with a great air of
uttering something new, gives it the humourless title of “The Intelligence of
Women.” The intelligence of women, forsooth! As well devote a laborious
time to the sagacity of serpents, pickpockets, or Holy Church!
Women, in truth, are not only intelligent; they have almost a monopoly of
certain of the subtler and more utile forms of intelligence. The thing itself,
indeed, might be reasonably described as a special feminine character; there
is in it, in more than one of its manifestations, a femaleness as palpable as
the femaleness of cruelty, masochism or rouge. Men are strong. Men are
brave in physical combat. Men have sentiment. Men are romantic, and love
what they conceive to be virtue and beauty. Men incline to faith, hope and
charity. Men know how to sweat and endure. Men are amiable and fond.
But in so far as they show the true fundamentals of intelligence—in so far
as they reveal a capacity for discovering the kernel of eternal verity in the
husk of delusion and hallucination and a passion for bringing it forth—to
that extent, at least, they are feminine, and still nourished by the milk of
their mothers. “Human creatures,” says George, borrowing from Weininger,
“are never entirely male or entirely female; there are no men, there are no
women, but only sexual majorities.” Find me an obviously intelligent man,
a man free from sentimentality and illusion, a man hard to deceive, a man
of the first class, and I’ll show you a man with a wide streak of woman in

him. Bonaparte had it; Goethe had it; Schopenhauer had it; Bismarck and
Lincoln had it; in Shakespeare, if the Freudians are to be believed, it
amounted to downright homosexuality. The essential traits and qualities of
the male, the hallmarks of the unpolluted masculine, are at the same time
the hall-marks of the Schalskopf. The caveman is all muscles and mush.
Without a woman to rule him and think for him, he is a truly lamentable
spectacle: a baby with whiskers, a rabbit with the frame of an aurochs, a
feeble and preposterous caricature of God.
It would be an easy matter, indeed, to demonstrate that superior talent in
man is practically always accompanied by this feminine flavour—that
complete masculinity and stupidity are often indistinguishable. Lest I be
misunderstood I hasten to add that I do not mean to say that masculinity
contributes nothing to the complex of chemico-physiological reactions
which produces what we call talent; all I mean to say is that this complex is
impossible without the feminine contribution that it is a product of the
interplay of the two elements. In women of genius we see the opposite
picture. They are commonly distinctly mannish, and shave as well as shine.
Think of George Sand, Catherine the Great, Elizabeth of England, Rosa
Bonheur, Teresa Carreo or Cosima Wagner. The truth is that neither sex,
without some fertilization by the complementary characters of the other, is
capable of the highest reaches of human endeavour. Man, without a saving
touch of woman in him, is too doltish, too naive and romantic, too easily
deluded and lulled to sleep by his imagination to be anything above a
cavalryman, a theologian or a bank director. And woman, without some
trace of that divine innocence which is masculine, is too harshly the realist
for those vast projections of the fancy which lie at the heart of what we call
genius. Here, as elsewhere in the universe, the best effects are obtained by a
mingling of elements. The wholly manly man lacks the wit necessary to
give objective form to his soaring and secret dreams, and the wholly
womanly woman is apt to be too cynical a creature to dream at all.

3. The Masculine Bag of Tricks

What men, in their egoism, constantly mistake for a deficiency of
intelligence in woman is merely an incapacity for mastering that mass of
small intellectual tricks, that complex of petty knowledges, that collection
of cerebral rubber stamps, which constitutes the chief mental equipment of
the average male. A man thinks that he is more intelligent than his wife
because he can add up a column of figures more accurately, and because he
understands the imbecile jargon of the stock market, and because he is able
to distinguish between the ideas of rival politicians, and because he is privy
to the minutiae of some sordid and degrading business or profession, say
soap-selling or the law. But these empty talents, of course, are not really
signs of a profound intelligence; they are, in fact, merely superficial
accomplishments, and their acquirement puts little more strain on the
mental powers than a chimpanzee suffers in learning how to catch a penny
or scratch a match. The whole bag of tricks of the average business man, or
even of the average professional man, is inordinately childish. It takes no
more actual sagacity to carry on the everyday hawking and haggling of the
world, or to ladle out its normal doses of bad medicine and worse law, than
it takes to operate a taxicab or fry a pan of fish. No observant person,
indeed, can come into close contact with the general run of business and
professional men—I confine myself to those who seem to get on in the
world, and exclude the admitted failures—without marvelling at their
intellectual lethargy, their incurable ingenuousness, their appalling lack of
ordinary sense. The late Charles Francis Adams, a grandson of one
American President and a great-grandson of another, after a long lifetime in
intimate association with some of the chief business “geniuses” of that
paradise of traders and usurers, the United States, reported in his old age
that he had never heard a single one of them say anything worth hearing.
These were vigorous and masculine men, and in a man’s world they were
successful men, but intellectually they were all blank cartridges.

There is, indeed, fair ground for arguing that, if men of that kidney were
genuinely intelligent, they would never succeed at their gross and driveling
concerns—that their very capacity to master and retain such balderdash as
constitutes their stock in trade is proof of their inferior mentality. The
notion is certainly supported by the familiar incompetency of first rate men
for what are called practical concerns. One could not think of Aristotle or
Beethoven multiplying 3,472,701 by 99,999 without making a mistake, nor
could one think of him remembering the range of this or that railway share
for two years, or the number of ten-penny nails in a hundred weight, or the
freight on lard from Galveston to Rotterdam. And by the same token one
could not imagine him expert at billiards, or at grouse-shooting, or at golf,
or at any other of the idiotic games at which what are called successful men
commonly divert themselves. In his great study of British genius, Havelock
Ellis found that an incapacity for such petty expertness was visible in
almost all first rate men. They are bad at tying cravats. They do not
understand the fashionable card games. They are puzzled by book-keeping.
They know nothing of party politics. In brief, they are inert and impotent in
the very fields of endeavour that see the average men’s highest
performances, and are easily surpassed by men who, in actual intelligence,
are about as far below them as the Simidae.
This lack of skill at manual and mental tricks of a trivial character—
which must inevitably appear to a barber or a dentist as stupidity, and to a
successful haberdasher as downright imbecility—is a character that men of
the first class share with women of the first, second and even third classes.
There is at the bottom of it, in truth, something unmistakably feminine; its
appearance in a man is almost invariably accompanied by the other touch of
femaleness that I have described. Nothing, indeed, could be plainer than the
fact that women, as a class, are sadly deficient in the small expertness of
men as a class. One seldom, if ever, hears of them succeeding in the
occupations which bring out such expertness most lavishly—for example,
tuning pianos, repairing clocks, practising law, (ie., matching petty tricks
with some other lawyer), painting portraits, keeping books, or managing
factories—despite the circumstance that the great majority of such
occupations are well within their physical powers, and that few of them
offer any very formidable social barriers to female entrance. There is no
external reason why women shouldn’t succeed as operative surgeons; the
way is wide open, the rewards are large, and there is a special demand for

them on grounds of modesty. Nevertheless, not many women graduates in
medicine undertake surgery and it is rare for one of them to make a success
of it. There is, again, no external reason why women should not prosper at
the bar, or as editors of newspapers, or as managers of the lesser sort of
factories, or in the wholesale trade, or as hotel-keepers. The taboos that
stand in the way are of very small force; various adventurous women have
defied them with impunity; once the door is entered there remains no
special handicap within. But, as every one knows, the number of women
actually practising these trades and professions is very small, and few of
them have attained to any distinction in competition with men.

4. Why Women Fail

The cause thereof, as I say, is not external, but internal. It lies in the same
disconcerting apprehension of the larger realities, the same impatience with
the paltry and meretricious, the same disqualification for mechanical
routine and empty technic which one finds in the higher varieties of men.
Even in the pursuits which, by the custom of Christendom, are especially
their own, women seldom show any of that elaborately conventionalized
and half automatic proficiency which is the pride and boast of most men. It
is a commonplace of observation, indeed, that a housewife who actually
knows how to cook, or who can make her own clothes with enough skill to
conceal the fact from the most casual glance, or who is competent to
instruct her children in the elements of morals, learning and hygiene—it is a
platitude that such a woman is very rare indeed, and that when she is
encountered she is not usually esteemed for her general intelligence. This is
particularly true in the United States, where the position of women is higher
than in any other civilized or semi-civilized country, and the old assumption
of their intellectual inferiority has been most successfully challenged. The
American dinner-table, in truth, becomes a monument to the defective
technic of the American housewife. The guest who respects his oesophagus,
invited to feed upon its discordant and ill-prepared victuals, evades the
experience as long and as often as he can, and resigns himself to it as he
might resign himself to being shaved by a paralytic. Nowhere else in the
world have women more leisure and freedom to improve their minds, and
nowhere else do they show a higher level of intelligence, or take part more
effectively in affairs of the first importance. But nowhere else is there worse
cooking in the home, or a more inept handling of the whole domestic
economy, or a larger dependence upon the aid of external substitutes, by
men provided, for the skill that is wanting where it theoretically exists. It is
surely no mere coincidence that the land of the emancipated and enthroned
woman is also the land of canned soup, of canned pork and beans, of whole

meals in cans, and of everything else ready-made. And nowhere else is
there more striking tendency to throw the whole business of training the
minds of children upon professional teachers, and the whole business of
instructing them in morals and religion upon so-called Sunday-schools, and
the whole business of developing and caring for their bodies upon
playground experts, sex hygienists and other such professionals, most of
them mountebanks.
In brief, women rebel—often unconsciously, sometimes even submitting
all the while—against the dull, mechanical tricks of the trade that the
present organization of society compels them to practise for a living, and
that rebellion testifies to their intelligence. If they enjoyed and took pride in
those tricks, and showed it by diligence and skill, they would be on all fours
with such men as are headwaiters, ladies’ tailors, schoolmasters or carpet-
beaters, and proud of it. The inherent tendency of any woman above the
most stupid is to evade the whole obligation, and, if she cannot actually
evade it, to reduce its demands to the minimum. And when some accident
purges her, either temporarily or permanently, of the inclination to marriage
(of which much more anon), and she enters into competition with men in
the general business of the world, the sort of career that she commonly
carves out offers additional evidence of her mental peculiarity. In whatever
calls for no more than an invariable technic and a feeble chicanery she
usually fails; in whatever calls for independent thought and resourcefulness
she usually succeeds. Thus she is almost always a failure as a lawyer, for
the law requires only an armament of hollow phrases and stereotyped
formulae, and a mental habit which puts these phantasms above sense, truth
and justice; and she is almost always a failure in business, for business, in
the main, is so foul a compound of trivialities and rogueries that her sense
of intellectual integrity revolts against it. But she is usually a success as a
sick-nurse, for that profession requires ingenuity, quick comprehension,
courage in the face of novel and disconcerting situations, and above all, a
capacity for penetrating and dominating character; and whenever she comes
into competition with men in the arts, particularly on those secondary
planes where simple nimbleness of mind is unaided by the masterstrokes of
genius, she holds her own invariably. The best and most intellectual—i.e.,
most original and enterprising play-actors are not men, but women, and so
are the best teachers and blackmailers, and a fair share of the best writers,
and public functionaries, and executants of music. In the demimonde one

will find enough acumen and daring, and enough resilience in the face of
special difficulties, to put the equipment of any exclusively male profession
to shame. If the work of the average man required half the mental agility
and readiness of resource of the work of the average prostitute, the average
man would be constantly on the verge of starvation.

5. The Thing Called Intuition

Men, as every one knows, are disposed to question this superior
intelligence of women; their egoism demands the denial, and they are
seldom reflective enough to dispose of it by logical and evidential analysis.
Moreover, as we shall see a bit later on, there is a certain specious
appearance of soundness in their position; they have forced upon women an
artificial character which well conceals their real character, and women
have found it profitable to encourage the deception. But though every
normal man thus cherishes the soothing unction that he is the intellectual
superior of all women, and particularly of his wife, he constantly gives the
lie to his pretension by consulting and deferring to what he calls her
intuition. That is to say, he knows by experience that her judgment in many
matters of capital concern is more subtle and searching than his own, and,
being disinclined to accredit this greater sagacity to a more competent
intelligence, he takes refuge behind the doctrine that it is due to some
impenetrable and intangible talent for guessing correctly, some half
mystical super sense, some vague (and, in essence, infra-human) instinct.
The true nature of this alleged instinct, however, is revealed by an
examination of the situations which inspire a man to call it to his aid. These
situations do not arise out of the purely technical problems that are his daily
concern, but out of the rarer and more fundamental, and hence enormously
more difficult problems which beset him only at long and irregular
intervals, and so offer a test, not of his mere capacity for being drilled, but
of his capacity for genuine ratiocination. No man, I take it, save one
consciously inferior and hen-pecked, would consult his wife about hiring a
clerk, or about extending credit to some paltry customer, or about some
routine piece of tawdry swindling; but not even the most egoistic man
would fail to sound the sentiment of his wife about taking a partner into his
business, or about standing for public office, or about combating unfair and
ruinous competition, or about marrying off their daughter. Such things are

of massive importance; they lie at the foundation of well-being; they call
for the best thought that the man confronted by them can muster; the perils
hidden in a wrong decision overcome even the clamors of vanity. It is in
such situations that the superior mental grasp of women is of obvious
utility, and has to be admitted. It is here that they rise above the
insignificant sentimentalities, superstitions and formulae of men, and apply
to the business their singular talent for separating the appearance from the
substance, and so exercise what is called their intuition.
Intuition? With all respect, bosh! Then it was intuition that led Darwin to
work out the hypothesis of natural selection. Then it was intuition that
fabricated the gigantically complex score of “Die Walkure.” Then it was
intuition that convinced Columbus of the existence of land to the west of
the Azores. All this intuition of which so much transcendental rubbish is
merchanted is no more and no less than intelligence—intelligence so keen
that it can penetrate to the hidden truth through the most formidable
wrappings of false semblance and demeanour, and so little corrupted by
sentimental prudery that it is equal to the even more difficult task of hauling
that truth out into the light, in all its naked hideousness. Women decide the
larger questions of life correctly and quickly, not because they are lucky
guessers, not because they are divinely inspired, not because they practise a
magic inherited from savagery, but simply and solely because they have
sense. They see at a glance what most men could not see with searchlights
and telescopes; they are at grips with the essentials of a problem before men
have finished debating its mere externals. They are the supreme realists of
the race. Apparently illogical, they are the possessors of a rare and subtle
super-logic. Apparently whimsical, they hang to the truth with a tenacity
which carries them through every phase of its incessant, jellylike shifting of
form. Apparently unobservant and easily deceived, they see with bright and
horrible eyes. In men, too, the same merciless perspicacity sometimes
shows itself—men recognized to be more aloof and uninflammable than the
general—men of special talent for the logical—sardonic men, cynics. Men,
too, sometimes have brains. But that is a rare, rare man, I venture, who is as
steadily intelligent, as constantly sound in judgment, as little put off by
appearances, as the average women of forty-eight.

II. The War Between the Sexes

6. How Marriages are Arranged

I have said that women are not sentimental, i.e., not prone to permit mere
emotion and illusion to corrupt their estimation of a situation. The doctrine,
perhaps, will raise a protest. The theory that they are is itself a favourite
sentimentality; one sentimentality will be brought up to substantiate
another; dog will eat dog. But an appeal to a few obvious facts will be
enough to sustain my contention, despite the vast accumulation of romantic
rubbish to the contrary.
Turn, for example, to the field in which the two sexes come most
constantly into conflict, and in which, as a result, their habits of mind are
most clearly contrasted—to the field, to wit, of monogamous marriage.
Surely no long argument is needed to demonstrate the superior competence
and effectiveness of women here, and therewith their greater self-
possession, their saner weighing of considerations, their higher power of
resisting emotional suggestion. The very fact that marriages occur at all is a
proof, indeed, that they are more cool-headed than men, and more adept in
employing their intellectual resources, for it is plainly to a man’s interest to
avoid marriage as long as possible, and as plainly to a woman’s interest to
make a favourable marriage as soon as she can. The efforts of the two sexes
are thus directed, in one of the capital concerns of life, to diametrically
antagonistic ends. Which side commonly prevails? I leave the verdict to the
jury. All normal men fight the thing off; some men are successful for
relatively long periods; a few extraordinarily intelligent and courageous
men (or perhaps lucky ones) escape altogether. But, taking one generation
with another, as every one knows, the average man is duly married and the
average woman gets a husband. Thus the great majority of women, in this
clear-cut and endless conflict, make manifest their substantial superiority to
the great majority of men.
Not many men, worthy of the name, gain anything of net value by
marriage, at least as the institution is now met with in Christendom. Even

assessing its benefits at their most inflated worth, they are plainly overborne
by crushing disadvantages. When a man marries it is no more than a sign
that the feminine talent for persuasion and intimidation—i.e., the feminine
talent for survival in a world of clashing concepts and desires, the feminine
competence and intelligence—has forced him into a more or less abhorrent
compromise with his own honest inclinations and best interests. Whether
that compromise be a sign of his relative stupidity or of his relative
cowardice it is all one: the two things, in their symptoms and effects, are
almost identical. In the first case he marries because he has been clearly
bowled over in a combat of wits; in the second he resigns himself to
marriage as the safest form of liaison. In both cases his inherent
sentimentality is the chief weapon in the hand of his opponent. It makes
him cherish the fiction of his enterprise, and even of his daring, in the midst
of the most crude and obvious operations against him. It makes him accept
as real the bold play-acting that women always excel at, and at no time
more than when stalking a man. It makes him, above all, see a glamour of
romance in a transaction which, even at its best, contains almost as much
gross trafficking, at bottom, as the sale of a mule.
A man in full possession of the modest faculties that nature commonly
apportions to him is at least far enough above idiocy to realize that marriage
is a bargain in which he gets the worse of it, even when, in some detail or
other, he makes a visible gain. He never, I believe, wants all that the thing
offers and implies. He wants, at most, no more than certain parts. He may
desire, let us say, a housekeeper to protect his goods and entertain his
friends—but he may shrink from the thought of sharing his bathtub with
anyone, and home cooking may be downright poisonous to him. He may
yearn for a son to pray at his tomb—and yet suffer acutely at the mere
approach of relatives-in-law. He may dream of a beautiful and complaisant
mistress, less exigent and mercurial than any a bachelor may hope to
discover—and stand aghast at admitting her to his bank-book, his family-
tree and his secret ambitions. He may want company and not intimacy, or
intimacy and not company. He may want a cook and not a partner in his
business, or a partner in his business and not a cook. But in order to get the
precise thing or things that he wants, he has to take a lot of other things that
he doesn’t want—that no sane man, in truth, could imaginably want—and it
is to the enterprise of forcing him into this almost Armenian bargain that the
woman of his “choice” addresses herself. Once the game is fairly set, she

searches out his weaknesses with the utmost delicacy and accuracy, and
plays upon them with all her superior resources. He carries a handicap from
the start. His sentimental and unintelligent belief in theories that she knows
quite well are not true—e.g., the theory that she shrinks from him, and is
modestly appalled by the banal carnalities of marriage itself—gives her a
weapon against him which she drives home with instinctive and compelling
art. The moment she discerns this sentimentality bubbling within him—that
is, the moment his oafish smirks and eye rollings signify that he has
achieved the intellectual disaster that is called falling in love—he is hers to
do with as she will. Save for acts of God, he is forthwith as good as
married.

7. The Feminine Attitude

This sentimentality in marriage is seldom, if ever, observed in women.
For reasons that we shall examine later, they have much more to gain by the
business than men, and so they are prompted by their cooler sagacity to
enter upon it on the most favourable terms possible, and with the minimum
admixture of disarming emotion. Men almost invariably get their mates by
the process called falling in love; save among the aristocracies of the North
and Latin men, the marriage of convenience is relatively rare; a hundred
men marry “beneath” them to every woman who perpetrates the same folly.
And what is meant by this so-called falling in love? What is meant by it is a
procedure whereby a man accounts for the fact of his marriage, after
feminine initiative and generalship have made it inevitable, by enshrouding
it in a purple maze of romance—in brief, by setting up the doctrine that an
obviously self-possessed and mammalian woman, engaged deliberately in
the most important adventure of her life, and with the keenest
understanding of its utmost implications, is a naive, tender, moony and
almost disembodied creature, enchanted and made perfect by a passion that
has stolen upon her unawares, and which she could not acknowledge, even
to herself, without blushing to death. By this preposterous doctrine, the
defeat and enslavement of the man is made glorious, and even gifted with a
touch of flattering naughtiness. The sheer horsepower of his wooing has
assailed and overcome her maiden modesty; she trembles in his arms; he
has been granted a free franchise to work his wicked will upon her. Thus do
the ambulant images of God cloak their shackles proudly, and divert the
judicious with their boastful shouts.
Women, it is almost needless to point out, are much more cautious about
embracing the conventional hocus-pocus of the situation. They never
acknowledge that they have fallen in love, as the phrase is, until the man
has formally avowed the delusion, and so cut off his retreat; to do otherwise
would be to bring down upon their heads the mocking and contumely of all

their sisters. With them, falling in love thus appears in the light of an
afterthought, or, perhaps more accurately, in the light of a contagion. The
theory, it would seem, is that the love of the man, laboriously avowed, has
inspired it instantly, and by some unintelligible magic; that it was non-
existent until the heat of his own flames set it off. This theory, it must be
acknowledged, has a certain element of fact in it. A woman seldom allows
herself to be swayed by emotion while the principal business is yet afoot
and its issue still in doubt; to do so would be to expose a degree of
imbecility that is confined only to the half-wits of the sex. But once the man
is definitely committed, she frequently unbends a bit, if only as a relief from
the strain of a fixed purpose, and so, throwing off her customary inhibitions,
she, indulges in the luxury of a more or less forced and mawkish sentiment.
It is, however, almost unheard of for her to permit herself this relaxation
before the sentimental intoxication of the man is assured. To do otherwise—
that is, to confess, even post facto, to an anterior descent,—would expose
her, as I have said, to the scorn of all other women. Such a confession
would be an admission that emotion had got the better of her at a critical
intellectual moment, and in the eyes of women, as in the eyes of the small
minority of genuinely intelligent men, no treason to the higher cerebral
centres could be more disgraceful.

