THE STONE WALL
THE STONE WALL
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
By MARY CASAL
CHICAGO
EYNCOURT PRESS
MCMXXX
Copyright, 1930, by The Eyncourt Press
Printed in the U.S.A.
PREFACE
If you do not want to hear the truth about things which have been
greeted with that most dangerous weapon, “S-s-s-sh,” don’t read this
book, said weapon being to my mind more dangerous to the development of
the human mind and soul than the machine gun is to the body of a man
placed in front of the firing line.
I believe the time has come when there should be less secrecy about
matters which are at the root of many evils of today. Not a new thought.
Many are thinking along those lines and many are accepting very frank
articles now written on sex problems which bear on the conduct of the
youth of today.
Novels are being written dealing in open terms with the so-called normal
types of humans, leading one through the various channels of lovemaking
and the resultant episodes, leaving nothing to the imagination, but
supplying a few asterisks to conform to the ideas of the snooping
reformers and self-appointed censors.
This book is not fiction. I am writing of my own life; my actual
experiences from my earliest recollection to the age of nearly seventy
years.
Many will declare it to have been an abnormal life. I do not believe
every woman has been through all the experiences that I have (I
certainly hope not for their sakes), but I do believe that every woman
has had some of the problems that I have had to face.
Many will deny a knowledge of any of them, afraid to acknowledge even to
themselves the whole truth. In judging reactions in a child’s mind, I
ask the readers of today to remember that I was born in 1864, and also
to realize the atmosphere of the home life of that period.
I expect to speak openly of things which, in the modern novel, are
represented by asterisks; on the stage by the lowering of the curtain;
in the press many times without restriction, but as ordinary “news” to
sell the paper, and in conversation by a rising of the eyebrows or a
shrug of the shoulders.
It has taken courage to bare the facts of an extraordinary life, but it
is done with the sincere hope that it may throw light from a new and
different angle on the effort of the parent to understand children, and
also to bring out the thought that without truth nothing may be
accomplished in this life.
CHAPTER I
A few plants of mullein, commonly known in the East as “Indian tobacco,”
showed themselves in my garden. Weeds. They must be hoed up, but the
velvety sage green of the fuzzy leaves held my hand. My mind went back
many years, recalling a sermon I once heard a Unitarian minister preach
on the subject “What is weeds?” He prefaced his talk with the recital of
an experience in his garden one morning, when a small boy, peeping
through the fence, asked the usual question “What yer doin’?” The
minister answered: “I’m pulling up weeds.” “What is weeds?” asked the
boy. The memory of that sermon stayed with me for many years and now
asserted itself. Who shall determine that such is a weed which must be
hoed up because it always has been? Those mullein “weeds” grew and
flourished, carefully tended as were the legitimate flowers in the
garden. How grateful they seemed. The leaves broadened and covered much
space. The glimpse of that wonderful Corot green daily went to my heart
as the pictures from that great artist’s hand had ever done.
The first year, the leaves, catching the sparkling frost in the early
morning, or the raindrops clinging in jeweled splendor and again the
gentle dew, gave a varied tint that ever seemed to speak to me in
gratitude for the care and interest I had given the despised weed.
The second summer found the flower stalk rising to heights unknown in
its wild state. Many were the friends who “Never would have thought of
bothering with a weed” but who stood in admiration before that bed of
mullein.
Live things have always interested me. Full of vitality, I have always
entered into work or play with great enthusiasm. I believe I have
excelled in both. There are times now, at the age when I have become
less active, when I feel that perhaps I was one of the “weeds” that
should have been pulled up and thrown away.
Does one often have the courage to tell the whole truth about himself or
herself? I am going to do it, come what may. Do we all have two lives to
lead? I have led two distinct lives all my life. I should be much over a
century in years if each life were to be spread out along separate
lines. In both of these lives I have been absolutely sincere.
I do not expect to solve any great problem, nor have I a cure for the
many ills of society of today. I have a fairly good answer to the
question, “Why are we all liars?” Oh yes, we are, and you know it, and
we have been all of our lives. We have all lived the most cruel,
heartbreaking lies. I know why I have done so, and I believe many will
acknowledge that the shoe fits them so well that they will be able to
put it on and walk right out of the shop wearing it.
I have read many works on adolescence and on matters of sex, but nearly
always they are filled mainly with theories and couched in such language
that it is hard for the lay mind always to grasp the meaning. There will
be nothing to follow here that all may not understand.
