The Forerunner, Volume 1 (1909 1910)

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

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*

Apropos of the above, there are no more intimate and pressing problems
than those of the business of living, the mere every day processes.

We are still so hampered by the customs and habits of the proprietary
family that we assume as a matter of course that one must live, first,
in childhood and youth, with one's parental family; second, in middle
life, with one's matrimonial family; and third in age, with one's
descendants.

Now suppose one is of age, unmarried, and not fond of living with one's
parents. This is not wicked. It is not extremely unusual. One may be
very fond of one's parents, as parents, yet prefer other society in
daily life. Enforced residence in the same home of a number of grown
people of widely different ages, interests, and ideas, is not made happy
by the fact of blood-relationship.

There are many indications to show an increasing divergence of tastes
between our rapidly changing generations. Each set of young people seem
to differ more sharply from their parents than they, in their youth,
similarly differed.

Moreover, there are a number of persons who do not marry, and yet have a
right to live--yes, and to enjoy living.

Men have long ago solved this problem to their own satisfaction. They
leave home early; they have learned in cabin, camp and club to live in
groups, without women; and many, with an apartment of their own as a
base, seem to find enough society in visits among their friends.

But women are only beginning to realize that it is possible to live,
yes, and to have a "home," even if one has not, in the original sense,
"a family." The amount of happiness that really congenial friends can
find in living together is fully as great as that of some marriages; and
quite outside of daily contact in the household remains that boundless
field of strength, stimulus and delight which comes of true social
contact.

But the machinery of life is all arranged for married couples; who
rightly constitute the majority; and the unmarried woman is not allowed
for. She is, however, rapidly awakening to the fact that she has an
actual individual existence--as well as a potential marital existence;
and is learning how to use and enjoy it.

PLAYTIME

AUNT ELIZA

(This was done by two persons, in alternate lines, as a game.)

Seven days had Aunt Eliza
Read the Boston Advertiser,
Seven days on end;
But in spite of her persistence
Still she met with some resistance
From her bosom friend.

Thomas Brown, the Undertaker,
Who declared he'd have to shake her,
Daily called at ten;
Asking if dear Aunt's condition
Would allow of his admission,
With his corps of men.

Aunt Eliza heard him pleading,
Ceased an instant from her reading,
Softly downward stole;
Soon broke up the conversation,
Punctuating Brown's oration,
With a shower of coal.

THE CRIPPLE

There are such things as feet, human feet;
But these she does not use;
Firm and supple, white and sweet,
Softly graceful, lightly fleet,
For comfort, beauty, service meet--
There are feet, human feet,
These she does with scorn refuse--
Preferring shoes.

There are such things as shoes--human shoes;
Though scant and rare the proof;
Serviceable, soft and strong,
Pleasant, comely, wearing long,
Easy as a well-known song--
There are shoes, human shoes,
But from these she holds aloof--
Prefers the hoof!

There are such things as hoofs, sub-human hoofs,
High-heeled, sharp anomalies;
Small and pinching, hard and black,
Shiny as a beetle's back,
Cloven, clattering on the track,
There are hoofs, sub-human hoofs,
She cares not for truth, nor ease--
Preferring these!

THE FORERUNNER

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN
AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER

1.00 A YEAR
.10 A COPY

Volume 1. No. 6
APRIL, 1910
Copyright for 1910
C. P. Gilman

The human soul is built for the love and service of the whole world.
We confine it to the love and service of five or six persons, and the
salvation of one.

WHEN THOU GAINEST HAPPINESS

When thou gainest happiness,
Life's full cup of sweetest wine;
Dost thou stop in grieving blind
Over those dark years behind?
Bitter now, rebellious, mad,
For the things thou hast not had--
Before everything was thine?

Dost not rather wonder why
Nearing blaze of joy like this,
Some prevision had not lit
Those dark hours with hope of it?
That thou couldst in patient strength
Have endured that sorrow's length--
_Nothing_--to the coming bliss!

