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A WORD WITH THE WOMEN

(By Elia W Peattie)

The literary features of McClure's Magazine for April will include a talk with George Du Maurier, in which he tells the story of his life and how he became an artist and an author. Who would have thought Du Maurier could have been so stupid? As soon as an author clothes himself in self-consciousness he stands convicted of tawdry egotism. Mrs Burnett, William Dean Howells and a number of others have made themselves ridiculous with that sort of thing. But one expected better things of the author of 'Peter Ibbetson.'

In a column devoted to "the new woman' in a Chicago paper there is a description of Lily Langtry's underwear. If Lily Langtry is the new woman, what, in the name of all that is historic was Cleopatra? Was she, also, the new woman? Then so was Eve. The term of the new woman" has always been ridiculous, but if people will insist on using it, why can they not employ it so that it will at least seem to mean something. Langtry, swathed in silks, surrounded by her own portraits, drunk on dreams of her latest lover, studying her dramas with the intensity of a woman who has a mania for power, using her flatteries so adroitly that they enslave all who come in contact with her, making a study of perfumes giving dinners in which her own beauty, her wines, flowers service and surroundings are calculated to bewitch and intoxicate the sense, is not new--no newer than Helen of Troy--no newer than Palagia--no newer than Semiramis.

One of the present London novelists is Henry Harland, who is author of "As It Was Written" and some other books. He gives receptions--receptions are, nowadays, the sequel of all novels--and his wife is said to be a tremendous success. She has attained this success by doing nothing at all. Aubrey Beardsley, the artist who draws wild, weird women with turkey red complexions, admires her intensely. So does her husband.

"Look at her" he says fondly, "probably she doesn't know the name of the president of France at this moment, but isn't she a success?"

The Londoners have made a monstrosity of the clever woman, and are endeavoring to make absolute ignorance a fad. One can fancy that self-conscious commoner, Oscar Wilde, saying

"What perfect ebony nothingness' Is she not superb' How distinguished--to know nothing at all. Really it takes a great deal of originality not to know anything. To go through this world untouched by knowledge requires genius of a high order. This woman is as perfect as a lily. She is unflecked by a gleam of intelligence."

Miss Kountze, who is a very sensible, unaffected and graceful young woman, has in her large establishment one unusual convenience. This is a little page or messenger boy. This little lad wears a tidy uniform, is given plenty of time for study and play, but is expected to be always at hand to convey any messages for Miss Kountze. Every woman knows how many trifling errands there are which consume the time and patience but which must be carefully attended to if all small social duties and household arrangements are to be looked after. To have some one whose business it is to carry notes, send on errands, and carry parcels is such a manifest convenience that is a wonder that the plan is not oftener thought of. It is superfluous to remark that it is a plan which gives to a young boy an opportunity for caring for himself, without being brought into any unfortunate relationship, as is so often the case when a boy is obliged to work in the city.