नारी विमर्श

[Dark Saint Alaick]

Mrs. B. has joined a suffrage society and makes speeches on the
injustice of the laws; and yet she began innocently enough, by making
strong and durable garments for her washwoman's children--and see what
has come of it! If women would only be content to snip away at the
symptoms of poverty and distress, feeding the hungry and clothing the
naked, all would be well and they would be much commended for their
kindness of heart; but when they begin to inquire into causes, they
find themselves in the sacred realm of politics where prejudice says no
women must enter.

A woman may take an interest in factory girls, and hold meetings for
them, and encourage them to walk in virtue's ways all she likes, but if
she begins to advocate more sanitary surroundings for them, with some
respect for the common decencies of life, she will find herself again
in that sacred realm of politics---confronted by a factory act, on
which no profane female hand must be laid.

Now politics simply means public affairs--yours and mine,
everybody's--and to say that politics are too corrupt for women is a
weak and foolish statement for any man to make. Any man who is
actively engaged in politics, and declares that politics are too
corrupt for women, admits one of two things, either that he is a party
to this corruption, or that he is unable to prevent it--and in either
case something should be done. Politics are not inherently vicious.
The office of lawmaker should be the highest in the land, equaled in
honor only by that of the minister of the gospel. In the old days, the
two were combined with very good effect; but they seem to have drifted
apart in more recent years.

If politics are too corrupt for women, they are too corrupt for men;
for men and women are one--indissolubly joined together for good or
ill. Many men have tried to put all their religion and virtue in their
wife's name, but it does not work very well. When social conditions
are corrupt women cannot escape by shutting their eyes, and taking no
interest. It would be far better to give them a chance to clean them
up.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

What would you think of a man who would say to his wife: "This house to
which I am bringing you to live is very dirty and unsanitary, but I
will not allow you--the dear wife whom I have sworn to protect--to
touch it. It is too dirty for your precious little white hands! You
must stay upstairs, dear. Of course the odor from below may come up to
you, but use your smelling salts and think no evil. I do not hope to
ever be able to clean it up, but certainly you must never think of
trying."

Do you think any woman would stand for that? She would say: "John, you
are all right in your way, but there are some places where your brain
skids. Perhaps you had better stay downtown today for lunch. But on
your way down please call at the grocer's, and send me a scrubbing
brush and a package of Dutch Cleanser, and some chloride of lime, and
now hurry." Women have cleaned up things since time began; and if
women ever get into politics there will be a cleaning-out of
pigeon-holes and forgotten corners, on which the dust of years has
fallen, and the sound of the political carpet-beater will be heard in
the land.

There is another hardy perennial that constantly lifts its head above
the earth, persistently refusing to be ploughed under, and that is that
if women were ever given a chance to participate in outside affairs,
that family quarrels would result; that men and their wives who have
traveled the way of life together, side by side, for years, and come
safely through religious discussions, and discussions relating to "his"
people and "her" people, would angrily rend each other over politics,
and great damage to the furniture would be the result. Father and son
have been known to live under the same roof and vote differently, and
yet live! Not only live, but live peaceably! If a husband and wife
are going to quarrel they will find a cause for dispute easily enough,
and will not be compelled to wait for election day. And supposing that
they have never, never had a single dispute, and not a ripple has ever
marred the placid surface of their matrimonial sea, I believe that a
small family jar--or at least a real lively argument--will do them
good. It is in order to keep the white-winged angel of peace hovering
over the home that married women are not allowed to vote in many
places. Spinsters and widows are counted worthy of voice in the
selection of school trustee, and alderman, and mayor, but not the woman
who has taken to herself a husband and still has him.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

What a strange commentary on marriage that it should disqualify a woman
from voting. Why should marriage disqualify a woman? Men have been
known to vote for years after they were dead!

Quite different from the "family jar" theory, another reason is
advanced against married women voting--it is said that they would all
vote with their husbands, and that the married man's vote would thereby
be doubled. We believe it is eminently right and proper that husband
and wife should vote the same way, and in that case no one would be
able to tell whether the wife was voting with the husband or the
husband voting with the wife. Neither would it matter. If giving the
franchise to women did nothing more than double the married man's vote
it would do a splendid thing for the country, for the married man is
the best voter we have; generally speaking, he is a man of family and
property--surely if we can depend on anyone we can depend upon him, and
if by giving his wife a vote we can double his--we have done something
to offset the irresponsible transient vote of the man who has no
interest in the community.

