Ver.04.07.00*END*
THE FORERUNNER, A MONTHLY MAGAZINE
by
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN
VOLUME ONE, November 1909-December 1910 (14 issues)
CONTENTS
Volume 1 No. 1
November 1909
Then This (poem)
A Small God And a Large Goddess (essay)
Arrears (poem)
Three Thanksgivings (story)
How Doth The Hat (poem)
Introducing the World, the Flesh And the Devil (sketch)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
Where the Heart Is (sketch)
Thanksgiving (poem)
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
Comment And Review
Personal Problems
Thanksong (poem)
Advertisements: Lowney's, Fels-Naptha Soap, Holeproof Hoisery, Moore's
Fountain Pen, The Forerunner, A Toilet Preparation, Calendula
Volume 1 No. 2
December 1909
Love (poem)
According To Solomon (story)
An Obvious Blessing (essay)
Steps (poem)
Why We Honestly Fear Socialism (essay)
Child Labor (poem)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
The Poor Relation (sketch)
His Crutches (poem)
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
Comment And Review
Personal Problems
Get Your Work Done (poem)
Advertisements: Lowney's, Soapine, Woman's Era, The Forerunner, Calendula
Volume 1 No. 3
January 1910
A Central Sun, a song (poem)
Reasonable Resolutions (essay)
Her Housekeeper (story)
Locked Inside (poem)
Private Morality And Pulic Immorality (essay)
"With God Above" (poem)
The Humanness Of Women (essay)
Here Is The Earth (poem)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
The "Anti" And The Fly (poem)
The Barrel (sketch)
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
Comment and Review
Personal Problems
Play-Time: The Melancholy Rabbit (poem)
Advertisements: The Forerunner, Confidential Remarks About Our
Advertising, Things we wish to Advertise, Calendula
Volume 1 No. 4
February 1910
Two Prayers (poem)
An Offender (story)
Before Warm February Winds (poem)
Kitchen-Mindedness (esssay)
Two Storks (sketch)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
Little Leafy Brothers (poem)
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
Comment and Review
Personal Problems
Play-Time: A Walk Walk Walk (poem)
Ode To a Fool (poem)
Volume 1 No. 5
March 1910
The Sands (poem)
A Middle-Sized Artist (story)
The Minor Birds (poem)
Parlor-Mindedness (essay)
Naughty (sketch)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
Erratum
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
Water-Lure (poem)
Comment and Review
Personal Problems
Play-Time: Aunt Eliza (poem)
The Cripple (poem)
Volume 1 No. 6
April 1910
When Thou Gainest Happiness (poem)
Martha's Mother (story)
For Fear (poem)
Nursery-Mindedness (essay)
A Village Of Fools (sketch)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
"I gave myself to God" (poem)
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
His Agony (poem)
Comment and Review
Personal Problems
Advertisements: The Forerunner, A Summer Cottage
Volume 1 No. 7
May 1910
Brain Service (poem)
When I Was A Witch (story)
Quotation: Eugene Wood
Believing And Knowing (essay)
The Kingdom (poem)
Heaven Forbid! (poem)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
The House of Apples (sketch)
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
Comment and Review
Personal Problems
Suffrage (editorial)
Advertisements: The Forerunner, A Summer Cottage
Volume 1 No. 8
June 1910
The Puritan (poem)
Making a Living (story)
Ten Suggestions (essay)
The Malingerer (poem)
Genius, Domestic and Maternal, part I (essay)
Prisoners (sketch)
May Leaves (poem)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
The Room At The Top (poem)
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
Comment and Review
Personal Problems
Advertisement: The Forerunner
Volume 1 No. 9
July 1910
The Bawling World (poem)
A Coincidence (story)
Shares (poem)
Genius, Domestic and Maternal, part II (essay)
Improved Methods of Habit Culture (essay)
O Faithful Clay! (poem)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
We Eat At Home (poem)
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
Only an Hour (sketch)
Comment and Review
Personal Problems
Advertisements: Books by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Forerunner
Volume 1 No. 10
August 1910
The Earth's Entail (poem)
The Cottagette (story)
Wholesale Hypnotism (essay)
"Sit up and think!" (poem)
The Kitchen Fly (essay)
Alas! (poem)
Her Pets (sketch)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
"The Outer Reef!" (poem)
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
Comment and Review
Personal Problems
The Editor's Problem (editorial)
Advertisements: Books by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Forerunner
Volume 1 No. 11
September 1910
To-morrow Night (poem)
Mr. Robert Grey Sr. (story)
What Virtues Are Made Of (essay)
Animals In Cities (essay)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
The Waiting-Room (poem)
While the King Slept (sketch)
The Housewife (poem)
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
The Beauty Women Have Lost (essay)
Comment and Review
Personal Problems
The Editor's Problem (editorial)
From Letters Of Subscribers
Advertisements: Some Of Our Exchanges, Books by Charlotte Perkins
Gilman, The Forerunner
Volume 1 No. 12
October 1910
Only Mine (poem)
The Boys and the Butter (story)
A Question (poem)
Is It Wrong To Take Life? (essay)
The World and the Three Artists (sketch)
In How Little Time (poem)
Woman and the State (essay)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
The Socialist and the Suffragist (poem)
Comment and Review
Personal Problems
Our Bound Volume As A Christmas Present (editorial)
To Those Specially Interested... (editorial)
If You Renew (editorial)
If You Discontinue (editorial)
Advertisements: The Woman's Journal, Some Of Our Exchanges, Books
by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Crux
Volume 1 No. 13
November 1910
Worship (poem)
My Astonishing Dodo (story)
Why Texts? (essay)
The Little White Animals (poem)
Women Teachers, Married and Unmarried (essay)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
The Good Man (sketch)
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
A Frequent Question (sketch)
Boys Will Be Boys (poem)
Many Windows (poem)
Comment and Review
From Letters Of Subscribers
A Friendly Response (editorial)
Our Bound Volume As A Christmas Present (editorial)
To Those Specially Interested... (editorial)
If You Renew (editorial)
If You Discontinue (editorial)
Advertisements: The Woman's Journal, Some Of Our Exchanges, Books by
Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Crux
Volume 1 No. 14
December 1910
In As Much (poem)
A Word In Season (story)
Christmas Love (essay)
What Diantha Did (serial fiction)
Our Overworked Instincts (essay)
Love's Highest (poem)
The Permanent Child (sketch)
The New Motherhood (essay)
How We Waste Three-Fourths Of Our Money (essay)
Our Androcentric Culture; or, The Man-Made World (serial non-fiction)
The Nun In The Kitchen (essay)
Letters From Subscribers (editorial)
Comment and Review
Advertisements: Success Magazine, The Co-Operative Press, Woman
and Socialism, The Woman's Journal, Some Of Our Exchanges
From Letters of Forerunner Subscribers
Advertisements: Books by Charlotte Perkins Gilman, The Crux
INDEX
SERIALS AND COLUMNS
Our Androcentric Culture, or The Man-Made World, non-fiction (1:1 - 1:14)
What Diantha Did, novel (1:1 - 1:14)
Comment and Review (1:1 - 1:14)
Personal Problems (1:1 - 1:12)
Play-Time (1:3 - 1:5)
STORIES
According To Solomon (1:2)
The Boys and the Butter (1:12)
A Coincidence (1:9)
The Cottagette (1:10)
Her Housekeeper (1:3)
Making a Living (1:8)
Martha's Mother (1:6)
A Middle-Sized Artist (1:5)
Mr. Robert Grey Sr. (1:11)
My Astonishing Dodo (1:13)
An Offender (1:4)
Three Thanksgivings (1:1)
When I Was A Witch (1:7)
A Word In Season (1:14)
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES
Animals In Cities (1:11)
The Barrel (1:3)
The Beauty Women Have Lost (1:11)
Believing And Knowing (1:7)
Christmas Love (1:14)
A Frequent Question (1:13)
Genius, Domestic and Maternal (1:8, 1:9)
The Good Man (1:13)
Her Pets (1:10)
The House of Apples (1:7)
How We Waste Three-Fourths Of Our Money (1:14)
The Humanness Of Women (1:3)
Improved Methods of Habit Culture (1:9)
Introducing the World, the Flesh And the Devil (1:1)
Is It Wrong To Take Life? (1:12)
The Kitchen Fly (1:10)
Kitchen-Mindedness (1:4)
Naughty (1:5)
The New Motherhood (1:14)
The Nun In The Kitchen (1:14)
Nursery-Mindedness (1:6)
An Obvious Blessing (1:2)
Only an Hour (1:9)
Our Overworked Instincts (1:14)
Parlor-Mindedness (1:5)
The Permanent Child (1:14)
The Poor Relation (1:2)
Prisoners (1:8)
Private Morality And Pulic Immorality (1:3)
Reasonable Resolutions (1:3)
A Small God And a Large Goddess (1:1)
Ten Suggestions (1:8)
A Village Of Fools (1:6)
What Virtues Are Made Of (1:11)
Where the Heart Is (1:1)
Wholesale Hypnotism (1:10)
While the King Slept (1:11)
Why Texts? (1:13)
Why We Honestly Fear Socialism (1:2)
Woman and the State (1:12)
Women Teachers, Married and Unmarried (1:13)
The World and the Three Artists (1:12)
POEMS
Alas! (1:10)
The "Anti" And The Fly (1:3)
Arrears (1:1)
Aunt Eliza (1:5)
The Bawling World, a sestina (1:9)
Before Warm February Winds (1:4)
Boys Will Be Boys (1:13)
Brain Service (1:7)
A Central Sun, a song (1:3)
Child Labor (1:2)
The Cripple (1:5)
The Earth's Entail (1:10)
For Fear (1:6)
Get Your Work Done (1:2)
Heaven Forbid! (1:7)
His Agony (1:6)
His Crutches (1:2)
Here Is The Earth (1:3)
The Housewife (1:11)
How Doth The Hat (1:1)
"I gave myself to God" (1:6)
In As Much (1:14)
In How Little Time (1:12)
The Kingdom (1:7)
Little Leafy Brothers (1:4)
The Little White Animals (1:13)
Locked Inside (1:3)
Love (1:2)
Love's Highest (1:14)
The Malingerer (1:8)
Many Windows (1:13)
May Leaves (1:8)
The Melancholy Rabbit (1:3)
The Minor Birds (1:5)
O Faithful Clay! (1:9)
Ode To a Fool (1:4)
Only Mine (1:12)
"The Outer Reef!" (1:10)
Play-Time: Aunt Eliza (1:5)
Play-Time: The Melancholy Rabbit (1:3)
Play-Time: A Walk Walk Walk (1:4)
The Puritan (1:8)
A Question (1:12)
The Room At The Top (1:8)
The Sands (1:5)
Shares (1:9)
"Sit up and think!" (1:10)
The Socialist and the Suffragist (1:12)
Steps (1:2)
Thanksgiving (1:1)
Thanksong (1:1)
Then This (1:1)
To-morrow Night (1:11)
Two Prayers (1:4)
The Waiting-Room (1:11)
A Walk Walk Walk (1:5)
Water-Lure (1:5)
We Eat At Home (1:9)
When Thou Gainest Happiness (1:6)
"With God Above" (1:3)
Worship (1:13)
ADVERTISEMENTS AND MISC.
Editorial: The Editor's Problem (1:10, 1:11)
Editorial: A Friendly Response (1:13)
Editorial: If You Discontinue (1:12, 1:13)
Editorial: If You Renew (1:12, 1:13)
Editorial: Letters From Subscribers (1:14)
Editorial: Our Bound Volume As A Christmas Present (1:12, 1:13)
Editorial: Suffrage (1:7)
Editorial: To Those Specially Interested... (1:12, 1:13)
Erratum (1:5)
From Letters Of Subscribers (1:11, 1:13, 1:14)
Masthead tags (1:1, 1:3 - 1:7)
Quotation: Eugene Wood (1:7)
Advertisement: Books by Charlotte Perkins Gilman (1:9 - 1:14)
Advertisement: Calendula (1:1 - 1:3)
Advertisement: Confidential Remarks About Our Advertising (1:3)
Advertisement: The Co-Operative Press (1:14)
Advertisement: The Crux (1:12 - 1:14)
Advertisement: Fels-Naptha Soap (1:1)
Advertisement: The Forerunner (1:1 - 1:3, 1:6 - 1:11)
Advertisement: Holeproof Hoisery (1:1)
Advertisement: Lowney's (1:1: 1:2)
Advertisement: Moore's Fountain Pen (1:1)
Advertisement: Soapine (1:2)
Advertisement: Some Of Our Exchanges (1:11 - 1:14)
Advertisement: Success Magazine (1:14)
Advertisement: A Summer Cottage (1:6, 1:7)
Advertisement: Things we wish to Advertise (1:3)
Advertisement: A Toilet Preparation (1:1)
Advertisement: Woman's Era (1:2)
Advertisement: Woman and Socialism (1:14)
Advertisement: The Woman's Journal (1:12 - 1:14)
WORKS REVIEWED
"The American Magazine", illustrations (1:1)
Jessie H. Childs, "The Sea of Matrimony" (1:3)
Stanton Coit, "Woman in Church and State" (1:9)
"The Common Cause," magazine (1:11)
Lavinia L. Dock, "Hygiene and Morality" (1:13)
"The Englishwoman," magazine (1:10)
"The Ethical World", magazine (1:9)
Cicely Hamilton, "Marriage as a Trade" (1:13)
Alexander Irvine, "From The Bottom Up" (1:11)
Mary Jonston, "The Wise Housekeeper" (1:13)
Ellen Key, "The Century of the Child" (1:14)
Ingraham Lovell, "Margharita's Soul" (1:2)
"Philemon's Verses" (author unknown) (1:5)
Sarah Harvey Porter, "The Life and Times of Anne Royall" (1:2)
"The Progressive Woman," magazine (1:11)
Gerald Stanley Lee, "Inspired Millionaires" (1:7)
Prince Morrow, "Social Diseases and Marriage" (1:6)
Meredith Nicholson, "The Lords of High Decision" (1:5)
William Robinson, "Never Told Tales" (1:6)
Thomas W. Salmon, "Two Preventable Causes of Insanity" (1:10)
Nancy Musselman Schoonmaker, "The Eternal Fires" (1:9)
Molly Elliot Sewell, "The Ladies' Battle" (1:14)
Ida Tarbell, "The American Woman" (1:8)
"To-day's Problems," various authors (1:13)
"The Union Labor Advocate," magazine (1:11)
"Votes for Women," magazine (1:11)
Lester F. Ward, "Pure Sociology" (1:12)
H. G. Wells, "Ann Veronica" (1:3)
Harvey White, "A Ship Of Souls" (1:12)
"The Woman's Journal" (1:3, 1:10)
THE FORERUNNER, VOLUME ONE
THE FORERUNNER
A MONTHLY MAGAZINE
BY
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN
OWNER AND PUBLISHER
1.00 A YEAR
.10 A COPY
Volume 1. No. 1
NOVEMBER, 1909
The Charlton Company, 67 Wall Street, New York
Copyright for 1909, C. P. Gilman
Said the New Minister: "I shall not give you a text this morning. If
you listen closely, you will discover what the sermon is about by what I
say."
THEN THIS
The news-stands bloom with magazines,
They flame, they blaze indeed;
So bright the cover-colors glow,
So clear the startling stories show,
So vivid their pictorial scenes,
That he who runs may read.
Then This: It strives in prose and verse,
Thought, fancy, fact and fun,
To tell the things we ought to know,
To point the way we ought to go,
So audibly to bless and curse,
That he who reads may run.
A SMALL GOD AND A LARGE GODDESS
The ancient iconoclast pursued his idol-smashing with an ax. He did not
regard the feelings of the worshippers, and they, with similar
indifference to his, promptly destroyed him.
The modern iconoclast, wiser from long experience, practices the
kindergarten art of substitution; enters without noise, and dexterously
replaces the old image with a new one.
Often the worshippers do not notice the change. They never spend their
time in discriminating study of their idol, being exclusively occupied
in worshipping it.
The task herein undertaken is not so easy. We can hardly expect to
remove the particular pet deity of millions of people for thousands of
years--an especially conspicuous little image at that, differing from
other gods and goddesses; and substitute another figure, three times his
size, of the opposite sex, and thirty years older--without somebody's
noticing it.
Yet this is precisely what is required of us, by the new knowledge of
to-day. We are called upon to dislodge what is easily the most popular
god in the calendar, albeit the littlest; that fat fluttering small boy,
congenitally blind, with his haphazard archery playthings; that
undignified conception, type of folly change and irresponsible mischief,
which so amazingly usurps the name and place of love. Never was there a
more absurd misrepresentation.
Suppose we worshipped Fire, the great sun for our over-lord, all lesser
lights in varying majesty, each hearth-fire as the genius and guardian
of the home. So worshipping, suppose we chose, as ever present image of
the great idea, to be pictured and sculptured far and wide, to fill all
literature, to be accepted even by science as type and symbol of the
Fire Divine--a match-box!
So slight, so transient, so comparatively negligible in importance, is
the flickering chance-sown spark typified in this pretty chimera of
flying immaturity, compared with the majestic quenchless flame of life
and love we ought to worship.