8. The Male Beauty

This disdain of sentimental weakness, even in those higher reaches where
it is mellowed by aesthetic sensibility, is well revealed by the fact that
women are seldom bemused by mere beauty in men. Save on the stage, the
handsome fellow has no appreciable advantage in amour over his more
Gothic brother. In real life, indeed, he is viewed with the utmost suspicion
by all women save the most stupid. In him the vanity native to his sex is
seen to mount to a degree that is positively intolerable. It not only irritates
by its very nature; it also throws about him a sort of unnatural armour, and
so makes him resistant to the ordinary approaches. For this reason, the
matrimonial enterprises of the more reflective and analytical sort of women
are almost always directed to men whose lack of pulchritude makes them
easier to bring down, and, what is more important still, easier to hold down.
The weight of opinion among women is decidedly against the woman who
falls in love with an Apollo. She is regarded, at best, as flighty creature, and
at worst, as one pushing bad taste to the verge of indecency. Such
weaknesses are resigned to women approaching senility, and to the more
ignoble variety of women labourers. A shop girl, perhaps, may plausibly fall
in love with a moving-picture actor, and a half-idiotic old widow may
succumb to a youth with shoulders like the Parthenon, but no woman of
poise and self-respect, even supposing her to be transiently flustered by a
lovely buck, would yield to that madness for an instant, or confess it to her
dearest friend. Women know how little such purely superficial values are
worth. The voice of their order, the first taboo of their freemasonry, is
firmly against making a sentimental debauch of the serious business of
marriage.
This disdain of the pretty fellow is often accounted for by amateur
psychologists on the ground that women are anesthetic to beauty—that they
lack the quick and delicate responsiveness of man. Nothing could be more
absurd. Women, in point of fact, commonly have a far keener aesthetic

sense than men. Beauty is more important to them; they give more thought
to it; they crave more of it in their immediate surroundings. The average
man, at least in England and America, takes a sort of bovine pride in his
anaesthesia to the arts; he can think of them only as sources of tawdry and
somewhat discreditable amusement; one seldom hears of him showing half
the enthusiasm for any beautiful thing that his wife displays in the presence,
of a fine fabric, an effective colour, or a graceful form, say in millinery. The
truth is that women are resistant to so-called beauty in men for the simple
and sufficient reason that such beauty is chiefly imaginary. A truly beautiful
man, indeed, is as rare as a truly beautiful piece of jewelry. What men
mistake for beauty in themselves is usually nothing save a certain hollow
gaudiness, a revolting flashiness, the superficial splendour of a prancing
animal. The most lovely moving picture actor, considered in the light of
genuine aesthetic values, is no more than a piece of vulgarity; his like is to
be found, not in the Uffizi gallery or among the harmonies of Brahms, but
among the plush sofas, rococo clocks and hand-painted oil-paintings of a
third-rate auction room. All women, save the least intelligent, penetrate this
imposture with sharp eyes. They know that the human body, except for a
brief time in infancy, is not a beautiful thing, but a hideous thing. Their own
bodies give them no delight; it is their constant effort to disguise and
conceal them; they never expose them aesthetically, but only as an act of the
grossest sexual provocation. If it were advertised that a troupe of men of
easy virtue were to appear half-clothed upon a public stage, exposing their
chests, thighs, arms and calves, the only women who would go to the
entertainment would be a few delayed adolescents, a psychopathic old maid
or two, and a guard of indignant members of the parish Ladies Aid Society.

9. Men as Aesthetes

Men show no such sagacious apprehension of the relatively feeble
loveliness of the human frame. The most effective lure that a woman can
hold out to a man is the lure of what he fatuously conceives to be her
beauty. This so-called beauty, of course, is almost always a pure illusion.
The female body, even at its best is very defective in form; it has harsh
curves and very clumsily distributed masses; compared to it the average
milk-jug, or even cuspidor, is a thing of intelligent and gratifying design—
in brief, an objet d’art. The fact was curiously (and humorously) display
during the late war, when great numbers of women in all the belligerent
countries began putting on uniforms. Instantly they appeared in public in
their grotesque burlesques of the official garb of aviators, elevator boys, bus
conductors, train guards, and so on, their deplorable deficiency in design
was unescapably revealed. A man, save he be fat, i.e., of womanish
contours, usually looks better in uniform than in mufti; the tight lines set off
his figure. But a woman is at once given away: she look like a dumbbell run
over by an express train. Below the neck by the bow and below the waist
astern there are two masses that simply refuse to fit into a balanced
composition. Viewed from the side, she presents an exaggerated S bisected
by an imperfect straight line, and so she inevitably suggests a drunken
dollar-mark. Her ordinary clothing cunningly conceals this fundamental
imperfection. It swathes those impossible masses in draperies soothingly
uncertain of outline. But putting her into uniform is like stripping her.
Instantly all her alleged beauty vanishes.
Moreover, it is extremely rare to find a woman who shows even the
modest sightliness that her sex is theoretically capable of; it is only the rare
beauty who is even tolerable. The average woman, until art comes to her
aid, is ungraceful, misshapen, badly calved and crudely articulated, even for
a woman. If she has a good torso, she is almost sure to be bow-legged. If
she has good legs, she is almost sure to have bad teeth. If she has good

teeth, she is almost sure to have scrawny hands, or muddy eyes, or hair like
oakum, or no chin. A woman who meets fair tests all ’round is so
uncommon that she becomes a sort of marvel, and usually gains a
livelihood by exhibiting herself as such, either on the stage, in the half-
world, or as the private jewel of some wealthy connoisseur.
But this lack of genuine beauty in women lays on them no practical
disadvantage in the primary business of their sex, for its effects are more
than overborne by the emotional suggestibility, the herculean capacity for
illusion, the almost total absence of critical sense of men. Men do not
demand genuine beauty, even in the most modest doses; they are quite
content with the mere appearance of beauty. That is to say, they show no
talent whatever for differentiating between the artificial and the real. A film
of face powder, skilfully applied, is as satisfying to them as an epidermis of
damask. The hair of a dead Chinaman, artfully dressed and dyed, gives
them as much delight as the authentic tresses of Venus. A false hip intrigues
them as effectively as the soundest one of living fascia. A pretty frock
fetches them quite as surely and securely as lovely legs, shoulders, hands or
eyes. In brief, they estimate women, and hence acquire their wives, by
reckoning up purely superficial aspects, which is just as intelligent as
estimating an egg by purely superficial aspects. They never go behind the
returns; it never occurs to them to analyze the impressions they receive. The
result is that many a man, deceived by such paltry sophistications, never
really sees his wife—that if, as God is supposed to see her, and as the
embalmer will see her—until they have been married for years. All the
tricks may be infantile and obvious, but in the face of so naive a spectator
the temptation to continue practising them is irresistible. A trained nurse
tells me that even when undergoing the extreme discomforts of parturition
the great majority of women continue to modify their complexions with
pulverized talcs, and to give thought to the arrangement of their hair. Such
transparent devices, to be sure, reduce the psychologist to a sour sort of
mirth, and yet it must be plain that they suffice to entrap and make fools of
men, even the most discreet. I know of no man, indeed, who is wholly
resistant to female beauty, and I know of no man, even among those
engaged professionally by aesthetic problems, who habitually and
automatically distinguishes the genuine, from the imitation. He may do it
now and then; he may even preen himself upon his unusual discrimination;

but given the right woman and the right stage setting, and he will be
deceived almost as readily as a yokel fresh from the cabbage-field.

10. The Process of Delusion

Such poor fools, rolling their eyes in appraisement of such meagre
female beauty as is on display in Christendom, bring to their judgments a
capacity but slightly greater than that a cow would bring to the estimation
of epistemologies. They are so unfitted for the business that they are even
unable to agree upon its elements. Let one such man succumb to the plaster
charms of some prancing miss, and all his friends will wonder what is the
matter with him. No two are in accord as to which is the most beautiful
woman in their own town or street. Turn six of them loose in millinery shop
or the parlour of a bordello, and there will be no dispute whatsoever; each
will offer the crown of love and beauty to a different girl.
And what aesthetic deafness, dumbness and blindness thus open the way
for, vanity instantly reinforces. That is to say, once a normal man has
succumbed to the meretricious charms of a definite fair one (or, more
accurately, once a definite fair one has marked him out and grabbed him by
the nose), he defends his choice with all the heat and steadfastness
appertaining to the defense of a point of the deepest honour. To tell a man
flatly that his wife is not beautiful, or even that his stenographer or
manicurist is not beautiful, is so harsh and intolerable an insult to his taste
that even an enemy seldom ventures upon it. One would offend him far less
by arguing that his wife is an idiot. One would relatively speaking, almost
caress him by spitting into his eye. The ego of the male is simply unable to
stomach such an affront. It is a weapon as discreditable as the poison of the
Borgias.
Thus, on humane grounds, a conspiracy of silence surrounds the delusion
of female beauty, and so its victim is permitted to get quite as much delight
out of it as if it were sound. The baits he swallows most are not edible and
nourishing baits, but simply bright and gaudy ones. He succumbs to a pair
of well-managed eyes, a graceful twist of the body, a synthetic complexion
or a skilful display of ankles without giving the slightest thought to the fact

that a whole woman is there, and that within the cranial cavity of the
woman lies a brain, and that the idiosyncrasies of that brain are of vastly
more importance than all imaginable physical stigmata combined. Those
idiosyncrasies may make for amicable relations in the complex and difficult
bondage called marriage; they may, on the contrary, make for joustings of a
downright impossible character. But not many men, laced in the emotional
maze preceding, are capable of any very clear examination of such facts.
The truth is that they dodge the facts, even when they are favourable, and
lay all stress upon the surrounding and concealing superficialities. The
average stupid and sentimental man, if he has a noticeably sensible wife, is
almost apologetic about it. The ideal of his sex is always a pretty wife, and
the vanity and coquetry that so often go with prettiness are erected into
charms. In other words, men play the love game so unintelligently that they
often esteem a woman in proportion as she seems to disdain and make a
mock of her intelligence. Women seldom, if ever, make that blunder. What
they commonly value in a man is not mere showiness, whether physical or
spiritual, but that compound of small capacities which makes up masculine
efficiency and passes for masculine intelligence. This intelligence, at its
highest, has a human value substantially equal to that of their own. In a
man’s world it at least gets its definite rewards; it guarantees security,
position, a livelihood; it is a commodity that is merchantable. Women thus
accord it a certain respect, and esteem it in their husbands, and so seek it
out.

11. Biological Considerations

So far as I can make out by experiments on laboratory animals and by
such discreet vivisections as are possible under our laws, there is no
biological necessity for the superior acumen and circumspection of women.
That is to say, it does not lie in any anatomical or physiological advantage.
The essential feminine machine is no better than the essential masculine
machine; both are monuments to the maladroitness of a much over-praised
Creator. Women, it would seem, actually have smaller brains than men,
though perhaps not in proportion to weight. Their nervous responses, if
anything, are a bit duller than those of men; their muscular coordinations
are surely no prompter. One finds quite as many obvious botches among
them; they have as many bodily blemishes; they are infested by the same
microscopic parasites; their senses are as obtuse; their ears stand out as
absurdly. Even assuming that their special malaises are wholly offset by the
effects of alcoholism in the male, they suffer patently from the same
adenoids, gastritis, cholelithiasis, nephritis, tuberculosis, carcinoma,
arthritis and so on—in short, from the same disturbances of colloidal
equilibrium that produce religion, delusions of grandeur, democracy,
pyaemia, night sweats, the yearning to save humanity, and all other such
distempers in men. They have, at bottom, the same weaknesses and
appetites. They react in substantially the same way to all chemical and
mechanical agents. A dose of hydrocyanic acid, administered per ora to the
most sagacious woman imaginable, affects her just as swiftly and just as
deleteriously as it affects a tragedian, a crossing-sweeper, or an ambassador
to the Court of St. James. And once a bottle of Cote Rotie or
Scharlachberger is in her, even the least emotional woman shows the same
complex of sentimentalities that a man shows, and is as maudlin and idiotic
as he is.
Nay; the superior acumen and self-possession of women is not inherent
in any peculiarity of their constitutions, and above all, not in any advantage

of a purely physical character. Its springs are rather to be sought in a
physical disadvantage—that is, in the mechanical inferiority of their frames,
their relative lack of tractive capacity, their deficiency as brute engines.
That deficiency, as every one knows, is partly a direct heritage from those
females of the Pongo pygmaeus who were their probable fore-runners in the
world; the same thing is to be observed in the females of almost all other
species of mammals. But it is also partly due to the effects of use under
civilization, and, above all, to what evolutionists call sexual selection. In
other words, women were already measurably weaker than men at the dawn
of human history, and that relative weakness has been progressively
augmented in the interval by the conditions of human life. For one thing,
the process of bringing forth young has become so much more exhausting
as refinement has replaced savage sturdiness and callousness, and the care
of them in infancy has become so much more onerous as the growth of
cultural complexity has made education more intricate, that the two
functions now lay vastly heavier burdens upon the strength and attention of
a woman than they lay upon the strength and attention of any other female.
And for another thing, the consequent disability and need of physical
protection, by feeding and inflaming the already large vanity of man, have
caused him to attach a concept of attractiveness to feminine weakness, so
that he has come to esteem his woman, not in proportion as she is self-
sufficient as a social animal but in proportion as she is dependent. In this
vicious circle of influences women have been caught, and as a result their
chief physical character today is their fragility. A woman cannot lift as
much as a man. She cannot walk as far. She cannot exert as much
mechanical energy in any other way. Even her alleged superior endurance,
as Havelock Ellis has demonstrated in “Man and Woman,” is almost wholly
mythical; she cannot, in point of fact, stand nearly so much hardship as a
man can stand, and so the law, usually an ass, exhibits an unaccustomed
accuracy of observation in its assumption that, whenever husband and wife
are exposed alike to fatal suffering, say in a shipwreck, the wife dies first.
So far we have been among platitudes. There is less of overt platitude in
the doctrine that it is precisely this physical frailty that has given women
their peculiar nimbleness and effectiveness on the intellectual side.
Nevertheless, it is equally true. What they have done is what every healthy
and elastic organism does in like case; they have sought compensation for
their impotence in one field by employing their resources in another field to

the utmost, and out of that constant and maximum use has come a marked
enlargement of those resources. On the one hand the sum of them present in
a given woman has been enormously increased by natural selection, so that
every woman, so to speak, inherits a certain extra-masculine mental
dexterity as a mere function of her femaleness. And on the other hand every
woman, over and above this almost unescapable legacy from her actual
grandmothers, also inherits admission to that traditional wisdom which
constitutes the esoteric philosophy of woman as a whole. The virgin at
adolescence is thus in the position of an unusually fortunate apprentice, for
she is not only naturally gifted but also apprenticed to extraordinarily
competent masters. While a boy at the same period is learning from his
elders little more than a few empty technical tricks, a few paltry vices and a
few degrading enthusiasms, his sister is under instruction in all those higher
exercises of the wits that her special deficiencies make necessary to her
security, and in particular in all those exercises which aim at overcoming
the physical, and hence social and economic superiority of man by attacks
upon his inferior capacity for clear reasoning, uncorrupted by illusion and
sentimentality.

12. Honour

Here, it is obvious, the process of intellectual development takes colour
from the Sklavenmoral, and is, in a sense, a product of it. The Jews, as
Nietzsche has demonstrated, got their unusual intelligence by the same
process; a contrary process is working in the case of the English and the
Americans, and has begun to show itself in the case of the French and
Germans. The sum of feminine wisdom that I have just mentioned—the
body of feminine devices and competences that is handed down from
generation to generation of women—is, in fact, made up very largely of
doctrines and expedients that infallibly appear to the average sentimental
man, helpless as he is before them, as cynical and immoral. He commonly
puts this aversion into the theory that women have no sense of honour. The
criticism, of course, is characteristically banal. Honour is a concept too
tangled to be analyzed here, but it may be sufficient to point out that it is
predicated upon a feeling of absolute security, and that, in that capital
conflict between man and woman out of which rises most of man’s
complaint of its absence—to wit, the conflict culminating in marriage,
already described—the security of the woman is not something that is in
actual being, but something that she is striving with all arms to attain. In
such a conflict it must be manifest that honor can have no place. An animal
fighting for its very existence uses all possible means of offence and
defence, however foul. Even man, for all his boasting about honor, seldom
displays it when he has anything of the first value at hazard. He is
honorable, perhaps, in gambling, for gambling is a mere vice, but it is quite
unusual for him to be honorable in business, for business is bread and
butter. He is honorable (so long as the stake is trivial) in his sports, but he
seldom permits honor to interfere with his perjuries in a lawsuit, or with
hitting below the belt in any other sort of combat that is in earnest. The
history of all his wars is a history of mutual allegations of dishonorable
practices, and such allegations are nearly always well grounded. The best

imitation of honor that he ever actually achieves in them is a highly self-
conscious sentimentality which prompts him to be humane to the opponent
who has been wounded, or disarmed, or otherwise made innocuous. Even
here his so-called honor is little more than a form of playacting, both
maudlin and dishonest. In the actual death-struggle he invariably bites.
Perhaps one of the chief charms of woman lies precisely in the fact that
they are dishonorable, i.e., that they are relatively uncivilized. In the midst
of all the puerile repressions and inhibitions that hedge them round, they
continue to show a gipsy spirit. No genuine woman ever gives a hoot for
law if law happens to stand in the way of her private interest. She is
essentially an outlaw, a rebel, what H. G. Wells calls a nomad. The boons of
civilization are so noisily cried up by sentimentalists that we are all apt to
overlook its disadvantages. Intrinsically, it is a mere device for regimenting
men. Its perfect symbol is the goose-step. The most civilized man is simply
that man who has been most successful in caging and harnessing his honest
and natural instincts-that is, the man who has done most cruel violence to
his own ego in the interest of the commonweal. The value of this
commonweal is always overestimated. What is it at bottom? Simply the
greatest good to the greatest number—of petty rogues, ignoramuses and
poltroons.
The capacity for submitting to and prospering comfortably under this
cheese-monger’s civilization is far more marked in men than in women, and
far more in inferior men than in men of the higher categories. It must be
obvious to even so pathetic an ass as a university professor of history that
very few of the genuinely first-rate men of the race have been, wholly
civilized, in the sense that the term is employed in newspapers and in the
pulpit. Think of Caesar, Bonaparte, Luther, Frederick the Great, Cromwell,
Barbarossa, Innocent III, Bolivar, Hannibal, Alexander, and to come down
to our own time, Grant, Stonewall Jackson, Bismarck, Wagner, Garibaldi
and Cecil Rhodes.

13. Women and the Emotions

The fact that women have a greater capacity than men for controlling and
concealing their emotions is not an indication that they are more civilized,
but a proof that they are less civilized. This capacity, so rare today, and
withal so valuable and worthy of respect, is a characteristic of savages, not
of civilized men, and its loss is one of the penalties that the race has paid for
the tawdry boon of civilization. Your true savage, reserved, dignified, and
courteous, knows how to mask his feelings, even in the face of the most
desperate assault upon them; your civilized man is forever yielding to them.
Civilization, in fact, grows more and more maudlin and hysterical;
especially under democracy it tends to degenerate into a mere combat of
crazes; the whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed
(and hence clamorous to be led to safety) by an endless series of
hobgoblins, most of them imaginary. Wars are no longer waged by the will
of superior men, capable of judging dispassionately and intelligently the
causes behind them and the effects flowing out of them. They are now
begun by first throwing a mob into a panic; they are ended only when it has
spent its ferine fury. Here the effect of civilization has been to reduce the
noblest of the arts, once the repository of an exalted etiquette and the
chosen avocation of the very best men of the race, to the level of a riot of
peasants. All the wars of Christendom are now disgusting and degrading;
the conduct of them has passed out of the hands of nobles and knights and
into the hands of mob-orators, money-lenders, and atrocity-mongers. To
recreate one’s self with war in the grand manner, as Prince Eugene,
Marlborough and the Old Dessauer knew it, one must now go among
barbarian peoples.
Women are nearly always against war in modern times, for the reasons
brought forward to justify it are usually either transparently dishonest or
childishly sentimental, and hence provoke their scorn. But once the
business is begun, they commonly favour its conduct outrance, and are thus

in accord with the theory of the great captains of more spacious days. In
Germany, during the late war, the protests against the Schrecklichkeit
practised by the imperial army and navy did not come from women, but
from sentimental men; in England and the United States there is no record
that any woman ever raised her voice against the blockade which destroyed
hundreds of thousands of German children. I was on both sides of the
bloody chasm during the war, and I cannot recall meeting a single woman
who subscribed to the puerile doctrine that, in so vast a combat between
nations, there could still be categories of non-combatants, with a right of
asylum on armed ships and in garrisoned towns. This imbecility was
maintained only by men, large numbers of whom simultaneously took part
in wholesale massacres of such non-combatants. The women were superior
to such hypocrisy. They recognized the nature of modern war instantly and
accurately, and advocated no disingenuous efforts to conceal it.

