A VISIT TO THE SOCIAL PALACE.
Nearly a year has passed, and it is summer again. Changes unheard of
have been wrought over the river. The great palace dedicated to
industry, rears its proud head toward the heavens, and joy and peace and
plenty reign within its walls. Every apartment and every shop has been
occupied over six months, and the tenants are voluntarily doubling and
trebling their rents, for in this way they are paying for their
magnificent home. The organization of the industries and of the domestic
life, modeled after that of the great _Familistère_ at Guise, must be
scientifically adapted to the true laws of social harmony, for all the
machinery works quietly, regularly, and satisfactorily. There is plenty
of suggestion and lively discussion, but there is no discord. Even the
narrowest and most selfish have learned that the happiness and continued
prosperity of the individual lies in, and is indissolubly interwoven
with, the happiness and prosperity of the whole.
As we cross over the neat iron bridge, we stop to admire the scene
before us. On either side of the broad avenue leading to the palace, are
green lawns, decorated with parterres of blossoming flowers, young trees
and flowering shrubs, and winding roads and walks. To the left, beyond
and stretching out of sight, are fruit orchards, fields of grain, and
gardens in perfect order and luxuriant growth. On the left of the
central avenue, and not far from the bridge, stands the pretty theatre,
in colored bricks and very ornate in its style. Children from six to
sixteen are passing in, for this is the last rehearsal, but one, of a
great spectacular entertainment, to be given to-morrow afternoon, and
repeated in the evening. To-morrow is the children’s festival, which
will end the grand inaugural celebration, beginning to-day—promised long
ago to the workmen of the Social Palace. The count had intended to give
this festival outright, as a testimonial to the devotion and enthusiasm
with which the men had conducted their work; but they got together and
discussed it, and ordered it in a better way, as he himself was forced
to admit. At the last meeting of the two councils of directors (twelve
of the ablest men and twelve of the ablest women chosen by ballot by all
the members), they had united their session, and decided to advertise
the festival widely, and to count on paying all the expenses with the
proceeds of the refreshments, the entrance fee to the evening inaugural
ceremonies in the grand central court, and the tickets to the grand ball
that was to follow. The count was to make up the deficit, if there was
any, and none but members of the Social Palace were to receive
everything free on that day. Stevens, who had sent for his family and
taken up his residence in the palace, was an influential member, and his
prediction that even the great court, capable of seating five thousand,
would not hold all who would come, proved correct. The day dawned
magnificently, and extra trains on the several railroads were filled
during the whole two days, and thousands came and went who did not stay
to the evening celebration, but were shown over the palace and grounds,
and lavishly patronized the luxuries furnished by the restaurant and the
wine-cellar.
But we have just crossed the bridge, and are passing the theatre. Going
in with the young actors are their big brothers—young men dressed in a
very elegant and jaunty uniform. These are the corps of Social Palace
firemen, whose ostensible office is a sinecure, but they are the
conductors of all the muscular work at festivals. They are
stage-dressers, ushers, box-keepers; and on this occasion, with Too Soon
dressed in gorgeous Oriental costume, they wait upon the little tables,
scattered everywhere in the vicinity of the palace; in arbors, and
wherever there is a shady spot.
The grand façade of the palace, with its great arched doorway, presents
an imposing appearance. The main color of the large bricks that compose
the walls, is light granite gray, but the facings and arches of the
doors and windows are of a dark slate tint; while in the walls, high up,
are set in, like mosaics, smaller, brilliant-colored bricks, forming
three words that resemble a mediæval illuminated missal. One of these
words, reaching more than half-way across the face of the left wing or
quadrangle, is LIBERTY; on the middle building, the word EQUALITY; and
on the right wing, FRATERNITY.
The café, restaurant, and billiard-room, as well as the great public
kitchen, are in one building, behind the rear quadrangle of the palace,
and connected with it by broad covered corridors on two different
stories. On the left of this rear quadrangle, and connected with it in
the same way, is the fine building containing the nursery and
_pouponnat_ below, and above, the _bambinat_ and schools; still beyond,
or to the left of the school building, and joined to it, are the fine
swimming-baths, fed by the brook, and heated in winter by the exhaust
steam of the silk factory, which, on after consideration, was placed at
the left of the palace, instead of at the right, as first intended.
