ALL THIS.
They laid before her conquering feet
The spoils of many lands;
Their crowns shone red upon her head
Their scepters in her hands.
She heard two murmuring at night,
Where rose-sweet shadows rest;
And coveted the blossom red
He laid upon her breast.
When Madam Weatherstone shook the plentiful dust of Orchardina from her
expensive shoes, and returned to adorn the more classic groves of
Philadelphia, Mrs. Thaddler assumed to hold undisputed sway as a social
leader.
The Social Leader she meant to be; and marshalled her forces to that
end. She Patronized here, and Donated there; revised her visiting list
with rigid exclusiveness; secured an Eminent Professor and a Noted
Writer as visitors, and gave entertainments of almost Roman
magnificence.
Her husband grew more and more restive under the rising tide of social
exactions in dress and deportment; and spent more and more time behind
his fast horses, or on the stock-ranch where he raised them. As a
neighbor and fellow ranchman, he scraped acquaintance with Ross Warden,
and was able to render him many small services in the process of
settling.
Mrs. Warden remembered his visit to Jopalez, and it took her some time
to rearrange him in her mind as a person of wealth and standing. Having
so rearranged him, on sufficient evidence, she and her daughters became
most friendly, and had hopes of establishing valuable acquaintance in
the town. "It's not for myself I care," she would explain to Ross,
every day in the week and more on Sundays, "but for the girls. In that
dreadful Jopalez there was absolutely _no_ opportunity for them; but
here, with horses, there is no reason we should not have friends. You
must consider your sisters, Ross! Do be more cordial to Mr. Thaddler."
But Ross could not at present be cordial to anybody. His unexpected
good fortune, the freedom from hated cares, and chance to work out his
mighty theories on the faithful guinea-pig, ought to have filled his
soul with joy; but Diantha's cruel obstinacy had embittered his cup of
joy. He could not break with her; she had not refused him, and it was
difficult in cold blood to refuse her.
He had stayed away for two whole weeks, in which time the guinea-pigs
nibbled at ease and Diantha's work would have suffered except for her
mother's extra efforts. Then he went to see her again, miserable but
stubborn, finding her also miserable and also stubborn. They argued
till there was grave danger of an absolute break between them; then
dropped the subject by mutual agreement, and spent evenings of
unsatisfying effort to talk about other things.
Diantha and her mother called on Mrs. Warden, of course, admiring the
glorious view, the sweet high air, and the embowered loveliness of the
two ranch houses. Ross drew Diantha aside and showed her "theirs"--a
lovely little wide-porched concrete cottage, with a red-tiled roof, and
heavy masses of Gold of Ophir and Banksia roses.
He held her hand and drew her close to him.
He kissed her when they were safe inside, and murmured: "Come,
darling--won't you come and be my wife?"
"I will, Ross--whenever you say--but--!" She would not agree to give up
her work, and he flung away from her in reckless despair. Mrs. Warden
and the girls returned the call as a matter of duty, but came no more;
the mother saying that she could not take her daughters to a Servant
Girls' Club.
And though the Servant Girls' Club was soon removed to its new quarters
and Union House became a quiet, well-conducted hotel, still the two
families saw but little of each other.
Mrs. Warden naturally took her son's side, and considered Diantha an
unnatural monster of hard-heartedness.
The matter sifted through to the ears of Mrs. Thaddler, who rejoiced in
it, and called upon Mrs. Warden in her largest automobile. As a mother
with four marriageable daughters, Mrs. Warden was delighted to accept
and improve the acquaintance, but her aristocratic Southern soul was
inwardly rebellious at the ancestorlessness and uncultured moneyed pride
of her new friend.
"If only Madam Weatherstone had stayed!" she would complain to her
daughters. "She had Family as well as Wealth."
"There's young Mrs. Weatherstone, mother--" suggested Dora.
"A nobody!" her mother replied. "She has the Weatherstone money, of
course, but no Position; and what little she has she is losing by her
low tastes. She goes about freely with Diantha Bell--her own
housekeeper!"
"She's not her housekeeper now, mother--"
"Well, it's all the same! She _was!_ And a mere general servant before
that! And now to think that when Ross is willing to overlook it all and
marry her, she won't give it up!"
They were all agreed on this point, unless perhaps that the youngest had
her inward reservations. Dora had always liked Diantha better than had
the others.
Young Mrs. Weatherstone stayed in her big empty house for a while, and
as Mrs. Warden said, went about frequently with Diantha Bell. She liked
Mrs. Bell, too--took her for long stimulating rides in her comfortable
car, and insisted that first one and then the other of them should have
a bit of vacation at her seashore home before the winter's work grew too
heavy.
With Mrs. Bell she talked much of how Diantha had helped the town.
"She has no idea of the psychic effects, Mrs. Bell," said she. "She
sees the business, and she has a great view of all it is going to do for
women to come; but I don't think she realizes how much she is doing
right now for women here--and men, too. There were my friends the
Pornes; they were 'drifting apart,' as the novels have it--and no
wonder. Isabel was absolutely no good as a housekeeper; he naturally
didn't like it--and the baby made it all the worse; she pined for her
work, you see, and couldn't get any time for it. Now they are as happy
as can be--and it's just Diantha Bell's doings. The housework is off
Isabel's shoulders.
"Then there are the Wagrams, and the Sheldons, and the Brinks--and ever
so many more--who have told me themselves that they are far happier than
they ever were before--and can live more cheaply. She ought to be the
happiest girl alive!"
Mrs. Bell would agree to this, and quite swelled with happiness and
pride; but Mrs. Weatherstone, watching narrowly, was not satisfied.
When she had Diantha with her she opened fire direct. "You ought to be
the happiest, proudest, most triumphant woman in the world!" she said.
"You're making oodles of money, your whole thing's going well, and look
at your mother--she's made over!"
Diantha smiled and said she was happy; but her eyes would stray off to
the very rim of the ocean; her mouth set in patient lines that were not
in the least triumphant.
"Tell me about it, my friend," said her hostess. "Is it that he won't
let you keep on with the business?"
Diantha nodded.
"And you won't give it up to marry him?"
"No," said Diantha. "No. Why should I? I'd marry him--to-morrow!"
She held one hand with the other, tight, but they both shook a little.
"I'd be glad to. But I will not give up my work!"
"You look thin," said Mrs. Weatherstone.
"Yes--"
"Do you sleep well?"
"No--not very."
"And I can see that you don't eat as you ought to. Hm! Are you going
to break down?"
"No," said Diantha, "I am not going to break down. I am doing what is
right, and I shall go on. It's a little hard at first--having him so
near. But I am young and strong and have a great deal to do--I shall do
it."
And then Mrs. Weatherstone would tell her all she knew of the intense
satisfaction of the people she served, and pleasant stories about the
girls. She bought her books to read and such gleanings as she found in
foreign magazines on the subject of organized house-service.
Not only so, but she supplied the Orchardina library with a special
bibliography on the subject, and induced the new Woman's Club to take up
a course of reading in it, so that there gradually filtered into the
Orchardina mind a faint perception that this was not the freak of an
eccentric individual, but part of an inevitable business development,
going on in various ways in many nations.
As the winter drew on, Mrs. Weatherstone whisked away again, but kept a
warm current of interest in Diantha's life by many letters.
Mr. Bell came down from Jopalez with outer reluctance but inner
satisfaction. He had rented his place, and Susie had three babies now.
Henderson, Jr., had no place for him, and to do housework for himself
was no part of Mr. Bell's plan.
In Diantha's hotel he had a comfortable room next his wife's, and a
capacious chair in the firelit hall in wet weather, or on the shaded
piazza in dry. The excellent library was a resource to him; he found
some congenial souls to talk with; and under the new stimulus succeeded
at last in patenting a small device that really worked. With this, and
his rent, he felt inclined to establish a "home of his own," and the
soul of Mrs. Bell sank within her. Without allowing it to come to an
issue between them, she kept the question open for endless discussion;
and Mr. Bell lived on in great contentment under the impression that he
was about to move at almost any time. To his friends and cronies he
dilated with pride on his daughter's wonderful achievements.
"She's as good as a boy!" he would declare. "Women nowadays seem to do
anything they want to!" And he rigidly paid his board bill with a
flourish.
Meanwhile the impressive gatherings at Mrs. Thaddler's, and the humbler
tea and card parties of Diantha's friends, had a new topic as a
shuttlecock.
A New York company had bought one of the largest and finest blocks in
town--the old Para place--and was developing it in a manner hitherto
unseen. The big, shabby, neglected estate began to turn into such a
fairyland as only southern lands can know. The old live-oaks were
untouched; the towering eucalyptus trees remained in ragged majesty; but
an army of workmen was busy under guidance of a master of beauty.
