Produced by Richard Tonsing, Mary Glenn Krause, MFR,
University of Massachusetts, University of North Carolina
at Chapel Hill and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net
NEW AMAZONIA:
A FORETASTE OF THE FUTURE.
BY MRS. GEORGE CORBETT,
_Author of “The Missing Note,” “Cassandra,” “Pharisee Unveiled,” etc._
PUBLISHERS:
_London_—TOWER PUBLISHING COMPANY, 91, MINORIES, E.C.
_Newcastle-on-Tyne_—LAMBERT & CO., LIMITED, 50, GREY STREET.
CONTENTS.
PROLOGUE.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
CHAPTER XVII.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE NEW AMAZONIA.
PROLOGUE.
It is small wonder that the perusal of that hitherto, in my eyes,
immaculate magazine, the _Nineteenth Century_, affords me less pleasure
than usual. There may possibly be some articles in it both worth reading
and worth remembering, but of these I am no longer conscious, for an
overmastering rage fills my soul, to the exclusion of everything else.
One article stands out with such prominence beyond the rest that, to all
intents and purposes, this number of the _Nineteenth Century_ contains
nothing else for me. Not that there is anything admirable in the said
article. Far from it. I look upon it as the most despicable piece of
treachery ever perpetrated towards woman by women.
Indeed, were it not that some of the perpetrators of this outrage on my
sex are well-known writers and society leaders, I would doubt the
authenticity of the signatures, and comfort my soul with the belief that
the whole affair has been nothing but a hoax got up by timorous and
jealous male bipeds, already living in fear of the revolution in social
life which looms before us at no distant date.
As it is, I am able to avail myself of no such doubtful solace, and I
can only feel mad, downright mad—no other word is strong enough—because
I am not near enough to these traitors to their own sex to give them a
_viva voce_ specimen of my opinion of them, though I resolve mentally
that they shall taste of my vengeance in the near future, if I can only
devise some sure method of bringing this about.
But perhaps by this time some of my readers, who may not have seen or
heard of the objectionable article in question, may be anxious to know
what this tirade is all about.
I will tell them.
But I must first allude to the fact that my sex really consists of three
great divisions. To the first, but not necessarily the superior
division, belongs the class which prefers to be known as _ladies_.
Ladies, or rather the class to which they belong, are generally found to
rest their claim to this distinction, if it be one, upon the fact that
they are the wives or daughters of prominent or well-to-do members of
the other sex.
They find themselves in comfortable circumstances. The money or
distinction which may be at the command of their husbands or fathers
enables them to pass the greater portion of their time in dressing, or
in airing such charms as they may possess. They lead for the most part a
frivolous life, and their greatest glory is the reflected lustre which
shines upon them by virtue of the wealth or attainments of their
husbands or other male connections.
It is always noticeable that the less brains and claim for distinction a
lady possesses herself, and the less actual cause she has for
self-glorification, the higher and the more arrogantly does she hold her
head above her fellows, and the more prone is she to despise and
depreciate every woman who recognises a nobler aim in life than that of
populating the world with offspring as imbecile as herself.
_Il va sans dire_ that there are thousands of ladies to whom the last
remark is scarcely applicable. Gentle in manners, and yielding in
disposition, they are perfectly satisfied with the existing order of
things, and quite believe the doctrine that man in his arrogance has
laid down, that he is the God-ordained lord of creation, and that
implicit obedience to his whims and fancies is the first duty of woman.
They have all they feel necessary to their well being. They have
husbands who regard them as so much personal property, and who treat
them alternately as pets or slaves; their wants are liberally provided
for without any anxiety on their part; they rather like the idea of
having little or no work to do, and to their mind, independence is a
dreadful bugbear, which every lady ought to shun as she would shun a mad
dog or a leper.
They are not to blame, poor things, for they are what man and
circumstances have made them, and their general amiability and vague
notions of doing what they have been taught is right, at all costs,
partly exonerates such of them as have been persuaded to sign the
_Nineteenth Century_ protest.