Still beyond these buildings are stables, carriage-houses, and the steam
laundry; and still further, are the gasometer and the _abattoir_. From
these buildings on to the forest, and extending right and left over a
broad area, are nurseries filled with plants, shrubs, and young trees;
and here also are located the hot-houses and green-houses of the Social
Palace. Finally, beyond, are the rising, wooded hills, now transformed
into a beautiful grove with shady walks and carriage-roads extending to
and around the lake on the summit. This is the grand resort of the
children for picnics, boat-rides, fishing, and for skating in the
winter. The most serious punishment of the children for idleness or any
misconduct is the deprivation of this pleasure, which is allowed the
first sunny afternoon of every week.
Flags and streamers are flying on the palace roof to-day, and music from
bands in the open air adds its charm to a scene too inspiring for
description. To-day the shuttles of the silk-looms are silent. The
brick-making establishment is represented by a single guard, relieved
every two hours; for there must be some one there, as in the silk
factory, to answer the questions of visitors. All the workmen are in
their holiday dresses, and joy and happiness are on every face. Large
numbers of the Social Palace occupants—all who are willing to assume the
responsibility of making the visitors comfortable, or to assist in their
entertainment in any way—wear a little badge bearing the words “Liberty,
Equality, Fraternity.” When they wish to escape being constantly
appealed to for information, they hide their badges for a time; but it
is rarely done, for they are as proud as princes of their magnificent
home and its surroundings.
Inside the palace, in private apartments, young girls are busy laying
out their dresses and finery for the evening ball which is to commence
at ten o’clock. No single Cinderella is to stay at home for want of the
proper accoutrements. The fairy godmother, in the form of Susie and the
count’s munificence, has already been working magic in the way of simple
but beautiful ball-dresses, and flowers have already been provided with
lavish hands. Not only is the inauguration to be celebrated, but another
great event, which as yet is a secret to the greater number; and those
who know, will only give hints of the birth of a child, the first that
has seen the light in the Social Palace.
By three o’clock in the afternoon not only strangers, but all Oakdale,
seems to be on the ground, or enjoying the marvels in the interior of
the palace; and carriages and pedestrians are still swarming up the
great avenues.
Mrs. Kendrick and Louise, with Mrs. Burnham, have been all the afternoon
with Mrs. Forest and her daughters, or with Charlotte and Felix. The
doctor has spent all the time he could spare from his various
responsibilities in the direction of the festival, with his well-beloved
Clara, who is somewhat indisposed, but in an ever-present and still
ever-promising state of happiness such as rarely falls to the lot of
women. Not a cloud has ever darkened the sky of her married bliss. She
is grown even dearer to Paul than ever, and to her he is still the hero
of her dreams. There is little danger that the illusions of love will
not endure in this case; not because, after a year, they are more
ineffably tender to each other; not because there may be new ties to
bind them, but because Nature has attuned them to each other
“Like perfect music unto noble words.”
The apartments of the count are in the right wing of the palace,
directly under the word FRATERNITY, emblazoned on the outer wall. The
doctor’s are adjoining, on one side, and those of Felix and Charlotte on
the other. Charlotte’s marriage had proved a very happy one, despite the
croaking of her brother and certain of her old friends. On this
afternoon, as Felix was absent, the doctor brought Charlotte in to dine
with his family and their visitors. There were no signs of dinner as she
entered, but in an incredibly short space of time Dinah, in a
gayly-trimmed head-dress, and a ruffled white apron spanning her ample
proportions, produced a very elegant repast, without the slightest sign
of flurry or over-heating manifested in her shining face.
Mrs. Forest saw that her visitors marveled at this suddenly and easily
prepared table, and she explained:
“We scarcely ever do any cooking. When the table is set, Dinah brings,
or has brought, from the great _cuisine_ whatever we want. It is under
the control of our French citizens—we are all fellow-citizens, you
know,” said Mrs. Forest, by way of parenthesis, and with a comical
smile, “and nobody can cook as they do.”
“And so you are actually free from all the trouble of marketing and
overseeing the cooking,” said Mrs. Kendrick; “but is it not very
expensive?”