There is another sturdy prejudice that blooms everywhere in all
climates, and that is that women would not vote if they had the
privilege; and this is many times used as a crushing argument against
woman suffrage. But why worry? If women do not use it, then surely
there is no harm done; but those who use the argument seem to imply
that a vote unused is a very dangerous thing to leave lying around, and
will probably spoil and blow up. In support of this statement
instances are cited of women letting their vote lie idle and unimproved
in elections for school trustee and alderman. Of course, the
percentage of men voting in these contests was quite small, too, but no
person finds fault with that.

Women may have been careless about their franchise in elections where
no great issue is at stake, but when moral matters are being decided
women have not shown any lack of interest. As a result of the first
vote cast by the women of Illinois over one thousand saloons went out
of business. Ask the liquor dealers if they think women will use the
ballot. They do not object to woman suffrage on the ground that women
will not vote, but because they will.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

"Why, Uncle Henry!" exclaimed one man to another on election day. "I
never saw you out to vote before. What struck you?"

"Hadn't voted for fifteen years," declared Uncle Henry, "but you bet I
came out today to vote against givin' these fool women a vote; what's
the good of givin' them a vote? they wouldn't use it!"

Then, of course, on the other hand there are those who claim that women
would vote too much--that they would vote not wisely but too well; that
they would take up voting as a life work to the exclusion of husband,
home and children. There seems to be considerable misapprehension on
the subject of voting. It is really a simple and perfectly innocent
performance, quickly over, and with no bad after-effects.

It is usually done in a vacant room in a school or the vestry of a
church, or a town hall. No drunken men stare at you. You are not
jostled or pushed--you wait your turn in an orderly line, much as you
have waited to buy a ticket at a railway station. Two tame and
quiet-looking men sit at a table, and when your turn comes, they ask
you your name, which is perhaps slightly embarrassing, but it is not as
bad as it might be, for they do not ask your age, or of what disease
did your grandmother die. You go behind the screen with your ballot
paper in your hand, and there you find a seal-brown pencil tied with a
chaste white string. Even the temptation of annexing the pencil is
removed from your frail humanity. You mark your ballot, and drop it in
the box, and come out into the sunlight again. If you had never heard
that you had done an unladylike thing you would not know it. It all
felt solemn, and serious, and very respectable to you, something like a
Sunday-school convention. Then, too, you are surprised at what a short
time you have been away from home. You put the potatoes on when you
left home, and now you are back in time to strain them.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

In spite of the testimony of many reputable women that they have been
able to vote and get the dinner on one and the same day, there still
exists a strong belief that the whole household machinery goes out of
order when a woman goes to vote. No person denies a woman the right to
go to church, and yet the church service takes a great deal more time
than voting. People even concede to women the right to go shopping, or
visiting a friend, or an occasional concert. But the wife and mother,
with her God-given, sacred trust of molding the young life of our land,
must never dream of going round the corner to vote. "Who will mind the
baby?" cried one of our public men, in great agony of spirit, "when the
mother goes to vote?"

One woman replied that she thought she could get the person that minded
it when she went to pay her taxes--which seemed to be a fairly
reasonable proposition. Yet the hardy plant of prejudice flourishes,
and the funny pictures still bring a laugh.

Father comes home, tired, weary, footsore, toe-nails ingrowing, caused
by undarned stockings, and finds the fire out, house cold and empty,
save for his half-dozen children, all crying.

"Where is your mother?" the poor man asks in broken tones. For a
moment the sobs are hushed while little Ellie replies: "Out voting!"

Father bursts into tears.

Of course, people tell us, it is not the mere act of voting which
demoralizes women--if they would only vote and be done with it; but
women are creatures of habit, and habits once formed are hard to break;
and although the polls are only open every three or four years, if
women once get into the way of going to them, they will hang around
there all the rest of the time. It is in woman's impressionable nature
that the real danger lies.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

Another shoot of this hardy shrub of prejudice is that women are too
good to mingle in everyday life--they are too sweet and too frail--that
women are angels. If women are angels we should try to get them into
public life as soon as possible, for there is a great shortage of
angels there just at present, if all we hear is true.

