The Forerunner, Volume 1 (1909 1910)

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

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It is here already.

Some women have a natural genius for the care and training of babies and
little children. Some women have a natural genius for household
management. All this wealth of genius is now lost to the world except
in so far as it is advantageous to one family.

And here, by a paradox not surprising, it io often disadvantageous. A
woman capable of smoothly administering a large hotel may be extremely
wearing as a private housekeeper. Napoleon, as a drill sergeant, would
have been hard to bear.

A woman with the real human love for children, the capacity for detail
in their management, the profound interest in educational processes,
which would make her a beneficent angel if she had the care of hundreds,
may make her a positive danger if she has to focus all that capacity on
two or three.

(To be concluded.)

PRISONERS

A MAN IN PRISON.

His cell is small.

His cell is dark.

His cell is cold.

His labor is monotonous and hard.

He is cut off from the light of day, from freedom of movement, from the
meeting of friends, from all amusement and pleasure and variety.

His hard labor is the least of his troubles--without it he could not
support life. What he most suffers from is the monotony--the
confinement--from being in prison.

He longs for his wife. He longs for his children. He longs for his
friends.

But first and last and always; highest and deepest and broadest, with
all his body and soul and mind he longs for Freedom!

A WOMAN IN PRISON.

Her cell is small.

Her cell is dark.

Her cell is cold.

Her labor is monotonous and hard.

She is cut off from the light of day, from freedom of movement, from the
meeting of friends, from all amusement and pleasure and variety.

Her hard labor is the least of her troubles--without it she could not
support life. What she most suffers from is the monotony--the
confinement--from being in prison.

She longs for her husband. She longs for her children. She longs for
her friends.

But first and last and always; highest and deepest and broadest, with
all her body and soul and mind she longs for Freedom!

THE MAN OF ALL WORK.

A man is doing all the housework of one family. He loves this family.
It is his family.

He loves his home.

He does not hate his work; but he does get tired of it.

He has to sleep at home all night, and he would prefer to go away from
it in the morning; to go out into the air; to join his friends; to go to
the shop, the office, the mill, the mine; to work with other men at more
varied tasks.

He loves his children; and wishes to do his duty as a father, but he has
them with him by night as well as by day; and even a father's patience
sometimes gives out. Also he has to do the housework. And even a
father, with all his love and strength cannot be a cook, a teacher, and
a nurse at the same time.

Sometimes the cooking suffers, but more often it is the teaching or
nursing or both--for his wife is rather exacting in the matter of food.

He has a kind wife and they are happy together.

He is proud of his children and they love him.

But when he was a young man he had a strange ambition--he wanted to Be
Somebody--to Do Something--to be independent, to take hold of the
world's work and help.

His children say, "We need you, Father--you cannot be spared--your duty
is here!"

His wife says, "I need you, Husband! You cannot be spared. I like to
feel that you are here with the children--keeping up our Home--your duty
is here."

And the Voice of the Priest, and the Voice of the Past and the Voice of
Common Prejudice all say:

"The duty of a father is to his children. The duty of a husband is to
his wife. Somebody must do the housework! Your duty is here!"

Yet the man is not satisfied.

THE WOMAN OF ALL WORK.

? ? ? ? ?

MAY LEAVES

My whole heart grieves
To feel the thrashing winds of March
On the young May leaves--
The cold dry dust winds of March
On the tender, fresh May leaves.

WHAT DIANTHA DID

CHAPTER VIII.

See, "Locked Inside," January No.

Behind the straight purple backs and smooth purple legs on the box
before them, Madam Weatherstone and Mrs. Weatherstone rolled home
silently, a silence of thunderous portent. Another purple person opened
the door for them, and when Madam Weatherstone said, "We will have tea
on the terrace," it was brought them by a fourth.

"I was astonished at your attitude, Viva," began the old lady, at
length. "Of course it was Mrs. Dankshire's fault in the first place,
but to encourage that,--outrageous person! How could you do it!"

Young Mrs. Weatherstone emptied her exquisite cup and set it down.

"A sudden access of courage, I suppose," she said. "I was astonished at
myself."

"I wholly disagree with you!" replied her mother-in-law. "Never in my
life have I heard such nonsense. Talk like that would be dangerous, if
it were not absurd! It would destroy the home! It would strike at the
roots of the family."

Viva eyed her quietly, trying to bear in mind the weight of a tradition,
the habits of a lifetime, the effect of long years of uninterrupted
worship of household gods.

