proper scrap. “So,” he began, “do I have a ‘wild woman’ at my table, then?”
I presented my most demure smile. “A ‘ new woman,’ perhaps.” The term I suggested was held by conservative thinkers to denote a woman of lax morals, overarching ambition, and other “unnatural” desires, such as rivalry with men and attendance at university.
I relished the title.
Brother Roderick fixed me with a glacial glare. “I’ve heard of these new women and their manly ambitions. They throw the whole social order into disarray. It’s said that if given free rein they could conceivably bring down the whole of the British Empire.”
I snorted derisively.
Mr. Smead grew very red in the face. His missus looked as though she had stopped breathing altogether.
“It’s my understanding,” Father offered, “that these young ladies simply want the same education, the same employment, and the same rights of citizenship that men have. That doesn’t seem so out of line to me. What do you think, Mr. Conrath?”
Ral was taken quite off guard by the question. He’d been only half listening to the dinner conversation. Just as we’d sat down at the table he had been handed a telegram. After reading it with a scowl, he returned to it time and again. His answer to Father’s question was un-thought-out and therefore perhaps a more honest one than he had wished.
“The female sex is different from the male. Women are weaker, simpler, purer creatures than men are. They need our supervision and protection.”
“I don’t need a man,” I said in as even a tone as my rebellious heart would allow. “I may want one,” I plunged on, “but not at the expense of my education and independence.” Ellen Smead gasped and stared down at her plate, afraid to meet another pair of eyes. “Hasn’t anyone else noticed that once a woman is married, she’s treated under law with exactly the same rights as idiots, children, and the insane?”
“Tommyrot!” Smead cried, quite out of his missionarial character.
Captain Kelly was enjoying himself. He called for the galley mate to fill everyone’s glass with wine. When the missionaries put their hands over their glasses, he muttered “stuffed shirts” loudly enough for everyone to hear.
Roderick Smead pushed back his chair and stood. His wife followed suit. “Good evening,” he said with that tight-lipped grimace and, taking Ellen by the arm, frog-marched her out of the dining room.
“That pair’ll have one helluva time in the bush,” Kelly said.
The rest of the dinner passed in lively conversation. More than a little wine was imbibed, and of “new women” and “God’s will” nothing more was said.
* * *
Sleep evaded me that night, the dinner conversation having stimulated me sufficiently that even the reading of Eugène Dubois’s monograph of the whale larynx—something that always put me to sleep—failed to make me the least bit drowsy. I’d thrown a long shawl around my nightgown and gone padding out barefoot onto the Evangeline ’s rear deck.
Phrases kept repeating themselves in my head: the “lesser races,” “the evangelization of the Asian and African continents,” the “befuddled” African native creeping through his smoky hut’s doorway. It upset me that pompous imbeciles like the Smeads were being sent in droves all over the empire to wring and bully from these ancient cultures everything that made them unique. People like them believed themselves so honorable, so righteous. Little by little the world was being dissected like a cadaver, those bits thought unnecessary sliced out and discarded—thrown in a tin pail at the feet of the chosen few believing themselves worthy of the cutting. The wealthy. The educated. The “noble.”
I was part of the problem; I knew that. It always concerned me, the conundrum of my privileged position in the world. I was thankful, of course. I never wished I had been born a washerwoman’s daughter.
No one
I presented my most demure smile. “A ‘ new woman,’ perhaps.” The term I suggested was held by conservative thinkers to denote a woman of lax morals, overarching ambition, and other “unnatural” desires, such as rivalry with men and attendance at university.
I relished the title.
Brother Roderick fixed me with a glacial glare. “I’ve heard of these new women and their manly ambitions. They throw the whole social order into disarray. It’s said that if given free rein they could conceivably bring down the whole of the British Empire.”
I snorted derisively.
Mr. Smead grew very red in the face. His missus looked as though she had stopped breathing altogether.
“It’s my understanding,” Father offered, “that these young ladies simply want the same education, the same employment, and the same rights of citizenship that men have. That doesn’t seem so out of line to me. What do you think, Mr. Conrath?”
Ral was taken quite off guard by the question. He’d been only half listening to the dinner conversation. Just as we’d sat down at the table he had been handed a telegram. After reading it with a scowl, he returned to it time and again. His answer to Father’s question was un-thought-out and therefore perhaps a more honest one than he had wished.
“The female sex is different from the male. Women are weaker, simpler, purer creatures than men are. They need our supervision and protection.”
“I don’t need a man,” I said in as even a tone as my rebellious heart would allow. “I may want one,” I plunged on, “but not at the expense of my education and independence.” Ellen Smead gasped and stared down at her plate, afraid to meet another pair of eyes. “Hasn’t anyone else noticed that once a woman is married, she’s treated under law with exactly the same rights as idiots, children, and the insane?”
“Tommyrot!” Smead cried, quite out of his missionarial character.
Captain Kelly was enjoying himself. He called for the galley mate to fill everyone’s glass with wine. When the missionaries put their hands over their glasses, he muttered “stuffed shirts” loudly enough for everyone to hear.
Roderick Smead pushed back his chair and stood. His wife followed suit. “Good evening,” he said with that tight-lipped grimace and, taking Ellen by the arm, frog-marched her out of the dining room.
“That pair’ll have one helluva time in the bush,” Kelly said.
The rest of the dinner passed in lively conversation. More than a little wine was imbibed, and of “new women” and “God’s will” nothing more was said.
* * *
Sleep evaded me that night, the dinner conversation having stimulated me sufficiently that even the reading of Eugène Dubois’s monograph of the whale larynx—something that always put me to sleep—failed to make me the least bit drowsy. I’d thrown a long shawl around my nightgown and gone padding out barefoot onto the Evangeline ’s rear deck.
Phrases kept repeating themselves in my head: the “lesser races,” “the evangelization of the Asian and African continents,” the “befuddled” African native creeping through his smoky hut’s doorway. It upset me that pompous imbeciles like the Smeads were being sent in droves all over the empire to wring and bully from these ancient cultures everything that made them unique. People like them believed themselves so honorable, so righteous. Little by little the world was being dissected like a cadaver, those bits thought unnecessary sliced out and discarded—thrown in a tin pail at the feet of the chosen few believing themselves worthy of the cutting. The wealthy. The educated. The “noble.”
I was part of the problem; I knew that. It always concerned me, the conundrum of my privileged position in the world. I was thankful, of course. I never wished I had been born a washerwoman’s daughter.
No one
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