One large and lovely building rose, promptly dubbed a hotel by the
unwilling neighbors; others, smaller, showed here and there among the
trees; and then a rose-gray wall of concrete ran around the whole, high,
tantalizing, with green boughs and sweet odors coming over it. Those
who went in reported many buildings, and much activity. But, when the
wall was done, and each gate said "No admittance except on business,"
then the work of genii was imagined, and there was none to contradict.
It was a School of Theosophy; it was a Christian Science College; it was
a Free-Love Colony; it was a Secret Society; it was a thousand wonders.
"Lot of little houses and one big one," the employees said when
questioned.
"Hotel and cottages," the employers said when questioned.
They made no secret of it, they were too busy; but the town was
unsatisfied. Why a wall? What did any honest person want of a wall?
Yet the wall cast a pleasant shadow; there were seats here and there
between buttresses, and, as the swift California season advanced, roses
and oleanders nodded over the top, and gave hints of beauty and richness
more subtly stimulating than all the open glory of the low-hedged
gardens near.
Diantha's soul was stirred with secret envy. Some big concern was about
to carry out her dream, or part of it--perhaps to be a huge and
overflowing rival. Her own work grew meantime, and flourished as well
as she could wish.
The food-delivery service was running to its full capacity; the girls
got on very well under Mrs. Jessup, and were delighted to have a house
of their own with the parlors and piazzas all to themselves, and a
garden to sit in as well. If this depleted their ranks by marriage, it
did not matter now, for there was a waiting list in training all the
time.
Union House kept on evenly and profitably, and Diantha was beginning to
feel safe and successful; but the years looked long before her.
She was always cheered by Mrs. Weatherstone's letters; and Mrs. Porne
came to see her, and to compare notes over their friend's success. For
Mrs. Weatherstone had been presented at Court--at more than one court,
in fact; and Mrs. Weatherstone had been proposed to by a Duke--and had
refused him! Orchardina well-nigh swooned when this was known.
She had been studying, investigating, had become known in scientific as
well as social circles, and on her way back the strenuous upper layer of
New York Society had also made much of her. Rumors grew of her
exquisite costumes, of her unusual jewels, of her unique entertainments,
of her popularity everywhere she went.
Other proposals, of a magnificent nature, were reported, with more
magnificent refusals; and Orchardina began to be very proud of young
Mrs. Weatherstone and to wish she would come back.
She did at last, bringing an Italian Prince with her, and a Hoch
Geborene German Count also, who alleged they were travelling to study
the country, but who were reputed to have had a duel already on the
beautiful widow's account.
All this was long-drawn gossip but bore some faint resemblance to the
facts. Viva Weatherstone at thirty was a very different woman front the
pale, sad-eyed girl of four years earlier. And when the great house on
the avenue was arrayed in new magnificence, and all Orchardina--that
dared--had paid its respects to her, she opened the season, as it were,
with a brilliant dinner, followed by a reception and ball.
All Orchardina came--so far as it had been invited. There was the
Prince, sure enough--a pleasant, blue-eyed young man. And there was the
Count, bearing visible evidence of duels a-plenty in earlier days. And
there was Diantha Bell--receiving, with Mrs. Porne and Mrs.
Weatherstone. All Orchardina stared. Diantha had been at the
dinner--that was clear. And now she stood there in her soft, dark
evening dress, the knot of golden acacias nestling against the black
lace at her bosom, looking as fair and sweet as if she had never had a
care in her life.
Her mother thought her the most beautiful thing she had ever seen; and
her father, though somewhat critical, secretly thought so, too.
Mrs. Weatherstone cast many a loving look at the tall girl beside her in
the intervals of "Delighted to see you's," and saw that her double
burden had had no worse effect than to soften the lines of the mouth and
give a hint of pathos to the clear depths of her eyes.
The foreign visitors were much interested in the young Amazon of
Industry, as the Prince insisted on calling her; and even the German
Count for a moment forgot his ancestors in her pleasant practical talk.
Mrs. Weatherstone had taken pains to call upon the Wardens--claiming a
connection, if not a relationship, and to invite them all. And as the
crowd grew bigger and bigger, Diantha saw Mrs. Warden at last
approaching with her four daughters--and no one else. She greeted them
politely and warmly; but Mrs. Weatherstone did more.
Holding them all in a little group beside her, she introduced her noble
visitors to them; imparted the further information that their brother
was _fiance_ to Miss Bell. "I don't see him," she said, looking about.
"He will come later, of course. Ah, Miss Madeline! How proud you all
must feel of your sister-in-law to be!"
Madeline blushed and tried to say she was.
"Such a remarkable young lady!" said the Count to Adeline. "You will
admire, envy, and imitate! Is it not so?"
"Your ladies of America have all things in your hands," said the Prince
to Miss Cora. "To think that she has done so much, and is yet so
young--and so beautiful!"
"I know you're all as proud as you can be," Mrs. Weatherstone continued
to Dora. "You see, Diantha has been heard of abroad."
They all passed on presently, as others came; but Mrs. Warden's head was
reeling. She wished she could by any means get at Ross, and _make_ him
come, which he had refused to do.
"I can't, mother," he had said. "You go--all of you. Take the girls.
I'll call for you at twelve--but I won't go in."
Mr. and Mrs. Thaddler were there--but not happy. She was not, at least,
and showed it; he was not until an idea struck him. He dodged softly
out, and was soon flying off, at dangerous speed over the moon-white
country roads.
He found Ross, dressed and ready, sulking blackly on his shadowy porch.
"Come and take a spin while you wait," said Mr. Thaddler.
"Thanks, I have to go in town later."
"I'll take you in town."
"Thank you, but I have to take the horses in and bring out my mother and
the girls."
"I'll bring you all out in the car. Come on--it's a great night."
So Ross rather reluctantly came.
He sat back on the luxurious cushions, his arms folded sternly, his
brows knit, and the stout gentleman at his side watched him shrewdly.
"How does the ranch go?" he asked.
"Very well, thank you, Mr. Thaddler."
"Them Chinks pay up promptly?"
"As prompt as the month comes round. Their rent is a very valuable part
of the estate."
"Yes," Mr. Thaddler pursued. "They have a good steady market for their
stuff. And the chicken man, too. Do you know who buys 'em?"
Ross did not. Did not greatly care, he intimated.
"I should think you'd be interested--you ought to--it's Diantha Bell."
Ross started, but said nothing.
"You see, I've taken a great interest in her proposition ever since she
sprung it on us," Mr. Thaddler confided. "She's got the goods all
right. But there was plenty against her here--you know what women are!
And I made up my mind the supplies should be good and steady, anyhow.
She had no trouble with her grocery orders; that was easy. Meat I
couldn't handle--except indirectly--a little pressure, maybe, here and
there." And he chuckled softly. "But this ranch I bought on purpose."
Ross turned as if he had been stung.
"You!" he said.
"Yes, me. Why not? It's a good property. I got it all fixed right,
and then I bought your little upstate shop--lock, stock and barrel--and
gave you this for it. A fair exchange is no robbery. Though it would
be nice to have it all in the family, eh?"
Ross was silent for a few turbulent moments, revolving this far from
pleasing information.
"What'd I do it for?" continued the unasked benefactor. "What do you
_think_ I did it for? So that brave, sweet little girl down here could
have her heart's desire. She's established her business--she's proved
her point--she's won the town--most of it; and there's nothing on earth
to make her unhappy now but your pigheadedness! Young man, I tell you
you're a plumb fool!"
One cannot throw one's host out of his own swift-flying car; nor is it
wise to jump out one's self.
"Nothing on earth between you but your cussed pride!" Mr. Thaddler
remorselessly went on. "This ranch is honestly yours--by a square deal.
Your Jopalez business was worth the money--you ran it honestly and
extended the trade. You'd have made a heap by it if you could have
unbent a little. Gosh! I limbered up that store some in twelve
months!" And the stout man smiled reminiscently.
Ross was still silent.
"And now you've got what you wanted--thanks to her, mind you, thanks to
her!--and you ain't willing to let her have what she wants!"
The young man moistened his lips to speak.
"You ain't dependent on her in any sense--I don't mean that. You earned
the place all right, and I don't doubt you'll make good, both in a
business way and a scientific way, young man. But why in Hades you
can't let her be happy, too, is more'n I can figure! Guess you get your
notions from two generations back--and some!"
Ross began, stumblingly. "I did not know I was indebted to you, Mr.
Thaddler."
"You're not, young man, you're not! I ran that shop of yours a
year--built up the business and sold it for more than I paid for this.
So you've no room for heroics--none at all. What I want you to realize
is that you're breaking the heart of the finest woman I ever saw. You
can't bend that girl--she'll never give up. A woman like that has got
more things to do than just marry! But she's pining for you all the
same.