We have taken the assistant for the principal, a tributary for the main
stream; we have exalted Eros, the god of man's desire, and paid no heed
to that great goddess of mother love to whom young Eros is but a running
footman.
We are right to worship love, in all its wide, diverging branches; the
love that is gratitude, love that is sympathy. love that is admiration,
love that is gift and service; even the love that is but hunger--mere
desire.
But when we talk of the Life Force, the strong stream of physical
immortality, which has replaced form with form and kept the stream
unbroken through the ages, we ought to understand whereof we speak.
That force is predominant. Under its ceaseless, upward pressure have all
creatures risen from the first beginning. Resistlessly it pushes
through the ages; stronger than pain or fear or anger, stronger than
selfishness or pride, stronger than death. It rises like a mighty tree,
branching and spreading through the changing seasons.
Death gnaws at it in vain. Death destroys the individual, not the race;
death plucks the leaves, the tree lives on. That tree is motherhood.
The life process replaces one generation with another, each equal to,
yes, if possible, superior to, the last. This mighty process has
enlarged and improved throughout the ages, until it has grown from a
mere division of the cell--its first step still--to the whole range of
education by which the generations are replenished socially as well as
physically. From that vague impulse which sets afloat a myriad oyster
germs, to the long patience of a brooding bird; from the sun-warmed eggs
of a reptile to the nursed and guarded young of the higher mammals; so
runs the process and the power through lengthening years of love and
service, lives by service, grows with service. The longer the period of
infancy, the greater the improvement of species.
The fish or insect, rapidly matured, reaches an early limit. He must be
competent to Iive as soon as he begins, and is no more competent at his
early ending. The higher life form, less perfect at beginning, spending
more time dependent on its mother, receives from her more power. First
from her body's shelter, the full, long upbuilding; safety while she is
safe; the circling guard of wise, mature, strong life, of conscious
care, besides the unconscious bulwark of self-interest. Contrast this
with the floating chances of the spawn!
Then the rich, sure food of mother-milk, the absolute adaptation, the
whole great living creature an alembic to gather from without, and
distil to sweet perfection, what the child needs. Contrast this with
the chances of new-born fish or fly, or even those of the bird baby,
whose mother must search wide for the food she brings. The mammal has
it with her.
Then comes the highest stage of all, where the psychic gain of the race
is transmitted to the child as well as the physical. This last and
noblest step in the life process we call education. education is
differentiated motherhood. It is social motherhood. It is the
application to the replenishment and development of the race of the same
great force of ever-growing life which made the mother's milk.
Here are the three governing laws of life: To Be; To Re-Be; To Be
Better. The life force demands Existence. And we strain every nerve to
keep ourselves alive. The life force demands Reproduction. And our
physical machinery is shifted and rearranged repeatedly, with arrayed
impulses to suit--to keep the race alive. Then, most imperative of all,
the life force demands Improvement. And all creation groaneth and
travaileth in this one vast endeavor. Not merely this
thing--permanently; not merely more of this thing--continuously; but
better things, ever better and better types, has been the demand of life
upon us, and we have fulfilled it.
Under this last and highest law, as the main factor in securing to the
race its due improvement, comes that supreme officer of the life
process, the Mother. Her functions are complex, subtle, powerful, of
measureless value.
Her first duty is to grow nobly for her mighty purpose. Her next is to
select, with inexorable high standard, the fit assistant for her work.
The third--to fitly bear, bring forth, and nurse the child. Following
these, last and highest of all, comes our great race-process of social
parentage, which transmits to each new generation the gathered
knowledge, the accumulated advantages of the past.
When mother and father labor and save for years to give their children
the "advantages" of civilization; when a whole state taxes itself to
teach its children; that is the Life Force even more than the direct
impulse of personal passion. The pressure of progress, the resistless
demand of better conditions for our children, is life's largest
imperative, the fullest expression of motherhood.
But even if we confine ourselves for the time being to the plane of mere
replenishment, to that general law under which animals continue in
existence upon earth, even here the brief period of pre-paternal
excitement is but a passing hour compared to the weeks and months, yes,
years, in the higher species, of maternal service, love and care. The
human father, too, toils for his family; but the love, the power, the
pride of fatherhood are not symbolized by the mischievous butterfly baby
we have elected to worship.
Cupid has nothing to do with either motherhood or fatherhood in the
large human sense. His range is far short of the mark, he suggests
nothing of the great work to which he is but the pleasing preliminary.
Even for marriage we must bring in another god little heard of--Master
Hymen. This personage has made but small impression upon literature and
art; we have concentrated our interest on the God of First Sensation,
leaving none for ultimate results.
It is as if we were impressed by the intricate and indispensible process
of nutrition (upon which, as anyone can see, all life continuously
depends) and then had fixed our attention upon the palate, as chief
functionary. The palate is useful, even necessary. Without that eager
guide and servant we might be indifferent to the duty of eating, or
might eat what was useless or injurious, or at best eat mechanically and
without pleasure.
In the admirable economy of nature we are led to perform necessary acts
by the pleasure which accompanies them; so the "pleasures of the palate"
rightly precede the uses of the stomach; but we should not mistake them
for the chief end. In point of fact, this is precisely what we have
done. It not an analogy, it is a real truth. In nutrition as in
reproduction we have been quite taken up with accompaniments and
assistants, and have ignored the real business in hand. That is why the
whole world is so unwisely fed. It considers only the taste of things,
the pleasure of eating them, and ignores the real necessities of the
process.
And why, if this standard of doorstep satisfaction does not really
measure values in food, should we continue to set the same standard for
the mighty work of love? Love is mighty, but little Master Cupid is not
Love. The love that warms and lights and builds the world is
Motherlove. It is aided and paralleled by Fatherlove (that new
development distinctive of our race, that ennobling of the father by his
taking up so large a share of what was once all motherwork).
But why, so recognizing and reverencing this august Power, why should we
any longer be content to accept as its symbol this godlet of transient
sensation? No man who has ever loved a woman fully, as only human
beings can love, through years of mutual care and labor, through
sickness, age, and death, can honestly accept, as type of that long,
strong, enduring Love, this small blind fly-by-night.
There is, unquestionably, a stage of feeling which he fitly represents.
There is an inflammable emotionality in youth and its dreary continuance
into middle life, when as the farcial old governor in the play exclaims,
"Every day is ladies' day to me." Such a state of mind--or body,
rather--is common enough, harmless enough, perhaps, for a few light,
ineffectual years; but it is a poor compliment to call it Love, to let
this state of shuffling indecision, this weather-cock period, this
blindfold chance-shot game of hit or miss, hold such high place in our
hearts.
The explanation of it all is plain. In those slow, ignorant ages when
the spark of life was supposed to be transmitted by the male, he
naturally was taken to typify the life force. As this force was most
imperious in youth, so youth was taken to represent it. And as, even in
the eyes of the supposed chief actor, his feelings were changeable and
fleeting and his behavior erratic and foolish in the extreme--therefore
Cupid!
Therefore, seeing the continuous unreason of the love-driven male, we
say, "Love is blind"; seeing his light-mindedness, we say, "Love has
wings"; seeing his evident lack of intelligence and purpose, we make him
a mere child; seeing the evil results of his wide license, we
euphemistically indicate some pain by that bunch of baby arrows.
It is easy to see the origin of this deification of the doorstep. It is
not so easy to justify its persistence now that long years of knowledge
show us the great Door.
The Door of Life is Motherhood. She is the gate of entrance. Her work
is the great work as moulder and builder. She carries in her the Life
Power which this absurd infant is supposed to typify; and her love is
greater than his, even as a wise, strong mother is greater than a little
child.
Consider the imperative law that demands motherhood, that gives
motherhood, that holds motherhood to its great continuing task; where
short pleasure is followed by long discomfort crowned with pain; where
even the rich achievement of new-made life is but the beginning of years
of labor and care. Here is the life force. Here is power and passion.
Not the irritable, transient impulse, however mighty, but the staying
power, the passion that endures, the spirit which masters weakness,
slays selfishness, holds its ministrant to a lifelong task.
This is not appetite, hunger, desire. Desire may lead to it, and
usefully. Desire is the torchbearer, Motherhood is the Way.
Give Baby Love his due. He is not evil; he is good. He is a joy
forever. He is vitally necessary in the scheme of things. Happy are
they who in the real great work of life can carry with them this angel
visitant, fluttering free along their path, now close and sweet, now
smiling mischievously at a distance, yet returning ever.
But with all that can be said of him he is out of place as chief deity
in this high temple. Let a little shrine be made at the gate outside
the door. Let him smile there and take his tribute of red roses. But
when we put the shoes from off our feet and enter, we should see before
us, tall and grave, glorious in strong beauty, majestic in her amplitude
of power, the Goddess Motherhood.
Such love should shine from her deep eyes that children would crowd to
that temple and feel at home; learning to understand a little of what
had brought them there. Such beauty in this body of great womanhood that
men would worship as for long they have worshipped her of Melos. Such
high pride that girls, gazing, would feel strong to meet and bear their
splendid task. And such power--such living, overmastering power that
man, woman and child alike should bow in honor and rise in strength.
Then will Love be truly worshipped.
ARREARS
Our gratitude goes up in smoke,
In incense smoke of prayer;
We thank the Underlying Love,
The Overarching Care--
We do not thank the living men
Who make our lives so fair.
For long insolvent centuries
We have been clothed and fed,
By the spared captive, spared for once,
By inches slain instead;
He gave his service and is gone;
Unthanked, unpaid, and dead.
His labor built the world we love;
Our highest flights to-day
Rest on the service of the past,
Which we can never pay;
A long repudiated debt
Blackens our upward way.
Our fingers owed his fathers dead--
Disgrace beyond repair!
No late remorse, no new-found shame
Can save our honor there:
But we can now begin to pay
The starved and stunted heir!
We thank the Power above for all--
Gladly we do, and should.
But might we not save out a part
Of our large gratitude,
And give it to the power on earth--
Where it will do some good?
THREE THANKSGIVINGS
Andrew's letter and Jean's letter were in Mrs. Morrison's lap. She had
read them both, and sat looking at them with a varying sort of smile,
now motherly and now unmotherly.
"You belong with me," Andrew wrote. "It is not right that Jean's
husband should support my mother. I can do it easily now. You shall
have a good room and every comfort. The old house will let for enough
to give you quite a little income of your own, or it can be sold and I
will invest the money where you'll get a deal more out of it. It is not
right that you should live alone there. Sally is old and liable to
accident. I am anxious about you. Come on for Thanksgiving--and come
to stay. Here is the money to come with. You know I want you. Annie
joins me in sending love. ANDREW."
Mrs. Morrison read it all through again, and laid it down with her
quiet, twinkling smile. Then she read Jean's.
"Now, mother, you've got to come to us for Thanksgiving this year. Just
think! You haven't seen baby since he was three months old! And have
never seen the twins. You won't know him--he's such a splendid big boy
now. Joe says for you to come, of course. And, mother, why won't you
come and live with us? Joe wants you, too. There's the little room
upstairs; it's not very big, but we can put in a Franklin stove for you
and make you pretty comfortable. Joe says he should think you ought to
sell that white elephant of a place. He says he could put the money
into his store and pay you good interest. I wish you would, mother.
We'd just love to have you here. You'd be such a comfort to me, and
such a help with the babies. And Joe just loves you. Do come now, and
stay with us. Here is the money for the trip.--Your affectionate
daughter, JEANNIE."
Mrs. Morrison laid this beside the other, folded both, and placed them
in their respective envelopes, then in their several well-filled
pigeon-holes in her big, old-fashioned desk. She turned and paced
slowly up and down the long parlor, a tall woman, commanding of aspect,
yet of a winningly attractive manner, erect and light-footed, still
imposingly handsome.
It was now November, the last lingering boarder was long since gone, and
a quiet winter lay before her. She was alone, but for Sally; and she
smiled at Andrew's cautious expression, "liable to accident." He could
not say "feeble" or "ailing," Sally being a colored lady of changeless
aspect and incessant activity.
Mrs. Morrison was alone, and while living in the Welcome House she was
never unhappy. Her father had built it, she was born there, she grew up
playing on the broad green lawns in front, and in the acre of garden
behind. It was the finest house in the village, and she then thought it
the finest in the world.
Even after living with her father at Washington and abroad, after
visiting hall, castle and palace, she still found the Welcome House
beautiful and impressive.
If she kept on taking boarders she could live the year through, and pay
interest, but not principal, on her little mortgage. This had been the
one possible and necessary thing while the children were there, though
it was a business she hated.
But her youthful experience in diplomatic circles, and the years of
practical management in church affairs, enabled her to bear it with
patience and success. The boarders often confided to one another, as
they chatted and tatted on the long piazza, that Mrs. Morrison was
"certainly very refined."
Now Sally whisked in cheerfully, announcing supper, and Mrs. Morrison
went out to her great silver tea-tray at the lit end of the long, dark
mahogany table, with as much dignity as if twenty titled guests were
before her.
Afterward Mr. Butts called. He came early in the evening, with his
usual air of determination and a somewhat unusual spruceness. Mr. Peter
Butts was a florid, blonde person, a little stout, a little pompous,
sturdy and immovable in the attitude of a self-made man. He had been a
poor boy when she was a rich girl; and it gratified him much to
realize--and to call upon her to realize--that their positions had
changed. He meant no unkindness, his pride was honest and unveiled.
Tact he had none.
She had refused Mr. Butts, almost with laughter, when he proposed to her
in her gay girlhood. She had refused him, more gently, when he proposed
to her in her early widowhood. He had always been her friend, and her
husband's friend, a solid member of the church, and had taken the small
mortgage of the house. She refused to allow him at first, but he was
convincingly frank about it.
"This has nothing to do with my wanting you, Delia Morrison," he said.
"I've always wanted you--and I've always wanted this house, too. You
won't sell, but you've got to mortgage. By and by you can't pay up, and
I'll get it--see? Then maybe you'll take me--to keep the house. Don't
be a fool, Delia. It's a perfectly good investment."
She had taken the loan. She had paid the interest. She would pay the
interest if she had to take boarders all her life. And she would not,
at any price, marry Peter Butts.
He broached the subject again that evening, cheerful and undismayed.
"You might as well come to it, Delia," he said. "Then we could live
right here just the same. You aren't so young as you were, to be sure;
I'm not, either. But you are as good a housekeeper as
ever--better--you've had more experience."
"You are extremely kind, Mr. Butts," said the lady, "but I do not wish
to marry you."
"I know you don't," he said. "You've made that clear. You don't, but I
do. You've had your way and married the minister. He was a good man,
but he's dead. Now you might as well marry me."
"I do not wish to marry again, Mr. Butts; neither you nor anyone."
"Very proper, very proper, Delia," he replied. "It wouldn't look well
if you did--at any rate, if you showed it. But why shouldn't you? The
children are gone now--you can't hold them up against me any more."
"Yes, the children are both settled now, and doing nicely," she
admitted.
"You don't want to go and live with them--either one of them--do you?"
he asked.
"I should prefer to stay here," she answered.
"Exactly! And you can't! You'd rather live here and be a grandee--but
you can't do it. Keepin' house for boarders isn't any better than
keepin' house for me, as I see. You'd much better marry me."
"I should prefer to keep the house without you, Mr. Butts."
"I know you would. But you can't, I tell you. I'd like to know what a
woman of your age can do with a house like this--and no money? You
can't live eternally on hens' eggs and garden truck. That won't pay the
mortgage."
Mrs. Morrison looked at him with her cordial smile, calm and
non-committal. "Perhaps I can manage it," she said.
"That mortgage falls due two years from Thanksgiving, you know."
"Yes--I have not forgotten."
"Well, then, you might just as well marry me now, and save two years of
interest. It'll be my house, either way--but you'll be keepin' it just
the same."
"It is very kind of you, Mr. Butts. I must decline the offer none the
less. I can pay the interest, I am sure. And perhaps--in two years'
time--I can pay the principal. It's not a large sum."
"That depends on how you look at it," said he. "Two thousand dollars is
considerable money for a single woman to raise in two years--_and_
interest."
He went away, as cheerful and determined as ever; and Mrs. Morrison saw
him go with a keen, light in her fine eyes, a more definite line to that
steady, pleasant smile.
Then she went to spend Thanksgiving with Andrew. He was glad to see
her. Annie was glad to see her. They proudly installed her in "her
room," and said she must call it "home" now.
This affectionately offered home was twelve by fifteen, and eight feet
high. It had two windows, one looking at some pale gray clapboards
within reach of a broom, the other giving a view of several small fenced
yards occupied by cats, clothes and children. There was an ailanthus
tree under the window, a lady ailanthus tree. Annie told her how
profusely it bloomed. Mrs. Morrison particularly disliked the smell of
ailanthus flowers. "It doesn't bloom in November," said she to herself.
"I can be thankful for that!"
Andrew's church was very like the church of his father, and Mrs. Andrew
was doing her best to fill the position of minister's wife--doing it
well, too--there was no vacancy for a minister's mother.