Although I am not disposed to regard _ladies_ as the wisest and most
immaculate members of my sex, I do not include in this category all
those who would fain usurp the doubtful distinction of being regarded as
such. For instance: a young friend of mine, on her marriage, found
herself domiciled in a very pretty little house in the suburbs, her
domestic staff being limited to one maid-of-all-work.
One day, while the latter was out upon an errand, a tremendous ring at
the front-door bell put my friend all in a flutter. She had but recently
returned from her honeymoon, and wished to receive callers with becoming
dignity. She would have preferred the maid to open the door, and show
the visitor into her tiny drawing room; but as the maid was not at home,
there was nothing for it but to officiate as door-opener herself.
She need not have been alarmed, for the individual at the door proved to
be a big, fat, dirty, perspiring female, with a large basket of
crockery-ware, some of which she tried to persuade my friend to buy.
Finding her efforts in this direction fruitless, she began to wonder if
she had been forestalled, and somewhat surprised my little friend by the
following query: “If ye plaze, mum, can ye tell me if there’s been
_another lady_ hawking pots about here this afternoon?”
No; decidedly this individual’s claim to be regarded as a lady was
somewhat too pretentious, and it must be understood that when speaking
of _ladies_, I draw the line at hawkers.
The second great division of the female sex is composed of _women_.
These do not sigh for society cognomens such as are essential to the
happiness of their less thoughtful sisters. They want something more
substantial. Many of them find it necessary to earn their own
livelihood. Others possess a sufficient percentage of this world’s good
things to enable them to banish all dread of poverty in their own lives.
Others, and I am glad to say that this class is ever on the increase,
prefer to work, simply because they prize independence above all things.
No one will venture to suggest that these women are selfish egotists,
for their aims and ambitions embrace the welfare of half the human race
at least, and, whatever may be the ultimate results of their gallant
fight on behalf of “Woman’s Rights,” they will be only too thankful to
see them enjoyed by every other woman on the face of the earth.
Widely different from these is the third division of the feminine genus
_homo_. _Slaves_ they are. Neither more nor less. When emancipation
comes to them, it will not be as a result of their own endeavours, for
custom, perverted education, physical weakness, and lack of energy all
combine to keep them in the groove into which they have been mercilessly
trodden for centuries.
Fortunately some of them go through life without feeling terribly
discontented. Their wily subjugators, led by the priesthood, have for
centuries played upon feminine superstition and credulity, until they
have succeeded in making them believe that their physical weakness, with
its natural concomitant evil, intellectual inferiority, is foreordained
by an omniscient Being whom they are expected to gratefully adore
because of His great justice and mercy.
Now and again some of these slaves rebel, and are punished for breaking
laws made by men for the benefit of men. Sometimes we hear of some woman
who, driven either by lack of education, or by circumstances, has
committed some outrage upon society which calls for terrible punishment.
Perhaps she has been unfaithful to a wicked incarnation of lust and
cruelty, who has for years indulged in _liaisons_ of which all the world
has been cognisant. She has had to put up with incredible slights and
indignities, but as her husband has been cunning enough to refrain from
beating and starving her, the law, as made and administered by men,
allows her no escape from her irksome marital bonds.
But let her become reckless, and find solace in another man’s love, then
she becomes a social pariah, against whom our canting hypocritical
Pharisees hold up their hands in denunciatory horror, and from whom the
husband speedily obtains a judicial separation, applauded by
sympathising male humbugs, and consoled by the “damages,” valued at
£5,000 or so, which the court has ordered the co-respondent to pay as a
solatium for his wounded _affections_. Said co-respondent will not be
improved in morals by the skinning process he has undergone, but will
turn his attentions in future to ladies who have no husbands to claim
golden solatium for lacerated feelings.
