Part 6

“Will you repeat that list of problems?” she asked, coldly.

“Servants, baby-food, floor-polish, and godets,” I repeated, somewhat sheepishly, she took it so coolly.

“Very well,” said Xanthippe, with a note of amusement in her manipulation of the keys. “If those are your subjects, let us discuss them. I am surprised to find an able-bodied man like yourself bothering with such problems, but I'll help you out of your difficulties if I can. No needy man shall ever say that I ignored his cry for help. What do you want to know about baby-food?”

This turning of the tables nonplussed me, and I didn't really know what to say, and so wisely said nothing, and the machine grew sharp in its clicking.

“You men!” it cried. “You don't know how fearfully shallow you are. I can see through you in a minute.”

“Well,” I said, modestly, “I suppose you can.” Then calling my feeble wit to my rescue, I added, “It's only natural, since I've made a spectacle of myself.”

“Not you!” cried Xanthippe. “You haven't even made a monocle of yourself.”

And here we both laughed, and the ice was broken.

“What has become of Boswell?” I asked.

“He's been sent to the ovens for ten days for libelling Shakespeare and Adam and Noah and old Jonah,” replied Xanthippe. “He printed an article alleged to have been written by Baron Munchausen, in which those four gentlemen were held up to ridicule and libelled grossly.”

“And Munchausen?” I cried.

“Oh, the Baron got out of it by confessing that he wrote the article,” replied the lady. “And as he swore to his confession the jury were convinced he was telling another one of his lies and acquitted him, so Boswell was sent up alone. That's why I am here. There isn't a man in all Hades that dared take charge of Boswell's paper--they're all so deadly afraid of the government, so I stepped in, and while Boswell is baking I'm attending to his editorial duties.”

“But you spoke contemptuously of the Sunday newspapers awhile ago, Mrs. Socrates,” said I.

“I know that,” said Xanthippe, “but I've fixed that. I get out the Sunday edition on Saturdays.”

“Oh--I see. And you like it?” I queried.

“First rate,” she replied. “I'm in love with the work. I almost wish poor old Bos had been sentenced for ten years. I have enough of the woman in me to love minding other people's business, and, as far as I can find out, that's about all journalism amounts to. Sewing societies aren't to be mentioned in the same day with a newspaper for scandal and gossip, and, besides, I'm an ardent advocate of men's rights--have been for centuries--and I've got my first chance now to promulgate a few of my ideas. I'm really a man in all my views of life--that's the inevitable end of an advanced woman who persists in following her 'newness' to its logical conclusion. Her habits of thought gradually come to be those of a man. Even I have a great deal more sympathy with Socrates than I used to have. I used to think I was the one that should be emancipated, but I'm really reaching that stage in my manhood where I begin to believe that he needs emancipation.”

“Then you admit, do you,” I cried, with great glee, “that this new-woman business is all Tommy-rot?”

“Not by a great deal,” snapped the machine. “Far from it. It's the salvation of the happy life. It is perfectly logical to say that the more manny a woman becomes, the more she is likely to sympathize with the troubles and trials which beset men.”

I scratched my head and pulled the lobe of my ear in the hope of loosening an argument to confront her with, not that I disagreed with her entirely, but because I instinctively desired to oppose her as pleasantly disagreeably as I could. But the result was nil.

“I'm afraid you are right,” I said.

“You're a truthful man,” clicked the machine, laughingly. “You are afraid I'm right. And why are you afraid? Because you are one of those men who take a cynical view of woman. You want woman to be a mere lump of sugar, content to be left in a bowl until it pleases you in your high-and-mightiness to take her in the tongs and drop her into the coffee of your existence, to sweeten what would otherwise not please your taste--and like most men you prefer two or three lumps to one.”

I could only cough. The lady was more or less right. I am very fond of sugar, though one lump is my allowance, and I never exceed it, whatever the temptation. Xanthippe continued.

“You criticise her because she doesn't understand you and your needs, forgetting that out of twenty-four hours of your daily existence your wife enjoys personally about twelve hours of your society, during eight of which you are lying flat on your back, snoring as though your life depended on it; but when she asks to be allowed to share your responsibilities as well as what, in her poor little soul, she thinks are your joys, you flare up and call her 'new' and 'advanced,' as if advancement were a crime. You ride off on your wheel for forty miles on your days of rest, and she is glad to have you do it, but when she wants a bicycle to ride, you think it's all wrong, immoral, and conducive to a weak heart. Bah!”

“I--ah--” I began.

“Yes you do,” she interrupted. “You ah and you hem and you haw, but in the end you're a poor miserable social mugwump, conscious of your own magnificence and virtue, but nobody else ever can attain to your lofty plane. Now what I want to see among women is more good fellows. Suppose you regarded your wife as good a fellow as you think your friend Jones. Do you think you'd be running off to the club every night to play billiards with Jones, leaving your wife to enjoy her own society?”

“Perhaps not,” I replied, “but that's just the point. My wife isn't a good fellow.”

“Exactly, and for that reason you seek out Jones. You have a right to the companionship of the good fellow--that's what I'm going to advocate. I've advanced far enough to see that on the average in the present state of woman she is not a suitable companion for man--she has none of the qualities of a chum to which he is entitled. I'm not so blind but that I can see the faults of my own sex, particularly now that I have become so very masculine myself. Both sexes should have their rights, and that is the great policy I'm going to hammer at as long as I have Boswell's paper in charge. I wish you might see my editorial page for to-morrow; it is simply fine. I urge upon woman the necessity of joining in with her husband in all his pleasures whether she enjoys them or not. When he lights a cigar, let her do the same; when he calls for a cocktail, let her call for another. In time she will begin to understand him. He understands her pleasures, and often he joins in with them--opera, dances, lectures; she ought to do the same, and join in with him in his pleasures, and after a while they'll get upon a common basis, have their clubs together, and when that happy time comes, when either one goes out the other will also go, and their companionship will be perfect.”

“But you objected to my calling you old chap when we first met,” said I. “Is that quite consistent?”