Besides, the work she had done so cheerfully to help her husband was not
what she most cared for, after all. She liked the people, she liked to
manage, but she was not strong on doctrine. Even her husband had never
known how far her views differed from his. Mrs. Morrison had never
mentioned what they were.
Andrew's people were very polite to her. She was invited out with them,
waited upon and watched over and set down among the old ladies and
gentlemen--she had never realized so keenly that she was no longer
young. Here nothing recalled her youth, every careful provision
anticipated age. Annie brought her a hot-water bag at night, tucking it
in at the foot of the bed with affectionate care. Mrs. Morrison thanked
her, and subsequently took it out--airing the bed a little before she
got into it. The house seemed very hot to her, after the big, windy
halls at home.
The little dining-room, the little round table with the little round
fern-dish in the middle, the little turkey and the little
carving-set--game-set she would have called it--all made her feel as if
she was looking through the wrong end of an opera-glass.
In Annie's precise efficiency she saw no room for her assistance; no
room in the church, no room in the small, busy town, prosperous and
progressive, and no room in the house. "Not enough to turn round in!"
she said to herself. Annie, who had grown up in a city flat, thought
their little parsonage palatial. Mrs. Morrison grew up in the Welcome
House.
She stayed a week, pleasant and polite, conversational, interested in
all that went on.
"I think your mother is just lovely," said Annie to Andrew.
"Charming woman, your mother," said the leading church member.
"What a delightful old lady your mother is!" said the pretty soprano.
And Andrew was deeply hurt and disappointed when she announced her
determination to stay on for the present in her old home. "Dear boy,"
she said, "you mustn't take it to heart. I love to be with you, of
course, but I love my home, and want to keep it is long as I can. It is
a great pleasure to see you and Annie so well settled, and so happy
together. I am most truly thankful for you."
"My home is open to you whenever you wish to come, mother," said Andrew.
But he was a little angry.
Mrs. Morrison came home as eager as a girl, and opened her own door with
her own key, in spite of Sally's haste.
Two years were before her in which she must find some way to keep
herself and Sally, and to pay two thousand dollars and the interest to
Peter Butts. She considered her assets. There was the house--the white
elephant. It _was_ big--very big. It was profusely furnished. Her
father had entertained lavishly like the Southern-born, hospitable
gentleman he was; and the bedrooms ran in suites--somewhat deteriorated
by the use of boarders, but still numerous and habitable. Boarders--she
abhorred them. They were people from afar, strangers and interlopers.
She went over the place from garret to cellar, from front gate to
backyard fence.
The garden had great possibilities. She was fond of gardening. and
understood it well. She measured and estimated.
"This garden," she finally decided, "with the hens, will feed us two
women and sell enough to pay Sally. If we make plenty of jelly, it may
cover the coal bill, too. As to clothes--I don't need any. They last
admirably. I can manage. I can _live_--but two thousand dollars--_and_
interest!"
In the great attic was more furniture, discarded sets put there when her
extravagant young mother had ordered new ones. And chairs--uncounted
chairs. Senator Welcome used to invite numbers to meet his political
friends--and they had delivered glowing orations in the wide, double
parlors, the impassioned speakers standing on a temporary dais, now in
the cellar; and the enthusiastic listeners disposed more or less
comfortably on these serried rows of "folding chairs," which folded
sometimes, and let down the visitor in scarlet confusion to the floor.
She sighed as she remembered those vivid days and glittering nights.
She used to steal downstairs in her little pink wrapper and listen to
the eloquence. It delighted her young soul to see her father rising on
his toes, coming down sharply on his heels, hammering one hand upon the
other; and then to hear the fusilade of applause.
Here were the chairs, often borrowed for weddings, funerals, and church
affairs, somewhat worn and depleted, but still numerous. She mused upon
them. Chairs--hundreds of chairs. They would sell for very little.
She went through her linen room. A splendid stock in the old days;
always carefully washed by Sally; surviving even the boarders. Plenty
of bedding, plenty of towels, plenty of napkins and tablecloths. "It
would make a good hotel--but I _can't_ have it so--I _can't!_ Besides,
there's no need of another hotel here. The poor little Haskins House is
never full."
The stock in the china closet was more damaged than some other things,
naturally; but she inventoried it with care. The countless cups of
crowded church receptions were especially prominent. Later additions
these, not very costly cups, but numerous, appallingly.
When she had her long list of assets all in order, she sat and studied
it with a clear and daring mind. Hotel--boarding-house--she could think
of nothing else. School! A girls' school! A boarding school! There
was money to be made at that, and fine work done. It was a brilliant
thought at first, and she gave several hours, and much paper and ink, to
its full consideration. But she would need some capital for
advertising; she must engage teachers--adding to her definite
obligation; and to establish it, well, it would require time.
Mr. Butts, obstinate, pertinacious, oppressively affectionate, would
give her no time. He meant to force her to marry him for her own
good--and his. She shrugged her fine shoulders with a little shiver.
Marry Peter Butts! Never! Mrs. Morrison still loved her husband. Some
day she meant to see him again--God willing--and she did not wish to
have to tell him that at fifty she had been driven into marrying Peter
Butts.
Better live with Andrew. Yet when she thought of living with Andrew,
she shivered again. Pushing back her sheets of figures and lists of
personal property, she rose to her full graceful height and began to
walk the floor. There was plenty of floor to walk. She considered,
with a set deep thoughtfulness, the town and the townspeople, the
surrounding country, the hundreds upon hundreds of women whom she
knew--and liked, and who liked her.
It used to be said of Senator Welcome that he had no enemies; and some
people, strangers, maliciously disposed, thought it no credit to his
character. His daughter had no enemies, but no one had ever blamed her
for her unlimited friendliness. In her father's wholesale
entertainments the whole town knew and admired his daughter; in her
husband's popular church she had come to know the women of the
countryside about them. Her mind strayed off to these women, farmers'
wives, comfortably off in a plain way, but starving for companionship,
for occasional stimulus and pleasure. It was one of her joys in her
husband's time to bring together these women--to teach and entertain
them.
Suddenly she stopped short in the middle of the great high-ceiled room,
and drew her head up proudly like a victorious queen. One wide,
triumphant, sweeping glance she cast at the well-loved walls--and went
back to her desk, working swiftly, excitedly, well into the hours of the
night.
*
Presently the little town began to buzz, and the murmur ran far out into
the surrounding country. Sunbonnets wagged over fences; butcher carts
and pedlar's wagon carried the news farther; and ladies visiting found
one topic in a thousand houses.
Mrs. Morrison was going to entertain. Mrs. Morrison had invited the
whole feminine population, it would appear, to meet Mrs. Isabelle Carter
Blake, of Chicago. Even Haddleton had heard of Mrs. Isabelle Carter
Blake. And even Haddleton had nothing but admiration for her.
She was known the world over for her splendid work for children--for the
school children and the working children of the country. Yet she was
known also to have lovingly and wisely reared six children of her
own--and made her husband happy in his home. On top of that she had
lately written a novel, a popular novel, of which everyone was talking;
and on top of that she was an intimate friend of a certain conspicuous
Countess--an Italian.
It was even rumored, by some who knew Mrs. Morrison better than
others--or thought they did--that the Countess was coming, too! No one
had known before that Delia Welcome was a school-mate of Isabel Carter,
and a lifelong friend; and that was ground for talk in itself.
The day arrived, and the guests arrived. They came in hundreds upon
hundreds, and found ample room in the great white house.
The highest dream of the guests was realized--the Countess had come,
too. With excited joy they met her, receiving impressions that would
last them for all their lives, for those large widening waves of
reminiscence which delight us the more as years pass. It was an
incredible glory--Mrs. Isabelle Carter Blake, _and_ a Countess!
Some were moved to note that Mrs. Morrison looked the easy peer of these
eminent ladies, and treated the foreign nobility precisely as she did
her other friends.
She spoke, her clear quiet voice reaching across the murmuring din, and
silencing it.
"Shall we go into the east room? If you will all take chairs in the
east room, Mrs. Blake is going to be so kind as to address us. Also
perhaps her friend--"
They crowded in, sitting somewhat timorously on the unfolded chairs.
Then the great Mrs. Blake made them an address of memorable power and
beauty, which received vivid sanction from that imposing presence in
Parisian garments on the platform by her side. Mrs. Blake spoke to them
of the work she was interested in, and how it was aided everywhere by
the women's clubs. She gave them the number of these clubs, and
described with contagious enthusiasm the inspiration of their great
meetings. She spoke of the women's club houses, going up in city after
city, where many associations meet and help one another. She was
winning and convincing and most entertaining--an extremely attractive
speaker.
Had they a women's club there? They had not.
Not _yet,_ she suggested, adding that it took no time at all to make
one.
They were delighted and impressed with Mrs. Blake's speech, but its
effect was greatly intensified by the address of the Countess.
"I, too, am American," she told them; "born here, reared in England,
married in Italy." And she stirred their hearts with a vivid account of
the women's clubs and associations all over Europe, and what they were
accomplishing. She was going back soon, she said, the wiser and happier
for this visit to her native land, and she should remember particularly
this beautiful, quiet town, trusting that if she came to it again it
would have joined the great sisterhood of women, "whose hands were
touching around the world for the common good."
It was a great occasion.
The Countess left next day, but Mrs. Blake remained, and spoke in some
of the church meetings, to an ever widening circle of admirers. Her
suggestions were practical.
"What you need here is a 'Rest and Improvement Club,'" she said. "Here
are all you women coming in from the country to do your shopping--and no
place to go to. No place to lie down if you're tired, to meet a friend,
to eat your lunch in peace, to do your hair. All you have to do is
organize, pay some small regular due, and provide yourselves with what
you want."
There was a volume of questions and suggestions, a little opposition,
much random activity.
Who was to do it? Where was there a suitable place? They would have to
hire someone to take charge of it. It would only be used once a week.
It would cost too much.
Mrs. Blake, still practical, made another suggestion. Why not combine
business with pleasure, and make use of the best place in town, if you
can get it? I _think_ Mrs. Morrison could be persuaded to let you use
part of her house; it's quite too big for one woman."
Then Mrs. Morrison, simple and cordial as ever, greeted with warm
enthusiasm by her wide circle of friends.
"I have been thinking this over," she said. "Mrs. Blake has been
discussing it with me. My house is certainly big enough for all of you,
and there am I, with nothing to do but entertain you. Suppose you
formed such a club as you speak of--for Rest and Improvement. My
parlors are big enough for all manner of meetings; there are bedrooms in
plenty for resting. If you form such a club I shall be glad to help
with my great, cumbersome house, shall be delighted to see so many
friends there so often; and I think I could furnish accommodations more
cheaply than you could manage in any other way.
Then Mrs. Blake gave them facts and figures, showing how much clubhouses
cost--and how little this arrangement would cost. "Most women have very
little money, I know," she said, "and they hate to spend it on
themselves when they have; but even a little money from each goes a long
way when it is put together. I fancy there are none of us so poor we
could not squeeze out, say ten cents a week. For a hundred women that
would be ten dollars. Could you feed a hundred tired women for ten
dollars, Mrs. Morrison?"
Mrs. Morrison smiled cordially. "Not on chicken pie," she said, "But I
could give them tea and coffee, crackers and cheese for that, I think.
And a quiet place to rest, and a reading room, and a place to hold
meetings."
Then Mrs. Blake quite swept them off their feet by her wit and
eloquence. She gave them to understand that if a share in the palatial
accommodation of the Welcome House, and as good tea and coffee as old
Sally made, with a place to meet, a place to rest, a place to talk, a
place to lie down, could be had for ten cents a week each, she advised
them to clinch the arrangement at once before Mrs. Morrison's natural
good sense had overcome her enthusiasm.
Before Mrs. Isabelle Carter Blake had left, Haddleton had a large and
eager women's club, whose entire expenses, outside of stationary and
postage, consisted of ten cents a week _per capita,_ paid to Mrs.
Morrison. Everybody belonged. It was open at once for charter members,
and all pressed forward to claim that privileged place.
They joined by hundreds, and from each member came this tiny sum to Mrs.
Morrison each week. It was very little money, taken separately. But it
added up with silent speed. Tea and coffee, purchased in bulk, crackers
by the barrel, and whole cheeses--these are not expensive luxuries. The
town was full of Mrs. Morrison's ex-Sunday-school boys, who furnished
her with the best they had--at cost. There was a good deal of work, a
good deal of care, and room for the whole supply of Mrs. Morrison's
diplomatic talent and experience. Saturdays found the Welcome House as
full as it could hold, and Sundays found Mrs. Morrison in bed. But she
liked it.
A busy, hopeful year flew by, and then she went to Jean's for
Thanksgiving.
The room Jean gave her was about the same size as her haven in Andrew's
home, but one flight higher up, and with a sloping ceiling. Mrs.
Morrison whitened her dark hair upon it, and rubbed her head confusedly.
Then she shook it with renewed determination.
The house was full of babies. There was little Joe, able to get about,
and into everything. There were the twins, and there was the new baby.
There was one servant, over-worked and cross. There was a small, cheap,
totally inadequate nursemaid. There was Jean, happy but tired, full of
joy, anxiety and affection, proud of her children, proud of her husband,
and delighted to unfold her heart to her mother.
By the hour she babbled of their cares and hopes, while Mrs. Morrison,
tall and elegant in her well-kept old black silk, sat holding the baby
or trying to hold the twins. The old silk was pretty well finished by
the week's end. Joseph talked to her also, telling her how well he was
getting on, and how much he needed capital, urging her to come and stay
with them; it was such a help to Jeannie; asking questions about the
house.
There was no going visiting here. Jeannie could not leave the babies.
And few visitors; all the little suburb being full of similarly
overburdened mothers. Such as called found Mrs. Morrison charming.
What she found them, she did not say. She bade her daughter an
affectionate good-bye when the week was up, smiling at their mutual
contentment.
"Good-bye, my dear children," she said. "I am so glad for all your
happiness. I am thankful for both of you."
But she was more thankful to get home.
Mr. Butts did not have to call for his interest this time, but he called
none the less.
"How on earth'd you get it, Delia?" he demanded. "Screwed it out o'
these club-women?"
"Your interest is so moderate, Mr. Butts, that it is easier to meet than
you imagine," was her answer. "Do you know the average interest they
charge in Colorado? The women vote there, you know."
He went away with no more personal information than that; and no nearer
approach to the twin goals of his desire than the passing of the year.
"One more year, Delia," he said; "then you'll have to give in."
"One more year!" she said to herself, and took up her chosen task with
renewed energy.
The financial basis of the undertaking was very simple, but it would
never have worked so well under less skilful management. Five dollars a
year these country women could not have faced, but ten cents a week was
possible to the poorest. There was no difficulty in collecting, for
they brought it themselves; no unpleasantness in receiving, for old
Sally stood at the receipt of custom and presented the covered cash box
when they came for their tea.
On the crowded Saturdays the great urns were set going, the mighty array
of cups arranged in easy reach, the ladies filed by, each taking her
refection and leaving her dime. Where the effort came was in enlarging
the membership and keeping up the attendance, and this effort was
precisely in the line of Mrs. Morrison's splendid talents.
Serene, cheerful, inconspicuously active, planning like the born
statesman she was, executing like a practical politician, Mrs. Morrison
gave her mind to the work, and thrived upon it. Circle within circle,
and group within group, she set small classes and departments at work,
having a boys' club by and by in the big room over the woodshed, girls'
clubs, reading clubs, study clubs, little meetings of every sort that
were not held in churches, and some that were--previously.
For each and all there was, if wanted, tea and coffee, crackers and
cheese; simple fare, of unvarying excellence, and from each and all,
into the little cashbox, ten cents for these refreshments. From the
club members this came weekly; and the club members, kept up by a
constant variety of interests, came every week. As to numbers, before
the first six months was over The Haddleton Rest and Improvement Club
numbered five hundred women.
Now, five hundred times ten cents a week is twenty-six hundred dollars a
year. Twenty-six hundred dollars a year would not be very much to build
or rent a large house, to furnish five hundred people with chairs,
lounges, books, and magazines, dishes and service; and with food and
drink even of the simplest. But if you are miraculously supplied with a
club-house, furnished, with a manager and servant on the spot, then that
amount of money goes a long way.
On Saturdays Mrs. Morrison hired two helpers for half a day, for half a
dollar each. She stocked the library with many magazines for fifty
dollars a year. She covered fuel, light, and small miscellanies with
another hundred. And she fed her multitude with the plain viands agreed
upon, at about four cents apiece.
For her collateral entertainments, her many visits, the various new
expenses entailed, she paid as well; and yet at the end of the first
year she had not only her interest, but a solid thousand dollars of
clear profit. With a calm smile she surveyed it, heaped in neat stacks
of bills in the small safe in the wall behind her bed. Even Sally did
not know it was there.
The second season was better than the first. There were difficulties,
excitements, even some opposition, but she rounded out the year
triumphantly. "After that," she said to herself, "they may have the
deluge if they like."
She made all expenses, made her interest, made a little extra cash,
clearly her own, all over and above the second thousand dollars.
Then did she write to son and daughter, inviting them and their families
to come home to Thanksgiving, and closing each letter with joyous pride:
"Here is the money to come with."