"Here she is to-night, receiving with Mrs. Weatherstone--with those
Bannerets, Dukes and Earls around her--standing up there like a Princess
herself--and her eyes on the door all the time--and tears in 'em, I
could swear--because you don't come!"
*
They drew up with a fine curve before the carriage gate.
"I'll take 'em all home--they won't be ready for some time yet," said
Mr. Thaddler. "And if you two would like this car I'll send for the
other one."
Ross shook hands with him. "You are very kind, Mr. Thaddler," he said.
"I am obliged to you. But I think we will walk."
Tall and impressive, looking more distinguished in a six-year-old
evening suit than even the Hoch Geborene in his uniform, he came at
last, and Diantha saw him the moment he entered; saw, too, a new light
in his eyes.
He went straight to her. And Mrs. Weatherstone did not lay it up
against him that he had but the briefest of words for his hostess.
"Will you come?" he said. "May I take you home--now?"
She went with him, without a word, and they walked slowly home, by far
outlying paths, and long waits on rose-bowered seats they knew.
The moon filled all the world with tender light and the orange blossoms
flooded the still air with sweetness.
"Dear," said he, "I have been a proud fool--I am yet--but I have come to
see a little clearer. I do not approve of your work--I cannot approve
of it--but will you forgive me for that and marry me? I cannot live any
longer without you?"
"Of course I will," said Diantha.
(To be continued)
THE GOOD MAN
A certain Good Man possessed many Virtues of character by right of
inheritance, so that my Critical Friend remarked, "It is easy for him to
be good."
Now the Good Man was by no means satisfied with his inherited virtues,
and with Ceaseless Diligence and Long Effort he strove to acquire more,
and in due season acquired them, abundantly, so that even my Critical
Friend allowed these virtues were of some credit to him.
Nevertheless, being critical, he criticized the Good Man, to my grief
and amazement.
"How can you criticize this Great White Soul?" I cried. "He has never
committed a crime."
"Neither have you or I," interrupted my Critical Friend.
"He has never sinned," I continued, "he has not a single vice, he has
not even a fault! And as to his Virtues!"
"What are his Virtues?" asked my Critical Friend.
Then I considered the Virtues of that Great Man and was lost in
admiration and amazement. "He is unimpeachably Honest, Trustworthy and
True," said I. "He is Humble and Modest even in his Superiority, and
has Hope of Improvement; he is Brave in meeting adversity and Patient in
bearing it. He is Chaste and Temperate, he is Generous and Unselfish
and Self-sacrificing, he is Persevering and Diligent, Faithful and
Enduring. He is _good_."
"Yes?" said my Critical Friend. "What good is he?"
"_What_ good?" said I.
"Yes, what good? What does he _do?_"
"What do you mean?" I asked. "His business?"
"Of course. What's his business? What does he do in the world?"
"He's a business man," said I, "and a very good business man, if that is
what you mean."
My Critical friend grinned unfeelingly. "What use is he?" he asked.
"Whom does he serve? Of what use to humanity is his work? In what may
the human race be benefited by his business? What will the world lose
when he is gone?"
"They will lose a Good Man," said I, a little angrily.
And my Critical Friend subsided, merely grunting once more, in that
tiresome way of his, "_What_ good?"
OUR ANDROCENTRIC CULTURE; OR, THE MAN-MADE WORLD
XIII.
INDUSTRY AND ECONOMICS.
The forest of Truth, on the subject of industry and economics, is
difficult to see on account of the trees.
We have so many Facts on this subject; so many Opinions; so many
Traditions and Habits; and the pressure of Immediate Conclusions is so
intense upon us all; that it is not easy to form a clear space in one's
mind and consider the field fairly.
Possibly the present treatment of the subject will appeal most to the
minds of those who know least about it; such as the Average Woman. To
her, Industry is a daylong and lifelong duty, as well as a natural
impulse; and economics means going without things. To such untrained
but also unprejudiced minds it should be easy to show the main facts on
these lines.
Let us dispose of Economics first, as having a solemn scientific
appearance.
Physical Economics treats of the internal affairs of the body; the whole
machinery and how it works; all organs, members, functions; each last
and littlest capillary and leucocyte, are parts of that "economy."
Nature's "economy" is not in the least "economical." The waste of life,
the waste of material, the waste of time and effort, are prodigious, yet
she achieves her end as we see.
Domestic Economics covers the whole care and government of the
household; the maintenance of peace, health, order, and morality; the
care and nourishment of children as far as done at home; the entire
management of the home, as well as the spending and saving of money; are
included in it. Saving is the least and poorest part of it; especially
as in mere abstinence from needed things; most especially when this
abstinence is mainly "Mother's." How best to spend; time, strength,
love, care, labor, knowledge, and money--this should be the main study
in Domestic Economics.
Social, or, as they are used to call it, Political Economics, covers a
larger, but not essentially different field. A family consists of
people, and the Mother is their natural manager. Society consists of
people--_the same people_--only more of them. All the people, who are
members of Society, are also members of families--except some incubated
orphans maybe. Social Economics covers the whole care and management of
the people, the maintenance of peace and health and order and morality;
the care of children, as far as done out of the home; as well as the
spending and saving of the public money--all these are included in it.
This great business of Social Economics is at present little understood
and most poorly managed, for this reason; we approach it from an
individual point of view; seeking not so much to do our share in the
common service, as to get our personal profit from the common wealth.
Where the whole family labors together to harvest fruit and store it for
the winter, we have legitimate Domestic Economics: but where one member
takes and hides a lot for himself, to the exclusion of the others, we
have no Domestic Economics at all--merely individual selfishness.
In Social Economics we have a large, but simple problem. Here is the
earth, our farm. Here are the people, who own the earth. How can the
most advantage to the most people be obtained from the earth with the
least labor? That is the problem of Social Economics.
Looking at the world as if you held it in your hands to study and
discuss, what do we find at present?
We find people living too thickly for health and comfort in some places,
and too thinly for others; we find most people working too hard and too
long at honest labor; some people working with damaging intensity at
dishonest labor; and a few wretched paupers among the rich and poor,
degenerate idlers who do not work at all, the scum and the dregs of
Society.
All this is bad economics. We do not get the comfort out of life we
easily could; and work far too hard for what we do get. Moreover, there
is no peace, no settled security. No man is sure of his living, no
matter how hard he works, a thousand things may occur to deprive him of
his job, or his income. In our time there is great excitement along
this line of study; and more than one proposition is advanced whereby we
may improve, most notably instanced in the world-covering advance of
Socialism.
In our present study the principal fact to be exhibited is the influence
of a male culture upon Social Economics and Industry.
Industry, as a department of Social Economics, is little understood.
Heretofore we have viewed this field from several wholly erroneous
positions. From the Hebrew (and wholly androcentric) religious
teaching, we have regarded labor as a curse.
Nothing could be more absurdly false. Labor is not merely a means of
supporting human life--it _is_ human life. Imagine a race of beings
living without labor! They must be the rudest savages.
Human work consists in specialized industry and the exchange of its
products; and without it is no civilization. As industry develops,
civilization develops; peace expands; wealth increases; science and art
help on the splendid total. Productive industry, and its concomitant of
distributive industry cover the major field of human life.
If our industry was normal, what should we see?
A world full of healthy, happy people; each busily engaged in what he or
she most enjoys doing. Normal Specialization, like all our voluntary
processes, is accompanied by keen pleasure; and any check or
interruption to it gives pain and injury. Whosoever works at what he
loves is well and happy. Whoso works at what he does not love is ill
and miserable. It is very bad economics to force unwilling industry.
That is the weakness of slave labor; and of wage labor also where there
is not full industrial education and freedom of choice.
Under normal conditions we should see well developed, well trained
specialists happily engaged in the work they most enjoyed; for
reasonable hours (any work, or play either, becomes injurious if done
too long); and as a consequence the whole output of the world would be
vastly improved, not only in quantity but in quality.
Plain are the melancholy facts of what we do see. Following that
pitiful conception of labor as a curse, comes the very old and
androcentric habit of despising it as belonging to women, and then to
slaves.
As a matter of fact industry is in its origin feminine; that is,
maternal. It is the overflowing fountain of mother-love and
mother-power which first prompts the human race to labor; and for long
ages men performed no productive industry at all; being merely hunters
and fighters.
It is this lack of natural instinct for labor in the male of our
species, together with the ideas and opinions based on that lack, and
voiced by him in his many writings, religious and other, which have
given to the world its false estimate of this great function, human
work. That which is our very life, our greatest joy, our road to all
advancement, we have scorned and oppressed; so that "working people,"
the "working classes," "having to work," etc., are to this day spoken of
with contempt. Perhaps drones speak so among themselves of the "working
bees!"
Normally, widening out from the mother's careful and generous service in
the family, to careful, generous service in the world, we should find
labor freely given, with love and pride.