“On the contrary,” answered Mrs. Forest, “if we were to furnish all
these materials, buying them at retail, and Dinah were to cook them,
which she could hardly do in a whole day, even if she knew how, it would
cost almost twice as much, calculating, of course, for the waste which
cannot be avoided in a private family. Many a woman here used her
cook-stove at first, but as the palace is all heated by the furnaces in
winter, and the kitchen-stove fire not needed, they soon gave it up.
Now, even the very poorest go or send their children to the _cuisine_
for whatever they want. After dinner I will show you our wine-cellars.
They are well stocked, and the very poorest may drink them. The count
has contracted with certain great vineyards in France to supply us. They
are of several prices; some very good ones at ten cents a bottle, and
fair light kinds for six—half bottles at five and three cents. You know
it is his belief, and also the doctor’s, that children should be
accustomed to drink wine, diluted with water, of course, as the best and
surest means of preventing drunkenness.”
“Do you really believe that, doctor?” asked Mrs. Burnham, who was
naturally greatly interested in the subject, on account of her son’s
intemperance.
“I do believe it,” he replied. “Who are the people whom we call
‘shoddy,’ and who make themselves ridiculous by overdressing? Naturally,
they are those who have been deprived of the luxury of dress in their
youth. Who are the gormandizers? Certainly not those who have been
accustomed to plenty of excellent food from their childhood. Then again,
the miser, who lives deprived of all the luxuries of life, that he may
gratify an abnormal passion for hoarding away money; he is in all cases,
I believe, one who has been deprived of money in his youth, or may be he
has inherited the passion from some unhappy parent. The same law should
apply to drinking, though there is another cause at work here, too
frequently overlooked: the passion for stimulation or exaltation. That,
in my opinion, will vanish when we have a social life that answers our
demands for natural excitement—society, music, games, dancing, dramatic
acting, scientific pursuits, and flirting I will add, Miss Louise, for
your sake, for I know you think I was going to leave out something
important.”
Louise blushed very prettily, and disclaimed all such shocking thoughts.
“Yet,” said Mrs. Burnham, “you certainly have some members who are
addicted to drinking.”
“True, but there are no liquors sold in the café or billiard-rooms, and
account for it as you can, men are not apt to get drunk on wine. To be
sure the men wanted liquors sold in these rooms, and they voted for it
pretty largely.”
“Why, what hindered it being brought in then?” asked Mrs. Burnham.
“Why, don’t you know the women vote here as well as the men?” asked
Linnie, glancing at her mother. “I certainly voted against it, and so
did mamma, and Leila, and just about all the women.”
“Mamma is a female suffrager now,” said Leila, mischievously. “She is
one of the council of twelve elected by universal suffrage.” Mrs. Forest
reproved her daughter’s garrulity, looking herself a little foolish,
remembering her own stricture in times past, upon the claims of the
women’s rights agitators.
“What are the functions of these councils?” asked Mrs. Kendrick.
“The twelve men,” said Mrs. Forest, “manage the industrial and financial
matters, the buying of supplies, and so on. We attend to the working of
the domestic machinery, the nursery and the schools, report on the
quality of the supplies, call general meetings of the women, and discuss
all matters. Nothing is done as a duty, and for nothing but the honor,
except our work as councils of direction. So far, we have not seen fit
to ask for pay, but our duties are not onerous. We sit an hour every
week.”
“Well, I must confess this Social Palace is the most wonderful thing,”
said Mrs. Kendrick. “If the people were all educated—of our own class,
you know—I would try to have Mr. Kendrick sell out and come here to
live.”
“Bless you!” said the doctor. “Wait till you see our rising generation,
who are being educated here; I was going to say you wouldn’t know them
from gentlemen and ladies; but you would, by three signs: superior
refinement, superior education, and superior recognition of the rights
of others. You’d better come as soon as there is a vacancy, but there
are, at least, now on the books, a hundred applicants, and as the first
applying have the first chance, yours are rather small.” Mrs. Kendrick
thought there was a slight malice in the doctor’s tone.
“One word more about intemperance,” said Mrs. Burnham. “Any of your
members can go to Oakdale and get liquor. Now that your son is gone, and
that Clara has moved away, the liquor dealers have broken their
promises. I believe my poor boy will be quite ruined. I have been
thinking of consulting you, doctor, about taking him to Binghamton.”