Now, awaken! Look ahead!
See the earth one garden fair!
See the evils of to-day
Like a child's faults put away!
See our little history seem
Like a short forgotten dream!
See a full-grown rising race
Find our joy their commonplace!
Find such new joy of their own
As our best hopes have not known!
And take shame for thy despair!

MARTHA'S MOTHER

It was nine feet long.

It was eight feet high.

It was six feet wide.

There was a closet, actually!--a closet one foot deep--that was why she
took this room. There was the bed, and the trunk, and just room to open
the closet door part way--that accounted for the length. There was the
bed and the bureau and the chair--that accounted for the width. Between
the bedside and the bureau and chair side was a strip extending the
whole nine feet. There was room to turn around by the window. There
was room to turn round by the door. Martha was thin.

One, two, three, four--turn.

One, two, three, four--turn.

She managed it nicely.

"It is a stateroom," she always said to herself. "It is a luxurious,
large, well-furnished stateroom with a real window. It is _not_ a
cell."

Martha had a vigorous constructive imagination. Sometimes it was the
joy of her life, her magic carpet, her Aladdin's lamp. Sometimes it
frightened her--frightened her horribly, it was so strong.

The cell idea had come to her one gloomy day, and she had foolishly
allowed it to enter--played with it a little while. Since then she had
to keep a special bar on that particular intruder, so she had arranged a
stateroom "set," and forcibly kept it on hand.

Martha was a stenographer and typewriter in a real estate office. She
got $12 a week, and was thankful for it. It was steady pay, and enough
to live on. Seven dollars she paid for board and lodging, ninety cents
for her six lunches, ten a day for carfare, including Sundays;
seventy-five for laundry; one for her mother--that left one dollar and
sixty-five cents for clothes, shoes, gloves, everything. She had tried
cheaper board, but made up the cost in doctor's bills; and lost a good
place by being ill.

"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor hall bedrooms a cage," said she
determinedly. "Now then--here is another evening--what shall I do?
Library? No. My eyes are tired. Besides, three times a week is
enough. 'Tisn't club night. Will _not_ sit in the parlor. Too wet to
walk. Can't sew, worse'n reading--O good _land!_ I'm almost ready to
go with Basset!"

She shook herself and paced up and down again.

Prisoners form the habit of talking to themselves--this was the
suggestion that floated through her mind--that cell idea again.

"I've got to get out of this!" said Martha, stopping short. "It's
enough to drive a girl crazy!"

The driving process was stayed by a knock at the door. "Excuse me for
coming up," said a voice. "It's Mrs. MacAvelly."

Martha knew this lady well. She was a friend of Miss Podder at the
Girls' Trade Union Association. "Come in. I'm glad to see you!" she
said hospitably. "Have the chair--or the bed's really more
comfortable!"

"I was with Miss Podder this evening and she was anxious to know whether
your union has gained any since the last meeting--I told her I'd find
out--I had nothing else to do. Am I intruding?"

"Intruding!" Martha, gave a short laugh. "Why, it's a godsend, Mrs.
MacAvelly! If you knew how dull the evenings are to us girls!"

"Don't you--go out much? To--to theaters--or parks?" The lady's tone
was sympathetic and not inquisitive.

"Not very much," said Martha, rather sardonically. "Theaters--two
girls, two dollars, and twenty cents carfare. Parks, twenty cents--walk
your feet off, or sit on the benches and be stared at. Museums--not
open evenings."

"But don't you have visitors--in the parlor here?"

"Did you see it?" asked Martha.

Mrs. MacAvelly had seen it. It was cold and also stuffy. It was ugly
and shabby and stiff. Three tired girls sat there, two trying to read
by a strangled gaslight overhead; one trying to entertain a caller in a
social fiction of privacy at the other end of the room.

"Yes, we have visitors--but mostly they ask us out. And some of us
don't go," said Martha darkly.

"I see, I see!" said Mrs. MacAvelly, with a pleasant smile; and Martha
wondered whether she did see, or was just being civil.