Abnormally, crushed under the burden of androcentric scorn and
prejudice, we have labor grudgingly produced under pressure of
necessity; labor of slaves under fear of the whip, or of wage-slaves,
one step higher, under fear of want. Long ages wherein hunting and
fighting were the only manly occupations, have left their heavy impress.
The predacious instinct and the combative instinct weigh down and
disfigure our economic development. What Veblen calls "the instinct of
workmanship" grows on, slowly and irresistably; but the malign features
of our industrial life are distinctively androcentric: the desire to
get, of the hunter; interfering with the desire to give, of the mother;
the desire to overcome an antagonist--originally masculine, interfering
with the desire to serve and benefit--originally feminine.
Let the reader keep in mind that as human beings, men are able to
over-live their masculine natures and do noble service to the world;
also that as human beings they are today far more highly developed than
women, and doing far more for the world. The point here brought out is
that as males their unchecked supremacy has resulted in the abnormal
predominance of masculine impulses in our human processes; and that this
predominance has been largely injurious.
As it happens, the distinctly feminine or maternal impulses are far more
nearly in line with human progress than are those of the male; which
makes her exclusion from human functions the more mischievous.
Our current teachings in the infant science of Political Economy are
naively masculine. They assume as unquestionable that "the economic
man" will never do anything unless he has to; will only do it to escape
pain or attain pleasure; and will, inevitably, take all he can get, and
do all he can to outwit, overcome, and if necessary destroy his
antagonist.
Always the antagonist; to the male mind an antagonist is essential to
progress, to all achievement. He has planted that root-thought in all
the human world; from that old hideous idea of Satan, "The Adversary,"
down to the competitor in business, or the boy at the head of the class,
to be superseded by another.
Therefore, even in science, "the struggle for existence" is the dominant
law--to the male mind, with the "survival of the fittest" and "the
elimination of the unfit."
Therefore in industry and economics we find always and everywhere the
antagonist; the necessity for somebody or something to be overcome--else
why make an effort? If you have not the incentive of reward, or the
incentive of combat, why work? "Competition is the life of trade."
Thus the Economic Man.
But how about the Economic Woman?
To the androcentric mind she does not exist. Women are females, and
that's all; their working abilities are limited to personal service.
That it would be possible to develop industry to far greater heights,
and to find in social economics a simple and beneficial process for the
promotion of human life and prosperity, under any other impulse than
these two, Desire and Combat, is hard indeed to recognize--for the "male
mind."
So absolutely interwoven are our existing concepts of maleness and
humanness, so sure are we that men are people and women only females,
that the claim of equal weight and dignity in human affairs of the
feminine instincts and methods is scouted as absurd. We find existing
industry almost wholly in male hands; find it done as men do it; assume
that that is the way it must be done.
When women suggest that it could be done differently, their proposal is
waved aside--they are "only women"--their ideas are "womanish."
Agreed. So are men "only men," their ideas are "mannish"; and of the
two the women are more vitally human than the men.
The female is the race-type--the man the variant.
The female, as a race-type, having the female processes besides; best
performs the race processes. The male, however, has with great
difficulty developed them, always heavily handicapped by his maleness;
being in origin essentially a creature of sex, and so dominated almost
exclusively by sex impulses.
The human instinct of mutual service is checked by the masculine
instinct of combat; the human tendency to specialize in labor, to
rejoicingly pour force in lines of specialized expression, is checked by
the predacious instinct, which will exert itself for reward; and
disfigured by the masculine instinct of self-expression, which is an
entirely different thing from the great human outpouring of world force.
Great men, the world's teachers and leaders, are great in humanness;
mere maleness does not make for greatness unless it be in warfare--a
disadvantageous glory! Great women also must be great in humanness; but
their female instincts are not so subversive of human progress as are
the instincts of the male. To be a teacher and leader, to love and
serve, to guard and guide and help, are well in line with motherhood.
"Are they not also in line with fatherhood?" will be asked; and, "Are
not the father's paternal instincts masculine?"
No, they are not; they differ in no way from the maternal, in so far as
they are beneficial. Parental functions of the higher sort, of the
human sort, are identical. The father can give his children many
advantages which the mother can not; but that is due to his superiority
as a human being. He possesses far more knowledge and power in the
world, the human world; he himself is more developed in human powers and
processes; and is therefore able to do much for his children which the
mother can not; but this is in no way due to his masculinity. It is in
this development of human powers in man, through fatherhood, that we may
read the explanation of our short period of androcentric culture.
So thorough and complete a reversal of previous relation, such
continuance of what appears in every way an unnatural position, must
have had some justification in racial advantages, or it could not have
endured. This is its justification; the establishment of humanness in
the male; he being led into it, along natural lines, by the exercise of
previously existing desires.
In a male culture the attracting forces must inevitably have been, we
have seen, Desire and Combat. These masculine forces, acting upon human
processes, while necessary to the uplifting of the man, have been
anything but uplifting to civilization. A sex which thinks, feels and
acts in terms of combat is difficult to harmonize in the smooth bonds of
human relationship; that they have succeeded so well is a beautiful
testimony to the superior power of race tendency over sex tendency.
Uniting and organizing, crudely and temporarily, for the common hunt;
and then, with progressive elaboration, for the common fight; they are
now using the same tactics--and the same desires, unfortunately--in
common work.
Union, organization, complex interservice, are the essential processes
of a growing society; in them, in the ever-increasing discharge of power
along widening lines of action, is the joy and health of social life.
But so far men combine in order to better combat; the mutual service
held incidental to the common end of conquest and plunder.
In spite of this the overmastering power of humanness is now developing
among modern men immense organizations of a wholly beneficial character,
with no purpose but mutual advantage. This is true human growth, and as
such will inevitably take the place of the sex-prejudiced earlier
processes.
The human character of the Christian religion is now being more and more
insisted on; the practical love and service of each and all; in place of
the old insistence on Desire--for a Crown and Harp in Heaven, and
Combat--with that everlasting adversary.
In economics this great change is rapidly going on before our eyes. It
is a change in idea, in basic concept, in our theory of what the whole
thing is about. We are beginning to see the world, not as "a fair field
and no favor"--not a place for one man to get ahead of others, for a
price; but as an establishment belonging to us, the proceeds of which
are to be applied, as a matter of course, to human advantage.
In the old idea, the wholly masculine idea, based on the processes of
sex-combat, the advantage of the world lay in having "the best man win."
Some, in the first steps of enthusiasm for Eugenics, think so still;
imagining that the primal process of promoting evolution through the
paternity of the conquering male is the best process.
To have one superior lion kill six or sixty inferior lions, and leave a
progeny of more superior lions behind him, is all right--for lions; the
superiority in fighting being all the superiority they need.
But the man able to outwit his follows, to destroy them in physical, or
ruin in financial, combat, is not therefore a superior human creature.
Even physical superiority, as a fighter, does not prove the kind of
vigor best calculated to resist disease, or to adapt itself to changing
conditions.
That our masculine culture in its effect on Economics and Industry is
injurious, is clearly shown by the whole open page of history. From the
simple beneficent activities of a matriarchal period we follow the same
lamentable steps; nation after nation. Women are enslaved and captives
are enslaved; a military despotism is developed; labor is despised and
discouraged. Then when the irresistible social forces do bring us
onward, in science, art, commerce, and all that we call civilization, we
find the same check acting always upon that progress; and the really
vital social processes of production and distribution heavily injured by
the financial combat and carnage which rages ever over and among them.
The real development of the people, the forming of finer physiques,
finer minds, a higher level of efficiency, a broader range of enjoyment
and accomplishment--is hindered and not helped by this artificially
maintained "struggle for existence," this constant endeavor to eliminate
what, from a masculine standard, is "unfit."
That we have progressed thus far, that we are now moving forward so
rapidly, is in spite of and not because of our androcentric culture.
A FREQUENT QUESTION
If women become economically independent, their husbands will stop
working--and depend on them.
Oh, no, they won't.
How do you know they won't?
Because that kind of man will not succeed in getting that kind of woman
to depend on when women are wiser.
What's to prevent the man from becoming a burden on her afterward?
The marriage contract.
You propose a new kind of marriage contract, do you?
Why not? Marriages may be made in Heaven, but the contract is drawn up
by mere men. These--and some women to help them--may easily make a
better one. Why not?
BOYS WILL BE BOYS
"Boys will be boys," and boys have had their day;
Boy-mischief and boy-carelessness and noise
Extenuated all, allowed, excused and smoothed away,
Each duty missed, each damaging wild act,
By this meek statement of unquestioned fact--
Boys will be boys!
"Now, women will be women." Mark the change;
Calm motherhood in place of boisterous youth;
No warfare now; to manage and arrange,
To nurture with wise care, is woman's way,
In peace and fruitful industry her sway.