“The worst thing about that inebriate asylum there,” said the doctor,
“is that there is no industry for the inmates. They actually spend days
carving sticks and bits of wood; but still, as it is the best thing that
offers I should say send him there at once.”
“So should I,” said Mrs. Forest. “I believe our son is quite cured of
his habit. There is a decanter of brandy standing in the sitting-room
all the time, and he has not once touched it. You know he is coming home
on trial. We expect him next week.” And the mother’s face lighted up
with joy at the thought of the restoration of her first-born.
“You were going to ask, Mrs. Burnham,” said Charlotte, “what we do when
our members come home intoxicated. We say nothing, unless they disturb
the quiet of others, or unless their families complain to the council.
When this occurs, or any act of disorder militating against public order
and morality, the council publish a bulletin of censure, and place it on
the bulletin-board, where all the acts of the board, and all general
notices, are placed. At first the name is not mentioned, but
accompanying the censure is an expression of deep regret and the offer
of sympathy to help the culprit reform.”
“We have, so far, had but four cases,” said Mrs. Forest. “Our council
attends to these questions. This bulletin-board is a terror to the
disorderly.”
“And very naturally too,” said Charlotte, “for it contains the decisions
of the council they have chosen by their own votes.”
“We hear all sorts of stories outside,” said Mrs. Kendrick. “One is,
that the _bambins_ study politics, and learn the uses of the ballot; but
of course that is a mere joke.”
“Not wholly,” replied Mrs. Müller, or Charlotte, the name by which we
have known her. “The children all have daily exercises in the open air,
and even the little tots six, seven, and eight years old do quite an
amount of useful work. They go out in bands of ten or twenty each, under
a little industrial chief, girl or boy, chosen by themselves, by ballot.
They have regular ballot-boxes.”
“Then they do learn the use of the ballot-box even at that absurd age.”
“Oh yes. Why not?” answered Charlotte. “The head-gardener, or his
assistant, Edward Page, provides them with little hoes and rakes, or
other small implements, and points out the work to be done. Then the
chief sets them to work after his or her example, and sees that the
gardener’s instructions are carried out to the letter. For this work,
chiefs and laborers receive five cents an hour, which is their own
money, and they can squander it just as they please; but as all the
candies are of a simple and healthy kind, they can’t hurt themselves.
Some of them save their money. The height of their ambition is to amass
a fortune of one dollar. That takes twenty days, for they are not
encouraged to work more than an hour at a time. They show real judgment
in choosing their leaders, and these little leaders are very careful to
please their constituents. So, in this way, almost from the cradle they
begin to learn the principles of popular government. Why, they use the
terms ballot, nominee, majority, candidate, constituent, just as
intelligently as other children do doll and hop-scotch!”
“Well, it is plain to be seen that girls brought up so will never
discuss the right to a voice in government. It will seem as natural a
right,” said Mrs. Kendrick, “as that of breathing.”
“True,” said Mrs. Forest, “and I wish we had all been brought up so. If
we had, it is my opinion that there would not be a house of ill-fame or
a drinking den in the town. But let us go into the nursery.”
The doctor excused himself, and the ladies, all except the twins, went
by themselves. Mrs. Forest led them through the long, well-lighted
corridor, to the angle of the left wing, and seating them and herself in
an elegant elevator, descended to the floor below, and then passing
through the central court and the covered way leading to the school
building, on the lower floor, they were shown into the nursery and
_pouponnat_. Susie, who was one of the council of directors, was there,
giving some directions or suggestions. She was dressed in a
gossamer-like organdie, and wore fragrant flowers in her blonde hair and
on her breast. The ladies noticed that Mrs. Forest and Charlotte gave
their hands to Susie cordially, and therefore they followed the example.
The nursery and _pouponnat_ were in an immense, high-studded,
well-lighted and well-ventilated room. The floors were waxed or oiled,
and here and there were bouquets of flowers in pretty vases, on
wall-brackets. There were also busts and pictures. Everything was
exquisitely fresh and clean. The _pouponnat_ was separated from the
nursery by a little balustrade, and the _poupons_ were marching to the
music of their own songs, keeping time meanwhile with their little hands
to an accompaniment on a piano played by a young girl who was one of
five who conducted the _pouponnat_ exercises two hours every day. There
were about eighty _poupons_, and some fifty babies, who were watching
the _poupons_ with great interest. There were toys of every kind, and
little swings and various furniture for light gymnastic exercises. While
the visitors were looking on, one of the _poupons_, marching somewhat
awkwardly, fell and hurt his head. He uttered a loud sob and ran to the
young girl, who took him in her arms and “kissed the spot,” in a
motherly fashion, and sent him back to his place in the ranks after a
very short term of consolation.