They all came, with all the children and two nurses. There was plenty
of room in the Welcome House, and plenty of food on the long mahogany
table. Sally was as brisk as a bee, brilliant in scarlet and purple;
Mrs. Morrison carved her big turkey with queenly grace.
"I don't see that you're over-run with club women, mother," said
Jeannie.
"It's Thanksgiving, you know; they're all at home. I hope they are all
as happy, as thankful for their homes as I am for mine," said Mrs.
Morrison.
Afterward Mr. Butts called. With dignity and calm unruffled, Mrs.
Morrison handed him his interest--and principal.
Mr. Butts was almost loath to receive it, though his hand automatically
grasped the crisp blue check.
"I didn't know you had a bank account," he protested, somewhat
dubiously.
"Oh, yes; you'll find the check will be honored, Mr. Butts."
"I'd like to know how you got this money. You _can't_ 'a' skinned it
out o' that club of yours."
"I appreciate your friendly interest, Mr. Butts; you have been most
kind."
"I believe some of these great friends of yours have lent it to you.
You won't be any better off, I can tell you."
"Come, come, Mr. Butts! Don't quarrel with good money. Let us part
friends."
And they parted.
HOW DOTH THE HAT
How doth the hat loom large upon her head!
Furred like a busby; plumed as hearses are;
Armed with eye-spearing quills; bewebbed and hung
With lacy, silky, downy draperies;
With spread, wide-waggling feathers fronded high
In bosky thickets of Cimmerian gloom.
How doth the hat with colors dare the eye!
Arrest--attract--allure--affront--appall!
Vivid and varied as are paroquets;
Dove-dull; one mass of white; all solid red;
Black with the blackness of a mourning world--
Compounded type of "Chaos and Old Night"!
How doth the hat expand: wax wide, and swell!
Such is its size that none can predicate
Or hair, or head, or shoulders of the frame
Below thIs bulk, this beauty-burying bulk;
Trespassing rude on all who walk beside,
Brutally blinding all who sit behind.
How doth the hat's mere mass more monstrous grow
Into a riot of repugnant shapes!
Shapes ignominious, extreme, bizarre,
Bulbous, distorted, unsymmetrical--
Of no relation to the human head--
To beauty, comfort, dignity or grace.
Shape of a dishpan! Of a pail! A tub!
Of an inverted wastebasket wherein
The head finds lodgment most appropriate!
Shape of a wide-spread wilted griddlecake!
Shape of the body of an octopus
Set sideways on a fireman's misplaced brim!
How doth the hat show callous cruelty
In decoration costing countless deaths;
Carrying corpses for its ornaments;
Wreath of dead humming-birds, dismembered gulls,
The mother heron's breastknot, stiffened wings;
Torn fragments of a world of wasted life.
How doth the hat effect the minds of men?
Patient bill-payers, chivalrously dumb!
What does it indicate of woman's growth;
Her sense of beauty, her intelligence,
Her thought for others measured with herself,
Her place and grade in human life to-day?
INTRODUCING THE WORLD, THE FLESH, AND THE DEVIL
"O, no--Please don't--I'd rather not meet them!"
I'm sorry but you have to meet them, constantly.
"But I don't have to know them, surely!"
You will find it safer and easier if you do.
"But they are not proper persons to meet--I've heard awful things about
them."
Those stories come from people who never really knew them. They have
been much maligned I assure you. Let me tell you a little about them
before they come up.
The World yonder is really an excellent fellow, but sulky and erratic
because he's not well used. Think of a beautiful, fruitful, home garden
used for nothing but to play ball and fight in--and then blamed for its
condition. That's the way he feels.
Then there's the Flesh. Never was a good fellow more abused! He's been
brought up wrong, from babyhood--but he's all right inside.
As to the Devil--we really ought to be ashamed of treating him so. He'd
have died centuries ago, but we will keep him going--and then blame him
because his behavior's out of date!
Here they come. Allow me to present:
The World--Just Us; We and our Workshop.
The Flesh--Just Us; Our Natural Vehicle and Servant.
The Devil--Just Us; but an Anachronism--an artificially preserved
Extinct Ancestor!
WHAT DIANTHA DID
CHAPTER I.
HANDICAPPED
One may use the Old Man of the Sea,
For a partner or patron,
But helpless and hapless is he
Who is ridden, inextricably,
By a fond old mer-matron.
The Warden house was more impressive in appearance than its neighbors.
It had "grounds," instead of a yard or garden; it had wide pillared
porches and "galleries," showing southern antecedents; moreover, it had
a cupola, giving date to the building, and proof of the continuing
ambitions of the builders.
The stately mansion was covered with heavy flowering vines, also with
heavy mortgages. Mrs. Roscoe Warden and her four daughters reposed
peacefully under the vines, while Roscoe Warden, Jr., struggled
desperately under the mortgages.
A slender, languid lady was Mrs. Warden, wearing her thin but still
brown hair in "water-waves" over a pale high forehead. She was sitting
on a couch on the broad, rose-shaded porch, surrounded by billowing
masses of vari-colored worsted. It was her delight to purchase skein on
skein of soft, bright-hued wool, cut it all up into short lengths, tie
them together again in contrasting colors, and then crochet this hashed
rainbow into afghans of startling aspect. California does not call for
afghans to any great extent, but "they make such acceptable presents,"
Mrs. Warden declared, to those who questioned the purpose of her work;
and she continued to send them off, on Christmases, birthdays, and minor
weddings, in a stream of pillowy bundles. As they were accepted, they
must have been acceptable, and the stream flowed on.
Around her, among the gay blossoms and gayer wools, sat her four
daughters, variously intent. The mother, a poetic soul, had named them
musically and with dulcet rhymes: Madeline and Adeline were the two
eldest, Coraline and Doraline the two youngest. It had not occurred to
her until too late that those melodious terminations made it impossible
to call one daughter without calling two, and that "Lina" called them
all.
"Mis' Immerjin," said a soft voice in the doorway, "dere pos'tively
ain't no butter in de house fer supper."
"No butter?" said Mrs. Warden, incredulously. "Why, Sukey, I'm sure we
had a tub sent up last--last Tuesday!"
"A week ago Tuesday, more likely, mother," suggested Dora.
"Nonsense, Dora! It was this week, wasn't it, girls?" The mother
appealed to them quite earnestly, as if the date of that tub's delivery
would furnish forth the supper-table; but none of the young ladies save
Dora had even a contradiction to offer.
"You know I never notice things," said the artistic Cora; and "the
de-lines," as their younger sisters called them, said nothing.
"I might borrow some o' Mis' Bell?" suggested Sukey; "dat's nearer 'n'
de sto'."
"Yes, do, Sukey," her mistress agreed. "It is so hot. But what have
you done with that tubful?"
"Why, some I tuk back to Mis' Bell for what I borrered befo'--I'm always
most careful to make return for what I borrers--and yo' know, Mis'
Warden, dat waffles and sweet potaters and cohn bread dey do take
butter; to say nothin' o' them little cakes you all likes so well--_an'_
de fried chicken, _an'_--"
"Never mind, Sukey; you go and present my compliments to Mrs. Bell, and
ask her for some; and be sure you return it promptly. Now, girls, don't
let me forget to tell Ross to send up another tub."
"We can't seem to remember any better than you can, mother," said
Adeline, dreamily. "Those details are so utterly uninteresting."
"I should think it was Sukey's business to tell him," said Madeline with
decision; while the "a-lines" kept silence this time.
"There! Sukey's gone!" Mrs. Warden suddenly remarked, watching the
stout figure moving heavily away under the pepper trees. "And I meant
to have asked her to make me a glass of shrub! Dora, dear, you run and
get it for mother."
Dora laid down her work, not too regretfully, and started off.
"That child is the most practical of any of you," said her mother; which
statement was tacitly accepted. It was not extravagant praise.
Dora poked about in the refrigerator for a bit of ice. She ho no idea
of the high cost of ice in that region--it came from "the store," like
all their provisions. It did not occur to her that fish and milk and
melons made a poor combination in flavor; or that the clammy,
sub-offensive smell was not the natural and necessary odor of
refrigerators. Neither did she think that a sunny corner of the back
porch near the chimney, though convenient, was an ill-selected spot for
a refrigerator. She couldn't find the ice-pick, so put a big piece of
ice in a towel and broke it on the edge of the sink; replaced the
largest fragment, used what she wanted, and left the rest to filter
slowly down through a mass of grease and tea-leaves; found the raspberry
vinegar, and made a very satisfactory beverage which her mother received
with grateful affection.
"Thank you, my darling," she said. "I wish you'd made a pitcherful."
"Why didn't you, Do?" her sisters demanded.
"You're too late," said Dora, hunting for her needle and then for her
thimble, and then for her twist; "but there's more in the kitchen."
"I'd rather go without than go into the kitchen," said Adeline; "I do
despise a kitchen." And this seemed to be the general sentiment; for no
one moved.
"My mother always liked raspberry shrub," said Mrs. Warden; "and your
Aunt Leicester, and your Raymond cousins."
Mrs. Warden had a wide family circle, many beloved relatives,
"connections" of whom she was duly proud and "kin" in such widening
ramifications that even her carefully reared daughters lost track of
them.
"You young people don't seem to care about your cousins at all!" pursued
their mother, somewhat severely, setting her glass on the railing, from
whence it was presently knocked off and broken.
"That's the fifth!" remarked Dora, under breath.
"Why should we, Ma?" inquired Cora. "We've never seen one of
them--except Madam Weatherstone!"
"We'll never forget _her!"_ said Madeline, with delicate decision,
laying down the silk necktie she was knitting for Roscoe. "What
_beautiful_ manners she had!"
"How rich is she, mother? Do you know?" asked Dora.
"Rich enough to do something for Roscoe, I'm sure, if she had a proper
family spirit," replied Mrs. Warden. "Her mother was own cousin to my
grandmother--one of the Virginia Paddingtons. Or she might do something
for you girls."
"I wish she would!" Adeline murmured, softly, her large eyes turned to
the horizon, her hands in her lap over the handkerchief she was marking
for Roscoe.
"Don't be ungrateful, Adeline," said her mother, firmly. "You have a
good home and a good brother; no girl ever had a better."
"But there is never anything going on," broke in Coraline, in a tone of
complaint; "no parties, no going away for vacations, no anything."
"Now, Cora, don't be discontented! You must not add a straw to dear
Roscoe's burdens," said her mother.
"Of course not, mother; I wouldn't for the world. I never saw her but
that once; and she wasn't very cordial. But, as you say, she might do
_something._ She might invite us to visit her."
"If she ever comes back again, I'm going to recite for her," said, Dora,
firmly.
Her mother gazed fondly on her youngest. "I wish you could, dear," she
agreed. "I'm sure you have talent; and Madam Weatherstone would
recognize it. And Adeline's music too. And Cora's art. I am very
proud of my girls."
Cora sat where the light fell well upon her work. She was illuminating
a volume of poems, painting flowers on the margins, in appropriate
places--for Roscoe.
"I wonder if he'll care for it?" she said, laying down her brush and
holding the book at arm's length to get the effect.
"Of course he will!" answered her mother, warmly. "It is not only the
beauty of it, but the affection! How are you getting on, Dora?"
Dora was laboring at a task almost beyond her fourteen years, consisting
of a negligee shirt of outing flannel, upon the breast of which she was
embroidering a large, intricate design--for Roscoe. She was an
ambitious child, but apt to tire in the execution of her large projects.
"I guess it'll be done," she said, a little wearily. "What are you going
to give him, mother?"
"Another bath-robe; his old one is so worn. And nothing is too good for
my boy."
"He's coming," said Adeline, who was still looking down the road; and
they all concealed their birthday work in haste.
A tall, straight young fellow, with an air of suddenly-faced maturity
upon him, opened the gate under the pepper trees and came toward them.
He had the finely molded features we see in portraits of handsome
ancestors, seeming to call for curling hair a little longish, and a rich
profusion of ruffled shirt. But his hair was sternly short, his shirt
severely plain, his proudly carried head spoke of effort rather than of
ease in its attitude.
Dora skipped to meet him, Cora descended a decorous step or two.
Madeline and Adeline, arm in arm, met him at the piazza edge, his mother
lifted her face.
"Well, mother, dear!" Affectionately he stooped and kissed her, and she
held his hand and stroked it lovingly. The sisters gathered about with
teasing affection, Dora poking in his coat-pocket for the stick candy
her father always used to bring her, and her brother still remembered.
"Aren't you home early, dear?" asked Mrs. Warden.
"Yes; I had a little headache"--he passed his hand over his
forehead--"and Joe can run the store till after supper, anyhow." They
flew to get him camphor, cologne, a menthol-pencil. Dora dragged forth
the wicker lounge. He was laid out carefully and fanned and fussed over
till his mother drove them all away.
"Now, just rest," she said. "It's an hour to supper time yet!" And she
covered him with her latest completed afghan, gathering up and carrying
away the incomplete one and its tumultuous constituents.
He was glad of the quiet, the fresh, sweet air, the smell of flowers
instead of the smell of molasses and cheese, soap and sulphur matches.
But the headache did not stop, nor the worry that caused it. He loved
his mother, he loved his sisters, he loved their home, but he did not
love the grocery business which had fallen so unexpectedly upon him at
his father's death, nor the load of debt which fell with it.
That they need never have had so large a "place" to "keep up" did not
occur to him. He had lived there most of his life, and it was home.
That the expenses of running the household were three times what they
needed to be, he did not know. His father had not questioned their
style of living, nor did he. That a family of five women might, between
them, do the work of the house, he did not even consider.
Mrs. Warden's health was never good, and since her husband's death she
had made daily use of many afghans on the many lounges of the house.
Madeline was "delicate," and Adeline was "frail"; Cora was "nervous,"
Dora was "only a child." So black Sukey and her husband Jonah did the
work of the place, so far as it was done; and Mrs. Warden held it a
miracle of management that she could "do with one servant," and the
height of womanly devotion on her daughters' part that they dusted the
parlor and arranged the flowers.
Roscoe shut his eyes and tried to rest, but his problem beset him
ruthlessly. There was the store--their one and only source of income.
There was the house, a steady, large expense. There were five women to
clothe and keep contented, beside himself. There was the unappeasable
demand of the mortgage--and there was Diantha.
When Mr. Warden died, some four years previously, Roscoe was a lad of
about twenty, just home from college, full of dreams of great service to
the world in science, expecting to go back for his doctor's degree next
year. Instead of which the older man had suddenly dropped beneath the
burden he had carried with such visible happiness and pride, such
unknown anxiety and straining effort; and the younger one had to step
into the harness on the spot.
He was brave, capable, wholly loyal to his mother and sisters, reared in
the traditions of older days as to a man's duty toward women. In his
first grief for his father, and the ready pride with which he undertook
to fill his place, he had not in the least estimated the weight of care
he was to carry, nor the time that he must carry it. A year, a year or
two, a few years, he told himself, as they passed, and he would make
more money; the girls, of course, would marry; he could "retire" in time
and take up his scientific work again. Then--there was Diantha.
When he found he loved this young neighbor of theirs, and that she loved
him, the first flush of happiness made all life look easier. They had
been engaged six months--and it was beginning to dawn upon the young man
that it might be six years--or sixteen years--before he could marry.
He could not sell the business--and if he could, he knew of no better
way to take care of his family. The girls did not marry, and even when
they did, he had figured this out to a dreary certainty, he would still
not be free. To pay the mortgages off, and keep up the house, even
without his sisters, would require all the money the store would bring
in for some six years ahead. The young man set his teeth hard and
turned his head sharply toward the road.
And there was Diantha.
She stood at the gate and smiled at him. He sprang to his feet,
headacheless for the moment, and joined her. Mrs. Warden, from the
lounge by her bedroom window, saw them move off together, and sighed.
"Poor Roscoe!" she said to herself. "It is very hard for him. But he
carries his difficulties nobly. He is a son to be proud of." And she
wept a little.
Diantha slipped her hand in his offered arm--he clasped it warmly with
his, and they walked along together.
"You won't come in and see mother and the girls?"
"No, thank you; not this time. I must get home and get supper.
Besides, I'd rather see just you."
He felt it a pity that there were so many houses along the road here,
but squeezed her hand, anyhow.
She looked at him keenly. "Headache?" she asked.
"Yes; it's nothing; it's gone already."
"Worry?" she asked.
"Yes, I suppose it is," he answered. "But I ought not to worry. I've
got a good home, a good mother, good sisters, and--you!" And he took
advantage of a high hedge and an empty lot on either side of them.
Diantha returned his kiss affectionately enough, but seemed preoccupied,
and walked in silence till he asked her what she was thinking about.
"About you, of course," she answered, brightly. "There are things I want
to say; and yet--I ought not to."
"You can say anything on earth to me," he answered.
"You are twenty-four," she began, musingly.
"Admitted at once."
"And I'm twenty-one and a half."
"That's no such awful revelation, surely!"
"And we've been engaged ever since my birthday," the girl pursued.
"All these are facts, dearest."
