The Forerunner, Volume 1 (1909 1910)

C >> Charlotte Perkins Gilman >> The Forerunner, Volume 1 (1909 1910)

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"But do you _like_ a skylight room?" Mrs. Leland's friends further
inquired of her?"

"By no means!" she promptly replied. "I hate it. I feel like a mouse
in a pitcher!"

"Then why in the name of reason--?"

"Because I can sleep there! _Sleep_!--It's the only way to be quiet in
New York, and I have to sleep late if I sleep at all. I've fixed the
skylight so that I'm drenched with air--and not drenched with rain!--and
there I am. Johnny is gagged and muffled as it were, and carried
downstairs as early as possible. He gets his breakfast, and the
unfortunate Miss Merton has to go out and play with him--in all
weathers--except kindergarten time. Then Alice sits on the stairs and
keeps everybody away till I ring."

Possibly it was owing to the stillness and the air and the sleep till
near lunchtime that Mrs. Leland kept her engaging youth, her vivid
uncertain beauty. At times you said of her, "She has a keen intelligent
face, but she's not pretty." Which was true. She was not pretty. But
at times again she overcame you with her sudden loveliness.

All of which was observed by her friend from the second floor who wanted
to marry her. In this he was not alone; either as a friend, of whom she
had many, or as a lover, of whom she had more. His distinction lay
first in his opportunities, as a co-resident, for which he was heartily
hated by all the more and some of the many; and second in that he
remained a friend in spite of being a lover, and remained a lover in
spite of being flatly refused.

His name in the telephone book was given "Arthur Olmstead, real estate;"
office this and residence that--she looked him up therein after their
first meeting. He was rather a short man, heavily built, with a quiet
kind face, and a somewhat quizzical smile. He seemed to make all the
money he needed, occupied the two rooms and plentiful closet space of
his floor in great contentment, and manifested most improper domesticity
of taste by inviting friends to tea. "Just like a woman!" Mrs. Leland
told him.

"And why not? Women have so many attractive ways--why not imitate
them?" he asked her.

"A man doesn't want to be feminine, I'm sure," struck in a pallid,
overdressed youth, with openwork socks on his slim feet, and perfumed
handkerchief.

Mr. Olmstead smiled a broad friendly smile. He was standing near the
young man, a little behind him, and at this point he put his hands just
beneath the youth's arms, lifted and set him aside as if he were an
umbrella-stand. "Excuse me, Mr. Masters," he said gravely, but you were
standing on Mrs. Leland's gown."

Mr. Masters was too much absorbed in apologizing to the lady to take
umbrage at the method of his removal; but she was not so oblivious. She
tried doing it to her little boy afterwards, and found him very heavy.

When she came home from her walk or drive in the early winter dusk, this
large quietly furnished room, the glowing fire, the excellent tea and
delicate thin bread and butter were most restful. "It is two more
stories up before I can get my own;" she would say--"I must stop a
minute."

When he began to propose to her the first time she tried to stop him.
"O please don't!" she cried. _"Please_ don't! There are no end of
reasons why I will not marry anybody again. Why can't some of you men
be nice to me and not--that! Now I can't come in to tea any more!"

"I'd like to know why not," said he calmly. "You don't have to marry me
if you don't want to; but that's no reason for cutting my acquaintance,
is it?"

She gazed at him in amazement.

"I'm not threatening to kill myself, am I? I don't intend going to the
devil. I'd like to be your husband, but if I can't--mayn't I be a
brother to you?"

She was inclined to think he was making fun of her, but no--his proposal
had had the real ring in it. "And you're not--you're not going to--?"
it seemed the baldest assumption to think that he was going to, he
looked so strong and calm and friendly.

"Not going to annoy you? Not going to force an undesired affection on
you and rob myself of a most agreeable friendship? Of course not. Your
tea is cold, Mrs. Leland--let me give you another cup. And do you think
Miss Rose is going to do well as 'Angelina?'"

So presently Mrs. Leland was quite relieved in her mind, and free to
enjoy the exceeding comfortableness of this relation. Little Johnny was
extremely fond of Mr Olmstead; who always treated him with respect, and
who could listen to his tales of strife and glory more intelligently
than either mother or governess. Mr. Olmstead kept on hand a changing
supply of interesting things; not toys--never, but real things not
intended for little boys to play with. No little boy would want to play
with dolls for instance; but what little boy would not be fascinated by
a small wooden lay figure, capable of unheard-of contortions. Tin
soldiers were common, but the flags of all nations--real flags, and true
stories about them, were interesting. Noah's arks were cheap and
unreliable scientifically; but Barye lions, ivory elephants, and
Japanese monkeys in didactic groups of three, had unfailing attraction.
And the books this man had--great solid books that could be opened wide
on the floor, and a little boy lie down to in peace and comfort!