Corrupt, Degraded, Rotten to the core is British Civilisation, and yet
we find women, who ought to know better, actually pretending that they
are perfectly contented with the existing order of things.
And that brings me back to the _raison d’être_ of this story. The
_Nineteenth Century Magazine_ has been guilty of condoning, if not of
instigating, an atrocity. It has published a rigmarole, signed by a
great many _ladies_, to the effect that Woman’s Suffrage is not wanted
by _women_, and, indeed, would hardly be accepted if it were offered to
them. The principal signatories are in comfortable circumstances; have
no great cares upon their shoulders; they plume themselves upon
occupying prominent positions in society; it is to their interest to
uphold the political principles of the men whose privilege it is to
support them; they do not see that life need be made any brighter for
them, therefore they conspire to prevent every other woman from emerging
from the ditch in which she grovels.
Of course the other woman may be ambitious, or industrious, or
miserable, or oppressed; but that has nothing to do with the fine
ladies, whose arguments are as feeble as their hearts are callous, and
whose principles are as unjustifiable as their selfishness is
reprehensible.
“We have all we want,” say these fair philanthropists, “and we intend to
use our best endeavours to make other women regard their circumstances
in the same light. They must be taught to duly acknowledge the reverence
they owe to MAN and GOD. If we cannot persuade them that things are as
they ought to be, we will take effectual means to prevent their further
progress towards the emancipation some of them are treasonably
preaching. Their morals we will leave to the priesthood to coddle and
terrorise, but we must make them understand that MAN always was, always
must, and always will be, of paramount power and wisdom in this world.
Woman was but made from the rib of a man, and ought to know from this
fact alone that she can never be his equal,” and so on _ad nauseum_.
It would be wonderful if I, being a _woman_, did not feel indignant when
being confronted with these and similar _crushing_ arguments, which, if
not all aired in the _Nineteenth Century_, are quite as strong as any
which the deluded signatories have to advance in support of the
despicably unwomanly attitude they have adopted.
Only a rib, forsooth! How do they know that woman was made out of
nothing better than a man’s rib? We have only a man’s word for that, and
I have proved the falsity of so many manly utterances that I would like
some scientific proof as to the truth or falsity of the spare-rib
argument before I give it implicit credence.
Thank goodness, the _Fortnightly Review_ comes to the rescue with a
gallant counter-protest, signed by the cream of British WOMANHOOD, and I
feel viciously glad that I have been privileged to add my name to the
long list of those who are determined to stand up for justice to their
sex, whether they may happen to feel the need of it in their own
individual cases or not. I am also delighted to find an influential
magazine, conducted by men, which chivalrously does battle on behalf of
my sex.
“Good old _Fortnightly_,” I apostrophise mentally. “Long life and
prosperity be thine,” and I am confidently able to predict that there
will be a persistent and flourishing _Fortnightly Review_ of all things
British long after the _Nineteenth Century_ has become a thing of the
past.
But here my attention is directed to the fact that two women, who have
always womanfully championed the cause of their sex, have written
replies to the anti-woman suffrage article, and that, furthermore, the
editor of the _Nineteenth Century_ has inserted these replies in his
review, which forthwith is absolved from a great share of the
displeasure which the “atrocity” roused, not alone in my breast, but in
thousands of other women—_and_ MEN.
The last fact is justly emphasised in big letters, for it shows that at
least some portion of the male sex recognises the enormity and injustice
of saddling one-half of the human race with all the disabilities it is
possible to heap upon it, except the disabilities of exemption from
taxation and kindred methods of assisting in promoting the general
welfare of the nation.
When I mention the fact that the two replies in the _Nineteenth_ are
written by Mrs. Fawcett and Mrs. Ashton Dilke respectively, I have, I
think, given sufficient assurance that the replies are in themselves
able ones.