"Now, Ross, will you be perfectly frank with me? May I ask you an--an
impertinent question?"
"You may ask me any question you like; it couldn't be impertinent."
"You'll be scandalised, I know--but--well, here goes. What would you
think if Madeline--or any of the girls--should go away to work?"
He looked at her lovingly, but with a little smile on his firm mouth.
"I shouldn't allow it," he said.
"O--allow it? I asked you what you'd think."
"I should think it was a disgrace to the family, and a direct reproach
to me," be answered. "But it's no use talking about that. None of the
girls have any such foolish notion. And I wouldn't permit it if they
had."
Diantha smiled. "I suppose you never would permit your wife to work?"
"My widow might have to--not my wife." He held his fine head a trifle
higher, and her hand ached for a moment.
"Wouldn't you let me work--to help you, Ross?"
"My dearest girl, you've got something far harder than that to do for
me, and that's wait."
His face darkened again, and he passed his hand over his forehead.
"Sometimes I feel as if I ought not to hold you at all!" he burst out,
bitterly. "You ought to be free to marry a better man."
"There aren't any!" said Diantha, shaking her head slowly from side to
side. "And if there were--millions--I wouldn't marry any of 'em. I
love _you,"_ she firmly concluded.
"Then we'll just _wait,"_ said he, setting his teeth on the word, as if
he would crush it. "It won't be hard with you to help. You're better
worth it than Rachael and Leah together." They walked a few steps
silently.
"But how about science?" she asked him.
"I don't let myself think of it. I'll take that up later. We're young
enough, both of us, to wait for our happiness."
"And have you any idea--we might as well face the worst--how many years
do you think that will be, dearest?"
He was a little annoyed at her persistence. Also, though he would not
admit the thought, it did not seem quite the thing for her to ask. A
woman should not seek too definite a period of waiting. She ought to
trust--to just wait on general principles.
"I can face a thing better if I know just what I'm facing," said the
girl, quietly, "and I'd wait for you, if I had to, all my life. Will it
be twenty years, do you think?"
He looked relieved. "Why, no, indeed, darling. It oughtn't to be at
the outside more than five. Or six," he added, honest though reluctant.
"You see, father had no time to settle anything; there were outstanding
accounts, and the funeral expenses, and the mortgages. But the business
is good; and I can carry it; I can build it up." He shook his broad
shoulders determinedly. "I should think it might be within five,
perhaps even less. Good things happen sometimes--such as you, my heart's
delight."
They were at her gate now, and she stood a little while to say
good-night. A step inside there was a seat, walled in by evergreen,
roofed over by the wide acacia boughs. Many a long good-night had they
exchanged there, under the large, brilliant California moon. They sat
there, silent, now.
Diantha's heart was full of love for him, and pride and confidence in
him; but it was full of other feelings, too, which he could not fathom.
His trouble was clearer to her than to him; as heavy to bear. To her
mind, trained in all the minutiae of domestic economy, the Warden family
lived in careless wastefulness. That five women--for Dora was older
than she had been when she began to do housework--should require
servants, seemed to this New England-born girl mere laziness and pride.
That two voting women over twenty should prefer being supported by their
brother to supporting themselves, she condemned even more sharply.
Moreover, she felt well assured that with a different family to
"support," Mr. Warden would never have broken down so suddenly and
irrecoverably. Even that funeral--her face hardened as she thought of
the conspicuous "lot," the continual flowers, the monument (not wholly
paid for yet, that monument, though this she did not know)--all that
expenditure to do honor to the man they had worked to death (thus
brutally Diantha put it) was probably enough to put off their happiness
for a whole year.
She rose at last, her hand still held in his. "I'm sorry, but I've got
to get supper, dear," she said, "and you must go. Good-night for the
present; you'll be round by and by?"
"Yes, for a little while, after we close up," said he, and took himself
off, not too suddenly, walking straight and proud while her eves were on
him, throwing her a kiss from the corner; but his step lagging and his
headache settling down upon him again as he neared the large house with
the cupola.
Diantha watched him out of sight, turned and marched up the path to her
own door, her lips set tight, her well-shaped head as straightly held as
his. "It's a shame, a cruel, burning shame!" she told herself
rebelliously. "A man of his ability. Why, he could do anything, in his
own work! And he loved it so!
"To keep a grocery store--
""And nothing to show for all that splendid effort!
"They don't do a thing? They just _live_--and 'keep house!' All those
women!
"Six years? Likely to be sixty! But I'm not going to wait!"
WHERE THE HEART IS
I.
A small stone city, very old, built upon rock, rock-paved, rock-bound
with twenty centuries of walls.
A Ghetto, an age-old Ghetto, crowded into a stony corner of the crowded
stony city; its steep and narrow confines not more a boundary than the
iron prejudices that built them.
In the Ghetto--life, human life; close-pressed, kept to its elemental
forms, with a vitality purchased at nature's awful price--by surviving
slow extinction.
This life, denied all larger grouping, finds its sole joy in fierce deep
love of family and home. This home a room, a low and narrow room,
unwholesome, dark, incredibly filled up, yet overflowing most with love.
Here was peace. Here was Honor wherewith to face the outer Scorn. Here
was Safety--the only safety known. Here, most of all was Love, Love,
wound and interwound with the blood-tie, deepened by religion,
intensified by centuries of relentless pressure, strengthened a
thousandfold by the unbroken cruelty of the environment. Love, one with
the family; the family one with the home; the home, for generation after
generation--one room!
*
A miracle! Some daughter of this house, strayed as a child, found by
eccentric travellers, taken to England, reared with love and care to
strange exotic beauty, marrying a great landowner so lost in passionate
devotion that he gave her all he had, and, dying, left her heir to vast
estates.
She following, her family inherit the estate, and come to take
possession.
They enter the tall pillared gates; they wander up the shaded avenue, a
little group, huddled and silent, timid, ill at ease. They mount the
wide, white marble-terraced steps, the children crowding close, the
mother frightened, the father striving to hold up this new strange pride
under his time-swollen burden of humility and fear.
These towering halls, these broad-curved stairways, these lofty
chambers, even the great kitchens and their clustering offices, are to
this timid group as wide and desolate as deserts or the sea.
They seek a room, a room that shall be small enough and low enough and
dark enough; they reach at last one friendly sheltering little
room--crowd into it with tumultuous affection, and find a home!
*
It is home where the heart is!
II.
A new age where new power has conquered a new element, and sky-sailors
seek for large discoveries compared to which the old "new world" was but
a dooryard venture. Our little world now known from coast to coast and
pole to pole; its problems solved, its full powers mastered; its sweet
serviceableness and unfailing comfort the common joy of all.
Later science, piling wonder upon wonder, handling radiant energy,
packing compressed air for long excursions into outer space, sends out
some skyship on tremendous errands of interstellar search. Days, weeks,
they flit, with speed incredible, our earth a speck, our moon invisible,
our sun a star among the others now; then having done their work, turn
the sharp prow and study their vast charts for the return.
Out of that blackness, wider than our minds, back from the awful
strangeness of new stars, they turn and fly. All know their charts, all
have their telescopes, all see that old familiar system swinging nearer.
They greet the sun as we Fire Island--the moon like Sandy Hook.
But that small star, bigger and bigger now, its heavenly radiance fading
softly down to the warm glow of earthly beauty, coming out round and
full at last--ah! how they choke, how they cry out to see it!
Nearer--the blue skin of the all-enclosing sea, the green of
interrupting continents; now they can recognize the hemisphere--the
tears come--this is home!
*
It is home where the heart is.
THANKSGIVING
I never thought much of the folks who pray
The Lord to make them thankful for a meal
Expecting Him to furnish all the food
And then provide them with the gratitude
They haven't grace to feel.
I never thought much of this yearly thanks,
Either for what once happened long ago,
Or for "our constant mercies." To my mind
If we're to thank a Power that's daily kind,
Our annual's too slow.
Suppose we spread Thanksgiving--hand it round--
Give God an honest heartful every day;
And, while we're being thankful, why not give
Some gratitude to those by whom we live--
As well as stingy pay?
OUR ANDROCENTRIC CULTURE, or THE MAN-MADE WORLD
I.
AS TO HUMANNESS.
Let us begin, inoffensively, with sheep. The sheep is a beast with
which we are all familiar, being much used in religious imagery; the
common stock of painters; a staple article of diet; one of our main
sources of clothing; and an everyday symbol of bashfulness and
stupidity.
In some grazing regions the sheep is an object of terror, destroying
grass, bush and forest by omnipresent nibbling; on the great plains,
sheep-keeping frequently results in insanity, owing to the loneliness of
the shepherd, and the monotonous appearance and behavior of the sheep.
By the poet, young sheep are preferred, the lamb gambolling gaily;
unless it be in hymns, where "all we like sheep" are repeatedly
described, and much stress is laid upon the straying propensities of the
animal.
To the scientific mind there is special interest in the sequacity of
sheep, their habit of following one another with automatic imitation.
This instinct, we are told, has been developed by ages of wild crowded
racing on narrow ledges, along precipices, chasms, around sudden spurs
and corners, only the leader seeing when, where and how to jump. If
those behind jumped exactly as he did, they lived. If they stopped to
exercise independent judgment, they were pushed off and perished; they
and their judgment with them.
All these things, and many that are similar, occur to us when we think
of sheep. They are also ewes and rams. Yes, truly; but what of it?
All that has been said was said of sheep, _genus ovis,_ that bland
beast, compound of mutton, wool, and foolishness. so widely known. If
we think of the sheep-dog (and dog-ess), the shepherd (and
shepherd-ess), of the ferocious sheep-eating bird of New Zealand, the
Kea (and Kea-ess), all these herd, guard, or kill the sheep, both rams
and ewes alike. In regard to mutton, to wool, to general character, we
think only of their sheepishness, not at all of their ramishness or
eweishness. That which is ovine or bovine, canine, feline or equine, is
easily recognized as distinguishing that particular species of animal,
and has no relation whatever to the sex thereof.
Returning to our muttons, let us consider the ram, and wherein his
character differs from the sheep. We find he has a more quarrelsome
disposition. He paws the earth and makes a noise. He has a tendency to
butt. So has a goat--Mr. Goat. So has Mr. Buffalo, and Mr. Moose, and
Mr. Antelope. This tendency to plunge head foremost at an
adversary--and to find any other gentleman an adversary on
sight--evidently does not pertain to sheep, to _genus ovis;_ but to any
male creature with horns.
As "function comes before organ," we may even give a reminiscent glance
down the long path of evolution, and see how the mere act of
butting--passionately and perpetually repeated--born of the beliggerent
spirit of the male--produced horns!
The ewe, on the other hand, exhibits love and care for her little ones,
gives them milk and tries to guard them. But so does a goat--Mrs. Goat.
So does Mrs. Buffalo and the rest. Evidently this mother instinct is
no peculiarity of _genus ovis,_ but of any female creature.
Even the bird, though not a mammal, shows the same mother-love and
mother-care, while the father bird, though not a butter, fights with
beak and wing and spur. His competition is more effective through
display. The wish to please, the need to please, the overmastering
necessity upon him that he secure the favor of the female, has made the
male bird blossom like a butterfly. He blazes in gorgeous plumage,
rears haughty crests and combs, shows drooping wattles and dangling
blobs such as the turkey-cock affords; long splendid feathers for pure
ornament appear upon him; what in her is a mere tail-effect becomes in
him a mass of glittering drapery.
Partridge-cock, farmyard-cock, peacock, from sparrow to ostrich, observe
his mien! To strut and languish; to exhibit every beauteous lure; to
sacrifice ease, comfort, speed, everything--to beauty--for her
sake--this is the nature of the he-bird of any species; the
characteristic, not of the turkey, but of the cock! With drumming of
loud wings, with crow and quack and bursts of glorious song, he woos his
mate; displays his splendors before her; fights fiercely with his
rivals. To butt--to strut--to make a noise--all for love's sake; these
acts are common to the male.
We may now generalize and clearly state: That is masculine which belongs
to the male--to any or all males, irrespective of species. That is
feminine which belongs to the female, to any or all females,
irrespective of species. That is ovine, bovine, feline, canine, equine
or asinine which belongs to that species, irrespective of sex.
In our own species all this is changed. We have been so taken up with
the phenomena of masculinity and femininity, that our common humanity
has largely escaped notice. We know we are human, naturally, and are
very proud of it; but we do not consider in what our humanness consists;
nor how men and women may fall short of it, or overstep its bounds, in
continual insistence upon their special differences. It is "manly" to
do this; it is "womanly" to do that; but what a human being should do
under the circumstances is not thought of.
The only time when we do recognize what we call "common humanity" is in
extreme cases, matters of life and death; when either man or woman is
expected to behave as if they were also human creatures. Since the
range of feeling and action proper to humanity, as such, is far wider
than that proper to either sex, it seems at first somewhat remarkable
that we have given it so little recognition.
A little classification will help us here. We have certain qualities in
common with inanimate matter, such as weight, opacity, resilience. It
is clear that these are not human. We have other qualities in common
with all forms of life; cellular construction, for instance, the
reproduction of cells and the need of nutrition. These again are not
human. We have others, many others, common to the higher mammals; which
are not exclusively ours--are not distinctively "human." What then are
true human characteristics? In what way is the human species
distinguished from all other species?
Our human-ness is seen most clearly in three main lines: it is
mechanical, psychical and social. Our power to make and use things is
essentially human; we alone have extra-physical tools. We have added to
our teeth the knife, sword, scissors, mowing machine; to our claws the
spade, harrow, plough, drill, dredge. We are a protean creature, using
the larger brain power through a wide variety of changing weapons. This
is one of our main and vital distinctions. Ancient animal races are
traced and known by mere bones and shells, ancient human races by their
buildings, tools and utensils.
That degree of development which gives us the human mind is a clear
distinction of race. The savage who can count a hundred is more human
than the savage who can count ten.
More prominent than either of these is the social nature of humanity.
We are by no means the only group-animal; that ancient type of industry
the ant, and even the well-worn bee, are social creatures. But insects
of their kind are found living alone. Human beings never. Our
human-ness begins with some low form of social relation and increases as
that relation develops.
Human life of any sort is dependent upon what Kropotkin calls "mutual
aid," and human progress keeps step absolutely with that interchange of
specialized services which makes society organic. The nomad, living on
cattle as ants live on theirs, is less human than the farmer, raising
food by intelligently applied labor; and the extension of trade and
commerce, from mere village market-places to the world-exchanges of
to-day, is extension of human-ness as well.
Humanity, thus considered, is not a thing made at once and unchangeable,
but a stage of development; and is still, as Wells describes it, "in the
making." Our human-ness is seen to lie not so much in what we are
individually, as in our relations to one another; and even that
individuality is but the result of our relations to one another. It is
in what we do and how we do it, rather than in what we are. Some,
philosophically inclined, exalt "being" over "doing." To them this
question may be put: "Can you mention any form of life that merely 'is,'
without doing anything?"
Taken separately and physically, we are animals, _genus homo_; taken
socially and psychically, we are, in varying degree, human; and our real
history lies in the development of this human-ness.
Our historic period is not very long. Real written history only goes
back a few thousand years, beginning with the stone records of ancient
Egypt. During this period we have had almost universally what is here
called an Androcentric Culture. The history, such as it was, was made
and written by men.
The mental, the mechanical, the social development, was almost wholly
theirs. We have, so far, lived and suffered and died in a man-made
world. So general, so unbroken, has been this condition, that to
mention it arouses no more remark than the statement of a natural law.
We have taken it for granted, since the dawn of civilization, that
"mankind" meant men-kind, and the world was theirs.
Women we have sharply delimited. Women were a sex, "the sex," according
to chivalrous toasts; they were set apart for special services peculiar
to femininity. As one English scientist put it, in 1888, "Women are not
only not the race--they are not even half the race, but a subspecies
told off for reproduction only."
This mental attitude toward women is even more clearly expressed by Mr.
H. B. Marriot-Watson in his article on "The American Woman" in the
"Nineteenth Century" for June, 1904, where he says: "Her constitutional
restlessness has caused her to abdicate those functions which alone
excuse or explain her existence." This is a peculiarly happy and
condensed expression of the relative position of women during our
androcentric culture. The man was accepted as the race type without one
dissentient voice; and the woman--a strange, diverse creature, quite
disharmonious in the accepted scheme of things--was excused and
explained only as a female.
She has needed volumes of such excuse and explanation; also, apparently,
volumes of abuse and condemnation. In any library catalogue we may find
books upon books about women: physiological, sentimental, didactic,
religious--all manner of books about women, as such. Even to-day in the
works of Marholm--poor young Weininger, Moebius, and others, we find the
same perpetual discussion of women--as such.
This is a book about men--as such. It differentiates between the human
nature and the sex nature. It will not go so far as to allege man's
masculine traits to be all that excuse, or explain his existence: but it
will point out what are masculine traits as distinct from human ones,
and what has been the effect on our human life of the unbridled
dominance of one sex.
We can see at once, glaringly, what would have been the result of giving
all human affairs into female hands. Such an extraordinary and
deplorable situation would have "feminized" the world. We should have
all become "effeminate."