Mrs. Leland stirred her tea and watched them until Johnny was taken
upstairs.

"Why don't you smoke?" she asked suddenly. "Doctor's orders?"

"No--mine," he answered. "I never consulted a doctor in my life."

"Nor a dentist, I judge," said she.

"Nor a dentist."

"You'd better knock on wood!" she told him.

"And cry 'Uncle Reuben?' he asked smilingly.

"You haven't told me why you don't smoke!" said she suddenly.

"Haven't I?" he said. "That was very rude of me. But look here.
There's a thing I wanted to ask you. Now I'm not pressing any sort of
inquiry as to myself; but as a brother, would you mind telling me some
of those numerous reasons why you will not marry anybody?"

She eyed him suspiciously, but he was as solid and calm as usual,
regarding her pleasantly and with no hint of ulterior purpose. "Why--I
don't mind," she began slowly. "First--I have been married--and was
very unhappy. That's reason enough."

He did not contradict her; but merely said, "That's one," and set it
down in his notebook.

"Dear me, Mr. Olmstead! You're not a reporter, are you!"

"O no--but I wanted to have them clear and think about them," he
explained. "Do you mind?" And he made as if to shut his little book
again.

"I don't know as I mind," she said slowly. "But it looks
so--businesslike."

"This is a very serious business, Mrs. Leland, as you must know. Quite
aside from any personal desire of my own, I am truly 'your sincere
friend and well-wisher,' as the Complete Letter Writer has it, and there
are so many men wanting to marry you."

This she knew full well, and gazed pensively at the toe of her small
flexible slipper, poised on a stool before the fire.

Mr. Olmstead also gazed at the slipper toe with appreciation.

"What's the next one?" he said cheerfully.

"Do you know you are a real comfort," she told him suddenly. "I never
knew a man before who could--well leave off being a man for a moment and
just be a human creature."

"Thank you, Mrs. Leland," he said in tones of pleasant sincerity. "I
want to be a comfort to you if I can. Incidentally wouldn't you be more
comfortable on this side of the fire--the light falls better--don't
move." And before she realized what he was doing he picked her up,
chair and all, and put her down softly on the other side, setting the
footstool as before, and even daring to place her little feet upon
it--but with so businesslike an air that she saw no opening for rebuke.
It is a difficult matter to object to a man's doing things like that
when he doesn't look as if he was doing them.

"That's better," said he cheerfully, taking the place where she had
been. "Now, what's the next one?"

"The next one is my boy."

"Second--Boy," he said, putting it down. "But I should think he'd be a
reason the other way. Excuse me--I wasn't going to criticize--yet! And
the third?"

"Why should you criticize at all, Mr. Olmstead?"

"I shouldn't--on my own account. But there may come a man you love."
He had a fine baritone voice. When she heard him sing Mrs. Leland
always wished he were taller, handsomer, more distinguished looking; his
voice sounded as if he were. And I should hate to see these reasons
standing in the way of your happiness," he continued.

"Perhaps they wouldn't," said she in a revery.

"Perhaps they wouldn't--and in that case it is no possible harm that you
tell me the rest of them. I won't cast it up at you. Third?"

"Third, I won't give up my profession for any man alive."

"Any man alive would be a fool to want you to," said he setting down,
"Third--Profession."

"Fourth--I like _Freedom!"_ she said with sudden intensity. "You don't
know!--they kept me so tight!--so _tight_--when I was a girl! Then--I
was left alone, with a very little money, and I began to study for the
stage--that was like heaven! And then--O what _idiots_ women are!" She
said the word not tragically, but with such hard-pointed intensity that
it sounded like a gimlet. "Then I married, you see--I gave up all my
new-won freedom to _marry!_--and he kept me tighter than ever." She
shut her expressive mouth in level lines--stood up suddenly and
stretched her arms wide and high. "I'm free again, free--I can do
exactly as I please!" The words were individually relished. "I have
the work I love. I can earn all I need--am saving something for the
boy. I'm perfectly independent!"

"And perfectly happy!" he cordially endorsed her. "I don't blame you
for not wanting to give it up."

"O well--happy!" she hesitated. "There are times, of course, when one
isn't happy. But then--the other way I was unhappy all the time."

"He's dead--unfortunately," mused Mr. Olmstead.

"Unfortunately?--Why?"

He looked at her with his straightforward, pleasant smile. "I'd have
liked the pleasure of killing him," he said regretfully.