Then there is the pedestal theory--that women are away up on a
pedestal, and down below, looking up at them with deep adoration, are
men, their willing slaves. Sitting up on a pedestal does not appeal
very strongly to a healthy woman--and, besides, if a woman has been on
a pedestal for any length of time, it must be very hard to have to come
down and cut the wood.

These tender-hearted and chivalrous gentlemen who tell you of their
adoration for women, cannot bear to think of women occupying public
positions. Their tender hearts shrink from the idea of women lawyers
or women policemen, or even women preachers; these positions would "rub
the bloom off the peach," to use their own eloquent words. They cannot
bear, they say, to see women leaving the sacred precincts of home--and
yet their offices are scrubbed by women who do their work while other
people sleep--poor women who leave the sacred precincts of home to earn
enough to keep the breath of life in them, who carry their scrub-pails
home, through the deserted streets, long after the cars have stopped
running. They are exposed to cold, to hunger, to insult--poor
souls--is there any pity felt for them? Not that we have heard of.
The tender-hearted ones can bear this with equanimity. It is the
thought of women getting into comfortable and well-paid positions which
wrings their manly hearts.

Another aspect of the case is that women can do more with their
indirect influence than by the ballot; though just why they cannot do
better still with both does not appear to be very plain. The ballot is
a straight-forward dignified way of making your desire or choice felt.
There are some things which are not pleasant to talk about, but would
be delightful to vote against. Instead of having to beg, and coax, and
entreat, and beseech, and denounce as women have had to do all down the
centuries, in regard to the evil things which threaten to destroy their
homes and those whom they love, what a glorious thing it would be if
women could go out and vote against these things. It seems like a
straightforward and easy way of expressing one's opinion.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

But, of course, popular opinion says it is not "womanly." The "womanly
way" is to nag and tease. Women have often been told that if they go
about it right they can get anything. They are encouraged to plot and
scheme, and deceive, and wheedle, and coax for things. This is womanly
and sweet. Of course, if this fails, they still have tears--they can
always cry and have hysterics, and raise hob generally, but they must
do it in a womanly way. Will the time ever come when the word
"feminine" will have in it no trace of trickery?

Women are too sentimental to vote, say the politicians sometimes.
Sentiment is nothing to be ashamed of, and perhaps an infusion of
sentiment in politics is what we need. Honor and honesty, love and
loyalty, are only sentiments, and yet they make the fabric out of which
our finest traditions are woven. The United States has sent carloads
of flour to starving Belgium because of a sentiment. Belgium refused
to let Germany march over her land because of a sentiment, and Canada
has responded to the SOS call of the Empire because of a sentiment. It
seems that it is sentiment which redeems our lives from sordidness and
selfishness, and occasionally gives us a glimpse of the upper country.

For too long people have regarded politics as a scheme whereby easy
money might be obtained. Politics has meant favors, pulls, easy jobs
for friends, new telephone lines, ditches. The question has not been:
"What can I do for my country?" but: "What can I get? What is there in
this for me?" The test of a member of Parliament as voiced by his
constituents has been: "What has he got for us?" The good member who
will be elected the next time is the one who did not forget his
friends, who got us a Normal School, or a Court House, or an
Institution for the Blind, something that we could see or touch, eat or
drink. Surely a touch of sentiment in politics would do no harm.

Then there is the problem of the foreign woman's vote. Many people
fear that the granting of woman suffrage would greatly increase the
unintelligent vote, because the foreign women would then have the
franchise, and in our blind egotism we class our foreign people as
ignorant people, if they do not know our ways and our language. They
may know many other languages, but if they have not yet mastered ours
they are poor, ignorant foreigners. We Anglo-Saxon people have a
decided sense of our own superiority, and we feel sure that our skin is
exactly the right color, and we people from Huron and Bruce feel sure
that we were born in the right place, too. So we naturally look down
upon those who happen to be of a different race and tongue than our own.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

It is a sad feature of humanity that we are disposed to hate what we do
not understand; we naturally suspect and distrust where we do not know.
Hens are like that, too! When a strange fowl comes into a farmyard all
the hens take a pick at it--not that it has done anything wrong, but
they just naturally do not like the look of its face because it is
strange. Now that may be very good ethics for hens, but it is hardly
good enough for human beings. Our attitude toward the foreign people
was well exemplified in one of the missions, where a little Italian
boy, who had been out two years, refused to sit beside a newly arrived
Italian boy, who, of course, could not speak a word of English. The
teacher asked him to sit with his lately arrived compatriot, so that he
might interpret for him. The older boy flatly refused, and told the
teacher he "had no use for them young dagos."