Into such a good humour, in fact, have I been soothed by the perusal of
the counter-protests, that I find myself stringing together all sorts of
fancies in which women’s achievements form conspicuous features, and I
am just noticing how pleasant Mrs. Weldon looks in the Speaker’s chair,
listening to Mrs. Besant’s first Prime Ministerial speech, when my
senses become entirely “obfuscated,” as Sambo would say, and I sink into
slumber as profound as that which overcame the fabled enchanted
guardians of my favourite enchanted palace.
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
The next event I can chronicle was opening my eyes on a scene at once so
beautiful and strange that I started to my feet in amaze. This was not
my study, and I beheld nothing of the magazine which was the last thing
I remembered seeing before I went to sleep. I was in a glorious garden,
gay with brilliant hued flowers, the fragrance of which filled the air
with a subtle and delicate perfume; around me were trees laden with
luscious fruits which I can only compare to apples, pears, and quinces,
only they were as much finer than the fruits I had hitherto been
familiar with as Ribstone pippins are to crabs, and as jargonelles are
to greenbacks. Countless birds were singing overhead, and I was about to
sink down again, and yield to a delicious languor which overpowered me,
when I was recalled to the necessity of behaving more decorously by
hearing someone near me exclaim in mystified accents, “By Jove! But
isn’t this extraordinary? I say, do you live here, or have you been
taking hasheesh too?”
I looked up, and saw, perched on the limb of a great tree, a young man
of about thirty years of age, who looked so ridiculously mystified at
the elevated position in which he found himself, that I could not
refrain from smiling, though I did not feel able to give an immediate
satisfactory reply to his queries.
“Oh, that’s right,” he commented. “It makes a fellow relieved to see a
smile, when he wasn’t at all sure whether he wouldn’t get sent to
Jericho for perching up an apple tree. But really, I don’t know how the
deuce I came to be up here, that is, I beg your pardon, but I can’t
understand how I happen to be up this apple tree. And oh! by Jove! It
isn’t an apple tree, after all! Isn’t it extraordinary?”
But I could positively do nothing but laugh at him for the space of a
moment or two. Then I gravely remarked that as I supposed he was not
glued to the tree, he had better come down, whereat he followed my
advice, being unfortunate enough, however, to graze his hands, and tear
the knees of his trousers during the process of disembarkation.
When at last he had relieved himself of a few spare expletives,
delivered in a tone which he vainly flattered himself was too low for me
to hear, he stood revealed before me, a perfect specimen of the British
masher. His height was not too great, being, I subsequently ascertained
five feet three, an inch less than my own, but he made the most of what
there was of him by holding himself as erect as possible, and as he wore
soles an inch thick to his otherwise smart boots, he looked rather
taller than he really was.
His proportions were not at all bad, and I have seen a good many very
much worse looking fellows who flattered themselves that they were quite
killing. His face had lost the freshness of early youth, and looked as
though it spent a great deal of its time in the haunts of dissipation.
The moustache, however, was perfect—so golden, so long, so elegant was
it, that it must have been the envy of countless members of the masher
tribe, and I was not surprised to notice presently that its owner found
his pet occupation in stroking it.
Just now, however, he was chiefly employed in lamenting the accident
which had occurred to his nether garment, this being, by the way, one
portion of a tweed suit of the most alarmingly demonstrative pattern and
colour.
“By Jove!” he muttered, disconsolately, “it’s awful! you know. When I
was so careful, too! What on earth ever possessed me to mount that tree?
Isn’t it extraordinary?”
This time I was about to attempt a reply, when I was struck dumb with
awe and astonishment, and my companion, who had found his own eyes
sufficiently powerful to take in my appearance, hastily fixed a single
eyeglass into position, and gazed in open-mouthed wonder at an
apparition which approached us.
And he might well gaze, for of a surety the creature which we saw was
something worth looking at, and a specimen of a race the like of which
we had never seen before. “It is a woman,” I thought. “A goddess!” the
masher declared, and for a time I could not feel sure that he was
mistaken.