I was born in the country, in New England, of poor, because honest,
parents. Maternally from that prolific Mayflower stock of Puritans, and
paternally from an artistic line of English origin—musicians and
painters largely—with views somewhat broader than the “May Blossoms.”
I was born, then, in 1864, the ninth and last of a flock. My brothers
and sisters used to comfort me with the statement that our parents were
so disgusted when they saw me, that they would not order any more. In
later years I would retort that when they reached perfection they
canceled all further orders.
When playtime years arrived my only companions were boys—one brother and
three cousins who lived just across the road. My tastes ran naturally to
boys’ sports and the out-of-doors life. To this fact I have always
attributed my masculine tastes in dress and otherwise. I have always
felt most at ease in tailored suits, low-heeled shoes, using large
handkerchiefs, etc. I have felt that I must be physically comfortable to
do my best work. I have simply ignored convention in dress; hence I
believe I have done some good work. I have enjoyed smoking all of my
life. Before women smoked as openly as they do now, I excused my doing
so by saying that I played with boys in my younger days and had to smoke
in order to do so, as they were afraid I might “tell” on them otherwise.
Nothing could ever induce me to play with dolls. How I hated one that
was given to me one Christmas when I so longed for a jack-knife! My
disappointment was so keen that my father loaned me his bright
copper-handled knife with instructions that I should sit in one place on
the big roots of a huge elm tree and whittle a particular stick which he
gave me. What joy! In less than five minutes the family was summoned by
my shrieks! I had cut the first finger of my left hand right through the
first joint, and there it hung by the skin underneath. My oldest sister
promptly broke the heads off a few matches from a card of the same, put
the splint under the finger joint and bound it up with a strip of cotton
cloth from the “sick bag.” Today there is not even a scar, and I have
had the use of a perfectly good finger with a normally movable joint all
of my life. Thinking of the great advance which has been made in first
aid devices and the skill which has been acquired in surgery, makes me
tremble to think of what might have been my loss if that accident had
happened in recent years.
“Out with the boys” was my slogan and my joy. Sports! How I loved their
games, and I might say “my games,” for my imagination was ever as alert
as theirs and they were equally as keen about my suggestions as they
were about their own. My brother, however, was looked upon as the real
“boss” as he was the oldest of the group.
The old family homestead where my cousins lived, and the farm
opposite—my home—were the scenes of real and celebrated Indian battles
in the early days. We knew the stories of these bloody fights so well
that we lived them over in our imagination and, barring the blood, they
figured in all of our plays.
We had wonderful collections of Indian arrowheads, spears, mortars and
pestles, and pottery, which we picked up here and there all over our
farms. In the fall, we rejoiced in the wigwams made of stacked-up
cornstalks, a bit more than did our forefathers, I fancy.
Of course I was made to sew and knit and do all the conventional things
that a New England girl was supposed to do, but my stint was a nightmare
and nearly always done while the boys waited impatiently outside of the
window. The games were not complete without me, as I matched them in
skill and surpassed them in some of the contests.
When they had work to do I was only too happy to pitch in and do my
share. Their work always seemed so much more interesting than mine.
There was some sense in piling wood, splitting kindling, pulling weeds,
and going for the cows, but to see my mother cut perfectly good pieces
of calico up into tiny pieces and fix them for me to sew together again
seemed so futile! Poor mothers of those days! Nowadays, work in that
line is mostly done in schools, and made very enticing.
My joy was complete when I was allowed to wear boy’s clothes when
out-of-doors at play. I fancy that this digression from the conventional
was allowed by my mother as a labor saving device, as skirts and
petticoats were often in a sad state after a bird’s nest hunt or other
romping games.
I recall a rather amusing episode which I will relate to show that we
were all boys together. We had large collections of birds’ eggs. We were
taught to take but one egg from the nest and never to touch the others.
We took turns climbing high in the trees to get a coveted egg. It was my
turn to climb and the nest was in a very difficult place. I reached it
in good form and placed the egg in my mouth on my return scramble. I was
nearly on the ground when my foot slipped and the egg broke! Oh!
Horrors! It was far too ripe to be palatable and I landed in great
distress of mind and mouth. Nevertheless, I was pounced upon and given a
big beating by the “other boys” who cared not for my discomfort. The
loss of that one egg was long held up to me as a disgrace of major
proportion.