.... there is a plutocratic assumption behind the phrase "Why should
woman be economically dependent upon man?" The answer is that among poor
and practical people she isn't; except in the sense in which he is
dependent upon her. A hunter has to tear his clothes; there must be
somebody to mend them. A fisher has to catch fish; there must be
somebody to cook them. It is surely quite clear that this modern notion
that woman is a mere "pretty clinging parasite," "a plaything," etc.,
arose through the somber contemplation of some rich banking family, in
which the banker, at least, went to the city and pretended to do
something, while the banker's wife went to the Park and did not pretend
to do anything at all. A poor man and his wife are a business
partnership. If one partner in a firm of publishers interviews the
authors while the other interviews the clerks, is one of them
economically dependent? Was Hodder a pretty parasite clinging to
Stoughton? Was Marshall a mere plaything for Snelgrove?
But of all the modern notions generated by mere wealth the worst is
this: the notion that domesticity is dull and tame. Inside the home
(they say) is dead decorum and routine; outside is adventure and
variety. This is indeed a rich man's opinion. The rich man knows that
his own house moves on vast and soundless wheels of wealth, is run by
regiments of servants, by a swift and silent ritual. On the other hand,
every sort of vagabondage of romance is open to him in the streets
outside. He has plenty of money and can afford to be a tramp. His
wildest adventure will end in a restaurant, while the yokel's tamest
adventure may end in a police-court. If he smashes a window he can pay
for it; if he smashes a man he can pension him. He can (like the
millionaire in the story) buy an hotel to get a glass of gin. And
because he, the luxurious man, dictates the tone of nearly all
"advanced" and "progressive" thought, we have almost forgotten what a
home really means to the overwhelming millions of mankind.
For the truth is, that to the moderately poor the home is the only place
of liberty. Nay, it is the only place of anarchy. It is the only spot
on the earth where a man can alter arrangements suddenly, make an
experiment or indulge in a whim. Everywhere else he goes he must accept
the strict rules of the shop, inn, club, or museum that he happens to
enter. He can eat his meals on the floor in his own house if he likes. I
often do it myself; it gives a curious, childish, poetic, picnic
feeling. There would be considerable trouble if I tried to do it in an
A.B.C. tea-shop. A man can wear a dressing gown and slippers in his
house; while I am sure that this would not be permitted at the Savoy,
though I never actually tested the point. If you go to a restaurant you
must drink some of the wines on the wine list, all of them if you
insist, but certainly some of them. But if you have a house and garden
you can try to make hollyhock tea or convolvulus wine if you like. For a
plain, hard-working man the home is not the one tame place in the world
of adventure. It is the one wild place in the world of rules and set
tasks. The home is the one place where he can put the carpet on the
ceiling or the slates on the floor if he wants to. When a man spends
every night staggering from bar to bar or from music-hall to music-hall,
we say that he is living an irregular life. But he is not; he is living
a highly regular life, under the dull, and often oppressive, laws of
such places. Some times he is not allowed even to sit down in the bars;
and frequently he is not allowed to sing in the music-halls. Hotels may
be defined as places where you are forced to dress; and theaters may be
defined as places where you are forbidden to smoke. A man can only
picnic at home.
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