She was close upon seven feet in height, I am sure, and was of
magnificent build. A magnified Venus, a glorified Hebe, a smiling Juno,
were here all united in one perfect human being whose gait was the very
poetry of motion.
She wore a very peculiar dress, I thought, until I saw that science and
common sense had united in forming a costume in which the requirements
alike of health, comfort, and beauty had reached their acmé.
A modification of the divided skirt came a little below the knee, the
stockings and laced boots serving to heighten, instead of to hide, their
owner’s beautiful symmetry of limb. A short skirt supplemented the
graceful tunic, which was worn slightly open at the neck, and partially
revealed the dainty whiteness of a shapely bust. The whole costume was
of black velvet, and was set off by exquisite filmy laces, and by a
crimson sash which confined the tunic at the waist, and hung gracefully
on the left side of the wearer.
She was wearing a silver-embroidered velvet cap, which she courteously
doffed on beholding us, and I noticed that her hair, but an inch or two
long, curled about her head and temples in the most delightfully
picturesque fashion imaginable.
She was surprised to see us, that was quite apparent, but she evidently
mistook our identity for awhile. “What strange children!” she exclaimed,
in a rich, sonorous voice, which was bewitchingly musical. “Why are you
here, and for what particular purpose are you masquerading in this
extraordinary fashion?”
“Yes, it is extraordinary, isn’t it?” burst forth the masher, “but you
are slightly mistaken about us. I can’t answer for this lady, and I
really don’t know what the deuce she is doing here, but I am the
Honourable Augustus Fitz-Musicus. I daresay you have heard of me. My
ancestor, you know, was King George the Fourth. He fell in love with a
very beautiful lady, who, until the first gentleman in Europe favoured
her with his attentions, was an opera singer. She subsequently became
the mother of a family, who were all provided for by their delighted
father, the king. The eldest son was created Duke of Fitz-Musicus, and
he and his family were endowed with a perpetual pension for
‘distinguished services rendered to the State, you know.’”
“Then you are not a little boy?” queried the giantess. “But of course
you must be. Come here, my little dear, and tell me who taught you to
say those funny things, and who pasted that queer little moustache on
your face.”
As she spoke she actually stooped, kissed the Honourable Augustus
Fitz-Musicus on the forehead, and patted him playfully on the cheek with
one shapely finger. This was, however, an indignity not to be borne
patiently, and the recipient of these well-meant attentions indignantly
sprang on one side, his face scarlet, and his voice tremulous with
humiliated wrath.
“How dare you?” he gasped. “How dare you insult me so? You must know
that I am not a child. Your own hugeness need not prevent you from
seeing that _I am a man_.”
“A man! never! O, this is too splendid a joke to enjoy by myself.”
Saying this, and laughing until the tears came into her eyes, the
goddess raised her voice a little, and called to some companions who
were evidently close at hand, “Myra! Hilda! Agnes! oh, do come quickly.
I have found two such curious creatures.”
In response to this summons three more girls of gigantic stature came
from the further end of the garden, and completed our discomfiture by
joining in the laugh against us.
“What funny little things! Wherever did you find them, Dora?” queried
one of the new comers, whereat Dora composed her risible faculties as
well as she was able, and explained that she had just found us where we
were, and that one of us claimed to be a _man_.
Myra and Agnes were quite as amused at this as Dora had been, but Hilda
took the situation somewhat more seriously. She had noted how furious
the Honourable Augustus Fitz-Musicus looked, and observed my vain
attempt to assume a dignified demeanour in the presence of such a
formidable array of playful goddesses, who now all plied us with
questions together.
I did not feel much inclined to converse, for I was terribly afraid of
being ridiculed. But Hilda questioned me so much more sensibly, in my
opinion, than the others, that I was disposed to be more communicative
to her than to them.
“Where do you come from?” she questioned gently, as if she were afraid
of injuring me by using her normal voice.