14. Pseudo-Anaesthesia

The feminine talent for concealing emotion is probably largely
responsible for the common masculine belief that women are devoid of
passion, and contemplate its manifestations in the male with something akin
to trembling. Here the talent itself is helped out by the fact that very few
masculine observers, on the occasions when they give attention to the
matter, are in a state of mind conducive to exact observation. The truth is, of
course, that there is absolutely no reason to believe that the normal woman
is passionless, or that the minority of women who unquestionably are is of
formidable dimensions. To be sure, the peculiar vanity of men, particularly
in the Northern countries, makes them place a high value upon the virginal
type of woman, and so this type tends to grow more common by sexual
selection, but despite that fact, it has by no means superseded the normal
type, so realistically described by the theologians and publicists of the
Middle Ages. It would, however, be rash to assert that this long continued
sexual selection has not made itself felt, even in the normal type. Its chief
effect, perhaps, is to make it measurably easier for a woman to conquer and
conceal emotion than it is for a man. But this is a mere reinforcement of a
native quality or, at all events, a quality long antedating the rise of the
curious preference just mentioned. That preference obviously owes its
origin to the concept of private property and is most evident in those
countries in which the largest proportion of males are property owners, i.e.,
in which the property-owning caste reaches down into the lowest
conceivable strata of bounders and ignoramuses. The low-caste man is
never quite sure of his wife unless he is convinced that she is entirely
devoid of amorous susceptibility. Thus he grows uneasy whenever she
shows any sign of responding in kind to his own elephantine emotions, and
is apt to be suspicious of even so trivial a thing as a hearty response to a
connubial kiss. If he could manage to rid himself of such suspicions, there
would be less public gabble about anesthetic wives, and fewer books

written by quacks with sure cures for them, and a good deal less cold-
mutton formalism and boredom at the domestic hearth.
I have a feeling that the husband of this sort—he is very common in the
United States, and almost as common among the middle classes of England,
Germany and Scandinavia—does himself a serious disservice, and that he is
uneasily conscious of it. Having got himself a wife to his austere taste, he
finds that she is rather depressing—that his vanity is almost as painfully
damaged by her emotional inertness as it would have been by a too
provocative and hedonistic spirit. For the thing that chiefly delights a man,
when some woman has gone through the solemn buffoonery of yielding to
his great love, is the sharp and flattering contrast between her reserve in the
presence of other men and her enchanting complaisance in the presence of
himself. Here his vanity is enormously tickled. To the world in general she
seems remote and unapproachable; to him she is docile, fluttering, gurgling,
even a bit abandoned. It is as if some great magnifico male, some inordinate
czar or kaiser, should step down from the throne to play dominoes with him
behind the door. The greater the contrast between the lady’s two fronts, the
greater his satisfaction-up to, of course, the point where his suspicions are
aroused. Let her diminish that contrast ever so little on the public side—by
smiling at a handsome actor, by saying a word too many to an attentive
head-waiter, by holding the hand of the rector of the parish, by winking
amiably at his brother or at her sister’s husband—and at once the poor
fellow begins to look for clandestine notes, to employ private inquiry
agents, and to scrutinize the eyes, ears, noses and hair of his children with
shameful doubts. This explains many domestic catastrophes.

15. Mythical Anthropophagi

The man-hating woman, like the cold woman, is largely imaginary. One
often encounters references to her in literature, but who has ever met her in
real life? As for me, I doubt that such a monster has ever actually existed.
There are, of course, women who spend a great deal of time denouncing
and reviling men, but these are certainly not genuine man-haters; they are
simply women who have done their utmost to snare men, and failed. Of
such sort are the majority of inflammatory suffragettes of the sex-hygiene
and birth-control species. The rigid limitation of offspring, in fact, is chiefly
advocated by women who run no more risk of having unwilling
motherhood forced upon them than so many mummies of the Tenth
Dynasty. All their unhealthy interest in such noisome matters has behind it
merely a subconscious yearning to attract the attention of men, who are
supposed to be partial to enterprises that are difficult or forbidden. But
certainly the enterprise of dissuading such a propagandist from her gospel
would not be difficult, and I know of no law forbidding it.
I’ll begin to believe in the man-hater the day I am introduced to a woman
who has definitely and finally refused a chance of marriage to a man who is
of her own station in life, able to support her, unafflicted by any loathsome
disease, and of reasonably decent aspect and manners—in brief a man who
is thoroughly eligible. I doubt that any such woman breathes the air of
Christendom. Whenever one comes to confidential terms with an unmarried
woman, of course, she favours one with a long chronicle of the men she has
refused to marry, greatly to their grief. But unsentimental cross-
examination, at least in my experience, always develops the fact that every
one of these suffered from some obvious and intolerable disqualification.
Either he had a wife already and was vague about his ability to get rid of
her, or he was drunk when he was brought to his proposal and repudiated it
or forgot it the next day, or he was a bankrupt, or he was old and decrepit,
or he was young and plainly idiotic, or he had diabetes or a bad heart, or his

relatives were impossible, or he believed in spiritualism, or democracy, or
the Baconian theory, or some other such nonsense. Restricting the thing to
men palpably eligible, I believe thoroughly that no sane woman has ever
actually muffed a chance. Now and then, perhaps, a miraculously fortunate
girl has two victims on the mat simultaneously, and has to lose one. But
they are seldom, if ever, both good chances; one is nearly always a duffer,
thrown in in the telling to make the bourgeoisie marvel.

16. A Conspiracy of Silence

The reason why all this has to be stated here is simply that women, who
could state it much better, have almost unanimously refrained from
discussing such matters at all. One finds, indeed, a sort of general
conspiracy, infinitely alert and jealous, against the publication of the
esoteric wisdom of the sex, and even against the acknowledgment that any
such body of erudition exists at all. Men, having more vanity and less
discretion, area good deal less cautious. There is, in fact, a whole literature
of masculine babbling, ranging from Machiavelli’s appalling confession of
political theory to the egoistic confidences of such men as Nietzsche, Jean-
Jacques Rousseau, Casanova, Max Stirner, Benvenuto Cellini, Napoleon
Bonaparte and Lord Chesterfield. But it is very rarely that a Marie
Bashkirtsev or Margot Asquith lets down the veils which conceal the
acroamatic doctrine of the other sex. It is transmitted from mother to
daughter, so to speak, behind the door. One observes its practical workings,
but hears little about its principles. The causes of this secrecy are obvious.
Women, in the last analysis, can prevail against men in the great struggle
for power and security only by keeping them disarmed, and, in the main,
unwarned. In a pitched battle, with the devil taking the hindmost, their
physical and economic inferiority would inevitably bring them to disaster.
Thus they have to apply their peculiar talents warily, and with due regard to
the danger of arousing the foe. He must be attached without any formal
challenge, and even without any suspicion of challenge. This strategy lies at
the heart of what Nietzsche called the slave morality—in brief, a morality
based upon a concealment of egoistic purpose, a code of ethics having for
its foremost character a bold denial of its actual aim.

III. Marriage

17. Fundamental Motives

How successful such a concealment may be is well displayed by the
general acceptance of the notion that women are reluctant to enter into
marriage—that they have to be persuaded to it by eloquence and pertinacity,
and even by a sort of intimidation. The truth is that, in a world almost
divested of intelligible idealism, and hence dominated by a senseless
worship of the practical, marriage offers the best career that the average
woman can reasonably aspire to, and, in the case of very many women, the
only one that actually offers a livelihood. What is esteemed and valuable, in
our materialistic and unintelligent society, is precisely that petty practical
efficiency at which men are expert, and which serves them in place of free
intelligence. A woman, save she show a masculine strain that verges upon
the pathological, cannot hope to challenge men in general in this
department, but it is always open to her to exchange her sexual charm for a
lion’s share in the earnings of one man, and this is what she almost
invariably tries to do. That is to say, she tries to get a husband, for getting a
husband means, in a sense, enslaving an expert, and so covering up her own
lack of expertness, and escaping its consequences. Thereafter she has at
least one stout line of defence against a struggle for existence in which the
prospect of survival is chiefly based, not upon the talents that are typically
hers, but upon those that she typically lacks. Before the average woman
succumbs in this struggle, some man or other must succumb first. Thus her
craft converts her handicap into an advantage.
In this security lies the most important of all the benefits that a woman
attains by marriage. It is, in fact, the most important benefit that the mind
can imagine, for the whole effort of the human race, under our industrial
society, is concentrated upon the attainment of it. But there are other
benefits, too. One of them is that increase in dignity which goes with an
obvious success; the woman who has got herself a satisfactory husband, or
even a highly imperfect husband, is regarded with respect by other women,

and has a contemptuous patronage for those who have failed to do likewise.
Again, marriage offers her the only safe opportunity, considering the
levantine view of women as property which Christianity has preserved in
our civilization, to obtain gratification for that powerful complex of
instincts which we call the sexual, and, in particular, for the instinct of
maternity. The woman who has not had a child remains incomplete, ill at
ease, and more than a little ridiculous. She is in the position of a man who
has never stood in battle; she has missed the most colossal experience of her
sex. Moreover, a social odium goes with her loss. Other women regard her
as a sort of permanent tyro, and treat her with ill-concealed disdain, and
deride the very virtue which lies at the bottom of her experiential penury.
There would seem to be, indeed, but small respect among women for
virginity per se. They are against the woman who has got rid of hers outside
marriage, not because they think she has lost anything intrinsically
valuable, but because she has made a bad bargain, and one that materially
diminishes the sentimental respect for virtue held by men, and hence one
against the general advantage and well-being of the sex. In other words, it is
a guild resentment that they feel, not a moral resentment. Women, in
general, are not actively moral, nor, for that matter, noticeably modest.
Every man, indeed, who is in wide practice among them is occasionally
astounded and horrified to discover, on some rainy afternoon, an almost
complete absence of modesty in some women of the highest respectability.
But of all things that a woman gains by marriage the most valuable is
economic security. Such security, of course, is seldom absolute, but usually
merely relative: the best provider among husbands may die without enough
life insurance, or run off with some preposterous light of love, or become an
invalid or insane, or step over the intangible and wavering line which
separates business success from a prison cell. Again, a woman may be
deceived: there are stray women who are credulous and sentimental, and
stray men who are cunning. Yet again, a woman may make false deductions
from evidence accurately before her, ineptly guessing that the clerk she
marries today will be the head of the firm tomorrow, instead of merely the
bookkeeper tomorrow. But on the whole it must be plain that a woman, in
marrying, usually obtains for herself a reasonably secure position in that
station of life to which she is accustomed. She seeks a husband, not
sentimentally, but realistically; she always gives thought to the economic
situation; she seldom takes a chance if it is possible to avoid it. It is

common for men to marry women who bring nothing to the joint capital of
marriage save good looks and an appearance of vivacity; it is almost
unheard of for women to neglect more prosaic inquiries. Many a rich man,
at least in America, marries his typist or the governess of his sister’s
children and is happy thereafter, but when a rare woman enters upon a
comparable marriage she is commonly set down as insane, and the disaster
that almost always ensues quickly confirms the diagnosis.
The economic and social advantage that women thus seek in marriage—
and the seeking is visible no less in the kitchen wench who aspires to the
heart of a policeman than in the fashionable flapper who looks for a
husband with a Rolls-Royce—is, by a curious twist of fate, one of the
underlying causes of their precarious economic condition before marriage
rescues them. In a civilization which lays its greatest stress upon an
uninspired and almost automatic expertness, and offers its highest rewards
to the more intricate forms thereof, they suffer the disadvantage of being
less capable of it than men. Part of this disadvantage, as we have seen, is
congenital; their very intellectual enterprise makes it difficult for them to
become the efficient machines that men are. But part of it is also due to the
fact that, with marriage always before them, coloring their every vision of
the future, and holding out a steady promise of swift and complete relief,
they are under no such implacable pressure as men are to acquire the sordid
arts they revolt against. The time is too short and the incentive too feeble.
Before the woman employee of twenty-one can master a tenth of the idiotic
“knowledge” in the head of the male clerk of thirty, or even convince
herself that it is worth mastering, she has married the head of the
establishment or maybe the clerk himself, and so abandons the business. It
is, indeed, not until a woman has definitely put away the hope of marriage,
or, at all events, admitted the possibility that she, may have to do so soon or
late, that she buckles down in earnest to whatever craft she practises, and
makes a genuine effort to develop competence. No sane man, seeking a
woman for a post requiring laborious training and unremitting diligence,
would select a woman still definitely young and marriageable. To the
contrary, he would choose either a woman so unattractive sexually as to be
palpably incapable of snaring a man, or one so embittered by some
catastrophe of amour as to be pathologically emptied of the normal
aspirations of her sex.

18. The Process of Courtship

This bemusement of the typical woman by the notion of marriage has
been noted as self-evident by every literate student of the phenomena of
sex, from the early Christian fathers down to Nietzsche, Ellis and Shaw.
That it is denied by the current sentimentality of Christendom is surely no
evidence against it. What we have in this denial, as I have said, is no more
than a proof of woman’s talent for a high and sardonic form of comedy and
of man’s infinite vanity. “I wooed and won her,” says Sganarelle of his
wife. “I made him run,” says the hare of the hound. When the thing is
maintained, not as a mere windy sentimentality, but with some notion of
carrying it logically, the result is invariably a display of paralogy so absurd
that it becomes pathetic. Such nonsense one looks for in the works of
gyneophile theorists with no experience of the world, and there is where
one finds it. It is almost always wedded to the astounding doctrine that
sexual frigidity, already disposed of, is normal in the female, and that the
approach of the male is made possible, not by its melting into passion, but
by a purely intellectual determination, inwardly revolting, to avoid his ire
by pandering to his gross appetites. Thus the thing is stated in a book called
“The Sexes in Science and History,” by Eliza Burt Gamble, an American
lady anthropologist:
The beautiful coloring of male birds and fishes, and the various
appendages acquired by males throughout the various orders below man,
and which, sofar as they themselves are concerned, serve no other useful
purpose than to aid them in securing the favours of the females, have by the
latter been turned to account in the processes of reproduction. The female
made the male beautiful That She Might Endure His Caresses.
The italics are mine. From this premiss the learned doctor proceeds to the
classical sentimental argument that the males of all species, including man,
are little more than chronic seducers, and that their chief energies are
devoted to assaulting and breaking down the native reluctance of the

aesthetic and anesthetic females. In her own words: “Regarding males,
outside of the instinct for self-preservation, which, by the way is often
overshadowed by their great sexual eagerness, no discriminating characters
have been acquired and transmitted, other than those which have been the
result of passion, namely, pugnacity and perseverance.” Again the italics are
mine. What we have here is merely the old, old delusion of masculine
enterprise in amour—the concept of man as a lascivious monster and of
woman as his shrinking victim—in brief, the Don Juan idea in fresh bib and
tucker. In such bilge lie the springs of many of the most vexatious delusions
of the world, and of some of its loudest farce no less. It is thus that fatuous
old maids are led to look under their beds for fabulous ravishers, and to cry
out that they have been stabbed with hypodermic needles in cinema
theatres, and to watch furtively for white slavers in railroad stations. It is
thus, indeed, that the whole white-slave mountebankery has been launched,
with its gaudy fictions and preposterous alarms. And it is thus, more
importantly, that whole regiments of neurotic wives have been convinced
that their children are monuments, not to a co-operation in which their own
share was innocent and cordial, but to the solitary libidinousness of their
swinish and unconscionable husbands.
Dr. Gamble, of course, is speaking of the lower fauna in the time of
Noah. A literal application of her theory to man today is enough to bring it
to a reductio ad absurdum. Which sex of Homo sapiens actually does the
primping and parading that she describes? Which runs to “beautiful
coloring,” sartorial, hirsute, facial? Which encases itself in vestments which
“serve no other useful purpose than to aid in securing the favours” of the
other? The insecurity of the gifted savante’s position is at once apparent.
The more convincingly she argues that the primeval mud-hens and she
mackerel had to be anesthetized with spectacular decorations in order to
“endure the caresses” of their beaux, the more she supports the thesis that
men have to be decoyed and bamboozled into love today. In other words,
her argument turns upon and destroys itself. Carried to its last implication, it
holds that women are all Donna Juanitas, and that if they put off their
millinery and cosmetics, and abandoned the shameless sexual allurements
of their scanty dress, men could not “endure their caresses.”
To be sure, Dr. Gamble by no means draws this disconcerting conclusion
herself. To the contrary, she clings to the conventional theory that the
human female of today is no more than the plaything of the concupiscent

male, and that she must wait for the feminist millenium to set her free from
his abominable pawings. But she can reach this notion only by standing her
whole structure of reasoning on its head—in fact, by knocking it over and
repudiating it. On the one hand, she argues that splendour of attire is merely
a bait to overcome the reluctance of the opposite sex, and on the other hand
she argues, at least by fair inference, that it is not. This grotesque switching
of horses, however, need not detain us. The facts are too plain to be
disposed of by a lady anthropologist’s theorizings. Those facts are
supported, in the field of animal behaviour, by the almost unanimous
evidence of zoologists, including that of Dr. Gamble herself. They are
supported, in the field of human behaviour, by a body of observation and
experience so colossal that it would be quite out of the question to dispose
of it. Women, as I have shown, have a more delicate aesthetic sense than
men; in a world wholly rid of men they would probably still array
themselves with vastly more care and thought of beauty than men would
ever show in like case. But with the world what it is, it must be obvious that
their display of finery—to say nothing of their display of epidermis—has
the conscious purpose of attracting the masculine eye. A normal woman,
indeed, never so much as buys a pair of shoes or has her teeth plugged
without considering, in the back of her mind, the effect upon some
unsuspecting candidate for her “reluctant” affections.

19. The Actual Husband

So far as I can make out, no woman of the sort worth hearing—that is, no
woman of intelligence, humour and charm, and hence of success in the duel
of sex—has ever publicly denied this; the denial is confined entirely to the
absurd sect of female bachelors of arts and to the generality of vain and
unobservant men. The former, having failed to attract men by the devices
described, take refuge behind the sour grapes doctrine that they have never
tried, and the latter, having fallen victims, sooth their egoism by arrogating
the whole agency to themselves, thus giving it a specious appearance of the
volitional, and even of the audacious. The average man is an almost
incredible popinjay; he can think of himself only as at the centre of
situations. All the sordid transactions of his life appear to him, and are
depicted in his accounts of them, as feats, successes, proofs of his acumen.
He regards it as an almost magical exploit to operate a stock-brokerage
shop, or to get elected to public office, or to swindle his fellow knaves in
some degrading commercial enterprise, or to profess some nonsense or
other in a college, or to write so platitudinous a book as this one. And in the
same way he views it as a great testimony to his prowess at amour to yield
up his liberty, his property and his soul to the first woman who, in despair
of finding better game, turns her appraising eye upon him. But if you want
to hear a mirthless laugh, just present this masculine theory to a bridesmaid
at a wedding, particularly after alcohol and crocodile tears have done their
disarming work upon her. That is to say, just hint to her that the bride
harboured no notion of marriage until stormed into acquiescence by the
moonstruck and impetuous bridegroom.
I have used the phrase, “in despair of finding better game.” What I mean
is this that not one woman in a hundred ever marries her first choice among
marriageable men. That first choice is almost invariably one who is beyond
her talents, for reasons either fortuitous or intrinsic. Let us take, for
example, a woman whose relative naivete makes the process clearly

apparent, to wit, a simple shop-girl. Her absolute first choice, perhaps, is
not a living man at all, but a supernatural abstraction in a book, say, one of
the heroes of Hall Caine, Ethel M. Dell, or Marie Corelli. After him comes
a moving-picture actor. Then another moving-picture actor. Then, perhaps,
many more—ten or fifteen head. Then a sebaceous young clergyman. Then
the junior partner in the firm she works for. Then a couple of department
managers. Then a clerk. Then a young man with no definite profession or
permanent job—one of the innumerable host which flits from post to post,
always restive, always trying something new—perhaps a neighborhood
garage-keeper in the end. Well, the girl begins with the Caine colossus: he
vanishes into thin air. She proceeds to the moving picture actors: they are
almost as far beyond her. And then to the man of God, the junior partner,
the department manager, the clerk; one and all they are carried off by girls
of greater attractions and greater skill—girls who can cast gaudier flies. In
the end, suddenly terrorized by the first faint shadows of spinsterhood, she
turns to the ultimate numskull—and marries him out of hand.
This, allowing for class modifications, is almost the normal history of a
marriage, or, more accurately, of the genesis of a marriage, under Protestant
Christianity. Under other rites the business is taken out of the woman’s
hands, at least partly, and so she is less enterprising in her assembling of
candidates and possibilities. But when the whole thing is left to her own
heart—i.e., to her head—it is but natural that she should seek as wide a
range of choice as the conditions of her life allow, and in a democratic
society those conditions put few if any fetters upon her fancy. The servant
girl, or factory operative, or even prostitute of today may be the chorus girl
or moving picture vampire of tomorrow and the millionaire’s wife of next
year. In America, especially, men have no settled antipathy to such stooping
alliances; in fact, it rather flatters their vanity to play Prince Charming to
Cinderella. The result is that every normal American young woman, with
the practicality of her sex and the inner confidence that goes therewith,
raises her amorous eye as high as it will roll. And the second result is that
every American man of presentable exterior and easy means is surrounded
by an aura of discreet provocation: he cannot even dictate a letter, or ask for
a telephone number without being measured for his wedding coat. On the
Continent of Europe, and especially in the Latin countries, where class
barriers are more formidable, the situation differs materially, and to the
disadvantage of the girl. If she makes an overture, it is an invitation to

disaster; her hope of lawful marriage by such means is almost nil. In
consequence, the prudent and decent girl avoids such overtures, and they
must be made by third parties or by the man himself. This is the explanation
of the fact that a Frenchman, say, is habitually enterprising in amour, and
hence bold and often offensive, whereas an American is what is called
chivalrous. The American is chivalrous for the simple reason that the
initiative is not in his hands. His chivalry is really a sort of coquetry.

20. The Unattainable Ideal

But here I rather depart from the point, which is this: that the average
woman is not strategically capable of bringing down the most tempting
game within her purview, and must thus content herself with a second,
third, or nth choice. The only women who get their first choices are those
who run in almost miraculous luck and those too stupid to formulate an
ideal—two very small classes, it must be obvious. A few women, true
enough, are so pertinacious that they prefer defeat to compromise. That is to
say, they prefer to put off marriage indefinitely rather than to marry beneath
the highest leap of their fancy. But such women may be quickly dismissed
as abnormal, and perhaps as downright diseased in mind; the average
woman is well-aware that marriage is far better for her than celibacy, even
when it falls a good deal short of her primary hopes, and she is also well
aware that the differences between man and man, once mere money is put
aside, are so slight as to be practically almost negligible. Thus the average
woman is under none of the common masculine illusions about elective
affinities, soul mates, love at first sight, and such phantasms. She is quite
ready to fall in love, as the phrase is, with any man who is plainly eligible,
and she usually knows a good many more such men than one. Her primary
demand in marriage is not for the agonies of romance, but for comfort and
security; she is thus easier satisfied than a man, and oftener happy. One
frequently hears of remarried widowers who continue to moon about their
dead first wives, but for a remarried widow to show any such sentimentality
would be a nine days’ wonder. Once replaced, a dead husband is expunged
from the minutes. And so is a dead love.
One of the results of all this is a subtle reinforcement of the contempt
with which women normally regard their husbands—a contempt grounded,
as I have shown, upon a sense of intellectual superiority. To this primary
sense of superiority is now added the disparagement of a concrete
comparison, and over all is an ineradicable resentment of the fact that such

a comparison has been necessary. In other words, the typical husband is a
second-rater, and no one is better aware of it than his wife. He is, taking
averages, one who has been loved, as the saying goes, by but one woman,
and then only as a second, third or nth choice. If any other woman had ever
loved him, as the idiom has it, she would have married him, and so made
him ineligible for his present happiness. But the average bachelor is a man
who has been loved, so to speak, by many women, and is the lost first
choice of at least some of them. Here presents the unattainable, and hence
the admirable; the husband is the attained and disdained.
Here we have a sufficient explanation of the general superiority of
bachelors, so often noted by students of mankind—a superiority so marked
that it is difficult, in all history, to find six first-rate philosophers who were
married men. The bachelor’s very capacity to avoid marriage is no more
than a proof of his relative freedom from the ordinary sentimentalism of his
sex—in other words, of his greater approximation to the clear headedness
of the enemy sex. He is able to defeat the enterprise of women because he
brings to the business an equipment almost comparable to their own.
Herbert Spencer, until he was fifty, was ferociously harassed by women of
all sorts. Among others, George Eliot tried very desperately to marry him.
But after he had made it plain, over a long series of years, that he was
prepared to resist marriage to the full extent of his military and naval power,
the girls dropped off one by one, and so his last decades were full of peace
and he got a great deal of very important work done.