She was startled, and watched him with dawning alarm. But he was quite
quiet--even cheerful. "Fourth--Freedom," he wrote. "Is that all?"

"No--there are two more. Neither of them will please you. You won't
think so much of me any more. The worst one is this. I like--lovers!
I'm very much ashamed of it, but I do! I try not to be unfair to
them--some I really try to keep away from me--but honestly I like
admiration and lots of it."

"What's the harm of that?" he asked easily, setting down,
"Fifth--Lovers."

"No harm, so long as I'm my own mistress," said she defiantly. "I take
care of my boy, I take care of myself--let them take care of themselves!
Don't blame me too much!"

"You're not a very good psychologist, I'm afraid," said he.

"What do you mean?" she asked rather nervously.

"You surely don't expect a man to blame you for being a woman, do you?"

"All women are not like that," she hastily asserted. "They are too
conscientious. Lots of my friends blame me severely."

"Women friends," he ventured.

"Men, too. Some men have said very hard things of me."

"Because you turned 'em down. That's natural."

"You don't!"

"No, I don't. I'm different.".

"How different?" she asked.

He looked at her steadily. His eyes were hazel, flecked with changing
bits of color, deep, steady, with a sort of inner light that grew as she
watched till presently she thought it well to consider her slipper
again; and continued, "The sixth is as bad as the other almost. I
hate--I'd like to write a dozen tragic plays to show how much I
hate--Housekeeping! There! That's all!"

"Sixth--Housekeeping," he wrote down, quite unmoved. "But why should
anyone blame you for that--it's not your business."

"No--thank goodness, it's not! And never will be! I'm _free,_ I tell
you and I stay free!--But look at the clock!" And she whisked away to
dress for dinner.

He was not at table that night--not at home that night--not at home for
some days--the landlady said he had gone out of town; and Mrs. Leland
missed her afternoon tea.

She had it upstairs, of course, and people came in--both friends and
lovers; but she missed the quiet and cosiness of the green and brown
room downstairs.

Johnny missed his big friend still more. "Mama, where's Mr. Olmstead?
Mama, why don't Mr. Olmstead come back? Mama! When is Mr. Olmstead
coming back? Mama! Why don't you write to Mr. Olmstead and tell him to
come back? Mama!--can't we go in there and play with his things?"

As if in answer to this last wish she got a little note from him saying
simply, "Don't let Johnny miss the lions and monkeys--he and Miss Merton
and you, of course, are quite welcome to the whole floor. Go in at any
time."

Just to keep the child quiet she took advantage of this offer, and
Johnnie introduced her to all the ins and outs of the place. In a
corner of the bedroom was a zinc-lined tray with clay in it, where
Johnnie played rapturously at making "making country." While he played
his mother noted the quiet good taste and individuality of the place.

"It smells so clean!" she said to herself. "There! he hasn't told me
yet why he doesn't smoke. I never told him I didn't like it."

Johnnie tugged at a bureau drawer. "He keeps the water in here!" he
said, and before she could stop him he had out a little box with bits of
looking-glass in it, which soon became lakes and rivers in his clay
continent.

Mrs. Leland put them back afterward, admiring the fine quality and
goodly number of garments in that drawer, and their perfect order. Her
husband had been a man who made a chowder of his bureau drawers, and who
expected her to find all his studs and put them in for him.

"A man like this would be no trouble at all," she thought for a
moment--but then she remembered other things and set her mouth hard.
"Not for mine!" she said determinedly.

By and by he came back, serene as ever, friendly and unpresuming.

"Aren't you going to tell me why you don't smoke?" she suddenly demanded
of him on another quiet dusky afternoon when tea was before them.

He seemed so impersonal, almost remote, though nicer than ever to
Johnny; and Mrs. Leland rather preferred the personal note in
conservation.

"Why of course I am," he replied cordially. "That's easy," and he
fumbled in his inner pocket.

"Is that where you keep your reasons?" she mischievously inquired.

"It's where I keep yours," he promptly answered, producing the little
notebook. "Now look here--I've got these all answered--you won't be
able to hold to one of 'em after this. May I sit by you and explain?"

She made room for him on the sofa amiably enough, but defied him to
convince her. "Go ahead," she said cheerfully.

"First," he read off, "Previous Marriage. This is not a sufficient
objection. Because you have been married you now know what to choose
and what to avoid. A girl is comparatively helpless in this matter; you
are armed. That your first marriage was unhappy is a reason for trying
it again. It is not only that you are better able to choose, but that
by the law of chances you stand to win next time. Do you admit the
justice of this reasoning?"

"I don't admit anything," she said. "I'm waiting to ask you a
question."

"Ask it now."