"For instance, there's Mr. Basset," the girl pursued, somewhat
recklessly; meaning that her visitor should understand her.

"Mr. Basset?"

"Yes, 'Pond & Basset'--one of my employers."

Mrs. MacAvelly looked pained. "Couldn't you--er--avoid it?" she
suggested.

"You mean shake him?" asked Martha. "Why, yes--I could. Might lose my
job. Get another place--another Basset, probably."

"I see!" said Mrs. MacAvelly again. "Like the Fox and the Swarm of
Flies! There ought to be a more comfortable way of living for all you
girls! And how about the union--I have to be going back to Miss
Podder."

Martha gave her the information she wanted, and started to accompany her
downstairs. They heard the thin jangle of the door-bell, down through
the echoing halls, and the dragging feet of the servant coming up. A
kinky black head was thrust in at the door.

"Mr. Basset, callin' on Miss Joyce," was announced formally.

Martha stiffened. "Please tell Mr. Basset I am not feeling well
to-night--and beg to be excused.

She looked rather defiantly at her guest, as Lucy clattered down the
long stairs; then stole to the railing and peered down the narrow well.
She heard the message given with pompous accuracy, and then heard the
clear, firm tones of Mr. Basset:

"Tell Miss Joyce that I will wait."

Martha returned to her room in three long steps, slipped off her shoes
and calmly got into bed. "Good-night, Mrs. MacAvelly," she said. "I'm
so sorry, but my head aches and I've gone to bed! Would you be so very
good as to tell Lucy so as you're going down."

Mrs. MacAvelly said she would, and departed, and Martha lay
conscientiously quiet till she heard the door shut far below.

She was quiet, but she was not contented.

*

Yet the discontent of Martha was as nothing to the discontent of Mrs.
Joyce, her mother, in her rural home. Here was a woman of fifty-three,
alert, vigorous, nervously active; but an automobile-agitated horse had
danced upon her, and her usefulness, as she understood it, was over.
She could not get about without crutches, nor use her hands for
needlework, though still able to write after a fashion. Writing was not
her _forte,_ however, at the best of times.

She lived with a widowed sister in a little, lean dusty farmhouse by the
side of the road; a hill road that went nowhere in particular, and was
too steep for those who were going there.

Brisk on her crutches, Mrs. Joyce hopped about the little house, there
was nowhere else to hop to. She had talked her sister out long
since--Mary never had never much to say. Occasionally they quarreled
and then Mrs. Joyce hopped only in her room, a limited process.

She sat at the window one day, staring greedily out at the lumpy
rock-ribbed road; silent, perforce, and tapping the arms of her chair
with nervous intensity. Suddenly she called out, "Mary! Mary Ames!
Come here quick! There's somebody coming up the road!"

Mary came in, as fast as she could with eggs in her apron. "It's Mrs.
Holmes!" she said. "And a boarder, I guess."

"No, it ain't," said Mrs. Joyce, eagerly. "It's that woman that's
visiting the Holmes--she was in church last week, Myra Slater told me
about her. Her name's MacDowell, or something."

"It ain't MacDowell," said her sister. "I remember; it's MacAvelly."

This theory was borne out by Mrs. Holmes' entrance and introduction of
her friend.

"Have you any eggs for us, Mrs. Ames?" she said.

"Set down--set down," said Mrs. Ames cordially. "I was just getting in
my eggs--but here's only about eight yet. How many was you wantin'?"

"I want all you can find," said Mrs. Holmes. "Two dozen, three
dozen--all I can carry."

"There's two hens layin' out--I'll go and look them up. And I ain't
been in the woodshed chamber yet. I'll go'n hunt. You set right here
with my sister." And Mrs. Ames bustled off.

"Pleasant view you have here," said Mrs. MacAvelly politely, while Mrs.
Holmes rocked and fanned herself.

"Pleasant! Glad you think so, ma'am. Maybe you city folks wouldn't
think so much of views if you had nothing else to look at!"