21. The Effect on the Race

It is, of course, not well for the world that the highest sort of men are thus
selected out, as the biologists say, and that their superiority dies with them,
whereas the ignoble tricks and sentimentalities of lesser men are infinitely
propagated. Despite a popular delusion that the sons of great men are
always dolts, the fact is that intellectual superiority is inheritable, quite as
easily as bodily strength; and that fact has been established beyond cavil by
the laborious inquiries of Galton, Pearson and the other anthropometricians
of the English school. If such men as Spinoza, Kant, Schopenhauer,
Spencer, and Nietzsche had married and begotten sons, those sons, it is
probable, would have contributed as much to philosophy as the sons and
grandsons of Veit Bach contributed to music, or those of Erasmus Darwin to
biology, or those of Henry Adams to politics, or those of Hamilcar Barca to
the art of war. I have said that Herbert Spencer’s escape from marriage
facilitated his life-work, and so served the immediate good of English
philosophy, but in the long run it will work a detriment, for he left no sons
to carry on his labours, and the remaining Englishmen of his time were
unable to supply the lack. His celibacy, indeed, made English philosophy
co-extensive with his life; since his death the whole body of metaphysical
speculation produced in England has been of little more, practical value to
the world than a drove of bogs. In precisely the same way the celibacy of
Schopenhauer, Kant and Nietzsche has reduced German philosophy to
feebleness.
Even setting aside this direct influence of heredity, there is the equally
potent influence of example and tuition. It is a gigantic advantage to live on
intimate terms with a first-rate man, and have his care. Hamilcar not only
gave the Carthagenians a great general in his actual son; he also gave them
a great general in his son-in-law, trained in his camp. But the tendency of
the first-rate man to remain a bachelor is very strong, and Sidney Lee once
showed that, of all the great writers of England since the Renaissance, more

than half were either celibates or lived apart from their wives. Even the
married ones revealed the tendency plainly. For example, consider
Shakespeare. He was forced into marriage while still a minor by the
brothers of Ann Hathaway, who was several years his senior, and had
debauched him and gave out that she was enceinte by him. He escaped from
her abhorrent embraces as quickly as possible, and thereafter kept as far
away from her as he could. His very distaste for marriage, indeed, was the
cause of his residence in London, and hence, in all probability, of the
labours which made him immortal.
In different parts of the world various expedients have been resorted to to
overcome this reluctance to marriage among the better sort of men.
Christianity, in general, combats it on the ground that it is offensive to God
—though at the same time leaning toward an enforced celibacy among its
own agents. The discrepancy is fatal to the position. On the one hand, it is
impossible to believe that the same God who permitted His own son to die a
bachelor regards celibacy as an actual sin, and on the other hand, it is
obvious that the average cleric would be damaged but little, and probably
improved appreciably, by having a wife to think for him, and to force him
to virtue and industry, and to aid him otherwise in his sordid profession.
Where religious superstitions have died out the institution of the dot
prevails—an idea borrowed by Christians from the Jews. The dot is simply
a bribe designed to overcome the disinclination of the male. It involves a
frank recognition of the fact that he loses by marriage, and it seeks to make
up for that loss by a money payment. Its obvious effect is to give young
women a wider and better choice of husbands. A relatively superior man,
otherwise quite out of reach, may be brought into camp by the assurance of
economic ease, and what is more, he may be kept in order after he has been
taken by the consciousness of his gain. Among hardheaded and highly
practical peoples, such as the Jews and the French, the dot flourishes, and
its effect is to promote intellectual suppleness in the race, for the average
child is thus not inevitably the offspring of a woman and a noodle, as with
us, but may be the offspring of a woman and a man of reasonable
intelligence. But even in France, the very highest class of men tend to evade
marriage; they resist money almost as unanimously as their Anglo-Saxon
brethren resist sentimentality.
In America the dot is almost unknown, partly because money-getting is
easier to men than in Europe and is regarded as less degrading, and partly

because American men are more naive than Frenchmen and are thus readily
intrigued without actual bribery. But the best of them nevertheless lean to
celibacy, and plans for overcoming their habit are frequently proposed and
discussed. One such plan involves a heavy tax on bachelors. The defect in it
lies in the fact that the average bachelor, for obvious reasons, is relatively
well to do, and would pay the tax rather than marry. Moreover, the payment
of it would help to salve his conscience, which is now often made restive, I
believe, by a maudlin feeling that he is shirking his duty to the race, and so
he would be confirmed and supported in his determination to avoid the
altar. Still further, he would escape the social odium which now attaches to
his celibacy, for whatever a man pays for is regarded as his right. As things
stand, that odium is of definite potency, and undoubtedly has its influence
upon a certain number of men in the lower ranks of bachelors. They stand,
so to speak, in the twilight zone of bachelorhood, with one leg furtively
over the altar rail; it needs only an extra pull to bring them to the sacrifice.
But if they could compound for their immunity by a cash indemnity it is
highly probable that they would take on new resolution, and in the end they
would convert what remained of their present disrepute into a source of
egoistic satisfaction, as is done, indeed, by a great many bachelors even
today. These last immoralists are privy to the elements which enter into that
disrepute: the ire of women whose devices they have resisted and the envy
of men who have succumbed.

22. Compulsory Marriage

I myself once proposed an alternative scheme, to wit, the prohibition of
sentimental marriages by law, and the substitution of match-making by the
common hangman. This plan, as revolutionary as it may seem, would have
several plain advantages. For one thing, it would purge the serious business
of marriage of the romantic fol-de-rol that now corrupts it, and so make for
the peace and happiness of the race. For another thing, it would work
against the process which now selects out, as I have said, those men who
are most fit, and so throws the chief burden of paternity upon the inferior, to
the damage of posterity. The hangman, if he made his selections arbitrarily,
would try to give his office permanence and dignity by choosing men
whose marriage would meet with public approbation, i.e., men obviously of
sound stock and talents, i.e., the sort of men who now habitually escape.
And if he made his selection by the hazard of the die, or by drawing
numbers out of a hat, or by any other such method of pure chance, that pure
chance would fall indiscriminately upon all orders of men, and the upper
orders would thus lose their present comparative immunity. True enough, a
good many men would endeavour to influence him privately to their own
advantage, and it is probable that he would occasionally succumb, but it
must be plain that the men most likely to prevail in that enterprise would
not be philosophers, but politicians, and so there would be some benefit to
the race even here. Posterity surely suffers no very heavy loss when a
Congressman, a member of the House of Lords or even an ambassador or
Prime Minister dies childless, but when a Herbert Spencer goes to the grave
without leaving sons behind him there is a detriment to all the generations
of the future.
I did not offer the plan, of course, as a contribution to practical politics,
but merely as a sort of hypothesis, to help clarify the problem. Many other
theoretical advantages appear in it, but its execution is made impossible, not
only by inherent defects, but also by a general disinclination to abandon the

present system, which at least offers certain attractions to concrete men and
women, despite its unfavourable effects upon the unborn. Women would
oppose the substitution of chance or arbitrary fiat for the existing struggle
for the plain reason that every woman is convinced, and no doubt rightly,
that her own judgment is superior to that of either the common hangman or
the gods, and that her own enterprise is more favourable to her
opportunities. And men would oppose it because it would restrict their
liberty. This liberty, of course, is largely imaginary. In its common
manifestation, it is no more, at bottom, than the privilege of being
bamboozled and made a mock of by the first woman who ventures to essay
the business. But none the less it is quite as precious to men as any other of
the ghosts that their vanity conjures up for their enchantment. They cherish
the notion that unconditioned volition enters into the matter, and that under
volition there is not only a high degree of sagacity but also a touch of the
daring and the devilish. A man is often almost as much pleased and flattered
by his own marriage as he would be by the achievement of what is currently
called a seduction. In the one case, as in the other, his emotion is one of
triumph. The substitution of pure chance would take away that soothing
unction.
The present system, to be sure, also involves chance. Every man realizes
it, and even the most bombastic bachelor has moments in which he humbly
whispers: “There, but for the grace of God, go I.” But that chance has a
sugarcoating; it is swathed in egoistic illusion; it shows less stark and
intolerable chanciness, so to speak, than the bald hazard of the die. Thus
men prefer it, and shrink from the other. In the same way, I have no doubt,
the majority of foxes would object to choosing lots to determine the victim
of a projected fox-hunt. They prefer to take their chances with the dogs.

23. Extra-Legal Devices

It is, of course, a rhetorical exaggeration to say that all first-class men
escape marriage, and even more of an exaggeration to say that their high
qualities go wholly untransmitted to posterity. On the one hand it must be
obvious that an appreciable number of them, perhaps by reason of their very
detachment and preoccupation, are intrigued into the holy estate, and that
not a few of them enter it deliberately, convinced that it is the safest form of
liaison possible under Christianity. And on the other hand one must not
forget the biological fact that it is quite feasible to achieve offspring without
the imprimatur of Church and State. The thing, indeed, is so commonplace
that I need not risk a scandal by uncovering it in detail. What I allude to, I
need not add, is not that form of irregularity which curses innocent children
with the stigma of illegitimacy, but that more refined and thoughtful form
which safeguards their social dignity while protecting them against
inheritance from their legal fathers. English philosophy, as I have shown,
suffers by the fact that Herbert Spencer was too busy to permit himself any
such romantic altruism—just as American literature gains enormously by
the fact that Walt Whitman adventured, leaving seven sons behind him,
three of whom are now well-known American poets and in the forefront of
the New Poetry movement.
The extent of this correction of a salient evil of monogamy is very
considerable; its operations explain the private disrepute of perhaps a
majority of first-rate men; its advantages have been set forth in George
Moore’s “Euphorion in Texas,” though in a clumsy and sentimental way.
What is behind it is the profound race sense of women—the instinct which
makes them regard the unborn in their every act—perhaps, too, the fact that
the interests of the unborn are here identical, as in other situations, with
their own egoistic aspirations. As a popular philosopher has shrewdly
observed, the objections to polygamy do not come from women, for the
average woman is sensible enough to prefer half or a quarter or even a tenth

of a first-rate man to the whole devotion of a third-rate man. Considerations
of much the same sort also justify polyandry—if not morally, then at least
biologically. The average woman, as I have shown, must inevitably view
her actual husband with a certain disdain; he is anything but her ideal. In
consequence, she cannot help feeling that her children are cruelly
handicapped by the fact that he is their father, nor can she help feeling
guilty about it; for she knows that he is their father only by reason of her
own initiative in the proceedings anterior to her marriage. If, now, an
opportunity presents itself to remove that handicap from at least some of
them, and at the same time to realize her ideal and satisfy her vanity—if
such a chance offers it is no wonder that she occasionally embraces it.
Here we have an explanation of many lamentable and otherwise
inexplicable violations of domestic integrity. The woman in the case is
commonly dismissed as vicious, but that is no more than a new example of
the common human tendency to attach the concept of viciousness to
whatever is natural, and intelligent, and above the comprehension of
politicians, theologians and green-grocers.

24. Intermezzo on Monogamy

The prevalence of monogamy in Christendom is commonly ascribed to
ethical motives. This is quite as absurd as ascribing wars to ethical motives
which is, of course, frequently done. The simple truth is that ethical motives
are no more than deductions from experience, and that they are quickly
abandoned whenever experience turns against them. In the present case
experience is still overwhelming on the side of monogamy; civilized men
are in favour of it because they find that it works. And why does it work?
Because it is the most effective of all available antidotes to the alarms and
terrors of passion. Monogamy, in brief, kills passion—and passion is the
most dangerous of all the surviving enemies to what we call civilization,
which is based upon order, decorum, restraint, formality, industry,
regimentation. The civilized man—the ideal civilized man—is simply one
who never sacrifices the common security to his private passions. He
reaches perfection when he even ceases to love passionately—when he
reduces the most profound of all his instinctive experience from the level of
an ecstasy to the level of a mere device for replenishing armies and
workshops of the world, keeping clothes in repair, reducing the infant
death-rate, providing enough tenants for every landlord, and making it
possible for the Polizei to know where every citizen is at any hour of the
day or night. Monogamy accomplishes this, not by producing satiety, but by
destroying appetite. It makes passion formal and uninspiring, and so
gradually kills it.
The advocates of monogamy, deceived by its moral overtones, fail to get
all the advantage out of it that is in it. Consider, for example, the important
moral business of safeguarding the virtue of the unmarried—that is, of the
still passionate. The present plan in dealing, say, with a young man of
twenty, is to surround him with scare-crows and prohibitions—to try to
convince him logically that passion is dangerous. This is both
supererogation and imbecility—supererogation because he already knows

that it is dangerous, and imbecility because it is quite impossible to kill a
passion by arguing against it. The way to kill it is to give it rein under
unfavourable and dispiriting conditions—to bring it down, by slow stages,
to the estate of an absurdity and a horror. How much more, then, could be
accomplished if the wild young man were forbidden polygamy, before
marriage, but permitted monogamy! The prohibition in this case would be
relatively easy to enforce, instead of impossible, as in the other. Curiosity
would be satisfied; nature would get out of her cage; even romance would
get an inning. Ninety-nine young men out of a hundred would submit, if
only because it would be much easier to submit that to resist.
And the result? Obviously, it would be laudable—that is, accepting
current definitions of the laudable. The product, after six months, would be
a well-regimented and disillusioned young man, as devoid of disquieting
and demoralizing passion as an ancient of eighty—in brief, the ideal citizen
of Christendom. The present plan surely fails to produce a satisfactory crop
of such ideal citizens. On the one hand its impossible prohibitions cause a
multitude of lamentable revolts, often ending in a silly sort of running
amok. On the other hand they fill the Y. M. C. A.’s with scared poltroons
full of indescribably disgusting Freudian suppressions. Neither group
supplies many ideal citizens. Neither promotes the sort of public morality
that is aimed at.

25. Late Marriages

The marriage of a first-rate man, when it takes place at all, commonly
takes place relatively late. He may succumb in the end, but he is almost
always able to postpone the disaster a good deal longer than the average
poor clodpate, or normal man. If he actually marries early, it is nearly
always proof that some intolerable external pressure has been applied to
him, as in Shakespeare’s case, or that his mental sensitiveness approaches
downright insanity, as in Shelley’s. This fact, curiously enough, has escaped
the observation of an otherwise extremely astute observer, namely
Havelock Ellis. In his study of British genius he notes the fact that most
men of unusual capacities are the sons of relatively old fathers, but instead
of exhibiting the true cause thereof, he ascribes it to a mysterious quality
whereby a man already in decline is capable of begetting better offspring
than one in full vigour. This is a palpable absurdity, not only because it goes
counter to facts long established by animal breeders, but also because it
tacitly assumes that talent, and hence the capacity for transmitting it, is an
acquired character, and that this character may be transmitted. Nothing
could be more unsound. Talent is not an acquired character, but a congenital
character, and the man who is born with it has it in early life quite as well as
in later life, though Its manifestation may have to wait. James Mill was yet
a young man when his son, John Stuart Mill, was born, and not one of his
principle books had been written. But though the “Elements of Political
Economy” and the “Analysis of the Human Mind” were thus but vaguely
formulated in his mind, if they were actually so much as formulated at all,
and it was fifteen years before he wrote them, he was still quite able to
transmit the capacity to write them to his son, and that capacity showed
itself, years afterward, in the latter’s “Principles of Political Economy” and
“Essay on Liberty.”
But Ellis’ faulty inference is still based upon a sound observation, to wit,
that the sort of man capable of transmitting high talents to a son is

ordinarily a man who does not have a son at all, at least in wedlock, until he
has advanced into middle life. The reasons which impel him to yield even
then are somewhat obscure, but two or three of them, perhaps, may be
vaguely discerned. One lies in the fact that every man, whether of the first-
class or of any other class, tends to decline in mental agility as he grows
older, though in the actual range and profundity of his intelligence he may
keep on improving until he collapses into senility. Obviously, it is mere
agility of mind, and not profundity, that is of most value and effect in so
tricky and deceptive a combat as the duel of sex. The aging man, with his
agility gradually withering, is thus confronted by women in whom it still
luxuriates as a function of their relative youth. Not only do women of his
own age aspire to ensnare him, but also women of all ages back to
adolescence. Hence his average or typical opponent tends to be
progressively younger and younger than he is, and in the end the mere
advantage of her youth may be sufficient to tip over his tottering defences.
This, I take it, is why oldish men are so often intrigued by girls in their
teens. It is not that age calls maudlinly to youth, as the poets would have it;
it is that age is no match for youth, especially when age is male and youth is
female. The case of the late Henrik Ibsen was typical. At forty Ibsen was a
sedate family man, and it is doubtful that he ever so much as glanced at a
woman; all his thoughts were upon the composition of “The League of
Youth,” his first social drama. At fifty he was almost as preoccupied; “A
Doll’s House” was then hatching. But at sixty, with his best work all done
and his decline begun, he succumbed preposterously to a flirtatious damsel
of eighteen, and thereafter, until actual insanity released him, he mooned
like a provincial actor in a sentimental melodrama. Had it not been, indeed,
for the fact that he was already married, and to a very sensible wife, he
would have run off with this flapper, and so made himself publicly
ridiculous.
Another reason for the relatively late marriages of superior men is found,
perhaps, in the fact that, as a man grows older, the disabilities he suffers by
marriage tend to diminish and the advantages to increase. At thirty a man is
terrified by the inhibitions of monogamy and has little taste for the so-called
comforts of a home; at sixty he is beyond amorous adventure and is in need
of creature ease and security. What he is oftenest conscious of, in these later
years, is his physical decay; he sees himself as in imminent danger of
falling into neglect and helplessness. He is thus confronted by a choice

between getting a wife or hiring a nurse, and he commonly chooses the wife
as the less expensive and exacting. The nurse, indeed, would probably try to
marry him anyhow; if he employs her in place of a wife he commonly ends
by finding himself married and minus a nurse, to his confusion and
discomfiture, and to the far greater discomfiture of his heirs and assigns.
This process is so obvious and so commonplace that I apologize formally
for rehearsing it. What it indicates is simply this: that a man’s instinctive
aversion to marriage is grounded upon a sense of social and economic self-
sufficiency, and that it descends into a mere theory when this self-
sufficiency disappears. After all, nature is on the side of mating, and hence
on the side of marriage, and vanity is a powerful ally of nature. If men, at
the normal mating age, had half as much to gain by marriage as women
gain, then, all men would be as ardently in favour of it as women are.

26. Disparate Unions

This brings us to a fact frequently noted by students of the subject: that
first-rate men, when they marry at all, tend to marry noticeably inferior
wives. The causes of the phenomenon, so often discussed and so seldom
illuminated, should be plain by now. The first-rate man, by postponing
marriage as long as possible, often approaches it in the end with his
faculties crippled by senility, and is thus open to the advances of women
whose attractions are wholly meretricious, e.g., empty flappers, scheming
widows, and trained nurses with a highly developed professional technic of
sympathy. If he marries at all, indeed, he must commonly marry badly, for
women of genuine merit are no longer interested in him; what was once a
lodestar is now no more than a smoking smudge. It is this circumstance that
account for the low calibre of a good many first-rate men’s sons, and gives
a certain support to the common notion that they are always third-raters.
Those sons inherit from their mothers as well as from their fathers, and the
bad strain is often sufficient to obscure and nullify the good strain.
Mediocrity, as every Mendelian knows, is a dominant character, and
extraordinary ability is recessive character. In a marriage between an able
man and a commonplace woman, the chances that any given child will
resemble the mother are, roughly speaking, three to one.
The fact suggests the thought that nature is secretly against the superman,
and seeks to prevent his birth. We have, indeed, no ground for assuming
that the continued progress visualized by man is in actual accord with the
great flow of the elemental forces. Devolution is quite as natural as
evolution, and may be just as pleasing, or even a good deal more pleasing,
to God. If the average man is made in God’s image, then a man such as
Beethoven or Aristotle is plainly superior to God, and so God may be
jealous of him, and eager to see his superiority perish with his bodily frame.
All animal breeders know how difficult it is to maintain a fine strain. The
universe seems to be in a conspiracy to encourage the endless reproduction

of peasants and Socialists, but a subtle and mysterious opposition stands
eternally against the reproduction of philosophers.
Per corollary, it is notorious that women of merit frequently marry
second-rate men, and bear them children, thus aiding in the war upon
progress. One is often astonished to discover that the wife of some sordid
and prosaic manufacturer or banker or professional man is a woman of
quick intelligence and genuine charm, with intellectual interests so far
above his comprehension that he is scarcely so much as aware of them.
Again, there are the leading feminists, women artists and other such
captains of the sex; their husbands are almost always inferior men, and
sometimes downright fools. But not paupers! Not incompetents in a man’s
world! Not bad husbands! What we here encounter, of course, is no more
than a fresh proof of the sagacity of women. The first-rate woman is a
realist. She sees clearly that, in a world dominated by second-rate men, the
special capacities of the second-rate man are esteemed above all other
capacities and given the highest rewards, and she endeavours to get her
share of those rewards by marrying a second-rate man at the top of his
class. The first-rate man is an admirable creature; his qualities are
appreciated by every intelligent woman; as I have just said, it may be
reasonably argued that he is actually superior to God. But his attractions,
after a certain point, do not run in proportion to his deserts; beyond that he
ceases to be a good husband. Hence the pursuit of him is chiefly
maintained, not by women who are his peers, but by women who are his
inferiors.
Here we unearth another factor: the fascination of what is strange, the
charm of the unlike, heliogabalisme. As Shakespeare has put it, there must
be some mystery in love—and there can be no mystery between intellectual
equals. I dare say that many a woman marries an inferior man, not primarily
because he is a good provider (though it is impossible to imagine her
overlooking this), but because his very inferiority interests her, and makes
her want to remedy it and mother him. Egoism is in the impulse: it is
pleasant to have a feeling of superiority, and to be assured that it can be
maintained. If now, that feeling be mingled with sexual curiosity and
economic self-interest, it obviously supplies sufficient motivation to
account for so natural and banal a thing as a marriage. Perhaps the greatest
of all these factors is the mere disparity, the naked strangeness. A woman
could not love a man, as the phrase is, who wore skirts and pencilled his

eye-brows, and by the same token she would probably find it difficult to
love a man who matched perfectly her own sharpness of mind. What she
most esteems in marriage, on the psychic plane, is the chance it offers for
the exercise of that caressing irony which I have already described. She
likes to observe that her man is a fool—dear, perhaps, but none the less
damned. Her so-called love for him, even at its highest, is always somewhat
pitying and patronizing.