In love and truth.
MANY WINDOWS
Many minds are many windows,
Varied are their views;
Each of us, if lonely, knows
Only what one window shows--
Can no further choose.
Many minds are many windows,
One the light divine,
We may freely move and range,
Wide our windows may exchange,--
Come and look through mine!
COMMENT AND REVIEW
Lavina L. Dock is a trained nurse of long and wide experience in more
than one country. She is the author of "A Text Book of Materia Medica
for Nurses," now in its fourth edition, revised and enlarged, and, in
collaboration with M. D. Nutting, R.N., of "The History of Nursing," in
two volumes.
Miss Dock's present book, "Hygiene and Morality," is of far wider appeal
than either of the former works. The title is a good one, for it links
two aspects of one subject, and presents the new case without ignoring
the old one.
The work deals in the main, in plain, simple moderate language, with the
pathological aspects of what is called "the social evil"; laying stress
not so much upon the moral danger, long known, as on the physical
danger, to which we are but just awakening.
The first part gives clear descriptions of the venereal diseases, now
known to be caused by specific germs; and to be both infectious and
contagious in the highest degree; giving statistics as to their
prevalence.
The general estimate, in syphilis, she quotes as from five to eighteen
per cent of the population, varying in the different countries. Taking
the most modest estimate for ours, and allowing our population at
80,000,000--this would give us an army of 4,000,000 syphilitics at large
among us--unknown to the public.
Say they had leprosy, or cholera, or smallpox, and imagine our horror;
yet these diseases are not comparable in their terrible consequences;
not only to the victims, but to their children and grandchildren.
In gonorrhoea, a cause of sterility, blindness of babies, and all manner
of surgical operations and "diseases peculiar to women," so common among
innocent wives, Miss Dock shows us that European records give about
seventy-five per cent of men as infected. In America things are better,
a conservative estimate giving the proportion of our men having either
syphilis or gonorrhoea as about sixty per cent.
As each of these diseases affects both wife and child, it is specially
necessary that women should be informed about them.
The second part treats of Prostitution; the efforts made at its control
and regulation, and the new widespread movement for its abolition; and
gives melancholy figures to show not only the immense extent of this
evil, but the fact that the large majority of its victims are
_unwilling_ ones.
Abnormal women who might wish to follow this trade are so few that in
order to supply the market, innocent young girls, numbering in America
about fifty thousand a year, must be forced into this profession, into
shame, disease and painful death; hence the "White-Slave traffic."
The third part discusses Prevention; with wise and hopeful words;
telling how chance infection may be avoided, how patients with these
diseases should be isolated; and how all children should be educated in
full knowledge of this danger and its best avoidance.
Miss Dock is also very clear and strong in showing that women can best
reduce this evil through the use of the ballot; and gives conclusive
evidence of what is already accomplished in those states and countries
having equal suffrage.
It is a clean, forcible interesting book, most moderate in tone; and
giving a long list of scientific authorities.
*
Now for an amusing book!
This is "Marriage as a Trade," by Cicely Hamilton, a clever and forcible
English writer, co-author of that delicious little play "How The Vote
Was Won."
A keen and accurate weapon is Miss Hamilton's pen; and in this work she
uses it with delicious dexterity to prick bubbles, to slice off masks,
cut veils and bandages, and dissect ancient idols.
Her special matter in discussion is exactly given in the title, and she
does not stray from her theme; but brings out, sharply and inescapably,
the universal fact, that marriage, to a woman, is not only a happiness
(or a grief!), not only a duty, or at least a natural function, but a
trade--she earns her living by it!
Miss Hamilton points out very forcibly that not all women are fitted by
nature for following the same trade, that not all of them like it; that
it produces low grade work and discontented lives; and that many women
would infinitely prefer working at some other business.
The value of this book is is the sharp light thrown on this large
subject from the woman's view--or at least from a woman's view; and one
that will be shared by many others.
Its amusing quality is for those who like trenchant wit and penetrating
satire.
*
Mary Jonston is a writer of good novels, strong, thrilling, excellent in
workmanship, as all who have read her "To Have and To Hold" will agree;
and it was that quality of literary skill which made me seize upon this,
in the Woman's Journal of October 8th, before I noticed the name of the
author:
THE WISE HOUSEKEEPER:
Will be against
A HOW BUILT ON SAND.
Will be for
THE CATEGORICAL IMPERATIVE.
Will be against
GROUNDS WITHOUT SHADE AND WATER.
Will be for
CONSERVATISM.
Will be against
QUARRELS WITH NEIGHBORS.
Will be for
INTERNATIONAL ARBITRATION.
Will be against
EXTRAVAGANT HOUSEKEEPING.
Will be for
ECONOMY IN ADMINISTRATION.
Will be against
PENNY WISDOM AND POUND FOOLISHNESS.
Will be for
LIBERAL APPROPRIATIONS FOR COMMON WELFARE.
Will be against
DISHONEST SERVANTS.
Will be for
INTELLIGENCE AND HONOR IN OFFICE.
Will be against
DIRT.
Will be for
CLEAN POLITICS.
Will be against
MOTHS, RUST AND MILDEW
Will be for
AN END TO GRAFT.
Will be against
UNTRIMMED LAMPS.
Will be for
THE INITIATIVE AND REFERENDUM.
Will be against
UNPAID BILLS.
Will be for
JUSTICE.
Will be against
DARK CORNERS.
Will be for
COMMON OWNERSHIP IN COMMON NEEDS.
Will be against
DARKENED WINDOWS.
Will be for
COMPULSORY EDUCATION.
Will be against
CANDLES BURNED AT BOTH ENDS.
Will be for
ABOLITION OF CHILD LABOR.
Will be against
CARELESS BREAKAGE.
Will be for
ACTS LOOKING TO PREVENTION OF MINE, RAILWAY AND FACTORY ACCIDENTS.
Will be against
HOUSEHOLD DRUDGES.
Will be for
AN EIGHT-HOUR DAY.
Will be against
BAD DRAINS.
Will be for
A FEDERAL DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH.
Will be against
STAINS THAT WILL NOT COME OUT.
Will be for
JUVENILE COURTS.
Will be against
POISONS LEFT WHERE THE CHILDREN CAN GET THEM.
Will be for
WAR AGAINST THE SOCIAL EVIL.
WAR AGAINST ALCOHOL.
Will be against
MISTAKEN PARTNERSHIPS.
Will be for
WISER MARRIAGE LAWS.
Will be against
SPOILED CHILDREN.
Will be for
A FEDERAL DEPARTMENT OF EUGENICS.
Will be against
A MISTRESS OF THE HOUSE WITHOUT AUTHORITY.
Will be for
THE FRANCHISE FOR WOMEN.
*
"To-day's Problems" is a good ten cents' worth--or five, if you live in
Chicago.
It is a pocket-size pamphlet, full of short bits from some hundred and
fifty leading writers, workers, and speakers, along lines of Social
Progress.
Ministers, college professors, economists, sociologists, editors,
authors, organizers, poets, orators; a millionaire, a member of
parliament, a prince,--it's a great booklet. And not a thing in it that
fills one page, even.
_To-day's Problems._ Trade Union Book Concern. Chicago, Ill.
*
We mean to carry lists of books useful to our readers. We wish to prove
that it will pay publishers to advertise with us. If you order any book
reviewed here, please send your order to The FORERUNNER.
"Pure Sociology," by Lester F. Ward, Macmillan, Pub., $4.00.
"Hygiene and Morality," by Lavina L. Dock, R. N., G. P. Putnam's Sons,
Pub., $1.25.
"Marriage as a Trade," by Cicely Hamilton, Moffat, Yard & Co., Pub.,
$1.25.
PERSONAL PROBLEMS
_Question._--A radical woman and conservative man are married, have been
married for years. The woman now wants to do a share of work for votes
for women. The man takes it as a personal reflection. He thinks
outsiders will conclude that a woman suffragist must have a family
grievance at home. How much suffrage work do you advise her to do?
_Answer._--I advise her to do all the suffrage work she thinks right;
and any other work she thinks right. What her husband thinks somebody
else will think, is a pretty poor obstacle.
If a woman so lives as to hold the love and respect of her husband, she
can differ from him quite widely--for conscience sake--and not break
their bond.
If he does not love and respect her--why should she mind what he thinks?
*
Here are some earnest questions from an artist:
1. "How shall I be most efficient?
2. "Which of my work is best--what I think best, or what other people
think best?
3. "If my best work is done by accident, what's the use of trying?"
_Answer._--1. Live to your fullest development in all lines--and keep
your health. Do not so concentrate on art as to neglect life--and your
art will be greater.
2. Do the work you think best, with all your might, accepting others'
judgement only when it convinces yours.