"It doesn't seem so to me," she said slowly, "I was much interested and
impressed. She is evidently a young woman of knowledge and experience,
and put her case well. It has quite waked me up."

"It has quite upset you!" was the reply. "You'll be ill after this, I
am sure. Hadn't you better go and lie down now? I'll have some dinner
sent to you."

"Thank you," said Viva, rising and walking to the edge of the broad
terrace. "You are very kind. No. I do not wish to lie down. I
haven't felt so thoroughly awake in--" she drew a pink cluster of
oleander against her cheek and thought a moment--"in several years."
There was a new look about her certainly.

"Nervous excitement," her mother-in-law replied. "You're not like
yourself at all to-night. You'll certainly be ill to-morrow!"

Viva turned at this and again astonished the old lady by serenely
kissing her. "Not at all!" she said gaily. "I'm going to be well
to-morrow. You will see!"

She went to her room, drew a chair to the wide west window with the far
off view and sat herself down to think. Diantha's assured poise, her
clear reasoning, her courage, her common sense; and something of
tenderness and consecration she discerned also, had touched deep chords
in this woman's nature. It was like the sound of far doors opening,
windows thrown up, the jingle of bridles and clatter of hoofs, keen
bugle notes. A sense of hope, of power, of new enthusiasm, rose in her.

Orchardina Society, eagerly observing "young Mrs. Weatherstone" from her
first appearance, had always classified her as "delicate." Beside the
firm features and high color of the matron-in-office, this pale quiet
slender woman looked like a meek and transient visitor. But her white
forehead was broad under its soft-hanging eaves of hair, and her chin,
though lacking in prognathous prominence or bull-dog breadth, had a
certain depth which gave hope to the physiognomist.

She was strangely roused and stirred by the afternoon's events. "I'm
like that man in 'Phantastes'," she thought contemptuously, "who stayed
so long in that dungeon because it didn't occur to him to open the door!
Why don't I--?" she rose and walked slowly up and down, her hands
behind her. "I will!" she said at last.

Then she dressed for dinner, revolving in her mind certain suspicions
long suppressed, but now flaming out in clear conviction in the light of
Diantha's words. "Sleeping in, indeed!" she murmured to herself. "And
nobody doing anything!"

She looked herself in the eye in the long mirror. Her gown was an
impressive one, her hair coiled high, a gold band ringed it like a
crown. A clear red lit her checks.

She rang. Little Ilda, the newest maid, appeared, gazing at her in shy
admiration. Mrs. Weatherstone looked at her with new eyes. "Have you
been here long?" she asked. "What is your name?"

"No, ma'am," said the child--she was scarce more. "Only a week and two
days. My name is Ilda."

"Who engaged you?"

"Mrs. Halsey, ma'am."

"Ah," said Mrs. Weatherstone, musing to herself, "and I engaged Mrs.
Halsey!" "Do you like it here?" she continued kindly.

"Oh yes, ma'am!" said Ilda. "That is--" she stopped, blushed, and
continued bravely. "I like to work for you, ma'am."

"Thank you, Ilda. Will you ask Mrs. Halsey to come to me--at once,
please."

Ilda went, more impressed than ever with the desirability of her new
place, and mistress.

As she was about to pass the door of Mr. Matthew Weatherstone, that
young gentleman stepped out and intercepted her. "Whither away so fast,
my dear?" he amiably inquired.

"Please let one pass, sir! I'm on an errand. Please, sir?"

"You must give me a kiss first!" said he--and since there seemed no
escape and she was in haste, she submitted. He took six--and she ran
away half crying.

Mrs. Halsey, little accustomed to take orders from her real mistress,
and resting comfortably in her room, had half a mind to send an excuse.

"I'm not dressed," she said to the maid.

"Well she is!" replied Ilda, "dressed splendid. She said 'at once,
please.'"

"A pretty time o' day!" said the housekeeper with some asperity, hastily
buttoning her gown; and she presently appeared, somewhat heated, before
Mrs. Weatherstone.

That lady was sitting, cool and gracious, her long ivory paper-cutter
between the pages of a new magazine.

"In how short a time could you pack, Mrs. Halsey?" she inquired.

"Pack, ma'am? I'm not accustomed to doing packing. I'll send one of
the maids. Is it your things, ma'am?"

"No," said Mrs. Weatherstone. "It is yours I refer to. I wish you to
pack your things and leave the house--in an hour. One of the maids can
help you, if necessary. Anything you cannot take can be sent after you.
Here is a check for the following month's wages."