27. The Charm of Mystery

Monogamous marriage, by its very conditions, tends to break down this
strangeness. It forces the two contracting parties into an intimacy that is too
persistent and unmitigated; they are in contact at too many points, and too
steadily. By and by all the mystery of the relation is gone, and they stand in
the unsexed position of brother and sister. Thus that “maximum of
temptation” of which Shaw speaks has within itself the seeds of its own
decay. A husband begins by kissing a pretty girl, his wife; it is pleasant to
have her so handy and so willing. He ends by making machiavellian efforts
to avoid kissing the every day sharer of his meals, books, bath towels,
pocketbook, relatives, ambitions, secrets, malaises and business: a
proceeding about as romantic as having his boots blacked. The thing is too
horribly dismal for words. Not all the native sentimentalism of man can
overcome the distaste and boredom that get into it. Not all the histrionic
capacity of woman can attach any appearance of gusto and spontaneity to it.
An estimable lady psychologist of the American Republic, Mrs. Marion
Cox, in a somewhat florid book entitled “Ventures into Worlds,” has a
sagacious essay upon this subject. She calls the essay “Our Incestuous
Marriage,” and argues accurately that, once the adventurous descends to the
habitual, it takes on an offensive and degrading character. The intimate
approach, to give genuine joy, must be a concession, a feat of persuasion, a
victory; once it loses that character it loses everything. Such a destructive
conversion is effected by the average monogamous marriage. It breaks
down all mystery and reserve, for how can mystery and reserve survive the
use of the same hot water bag and a joint concern about butter and egg
bills? What remains, at least on the husband’s side, is esteem—the feeling
one, has for an amiable aunt. And confidence—the emotion evoked by a
lawyer, a dentist or a fortune-teller. And habit—the thing which makes it
possible to eat the same breakfast every day, and to windup one’s watch
regularly, and to earn a living.

Mrs. Cox, if I remember her dissertation correctly, proposes to prevent
this stodgy dephlogistication of marriage by interrupting its course—that is,
by separating the parties now and then, so that neither will become too
familiar and commonplace to the other. By this means, she, argues,
curiosity will be periodically revived, and there will be a chance for
personality to expand a cappella, and so each reunion will have in it
something of the surprise, the adventure and the virtuous satanry of the
honeymoon. The husband will not come back to precisely the same wife
that he parted from, and the wife will not welcome precisely the same
husband. Even supposing them to have gone on substantially as if together,
they will have gone on out of sight and hearing of each other, Thus each
will find the other, to some extent at least, a stranger, and hence a bit
challenging, and hence a bit charming. The scheme has merit. More, it has
been tried often, and with success. It is, indeed, a familiar observation that
the happiest couples are those who are occasionally separated, and the fact
has been embalmed in the trite maxim that absence makes the heart grow
fonder. Perhaps not actually fonder, but at any rate more tolerant, more
curious, more eager. Two difficulties, however, stand in the way of the
widespread adoption of the remedy. One lies in its costliness: the average
couple cannot afford a double establishment, even temporarily. The other
lies in the fact that it inevitably arouses the envy and ill-nature of those who
cannot adopt it, and so causes a gabbling of scandal. The world invariably
suspects the worst. Let man and wife separate to save their happiness from
suffocation in the kitchen, the dining room and the connubial chamber, and
it will immediately conclude that the corpse is already laid out in the
drawing-room.

28. Woman as Wife

This boredom of marriage, however, is not nearly so dangerous a menace
to the institution as Mrs. Cox, with evangelistic enthusiasm, permits herself
to think it is. It bears most harshly upon the wife, who is almost always the
more intelligent of the pair; in the case of the husband its pains are usually
lightened by that sentimentality with which men dilute the disagreeable,
particularly in marriage. Moreover, the average male gets his living by such
depressing devices that boredom becomes a sort of natural state to him. A
man who spends six or eight hours a day acting as teller in a bank, or sitting
upon the bench of a court, or looking to the inexpressibly trivial details of
some process of manufacturing, or writing imbecile articles for a
newspaper, or managing a tramway, or administering ineffective medicines
to stupid and uninteresting patients—a man so engaged during all his hours
of labour, which means a normal, typical man, is surely not one to be
oppressed unduly by the dull round of domesticity. His wife may bore him
hopelessly as mistress, just as any other mistress inevitably bores a man
(though surely not so quickly and so painfully as a lover bores a woman),
but she is not apt to bore him so badly in her other capacities. What he
commonly complains about in her, in truth, is not that she tires him by her
monotony, but that she tires him by her variety—not that she is too static,
but that she is too dynamic. He is weary when he gets home, and asks only
the dull peace of a hog in a comfortable sty. This peace is broken by the
greater restlessness of his wife, the fruit of her greater intellectual resilience
and curiosity.
Of far more potency as a cause of connubial discord is the general
inefficiency of a woman at the business of what is called keeping house—a
business founded upon a complex of trivial technicalities. As I have argued
at length, women are congenitally less fitted for mastering these
technicalities than men; the enterprise always costs them more effort, and
they are never able to reinforce mere diligent application with that obtuse

enthusiasm which men commonly bring to their tawdry and childish
concerns. But in addition to their natural incapacity, there is a reluctance
based upon a deficiency in incentive, and deficiency in incentive is due to
the maudlin sentimentality with which men regard marriage. In this
sentimentality lie the germs of most of the evils which beset the institution
in Christendom, and particularly in the United States, where sentiment is
always carried to inordinate lengths. Having abandoned the mediaeval
concept of woman as temptress the men of the Nordic race have revived the
correlative mediaeval concept of woman as angel and to bolster up that
character they have create for her a vast and growing mass of immunities
culminating of late years in the astounding doctrine that, under the contract
of marriage, all the duties lie upon the man and all the privileges appertain
to the woman. In part this doctrine has been established by the intellectual
enterprise and audacity of woman. Bit by bit, playing upon masculine
stupidity, sentimentality and lack of strategical sense, they have formulated
it, developed it, and entrenched it in custom and law. But in other part it is
the plain product of the donkeyish vanity which makes almost every man
view the practical incapacity of his wife as, in some vague way, a tribute to
his own high mightiness and consideration. Whatever is revolt against her
immediate indolence and efficiency, his ideal is nearly always a situation in
which she will figure as a magnificent drone, a sort of empress without
portfolio, entirely discharged from every unpleasant labour and
responsibility.

29. Marriage and the Law

This was not always the case. No more than a century ago, even by
American law, the most sentimental in the world, the husband was the head
of the family firm, lordly and autonomous. He had authority over the purse-
strings, over the children, and even over his wife. He could enforce his
mandates by appropriate punishment, including the corporal. His
sovereignty and dignity were carefully guarded by legislation, the product
of thousands of years of experience and ratiocination. He was safeguarded
in his self-respect by the most elaborate and efficient devices, and they had
the support of public opinion.
Consider, now, the changes that a few short years have wrought. Today,
by the laws of most American states—laws proposed, in most cases, by
maudlin and often notoriously extravagant agitators, and passerby
sentimental orgy—all of the old rights of the husband have been converted
into obligations. He no longer has any control over his wife’s property; she
may devote its income to the family or she may squander that income upon
idle follies, and he can do nothing. She has equal authority in regulating and
disposing of the children, and in the case of infants, more than he. There is
no law compelling her to do her share of the family labour: she may spend
her whole time in cinema theatres or gadding about the shops as she will.
She cannot be forced to perpetuate the family name if she does not want to.
She cannot be attacked with masculine weapons, e.g., fists and firearms,
when she makes an assault with feminine weapons, e.g., snuffling, invective
and sabotage. Finally, no lawful penalty can be visited upon her if she fails
absolutely, either deliberately or through mere incapacity, to keep the family
habitat clean, the children in order, and the victuals eatable.
Now view the situation of the husband. The instant he submits to
marriage, his wife obtains a large and inalienable share in his property,
including all he may acquire in future; in most American states the
minimum is one-third, and, failing children, one-half. He cannot dispose of

his real estate without her consent; he cannot even deprive her of it by will.
She may bring up his children carelessly and idiotically, cursing them with
abominable manners and poisoning their nascent minds against him, and he
has no redress. She may neglect her home, gossip and lounge about all day,
put impossible food upon his table, steal his small change, pry into his
private papers, hand over his home to the Periplaneta americana, accuse
him falsely of preposterous adulteries, affront his friends, and lie about him
to the neighbours—and he can do nothing. She may compromise his honour
by indecent dressing, write letters to moving-picture actors, and expose him
to ridicule by going into politics—and he is helpless.
Let him undertake the slightest rebellion, over and beyond mere
rhetorical protest, and the whole force of the state comes down upon him. If
he corrects her with the bastinado or locks her up, he is good for six months
in jail. If he cuts off her revenues, he is incarcerated until he makes them
good. And if he seeks surcease in flight, taking the children with him, he is
pursued by the gendarmerie, brought back to his duties, and depicted in the
public press as a scoundrelly kidnapper, fit only for the knout. In brief, she
is under no legal necessity whatsoever to carry out her part of the compact
at the altar of God, whereas he faces instant disgrace and punishment for
the slightest failure to observe its last letter. For a few grave crimes of
commission, true enough, she may be proceeded against. Open adultery is a
recreation that is denied to her. She cannot poison her husband. She must
not assault him with edged tools, or leave him altogether, or strip off her
few remaining garments and go naked. But for the vastly more various and
numerous crimes of omission—and in sum they are more exasperating and
intolerable than even overt felony—she cannot be brought to book at all.
The scene I depict is American, but it will soon extend its horrors to all
Protestant countries. The newly enfranchised women of every one of them
cherish long programs of what they call social improvement, and practically
the whole of that improvement is based upon devices for augmenting their
own relative autonomy and power. The English wife of tradition, so
thoroughly a femme covert, is being displaced by a gadabout, truculent,
irresponsible creature, full of strange new ideas about her rights, and
strongly disinclined to submit to her husband’s authority, or to devote
herself honestly to the upkeep of his house, or to bear him a biological
sufficiency of heirs. And the German Hausfrau, once so innocently
consecrated to Kirche, Kuche und Kinder, is going the same way.

30. The Emancipated Housewife

What has gone on in the United States during the past two generations is
full of lessons and warnings for the rest of the world. The American
housewife of an earlier day was famous for her unremitting diligence. She
not only cooked, washed and ironed; she also made shift to master such
more complex arts as spinning, baking and brewing. Her expertness,
perhaps, never reached a high level, but at all events she made a gallant
effort. But that was long, long ago, before the new enlightenment rescued
her. Today, in her average incarnation, she is not only incompetent (alack,
as I have argued, rather beyond her control); she is also filled with the
notion that a conscientious discharge of her few remaining duties is, in
some vague way, discreditable and degrading. To call her a good cook, I
daresay, was never anything but flattery; the early American cuisine was
probably a fearful thing, indeed. But today the flattery turns into a sort of
libel, and she resents it, or, at all events, does not welcome it. I used to
know an American literary man, educated on the Continent, who married a
woman because she had exceptional gifts in this department. Years later, at
one of her dinners, a friend of her husband’s tried to please her by
mentioning the fact, to which he had always been privy. But instead of
being complimented, as a man might have been if told that his wife had
married him because he was a good lawyer, or surgeon, or blacksmith, this
unusual housekeeper, suffering a renaissance of usualness, denounced the
guest as a liar, ordered him out of the house, and threatened to leave her
husband.
This disdain of offices that, after all, are necessary, and might as well be
faced with some show of cheerfulness, takes on the character of a definite
cult in the United States, and the stray woman who attends to them
faithfully is laughed at as a drudge and a fool, just as she is apt to be
dismissed as a “brood sow” (I quote literally, craving absolution for the
phrase: a jury of men during the late war, on very thin patriotic grounds,

jailed the author of it) if she favours her lord with viable issue. One result is
the notorious villainousness of American cookery—a villainousness so
painful to a cultured uvula that a French hack-driver, if his wife set its
masterpieces before him, would brain her with his linoleum hat. To
encounter a decent meal in an American home of the middle class, simple,
sensibly chosen and competently cooked, becomes almost as startling as to
meet a Y. M. C. A. secretary in a bordello, and a good deal rarer. Such a
thing, in most of the large cities of the Republic, scarcely has any existence.
If the average American husband wants a sound dinner he must go to a
restaurant to get it, just as if he wants to refresh himself with the society of
charming and well-behaved children, he has to go to an orphan asylum.
Only the immigrant can take his case and invite his soul within his own
house.

IV. Woman Suffrage

31. The Crowning Victory

It is my sincere hope that nothing I have here exhibited will be mistaken
by the nobility and gentry for moral indignation. No such feeling, in truth,
is in my heart. Moral judgments, as old Friedrich used to say, are foreign to
my nature. Setting aside the vast herd which shows no definable character
at all, it seems to me that the minority distinguished by what is commonly
regarded as an excess of sin is very much more admirable than the minority
distinguished by an excess of virtue. My experience of the world has taught
me that the average wine-bibber is a far better fellow than the average
prohibitionist, and that the average rogue is better company than the
average poor drudge, and that the worst white, slave trader of my
acquaintance is a decenter man than the best vice crusader. In the same way
I am convinced that the average woman, whatever her deficiencies, is
greatly superior to the average man. The very ease with which she defies
and swindles him in several capital situations of life is the clearest of proofs
of her general superiority. She did not obtain her present high immunities as
a gift from the gods, but only after a long and often bitter fight, and in that
fight she exhibited forensic and tactical talents of a truly admirable order.
There was no weakness of man that she did not penetrate and take
advantage of. There was no trick that she did not put to effective use. There
was no device so bold and inordinate that it daunted her.
The latest and greatest fruit of this feminine talent for combat is the
extension of the suffrage, now universal in the Protestant countries, and
even advancing in those of the Greek and Latin rites. This fruit was
garnered, not by an attack en masse, but by a mere foray. I believe that the
majority of women, for reasons that I shall presently expose, were not eager
for the extension, and regard it as of small value today. They know that they
can get what they want without going to the actual polls for it; moreover,
they are out of sympathy with most of the brummagem reforms advocated
by the professional suffragists, male and female. The mere statement of the

current suffragist platform, with its long list of quack sure-cures for all the
sorrows of the world, is enough to make them smile sadly. In particular,
they are sceptical of all reforms that depend upon the mass action of
immense numbers of voters, large sections of whom are wholly devoid of
sense. A normal woman, indeed, no more believes in democracy in the
nation than she believes in democracy at her own fireside; she knows that
there must be a class to order and a class to obey, and that the two can never
coalesce. Nor is she susceptible to the stock sentimentalities upon which the
whole democratic process is based. This was shown very dramatically in the
United States at the national election of 1920, in which the late Woodrow
Wilson was brought down to colossal and ignominious defeat—the first
general election in which all American women could vote. All the
sentimentality of the situation was on the side of Wilson, and yet fully
three-fourths of the newly-enfranchised women voters voted against him.
He is, despite his talents for deception, a poor popular psychologist, and so
he made an inept effort to fetch the girls by tear-squeezing: every
connoisseur will remember his bathos about breaking the heart of the world.
Well, very few women believe in broken hearts, and the cause is not far to
seek: practically every woman above the age of twenty-five has a broken
heart. That is to say, she has been vastly disappointed, either by failing to
nab some pretty fellow that her heart was set on, or, worse, by actually
nabbing him, and then discovering him to be a bounder or an imbecile, or
both. Thus walking the world with broken hearts, women know that the
injury is not serious. When he pulled out the Vox angelica stop and began
sobbing and snuffling and blowing his nose tragically, the learned doctor
simply drove all the women voters into the arms of the Hon. Warren
Gamaliel Harding, who was too stupid to invent any issues at all, but simply
took negative advantage of the distrust aroused by his opponent.
Once the women of Christendom become at ease in the use of the ballot,
and get rid of the preposterous harridans who got it for them and who now
seek to tell them what to do with it, they will proceed to a scotching of
many of the sentimentalities which currently corrupt politics. For one thing,
I believe that they will initiate measures against democracy—the worst evil
of the present-day world. When they come to the matter, they will certainly
not ordain the extension of the suffrage to children, criminals and the insane
in brief, to those ever more inflammable and knavish than the male hinds
who have enjoyed it for so long; they will try to bring about its restriction,

bit by bit, to the small minority that is intelligent, agnostic and self-
possessed—say six women to one man. Thus, out of their greater instinct
for reality, they will make democracy safe for a democracy.
The curse of man, and the cause of nearly all his woes, is his stupendous
capacity for believing the incredible. He is forever embracing delusions,
and each new one is worse than all that have gone before. But where is the
delusion that women cherish—I mean habitually, firmly, passionately? Who
will draw up a list of propositions, held and maintained by them in sober
earnest, that are obviously not true? (I allude here, of course, to genuine
women, not to suffragettes and other such pseudo-males). As for me, I
should not like to undertake such a list. I know of nothing, in fact, that
properly belongs to it. Women, as a class, believe in none of the ludicrous
rights, duties and pious obligations that men are forever gabbling about.
Their superior intelligence is in no way more eloquently demonstrated than
by their ironical view of all such phantasmagoria. Their habitual attitude
toward men is one of aloof disdain, and their habitual attitude toward what
men believe in, and get into sweats about, and bellow for, is substantially
the same. It takes twice as long to convert a body of women to some new
fallacy as it takes to convert a body of men, and even then they halt, hesitate
and are full of mordant criticisms. The women of Colorado had been voting
for 21 years before they succumbed to prohibition sufficiently to allow the
man voters of the state to adopt it; their own majority voice was against it to
the end. During the interval the men voters of a dozen non-suffrage
American states had gone shrieking to the mourners’ bench. In California,
enfranchised in 1911, the women rejected the dry revelation in 1914.
National prohibition was adopted during the war without their votes—they
did not get the franchise throughout the country until it was in the
Constitution—and it is without their support today. The American man,
despite his reputation for lawlessness, is actually very much afraid of the
police, and in all the regions where prohibition is now actually enforced he
makes excuses for his poltroonish acceptance of it by arguing that it will do
him good in the long run, or that he ought to sacrifice his private desires to
the common weal. But it is almost impossible to find an American woman
of any culture who is in favour of it. One and all, they are opposed to the
turmoil and corruption that it involves, and resentful of the invasion of
liberty underlying it. Being realists, they have no belief in any program
which proposes to cure the natural swinishness of men by legislation. Every

normal woman believes, and quite accurately, that the average man is very
much like her husband, John, and she knows very well that John is a weak,
silly and knavish fellow, and that any effort to convert him into an
archangel overnight is bound to come to grief. As for her view of the
average creature of her own sex, it is marked by a cynicism so penetrating
and so destructive that a clear statement of it would shock beyond
endurance.

32. The Woman Voter

Thus there is not the slightest chance that the enfranchised women of
Protestantdom, once they become at ease in the use of the ballot, will give
any heed to the ex-suffragettes who now presume to lead and instruct them
in politics. Years ago I predicted that these suffragettes, tried out by victory,
would turn out to be idiots. They are now hard at work proving it. Half of
them devote themselves to advocating reforms, chiefly of a sexual
character, so utterly preposterous that even male politicians and newspaper
editors laugh at them; the other half succumb absurdly to the blandishments
of the old-time male politicians, and so enroll themselves in the great
political parties. A woman who joins one of these parties simply becomes
an imitation man, which is to say, a donkey. Thereafter she is nothing but an
obscure cog in an ancient and creaking machine, the sole intelligible
purpose of which is to maintain a horde of scoundrels in public office. Her
vote is instantly set off by the vote of some sister who joins the other
camorra. Parenthetically, I may add that all of the ladies to take to this
political immolation seem to me to be frightfully plain. I know those of
England, Germany and Scandinavia only by their portraits in the illustrated
papers, but those of the United States I have studied at close range at
various large political gatherings, including the two national conventions
first following the extension of the suffrage. I am surely no fastidious
fellow—in fact, I prefer a certain melancholy decay in women to the loud,
circus-wagon brilliance of youth—but I give you my word that there were
not five women at either national convention who could have embraced me
in camera without first giving me chloral. Some of the chief stateswomen
on show, in fact, were so downright hideous that I felt faint every time I had
to look at them.
The reform-monging suffragists seem to be equally devoid of the more
caressing gifts. They may be filled with altruistic passion, but they certainly
have bad complexions, and not many of them know how to dress their hair.