"You see," said the teacher sadly, when telling the story, "he had
caught the Canadian spirit."

People say hard things about the corruptible foreign vote, but they
place the emphasis in the wrong place. Instead of using our harsh
adjectives for the poor fellow who sells his vote, let us save them all
for the corrupt politician who buys it, for he cannot plead
ignorance--he knows what he is doing. The foreign people who come to
Canada, come with burning enthusiasm for the new land, this land of
liberty--land of freedom. Some have been seen kissing the ground in an
ecstacy of gladness when they arrive. It is the land of their dreams,
where they hope to find home and happiness. They come to us with
ideals of citizenship that shame our narrow, mercenary standards.
These men are of a race which has gladly shed its blood for freedom and
is doing it today. But what happens? They go out to work on
construction gangs for the summer, they earn money for several months,
and when the work closes down they drift back into the cities. They
have done the work we wanted them to do, and no further thought is
given to them. They may get off the earth so far as we are concerned.
One door stands invitingly open to them. There is one place they are
welcome--so long as their money lasts--and around the bar they get
their ideals of citizenship.

When an election is held, all at once this new land of their adoption
begins to take an interest in them, and political heelers, well paid
for the job, well armed with whiskey, cigars and money, go among them,
and, in their own language, tell them which way they must vote--and
they do. Many an election, has been swung by this means. One new
arrival, just learning our language, expressed his contempt for us by
exclaiming: "Bah! Canada is not a country--it's just a place to make
money." That was all he had seen. He spoke correctly from his point
of view.

[Dark Saint Alaick]

Then when the elections are over, and the Government is sustained, the
men who have climbed back to power by these means speak eloquently of
our "foreign people who have come to our shores to find freedom under
the sheltering folds of our grand old flag (cheers), on which the sun
never sets, and under whose protection all men are free and equal--with
an equal chance of molding the destiny of the great Empire of which we
make a part." (Cheers and prolonged applause.)

If we really understood how, with our low political ideals and
iniquitous election methods, we have corrupted the souls of these men
who have come to live among us, we would no longer cheer, when we hear
this old drivel of the "folds of the flag." We would think with shame
of how we have driven the patriotism out of these men and replaced it
by the greed of gain, and instead of cheers and applause we would cry:
"Lord, have mercy upon us!"

The foreign women, whom politicians and others look upon as such a
menace, are differently dealt with than the men. They do not go out to
work, en masse, as the men do. They work one by one, and are brought
in close contact with their employers. The women who go out washing
and cleaning spend probably five days a week in the homes of other
women. Surely one of her five employers will take an interest in her,
and endeavor to instruct her in the duties of citizenship. Then, too,
the mission work is nearly all done for women and girls. The foreign
women generally speak English before the men, for the reason that they
are brought in closer contact with English-speaking people. When I
hear people speaking of the ignorant foreign women I think of "Mary,"
and "Annie," and others I have known. I see their broad foreheads and
intelligent kindly faces, and think of the heroic struggle they are
making to bring their families up in thrift and decency. Would Mary
vote against liquor if she had the chance? She would. So would you if
your eyes had been blackened as often by a drunken husband. There is
no need to instruct these women on the evils of liquor drinking--they
are able to give you a few aspects of the case which perhaps you had
not thought of. We have no reason to be afraid of the foreign woman's
vote. I wish we were as sure of the ladies who live on the Avenue.