"What would you like to look at?"

"Folks!" said Mrs. Joyce briefly. "Lots of folks! Somethin' doin'."

"You'd like to Iive in the city?"

"Yes, ma'am--I would so! I worked in the city once when I was a girl.
Waitress. In a big restaurant. I got to be cashier--in two years! I
like the business!"

"And then you married a farmer?" suggested Mrs. Holmes.

"Yes, I did. And I never was sorry, Mrs. Holmes. David Joyce was a
mighty good man. We was engaged before I left home--I was workin' to
help earn, so 't we could marry."

"There's plenty of work on a farm, isn't there?" Mrs. MacAvelly
inquired.

Mrs. Joyce's eager eyes kindled. "There is _so!_" she agreed. "Lots to
do. And lots to manage! We kept help then, and the farm hands, and the
children growin' up. And some seasons we took boarders."

"Did you like that?"

"I did. I liked it first rate. I like lots of people, and to do for
'em. The best time I ever had was one summer I ran a hotel."

"Ran a hotel! How interesting!"

"Yes'm--it was interesting! I had a cousin who kept a summer hotel up
here in the mountains a piece--and he was short-handed that summer and
got me to go up and help him out. Then he was taken sick, and I had the
whole thing on my shoulders! I just enjoyed it! And the place cleared
more that summer'n it ever did! He said 'twas owin' to his advantageous
buyin'. Maybe 'twas! But I could 'a bought more advantageous than he
did--I could a' told him that. Point o' fact, I did tell him that--and
he wouldn't have me again."

"That was a pity!" said Mrs. Holmes. "And I suppose if it wasn't for
your foot you would do that now--and enjoy it!"

"Of course I could!" protested Mrs. Joyce. "Do it better 'n ever, city
or country! But here I am, tied by the leg! And dependent on my sister
and children! It galls me terribly!"

Mrs. Holmes nodded sympathetically. "You are very brave, Mrs. Joyce,"
she said. "I admire your courage, and--" she couldn't say patience, so
she said, "cheerfulness."

Mrs. Ames came in with more eggs. "Not enough, but some," she said, and
the visitors departed therewith.

Toward the end of the summer, Miss Podder at the Girls' Trade Union
Association, sweltering in the little office, was pleased to receive a
call from her friend, Mrs. MacAvelly.

"I'd no idea you were in town," she said.

"I'm not, officially," answered her visitor, "just stopping over between
visits. It's hotter than I thought it would be, even on the upper west
side."

"Think what it is on the lower east side!" answered Miss Podder,
eagerly. "Hot all day--and hot at night! My girls do suffer so! They
are so crowded!"

"How do the clubs get on?" asked Mrs. MacAvelly. "Have your girls any
residence clubs yet?"

"No--nothing worth while. It takes somebody to run it right, you know.
The girls can't; the people who work for money can't meet our wants--and
the people who work for love, don't work well as a rule."

Mrs. McAvelly smiled sympathetically. "You're quite right about that,"
she said. "But really--some of those 'Homes' are better than others,
aren't they?"

"The girls hate them," answered Miss Podder. "They'd rather board--even
two or three in a room. They like their independence. You remember
Martha Joyce?"

Mrs. MacAvelly remembered. "Yes," she said, "I do--I met her mother
this summer."

"She's a cripple, isn't she?" asked Miss Podder. "Martha's told me
about her."

"Why, not exactly. She's what a Westerner might call 'crippled up
some,' but she's livelier than most well persons." And she amused her
friend with a vivid rehearsal of Mrs. Joyce's love of the city and her
former triumphs in restaurant and hotel.

"She'd be a fine one to run such a house for the girls, wouldn't she?"
suddenly cried Miss Podder.

"Why--if she could," Mrs. MacAvelly admitted slowly.

"_Could!_ Why not? You say she gets about easily enough. All she's
have to do is _manage,_ you see. She could order by 'phone and keep the
servants running!"