“I am English,” I replied proudly, feeling quite sure that the very name
of my beloved native land would prove a talisman of value in any part of
the globe. But although the beautiful quartette refrained from laughing,
they listened to me in mystified astonishment, partly, I perceived,
because my small voice was a revelation to them, and partly because my
answer conveyed no understandable meaning to them.
“English,” at last said Agnes. “What do you mean by English? There is no
such nation now. I believe that centuries ago Teuto-Scotland used to be
called England, and that it used to be inhabited by the English, a
warlike race which is now extinct.”
“My dear Agnes,” interposed Hilda, “You surely forget that we are
ourselves descended from this great race. But suppose we go on with our
questions. Not so fast my little man; here, I will take care of you for
the present.”
The last exclamation was evoked by an attempt on the part of the
Honourable Augustus to escape while the attention of the party was
concentrated upon myself. He was, however, foiled in his attempt, and
Hilda coolly seated him upon a tall garden seat, as if he were a baby,
and kept a detaining hand on his wrist, while she listened to the
replies I now made to my tormentors. “What is your name?” was the next
interrogatory to which I was subjected. I did not consider it necessary
to go into details, so merely gave my name. Other questions were now
asked me, but I was so determined to give no food for ridicule, if I
could help it, that I was rather obstinate in refusing information, and
at last took refuge in the remark, delivered as quietly as my tingling
nerves would permit, “That in my country people were polite to
strangers, and did not interrogate them as if they were so many wild
beasts.”
Even while giving utterance to this remark, I remembered several scenes
which proved that it was far from true. But the goddesses did not know
this much, and my reproof served to convince them that the Honourable
Augustus and myself were not monkeys that had learnt the art of speech,
and been dressed for exhibition, but actual, though very queer,
specimens of the human race divine.
Apologies for their rudeness were now freely tendered by the giantesses,
and one of them proposed to take us into the house at once and supply us
with refreshments. No sooner said than done, and I hardly know whether I
was most amused or humiliated to find myself led by the hand, as if I
were only just learning to walk, and must be carefully guarded from
stumbling.
It was some consolation to observe that the Honourable Augustus was
served likewise, and that he was lifted up the huge steps which must be
ascended to enter the house just as easily as I was. We were taken into
a large hall, which seemingly served as a refectory, for I observed a
table in the centre, upon which many covers were laid.
Just at this juncture a great bell was rung somewhere in the building,
and about fifty other individuals entered the room, but crowded round us
instead of round the table, as was evidently their first intention. They
were, however, upon the whole, quite as polite as a room full of English
people would be, were our respective positions reversed, and Hilda
constituted herself our protector from bothering questions until dinner
was served. The seats and table were on a somewhat larger scale than I
had been hitherto used to, but a cushion considerately brought for me
made me comfortable enough.
While being quizzed by such a number of eyes, I diligently used my own,
and noted that all these magnificent creatures, except six, were
apparently young students, and that they were all habited in somewhat
similar fashion to Dora, such difference as there was consisting, not in
shape or cut, but in variety of material and colouring.
The six exceptions were perfectly beautiful women, all approaching
middle age, and with less exuberance of spirit, but more dignity of
manner than the others. Their dress also was slightly different, their
tunics being ornamented with rich facings, and their sashes, worn on the
right side, being composed of a gorgeous material something like cloth
of gold, but so soft in texture as to drape gracefully.
A number of attendants served the meal, and these were all attired in
the national garb, with the exception of the sashes, while their clothes
were, for the most part, composed of washing materials, in which they
looked very pictures of neatness and cleanliness.
As soon as the meal had begun, we were less scrutinised than we had
been, and I now discovered myself to be very hungry, and disposed to do
full justice to the appetising viands set before me. There was a variety
of dainty dishes to choose from, and much fruit, all of which was
marvellously sweet and luscious. But there was no dish that I could see
prepared from animal food, and I resolved to discover later whether such
a strange omission was of regular or only occasional occurrence.