There are people who tell us that the reason women must never be
allowed to vote is because they do not want to vote, the inference
being that women are never given anything that they do not want. It
sounds so chivalrous and protective and high-minded. But women have
always got things that they did not want. Women do not want the liquor
business, but they have it; women do not want less pay for the same
work as men, but they get it. Women did not want the present war, but
they have it. The fact of women's preference has never been taken very
seriously, but it serves here just as well as anything else. Even the
opponents of woman suffrage will admit that some women want to vote,
but they say they are a very small minority, and "not our best women."
That is a classification which is rather difficult of proof and of no
importance anyway. It does not matter whether it is the best, or
second best, or the worst who are asking for a share in citizenship;
voting is not based on morality, but on humanity. No man votes because
he is one of our best men. He votes because he is of the male sex, and
over twenty-one years of age. The fact that many women are indifferent
on the subject does not alter the situation. People are indifferent
about many things that they should be interested in. The indifference
of people on the subject of ventilation and hygiene does not change the
laws of health. The indifference of many parents on the subject of an
education for their children does not alter the value of education. If
one woman wants to vote, she should have that opportunity just as if
one woman desires a college education, she should not be held back
because of the indifferent careless ones who do not desire it. Why
should the mentally inert, careless, uninterested woman, who cares
nothing for humanity but is contented to patter along her own little
narrow way, set the pace for the others of us? Voting will not be
compulsory; the shrinking violets will not be torn from their shady
fence-corner; the "home bodies" will be able to still sit in rapt
contemplation of their own fireside. We will not force the vote upon
them, but why should they force their votelessness upon us?

[Dark Saint Alaick]

"My wife does not want to vote," declared one of our Canadian premiers
in reply to a delegation of women who asked for the vote. "My wife
would not vote if she had the chance," he further stated. No person
had asked about his wife, either.

"I will not have my wife sit in Parliament," another man cried in
alarm, when he was asked to sign a petition giving women full right of
franchise. We tried to soothe his fears. We delicately and tactfully
declared that his wife was safe. She would not be asked to go to
Parliament by any of us--we gave him our word that she was immune from
public duties of that nature, for we knew the lady and her limitations,
and we knew she was safe--safe as a glass of milk at an old-fashioned
logging-bee; safe as a dish of cold bread pudding at a strawberry
festival. She would not have to leave home to serve her country at
"the earnest solicitation of friends" or otherwise. But he would not
sign. He saw his "Minnie" climbing the slippery ladder of political
fame. It would be his Minnie who would be chosen--he felt it coming,
the sacrifice would fall on his one little ewe-lamb.

After one has listened to all these arguments and has contracted
clergyman's sore throat talking back, it is real relief to meet the
people who say flatly and without reason: "You can't have it--no--I
won't argue--but inasmuch as I can prevent it--you will never vote! So
there!" The men who meet the question like this are so easy to
classify.

I remember when I was a little girl back on the farm in the Souris
Valley, I used to water the cattle on Saturday mornings, drawing the
water in an icy bucket with a windlass from a fairly deep well. We had
one old white ox, called Mike, a patriarchal-looking old sinner, who
never had enough, and who always had to be watered first. Usually I
gave him what I thought he should have and then took him back to the
stable and watered the others. But one day I was feeling real strong,
and I resolved to give Mike all he could drink, even if it took every
drop of water in the well. I must admit that I cherished a secret hope
that he would kill himself drinking. I will not set down here in cold
figures how many pails of water Mike drank--but I remember. At last he
could not drink another drop, and stood shivering beside the trough,
blowing the last mouthful out of his mouth like a bad child. I waited
to see if he would die, or at least turn away and give the others a
chance. The thirsty cattle came crowding around him, but old Mike, so
full I am sure he felt he would never drink another drop of water again
as long as he lived, deliberately and with difficulty put his two front
feet over the trough and kept all the other cattle away.... Years
afterwards I had the pleasure of being present when a delegation waited
upon the Government of one of the provinces of Canada, and presented
many reasons for extending the franchise to women. One member of the
Government arose and spoke for all his colleagues. He said in
substance: "You can't have it--so long as I have anything to do with
the affairs of this province--you shall not have it!"...

Did your brain ever give a queer little twist, and suddenly you were
conscious that the present mental process had taken place before. If
you have ever had it, you will know what I mean, and if you haven't I
cannot make you understand. I had that feeling then.... I said to
myself: "Where have I seen that face before?" ... Then, suddenly, I
remembered, and in my heart I cried out: "Mike!--old friend, Mike!
Dead these many years! Your bones lie buried under the fertile soil of
the Souris Valley, but your soul goes marching on! Mike, old friend, I
see you again--both feet in the trough!"