Nine-tenths of them advocate reforms aimed at the alleged lubricity of the
male-the single standard, medical certificates for bridegrooms, birth-
control, and so on. The motive here, I believe, is mere rage and jealousy.
The woman who is not pursued sets up the doctrine that pursuit is offensive
to her sex, and wants to make it a felony. No genuinely attractive woman
has any such desire. She likes masculine admiration, however violently
expressed, and is quite able to take care of herself. More, she is well aware
that very few men are bold enough to offer it without a plain invitation, and
this awareness makes her extremely cynical of all women who complain of
being harassed, beset, storied, and seduced. All the more intelligent women
that I know, indeed, are unanimously of the opinion that no girl in her right
senses has ever been actually seduced since the world began; whenever they
hear of a case, they sympathize with the man. Yet more, the normal woman
of lively charms, roving about among men, always tries to draw the
admiration of those who have previously admired elsewhere; she prefers the
professional to the amateur, and estimates her skill by the attractiveness of
the huntresses who have hitherto stalked it. The iron-faced suffragist
propagandist, if she gets a man at all, must get one wholly without
sentimental experience. If he has any, her crude manoeuvres make him
laugh and he is repelled by her lack of pulchritude and amiability. All such
suffragists (save a few miraculous beauties) marry ninth-rate men when
they marry at all. They have to put up with the sort of castoffs who are
almost ready to fall in love with lady physicists, embryologists, and
embalmers.
Fortunately for the human race, the campaigns of these indignant
viragoes will come to naught. Men will keep on pursuing women until hell
freezes over, and women will keep luring them on. If the latter enterprise
were abandoned, in fact, the whole game of love would play out, for not
many men take any notice of women spontaneously. Nine men out of ten
would be quite happy, I believe, if there were no women in the world, once
they had grown accustomed to the quiet. Practically all men are their
happiest when they are engaged upon activities—for example, drinking,
gambling, hunting, business, adventure—to which women are not ordinarily
admitted. It is women who seduce them from such celibate doings. The hare
postures and gyrates in front of the hound. The way to put an end to the
gaudy crimes that the suffragist alarmists talk about is to shave the heads of
all the pretty girls in the world, and pluck out their eyebrows, and pull their

teeth, and put them in khaki, and forbid them to wriggle on dance-floors, or
to wear scents, or to use lip-sticks, or to roll their eyes. Reform, as usual,
mistakes the fish for the fly.

33. A Glance Into the Future

The present public prosperity of the ex-suffragettes is chiefly due to the
fact that the old-time male politicians, being naturally very stupid, mistake
them for spokesmen for the whole body of women, and so show them
politeness. But soon or late—and probably disconcertingly soon—the great
mass of sensible and agnostic women will turn upon them and depose them,
and thereafter the woman vote will be no longer at the disposal of bogus
Great Thinkers and messiahs. If the suffragettes continue to fill the
newspapers with nonsense, once that change has been effected, it will be
only as a minority sect of tolerated idiots, like the Swedenborgians,
Christian Scientists, Seventh Day Adventists and other such fanatics of
today. This was the history of the extension of the suffrage in all of the
American states that made it before the national enfranchisement of women
and it will be repeated in the nation at large, and in Great Britain and on the
Continent. Women are not taken in by quackery as readily as men are; the
hardness of their shell of logic makes it difficult to penetrate to their
emotions. For one woman who testifies publicly that she has been cured of
cancer by some swindling patent medicine, there are at least twenty
masculine witnesses. Even such frauds as the favourite American elixir,
Lydia Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound, which are ostensibly remedies for
specifically feminine ills, anatomically impossible in the male, are chiefly
swallowed, so an intelligent druggist tells me, by men.
My own belief, based on elaborate inquiries and long meditation, is that
the grant of the ballot to women marks the concealed but none the less real
beginning of an improvement in our politics, and, in the end, in our whole
theory of government. As things stand, an intelligent grappling with some
of the capital problems of the commonwealth is almost impossible. A
politician normally prospers under democracy, not in proportion as his
principles are sound and his honour incorruptible, but in proportion as she
excels in the manufacture of sonorous phrases, and the invention of

imaginary perils and imaginary defences against them. Our politics thus
degenerates into a mere pursuit of hobgoblins; the male voter, a coward as
well as an ass, is forever taking fright at a new one and electing some
mountebank to lay it. For a hundred years past the people of the United
States, the most terrible existing democratic state, have scarcely had a
political campaign that was not based upon some preposterous fear—first of
slavery and then of the manumitted slave, first of capitalism and then of
communism, first of the old and then of the novel. It is a peculiarity of
women that they are not easily set off by such alarms, that they do not fall
readily into such facile tumults and phobias. What starts a male meeting to
snuffling and trembling most violently is precisely the thing that would
cause a female meeting to sniff. What we need, to ward off mobocracy and
safeguard a civilized form of government, is more of this sniffing. What we
need—and in the end it must come—is a sniff so powerful that it will call a
halt upon the navigation of the ship from the forecastle, and put a
competent staff on the bridge, and lay a course that is describable in
intelligible terms.
The officers nominated by the male electorate in modern democracies
before the extension of the suffrage were usually chosen, not for their
competence but for their mere talent for idiocy; they reflected accurately the
male weakness for whatever is rhetorical and sentimental and feeble and
untrue. Consider, for example, what happened in a salient case. Every four
years the male voters of the United States chose from among themselves
one who was put forward as the man most fit, of all resident men, to be the
first citizen of the commonwealth. He was chosen after interminable
discussion; his qualifications were thoroughly canvassed; very large powers
and dignities were put into his hands. Well, what did we commonly find
when we examined this gentleman? We found, not a profound thinker, not a
leader of sound opinion, not a man of notable sense, but merely a
wholesaler of notions so infantile that they must needs disgust a sentient
suckling—in brief, a spouting geyser of fallacies and sentimentalities, a
cataract of unsupported assumptions and hollow moralizings, a tedious
phrase-merchant and platitudinarian, a fellow whose noblest flights of
thought were flattered when they were called comprehensible—specifically,
a Wilson, a Taft, a Roosevelt, or a Harding.
This was the male champion. I do not venture upon the cruelty of
comparing his bombastic flummeries to the clear reasoning of a woman of

like fame and position; all I ask of you is that you weigh them, for sense,
for shrewdness, for intelligent grasp of obscure relations, for intellectual
honesty and courage, with the ideas of the average midwife.

34. The Suffragette

I have spoken with some disdain of the suffragette. What is the matter
with her, fundamentally, is simple: she is a woman who has stupidly carried
her envy of certain of the superficial privileges of men to such a point that it
takes on the character of an obsession, and makes her blind to their
valueless and often chiefly imaginary character. In particular, she centres
this frenzy of hers upon one definite privilege, to wit, the alleged privilege
of promiscuity in amour, the modern droit du seigneur. Read the books of
the chief lady Savonarolas, and you will find running through them an
hysterical denunciation of what is called the double standard of morality;
there is, indeed, a whole literature devoted exclusively to it. The existence
of this double standard seems to drive the poor girls half frantic. They
bellow raucously for its abrogation, and demand that the frivolous male be
visited with even more idiotic penalties than those which now visit the
aberrant female; some even advocate gravely his mutilation by surgery, that
he may be forced into rectitude by a physical disability for sin.
All this, of course, is hocus-pocus, and the judicious are not deceived by
it for an instant. What these virtuous bel dames actually desire in their
hearts is not that the male be reduced to chemical purity, but that the
franchise of dalliance be extended to themselves. The most elementary
acquaintance with Freudian psychology exposes their secret animus. Unable
to ensnare males under the present system, or at all events, unable to
ensnare males sufficiently appetizing to arouse the envy of other women,
they leap to the theory that it would be easier if the rules were less exacting.
This theory exposes their deficiency in the chief character of their sex:
accurate observation. The fact is that, even if they possessed the freedom
that men are supposed to possess, they would still find it difficult to achieve
their ambition, for the average man, whatever his stupidity, is at least keen
enough in judgment to prefer a single wink from a genuinely attractive
woman to the last delirious favours of the typical suffragette. Thus the

theory of the whoopers and snorters of the cause, in its esoteric as well as in
its public aspect, is unsound. They are simply women who, in their tastes
and processes of mind, are two-thirds men, and the fact explains their
failure to achieve presentable husbands, or even consolatory betrayal, quite
as effectively as it explains the ready credence they give to political and
philosophical absurdities.

35. A Mythical Dare-Devil

The truth is that the picture of male carnality that such women conjure up
belongs almost wholly to fable, as I have already observed in dealing with
the sophistries of Dr. Eliza Burt Gamble, a paralogist on a somewhat higher
plane. As they depict him in their fevered treatises on illegitimacy, white-
slave trading and ophthalmia neonatorum, the average male adult of the
Christian and cultured countries leads a life of gaudy lubricity, rolling
magnificently from one liaison to another, and with an almost endless queue
of ruined milliners, dancers, charwomen, parlour-maids and waitresses
behind him, all dying of poison and despair. The life of man, as these
furiously envious ones see it, is the life of a leading actor in a boulevard
revue. He is a polygamous, multigamous, myriadigamous; an insatiable and
unconscionable debauche, a monster of promiscuity; prodigiously
unfaithful to his wife, and even to his friends’ wives; fathomlessly
libidinous and superbly happy.
Needless to say, this picture bears no more relation to the facts than a
dissertation on major strategy by a military “expert” promoted from
dramatic critic. If the chief suffragette scare mongers (I speak without any
embarrassing naming of names) were attractive enough to men to get near
enough to enough men to know enough about them for their purpose they
would paralyze the Dorcas societies with no such cajoling libels. As a
matter of sober fact, the average man of our time and race is quite incapable
of all these incandescent and intriguing divertisements. He is far more
virtuous than they make him out, far less schooled in sin, far less
enterprising and ruthless. I do not say, of course, that he is pure in heart, for
the chances are that he isn’t; what I do say is that, in the overwhelming
majority of cases, he is pure in act, even in the face of temptation. And
why? For several main reasons, not to go into minor ones. One is that he
lacks the courage. Another is that he lacks the money. Another is that he is
fundamentally moral, and has a conscience. It takes more sinful initiative

than he has in him to plunge into any affair save the most casual and sordid;
it takes more ingenuity and intrepidity than he has in him to carry it off; it
takes more money than he can conceal from his consort to finance it. A man
may force his actual wife to share the direst poverty, but even the least
vampirish woman of the third part demands to be courted in what,
considering his station in life, is the grand manner, and the expenses of that
grand manner scare off all save a small minority of specialists in deception.
So long, indeed, as a wife knows her husband’s income accurately, she has
a sure means of holding him to his oaths.
Even more effective than the fiscal barrier is the barrier of poltroonery.
The one character that distinguishes man from the other higher vertebrate,
indeed, is his excessive timorousness, his easy yielding to alarms, his
incapacity for adventure without a crowd behind him. In his normal
incarnation he is no more capable of initiating an extra-legal affair—at all
events, above the mawkish harmlessness of a flirting match with a cigar girl
in a cafe-than he is of scaling the battlements of hell. He likes to think of
himself doing it, just as he likes to think of himself leading a cavalry charge
or climbing the Matterhorn. Often, indeed, his vanity leads him to imagine
the thing done, and he admits by winks and blushes that he is a bad one. But
at the bottom of all that tawdry pretence there is usually nothing more
material than an oafish smirk at some disgusted shop-girl, or a scraping of
shins under the table. Let any woman who is disquieted by reports of her
husband’s derelictions figure to herself how long it would have taken him to
propose to her if left to his own enterprise, and then let her ask herself if so
pusillanimous a creature could be imaged in the role of Don Giovanni.
Finally, there is his conscience—the accumulated sediment of ancestral
faintheartedness in countless generations, with vague religious fears and
superstitions to leaven and mellow it. What! a conscience? Yes, dear
friends, a conscience. That conscience may be imperfect, inept,
unintelligent, brummagem. It may be indistinguishable, at times, from the
mere fear that someone may be looking. It may be shot through with
hypocrisy, stupidity, play-acting. But nevertheless, as consciences go in
Christendom, it is genuinely entitled to the name—and it is always in
action. A man, remember, is not a being in vacuo; he is the fruit and slave of
the environment that bathes him. One cannot enter the House of Commons,
the United States Senate, or a prison for felons without becoming, in some
measure, a rascal. One cannot fall overboard without shipping water. One

cannot pass through a modern university without carrying away scars. And
by the same token one cannot live and have one’s being in a modern
democratic state, year in and year out, without falling, to some extent at
least, under that moral obsession which is the hall-mark of the mob-man set
free. A citizen of such a state, his nose buried in Nietzsche, “Man and
Superman,” and other such advanced literature, may caress himself with the
notion that he is an immoralist, that his soul is full of soothing sin, that he
has cut himself loose from the revelation of God. But all the while there is a
part of him that remains a sound Christian, a moralist, a right thinking and
forward-looking man. And that part, in times of stress, asserts itself. It may
not worry him on ordinary occasions. It may not stop him when he swears,
or takes a nip of whiskey behind the door, or goes motoring on Sunday; it
may even let him alone when he goes to a leg-show. But the moment a
concrete Temptress rises before him, her nose snow-white, her lips rouged,
her eyelashes drooping provokingly—the moment such an abandoned
wench has at him, and his lack of ready funds begins to conspire with his
lack of courage to assault and wobble him—at that precise moment his
conscience flares into function, and so finishes his business. First he sees
difficulty, then he sees the danger, then he sees wrong. The result is that he
slinks off in trepidation, and another vampire is baffled of her prey.
It is, indeed, the secret scandal of Christendom, at least in the Protestant
regions, that most men are faithful to their wives. You will a travel a long
way before you find a married man who will admit that he is, but the facts
are the facts, and I am surely not one to flout them.

36. The Origin of a Delusion

The origin of the delusion that the average man is a Leopold II or
Augustus the Strong, with the amorous experience of a guinea pig, is not far
to seek. It lies in three factors, the which I rehearse briefly:
1. The idiotic vanity of men, leading to their eternal boasting, either by
open lying or sinister hints.
2. The notions of vice crusaders, nonconformist divines, Y. M. C. A.
secretaries, and other such libidinous poltroons as to what they would do
themselves if they had the courage.
3. The ditto of certain suffragettes as to ditto.
Here you have the genesis of a generalization that gives the less critical
sort of women a great deal of needless uneasiness and vastly augments the
natural conceit of men. Some pornographic old fellow, in the discharge of
his duties as director of an anti-vice society, puts in an evening ploughing
through such books as “The Memoirs of Fanny Hill,” Casanova’s
Confessions, the Cena Trimalchionis of Gaius Petronius, and II Samuel.
From this perusal he arises with the conviction that life amid the red lights
must be one stupendous whirl of deviltry, that the clerks he sees in
Broadway or Piccadilly at night are out for revels that would have caused
protests in Sodom and Nineveh, that the average man who chooses hell
leads an existence comparable to that of a Mormon bishop, that the world
outside the Bible class is packed like a sardine-can with betrayed salesgirls,
that every man who doesn’t believe that Jonah swallowed the whale spends
his whole leisure leaping through the seventh hoop of the Decalogue. “If I
were not saved and anointed of God,” whispers the vice director into his
own ear, “that is what I, the Rev. Dr. Jasper Barebones, would be doing.
The late King David did it; he was human, and hence immoral. The late
King Edward VII was not beyond suspicion: the very numeral in his name
has its suggestions. Millions of others go the same route.... Ergo, Up,

guards, and at ’em! Bring me the pad of blank warrants! Order out the
seachlights and scaling-ladders! Swear in four hundred more policemen!
Let us chase these hell-hounds out of Christendom, and make the world safe
for monogamy, poor working girls, and infant damnation!”
Thus the hound of heaven, arguing fallaciously from his own secret
aspirations. Where he makes his mistake is in assuming that the
unconsecrated, while sharing his longing to debauch and betray, are free
from his other weaknesses, e.g., his timidity, his lack of resourcefulness, his
conscience. As I have said, they are not. The vast majority of those who
appear in the public haunts of sin are there, not to engage in overt acts of
ribaldry, but merely to tremble agreeably upon the edge of the abyss. They
are the same skittish experimentalists, precisely, who throng the midway at
a world’s fair, and go to smutty shows, and take in sex magazines, and read
the sort of books that our vice crusading friend reads. They like to conjure
up the charms of carnality, and to help out their somewhat sluggish
imaginations by actual peeps at it, but when it comes to taking a forthright
header into the sulphur they usually fail to muster up the courage. For one
clerk who succumbs to the houris of the pave, there are five hundred who
succumb to lack of means, the warnings of the sex hygienists, and their own
depressing consciences. For one “clubman”—i.e., bagman or suburban
vestryman—who invades the women’s shops, engages the affection of some
innocent miss, lures her into infamy and then sells her to the Italians, there
are one thousand who never get any further than asking the price of cologne
water and discharging a few furtive winks. And for one husband of the
Nordic race who maintains a blonde chorus girl in oriental luxury around
the corner, there are ten thousand who are as true to their wives, year in and
year out, as so many convicts in the death-house, and would be no more
capable of any such loathsome malpractice, even in the face of free
opportunity, than they would be of cutting off the ears of their young.
I am sorry to blow up so much romance. In particular, I am sorry for the
suffragettes who specialize in the double standard, for when they get into
pantaloons at last, and have the new freedom, they will discover to their
sorrow that they have been pursuing a chimera—that there is really no such
animal as the male anarchist they have been denouncing and envying—that
the wholesale fornication of man, at least under Christian democracy, has
little more actual existence than honest advertising or sound cooking. They

have followed the porno maniacs in embracing a piece of buncombe, and
when the day of deliverance comes it will turn to ashes in their arms.
Their error, as I say, lies in overestimating the courage and enterprise of
man. They themselves, barring mere physical valour, a quality in which the
average man is far exceeded by the average jackal or wolf, have more of
both. If the consequences, to a man, of the slightest descent from virginity
were one-tenth as swift and barbarous as the consequences to a young girl
in like case, it would take a division of infantry to dredge up a single male
flouter of that lex talionis in the whole western world. As things stand
today, even with the odds so greatly in his favour, the average male
hesitates and is thus not lost. Turn to the statistics of the vice crusaders if
you doubt it. They show that the weekly receipts of female recruits upon the
wharves of sin are always more than the demand; that more young women
enter upon the vermilion career than can make respectable livings at it; that
the pressure of the temptation they hold out is the chief factor in corrupting
our undergraduates. What was the first act of the American Army when it
began summoning its young clerks and college boys and plough hands to
conscription camps? Its first act was to mark off a so-called moral zone
around each camp, and to secure it with trenches and machine guns, and to
put a lot of volunteer termagants to patrolling it, that the assembled jeunesse
might be protected in their rectitude from the immoral advances of the
adjacent milkmaids and poor working girls.

37. Women as Martyrs

I have given three reasons for the prosperity of the notion that man is a
natural polygamist, bent eternally upon fresh dives into Lake of Brimstone
No. 7. To these another should be added: the thirst for martyrdom which
shows itself in so many women, particularly under the higher forms of
civilization. This unhealthy appetite, in fact, may be described as one of
civilization’s diseases; it is almost unheard of in more primitive societies.
The savage woman, unprotected by her rude culture and forced to heavy
and incessant labour, has retained her physical strength and with it her
honesty and self-respect. The civilized woman, gradually degenerated by a
greater ease, and helped down that hill by the pretensions of civilized man,
has turned her infirmity into a virtue, and so affects a feebleness that is
actually far beyond the reality. It is by this route that she can most
effectively disarm masculine distrust, and get what she wants. Man is
flattered by any acknowledgment, however insincere, of his superior
strength and capacity. He likes to be leaned upon, appealed to, followed
docilely. And this tribute to his might caresses him on the psychic plane as
well as on the plane of the obviously physical. He not only enjoys helping a
woman over a gutter; he also enjoys helping her dry her tears. The result is
the vast pretence that characterizes the relations of the sexes under
civilization—the double pretence of man’s cunning and autonomy and of
woman’s dependence and deference. Man is always looking for someone to
boast to; woman is always looking for a shoulder to put her head on.
This feminine affectation, of course, has gradually taken on the force of a
fixed habit, and so it has got a certain support, by a familiar process of self-
delusion, in reality. The civilized woman inherits that habit as she inherits
her cunning. She is born half convinced that she is really as weak and
helpless as she later pretends to be, and the prevailing folklore offers her
endless corroboration. One of the resultant phenomena is the delight in
martyrdom that one so often finds in women, and particularly in the least

alert and introspective of them. They take a heavy, unhealthy pleasure in
suffering; it subtly pleases them to be hard put upon; they like to picture
themselves as slaughtered saints. Thus they always find something to
complain of; the very conditions of domestic life give them a
superabundance of clinical material. And if, by any chance, such material
shows a falling off, they are uneasy and unhappy. Let a woman have a
husband whose conduct is not reasonably open to question, and she will
invent mythical offences to make him bearable. And if her invention fails
she will be plunged into the utmost misery and humiliation. This fact
probably explains many mysterious divorces: the husband was not too bad,
but too good. For public opinion among women, remember, does not favour
the woman who is full of a placid contentment and has no masculine torts to
report; if she says that her husband is wholly satisfactory she is looked upon
as a numskull even more dense that he is himself. A man, speaking of his
wife to other men, always praises her extravagantly. Boasting about her
soothes his vanity; he likes to stir up the envy of his fellows. But when two
women talk of their husbands it is mainly atrocities that they describe. The
most esteemed woman gossip is the one with the longest and most various
repertoire of complaints.
This yearning for martyrdom explains one of the commonly noted
characters of women: their eager flair for bearing physical pain. As we have
seen, they have actually a good deal less endurance than men; massive
injuries shock them more severely and kill them more quickly. But when
acute algesia is unaccompanied by any profounder phenomena they are
undoubtedly able to bear it with a far greater show of resignation. The
reason is not far to seek. In pain a man sees only an invasion of his liberty,
strength and self-esteem. It floors him, masters him, and makes him
ridiculous. But a woman, more subtle and devious in her processes of mind,
senses the dramatic effect that the spectacle of her suffering makes upon the
spectators, already filled with compassion for her feebleness. She would
thus much rather be praised for facing pain with a martyr’s fortitude than
for devising some means of getting rid of it--the first thought of a man. No
woman could have invented chloroform, nor, for that matter, alcohol. Both
drugs offer an escape from situations and experiences that, even in
aggravated forms, women relish. The woman who drinks as men drink—
that is, to raise her threshold of sensation and ease the agony of living—
nearly always shows a deficiency in feminine characters and an undue

preponderance of masculine characters. Almost invariably you will find her
vain and boastful, and full of other marks of that bombastic exhibitionism
which is so sterlingly male.