See how in our use of language the case is clearly shown. The
adjectives and derivatives based on woman's distinctions are alien and
derogatory when applied to human affairs; "effeminate"--too female,
connotes contempt, but has no masculine analogue; whereas
"emasculate"--not enough male, is a term of reproach, and has no
feminine analogue. "Virile"--manly, we oppose to "puerile"--childish,
and the very word "virtue" is derived from "vir"--a man.
Even in the naming of other animals we have taken the male as the race
type, and put on a special termination to indicate "his female," as in
lion, lioness; leopard, leopardess; while all our human scheme of things
rests on the same tacit assumption; man being held the human type; woman
a sort of accompaniment aud subordinate assistant, merely essential to
the making of people.
She has held always the place of a preposition in relation to man. She
has been considered above him or below him, before him, behind him,
beside him, a wholly relative existence--"Sydney's sister," "Pembroke's
mother"--but never by any chance Sydney or Pembroke herself.
Acting on this assumption, all human standards have been based on male
characteristics, and when we wish to praise the work of a woman, we say
she has "a masculine mind."
It is no easy matter to deny or reverse a universal assumption. The
human mind has had a good many jolts since it began to think, but after
each upheaval it settles down as peacefully as the vine-growers on
Vesuvius, accepting the last lava crust as permanent ground.
What we see immediately around us, what we are born into and grow up
with, be it mental furniture or physical, we assume to be the order of
nature.
If a given idea has been held in the human mind for many generations, as
almost all our common ideas have, it takes sincere and continued effort
to remove it; and if it is one of the oldest we have in stock, one of
the big, common, unquestioned world ideas, vast is the labor of those
who seek to change it.
Nevertheless, if the matter is one of importance, if the previous idea
was a palpable error, of large and evil effect, and if the new one is
true and widely important, the effort is worth making.
The task here undertaken is of this sort. It seeks to show that what we
have all this time called "human nature" and deprecated, was in great
part only male nature, and good enough in its place; that what we have
called "masculine" and admired as such, was in large part human, and
should be applied to both sexes: that what we have called "feminine" and
condemned, was also largely human and applicable to both. Our
androcentric culture is so shown to have been, and still to be, a
masculine culture in excess, and therefore undesirable.
In the preliminary work of approaching these facts it will be well to
explain how it can be that so wide and serious an error should have been
made by practically all men. The reason is simply that they were men.
They were males, avid saw women as females--and not otherwise.
So absolute is this conviction that the man who reads will say, "Of
course! How else are we to look at women except as females? They are
females, aren't they?" Yes, they are, as men are males unquestionably;
but there is possible the frame of mind of the old marquise who was
asked by an English friend how she could bear to have the footman serve
her breakfast in bed--to have a man in her bed-chamber--and replied
sincerely, "Call you that thing there a man?"
The world is full of men, but their principal occupation is human work
of some sort; and women see in them the human distinction
preponderantly. Occasionally some unhappy lady marries her
coachman--long contemplation of broad shoulders having an effect,
apparently; but in general women see the human creature most; the male
creature only when they love.
To the man, the whole world was his world; his because he was male; and
the whole world of woman was the home; because she was female. She had
her prescribed sphere, strictly limited to her feminine occupations and
interests; he had all the rest of life; and not only so, but, having it,
insisted on calling it male.
This accounts for the general attitude of men toward the now rapid
humanization of women. From her first faint struggles toward freedom
and justice, to her present valiant efforts toward full economic and
political equality, each step has been termed "unfeminine" and resented
as an intrusion upon man's place and power. Here shows the need of our
new classification, of the three distinct fields of life--masculine,
feminine and human.
As a matter of fact, there is a "woman's sphere," sharply defined and
quite different from his; there is also a "man's sphere," as sharply
defined and even more limited; but there remains a common sphere--that
of humanity, which belongs to both alike.
In the earlier part of what is known as "the woman's movement," it was
sharply opposed on the ground that women would become "unsexed." Let us
note in passing that they have become unsexed in one particular, most
glaringly so, and that no one has noticed or objected to it.
As part of our androcentric culture we may point to the peculiar
reversal of sex characteristics which make the human female carry the
burden of ornament. She alone, of all human creatures, has adopted the
essentially masculine attribute of special sex-decoration; she does not
fight for her mate as yet, but she blooms forth as the peacock and bird
of paradise, in poignant reversal of nature's laws, even wearing
masculine feathers to further her feminine ends.
Woman's natural work as a female is that of the mother; man's natural
work as a male is that of the father; their mutual relation to this end
being a source of joy and well-being when rightly held: but human work
covers all our life outside of these specialties. Every handicraft,
every profession, every science, every art, all normal amusements and
recreations, all government, education, religion; the whole living world
of human achievement: all this is human.
That one sex should have monopolized all human activities, called them
"man's work," and managed them as such, is what is meant by the phrase
"Androcentric Culture."
COMMENT AND REVIEW
Why criticize?
Why does anybody criticize anything? And why does THE FORERUNNER
criticize--the things herein treated?
On examination, we find several sources of criticism. The earliest and
commonest is the mere expression of personal opinion, as is heard where
young persons are becoming acquainted, the voluble "I like this!" and
"Don't you like that?" and "Isn't such a thing horrid?" For hours do
the impressionable young exchange their ardent sentiments; and the same
may be heard from older persons in everyday discussion.
This form of criticism has its value. It serves to show, even
relentlessly to expose, the qualities and deficiencies of the critic.
What one "likes" merely shows what one is like.
The vitality dies out of it, however, when one learns two things; first,
that likings change with growth of character and new experience, and,
second, that few people are interested in an inventory of limitations.
Following this comes another painfully common source of criticism--the
desire to exhibit superiority. The aged are prone to this fault in
discussion of the young and their achievements. The elect in general
show it, seeking to prove to common people that these are not as they
are; the conservative rests his objection to anything new and different
on the same broad base; and the critic, the real, professional critic,
can hardly trust himself to approve warmly of anything, lest it weaken
his reputation. If he does, it must be something which is caviar to the
general.
Then comes that amiable desire to instruct and assist, born of parental
instinct, fostered by pedagogy, intrusted by St. Paul to the "husband at
home." Moved by this feeling, we point out the errors of our friends
and mark examination papers; and thus does the teacher of painting move
among his pupils and leave them in ranks of glimmering hope or dark
despair.
Another fruitful source of criticism is a natural wish to free one's
mind; as the hapless public sputters on the street, or in letters to the
papers, protesting against the stupidity and cruelty of its many
aggressors. Under this impulse bursts forth the chattering flood of
discussion after play or lecture, merely to relieve the pressure.
Then comes a very evil cause--the desire to give pain, to injure.
Certain persons, and publications, use their critical ability with great
effect to this end. In England it seems to be a sort of game, great
literary personages rush out into the open and belabor each other
mercilessly; while the public rejoices as at a prize-fight. We
sometimes see a newspaper offering its readers a form of entertainment
which is not even a fight, nor yet a prompt and needed execution, but a
sort of torture-chamber exhibition, where the dumb victim is vilified
and ridiculed, grilled and "roasted," to make an American holiday.
There is one more cause of criticism--the need of money. Some people
are hired to criticize others, the nature of their attentions wholly
dictated by the employer. A shadowy bridge is opened here, connecting
criticism with advertisement. Many cross it.
*
For any criticism to have value it must rest clearly and honestly upon a
definite point of view.
"The Toad beneath the harrow knows
Exactly where each tooth point goes.
The Butterfly upon the road
Preaches contentment to that Toad."
If one elects, for instance, to criticize an illustration in
particular--or a particular illustration--or the present status of
popular illustration in general--the position of the critic must be
frankly chosen and firmly held. If it is that of the technician, either
the original artist or the reproducer or even the publisher, then a
given picture in a magazine may be discussed merely as a picture, as a
half-tone, or as a page effect, intelligently and competently. If the
purely aesthetic viewpoint is chosen, all the above considerations may
be waived and the given picture judged as frankly ugly, or as beautiful,
quite apart from its technique. If, again, the base of judgment is that
of the reader, in whose eyes an illustration should illustrate--i.e.,
give light, make clear the meaning of the text--then we look at a given
picture to see if it carries out the ideas expressed in the tale or
article, and value it by that.
On this base also stands the author, only one person, to be sure, as
compared with the multitude of readers, but not a dog, for all that.
The author, foaming at the mouth, remote and helpless, here makes common
ground with the reader and expects an illustration to illustrate.
Perhaps, we should say, "the intelligent reader"--leaving out such as
the young lady in the tale, who said they might read her anything, "if
it was illustrated by Christie."*
[*--This does not by any means deny intelligence to all appreciators of
Mr. Christie's work, but merely to such as select literature for the
pictures attached.]
THE FORERUNNER believes that it may voice the feelings of many writers
and more readers; almost all readers, in fact, if it here and now
records a protest against an all too frequent illustrative sin: where
the gentleman, or lady, who is engaged and paid to illustrate a story,
prefers to insert pictures of varying attractiveness which bear no
relation to the text. This is not illustration. It is not even honest
business. It does not deliver the goods paid for. It takes advantage
of author, publisher and public, and foists upon them all an art
exhibition which was not ordered.
To select a recent popular, easily obtainable, instance of vice and
virtue in illustration, let us take up the "American Magazine" for
August. Excellent work among the advertisements--there the artist is
compelled to "follow copy"; his employer will take no nonsense. That's
one reason why people like to look at them--the pictures are
intelligible. Admirable pictures by Worth Brehm to Stewart White's
story--perfect. You see the people, Mr. White's people, see them on the
page as you saw them in your mind, and better. Good drawing, and
_personal character_--those special people and not others. The insight
and appreciation shown in the frontispiece alone makes as fine an
instance of what illustration ought to be as need be given.
Those light sketches to the airy G. G. Letters are good, too--anything
more definite would not belong to that couple.
But Mr. Cyrus Cuneo shows small grasp of what Mr. Locke was writing
about in his "Moonlight Effect." The tailpiece, by somebody else, is
the best picture of the lot.
Mr. Leone Brackner does better in Jack London's story, though falling
far short of the extreme loathsomeness Mr. London heaps so thickly. J.
Scott Williams follows "Margherita's Soul" with a running accompaniment
and variations, in pleasant accord with the spirit of that compelling
tale. He gives more than the scene represented, gives it differently,
and yet gives it.
Mr. McCutcheon and George Fitch are also harmonious in clever fooling of
pen and pencil, and Thomas Fogarty, though by no means convincing, goes
well enough with Mr. O'Higgins' story, which is not convincing, either.
The hat and dress pictures are photographs, and do artificial justice to
their artificial subjects in Mrs. Woodrow's arraignment of the Fantastic
Feminine.
But--. Go to your library after, or send your ten cents for, or look up
on your own shelves, that August number, and turn to Lincoln Colcord's
story of "Anjer," to see what an illustrator dare do. Here's a story,
the merits of which need not be discussed, but in which great stress is
laid on a certain Malay Princess, the free nobility of whose savage love
healed the sick heart of an exhausted man. "I saw how beautiful she
was," says the narrator: "her breast was bare in a long slit, and
shadowed like the face of the pool." "The most glorious native woman of
the East I've ever seen." "She walked like a tiger, with a crouching
step of absolute grace." "Her eyes called as if they'd spoken words of
love: the beauty of her face was beyond speech--almost beyond thought."
Thus Mr. Colcord.
And how Mr. Townshend? It is on Page 334, Mr. Townshend's
"illustration." ("Whit way do we ca' it the Zoo?" "If it wasna' ca'd
the Zoo, what would we ca' it?") A bit of railing and a pillar is the
only concession to the scene described; that and the fact that there is
a man and a woman there. One more detail is granted--a forehead
ornament, as alleged. For the rest?
Since the picture is so unjust to the words of the author, can the words
of the critic do any justice to the picture? The man will do, as well
one man as another, apparently. The big blob of an object that seems to
have been suggested by a Gargantuan ginger jar, and to be put in for
tropical effect, as also a set of wooden bananas, may be forgiven.
But the Princess--the tigress--the free, graceful, passionate woman--the
beauty beyond speech. Look at it.
A crooked, crouching, awkward negroid type, a dress of absurd volume and
impossible outlines, the upper part a swathed bath towel, one stiff,
ugly arm hung helpless, one lifted and ending in a _hoof,_ a plain pig's
hoof; the head bent, chin sunk on chest like a hunchback's; and the
face--! One could forgive the gross, unusual ugliness; but why no hint
of interest in her lover? Why this expression as of a third generation
London pauper in a hospital? What explanation is there of this meagre,
morbid, deformed female in the midst of that story?
Frank incapacity on the part of an artist is possible. To try and try
and try again and utterly fail is possible. To write to the author and
say, "I cannot visualize your character, or express it, and must decline
to undertake the order," or to the editor and refuse the job, is
possible. But to take the order, to read the story (if he did read it),
to send in and accept pay for a picture like that--"Whit way would ye
ca' it?"
PERSONAL PROBLEMS
A passionate interest is shown by many persons in consulting anonymous
advisers through the columns of various publications. Their inquiries
are mainly as to small matters of etiquette, and the care of the
complexion.
In one of the current women's papers we find such questions as these:
"When one is introduced, how does one acknowledge the introduction?
Must it be by a mention of the weather? How should one receive a small
gift?" (x) All these by one breathless inquirer.
Another asks pathetically: "Will you tell me how soon after a husband's
death it is permitted to a widow to return formal calls? What is the
present form of visiting cards for a widow?" (y)
Another rudderless ship, in a somewhat less recent issue of a very
popular woman's paper, writes: "I am wearing mourning. In the hot
weather I find the veil very heavy and close, and wish to throw it back.
What shall I do?" (z)
These are apparently bona fide questions, but in most cases they are
answered in a style too palpably oracular. If the questioners are
genuine and want help they get precious little. If it is merely a game,
it seems rather a flat one. But the popularity of the pastime
continues.
The Forerunner will give no answers to foolish questions; unless at
peril of the asker. But to sincere inquirers, who are interested in
some moot point of conduct, some balance of conflicting duties, honest
attention will be given, and their questions answered as sincerely.
The intention is to promote discussion of the real problems of life, and
to apply to them the new standards afforded by the larger knowledge and
deeper religious sense of to-day.
If any of the above questions were sent to this office they would be
thus dismissed:
(x) Read "How To Do It," by E. E. Hale. Learn to be sincere; have real
feelings and express them honestly.
(y) If you are truly prostrated by grief you cannot return calls. If
you are able--and like to do it--what are you afraid of? Whose
"permission" are you asking? See answer to x.
(z) Mourning is a relic of barbarism, kept up by women because of their
retarded social development. But if you must wear a heavy veil and wish
to throw it back--why don't you?
These persons would be displeased and not write again. Truly. Such
questions are not wanted by The Forerunner. They would discontinue
their subscription. Doubtless. But this is a waste of anxiety, for
such would never have subscribed for The Forerunner in the first place.
Suppose, however, that a question like this is sent in:
"I am a girl of twenty. My mother is an invalid. My father is in
business difficulties. They want me to marry an old friend of
father's--a good man, but forty years older then I am. Is it my duty to
marry him--for their sake?" (B)
Answer. (B) Marriage is not an institution for the support of parents,
or the settling of business difficulties. If you loved that old man you
would not be asking advice. To marry a man you do not love is immoral.
Marriage is to serve the best interests of children and to give
happiness to the contracting parties. If your parents need your
financial aid go to work and give them your earnings, but do not make a
business of matrimony.
Or again: Query. "My mother is a widow living on a moderate income.
She has two married children, but does not like to live with them. I am
a college graduate and wish to work at a profession. She says it is not
necessary for me to work, and wants me to live with her--says she needs
me, claims my filial duty. Is this right?" (F)
Answer. (F) No, it is dead wrong. Parental duty is a natural
obligation--not a loan. Filial duty is the same from son and daughter.
You owe your mother care and service if needed, just as your brother
would. She has no more right to prevent your going to work than if you
were a son. By all means live with her if you both like it, but live
your own life. You have a duty of citizenship as well as of
daughtership.
Or again: Query. "My wife is spending more of my income on dress than I
can afford. How can I stop her?" (G)
There is not room to answer this in this issue.
THANKSONG
Thankful are we for life
And the joy of living.
Baby-pleasure of taking;
Mother-glory of giving.
Thankful are we for light
And the joy of seeing.
Stir of emotion strong,
And the peace of being.
Thankful are we for power,
And the pride ensuing;
Baby-pleasure of having,
Father-glory of doing.
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THE FORERUNNER
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE
CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK
AS TO PURPOSE:
_What is The Forerunner?_ It is a monthly magazine, publishing stories
short and serial, article and essay; drama, verse, satire and sermon;
dialogue, fable and fantasy, comment and review. It is written entirely
by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.
_What is it For?_ It is to stimulate thought: to arouse hope, courage
and impatience; to offer practical suggestions and solutions, to voice
the strong assurance of better living, here, now, in our own hands to
make.
_What is it about?_ It is about people, principles, and the questions
of every-day life; the personal and public problems of to-day. It gives
a clear, consistent view of human life and how to live it.