"I'm sure she'd like it," said Mrs. MacAvelly. "But don't such things
require capital?"

Miss Podder was somewhat daunted. "Yes--some; but I guess we could
raise it. If we could find the right house!"

"Let's look in the paper," suggested her visitor. "I've got a
_Herald._"

"There's one that reads all right," Miss Podder presently proclaimed.
"The location's good, and it's got a lot of rooms--furnished. I suppose
it would cost too much."

Mrs. MacAvelly agreed, rather ruefully.

"Come," she said, "it's time to close here, surely. Let's go and look
at that house, anyway. It's not far."

They got their permit and were in the house very shortly. "I remember
this place," said Miss Podder. "It was for sale earlier in the summer."

It was one of those once spacious houses, not of "old," but at least of
"middle-aged" New York; with large rooms arbitrarily divided into
smaller ones.

"It's been a boarding-house, that's clear," said Mrs. MacAvelly.

"Why, of course," Miss Podder answered, eagerly plunging about and
examining everything. "Anybody could see that! But it's been done
over--most thoroughly. The cellar's all whitewashed, and there's a new
furnace, and new range, and look at this icebox!" It was an ice-closet,
as a matter of fact, of large capacity, and a most sanitary aspect.

"Isn't it too big?" Mrs. MacAvelly inquired.

"Not for a boarding-house, my dear," Miss Podder enthusiastically
replied. "Why, they could buy a side of beef with that ice-box! And
look at the extra ovens! Did you ever see a place better furnished--for
what we want? It looks as if it had been done on purpose!"

"It does, doesn't it?" said Mrs. MacAvelley.

Miss Podder, eager and determined, let no grass grow under her feet.
The rent of the place was within reason.

"If they had twenty boarders--and some "mealers," I believe it could be
done! she said. "It's a miracle--this house. Seems as if somebody had
done it just for us!"

*

Armed with a list of girls who would agree to come, for six and seven
dollars a week, Miss Podder made a trip to Willettville and laid the
matter before Martha's mother.

"What an outrageous rent!" said that lady.

"Yes--New York rents _are_ rather inconsiderate," Miss Podder admitted.
"But see, here's a guaranteed income if the girls stay--and I'm sure
they will; and if the cooking's good you could easily get table boarders
besides."

Mrs. Joyce hopped to the bureau and brought out a hard, sharp-pointed
pencil, and a lined writing tablet.

"Let's figger it out," said she. "You say that house rents furnished at
$3,200. It would take a cook and a chambermaid!"

"And a furnace man," said Miss Podder. "They come to about fifty a
year. The cook would be thirty a month, the maid twenty-five, if you
got first-class help, and you'd need it."

"That amounts to $710 altogether," stated Mrs. Joyce.

"Fuel and light and such things would be $200," Miss Podder estimated,
"and I think you ought to allow $200 more for breakage and extras
generally."

"That's $4,310 already," said Mrs. Joyce.

Then there's the food," Miss Podder went on. "How much do you think it
would cost to feed twenty girls, two meals a day, and three Sundays?"

"And three more," Mrs. Joyce added, "with me, and the help,
twenty-three. I could do it for $2.00 a week apiece."

"Oh!" said Miss Podder. "_Could_ you? At New York prices?"

"See me do it!" said Mrs. Joyce.

"That makes a total expense of $6,710 a year. Now, what's the income,
ma'am?"

The income was clear--if they could get it. Ten girls at $6.00 and ten
at $7.00 made $130.00 a week--$6,700.00 a year.

"There you are!" said Mrs. Joyce triumphantly. "And the 'mealers'--if
my griddle-cakes don't fetch 'em I'm mistaken! If I have ten--at $5.00
a week and clear $3.00 off 'em--that'll be another bit--$1,560.00 more.
Total income $8,320.00. More'n one thousand clear! Maybe I can feed
'em a little higher--or charge less!"

The two women worked together for an hour or so; Mrs. Ames drawn in
later with demands as to butter, eggs, and "eatin' chickens."