Mrs. Kendrick remarked the child’s restraining himself from crying.
“They very rarely cry when they are hurt,” said Susie. “If any child
‘yells,’ as Min calls it, the others stare at him, and he cannot brave
the public disapprobation of his peers. This is a thing that we have all
wondered at. Children are not very sensitive to the criticism of grown
people. They can only understand the motives and feelings of their
peers. You see there is plenty of sound, of prattle, but no racket. It
is the same thing in the nursery at Guise. There is no punishment there
nor here for crying, and yet they do not cry unless they are suffering.
Their wants, all of them, we try to supply; and if they moan and cry, we
know they must be ill.”
“Yet certainly that is not natural,” said Mrs. Burnham. “Children do cry
when nothing is the matter with them.”
“Their wants cannot be supplied in the isolated home,” said Susie, very
earnestly. “They suffer from lack of amusement, and especially for the
society of those whom they can understand—their peers. It is difficult
for those to understand this who have not seen the working of a
well-organized nursery. When the mothers try to keep their little ones
at home longer than a few hours, they worry and fret until they have to
bring them back. The nurslings stay here all night for the most part;
the _poupons_ sleep at home. All the food for both these departments is
supplied free. It is kept warm all day, and for the babies all night.
There are several wetnurses, and mothers who have not weaned their
babies come at intervals and nurse them, and take them home generally at
night. All is free. The mother can have her little ones here a part or
all the time, or keep them at home all the time. But there is not a
_poupon_ in the place who does not pass some of the hours of the day
here.”
“When do they reach the distinguished honor of becoming _poupons_?”
asked Louise, smiling.
“You may well say honor,” replied Susie. “It is the ambition of the
babies to enter the _pouponnat_. This they do when they can walk well,
and have learned to keep themselves clean. The _poupons_, in their turn,
aspire to become _bambins_, where they have higher exercises, and
commence the Froëbel exercises, slate exercises, and reading. The
nurslings are promoted when about thirty months old, and the _poupons_,
at from four to five years old.”
“Well, I must say I never saw children so happy—did you, Mrs. Burnham?”
“Never. Modern progress will eliminate the mother altogether by-and-by,
I suspect.”
Some of the babies were crowing in their nurses’ arms, some sleeping in
their elegant little cribs, canopied with snowy muslin, many playing and
rolling over each other on the floor, or practising their first steps in
the “walker,” an elliptical platform on castors, surrounded by a double
railing just high enough for the little toddlers to cling to and lean on
as they walked around between these railings. The first lesson in
politeness, Susie said, was to wait in their cribs in the morning until
their turn came to be bathed, and dressed, and fed, and the next to pass
each other in the “walker” without jostling or crowding.
“I see you have no rocking-cradles. How do you get all these children to
sleep?” asked Mrs. Kendrick.
“It is one of the prettiest sights you ever saw,” said Mrs. Forest, “to
see these children all put into their little beds at night without
rocking, and there singing themselves to sleep without any crying.”
“You don’t really mean to say they do that?” asked Mrs. Burnham,
incredulously.
“They certainly do, all of them, after they have been here a short time.
The gas burns low all night, and the little ones who do not sleep all
night are fed, of course.”
“Well, wonders will never cease,” remarked Mrs. Burnham, who then
inquired how this forest of little cribs were kept so perfectly sweet
and fresh. One of the nurses showed these beds. Each one had a sacking
bottom, holding about a bushel of wheaten-bran, over which was laid a
little blanket. Any moisture penetrating this bran formed at once a
solid lump, which was removed, leaving the rest all dry and clean. Fresh
bran was added from time to time. Each bed had a soft little pillow, and
plenty of covering.
Other visitors came and went, while these stayed, determined to see if
everything was really as marvelously satisfactory as people said.
Here the nurses prepared to take their charges, or numbers of them, into
the swimming-baths, where the company followed them, wondering more and
more.