18/05/2008

Alice W Fuller

A Wife Manufactured To Order

(1895)

A Wife Manufactured To Order

AS I was going down G Street in the city of W—— a strange sign attracted my attention. I stopped, looked, fairly rubbed my eyes to see if they were rightly focused; yes, there it was plainly lettered in gilt: “Wives made to order! Satisfaction guaranteed or money refunded.”

Well! well! does some lunatic live here, I wonder? By Jove! I will investigate. I had inherited (I suppose from my mother) a bit of curiosity, and the truth of the matter was this: now nearing the age of forty, I thought it might be advisable to settle down in a home of my own; but alas! to settle down to a life of strife and turmoil, that would not be pleasant; and that I should have to do, I knew very well, if I should marry any of my numerous lady acquaintances—especially Florence Ward, the one I most admired. She unfortunately had strong-minded ways, and inclinations to be investigating woman’s rights, politics, theosophy, and all that sort of thing. Bah! I could never endure it. I should be miserable, and the outcome would be a separation; I knew it. To be dictated to, perhaps found fault with—no, no, it would never do; better be a bachelor and at least live in peace. But—what does this sign mean? I’ll find out for myself.

A ring of the bell brought a little white-haired, wiry sort of a man to the door. “Walk in, walk in, sir,” he said.

I asked for an explanation of the strange sign over the door.

“Just step right in here and be seated, sir. My master is engaged at present, sir, with a great politician who had to separate from his wife; was so fractious, sir, got so many strange notions in her head; in fact, she wanted to hold the reins herself. You may have seen it—the papers have been full of it. Why, law bless you, sir, the poor man couldn’t say his soul was his own, and he is here now making arrangements with master to make him a quieter sort of wife, some one to do the honors of the home without feelin’ neglected if he happens to be a little courteous to some of his young lady friends. You see, master makes ’em to order, makes ’em to think just as you do, just as you want ’em to; then you’ve got a happy home, something to live for. Beautiful—golly! I’ve seen some of the beautifulest women turned out, ‘most make your mouth water to look at.” And so the old man rattled on until I was quite bewildered.

I interrupted him by asking if I could see his master.

“Oh, certainly, sir; you just make yourself comfortable and I will let you know when he is through.”

I sat for some time like one in a dream, wondering if this could be so, and with many wonderful modern inventions in mind I began to think it possible. And then there was a vision of a happy home, a wife beautiful as a dream, gentle and loving, without a thought for anyone but me; one who would never reproach me if I didn’t happen to get home just at what she thought was the proper time; one who would not ask me to go to church when she knew it was against my wishes; one who would never find fault with me if I wished to go to a base-ball game on Sunday, or bother me to take her to the theatre or opera. A man, you know, can’t give much time to such things without interfering greatly with his comfort. Oh! could all this be realized? But just then my reverie was broken by the old man, who was saying: “Just step this way. Master, let me introduce you to Mr. Charles Fitzsimmons.”

Short, thick-set, florid complexion, pale blue eyes with a sinister twinkle, was the description of Mr. Sharper, whom I confronted. Reaching out his hand, which was cold and clammy and reminded me very much of a piece of cold boiled pork, he said:

“Now, young man, what can I do for you? Want a life-companion, a pleasant one? Man of means, no doubt, and can enjoy yourself; a little fun now and then with the boys and no harm at all—none in the least. When a man comes home tired, doesn’t like to be dictated to; want some one always to meet you with a smile, some one that doesn’t expect you to be fondlin’ and pettin’ ’em all the time. I understand it—I know just how it is. Law bless my soul, I’ve made more’n one man happy, and I’ve only been in the business a short time, too. Now, sir, I can get you up any style you want—wax, but can’t be detected.”

“Do you mean to say you manufacture a woman out of wax, who will talk?”

“That’s just what I do; you give me the subjects you most enjoy talking upon, and tell me what kind of a looking wife you want, and leave the rest to me, and you will never regret it. I will furnish as many ‘phones’ as you wish; most men don’t care for such a variety for a wife—too much talk, you know;” and he chuckled and laughed like a big baby.

“What are your prices, may I ask?”

“Well, it’s owing a good deal to how they are got up—from five hundred to a thousand dollars.”

“Well,” I said, “I think that rather high.”

“Dear man alive, a pleasant companion for life for a few hundred dollars! Most men don’t grumble at all for the sake of having their own way and a pleasant home, and you see she ain’t always asking for money.” (Sure enough, I hadn’t thought of that.)

“Very well, I will decide upon the matter and let you know.”

“All right, young man; you’ll come back. They all do, them as knows about it.”