3. Trying, always--that is, doing your best work, life long--is what
allows those happy accidents. Keep on trying.
*
In this department in August, "E. M. K." asked:
"Would you please outline a plan of organization among married women who
wish to continue practicing their profession, through which they may
arouse other women; and also reach the authorities who have control over
their work?"
I then recommended political organization as the best possible; but have
been called upon since to mention The Married Women Teachers'
Association, of New York, as an instance of what may be done. The
Secretary is Mrs. Anna G. Walsh, 22 Harvard Avenue, Jamaica, N. Y.
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*
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*
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in all the tons of fiction I have swum through a story of real LOVE
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*
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*
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*
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*
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*
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*
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postman when the time comes. Certainly this number has made me (for
one), sit up and think a bit. I wish the next one were due to-morrow."
*
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*
"Accept my hearty congratulations upon The Forerunner. The first number
is delightful, and exceedingly clever. 'What Diantha did,' and
'Androcentric Culture,' are deep and clear and stimulating, and 'How
doth the hat' should make all who read it sit up and take notice. It
seems to me that every thinking woman who sees this copy will become a
subscriber. I enclose a check for my subscription and that of my
mother, Mrs. ----- -----."
*
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*
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"My mother wants you to know of her enthusiasm over the second issue of
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Her points were these: 1. Such a pleasure to read a homogeneous magazine
instead of having to skip from lion hunting to Christian Science and
from that to flying machines. 2. Admires the way you take the
individual problems of individual women, and by means of the individual
problems lead these women into the larger view of life and into an
understanding of the androcentric culture. 3. Article on Socialism most
concise, clearest and most convincing she has ever read. In this I
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*
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*
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*
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*
"To say that we greatly appreciate it is to only hint our mood. It is
by far the strongest and best expressed word on these problems of
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A FRIENDLY RESPONSE
The editor wishes to acknowledge with cordial thanks the warm response
to the appeal to subscribers to "renew, and get another."
They are doing it, quite rapidly, and only three or four--so far--have
discontinued. One of these did it twice! Evidently The Forerunner was
_non persona grata_ there.
We begin to feel that we have more friends--and warmer ones--than at
first appeared.
OUR BOUND VOLUME AS A CHRISTMAS PRESENT
The first year comprises fourteen issues--November, 1909, to December,
1910, inclusive.
In it is the Housekeeping novel--"What Diantha Did"--which will interest
many, both men and women. It offers a very practical solution to the
Servant Question.
In it is also the Book About Men--"The Man-Made World, or Our
Androcentric Culture."
There have been books and books about women--mostly, unpleasant. This
is the first one about men, as such; men as distinguished from Human
Beings--as women have always been distinguished from Human Beings.
You won't wholly like the book--just consider whether it is true!
The novel separately, or the book separately, would also make good
presents, but the date of their publication is not settled, while in the
bound volume of the magazine you get them both for only 25c. more than
one would cost.
This set, making a volume of some 420 pages, with its twelve short
stories, its articles, fables, verse, and other matter, will make a very
good gift--for some people. Ready early in December. $1.25.
TO THOSE SPECIALLY INTERESTED IN THiS MAGAZINE, OR SPECIALLY INTERESTED
IN FIFTY DOLLARS
This is not a "Popular Magazine." It does not try to be. It is a
magazine which meets the needs of a comparatively few, but they like it
immensely--as is shown by the extracts from their letters we are now
publishing.
We want to reach, if possible, all the people who would like The
Forerunner if they knew about it.
For the rest of this year we are making a special offer to anyone who
will get us new subscribers; the regular commission of 25 per cent., and
a rising premium which goes up to a total of 50 per cent. for a hundred
new paid year's subscriptions.
$50.00 for one hundred new subscribers!
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IF YOU RENEW
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IF YOU DISCONTINUE
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THE FORERUNNER
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"THE CRUX"
Mrs. Gilman's new novel, will appear in
THE FORERUNNER, of 1911.
This touches upon one of the most vivid and vital of our age problems;
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Volume 1. No. 14
DECEMBER, 1910
Copyright for 1910
C. P. Gilman
You can't give what you haven't got.
The best gifts are love and wisdom, courage and power.
Lay in some!
IN AS MUCH
The Christian arose upon Christmas Day
And solemnly cleared his score:
He called on the sick, to the needy gave alms,
And entered the prison door.
He lent to his friends, gave away his old coat
Was never by sinners enticed,
And handed the man who complained of a throat
A cup of cold water--iced.
He bestowed on a newsboy a new pair of shoes,
And quoted in pious glee:
"In as much as ye've done it to one of these least
Ye have done it unto me."
*
That night he dreamed upon judgment Day:
Men's hearts were all in their throats;
To his pained surprise he was hustled away
And herded among the goats!
"Oh Lord," he cried, "there is some mistake,
I have always remembered Thee!"
But the world's neglected children rose
And gazed reproachfully.
And a voice replied, "Thy punishment take;
Thy duty thou didst not see!
In as much as ye have NOT done it to ONE
Ye have NOT done it unto me."
A WORD IN SEASON
"Children pick up words like pigeons peas,
And utter them again as God shall please."
When Grandma came to the breakfast table with her sour little smile and
her peremptory "Good morning," every one said "good morning" as politely
and pleasantly as they could, but they didn't say very much else. They
attempted bravely.
"A fine morning, Mother," Papa observed, but she only answered "Too
cold."
"Did you sleep well, Mother?" ventured Mama; and the reply to that was,
"No, I never do!"
Then Uncle John tried--he always tried once.
"Have you heard of our new machine, Mrs. Grey? We've got one now
that'll catch anything in a room--don't have to talk right into it."
Mrs. Grey looked at him coldly.
"I do not take the least interest in your talking machines, Henry, as I
have told you before."
She had, many times before, but Uncle Henry never could learn the
astonishing fact. He was more interested in his machines than he was in
his business, by far; and spent all his spare time in tinkering with
them.
"I think they are wonderful," said little Josie.
"You're my only friend, Kid! I believe you understand 'em almost as
well is I do," her Uncle answered gaily; and finished his breakfast as
quickly as possible.
So did everybody. It was not appetizing to have Grandma say "How you do
dawdle over your meals, Louise!"
Little Josephine slipped down from her chair, with a whispered "Scuse me
Mama!" and whisked into her play room.
"How you do spoil that child!" said Grandma, and Mama closed her lips
tight and looked at her husband.
"Now Mother, don't you fret about Josie," said he. "She's a good little
girl and quiet as a mouse."
"Anything I can do for you downtown, Mother?"
"No thank you Joseph. I'll go to my room and be out of Louise's way."
"You're not in my way at all, Mother--won't you sit down stairs?"
Young Mrs. Grey made a brave effort to speak cordially, but old Mrs.
Grey only looked injured, and said "No thank you, Louise," as she went
upstairs.
Dr. Grey looked at his wife. She met his eyes steadily, cheerfully.
"I think Mother's looking better, don't you dear?" she said.
"There's nothing at all the matter with my mother--except--" he shut his
mouth hard. "There are things I cannot say, Louise," he continued, "but
others I can. Namely; that for sweetness and patience and gentleness
you--you beat the Dutch! And I do appreciate it. One can't turn one's
Mother out of the house, but I do resent her having another doctor!"
"I'd love your Mother, Joseph, if--if she was a thousand times worse!"
his wife answered; and he kissed her with grateful love.
Sarah came in to clear the table presently, and Ellen stood in the
pantry door to chat with her.
"Never in my life did I see any woman wid the patience of her!" said
Ellen, wiping her mouth on her apron.
"She has need of it," said Sarah. "Any Mother-in-law is a trial I've
heard, but this wan is the worst. Why she must needs live with 'em I
don't see--she has daughters of her own."
"Tis the daughter's husbands won't put up wid her," answered Ellen,
"they havin' the say of course. This man's her son--and he has to keep
her if she will stay."
"And she as rich as a Jew!" Sarah went on. "And never spendin' a cent!
And the Doctor workin' night and day!"--
Then Mama came in and this bit of conversation naturally came to an end.
A busy, quiet, sweet little woman was Mama; and small Josie flew into
her arms and cuddled there most happily.
"Mama Dearest," she said, "How long is it to Christmas? Can I get my
mat done for Grandma? And _do_ you think she'll like it?"
"Well, well dear--that's three _questions!_ It's two weeks yet to
Christmas; and I think you can if you work steadily; and I hope she'll
like it."
"And Mama--can I have my party?"
"I'm afraid not, dearest. You see Grandma is old, and she hates a noise
and confusion--and parties are expensive. I'm sorry, childie. Can't
you think of something else you want, that Mother can give you?"
"No," said the child, "I've wanted a party for three years, Mama!
Grandma just spoils everything!"
