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Ceres’ Runaway & Other Essays

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<h2>TWO BURDENS</h2> One is on the breast and clings there with arms, and one on the back and clings with thongs.  The burden of the back bows the body, turns the face from the sky, narrows the lungs and flattens the foot; takes away the flight and the dance from the gait of man, and ties him towards the earth—not only in the way of nature, by means of his arched feet, but by a heavy lien upon his shoulders and his brows.  It is the fardel that makes this vital figure to be subject visibly, and at several points, to that law of gravitation which, in a state of liberty, it uses to withstand, to countervail, to leap from, to walk with, making the universal tether elastic.  Bend in two this supple spine that can lift itself, like a snake erect, with something better than mere balance—with life and the active will; bend the back, and at once gravitation takes hold of the loins and grasps the knees, and pulls upon the shoulders, and the neck feels the weight of an abject head. Wherever women are told off to hard open-air labour, we shall find among them a lower class of their own kind—poorer where all are poor, and straining at their task where all are labouring—who walk the dust with burdens on their backs.  Loads of field-labour are these, or of the labour in a fishing-port, and large in proportion to their weight; too large to be bound close and carried on the head, too wide to be borne on the shoulder, too unwieldy for the clasp of arms.  Among American Indians, we are told, the women carry the tent so, and the gear of a dèmènagement, and the warrior himself, upon his goods, not seldom.  In the agriculture of the European Continent the women carry the large loads thus, the refuse is laid upon them, and all that is bound up for burning; they are the gleaners, not of wheat but of tares.  Or they carry fodder for the imprisoned cattle, disappearing as they walk, bowed, quenched, hooded, and hidden with hay. Women who bear this load do not prosper.  They have a downward look, albeit not as conspirators; and in them the earth carries a burden like their own, or but little more buoyant.  Stones off the face of the stony fields, huge sheaves of stalks and husks after granaries are filled, fuel and forage—bent from the stature of women, those who bear those bundles go near the earth that gave them, and breathe her dust. In Austria, where women carry the hod and climb the ladder; in the Rhineland, where a cart goes along the valley roads drawn by a woman harnessed with a cow—even here I think the hardship hardly so great as where the burden is laid upon the bent back of her whose arms are too small or too weak to grasp it; for after long use in such carrying, the figure is no longer fit for habitual erection.  And the use is established with those women who are so loaded.  It is not that all the labouring women of such a village or such a sea-port are burdened in their turn with the burden of the back; it is rather that a class is formed, a class of the burdened and the bent; and to that class belong all ages; child-bearing women are in that sisterhood.  No stronger women can be seen than the upright women of Boulogne; to whom then, but the bent, are due the many cripples, the many dwarfs, the ill-boned stragglers of that vigorous population, the many children growing awry, the many old people shuffling towards misshapen graves? There is manifestly another burden, familiar and accustomed to the figure of woman.  This does not bend her back, nor withdraw her eyes from the distance, nor rank her with the haggard waste of fields.  It is borne in front, and she breasts the world with it; shoulder-high, and it is her ballast.  So loaded she stands like the Dresden Raphael, and there is no bearer of sword and buckler more erect. It is, by the way, a curious sign of indignity of race—or, if not indignity, provincialism—in the more extremely Oriental people, that a Japanese woman carries her child on her back and not upon her arm.  It is a charming infant, and the mother looks no more than a gentle child; with the little creature bound to her back she carries a soft lantern in a mild blue night.  She is not of a classic race, and she shuffles on her subordinate way, an irresponsible creature, who must not proffer opinions except by way of quotation, and is scarcely of the inches that measure the landscape or of the aspect that fronts the sky. But whence is this now prevalent desire to slip the nobler and bear the ignobler burden?  It is not long since an American woman wrote a book, Women and Economics, urging equal labour upon women, by the analogy of animals that know no distinction between a strong sex and a weak, nor between a free sex and one confined to the pen, or the lair, or the cover, by the care of little ones.  The reply seems too obvious that the children of men are more helpless, and are helpless for a longer time, even in proportion to their longer life, than the off-spring of other living creatures.  The children of men have to be carried.  This author complains that women are economically dependent upon men; and she finds that the world has “misty ideas upon the subject.”  If those misty ideas are to the effect that a woman who keeps house for the service of herself, her husband, and the other inmates, gives her work in return for maintenance, and is not a dependent but a colleague, I must wish that ideas “mistily” held were often so just, and ideas vaguely believed were often so well founded.  Those who charge the husband with “employing” his wife choose to neglect the fact that she is mistress and hostess, as well as “servant” or “housekeeper,” ministering to herself and to the guests in whose company she has pleasure, and to whose respect she has a right.  Our economic author proceeds: “We are the only animal species in which the sex relation is also an economic factor. . . We have not been accustomed to face this fact beyond our loose generalization that it was ‘natural,’ and that other animals did so too.”  Has anyone really been so rash as to aver “that other animals did so too”?  The obvious truth is that other animals do otherwise, but that, whatever they do, they make no rule or example for man.  Again: “Whatever the economic value of the domestic industry of women is, they do not get it.  The women who do the most work get the least money.”  And yet but now they were charged with “getting it” too dependently, or rather, with having it “got” for them by man!  Is this writer indeed misled by that mere word “money,” which she here lets slip? “He nearly persuades me to go on all fours,” sighs Voltaire rising—rising erect reluctantly, one may almost say—from the reading of Rousseau. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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