I went to my room at the hotel and thought it all out, thought of the pleasant evenings I could have with some one whose thoughts were like my own, some one who would not vex me by differing in opinion. I wondered what Florence would say. I really believed she cared for me, but she knew how I disliked so many of the topics she persisted in talking upon. What mattered it to me what Emerson said, or Edward Bellamy wrote, or Henry George, or Pentecost? what did I care about Hume or Huxley or Stuart Mill? any of those sciences, Christian Science or Divine Science or mind cure?—bah! it was all nonsense. The topics of the day were enough, and if I attended closely to my business I needed recreation, not such things as she would prescribe. Still Florence was interesting to talk to, and I rather liked her at times when she talked every-day talk; but I could not marry her, and it was her own fault. She knew my sentiments, and if she would persist in going on as she did I couldn’t help it.

Yes, I decided I would have a home of my own, and a wife made to order at once. Before leaving the city I made all necessary arrangements, hurried home, rented a house, and went to see old Susan Tyler, whom I engaged as housekeeper; she was deaf and had an impediment in her speech, but she was a fine housekeeper. All my preparations made, the ideal home! Oh! how my heart beat as I looked around!—what happiness to do as I liked, a beautiful, uncomplaining wife ready to grant every wish and meet me with a smile! What would the boys say when, out a little late at night, I should be so perfectly at ease? I could just see jealousy on their faces, and I laughed outright for joy. To-morrow I was going for my bride. Side-looks and innuendos were thrust at me from all quarters, but I was too happy to demur or explain. When I reached the city I could scarcely wait for the appointed time.

Alighting from the carriage the door was opened, and I was ushered into the presence of the most beautiful creature I had ever beheld. The hands extended towards mine, the lips opened, and a low, sweet voice said, “Dear Charles, how glad I am you have come!” I stood spellbound, and only a chuckle from Mr. Sharper brought me to my senses.

“Kiss your affianced, why don’t you?” he said, and chuckled again.

I felt as though I wanted to knock him down for speaking so in that beautiful creature’s presence. And then a little soft rippling laugh, and she moved towards me. Oh, could I get that beast to leave the room! Why did he stand there chuckling in that manner?

“Sir,” I said, “you will oblige me by leaving the room for a few moments.”

With that he chuckled still louder and muttered, “Bless me, I really believe he thinks her alive.” Then to me: “To be sure, to be sure, but you only have a short time before going to the minister’s, and I must show you how to adjust her. When you get home”—and he chuckled again—“you can be just as sentimental as you please, but just now we will attend to business. Here are a box of tubes made to talk as you wished them. They are adjusted so. Place the one you wish in your sleeve. You can carelessly touch her right here if there is any one around. Here is a spring in each hand and the tips of her fingers. I will give you a book of instructions, and you will soon learn to arrange her with very little effort, just to suit yourself, and I am sure you will be very happy. Now, sir, the time is up; you can go to the minister’s.”

As I put her wraps around her and drew her arm through mine she murmured so sweetly, “Thank you, dear.” How glad I was to get out of the presence of that vile man who was constantly pulling or pushing her; I could scarcely keep my hands off from him, and my serene Margurette—for I decided to call her that—would only smile and say, “Thank you!” “Oh, how lovely!” “Ah, indeed!” I was almost vexed with her to think she did not resent it. I wanted her all to myself where I could have the smiles, and thought I should be thankful when we were in our own home.

During our journey I could not help noticing the admiring glances from my fellow travellers, but my beautiful wife did not return any of their looks. In fact, I overheard a couple of young dudes say, “Just wait till that old codger’s back is turned, and we shall see whether she will have no smiles for any but him.” I had half a notion to adjust her to give them some cutting reply and then go into the smoker awhile, for I was sure they would try to get into conversation with her; but pshaw! I hadn’t ordered any tubes of that kind. I believed I’d send and get one in case of an emergency. No, I wouldn’t have such in the house; I wanted an amiable wife, and when we were once at home it would not be necessary. I wouldn’t have to go with her anywhere unless I wanted to. Only think of that!—never feel that my wife would ask me to go with her and I have to refuse, then ten to one have her cry and make a fuss about it. I knew how it was, for I had seen too much of that sort of thing in the homes of my friends.

Business ran smoothly; everything was perfect harmony; my home was heaven on earth. I smoked when I wished to, I went to my base-ball games, I stayed out as long as I pleased, played cards when I wished, drank champagne or whatever I fancied, in fact had as good a time as I did before marriage. My male friends congratulated me upon my good fortune, and I was considered the luckiest man anywhere around. No one knew how I had made the good luck for myself.

There are some things in life I could never understand. One of them is that, when everything seems so prosperous, calamity is so often in the wake. And that was the case with me. After so many prosperous years a financial crash came. I tried to ward it off; I was up early and late. Margurette never complained, but was always sweet and smiling, with the same endearing words. Sometimes as the years went by I felt as though I would not object to her differing with me a little, for variety’s sake; still it was best. “When I would say, “Margurette, do you really think so?” and I would speak so cross to her often—I don’t know but that I did so more than was necessary; still a man must have some place where he can be himself, and if he can’t have that privilege at home, what’s the use of having a home?—but she was never out of patience, and my wife would only say, “Yes, darling,” so low and sweet. I remember once I said, when I was worried more than usual, “I am damned tired of this sort of thing,” and she laughed so sweetly and called me her “own precious boy.”