_Is it a Woman's magazine?_ It will treat all three phases of our
existence--male, female and human. It will discuss Man, in his true
place in life; Woman, the Unknown Power; the Child, the most important
citizen.
_Is it a Socialist Magazine?_ It is a magazine for humanity, and
humanity is social. It holds that Socialism, the economic theory, is
part of our gradual Socialization, and that the duty of conscious
humanity is to promote Socialization.
_Why is it published?_ It is published to express ideas which need a
special medium; and in the belief that there are enough persons
interested in those ideas to justify the undertaking.
AS TO ADVERTISING:
We have long heard that "A pleased customer is the best advertiser."
The Forerunner offers to its advertisers and readers the benefit of this
authority. In its advertising department, under the above heading, will
be described articles personally known and used. So far as individual
experience and approval carry weight, and clear truthful description
command attention, the advertising pages of The Forerunner will be
useful to both dealer and buyer. If advertisers prefer to use their own
statements The Forerunner will publish them if it believes them to be
true.
AS TO CONTENTS:
The main feature of the first year is a new book on a new subject with a
new name:--
_"Our Androcentric Culture."_ this is a study of the historic effect on
normal human development of a too exclusively masculine civilization.
It shows what man, the male, has done to the world: and what woman, the
more human, may do to change it.
_"What Diantha Did."_ This is a serial novel. It shows the course of
true love running very crookedly--as it so often does--among the
obstructions and difficulties of the housekeeping problem--and solves
that problem. (NOT by co-operation.)
Among the short articles will appear:
"Private Morality and Public Immorality."
"The Beauty Women Have Lost"
"Our Overworked Instincts."
"The Nun in the Kitchen."
"Genius: Domestic and Maternal."
"A Small God and a Large Goddess."
"Animals in Cities."
"How We Waste Three-Fourths Of Our Money."
"Prize Children"
"Kitchen-Mindedness"
"Parlor-Mindedness"
"Nursery-Mindedness"
There will be short stories and other entertaining matter in each issue.
The department of "Personal Problems" does not discuss etiquette,
fashions or the removal of freckles. Foolish questions will not be
answered, unless at peril of the asker.
AS TO VALUE:
If you take this magazine one year you will have:
One complete novel . . . By C. P. Gilman
One new book . . . By C. P. Gilman
Twelve short stories . . . By C. P. Gilman
Twelve-and-more short articles . . . By C. P. Gilman
Twelve-and-more new poems . . . By C. P. Gilman
Twelve Short Sermons . . . By C. P. Gilman
Besides "Comment and Review" . . . By C. P. Gilman
"Personal Problems" . . . By C. P. Gilman
And many other things . . . By C. P. Gilman
DON'T YOU THINK IT'S WORTH A DOLLAR?
THE FORERUNNER
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE
CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK
_____ 19__
Please find enclosed $_____ as subscription to "The Forerunner" from
_____ 19___ to _____ 19___
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C A L E N D U L A
CHILDREN CEASE TO CRY FOR IT.
This is a gratuitous advertisement, benefitting
a) The Child; whose pain stops;
b) The Mother; who doesn't have to hear him cry;
c) The Nearest Druggist--a little.
CALENDULA is a good standard old drug--made of marigolds--in the
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A R A W W O U N D
THE FORERUNNER
A MONTHLY MAGAZINE
BY
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN
OWNER AND PUBLISHER
1.00 A YEAR
.10 A COPY
Volume 1. No. 2
DECEMBER, 1909
The Charlton Company, 67 Wall Street, New York
Copyright for 1909, C. P. Gilman
LOVE
Not the child-god of our most childish past,
Nor sympathy, nor worship, passionless;
Nor gratitude, nor tenderest caress:
Nor the post-mortal glamor priests have cast
With "This to hope! Surrender what thou hast!"
These are but parts and can but partly bless;
We in our new-born common consciousness
Are learning Law and Life and Love at last.
The age-old secret of the sphinx's holding,
Incarnate triumph, infinitely strong;
The mother's majesty, grown wide and long,
In the full power and fire of life's unfolding;
The conscious splendor and ripe joy thereof--
Glad world-wide, life-long service--this is Love!
ACCORDING TO SOLOMON
"'He that rebuketh a man afterwards shall find more favor than he that
flattereth with his tongue,'" said Mr. Solomon Bankside to his wife
Mary.
"Its the other way with a woman, I think;" she answered him, "you might
put that in."
"Tut, tut, Molly," said he; "'Add not unto his words,'--do not speak
lightly of the wisdom of the great king."
"I don't mean to, dear, but--when you hear it all the time"--
"'He that turneth away his ear from the law, even his prayer shall be an
abomination,'" answered Mr. Bankside.
"I believe you know every one of those old Proverbs by heart," said his
wife with some heat. "Now that's not disrespectful!--they _are_
old!--and I do wish you'd forget some of them!"
He smiled at her quizzically, tossing back his heavy silver-gray hair
with the gesture she had always loved. His eyes were deep blue and
bright under their bushy brows; and the mouth was kind--in its iron way.
"I can think of at least three to squelch you with, Molly," said he,
"but I won't."
"O I know the one you want! 'A continual dropping in a very rainy day
and a contentions woman are alike!' I'm _not_ contentious, Solomon!"
"No, you are not," he frankly admitted. "What I really had in mind was
this--'A prudent wife is from the Lord,' and 'He that findeth a wife
findeth a good thing; and obtaineth favor of the Lord.'"
She ran around the table in the impulsive way years did not alter, and
kissed him warmly.
"I'm not scolding you, my dear," he continued: "but if you had all the
money you'd like to give away--there wouldn't be much left!"
"But look at what you spend on me!" she urged.
"That's a wise investment--as well as a deserved reward," her husband
answered calmly. "'There is that scattereth and yet increaseth,' you
know, my dear; 'And there is that withholdeth more than is meet--and it
tendeth to poverty!' Take all you get my dear--its none too good for
you."
He gave her his goodby kiss with special fondness, put on his heavy
satin-lined overcoat and went to the office.
Mr. Solomon Bankside was not a Jew; though his last name suggested and
his first seemed to prove it; also his proficiency in the Old Testament
gave color to the idea. No, he came from Vermont; of generations of
unbroken New England and old English Puritan ancestry, where the
Solomons and Isaacs and Zedekiahs were only mitigated by the Standfasts
and Praise-the-Lords. Pious, persistent pigheaded folk were they, down
all the line.
His wife had no such simple pedigree. A streak of Huguenot blood she
had (some of the best in France, though neither of them knew that), a
grandmother from Albany with a Van to her name; a great grandmother with
a Mac; and another with an O'; even a German cross came in somewhere.
Mr. Bankside was devoted to genealogy, and had been at some pains to dig
up these facts--the more he found the worse he felt, and the lower ran
his opinion of Mrs. Bankside's ancestry.
She had been a fascinating girl; pretty, with the dash and piquancy of
an oriole in a May apple-tree; clever and efficient in everything her
swift hands touched; quite a spectacular housekeeper; and the sober,
long-faced young downeasterner had married her with a sudden decision
that he often wondered about in later years. So did she.
What he had not sufficiently weighed at the time, was her spirit of
incorrigible independence, and a light-mindedness which, on maturer
judgment, he could almost term irreligious. His conduct was based on
principle, all of it; built firmly into habit and buttressed by
scriptural quotations. Hers seemed to him as inconsequent as the flight
of a moth. Studying it, in his solemn conscientious way, in the light
of his genealogical researches, he felt that all her uncertainties were
accounted for, and that the error was his--in having married too many
kinds of people at once.
They had been, and were, very happy together none the less: though
sometimes their happiness was a little tottery. This was one of the
times. It was the day after Christmas, and Mrs. Bankside entered the
big drawing room, redolent of popcorn and evergreen, and walked slowly
to the corner where the fruits of yesterday were lovingly arranged; so
few that she had been able to give--so many that she had received.
There were the numerous pretty interchangeable things given her by her
many friends; "presents," suitable to any lady. There were the few
perfectly selected ones given by the few who knew her best. There was
the rather perplexing gift of Mrs. MacAvelly. There was her brother's
stiff white envelope enclosing a check. There were the loving gifts of
children and grand-children.
Finally there was Solomon's.
It was his custom to bestow upon her one solemn and expensive object, a
boon as it were, carefully selected, after much thought and balancing of
merits; but the consideration was spent on the nature of the gift---not
on the desires of the recipient. There was the piano she could not
play, the statue she did not admire, the set of Dante she never read,
the heavy gold bracelet, the stiff diamond brooch--and all the others.
This time it was a set of sables, costing even more than she imagined.
Christmas after Christmas had these things come to her; and she stood
there now, thinking of that procession of unvalued valuables, with an
expression so mixed and changeful it resembled a kaleidoscope. Love for
Solomon, pride in Solomon, respect for Solomon's judgment and power to
pay, gratitude for his unfailing kindness and generosity, impatience
with his always giving her this one big valuable permanent thing, when
he knew so well that she much preferred small renewable cheap ones; her
personal dislike of furs, the painful conviction that brown was not
becoming to her--all these and more filled the little woman with what
used to be called "conflicting emotions."
She smoothed out her brother's check, wishing as she always did that it
had come before Christmas, so that she might buy more presents for her
beloved people. Solomon liked to spend money on her--in his own way;
but he did not like to have her spend money on him--or on anyone for
that matter. She had asked her brother once, if he would mind sending
her his Christmas present beforehand.
"Not on your life, Polly!" he said. "You'd never see a cent of it! You
can't buy 'em many things right on top of Christmas, and it'll be gone
long before the next one."
She put the check away and turned to examine her queerest gift. Upon
which scrutiny presently entered the donor.
"I'm ever so much obliged, Benigna," said Mrs. Bankside. "You know how
I love to do things. It's a loom, isn't it? Can you show me how it
works?"
"Of course I can, my dear; that's just what I ran in for--I was afraid
you wouldn't know. But you are so clever with your hands that I'm sure
you'll enjoy it. I do."
Whereat Mrs. MacAvelly taught Mrs. Bankside the time-honored art of
weaving. And Mrs. Bankside enjoyed it more than any previous handicraft
she had essayed.
She did it well, beginning with rather coarse and simple weaves; and
gradually learning the finer grades of work. Despising as she did the
more modern woolens, she bought real wool yarn of a lovely red--and made
some light warm flannelly stuff in which she proceeded to rapturously
enclose her little grandchildren.
Mr. Bankside warmly approved, murmuring affectionately, "'She seeketh
wool and flax--she worketh willingly with her hands.'"
He watched little Bob and Polly strenuously "helping" the furnace man to
clear the sidewalk, hopping about like red-birds in their new caps and
coats; and his face beamed with the appositeness of his quotation, as he
remarked, "She is not afraid of the snow for her household, for all her
household are clothed with scarlet!" and he proffered an extra, wholly
spontaneous kiss, which pleased her mightily.
"You dear man!" she said with a hug; "I believe you'd rather find a
proverb to fit than a gold mine!"
To which he triumphantly responded: "'Wisdom is better than rubies; and
all the things that may be desired are not to be compared to it.'"
She laughed sweetly at him. "And do you think wisdom stopped with that
string of proverbs?"
"You can't get much beyond it," he answered calmly. "If we lived up to
all there is in that list we shouldn't be far out, my dear!"
Whereat she laughed again smoothed his gray mane, and kissed him in the
back of his neck. "You _dear_ thing!" said Mrs. Bankside.
She kept herself busy with the new plaything as he called it. Hands
that had been rather empty were now smoothly full. Her health was
better, and any hint of occasional querulousness disappeared entirely;
so that her husband was moved to fresh admiration of her sunny temper,
and quoted for the hundredth time, "'She openeth her mouth with wisdom,
and in her tongue is the law of kindness.'"
Mrs. MacAvelly taught her to make towels. But Mrs. Bankside's skill
outstripped hers; she showed inventive genius and designed patterns of
her own. The fineness and quality of the work increased; and she
joyfully replenished her linen chest with her own handiwork.
"I tell you, my dear," said Mrs. MacAvelly, "if you'd be willing to sell
them you could get almost any price for those towels. With the initials
woven in. I know I could get you orders--through the Woman's Exchange,
you know!"
Mrs. Bankside was delighted. "What fun!" she said. "And I needn't
appear at all?"
"No, you needn't appear at all--do let me try."
So Mrs. Bankside made towels of price, soft, fine, and splendid, till
she was weary of them; and in the opulence of constructive genius fell
to devising woven belts of elaborate design.
These were admired excessively. All her women friends wanted one, or
more; the Exchange got hold of it, there was a distinct demand; and
finally Mrs. MacAvelly came in one day with a very important air and a
special order.
"I don't know what you'll think, my dear," she said, "but I happen to
know the Percy's very well--the big store people, you know; and Mr.
Percy was talking about those belts of yours to me;--of course he didn't
know they are yours; but he said (the Exchange people told him I knew,
you see) he said, 'If you can place an order with that woman, I can take
all she'll make and pay her full price for them. Is she poor?' he
asked. 'Is she dependent on her work?' And I told him, 'Not
altogether.' And I think he thinks it an interesting case! Anyhow,
there's the order. Will you do it?'
Mrs. Bankside was much excited. She wanted to very much, but dreaded
offending her husband. So far she had not told him of her quiet trade
in towels; but hid and saved this precious money--the first she had ever
earned.
The two friends discussed the pros and cons at considerable length; and
finally with some perturbation, she decided to accept the order.
"You'll never tell, Benigna!" she urged. "Solomon would never forgive
me, I'm afraid."
"Why of course I won't--you needn't have a moment's fear of it. You
give them to me--I'll stop with the carriage you see; and I take them to
the Exchange--and he gets them from there."
"It seems like smuggling!" said Mrs. Bankside delightedly. "I always
did love to smuggle!"
"They say women have no conscience about laws, don't they?" Mrs.
MacAvelly suggested.
"Why should we?" answered her friend. "We don't make 'em--nor God--nor
nature. Why on earth should we respect a set of silly rules made by
some men one day and changed by some more the next?"
"Bless us, Polly! Do you talk to Mr. Bankside like that?"
"Indeed I don't!" answered her hostess, holding out a particularly
beautiful star-patterned belt to show to advantage. "There are lots of
things I don't say to Mr. Bankside--'A man of understanding holdeth his
peace' you know--or a woman."
She was a pretty creature, her hair like that of a powdered marchioness,
her rosy checks and firm slight figure suggesting a charmer in Dresden
china.
Mrs. MacAvelly regarded her admiringly. "'Where there is no wood the
fire goeth out; so where there is no tale bearer the strife ceaseth,'"
she proudly offered, "I can quote that much myself."
But Mrs. Bankside had many misgivings as she pursued her audacious way;
the busy hours flying away from her, and the always astonishing checks
flying toward her in gratifying accumulation. She came down to her
well-planned dinners gracious and sweet; always effectively dressed;
spent the cosy quiet evenings with her husband, or went out with him,
with a manner of such increased tenderness and charm that his heart
warmed anew to the wife of his youth; and he even relented a little
toward her miscellaneous ancestors.
As the days shortened and darkened she sparkled more and more; with
little snatches of song now and then; gay ineffectual strumming on the
big piano; sudden affectionate darts at him, with quaintly distributed
caresses.
"Molly!" said he, "I don't believe you're a day over twenty! What makes
you act so?"
"Don't you like it, So?" she asked him. That was the nearest she ever
would approximate to his name.
He did like it, naturally, and even gave her an extra ten dollars to buy
Christmas presents with; while he meditated giving her an electric
runabout;--to her!--who was afraid of a wheelbarrow!
When the day arrived and the family were gathered together, Mrs.
Bankside, wearing the diamond brooch, the gold bracelet, the point lace
handkerchief--everything she could carry of his accumulated
generosity--and such an air of triumphant mystery that the tree itself
was dim beside her; handed out to her astonished relatives such an
assortment of desirable articles that they found no words to express
their gratitude.
"Why, _Mother!"_ said Jessie, whose husband was a minister and salaried
as such, "Why, _Mother_--how did you know we wanted just that kind of a
rug!--and a sewing-machine _too!_ And this lovely suit--and--and--why
_Mother!"_
But her son-in-law took her aside and kissed her solemnly. He had
wanted that particular set of sociological books for years--and never
hoped to get them; or that bunch of magazines either.
Nellie had "married rich;" she was less ostentatiously favored; but she
had shown her thankfulness a week ago--when her mother had handed her a
check.
"Sh, sh! my dear!" her mother had said, "Not one word. I know! What
pleasant weather we're having."
This son-in-law was agreeably surprised, too; and the other relatives,
married and single; while the children rioted among their tools and
toys, taking this Christmas like any other, as a season of unmitigated
joy.
Mr. Solomon Bankside looked on with growing amazement, making
computations in his practiced mind; saying nothing whatever. Should he
criticize his wife before others?
But when his turn came--when gifts upon gifts were offered to him--sets
of silken handkerchiefs (he couldn't bear the touch of a silk
handkerchief!), a cabinet of cards and chips and counters of all sorts
(he never played cards), an inlaid chess-table and ivory men (the game
was unknown to him), a gorgeous scarf-pin (he abominated jewelery), a
five pound box of candy (he never ate it), his feelings so mounted
within him, that since he would not express, and could not repress them,
he summarily went up stairs to his room.