"No--I'll wait till you are all through. Do go on."

"'Second--The Boy,'" he continued. "Now Mrs. Leland, solely on the
boy's account I should advise you to marry again. While he is a baby a
mother is enough, but the older he grows the more he will need a father.
Of course you should select a man the child could love--a man who could
love the child."

"I begin to suspect you of deep double-dyed surreptitious designs, Mr.
Olmstead. You know Johnnie loves you dearly. And you know I won't
marry you," she hastily added.

"I'm not asking you to--now, Mrs. Leland. I did, in good faith, and I
would again if I thought I had the shadow of a chance--but I'm not at
present. Still, I'm quite willing to stand as an instance. Now, we
might resume, on that basis. Objection one does not really hold against
me--now does it?"

He looked at her cheerily, warmly, openly; and in his clean, solid
strength and tactful kindness he was so unspeakably different from the
dark, fascinating slender man who had become a nightmare to her youth,
that she felt in her heart he was right--so far. "I won't admit a
thing," she said sweetly. "But, pray go on."

He went on, unabashed. "'Second--Boy,' Now if you married me I should
consider the boy as an added attraction. Indeed--if you do marry
again--someone who doesn't want the boy--I wish you'd give him to me. I
mean it. I think he loves me, and I think I could be of real service to
the child."

He seemed almost to have forgotten her, and she watched him curiously.

"Now, to go on," he continued. "'Third-Profession.' As to your
profession," said he slowly, clasping his hands over one knee and gazing
at the dark soft-colored rug, "if you married me, and gave up your
profession I should find it a distinct loss, I should lose my favorite
actress."

She gave a little start of surprise.

"Didn't you know how much I admire your work?" he said. "I don't hang
around the stage entrance--there are plenty of chappies to do that; and
I don't always occupy a box and throw bouquets--I don't like a box
anyhow. But I haven't missed seeing you in any part you've played
yet--some of 'em I've seen a dozen times. And you're growing--you'll do
better work still. It is sometimes a little weak in the love
parts--seems as if you couldn't quite take it seriously--couldn't let
yourself go--but you'll grow. You'll do better--I really think--after
you're married "

She was rather impressed by this, but found it rather difficult to say
anything; for he was not looking at her at all. He took up his notebook
again with a smile.

"So--if you married me, you would be more than welcome to go on with
your profession. I wouldn't stand in your way any more than I do now.
'Fourth--Freedom,'" he read slowly. "That is easy in one way--hard in
another. If you married me,"--She stirred resentfully at this constant
reference to their marriage; but he seemed purely hypothetical in tone;
"_I_ wouldn't interfere with your freedom any. Not of my own will. But
if you ever grew to love me--or if there were children--it would make
_some_ difference. Not much. There mightn't be any children, and it
isn't likely you'd ever love me enough to have that stand in your way.
Otherwise than that you'd have freedom--as much as now. A little more;
because if you wanted to make a foreign tour, or anything like that, I'd
take care of Johnnie. 'Fifth--Lovers.'" Here he paused leaning forward
with his chin in his hands, his eyes bent down. She could see the broad
heavy shoulders, the smooth fit of the well-made, coat, the spotless
collar, and the fine, strong, clean-cut neck. As it happened she
particularly disliked the neck of the average man--either the cordy, the
beefy or the adipose, and particularly liked this kind, firm and round
like a Roman's, with the hair coming to a clean-cut edge and stopping
there.

"As to lovers," he went on--"I hesitate a little as to what to say about
that. I'm afraid I shall shock you. Perhaps I'd better leave out that
one."

"As insuperable?" she mischievously asked.

"No, as too easy," he answered.

"You'd better explain," she said.

"Well then--it's simply this: as a man--I myself admire you more because
so many other men admire you. I don't sympathize with them, any!--Not
for a minute. Of course, if you loved any one of them you wouldn't be
my wife. But if you were my wife--"

"Well?" said she, a little breathlessly. "You're very irritating! What
would you do? Kill 'em all? Come--If I were your wife?--"

"If you were my wife--" he turned and faced her squarely, his deep eyes
blazing steadily into hers, "In the first place the more lovers you had
that you didn't love the better I'd be pleased."

"And if I did?" she dared him.

"If you were my wife," he purused with perfect quietness, "you would
never love anyone else."

There was a throbbing silence.

"'Sixth--Housekeeping,'" he read.

At this she rose to her feet as if released. "Sixth and last and
all-sufficient!" she burst out, giving herself a little shake as if to
waken. "Final and conclusive and admitting no reply!"--I will not keep
house for any man. Never! Never!! Never!!!"

"Why should you?" he said, as he had said it before; "Why not board?"