Mrs. Halsey was nearly a head taller than her employer, a stout showy
woman, handsome enough, red-lipped, and with a moist and crafty eye.
This was so sudden a misadventure that she forgot her usual caution.
"You've no right to turn me off in a minute like this!" she burst forth.
"I'll leave it to Madam Weatherstone!"

"If you will look at the terms on which I engaged you, Mrs. Halsey, you
will find that a month's warning, or a month's wages, was specified.
Here are the wages--as to the warning, that has been given for some
months past!"

"By whom, Ma'am?"

"By yourself, Mrs. Halsey--I think you understand me. Oscar will take
your things as soon as they are ready."

Mrs. Halsey met her steady eye a moment--saw more than she cared to
face--and left the room.

She took care, however, to carry some letters to Madam Weatherstone, and
meekly announced her discharge; also, by some coincidence, she met Mr.
Matthew in the hall upstairs, and weepingly confided her grievance to
him, meeting immediate consolation, both sentimental and practical.

When hurried servants were sent to find their young mistress they
reported that she must have gone out, and in truth she had; out on her
own roof, where she sat quite still, though shivering a little now and
then from the new excitement, until dinner time.

This meal, in the mind of Madam Weatherstone, was the crowning factor of
daily life; and, on state occasions, of social life. In her cosmogony
the central sun was a round mahogany table; all other details of
housekeeping revolved about it in varying orbits. To serve an endless
series of dignified delicious meals, notably dinners, was, in her eyes,
the chief end of woman; the most high purpose of the home.

Therefore, though angry and astounded, she appeared promptly when the
meal was announced; and when her daughter-in-law, serene and royally
attired, took her place as usual, no emotion was allowed to appear
before the purple footman who attended.

"I understood you were out, Viva," she said politely.

"I was," replied Viva, with equal decorum. "It is charming outside at
this time in the evening--don't you think so?"

Young Matthew was gloomy and irritable throughout the length and breadth
of the meal; and when they were left with their coffee in the drawing
room, he broke out, "What's this I hear about Mrs. Halsey being fired
without notice?"

"That is what I wish to know, Viva," said the grandmother. "The poor
woman is greatly distressed. Is there not some mistake?"

"It's a damn shame," said Matthew.

The younger lady glanced from one to the other, and wondered to see how
little she minded it. "The door was there all the time!" she thought to
herself, as she looked her stepson in the eye and said, "Hardly
drawing-room language, Matthew. Your grandmother is present!"

He stared at her in dumb amazement, so she went on, "No, there is no
mistake at all. I discharged Mrs. Halsey about an hour before dinner.
The terms of the engagement were a month's warning or a month's wages.
I gave her the wages."

"But! but!" Madam Weatherstone was genuinely confused by this sudden
inexplicable, yet perfectly polite piece of what she still felt to be in
the nature of 'interference' and 'presumption.' "I have had no fault to
find with her."

"I have, you see," said her daughter-in-law smiling. "I found her
unsatisfactory and shall replace her with something better presently.
How about a little music, Matthew? Won't you start the victrolla?"

Matthew wouldn't. He was going out; went out with the word. Madam
Weatherstone didn't wish to hear it--had a headache--must go to her
room--went to her room forthwith. There was a tension in the
athmosphere that would have wrung tears from Viva Weatherstone a week
ago, yes, twenty-four hours ago.

As it was she rose to her feet, stretching herself to her full height,
and walked the length of the great empty room. She even laughed a
little. "It's open!" said she, and ordered the car. While waiting for
it she chatted with Mrs. Porne awhile over the all-convenient telephone.

*

Diantha sat at her window, watching the big soft, brilliant moon behind
the eucalyptus trees. After the close of the strenuous meeting, she had
withdrawn from the crowd of excited women anxious to shake her hand and
engage her on the spot, had asked time to consider a number of good
opportunities offered, and had survived the cold and angry glances of
the now smaller but far more united Home and Culture Club. She declined
to talk to the reporters, and took refuge first in an open car. This
proved very unsatisfactory, owing to her sudden prominence. Two
persistent newspaper men swung themselves upon the car also and insisted
on addressing her.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," she said, "I am not acquainted with you."

They eagerly produced their cards--and said they were "newspaper men."

"I see," said Diantha, "But you are still men? And gentlemen, I
suppose? I am a woman, and I do not wish to talk with you."