"No, no, dear--you must always love Grandma because she is dear Papa's
mother; and because she is lonely and needs our love.
"We'll have a party some day, Dearest--don't feel badly. And _we_
always have a good time together, don't we?"
They did; but just now the child's heart was set on more social
pleasures, and she went sadly back to her playroom to work on that mat
for Grandma.
It was a busy day. Mama's married sister came to see her, and the child
was sent out of the room. Two neighbors called, and waited, chatting,
some time before Mama came down.
Grandma's doctor--who was not Papa--called; and her lawyer too; and they
had to wait some time for the old lady to dress as she thought fitting.
But Grandma's doctor and lawyer were very old friends, and seemed to
enjoy themselves.
The minister came also, not Grandma's minister, who was old and thin and
severe and wore a long white beard; but Mama's minister, who was so
vigorous and cheerful, and would lift Josephine way up over his head--as
if she was ten years old. But Mama sent her out of the room this time,
which was a pity.
To be sure Josephine had a little secret trail from her playroom
door--behind several pieces of furniture--right up to the back of the
sofa where people usually sat, but she was not often interested in their
conversation. She was a quiet child, busy with her own plans and ideas;
playing softly by herself, with much imaginary conversation. She set up
her largest doll, a majestic personage known as "The Lady Isobel," and
talked to her.
"Why is my Grandma so horrid? And why do I have to love her? How can
you love people--if you don't, Lady Isobel?
"Other girls' Grandmas are nice. Nelly Elder's got a lovely Grandma!
She lets Nelly have parties and everything. Maybe if Grandma likes my
mat she'll--be pleasanter.
"Maybe she'll go somewhere else to live--sometime. Don't you think so,
Lady Isobel?"
The Lady Isobel's reply, however, was not recorded.
Grandma pursued her pious way as usual, till an early bedtime relieved
the family of her presence. Then Uncle Harry stopped puttering with his
machines and came out to be sociable with his sister. If Papa was at
home they would have a game of solo--if not, they played cribbage, or
quiet.
Uncle Harry was the life of the household--when Grandma wasn't around.
"Well, Lulu," he said cheerfully, "What's the prospect? Can Joe make
it?"
"No," said Mama. "It's out of the question. He could arrange about his
practice easily enough but it's the money for the trip. He'll have to
send his paper to be read."
"It's a shame!" said the young man, "He ought to be there. He'd do
those other doctors good. Why in the name of reason don't the old lady
give him the money--she could, easy enough."
"Joe never'll ask her for a cent," answered Mrs. Grey, "and it would
never occur to her to give him one! Yet I think she loves him best of
all her children."
"Huh! _Love!_" said Uncle Harry.
*
Grandma didn't sleep well at night. She complained of this
circumstantially and at length.
"Hour after hour I hear the clock strike," she said. "Hour after hour!"
Little Josephine had heard the clock strike hour after hour one terrible
night when she had an earache. She was really sorry for Grandma.
"And nothing to take up my mind," said Grandma, as if her mind was a
burden to her.
But the night after this she had something to take up her mind. As a
matter of fact it woke her up, as she had napped between the clock's
strikings. At first she thought the servants were in her room--and
realized with a start that they were speaking of her.
"Why she must live with 'em I don't see--she has daughters of her own--"
With the interest of an eavesdropper she lay still, listening, and heard
no good of herself.
"How long is it to Christmas?" she presently heard her grandchild ask,
and beg her mother for the "party"--still denied her.
"Grandma spoils everything!" said the clear childish voice, and the
mother's gentle one urged love and patience.
It was some time before the suddenly awakened old lady, in the dark,
realized the source of these voices--and then she could not locate it.
"It's some joke of that young man's" she said grimly--but the joke went
on.
It was Mrs. Grey's sister now, condoling with her about this
mother-in-law.
"Why do you have to put up with it Louise? Won't any of her daughters
have her?"
"I'm afraid they don't want her," said Louise's gentle voice. "But Joe
is her son, and of course he feels that his home is his mother's. I
think he is quite right. She is old, and alone--she doesn't _mean_ to
be disagreeable."
"Well, she achieves it without effort, then! A more disagreeable old
lady I never saw, Louise, and I'd like nothing better than to tell her
so!"
The old lady was angry, but impressed. There is a fascination in
learning how others see us, even if the lesson is unpleasant. She heard
the two neighbors who talked together before Mama came down, and their
talk was of her--and of how they pitied young Mrs. Grey.
"If I was in her shoes," said the older of the two, "I'd pick up and
travel! She's only sixty-five--and sound as a nut."
"Has she money enough?" asked the other.
"My, yes! Money to burn! She has her annuity that her father left her,
and a big insurance--and house rents. She must have all of three
thousand a year."
"And doesn't she pay board here?"
"Pay board! Not she. She wouldn't pay anything so long as she has a
relative to live on. She's saved all her life. But nobody'll get any
good of it till she's dead."
This talk stopped when their hostess entered, changing to more general
themes; but the interest revived when men's voices took up the tale.
"Yes--wants her will made again. Always making and unmaking and
remaking. Harmless amusement, I suppose."
"She wastes good money on both of us--and I tell her so. But one can't
be expected to absolutely refuse a patient."
"Or a client!"
"No. I suppose not."
"She's not really ill then?"
"Bless you, Ruthven, I don't know a sounder old woman anywhere. All she
needs is a change--and to think of something besides herself! I tell
her that, too--and she says I'm so eccentric."
"Why in all decency don't her son do her doctoring?"
"I suppose he's too frank--and not quite able to speak his mind. He's a
fine fellow. That paper of his will be a great feature of our
convention. Shame he can't go."
"Why can't he? Can't afford it?"
"That's just it. You see the old lady don't put up--not a cent--and he
has all he can do to keep the boys in college." And their conversation
stopped, and Grandma heard her own voice--inviting the doctor up to her
room--and making another appointment for the lawyer.
Then it was the young minister, a cheerful, brawny youth, whom she had
once described as a "Godless upstart!"
He appeared to be comforting young Mrs. Grey, and commending her. "You
are doing wonders," he said, as their voices came into hearing, "and not
letting your right hand know it, either."
"You make far too much of it, Mr. Eagerson," the soft voice answered, "I
am so happy in my children--my home--my husband. This is the _only_
trouble--I do not complain."
"I know you don't complain, Mrs. Grey, but I want you to know that
you're appreciated! 'It is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop,
than with a woman in a wide house'--especially if she's your
mother-in-law."
"I won't allow you to speak so--if you are my minister!" said young Mrs.
Grey with spirit; and the talk changed to church matters, where the
little lady offered to help with time and service, and regretted that
she had no money to give.
There was a silence, save for small confused noises of a day time
household; distant sounds of doors and dishes; and then in a sad,
confidential voice--"Why is Grandma so horrid? And why do I have to
love her? How can you love people you don't, Lady Isobel?"
Grandma was really fond of quiet little Josephine, even if she did
sometimes snub her as a matter of principle. She lay and listened to
these strictly private remarks, and meditated upon them after they had
ceased. It was a large dose, an omnibus dose, and took some time to
assimilate; but the old lady had really a mind of her own, though much
of it was uninhabited, and this generous burst of light set it to
working.
She said nothing to anyone, but seemed to use her eyes and ears with
more attention than previously, and allowed her grand-daughter's small
efforts toward affection with new receptiveness. She had one talk with
her daughter-in-law which left that little woman wet-eyed and smiling
with pleasure, though she could not tell about it--that was requisite.
But the family in general heard nothing of any change of heart till
breakfast time on Christmas morning. They sat enjoying that pleasant
meal, in the usual respite before the old lady appeared, when Sarah came
in with a bunch of notes and laid one at each plate, with an air of
great importance.
"She said I was to leave 'em till you was all here--and here they are!"
said Sarah, smiling mysteriously, "and that I was to say nothing--and I
haven't!" And the red-cheeked girl folded her arms and waited--as
interested as anybody.
Uncle Harry opened his first. "I bet it's a tract!" said he. But he
blushed to the roots of his thick brown hair as he took out, not a
tract, but a check.
"A Christmas present to my son-in-law-by-marriage; to be spent on the
improvement of talking machines--if that is necessary!"
"Why bless her heart!" said he, "I call that pretty handsome, and I'll
tell her so!"
Papa opened his.
"For your Convention trip, dear son," said this one, "and for a new
dress suit--and a new suit case, and a new overcoat--a nice one. With
Mother's love."
It was a large check, this one. Papa sat quite silent and looked at his
wife. She went around the table and hugged him--she had to.
"You've got one, too, Louise," said he--and she opened it.
"For my dear daughter Louise; this--to be spent on other people; and
_this_" (_this_ was much bigger) "to be inexorably spent on
herself--every cent of it! On her own special needs and pleasures--if
she can think of any!"