But the crash came, and there was no use trying to stay it any longer. I came home sick and tired. It was nine o’clock at night, with a cold, drizzling rain falling. Susan had gone to bed sick, and forgotten to light a fire in the grate. I went into the library, where Margurette always waited for me. No lights; I stumbled over a chair. I accidentally touched Margurette. She put up her lips to kiss me and laughingly said, “Precious darling, tired to-night?” Great God! I came very near striking her.

“Margurette, don’t call me darling, talk to me; talk to me about something—anything sensible. Don’t you know I am a ruined man? Everything I have got has been swept away from me.”

“There, precious, I love you;” and she laughed again.

“Did you not hear what I said?” I screamed.

But she only laughed the more and said, “Oh, how lovely!”

I rushed from the house. I could not endure it longer; I was like one mad. My first thought was, Where can I go, to whom can I go for sympathy? I cannot stand this strain much longer, and to show weakness to men, I could never do that. I will go to Florence, I said. I will see what she says. Strange I should think of her just then!

I asked the servant who admitted me for Miss Florence.

“She is indisposed and cannot see anyone to-night.”

“But,” I said, writing on a card hastily, “take this to her.”

Only a few moments elapsed and she came in, holding out her hand in an assuring and friendly way. “I am surprised to see you to-night, Mr. Fitzsimmons.”

“O Florence!” I cried, “I am in trouble. I believe I shall lose my mind if I cannot have someone to go to; and you, dear Florence, you will know my needs; you can counsel, you can understand me.”

“Sir!” Florence said, “are you mad, that you come here to insult me?”

“But I love you. I know it. I love the traits that I once thought I despised.”

“Stop where you are! I did not receive you to hear such language. You forget yourself and me; you forget that you are a married man—shame upon you for humiliating me so!”

“Florence, Florence, I am not married; it is all a lie, a deception.”

“Have you lost your reason, Mr. Fitzsimmons? Sit down, pray, and let me call my father. You are ill.”

“Stop,” I cried, “I do not need your father. I need you. Listen to me. I imagined I could never be happy with a wife who differed in opinion from me. In fact, I had almost decided to remain single all the rest of my days, until I came across a man who manufactured wives to order. Wait, Florence, until I have finished—do not look at me so. I am indeed sane. My wife was manufactured to my own ideas, a perfect human being as I supposed.”

Mr. Fitzsimmons, let me call my father.” And Florence started towards the door. She was so pale that she frightened me, but I clutched her frantically.

“Listen,” I said; “will you go with me? I will prove that all I have told you is true.”

My earnestness seemed to reassure her. She stopped as if carefully thinking, then asked me to repeat what I had already told her. Finally she said yes, she would go.

We were soon in the presence of my beautiful Margurette, whom I literally hated—I could not endure her face. “Now, Florence, see,” I cried; and I had my wife talk the namby-pamby lingo I once thought so sweet. “Oh! how I hate her!” and I glared at her like a madman. “Florence, save me. I am a ruined man. Everything has been swept away—the last to-day. I am a pauper, an egotist, a bigot, a selfish—”

“Stop!” cried Florence. “You wrong yourself; you are a man in your prime. What if your money has gone, you have your health and your faculties, I guess” (and there was a merry twinkle in her eyes); “the whole world is before you, and best of all, no one to interfere with you or argue on disagreeable topics.”

“O Florence! I am punished enough for my selfishness. O God!” and I threw myself on the couch, “were I not a pauper, too, there might be some hope for happiness yet.”

“You are not a pauper,” said Florence; “you are the master of your fate, and if you are not happy it is your own fault.”

“Florence, I can never be happy without you. I know now it is too late.”

“Too late—never say that. But could you be happy with me, ‘a woman wedded to an idea,’ ‘strong-minded’? Why, Charles, I am liable to investigate all sorts of scientific subjects and reforms. And then supposing I should talk about it sometimes; if it was not for that I might think of the matter. As far as money is concerned, that would have little to do with my actions. Still, Charles, upon the whole I should be afraid to marry the ‘divorced’ husband of so amiable a wife as your present one is. I, with my faults and imperfections!—the contrast would be too great.”

“Florence, Florence,” I said, “say no more. All I ask is, can you overlook my folly and take me for better, for worse? I have learned my lesson. I see now it is only a petty and narrow type of man who would wish to live only with his own personal echo. I want a woman, one who retains her individuality, a thinking woman. Will you be mine?”

“I will consider the matter favorably,” said Florence; “but we shall have to wait a year, for opinion’s sake, as I suppose there are not many who know how you had your late wife manufactured to order.”

And we both laughed.

The End

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18/05/2008