"Miss Bell Declines to Be Interviewed," wrote the reporters, and spent
themselves on her personal appearance, being favorably impressed
thereby.

But Miss Bell got off at the next corner and took a short cut to the
house where she had rented a room. Reporters were waiting there, two
being women.

Diantha politely but firmly declined to see them and started for the
stairs; but they merely stood in front of her and asked questions. The
girl's blood surged to her cheeks; she smiled grimly, kept absolute
silence, brushed through them and went swiftly to her room, locking the
door after her.

The reporters described her appearance--unfavorably this time; and they
described the house--also unfavorably. They said that "A group of
adoring-eyed young men stood about the doorway as the flushed heroine of
the afternoon made her brusque entrance." These adorers consisted of
the landlady's Johnny, aged thirteen, and two satellites of his, still
younger. They _did_ look at Diantha admiringly; and she _was_ a little
hurried in her entrance--truth must be maintained.

Too irritated and tired to go out for dinner, she ate an orange or two,
lay down awhile, and then eased her mind by writing a long letter to
Ross and telling him all about it. That is, she told him most of it,
all the pleasant things, all the funny things; leaving out about the
reporters, because she was too angry to be just, she told herself. She
wrote and wrote, becoming peaceful as the quiet moments passed, and a
sense grew upon her of the strong, lasting love that was waiting so
patiently.

"Dearest," her swift pen flew along, "I really feel much encouraged. An
impression has been made. One or two men spoke to me afterward; the
young minister, who said such nice things; and one older man, who looked
prosperous and reliable. 'When you begin any such business as you have
outlined, you may count on me, Miss Bell,' he said, and gave me his
card. He's a lawyer--P. L. Wiscomb; nice man, I should think. Another
big, sheepish-looking man said, 'And me, Miss Bell.' His name is
Thaddler; his wife is very disagreeable. Some of the women are
favorably impressed, but the old-fashioned kind--my! 'If hate killed
men, Brother Lawrence!'--but it don't."

She wrote herself into a good humor, and dwelt at considerable length on
the pleasant episode of the minister and young Mrs. Weatherstone's
remarks. "I liked her," she wrote. "She's a nice woman--even if she is
rich."

There was a knock at her door. "Lady to see you, Miss."

"I cannot see anyone," said Diantha; "you must excuse me."

"Beg pardon, Miss, but it's not a reporter; it's--." The landlady
stretched her lean neck around the door edge and whispered hoarsely,
"It's young Mrs. Weatherstone!"

Diantha rose to her feet, a little bewildered. "I'll be right down,"
she said. But a voice broke in from the hall, "I beg your pardon, Miss
Bell, but I took the liberty of coming up; may I come in?"

She came in, and the landlady perforce went out. Mrs. Weatherstone held
Diantha's hand warmly, and looked into her eyes. "I was a schoolmate of
Ellen Porne," she told the girl. "We are dear friends still; and so I
feel that I know you better than you think. You have done beautiful
work for Mrs. Porne; now I want you to do to it for me. I need you."

"Won't you sit down?" said Diantha.

"You, too," said Mrs. Weatherstone. "Now I want you to come to
me--right away. You have done me so much good already. I was just a
New England bred school teacher myself at first, so we're even that far.
Then you took a step up--and I took a step down."

Diantha was a little slow in understanding the quick fervor of this new
friend; a trifle suspicious, even; being a cautious soul, and somewhat
overstrung, perhaps. Her visitor, bright-eyed and eager, went on. "I
gave up school teaching and married a fortune. You have given it up to
do a more needed work. I think you are wonderful. Now, I know this
seems queer to you, but I want to tell you about it. I feel sure you'll
understand. At home, Madam Weatherstone has had everything in charge
for years and years, and I've been too lazy or too weak, or too
indifferent, to do anything. I didn't care, somehow. All the machinery
of living, and no _living_--no good of it all! Yet there didn't seem to
be anything else to do. Now you have waked me all up--your paper this
afternoon--what Mr. Eltwood said--the way those poor, dull, blind women
took it. And yet I was just as dull and blind myself! Well, I begin to
see things now. I can't tell you all at once what a difference it has
made; but I have a very definite proposition to make to you. Will you
come and be my housekeeper, now--right away--at a hundred dollars a
month?"

Diantha opened her eyes wide and looked at the eager lady as if she
suspected her nervous balance.