38. Pathological Effects

This feminine craving for martyrdom, of course, often takes on a
downright pathological character, and so engages the psychiatrist. Women
show many other traits of the same sort. To be a woman under our Christian
civilization, indeed, means to live a life that is heavy with repression and
dissimulation, and this repression and dissimulation, in the long run, cannot
fail to produce effects that are indistinguishable from disease. You will find
some of them described at length in any handbook on psychoanalysis. The
Viennese, Adler, and the Dane, Poul Bjerre, argue, indeed, that
womanliness itself, as it is encountered under Christianity, is a disease. All
women suffer from a suppressed revolt against the inhibitions forced upon
them by our artificial culture, and this suppressed revolt, by well known
Freudian means, produces a complex of mental symptoms that is familiar to
all of us. At one end of the scale we observe the suffragette, with her
grotesque adoption of the male belief in laws, phrases and talismans, and
her hysterical demand for a sexual libertarianism that she could not put to
use if she had it. And at the other end we find the snuffling and neurotic
woman, with her bogus martyrdom, her extravagant pruderies and her
pathological delusions. As Ibsen observed long ago, this is a man’s world.
Women have broken many of their old chains, but they are still enmeshed in
a formidable network of man-made taboos and sentimentalities, and it will
take them another generation, at least, to get genuine freedom. That this is
true is shown by the deep unrest that yet marks the sex, despite its recent
progress toward social, political and economic equality. It is almost
impossible to find a man who honestly wishes that he were a woman, but
almost every woman, at some time or other in her life, is gnawed by a regret
that she is not a man.
Two of the hardest things that women have to bear are (a) the stupid
masculine disinclination to admit their intellectual superiority, or even their
equality, or even their possession of a normal human equipment for thought,

and (b) the equally stupid masculine doctrine that they constitute a special
and ineffable species of vertebrate, without the natural instincts and
appetites of the order—to adapt a phrase from Hackle, that they are
transcendental and almost gaseous mammals, and marked by a complete
lack of certain salient mammalian characters. The first imbecility has
already concerned us at length. One finds traces of it even in works
professedly devoted to disposing of it. In one such book, for example, I
come upon this: “What all the skill and constructive capacity of the
physicians in the Crimean War failed to accomplish Florence Nightingale
accomplished by her beautiful femininity and nobility of soul.” In other
words, by her possession of some recondite and indescribable magic,
sharply separated from the ordinary mental processes of man. The theory is
unsound and preposterous. Miss Nightingale accomplished her useful work,
not by magic, but by hard common sense. The problem before her was
simply one of organization. Many men had tackled it, and all of them had
failed stupendously. What she did was to bring her feminine sharpness of
wit, her feminine clear-thinking, to bear upon it. Thus attacked, it yielded
quickly, and once it had been brought to order it was easy for other persons
to carry on what she had begun. But the opinion of a man’s world still
prefers to credit her success to some mysterious angelical quality, unstatable
in lucid terms and having no more reality than the divine inspiration of an
archbishop. Her extraordinarily acute and accurate intelligence is thus
conveniently put upon the table, and the amour propre of man is kept
inviolate. To confess frankly that she had more sense than any male
Englishman of her generation would be to utter a truth too harsh to be
bearable.
The second delusion commonly shows itself in the theory, already
discussed, that women are devoid of any sex instinct—that they submit to
the odious caresses of the lubricious male only by a powerful effort of the
will, and with the sole object of discharging their duty to posterity. It would
be impossible to go into this delusion with proper candour and at due length
in a work designed for reading aloud in the domestic circle; all I can do is to
refer the student to the books of any competent authority on the psychology
of sex, say Ellis, or to the confidences (if they are obtainable) of any
complaisant bachelor of his acquaintance.

39. Women as Christians

The glad tidings preached by Christ were obviously highly favourable to
women. He lifted them to equality before the Lord when their very
possession of souls was still doubted by the majority of rival theologians.
Moreover, He esteemed them socially and set value upon their sagacity, and
one of the most disdained of their sex, a lady formerly in public life, was
among His regular advisers. Mariolatry is thus by no means the invention of
the mediaeval popes, as Protestant theologians would have us believe. On
the contrary, it is plainly discernible in the Four Gospels. What the
mediaeval popes actually invented (or, to be precise, reinvented, for they
simply borrowed the elements of it from St. Paul) was the doctrine of
women’s inferiority, the precise opposite of the thing credited to them.
Committed, for sound reasons of discipline, to the celibacy of the clergy,
they had to support it by depicting all traffic with women in the light of a
hazardous and ignominious business. The result was the deliberate
organization and development of the theory of female triviality, lack of
responsibility and general looseness of mind. Woman became a sort of
devil, but without the admired intelligence of the regular demons. The
appearance of women saints, however, offered a constant and embarrassing
criticism of this idiotic doctrine. If occasional women were fit to sit upon
the right hand of God—and they were often proving it, and forcing the
church to acknowledge it—then surely all women could not be as bad as the
books made them out. There thus arose the concept of the angelic woman,
the natural vestal; we see her at full length in the romances of mediaeval
chivalry. What emerged in the end was a sort of double doctrine, first that
women were devils and secondly that they were angels. This preposterous
dualism has merged, as we have seen, into a compromise dogma in modern
times. By that dogma it is held, on the one hand, that women are
unintelligent and immoral, and on the other hand, that they are free from all

those weaknesses of the flesh which distinguish men. This, roughly
speaking, is the notion of the average male numskull today.
Christianity has thus both libelled women and flattered them, but with the
weight always on the side of the libel. It is therefore, at bottom, their
enemy, as the religion of Christ, now wholly extinct, was their friend. And
as they gradually throw off the shackles that have bound them for a
thousand years they show appreciation of the fact. Women, indeed, are not
naturally religious, and they are growing less and less religious as year
chases year. Their ordinary devotion has little if any pious exaltation in it; it
is a routine practice, force on them by the masculine notion that an
appearance of holiness is proper to their lowly station, and a masculine
feeling that church-going somehow keeps them in order, and out of doings
that would be less reassuring. When they exhibit any genuine religious
fervour, its sexual character is usually so obvious that even the majority of
men are cognizant of it. Women never go flocking ecstatically to a church
in which the agent of God in the pulpit is an elderly asthmatic with a
watchful wife. When one finds them driven to frenzies by the merits of the
saints, and weeping over the sorrows of the heathen, and rushing out to haul
the whole vicinage up to grace, and spending hours on their knees in
hysterical abasement before the heavenly throne, it is quite safe to assume,
even without an actual visit, that the ecclesiastic who has worked the
miracle is a fair and toothsome fellow, and a good deal more aphrodisiacal
than learned. All the great preachers to women in modern times have been
men of suave and ingratiating habit, and the great majority of them, from
Henry Ward Beecher up and down, have been taken, soon or late, in
transactions far more suitable to the boudoir than to the footstool of the
Almighty. Their famous killings have always been made among the silliest
sort of women—the sort, in brief, who fall so short of the normal acumen of
their sex that they are bemused by mere beauty in men.
Such women are in a minority, and so the sex shows a good deal fewer
religious enthusiasts per mille than the sex of sentiment and belief.
Attending, several years ago, the gladiatorial shows of the Rev. Dr. Billy
Sunday, the celebrated American pulpit-clown, I was constantly struck by
the great preponderance of males in the pen devoted to the saved. Men of
all ages and in enormous numbers came swarming to the altar, loudly
bawling for help against their sins, but the women were anything but
numerous, and the few who appeared were chiefly either chlorotic

adolescents or pathetic old Saufschwestern. For six nights running I sat
directly beneath the gifted exhorter without seeing a single female convert
of what statisticians call the child-bearing age—that is, the age of maximum
intelligence and charm. Among the male simpletons bagged by his yells
during this time were the president of a railroad, half a dozen rich bankers
and merchants, and the former governor of an American state. But not a
woman of comparable position or dignity. Not a woman that any self-
respecting bachelor would care to chuck under the chin.
This cynical view of religious emotionalism, and with it of the whole
stock of ecclesiastical balderdash, is probably responsible, at least in part,
for the reluctance of women to enter upon the sacerdotal career. In those
Christian sects which still bar them from the pulpit—usually on the
imperfectly concealed ground that they are not equal to its alleged demands
upon the morals and the intellect—one never hears of them protesting
against the prohibition; they are quite content to leave the degrading
imposture to men, who are better fitted for it by talent and conscience. And
in those baroque sects, chiefly American, which admit them they show no
eagerness to put on the stole and chasuble. When the first clergywoman
appeared in the United States, it was predicted by alarmists that men would
be driven out of the pulpit by the new competition. Nothing of the sort has
occurred, nor is it in prospect. The whole corps of female divines in the
country might be herded into one small room. Women, when literate at all,
are far too intelligent to make effective ecclesiastics. Their sharp sense of
reality is in endless opposition to the whole sacerdotal masquerade, and
their cynical humour stands against the snorting that is inseparable from
pulpit oratory.
Those women who enter upon the religious life are almost invariably
moved by some motive distinct from mere pious inflammation. It is a
commonplace, indeed, that, in Catholic countries, girls are driven into
convents by economic considerations or by disasters of amour far oftener
than they are drawn there by the hope of heaven. Read the lives of the
female saints, and you will see how many of them tried marriage and failed
at it before ever they turned to religion. In Protestant lands very few women
adopt it as a profession at all, and among the few a secular impulse is
almost always visible. The girl who is suddenly overcome by a desire to
minister to the heathen in foreign lands is nearly invariably found, on
inspection, to be a girl harbouring a theory that it would be agreeable to

marry some heroic missionary. In point of fact, she duly marries him. At
home, perhaps, she has found it impossible to get a husband, but in the
remoter marches of China, Senegal and Somaliland, with no white
competition present, it is equally impossible to fail.

40. Piety as a Social Habit

What remains of the alleged piety of women is little more than a social
habit, reinforced in most communities by a paucity of other and more
inviting divertissements. If you have ever observed the women of Spain and
Italy at their devotions you need not be told how much the worship of God
may be a mere excuse for relaxation and gossip. These women, in their
daily lives, are surrounded by a formidable network of mediaeval taboos;
their normal human desire for ease and freedom in intercourse is opposed
by masculine distrust and superstition; they meet no strangers; they see and
hear nothing new. In the house of the Most High they escape from that
vexing routine. Here they may brush shoulders with a crowd. Here, so to
speak, they may crane their mental necks and stretch their spiritual legs.
Here, above all, they may come into some sort of contact with men
relatively more affable, cultured and charming than their husbands and
fathers—to wit, with the rev. clergy.
Elsewhere in Christendom, though women are not quite so relentlessly
watched and penned up, they feel much the same need of variety and
excitement, and both are likewise on tap in the temples of the Lord. No one,
I am sure, need be told that the average missionary society or church
sewing circle is not primarily a religious organization. Its actual purpose is
precisely that of the absurd clubs and secret orders to which the lower and
least resourceful classes of men belong: it offers a means of refreshment, of
self-expression, of personal display, of political manipulation and boasting,
and, if the pastor happens to be interesting, of discreet and almost lawful
intrigue. In the course of a life largely devoted to the study of pietistic
phenomena, I have never met a single woman who cared an authentic damn
for the actual heathen. The attraction in their salvation is always almost
purely social. Women go to church for the same reason that farmers and
convicts go to church.

Finally, there is the aesthetic lure. Religion, in most parts of
Christendom, holds out the only bait of beauty that the inhabitants are ever
cognizant of. It offers music, dim lights, relatively ambitious architecture,
eloquence, formality and mystery, the caressing meaninglessness that is at
the heart of poetry. Women are far more responsive to such things than men,
who are ordinarily quite as devoid of aesthetic sensitiveness as so many
oxen. The attitude of the typical man toward beauty in its various forms is,
in fact, an attitude of suspicion and hostility. He does not regard a work of
art as merely inert and stupid; he regards it as, in some indefinable way,
positively offensive. He sees the artist as a professional voluptuary and
scoundrel, and would no more trust him in his household than he would
trust a coloured clergyman in his hen-yard. It was men, and not women,
who invented such sordid and literal faiths as those of the Mennonites,
Dunkards, Wesleyans and Scotch Presbyterians, with their antipathy to
beautiful ritual, their obscene buttonholing of God, their great talent for
reducing the ineffable mystery of religion to a mere bawling of idiots. The
normal woman, in so far as she has any religion at all, moves irresistibly
toward Catholicism, with its poetical obscurantism. The evangelical
Protestant sects have a hard time holding her. She can no more be an actual
Methodist than a gentleman can be a Methodist.
This inclination toward beauty, of course, is dismissed by the average
male blockhead as no more than a feeble sentimentality. The truth is that it
is precisely the opposite. It is surely not sentimentality to be moved by the
stately and mysterious ceremony of the mass, or even, say, by those timid
imitations of it which one observes in certain Protestant churches. Such
proceedings, whatever their defects from the standpoint of a pure aesthetic,
are at all events vastly more beautiful than any of the private acts of the folk
who take part in them. They lift themselves above the barren utilitarianism
of everyday life, and no less above the maudlin sentimentalities that men
seek pleasure in. They offer a means of escape, convenient and inviting,
from that sordid routine of thought and occupation which women revolt
against so pertinaciously.

41. The Ethics of Women

I have said that the religion preached by Jesus (now wholly extinct in the
world) was highly favourable to women. This was not saying, of course,
that women have repaid the compliment by adopting it. They are, in fact,
indifferent Christians in the primitive sense, just as they are bad Christians
in the antagonistic modern sense, and particularly on the side of ethics. If
they actually accept the renunciations commanded by the Sermon on the
Mount, it is only in an effort to flout their substance under cover of their
appearance. No woman is really humble; she is merely politic. No woman,
with a free choice before her, chooses self-immolation; the most she
genuinely desires in that direction is a spectacular martyrdom. No woman
delights in poverty. No woman yields when she can prevail. No woman is
honestly meek.
In their practical ethics, indeed, women pay little heed to the precepts of
the Founder of Christianity, and the fact has passed into proverb. Their
gentleness, like the so-called honour of men, is visible only in situations
which offer them no menace. The moment a woman finds herself
confronted by an antagonist genuinely dangerous, either to her own security
or to the well-being of those under her protection—say a child or a husband
—she displays a bellicosity which stops at nothing, however outrageous. In
the courts of law one occasionally encounters a male extremist who tells the
truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, even when it is against his
cause, but no such woman has ever been on view since the days of
Justinian. It is, indeed, an axiom of the bar that women invariably lie upon
the stand, and the whole effort of a barrister who has one for a client is
devoted to keeping her within bounds, that the obtuse suspicions of the
male jury may not be unduly aroused. Women litigants almost always win
their cases, not, as is commonly assumed, because the jurymen fall in love
with them, but simply and solely because they are clear-headed,
resourceful, implacable and without qualms.

What is here visible in the halls of justice, in the face of a vast technical
equipment for combating mendacity, is ten times more obvious in freer
fields. Any man who is so unfortunate as to have a serious controversy with
a woman, say in the departments of finance, theology or amour, must
inevitably carry away from it a sense of having passed through a dangerous
and almost gruesome experience. Women not only bite in the clinches; they
bite even in open fighting; they have a dental reach, so to speak, of amazing
length. No attack is so desperate that they will not undertake it, once they
are aroused; no device is so unfair and horrifying that it stays them. In my
early days, desiring to improve my prose, I served for a year or so as
reporter for a newspaper in a police court, and during that time I heard
perhaps four hundred cases of so-called wife-beating. The husbands, in their
defence, almost invariably pleaded justification, and some of them told such
tales of studied atrocity at the domestic hearth, both psychic and physical,
that the learned magistrate discharged them with tears in his eyes and the
very catchpolls in the courtroom had to blow their noses. Many more men
than women go insane, and many more married men than single men. The
fact puzzles no one who has had the same opportunity that I had to find out
what goes on, year in and year out, behind the doors of apparently happy
homes. A woman, if she hates her husband (and many of them do), can
make life so sour and obnoxious to him that even death upon the gallows
seems sweet by comparison. This hatred, of course, is often, and perhaps
almost invariably, quite justified. To be the wife of an ordinary man, indeed,
is an experience that must be very hard to bear. The hollowness and vanity
of the fellow, his petty meanness and stupidity, his puling sentimentality
and credulity, his bombastic air of a cock on a dunghill, his anaesthesia to
all whispers and summonings of the spirit, above all, his loathsome
clumsiness in amour—all these things must revolt any woman above the
lowest. To be the object of the oafish affections of such a creature, even
when they are honest and profound, cannot be expected to give any genuine
joy to a woman of sense and refinement. His performance as a gallant, as
Honor de Balzac long ago observed, unescapably suggests a gorilla’s efforts
to play the violin. Women survive the tragicomedy only by dint of their
great capacity for play-acting. They are able to act so realistically that often
they deceive even themselves; the average woman’s contentment, indeed, is
no more than a tribute to her histrionism. But there must be innumerable
revolts in secret, even so, and one sometimes wonders that so few women,

with the thing so facile and so safe, poison their husbands. Perhaps it is not
quite as rare as vital statistics make it out; the deathrate among husbands is
very much higher than among wives. More than once, indeed, I have gone
to the funeral of an acquaintance who died suddenly, and observed a curious
glitter in the eyes of the inconsolable widow.
Even in this age of emancipation, normal women have few serious
transactions in life save with their husbands and potential husbands; the
business of marriage is their dominant concern from adolescence to senility.
When they step outside their habitual circle they show the same alert and
eager wariness that they exhibit within it. A man who has dealings with
them must keep his wits about him, and even when he is most cautious he is
often flabbergasted by their sudden and unconscionable forays. Whenever
woman goes into trade she quickly gets a reputation as a sharp trader. Every
little town in America has its Hetty Green, each sweating blood from
turnips, each the terror of all the male usurers of the neighbourhood. The
man who tackles such an amazon of barter takes his fortune into his hands;
he has little more chance of success against the feminine technique in
business than he has against the feminine technique in marriage. In both
arenas the advantage of women lies in their freedom from sentimentality. In
business they address themselves wholly to their own profit, and give no
thought whatever to the hopes, aspirations and amour propre of their
antagonists. And in the duel of sex they fence, not to make points, but to
disable and disarm. A man, when he succeeds in throwing off a woman who
has attempted to marry him, always carries away a maudlin sympathy for
her in her defeat and dismay. But no one ever heard of a woman who pitied
the poor fellow whose honest passion she had found it expedient to spurn.
On the contrary, women take delight in such clownish agonies, and exhibit
them proudly, and boast about them to other women.

V. The New Age

42. The Transvaluation of Values

The gradual emancipation of women that has been going on for the last
century has still a long way to proceed before they are wholly delivered
from their traditional burdens and so stand clear of the oppressions of men.
But already, it must be plain, they have made enormous progress—perhaps
more than they made in the ten thousand years preceding. The rise of the
industrial system, which has borne so harshly upon the race in general, has
brought them certain unmistakable benefits. Their economic dependence,
though still sufficient to make marriage highly attractive to them, is
nevertheless so far broken down that large classes of women are now
almost free agents, and quite independent of the favour of men. Most of
these women, responding to ideas that are still powerful, are yet intrigued,
of course, by marriage, and prefer it to the autonomy that is coming in, but
the fact remains that they now have a free choice in the matter, and that dire
necessity no longer controls them. After all, they needn’t marry if they don’t
want to; it is possible to get their bread by their own labour in the
workshops of the world. Their grandmothers were in a far more difficult
position. Failing marriage, they not only suffered a cruel ignominy, but in
many cases faced the menace of actual starvation. There was simply no
respectable place in the economy of those times for the free woman. She
either had to enter a nunnery or accept a disdainful patronage that was as
galling as charity.
Nothing could be plainer than the effect that the increasing economic
security of women is having upon their whole habit of life and mind. The
diminishing marriage rate and the even more rapidly diminishing birth rates
show which way the wind is blowing. It is common for male statisticians,
with characteristic imbecility, to ascribe the fall in the marriage rate to a
growing disinclination on the male side. This growing disinclination is
actually on the female side. Even though no considerable body of women
has yet reached the definite doctrine that marriage is less desirable than

freedom, it must be plain that large numbers of them now approach the
business with far greater fastidiousness than their grandmothers or even
their mothers exhibited. They are harder to please, and hence pleased less
often. The woman of a century ago could imagine nothing more favourable
to her than marriage; even marriage with a fifth rate man was better than no
marriage at all. This notion is gradually feeling the opposition of a contrary
notion. Women in general may still prefer marriage to work, but there is an
increasing minority which begins to realize that work may offer the greater
contentment, particularly if it be mellowed by a certain amount of
philandering.
There already appears in the world, indeed, a class of women, who, while
still not genuinely averse to marriage, are yet free from any theory that it is
necessary, or even invariably desirable. Among these women are a good
many somewhat vociferous propagandists, almost male in their violent
earnestness; they range from the man-eating suffragettes to such preachers
of free motherhood as Ellen Key and such professional shockers of the
bourgeoisie as the American prophetess of birth-control, Margaret Sanger.
But among them are many more who wake the world with no such noisy
eloquence, but content themselves with carrying out their ideas in a quiet
and respectable manner. The number of such women is much larger than is
generally imagined, and that number tends to increase steadily. They are
women who, with their economic independence assured, either by
inheritance or by their own efforts, chiefly in the arts and professions, do
exactly as they please, and make no pother about it. Naturally enough, their
superiority to convention and the common frenzy makes them extremely
attractive to the better sort of men, and so it is not uncommon for one of
them to find herself voluntarily sought in marriage, without any preliminary
scheming by herself—surely an experience that very few ordinary women
ever enjoy, save perhaps in dreams or delirium.
The old order changeth and giveth place to the new. Among the women’s
clubs and in the women’s colleges, I have no doubt, there is still much
debate of the old and silly question: Are platonic relations possible between
the sexes? In other words, is friendship possible without sex? Many a
woman of the new order dismisses the problem with another question: Why
without sex? With the decay of the ancient concept of women as property
there must come inevitably a reconsideration of the whole sex question, and
out of that reconsideration there must come a revision of the mediaeval

penalties which now punish the slightest frivolity in the female. The notion
that honour in women is exclusively a physical matter, that a single
aberrance may convert a woman of the highest merits into a woman of none
at all, that the sole valuable thing a woman can bring to marriage is
virginity—this notion is so preposterous that no intelligent person, male or
female, actually cherishes it. It survives as one of the hollow conventions of
Christianity; nay, of the levantine barbarism that preceded Christianity. As
women throw off the other conventions which now bind them they will
throw off this one, too, and so their virtue, grounded upon fastidiousness
and self-respect instead of upon mere fear and conformity, will become afar
more laudable thing than it ever can be under the present system. And for its
absence, if they see fit to dispose of it, they will no more apologize than a
man apologizes today.