"I wouldn't board on any account!"

"But you are boarding now. Aren't you comfortable here?"

"O yes, perfectly comfortable. But this is the only boarding-house I
ever saw that was comfortable."

"Why not go on as we are--if you married me?"

She laughed shrilly. "With the other boarders round them and a whole
floor laid between," she parodied gaily. "No, sir! _If_ I ever married
again--and I wont--I'd want a home of my own--a whole house--and have it
run as smoothly and perfectly as this does. With no more care than I
have now!"

"If I could give you a whole house, like this, and run it for you as
smoothly and perfectly as this one--then would you marry me?" he asked.

"O, I dare say I would," she said mockingly.

"My dear," said he, "I have kept this house--for you--for three years."

"What do you mean?" she demanded, flushingly.

"I mean that it is my business," he answered serenely. "Some men run
hotels and some restaurants: I keep a number of boarding houses and make
a handsome income from them. All the people are comfortable--I see to
that. I planned to have you use these rooms, had the dumbwaiter run to
the top so you could have meals comfortably there. You didn't much like
the first housekeeper. I got one you liked better; cooks to please you,
maids to please you. I have most seriously tried to make you
comfortable. When you didn't like a boarder I got rid of him--or
her--they are mostly all your friends now. Of course if we were
married, we'd fire 'em all." His tone was perfectly calm and business
like. "You should keep your special apartments on top; you should also
have the floor above this, a larger bedroom, drawing-room, and bath and
private parlor for you;--I'd stay right here as I am now--and when you
wanted me--I'd be here."

She stiffened a little at this rather tame ending. She was stirred,
uneasy, dissatisfied. She felt as if something had been offered and
withdrawn; something was lacking.

"It seems such a funny business--for a man," she said.

"Any funnier than Delmonico's?" he asked. "It's a business that takes
some ability--witness the many failures. It is certainly useful. And
it pays--amazingly."

"I thought it was real estate," she insisted.

"It is. I'm in a real estate office. I buy and sell houses--that's how
I came to take this up!"

He rose up, calmly and methodically, walked over to the fire, and laid
his notebook on it. "There wasn't any strength in any of those
objections, my dear," said he. "Especially the first one. Previous
marriage, indeed! You have never been married before. You are going to
be--now."

It was some weeks after that marriage that she suddenly turned upon
him--as suddenly as one can turn upon a person whose arms are about
one--demanding.

"And why don't you smoke?--You never told me!"

"I shouldn't like to kiss you so well if you smoked!"--said he.

"I never had any idea," she ventured after a while, "that it could
be--like this."

LOCKED INSIDE

She beats upon her bolted door,
With faint weak hands;
Drearily walks the narrow floor;
Sullenly sits, blank walls before;
Despairing stands.

Life calls her, Duty, Pleasure, Gain--
Her dreams respond;
But the blank daylights wax and wane,
Dull peace, sharp agony, slow pain--
No hope beyond.

Till she comes a thought! She lifts her head,
The world grows wide!
A voice--as if clear words were said--
"Your door, o long imprisoned,
Is locked inside!"

PRIVATE MORALITY AND PUBLIC IMMORALITY

There is more sense in that convenient trick of blaming "the old Adam"
for our misbehavior than some of us have thought. That most culpable
sinner we no longer see as a white-souled adult baby, living on uncooked
food in a newmade garden, but as a husky, hairy, highly carnivorous and
bloodthirsty biped, just learning his giant strength, and exercising it
like a giant.

Growing self-conscious and intelligent, he developed an ethical sense,
and built up system after system of morals, all closely calculated to
advance his interests in this world or the next. The morals of the
early Hebrews, for instance, with which we are most familiar, were
strictly adjusted to their personal profit; their conception of Diety
definitely engaging to furnish protection and reward in return for
specified virtuous conduct.

This is all reasonable and right in its way. If good conduct were not
ultimately advantageous it would not be good. The difficulty with the
ancient scheme of morality lies in its narrow range. "The soul that
sinneth it shall die," is the definite statement; the individual is the
one taken to task, threatened, promised, exhorted and punished. Our
whole race-habit of thought on questions of morality is personal. When
goodness is considered it is "my" goodness or "your" goodness--not ours;
and sins are supposed to be promptly traceable to sinners; visible,
catchable, hangable sinners in the flesh. We have no mental machinery
capable of grasping the commonest instances of collective sin; large,
public continuing sin, to which thousands contribute, for generations
upon generations; and under the consequences of which more thousands
suffer for succeeding centuries. Yet public evils are what society
suffer from most to-day, and must suffer from most in increasing ratio,
as years pass.