"The other one got a thousand a year--you are worth more. Now, don't
decline, please. Let me tell you about it. I can see that you have
plans ahead, for this business; but it can't hurt you much to put them
off six months, say. Meantime, you could be practicing. Our place at
Santa Ulrica is almost as big as this one; there are lots of servants
and a great, weary maze of accounts to be kept, and it wouldn't be bad
practice for you--now, would it?"

Diantha's troubled eyes lit up. "No--you are right there," she said.
"If I could do it!"

"You'll have to do just that sort of thing when you are running your
business, won't you?" her visitor went on. "And the summer's not a good
time to start a thing like that, is it?"

Diantha meditated. "No, I wasn't going to. I was going to start
somewhere--take a cottage, a dozen girls or so--and furnish labor by the
day to the other cottages."

"Well, you might be able to run that on the side," said Mrs.
Weatherstone. "And you could train my girls, get in new ones if you
like; it doesn't seem to me it would conflict. But to speak to you
quite frankly, Miss Bell, I want you in the house for my own sake. You
do me good."

They discussed the matter for some time, Diantha objecting mainly to the
suddenness of it all. "I'm a slow thinker," she said, "and this is
so--so attractive that I'm suspicious of it. I had the other thing all
planned--the girls practically engaged."

"Where were you thinking of going?" asked Mrs. Weatherstone.

"To Santa Ulrica."

"Exactly! Well, you shall have your cottage and our girls and give them
part time. Or--how many have you arranged with?"

"Only six have made definite engagements yet."

"What kind?"

"Two laundresses, a cook and three second maids; all good ones."

"Excellent! Now, I tell you what to do. I will engage all those girls.
I'm making a change at the house, for various reasons. You bring them
to me as soon as you like; but you I want at once. I wish you'd come
home with me to-night! Why don't you?"

Diantha's scanty baggage was all in sight. She looked around for an
excuse. Mrs. Weatherstone stood up laughing.

"Put the new address in the letter," she said, mischievously, "and come
along!"

*

And the purple chauffeur, his disapproving back ineffectual in the
darkness, rolled them home.

THE ROOM AT THE TOP

There is room at the top?
Ah yes! Were you ever there?
Do you know what they bear
Whose struggle does not stop
Till they reach the room at the top?

Think you first of the way,
How long from the bottom round,--
From the safe, warm, common ground
In the light of the common day--
'Tis a long way. A dark way.

And think of the fight.
It is not so hard to stand
And strive off the broad free land;
But to climb in the wind and night,
And fight,--and climb,--and fight!

And the top when you enter in!
Ah! the fog! The frost! The dark!
And the hateful voices--hark!
O the comfort that you win!
Yes, there's room at the top. Come in!

OUR ANDROCENTRIC CULTURE; or, THE MAN-MADE WORLD

VIII.

EDUCATION.

The origin of education is maternal. The mother animal is seen to teach
her young what she knows of life, its gains and losses; and, whether
consciously done or not, this is education. In our human life,
education, even in its present state, is the most important process.
Without it we could not maintain ourselves, much less dominate and
improve conditions as we do; and when education is what it should be,
our power will increase far beyond present hopes.

In lower animals, speaking generally, the powers of the race must be
lodged in each individual. No gain of personal experience is of avail
to the others. No advantages remain, save those physically transmitted.
The narrow limits of personal gain and personal inheritance rigidly hem
in sub-human progress. With us, what one learns may be taught to the
others. Our life is social, collective. Our gain is for all, and
profits us in proportion as we extend it to all. As the human soul
develops in us, we become able to grasp more fully our common needs and
advantages; and with this growth has come the extension of education to
the people as a whole. Social functions are developed under natural
laws, like physical ones, and may be studied similarly.

In the evolution of this basic social function, what has been the effect
of wholly masculine influence?

The original process, instruction of individual child by individual
mother, has been largely neglected in our man-made world. That was
considered as a subsidiary sex-function of the woman, and as such, left
to her "instinct." This is the main reason why we show such great
progress in education for older children, and especially for youths, and
so little comparatively in that given to little ones.

We have had on the one side the natural current of maternal education,
with its first assistant, the nursemaid, and its second, the
"dame-school"; and on the other the influence of the dominant class,
organized in university, college, and public school, slowly filtering
downward.

Educational forces are many. The child is born into certain conditions,
physical and psychic, and "educated" thereby. He grows up into social,
political and economic conditions, and is further modified by them. All
these conditions, so far, have been of androcentric character; but what
we call education as a special social process is what the child is
deliberately taught and subjected to; and it is here we may see the same
dominant influence so clearly.