43. The Lady of Joy

Even prostitution, in the long run, may become a more or less respectable
profession, as it was in the great days of the Greeks. That quality will surely
attach to it if ever it grows quite unnecessary; whatever is unnecessary is
always respectable, for example, religion, fashionable clothing, and a
knowledge of Latin grammar. The prostitute is disesteemed today, not
because her trade involves anything intrinsically degrading or even
disagreeable, but because she is currently assumed to have been driven into
it by dire necessity, against her dignity and inclination. That this assumption
is usually unsound is no objection to it; nearly all the thinking of the world,
particularly in the field of morals, is based upon unsound assumption, e.g.,
that God observes the fall of a sparrow and is shocked by the fall of a
Sunday-school superintendent. The truth is that prostitution is one of the
most attractive of the occupations practically open to the sort of women
who engage in it, and that the prostitute commonly likes her work, and
would not exchange places with a shop-girl or a waitress for anything in the
world. The notion to the contrary is propagated by unsuccessful prostitutes
who fall into the hands of professional reformers, and who assent to the
imbecile theories of the latter in order to cultivate their good will, just as
convicts in prison, questioned by tee-totalers, always ascribe their rascality
to alcohol. No prostitute of anything resembling normal intelligence is
under the slightest duress; she is perfectly free to abandon her trade and go
into a shop or factory or into domestic service whenever the impulse strikes
her; all the prevailing gabble about white slave jails and kidnappers comes
from pious rogues who make a living by feeding such nonsense to the
credulous. So long as the average prostitute is able to make a good living,
she is quite content with her lot, and disposed to contrast it egotistically
with the slavery of her virtuous sisters. If she complains of it, then you may
be sure that her success is below her expectations. A starving lawyer always
sees injustice, in the courts. A bad physician is a bitter critic of Ehrlich and

Pasteur. And when a suburban clergyman is forced out of his cure by a
vestry-room revolution he almost invariably concludes that the sinfulness of
man is incurable, and sometimes he even begins to doubt some of the
typographical errors in Holy Writ.
The high value set upon virginity by men, whose esteem of it is based
upon a mixture of vanity and voluptuousness, causes many women to guard
it in their own persons with a jealousy far beyond their private inclinations
and interests. It is their theory that the loss of it would materially impair
their chances of marriage. This theory is not supported by the facts. The
truth is that the woman who sacrifices her chastity, everything else being
equal, stands a much better chance of making a creditable marriage than the
woman who remains chaste. This is especially true of women of the lower
economic classes. At once they come into contact, hitherto socially difficult
and sometimes almost impossible, with men of higher classes, and begin to
take on, with the curious facility of their sex, the refinements and tastes and
points of view of those classes. The mistress thus gathers charm, and what
has begun as a sordid sale of amiability not uncommonly ends with formal
marriage. The number of such marriages is enormously greater than appears
superficially, for both parties obviously make every effort to conceal the
facts. Within the circle of my necessarily limited personal acquaintance I
know of scores of men, some of them of wealth and position, who have
made such marriages, and who do not seem to regret it. It is an old
observation, indeed, that a woman who has previously disposed of her
virtue makes a good wife. The common theory is that this is because she is
grateful to her husband for rescuing her from social outlawry; the truth is
that she makes a good wife because she is a shrewd woman, and has
specialized professionally in masculine weakness, and is thus extra-
competent at the traditional business of her sex. Such a woman often shows
a truly magnificent sagacity. It is very difficult to deceive her logically, and
it is impossible to disarm her emotionally. Her revolt against the pruderies
and sentimentalities of the world was evidence, to begin with, of her
intellectual enterprise and courage, and her success as a rebel is proof of her
extraordinary pertinacity, resourcefulness and acumen.
Even the most lowly prostitute is better off, in all worldly ways, than the
virtuous woman of her own station in life. She has less work to do, it is less
monotonous and dispiriting, she meets a far greater variety of men, and they
are of classes distinctly beyond her own. Nor is her occupation hazardous

and her ultimate fate tragic. A dozen or more years ago I observed a
somewhat amusing proof of this last. At that time certain sentimental
busybodies of the American city in which I lived undertook an elaborate
inquiry into prostitution therein, and some of them came to me in advance,
as a practical journalist, for advice as to how to proceed. I found that all of
them shared the common superstition that the professional life of the
average prostitute is only five years long, and that she invariably ends in the
gutter. They were enormously amazed when they unearthed the truth. This
truth was to the effect that the average prostitute of that town ended her
career, not in the morgue but at the altar of God, and that those who
remained unmarried often continued in practice for ten, fifteen and even
twenty years, and then retired on competences. It was established, indeed,
that fully eighty per cent married, and that they almost always got husbands
who would have been far beyond their reach had they remained virtuous.
For one who married a cabman or petty pugilist there were a dozen who
married respectable mechanics, policemen, small shopkeepers and minor
officials, and at least two or three who married well-to-do tradesmen and
professional men. Among the thousands whose careers were studied there
was actually one who ended as the wife of the town’s richest banker—that
is, one who bagged the best catch in the whole community. This woman had
begun as a domestic servant, and abandoned that harsh and dreary life to
enter a brothel. Her experiences there polished and civilized her, and in her
old age she was a grande dame of great dignity. Much of the sympathy
wasted upon women of the ancient profession is grounded upon an error as
to their own attitude toward it. An educated woman, hearing that a frail
sister in a public stew is expected to be amiable to all sorts of bounders,
thinks of how she would shrink from such contacts, and so concludes that
the actual prostitute suffers acutely. What she overlooks is that these men,
however gross and repulsive they may appear to her, are measurably
superior to men of the prostitute’s own class—say her father and brothers—
and that communion with them, far from being disgusting, is often rather
romantic. I well remember observing, during my collaboration with the
vice-crusaders aforesaid, the delight of a lady of joy who had attracted the
notice of a police lieutenant; she was intensely pleased by the idea of
having a client of such haughty manners, such brilliant dress, and what
seemed to her to be so dignified a profession. It is always forgotten that this
weakness is not confined to prostitutes, but run through the whole female

sex. The woman who could not imagine an illicit affair with a wealthy soap
manufacturer or even with a lawyer finds it quite easy to imagine herself
succumbing to an ambassador or a duke. There are very few exceptions to
this rule. In the most reserved of modern societies the women who represent
their highest flower are notoriously complaisant to royalty. And royal
women, to complete the circuit, not infrequently yield to actors and
musicians, i.e., to men radiating a glamour not encountered even in princes.

44. The Future of Marriage

The transvaluation of values that is now in progress will go on slowly
and for a very long while. That it will ever be quite complete is, of course,
impossible. There are inherent differences will continue to show themselves
until the end of time. As woman gradually becomes convinced, not only of
the possibility of economic independence, but also of its value, she will
probably lose her present overmastering desire for marriage, and address
herself to meeting men in free economic competition. That is to say, she
will address herself to acquiring that practical competence, that high talent
for puerile and chiefly mechanical expertness, which now sets man ahead of
her in the labour market of the world. To do this she will have to sacrifice
some of her present intelligence; it is impossible to imagine a genuinely
intelligent human being becoming a competent trial lawyer, or buttonhole
worker, or newspaper sub-editor, or piano tuner, or house painter. Women,
to get upon all fours with men in such stupid occupations, will have to
commit spiritual suicide, which is probably much further than they will ever
actually go. Thus a shade of their present superiority to men will always
remain, and with it a shade of their relative inefficiency, and so marriage
will remain attractive to them, or at all events to most of them, and its
overthrow will be prevented. To abolish it entirely, as certain fevered
reformers propose, would be as difficult as to abolish the precession of the
equinoxes.
At the present time women vacillate somewhat absurdly between two
schemes of life, the old and the new. On the one hand, their economic
independence is still full of conditions, and on the other hand they are in
revolt against the immemorial conventions. The result is a general unrest,
with many symptoms of extravagant and unintelligent revolt. One of those
symptoms is the appearance of intellectual striving in women—not a
striving, alas, toward the genuine pearls and rubies of the mind, but one
merely toward the acquirement of the rubber stamps that men employ in

their so-called thinking. Thus we have women who launch themselves into
party politics, and fill their heads with a vast mass of useless knowledge
about political tricks, customs, theories and personalities. Thus, too, we
have the woman social reformer, trailing along ridiculously behind a
tatterdemalion posse of male utopians, each with something to sell. And
thus we have the woman who goes in for advanced wisdom of the sort on
draught in women’s clubs—in brief, the sort of wisdom which consists
entirely of a body of beliefs and propositions that are ignorant, unimportant
and untrue. Such banal striving is most prodigally on display in the United
States, where superficiality amounts to a national disease. Its popularity is
due to the relatively greater leisure of the American people, who work less
than any other people in the world, and, above all, to the relatively greater
leisure of American women. Thousands of them have been emancipated
from any compulsion to productive labour without having acquired any
compensatory intellectual or artistic interest or social duty. The result is that
they swarm in the women’s clubs, and waste their time, listening to bad
poetry, worse music, and still worse lectures on Maeterlinck, Balkan
politics and the subconscious. It is among such women that one observes
the periodic rages for Bergsonism, the Montessori method, the twilight
sleep and other such follies, so pathetically characteristic of American
culture.
One of the evil effects of this tendency I have hitherto descanted upon, to
wit, the growing disposition of American women to regard all routine
labour, particularly in the home, as infra dignitatem and hence intolerable.
Out of that notion arise many lamentable phenomena. On the one hand, we
have the spectacle of a great number of healthy and well-fed women
engaged in public activities that, nine times out of ten, are meaningless,
mischievous and a nuisance, and on the other hand we behold such a decay
in the domestic arts that, at the first onslaught of the late war, the national
government had to import a foreign expert to teach the housewives of the
country the veriest elements of thrift. No such instruction was needed by the
housewives of the Continent. They were simply told how much food they
could have, and their natural competence did the rest. There is never any
avoidable waste there, either in peace or in war. A French housewife has
little use for a garbage can, save as a depository for uplifting literature. She
does her best with the means at her disposal, not only in war time but at all
times.

As I have said over and over again in this inquiry, a woman’s
disinclination to acquire the intricate expertness that lies at the bottom of
good housekeeping is due primarily to her active intelligence; it is difficult
for her to concentrate her mind upon such stupid and meticulous
enterprises. But whether difficult or easy, it is obviously important for the
average woman to make some effort in that direction, for if she fails to do
so there is chaos. That chaos is duly visible in the United States. Here
women reveal one of their subterranean qualities: their deficiency in
conscientiousness. They are quite without that dog-like fidelity to duty
which is one of the shining marks of men. They never summon up a high
pride in doing what is inherently disagreeable; they always go to the galleys
under protest, and with vows of sabotage; their fundamental philosophy is
almost that of the syndicalists. The sentimentality of men connives at this,
and is thus largely responsible for it. Before the average puella, apprenticed
in the kitchen, can pick up a fourth of the culinary subtleties that are
commonplace even to the chefs on dining cars, she has caught a man and
need concern herself about them no more, for he has to eat, in the last
analysis, whatever she sets before him, and his lack of intelligence makes it
easy for her to shut off his academic criticisms by bald appeals to his
emotions. By an easy process he finally attaches a positive value to her
indolence. It is a proof, he concludes, of her fineness of soul. In the
presence of her lofty incompetence he is abashed.
But as women, gaining economic autonomy, meet men in progressively
bitterer competition, the rising masculine distrust and fear of them will be
reflected even in the enchanted domain of marriage, and the husband,
having yielded up most of his old rights, will begin to reveal a new jealousy
of those that remain, and particularly of the right to a fair quid pro quo for
his own docile industry. In brief, as women shake off their ancient
disabilities they will also shake off some of their ancient immunities, and
their doings will come to be regarded with a soberer and more exigent
scrutiny than now prevails. The extension of the suffrage, I believe, will
encourage this awakening; in wresting it from the reluctant male the women
of the western world have planted dragons’ teeth, the which will presently
leap up and gnaw them. Now that women have the political power to obtain
their just rights, they will begin to lose their old power to obtain special
privileges by sentimental appeals. Men, facing them squarely, will consider
them anew, not as romantic political and social invalids, to be coddled and

caressed, but as free competitors in a harsh world. When that
reconsideration gets under way there will be a general overhauling of the
relations between the sexes, and some of the fair ones, I suspect, will begin
to wonder why they didn’t let well enough alone.

45. Effects of the War

The present series of wars, it seems likely, will continue for twenty or
thirty years, and perhaps longer. That the first clash was inconclusive was
shown brilliantly by the preposterous nature of the peace finally reached—a
peace so artificial and dishonest that the signing of it was almost equivalent
to a new declaration of war. At least three new contests in the grand manner
are plainly insight—one between Germany and France to rectify the
unnatural tyranny of a weak and incompetent nation over a strong and
enterprising nation, one between Japan and the United States for the
mastery of the Pacific, and one between England and the United States for
the control of the sea. To these must be added various minor struggles, and
perhaps one or two of almost major character: the effort of Russia to regain
her old unity and power, the effort of the Turks to put down the slave
rebellion (of Greeks, Armenians, Arabs, etc.)which now menaces them, the
effort of the Latin-Americans to throw off the galling Yankee yoke, and the
joint effort of Russia and Germany (perhaps with England and Italy aiding)
to get rid of such international nuisances as the insane Polish republic, the
petty states of the Baltic, and perhaps also most of the Balkan states. I pass
over the probability of a new mutiny in India, of the rising of China against
the Japanese, and of a general struggle for a new alignment of boundaries in
South America. All of these wars, great and small, are probable; most of
them are humanly certain. They will be fought ferociously, and with the aid
of destructive engines of the utmost efficiency. They will bring about an
unparalleled butchery of men, and a large proportion of these men will be
under forty years of age.
As a result there will be a shortage of husbands in Christendom, and as a
second result the survivors will be appreciably harder to snare than the men
of today. Every man of agreeable exterior and easy means will be pursued,
not merely by a few dozen or score of women, as now, but by whole
battalions and brigades of them, and he will be driven in sheer self-defence

into very sharp bargaining. Perhaps in the end the state will have to interfere
in the business, to prevent the potential husband going to waste in the
turmoil of opportunity.
Just what form this interference is likely to take has not yet appeared
clearly. In France there is already a wholesale legitimization of children
born out of wedlock and in Eastern Europe there has been a clamour for the
legalization of polygamy, but these devices do not meet the main problem,
which is the encouragement of monogamy to the utmost. A plan that
suggests itself is the amelioration of the position of the monogamous
husband, now rendered increasingly uncomfortable by the laws of most
Christian states. I do not think that the more intelligent sort of women,
faced by a perilous shortage of men, would object seriously to that
amelioration. They must see plainly that the present system, if it is carried
much further, will begin to work powerfully against their best interests, if
only by greatly reinforcing the disinclination to marriage that already exists
among the better sort of men. The woman of true discretion, I am
convinced, would much rather marry a superior man, even on unfavourable
terms, than make John Smith her husband, serf and prisoner at one stroke.
The law must eventually recognize this fact and make provision for it.
The average husband, perhaps, deserves little succour. The woman who
pursues and marries him, though she may be moved by selfish aims, should
be properly rewarded by the state for her service to it—a service surely not
to be lightly estimated in a military age. And that reward may conveniently
take the form, as in the United States, of statutes giving her title to a large
share of his real property and requiring him to surrender most of his income
to her, and releasing her from all obedience to him and from all obligation
to keep his house in order. But the woman who aspires to higher game
should be quite willing, it seems to me, to resign some of these advantages
in compensation for the greater honour and satisfaction of being wife to a
man of merit, and mother to his children. All that is needed is laws allowing
her, if she will, to resign her right of dower, her right to maintenance and
her immunity from discipline, and to make any other terms that she may be
led to regard as equitable. At present women are unable to make most of
these concessions even if they would: the laws of the majority of western
nations are inflexible. If, for example, an Englishwoman should agree, by
an ante-nuptial contract, to submit herself to the discipline, not of the
current statutes, but of the elder common law, which allowed a husband to

correct his wife corporally with a stick no thicker than his thumb, it would
be competent for any sentimental neighbour to set the agreement at naught
by haling her husband before a magistrate for carrying it out, and it is a safe
wager that the magistrate would jail him.
This plan, however novel it may seem, is actually already in operation.
Many a married woman, in order to keep her husband from revolt, makes
more or less disguised surrenders of certain of the rights and immunities
that she has under existing laws. There are, for example, even in America,
women who practise the domestic arts with competence and diligence,
despite the plain fact that no legal penalty would be visited upon them if
they failed to do so. There are women who follow external trades and
professions, contributing a share to the family exchequer. There are women
who obey their husbands, even against their best judgments. There are, most
numerous of all, women who wink discreetly at husbandly departures, overt
or in mere intent, from the oath of chemical purity taken at the altar. It is a
commonplace, indeed, that many happy marriages admit a party of the third
part. There would be more of them if there were more women with enough
serenity of mind to see the practical advantage of the arrangement. The
trouble with such triangulations is not primarily that they involve perjury or
that they offer any fundamental offence to the wife; if she avoids banal
theatricals, in fact, they commonly have the effect of augmenting the
husband’s devotion to her and respect for her, if only as the fruit of
comparison. The trouble with them is that very few men among us have
sense enough to manage them intelligently. The masculine mind is readily
taken in by specious values; the average married man of Protestant
Christendom, if he succumbs at all, succumbs to some meretricious and
flamboyant creature, bent only upon fleecing him. Here is where the harsh
realism of the Frenchman shows its superiority to the sentimentality of the
men of the Teutonic races. A Frenchman would no more think of taking a
mistress without consulting his wife than he would think of standing for
office without consulting his wife. The result is that he is seldom
victimized. For one Frenchman ruined by women there are at least a
hundred Englishmen and Americans, despite the fact that a hundred times
as many Frenchmen engage in that sort of recreation. The case of Zola is
typical. As is well known, his amours were carefully supervised by Mme.
Zola from the first days of their marriage, and in consequence his life was
wholly free from scandals and his mind was never distracted from his work.

46. The Eternal Romance

But whatever the future of monogamous marriage, there will never be
any decay of that agreeable adventurousness which now lies at the bottom
of all transactions between the sexes. Women may emancipate themselves,
they may borrow the whole bag of masculine tricks, and they may cure
themselves of their present desire for the vegetable security of marriage, but
they will never cease to be women, and so long as they are women they will
remain provocative to men. Their chief charm today lies precisely in the
fact that they are dangerous, that they threaten masculine liberty and
autonomy, that their sharp minds present a menace vastly greater than that
of acts of God and the public enemy—and they will be dangerous for ever.
Men fear them, and are fascinated by them. They know how to show their
teeth charmingly; the more enlightened of them have perfected a superb
technique of fascination. It was Nietzsche who called them the recreation of
the warrior—not of the poltroon, remember, but of the warrior. A profound
saying. They have an infinite capacity for rewarding masculine industry and
enterprise with small and irresistible flatteries; their acute understanding
combines with their capacity for evoking ideas of beauty to make them
incomparable companions when the serious business of the day is done, and
the time has come to expand comfortably in the interstellar ether.
Every man, I daresay, has his own notion of what constitutes perfect
peace and contentment, but all of those notions, despite the fundamental
conflict of the sexes, revolve around women. As for me—and I hope I may
be pardoned, at this late stage in my inquiry, for intruding my own
personality—I reject the two commonest of them: passion, at least in its
more adventurous and melodramatic aspects, is too exciting and alarming
for so indolent a man, and I am too egoistic to have much desire to be
mothered. What, then, remains for me? Let me try to describe it to you.
It is the close of a busy and vexatious day—say half past five or six
o’clock of a winter afternoon. I have had a cocktail or two, and am

stretched out on a divan in front of a fire, smoking. At the edge of the divan,
close enough for me to reach her with my hand, sits a woman not too
young, but still good-looking and well-dressed—above all, a woman with a
soft, low-pitched, agreeable voice. As I snooze she talks—of anything,
everything, all the things that women talk of: books, music, the play, men,
other women. No politics. No business. No religion. No metaphysics.
Nothing challenging and vexatious—but remember, she is intelligent; what
she says is clearly expressed, and often picturesquely. I observe the fine
sheen of her hair, the pretty cut of her frock, the glint of her white teeth, the
arch of her eye-brow, the graceful curve of her arm. I listen to the exquisite
murmur of her voice. Gradually I fall asleep—but only for an instant. At
once, observing it, she raises her voice ever so little, and I am awake. Then
to sleep again—slowly and charmingly down that slippery hill of dreams.
And then awake again, and then asleep again, and so on.
I ask you seriously: could anything be more unutterably beautiful? The
sensation of falling asleep is to me the most exquisite in the world. I delight
in it so much that I even look forward to death itself with a sneaking
wonder and desire. Well, here is sleep poetized and made doubly sweet.
Here is sleep set to the finest music in the world. I match this situation
against any that you ran think of. It is not only enchanting; it is also, in a
very true sense, ennobling. In the end, when the girl grows prettily miffed
and throws me out, I return to my sorrows somehow purged and glorified. I
am a better man in my own sight. I have grazed upon the fields of asphodel.
I have been genuinely, completely and unregrettably happy.

47. Apologia in Conclusion

At the end I crave the indulgence of the cultured reader for the
imperfections necessarily visible in all that I have here set down—
imperfections not only due to incomplete information and fallible logic, but
also, and perhaps more importantly, to certain fundamental weaknesses of
the sex to which I have the honour to belong. A man is inseparable from his
congenital vanities and stupidities, as a dog is inseparable from its fleas.
They reveal themselves in everything he says and does, but they reveal
themselves most of all when he discusses the majestic mystery of woman.
Just as he smirks and rolls his eyes in her actual presence, so he puts on
apathetic and unescapable clownishness when he essays to dissect her in the
privacy of the laboratory. There is no book on woman by a man that is not a
stupendous compendium of posturings and imbecilities. There are but two
books that show even a superficial desire to be honest—“The Unexpurgated
Case Against Woman Suffrage,” by Sir Almroth Wright, and this one.
Wright made a gallant attempt to tell the truth, but before he got half way
through his task his ineradicable donkeyishness as a male overcame his
scientific frenzy as a psychologist, and so he hastily washed his hands of
the business, and affronted the judicious with a half baked and preposterous
book. Perhaps I have failed too, and even more ingloriously. If so, I am full
of sincere and indescribable regret.

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