"There's an ice-box as big as a closet," said Miss Podder.

Mrs. Joyce smiled triumphantly. "Good!" she said. "I can buy my
critters of Judson here and have him freight 'em down. I can get apples
here and potatoes, and lots of stuff."

"You'll need, probably, a little capital to start with," suggested Miss
Podder. "I think the Association could--"

"It don't have to, thank you just the same," said Mrs. Joyce. "I've got
enough in my stocking to take me to New York and get some fuel.
Besides, all my boarders is goin' to pay in advance--that's the one sure
way. The mealers can buy tickets!"

Her eyes danced. She fairly coursed about the room on her nimble
crutches.

"My!" she said, "it will seem good to have my girl to feed again."

*

The house opened in September, full of eager girls with large appetites
long unsatisfied. The place was new-smelling, fresh-painted,
beautifully clean. The furnishing was cheap, but fresh, tasteful, with
minor conveniences dear to the hearts of women.

The smallest rooms were larger than hall bedrooms, the big ones were
shared by friends. Martha and her mother had a chamber with two beds
and space to spare!

The dining-room was very large, and at night the tables were turned into
"settles" by the wall and the girls could dance to the sound of a hired
pianola. So could the "mealers," when invited; and there was soon a
waiting list of both sexes.

"I guess I can make a livin'," said Mrs. Joyce, "allowin' for bad
years."

"I don't understand how you feed us so well--for so little," said Miss
Podder, who was one of the boarders.

"'Sh!" said Mrs. Joyce, privately. "Your breakfast don't really cost
more'n ten cents--nor your dinner fifteen--not the way I order! Things
taste good 'cause they're _cooked_ good--that's all!"

"And you have no troubles with your help?"

"'Sh!" said Mrs. Joyce again, more privately. "I work 'em hard--and pay
'em a bonus--a dollar a week extra, as long as they give satisfaction.
It reduces my profits some--but it's worth it!"

"It's worth it to us, I'm sure!" said Miss Podder.

Mrs. MacAvelly called one evening in the first week, with warm interest
and approval. The tired girls were sitting about in comfortable rockers
and lounges, under comfortable lights, reading and sewing. The untired
ones were dancing in the dining-room, to the industrious pianola, or
having games of cards in the parlor.

"Do you think it'll be a success?" she asked her friend.

"It _is_ a success!" Miss Podder triumphantly replied. "I'm immensely
proud of it!"

"I should think you would be," aid Mrs. MacAvelly.

The doorbell rang sharply.

Mrs. Joyce was hopping through the hall at the moment, and promptly
opened it.

"Does Miss Martha Joyce board here?" inquired a gentleman.

"She does."

"I should like to see her," said he, handing in his card.

Mrs. Joyce read the card and looked at the man, her face setting in hard
lines. She had heard that name before.

"Miss Joyce is engaged," she replied curtly, still holding the door.

He could see past her into the bright, pleasant rooms. He heard the
music below, the swing of dancing feet, Martha's gay laugh from the
parlor.

The little lady on crutches blocked his path.

"Are you the housekeeper of this place?" he asked sharply.

"I'm more'n that!" she answered. "I'm Martha's mother."

Mr. Basset concluded he would not wait.

FOR FEAR

For fear of prowling beasts at night
They blocked the cave;
Women and children hid from sight,
Men scarce more brave.

For fear of warrior's sword and spear
They barred the gate;
Women and children lived in fear,
Men lived in hate.

For fear of criminals to-day
We lock the door;
Women and children still to stay
Hid evermore.

Come out! You need no longer hide!
What fear ye now?
No wolf nor lion waits outside--
Only a cow.

Come out! The world approaches peace,
War nears its end;
No warrior watches your release--
Only a friend.

Come out! The night of crime his fled--
Day is begun;
Here is no criminal to dread--
Only your son!

The world, half yours, demands your care,
Waken, and come!
Make it a woman's world, safe, fair,
Garden and home!