Louise was simply crying--and little Josephine ran to comfort her.
"Hold on Kiddie--you haven't opened yours," said Uncle Harry; and they
all eagerly waited while the child carefully opened her envelope with a
clean knife, and read out solemnly and slowly, "For my darling
Grand-child Josephine, to be spent by herself, for herself, with Mama's
advice and assistance; and in particular to provide for her party!"
She turned over the stiff little piece of paper--hardly understanding.
"It's a check, dear," said Papa. "It's the same as money. Parties cost
money, and Grandma has made you a Christmas present of your party."
The little girl's eyes grew big with joy.
"Can I?--Is there really--a party?"
"There is really a party--for my little daughter, this afternoon at
four!"
"O where is Grandma!" cried the child--"I want to hug her!"
They all rose up hurriedly, but Sarah came forward from her scant
pretense of retirement, with another note for Dr. Grey.
"I was to give you this last of all," she said, with an air of one
fulfilling grave diplomatic responsibility.
"My dear ones," ran the note, "I have gathered from my family and
friends, and from professional and spiritual advisers the idea that
change is often beneficial. With this in mind I have given myself a
Christmas present of a Cook's Tour around the world--and am gone. A
Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all!"
She was gone.
Sarah admitted complicity.
"Sure she would have no one know a thing--not a word!" said Sarah. "And
she gave us something handsome to help her! And she's got that young
widder Johnson for a companion--and they went off last night on the
sleeper for New York!"
The gratitude of the family had to be spent in loving letters, and in
great plans of what they would do to make Grandma happy when she came
back.
No one felt more grateful than little loving Josephine, whose dearest
wishes were all fulfilled. When she remembered it she went very
quietly, when all were busy somewhere else, climbed up on the step
ladder, and took down the forgotten phonograph from the top of the
wardrobe.
"Dear Grandma!" she said. "I do hope she liked it!"
CHRISTMAS LOVE
When the Writer or the Preacher or one who chances to be both considers
a Christmas sermon, a Christmas story, what is the idea that comes
uppermost?
Love, of course. Not sex-love: that's for every day. Not Mother-love:
that's always and always. Not any of the minor brands of admiring
devotion, gratitude, sympathy, friendship, attraction of any sort. No.
When we say "Love" at Christmas time we mean Love, the Spirit of Life.
About once a year we give thought to it. About once a year we seek to
express it; and, pitiful and limited though that expression be, its
forms are right.
These main forms of Christmas expressions are two-fold: the Spirit of
Joy, of Celebration, of High Festival--the highest of all; and the
Spirit of Giving. These are found wherever Christmas is kept, and make
it, as it should be, the glory of the year. In joy and in giving we are
most absolutely in line with the mainspring of the Universe: unmeasured
happiness--happiness that cannot be quenched--cannot be kept to
ourselves. What must run over and pour forth on other people: that is
real Love, Christmas Love--and that, of course, finds physical
expression in gay festivities and showering gifts.
Light, color, music--all that is sweet and gay and comforting; games,
dances and performances that show the happy heart; and always the
overflow--giving, giving, giving. That is the Spirit of Life.
It is the children's festival because children are more in line with the
Life Spirit than weazened old folk: the child has the passionate thirst
for joy which marks his high parentage.
Whatever else is true about the Central Power of the Universe, this is
true: it _is_ power. And it pours forth in Radiant Energy. All
"inanimate nature," so called, expresses this Power, each form after its
kind; and all animate nature, crowned with consciousness, not only
expresses it, but _feels_ it,--which is called "Living."
We human beings are the highest, finest, subtlest instrument on this
planet to receive and to transmit these waves of pouring Power. When we
feel it most we call it Happiness. In two ways it reaches our
consciousness, as it comes in and as it goes out, via the sensory and
motor nerves. The joy of receiving power is great: "stimulus" we call
it. It comes to us along the avenues of sense and thrills us with
increased well being. But this kind of pleasure is sadly limited by
those sense nerves of ours. We are but a little tea-cup: we cannot hold
much. The Music of the Spheres might pour round us; the light of a
thousand suns, the sweetness of piled banks of flowers, and all honey
and sugar and rich food: every sense can be fed to its little limit
only--and there the Happiness stops.
We can only feel so much--coming in. But there seems to be no limit to
the joy we feel when Power goes out through us. It seems so
self-evident, so needless, to say "It is more blessed to give than to
receive." Why _of course_ it is: any child even knows that.
True, a child, having a fresh, unsated sensorium, can receive with more
vivid pleasure than an adult--for a while. But it is easily over-tired,
easily over-fed with sensation, easily bored and weary with receiving.
Not with giving! Every child delights to let out the Power which is in
him--in her; delights to make and delights to give. Therefore, to
children is this their festival: the busy weeks of happiness in making
gifts, the swelling, glowing pride of giving them!
It's all right as far as it goes, but why, when such a thing is such
transcendent splendid blessedness, why only once a year? Why should
this beautiful experience in which we not only remember the birth of the
man who taught the world most of love but even try to practise what He
preached--why should it be limited to a mere memorial of His birthday,
plastered over the remnants of ancient festivals of the return of the
Sun God--the Goodness of the Earth Mother?
If Christmas is good, why not more of it? Then we smile, wryly, and
say, "Why, of course, we couldn't. The rest of life isn't like
that--and we have to live, you see."
Ah, that is where we are wrong--utterly wrong. The rest of life _is_
like that. That is _life_--Loving and Giving.
"Tut! Tut!" says the Practical Man. "That's emotional nonsense. That's
womanish." Two-thirds right, my practical friend. It is not nonsense,
but it is "emotional" and it is "womanish."
Emotion is _consciousness under pressure._ When we feel Power, we call
it emotion. Emotions vary: some are helpful and some hateful, according
to the nature of the instrument; but not to be emotional at all is not
to be alive. Those who spend their lives lit by a blaze of emotion,
warmed by a deep, slow-burning fire of emotion, pouring forth that
emotion in great works--we call Geniuses. Genius is simply more Power.
As to being womanish: that word is no longer a term of reproach or
belittlement. To be womanish is to be human, and we may now turn round
and pitifully dismiss much old world folly and passion as merely
"mannish." To be womanish--and practical--let us repeat, Life _is_
Loving and Giving. When we realize this, intelligently and completely,
we shall have a "continuous performance" of Christmases and a higher
level of happiness the year round, varied by greater heights. At
present the natural flood of Life Force, pouring through us in unbounded
creative energy, resulting in the myriad forms of human achievement and
manufacture, is sadly thwarted in its output by lingering remains of our
old period.
For a long time we lived by getting: to hunt, to catch, to kill, to eat
was all we knew: no loving or giving there save as the mother fulfilled
the law. But since our Humaness began, since all our thousand powers
and talents grew for mutual service, since we learned to do things for
each other--to make things for each other, to give things to each
other--then grew in us that rising tide of Power which lives out in
expression.
In spite of our old world perverseness, that Power pours on. Though we
scorn the gifts of those who make the comforts of life for us, though we
despise their service and so cruelly use them as to greatly thwart their
love--still we are fed and housed and clothed and carried by the love
and service of our kind, the daily, hourly gifts of those who work.
"They are not gifts," cries the Practical Man. "They are paid
for--every bit of 'em." Yes, Brother. And how paid for? Paid how
much? What scant reward, what meagre living, what miserable houses,
what stinted food, what limited education, and what poisoned pleasures
do we pay to those who make every necessity, comfort, convenience and
luxury for us!
Pay indeed! If a man "saves your life" once, and you give him twenty
cents an hour for his exertions in your behalf--have you paid him? By
the life-long labor of the human race--all those dead workers who built
up the structure of our present world, all those living workers who keep
the wheels revolving now--by these labors we live, all of us, all the
time.
Pay? Pay for daily--hourly--maintenance, protection, food, shelter,
safety, comfort? Pay for being kept alive?
Life is giving--Loving and Giving. You can't pay for it. You don't pay
for it. But this you do: you hinder it, by your paying. This pitiful
trickle of measurement, this ticking and pricing and holding back the
world's flood of outpouring energy by our wretched turnstiles--this is
what keeps us poor!
We need to let loose the Power that is in us. We need to Love more and
Give more--a plain truth, Jesus taught some centuries ago, largely in
vain. We have but to let out the love that is in us: there is no limit
to its flood.
To so love every child that is born on earth as to provide that child
with all that it needs for richest growth, for full appreciation of the
splendor of human life--of conscious citizenship! Children so reared
will have a thousandfold more to give, and a thousandfold greater joy in
giving. Then life will roll out through our glad hearts and willing
hands as the sun's light pours abroad--only that we are conscious, we
feel this light, this heat, this radiant energy. We call it--_love._
WHAT DIANTHA DID