She found him there later, coming in blushing, smiling, crying a little
too--like a naughty but charming child.
He swallowed hard as he looked at her; and his voice was a little
strained.
"I can take a joke as well as any man, Molly. I guess we're square on
that. But--my dear!--where did you get it?"
"Earned it," said she, looking down, and fingering her lace
handkerchief.
"Earned it! My wife, earning money! How--if I may ask?"
"By my weaving, dear--the towels and the belts--I sold 'em. Don't be
angry--nobody knows--my name didn't appear at all! Please don't be
angry!--It isn't wicked, and it was such fun!"
"No--it's not wicked, I suppose," said he rather grimly. "But it is
certainly a most mortifying and painful thing to me--most
unprecedented."
"Not so unprecedented, Dear," she urged, "Even the woman you think most
of did it! Don't you remember 'She maketh fine linen and selleth
it--and delivereth girdles unto the merchants!'"
Mr. Bankside came down handsomely.
He got used to it after a while, and then he became proud of it. If a
friend ventured to suggest a criticism, or to sympathize, he would
calmly respond, "'The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so
that he shall have no need of spoil. Give her of the fruit of her
hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates.'"
AN OBVIOUS BLESSING
We are told, on the authority of the Greatest Sociologist, that it is
more blessed to give than to receive.
So patent and commonplace a fact as this ought to meet with general
acceptance. Anyone can see that it is so, by a little study or by less
practice. To give implies having. You must be in possession before you
can give. To receive implies wanting, at its best--to receive what you
do not want is distinctly unpleasant. To have is more blessed than to
want. Of course it is.
To give gratifies several natural feelings; the mother-instinct of
supplying needs, the pride of superior power and the generosity; and, if
you are a sordid soul, the desire to "lay up treasure in heaven" or, as
the Buddhists frankly put it--to "acquire merit."
None of these pleasures pertain to receiving. There is a certain
humiliation about it always, a childish sense of dependence and
inferiority. Only children can continuously receive without
degradation; and as soon as they begin to realize life at all they
delight to give as we all do. "Let me help!" says the child, and plans
birthday presents for mama as eagerly as he hopes for them himself.
The instinct of giving is the pressure of the surplus; the natural outgo
of humanity, its fruit. We are not mere receptacles, we are productive
engines, of immense capacity; and, having produced, we must distribute
the product. To give, naturally, is to shed, to bear fruit; a healthy
and pleasurable process.
What has confused us so long on this subject? Why have we been so blind
to this glaring truth that we have stultified our giving instinct and
made of it an abnormal process called "Charity," or a much restricted
pleasure only used in families or at Christmas time?
Two things have combined to prevent our easy acceptance of this visible
truth; one the time-honored custom of "sacrifice," and the other our
ignorance of social economics.
Sacrificing is not giving. That black remnant of lowest savagery dates
back to the time when a pursuing beast was placated by the surrender of
something, or somebody; and a conqueror bought off by tribute. The
medicine man made play with this race habit, and gross idols were
soothed and placated by sacrifices--on which the medicine man lived.
Always the best and finest were taken naturally by the hungry beast; as
naturally by the greedy conqueror; and not unnaturally by the dependent
priesthood. Sacrificing is a forced surrender with personal hope as the
reason. It is not giving.
Our economic ignorance and confusion is partly based on this same old
period of cruelty and darkness. Labor was extorted as the price of
life; and the fruits of labor taken by force through warring centuries.
A guarded and grudging system of exchange gradually developed; the
robbing instinct slowly simmering down to legally limited extortion; but
each party surrendering his goods reluctantly, and only with the purpose
of gaining more than he lost. Here also is the basic spirit of
sacrifice--to get something now or in the far future--always the trading
spirit at the bottom. Selling is not giving.
The real basis of giving is motherhood; and that is merely the orderly
expression of life's progressive force. Living forms must
increase--spread--grow--improve. The biological channel for this force
is through mother-love; and, later, father-love. The sociological
channel is in the pouring flood of productive activity, which fills the
world with human fruit--the million things we make and do.
This ceaseless output is not dragged out of us as a sacrifice, it is not
produced by want and hunger and the grasping spirit of exchange. It is
the natural expression of social energy; blossoming in every form of
art, stirring the brain to ceaseless action, filling the world with the
rich fruit of human handiwork.
Having produced, we must distribute--we must discharge, we must _give._
To be human is to be a producer, to make, to do, to have some output
either in goods or services whereby the sum of welfare is increased. To
have this productive energy and to use it normally, is to give. Not to
have it, not to use it, is not to be human--to be a minus quantity; to
live parasitically on the labor of others--to receive.
It is more blessed to give than to receive.
STEPS
I was a slave, because I could not see
That work for one another is our law;
I hated law. I work? I would be free!
Therefore the heavy law laid hands on me
And I was forced to work in slavery--
Until I saw.
I was a hireling, for I could not see
That work was natural as the breath I drew,
Natural? I would not work without the fee!
So nature laid her heavy hands on me
And I was forced by fear of poverty--
Until I knew.
Now I am free. Life is new-seen, recast
To work is to enjoy, to love, to live!
The shame and pain of slavery are past,
Dishonor and extortion follow fast,
I am not owned, nor hired, full-born at last,
My power I give.
WHY WE HONESTLY FEAR SOCIALISM
A peaceable elderly Englishman of a bald and scholarly aspect, inquired,
following a lecture on Socialism, "Will the speaker state in one
sentence what Socialism is?" He wore an air of mild gentlemanly
triumph; apparently imagining that he had demanded the impossible.
But the speaker, seeming unconscious of any difficulty replied,
"Certainly; Socialism is the public ownership of all natural monopolies
and the means of production."
This simple definition is advanced to start with, that we may know what
we are talking about. This is the essence of Socialism--public
ownership of public things; the real point at issue being "What things
are public?"
The vast majority of us do not yet understand this easy and clear
definition; and no wonder; for the Socialists themselves are for the
most part so lost in grief over the sufferings of the poor and in rage
over the misbehavior of the rich, that they find it hard to speak
gently. Most of us, having but vague ideas of Socialism, fear it on
several grounds, some of them easily removable as mere mistakes; others
requiring careful treatment.
The mistakes are these:
ERROR I. "Socialism will abolish private property."
ANSWER. Quite wrong. It will do no such thing. You are thinking of
Communism. The early Communists, like the early Christians, held all
things in common, but Socialism urges no such doctrine. It does,
however, restrict our definition of what is private property; just as
was done when human slavery was abolished.
Slavery was once universal, and still exists In many countries. It was
held legal and honest to personally own human beings--they were
property. In our great civil contest of half a century since, the
north--from a southern point of view--confiscated property when the
slaves were freed. But from the northern point of view the slave was
not property at all. This is a very vivid instance of change of opinion
on property rights. Such "rights" are wholly of our own making; and
change from age to age.
Parents once held property rights in children and men "owned" their
wives; they could be punished, imprisoned, sold--even killed, at will of
the owner. The larger public sense has long since said, "Women and
children are not private property."
Laws about property are not God's laws; not Nature's laws; they are just
rules and regulations people make from time to time according to their
standards of justice. There is nothing novel in proposing to change
them--they have often been changed. There is nothing immoral or
dangerous in changing them; it is constantly done in all legislatures,
in varying degree, as when private estates are "condemned" for public
use.
Socialism advances the idea that private property rights do not
legitimately apply to public necessities like coal, water, oil and land.
As a matter of fact we do not really "own" land now--we only rent it of
the government, calling our rent "taxes." If we do not pay our rent the
government gets it again, like any other owner.
The utmost restriction of private property under Socialism leaves us
still every article of personal use and pleasure. One may still "own"
land by paying the government for it as now; with such taxation,
however, as would make it very expensive to own too much! One may own
one's house and all that is in it; one's clothes and tools and
decorations; one's horses, carriages and automobiles; one's flying
machines--presently. All "personal property" remains in our personal
hands.
But no man or group of men could own the country's coal and decide how
much the public can have, and what we must pay for it. Private holding
of public property would be abolished.
ERROR 2. Socialism would reduce us all to a dead level.
ANSWER. Quite wrong. Eating at the same table in the same family does
not reduce brothers and sisters to the same level; some remain far
smarter and stronger than others. By a wiser system of education we may
greatly increase the difference in people--Socialism would not hinder
it. A higher average level of income--which is what Socialism ensures,
will give people a chance to differ more than they do now. Our
machine-like educational system, long hours of labor, specialized
monotony of mill work, and "the iron law of wages" do tend to reduce us
to a dead level. Socialism does not.
ERROR 3. Socialists are atheists.
ANSWER. How anyone can say this when they know of the immense
organization of Christian Socialists is amazing; but then it is always
amazing to see how queerly people think. Some Socialists are atheists.
So are some monarchists and some republicans. A Socialist may be an
atheist, or a homeopathist, or a Holy Roller--it has nothing to do with
Socialism.
ERROR 4. Socialists are immoral.
ANSWER. Again--some are; but so are some other people. The immorality
of which we hear most in the papers is by no means that of Socialists;
but of most prominent capitalists.
ERROR 5. Socialism is unnatural--you must "alter human nature" before
it would be possible.
ANSWER. This is a very common position, based like most of the
foregoing, on lack of understanding. It assumes that Socialism requires
a state of sublime unselfishness and mutual deference, in which all men
are willing to work for nothing. But why assume this? It is no product
of Socialism. Our socialistic public parks and libraries do not
presuppose that people shall be angels. They may tend to make them
such, but the progress is not rapid enough to alarm us. In regard to
this particular error we should learn that Socialism is not a totally
new and different scheme of things; but a gradual and legitimate
extension of previous tendencies. Human nature is socialistic--and is
progressively extending socialism.
ERROR 5. Socialism will pay every one alike and so destroy the
incentive of personal ambition.
ANSWER. This idea of equal payment is not Socialism. Some socialists
hold it--more do not. The essential idea of public ownership and
management of public property does not include this notion of equal
payment.
ERROR 7. Socialism will destroy competition. Competition, most of us
believe, "is the life of trade;" in other words we are supposed to work,
not merely to get something for ourselves, but to get ahead of other
people.
ANSWER. Admitting that we do; admitting that such an incentive is
useful; the simple answer is that Socialism would not destroy
competition.
Even in financial reward some would still be paid more than others; and
far beyond this lies the larger competition for fame and glory and
public esteem, which has always moved men more strongly than the love of
money. This remains always open.
MAIN ERROR. Passing over all these minor objections, due to mere
ignorance and easily understood, we come to the one major objection,
honestly held by intelligent people; that under Socialism people would
not work. This is why so many good and intelligent persons do honestly
distrust and fear it. Their position is this:
PREMISE A. Work must be done to keep civilization going. Work is done
by individuals in order to get something they want. Work would not be
done by anyone without the immediate stimulus of personal desire.
PREMISE B. Socialism, in some mysterious way will supply the needs of
the people gratuitously.
CONCLUSION. The people being so provided for would not work. Then
follows the downfall of civilization.
This is the honest opinion of the individualist, the older economist,
and is entitled to respect and fair answer.
If the premises were correct the terrible conclusion would be correct,
and the Socialist position visionary and dangerous. Of course people
are afraid of anything that controverts the laws of economics and human
nature--they ought to be. But are those premises correct?
To remove the easiest one first let us observe the absurdity of the
idea, that Socialism will provide for people without their working.
Provide them with what, pray? All wealth is produced by human
labor--there is no socialist patent for drawing bread and circuses from
the sky. People must always and forever work for what they have, and
have in proportion to the quantity and quality of their work.
So thoroughly is this true that the socialist grieves to see so many
people living to-day without working; receiving wealth out of all
proportion to their usefulness. If this was common to all of us it
would mean the downfall of civilization. As we live now a great many
people work too hard, too long, under unsanitary conditions, a sort of
living sacrifice to the rest of the world; and a few people do visibly
and ostentatiously consume and waste the very things the workers so
painfully lack.
Socialism claims to ensure decent payment for all labor, and see that we
all receive it--all of us; not the same for everyone; but enough for
everyone. Further, Socialism claims that by such procedure the quantity
and quality of human work would be improved; that more wealth would be
produced--far more.
By thus removing Premise B, Premise A becomes a _non sequitur._ We
will, however, remove this also, to make a clean sweep.
It is not true that work is only done in order to get something. Some
work is done that way by some people. But it is not the only kind of
work--and they are not the only kind of people. Even the savage, having
exerted himself to get his dinner, and having had his dinner, and being,
in a small way, human, begins to exert himself further to decorate his
tools and weapons, his canoes and totem poles--because he likes to.
Nobody pays him for it. He enjoys the act of doing it, and the results.
The reason any ordinary man prefers any one kind of work to another is
that he experiences a certain pleasure in the performance of certain
actions--more than others. He is beginning to specialize.
The reason the highly specialized social servant, artist, teacher,
preacher, scientific student, true physician, inventor, chooses his
work, follows it often under disadvantages; and in the case of the
enthusiast, even under conditions of danger, pain and death--is that he
likes that kind of work, enjoys doing it, indeed _has to do it_--is
uncomfortable if prevented.
This is a social instinct which our earlier economists have not
recognized. It is proven an instinct by the fact that children have
it--all normal children. They like any kind of ordinary work, want to
learn how, want to help, long before they attach any idea of gain to the
labor.
The little girl in the kitchen wants to make cookies--as well as eat
them; longs to print little figures around the pies, and then hold the
plate on poised spread fingers and trim off that long broken ribbon of
superfluous pastry--wants to do things, as well as to have things. The
one instinct is as natural as the other.
The reasons so many of us to-day hate and despise work, avoid it, give
it up as soon as possible, are simple and clear. First because of the
cruel difficulties with which we have loaded what should be a
pleasure--the monotony, the long hours, the disagreeable surroundings,
the danger and early death, and the grossly insufficient pay. Any
normal boy enjoys working with carpenter's tools, or blacksmith's tools;
enjoys running a machine; but when such work is saddled with the above
conditions, he does not like it. Of course. It is not the work we are
averse to, it is what goes with it;--difficulties of our own making.
Further; besides the physical disadvantages, we have loaded this great
natural process of human labor with a mass of superstitions and
degrading lies. The lazy old orientals called it a curse! Work, a
curse! Work; which is the essential process of human life; man's
natural function and means of growth!
We have despised it because women did it. Glory to the women--without
them we should have had no industry. We have despised it because slaves
did it. Glory to the slaves! They built the pyramids--not Cheops.
They built every one of the marvelous relics and ruins of the past--the
slaves built Athens!
We despise it now because the low and ignorant do it. If there was ever
an instance of consummate folly, of churlish ingratitude, it is our
general attitude toward work and the workers. Here are three millions
of laboring benefactors; feeding us; clothing us; building our houses;
spinning and weaving and sewing for us;--hewing wood and drawing
water;--keeping the world alive and moving; and we look down on the work
and the workers. As we are not really brutes and fools, how is this
absurd position to be accounted for?
By that old fallacy of Premise A. "They are only doing it for
themselves," we say. "They are paid for what they do. They wouldn't do
it if they weren't paid for it!" That is the vital core of the real
opposition to Socialism, this erroneous economic idea about work.
If that can ever be changed, if we can look at work with new eyes, then
we can look at Socialism with new eyes too; and not be afraid. Then
cautiously and rationally, we shall say:
"So this new system of yours proposes to increase human wealth, does it?
To promote and develop all kinds of legitimate work and to distribute
the product so as to improve the people? That sounds pretty good to me.
But how do you know you can do it? I'm from Missouri myself--you'll
have to show me."
And then perhaps our wiser Socialists will appeal to the people as a
whole, of every grade and class; and teach the natural orderly
development of this simple and practical system of economics; teach its
splendid benefits to all classes; and the methods of its legitimate and
gradual introduction; by careful massing of the facts; by visible proof
of things already accomplished. They must show us that we are not
facing a great leap in the dark, but clear straight steps in the light,
in the orderly progress of social evolution.
CHILD LABOR
The children in the Poor House
May die of many an ill,
But the Poor House does not profit
By their labor in the mill!
The children in the Orphanage
Wear raiment far from fine,
But no Orphanage is financed
By child labor in a mine.
The Cruel Law may send them
To Reform School's iron sway,
But it does not set small children
To hard labor by the day.
Only the Loving Family,
Which we so much admire,
Is willing to support itself
On little children's hire.
Only the Human Father,
A man, with power to think,
Will take from little children
The price of food and drink.
Only the Human Mother--
Degraded, helpless thing!
Will make her little children work
And live on what they bring!
No fledgling feeds the father-bird!
No chicken feeds the hen!
No kitten mouses for the cat--
This glory is for men.
We are the Wisest, Strongest Race--
Loud my our praise be sung!--
The only animal alive
That lives upon its young!
We make the poverty that takes
The lives of babies so.
We can awake! rebuild! remake!--
And let our children grow!
WHAT DIANTHA DID