The Forerunner, Volume 1 (1909 1910)

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A. 3. Because they see no reason to expect satisfactory answers.

A. 4. Because they do not understand that questions are asked for.

Now if any of the first three answers are correct, there is nothing to
be said--and no use for this department.

But if its the last--herein it is stated that the purpose of this
department is to seriously discuss real "personal problems" such as do
arise in most lives; and to which neither the minister nor Ruth Ashmore
do justice.

It is not proposed to furnish absolute wisdom; only comparative.

One question was considered in the January issue; and a very earnest
letter of inquiry was answered at great length for this number but
proved too long--will appear in July.

What has always been a problem to me is how people can be alive and take
so little interest in the performance.

Here is Life--Death--and a discussable Immortality. Here is Love--of
all kinds and sizes. Here is Happiness--so big that you can't swallow
it; and Pain--an unlimited assortment.

Here are Things Going On--all kinds of things.

And here are we--making button holes in the back parlor--breaking our
heads in a sham fight in the back yard!

Question. Why don't people wake up and LIVE! World-size?

Answer ..........................

Some of you send an answer!

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THE FORERUNNER
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE
CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK

AS TO PURPOSE:

_What is The Forerunner?_ It is a monthly magazine, publishing stories
short and serial, article and essay; drama, verse, satire and sermon;
dialogue, fable and fantasy, comment and review. It is written entirely
by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

_What is it For?_ It is to stimulate thought: to arouse hope, courage
and impatience; to offer practical suggestions and solutions, to voice
the strong assurance of better living, here, now, in our own hands to
make.

_What is it about?_ It is about people, principles, and the questions
of every-day life; the personal and public problems of to-day. It gives
a clear, consistent view of human life and how to live it.

_Is it a Woman's magazine?_ It will treat all three phases of our
existence--male, female and human. It will discuss Man, in his true
place in life; Woman, the Unknown Power; the Child, the most important
citizen.

_Is it a Socialist Magazine?_ It is a magazine for humanity, and
humanity is social. It holds that Socialism, the economic theory, is
part of our gradual Socialization, and that the duty of conscious
humanity is to promote Socialization.

_Why is it published?_ It is published to express ideas which need a
special medium; and in the belief that there are enough persons
interested in those ideas to justify the undertaking.

AS TO ADVERTISING:

We have long heard that "A pleased customer is the best advertiser."
The Forerunner offers to its advertisers and readers the benefit of this
authority. In its advertising department, under the above heading, will
be described articles personally known and used. So far as individual
experience and approval carry weight, and clear truthful description
command attention, the advertising pages of The Forerunner will be
useful to both dealer and buyer. If advertisers prefer to use their own
statements The Forerunner will publish them if it believes them to be
true.

AS TO CONTENTS:

The main feature of the first year is a new book on a new subject with a
new name:--

_"Our Androcentric Culture."_ this is a study of the historic effect on
normal human development of a too exclusively masculine civilization.
It shows what man, the male, has done to the world: and what woman, the
more human, may do to change it.

_"What Diantha Did."_ This is a serial novel. It shows the course of
true love running very crookedly--as it so often does--among the
obstructions and difficulties of the housekeeping problem--and solves
that problem. (NOT by co-operation.)

Among the short articles will appear:

"Private Morality and Public Immorality."
"The Beauty Women Have Lost"
"Our Overworked Instincts."
"The Nun in the Kitchen."
"Genius: Domestic and Maternal."
"A Small God and a Large Goddess."
"Animals in Cities."
"How We Waste Three-Fourths Of Our Money."
"Prize Children"
"Kitchen-Mindedness"
"Parlor-Mindedness"
"Nursery-Mindedness"

There will be short stories and other entertaining matter in each issue.
The department of "Personal Problems" does not discuss etiquette,
fashions or the removal of freckles. Foolish questions will not be
answered, unless at peril of the asker.

AS TO VALUE:

If you take this magazine one year you will have:

One complete novel . . . By C. P. Gilman
One new book . . . By C. P. Gilman
Twelve short stories . . . By C. P. Gilman
Twelve-and-more short articles . . . By C. P. Gilman
Twelve-and-more new poems . . . By C. P. Gilman
Twelve Short Sermons . . . By C. P. Gilman
Besides "Comment and Review" . . . By C. P. Gilman
"Personal Problems" . . . By C. P. Gilman
And many other things . . . By C. P. Gilman

DON'T YOU THINK IT'S WORTH A DOLLAR?

THE FORERUNNER
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN'S MAGAZINE
CHARLTON CO., 67 WALL ST., NEW YORK

_____ 19__

Please find enclosed $_____ as subscription to "The Forerunner" from
_____ 19___ to _____ 19___

__________

__________

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THE FORERUNNER

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE

BY

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN
AUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER

1.00 A YEAR
.10 A COPY

Volume 1. No. 9
JULY, 1910
Copyright for 1910
C. P. Gilman

Genus Homo is superior to all other animal species.
Granted. The superiority is due to some things--and in spite of others.

THE BAWLING WORLD

A SESTINA.

Be not impatient with the bawling world!--
The clatter of wild newsmongers, the cry
Of those in pulpits, the incessant speech
From many platforms, and the various prayers
Of tale-tellers all striving for our ears,
And poets that wait and gibber--they have cause.

For all this noise there is a natural cause,
Most natural of all that move the world,
The one that first assails a mother's ears
When loud a lusty infant learns to cry,
An inarticulate insistent prayer
But serving that first need as well as speech.

Reason and love combine to give us speech,
But this loud outcry has a simpler cause,
The same that prompts the roaming jackal's prayer
And fills the forests of the untamed world
With one long, jarring hungry piteous cry--
Such cry as still attacks our weary ears.

We long for human music in our ears,
For the clear joy of well-considered speech,
And the true poet's soul-uplifting cry
To lead us forward, striving for the cause
Of liberty and light for all the world--
And hear but this confused insensate prayer.

Vainly we seek to fly this ceaseless prayer--
To find some silent spot--to stop our ears:--
There is no place in all the groaning world
Where we can live apart from human speech:
and we, while speech is governed by this cause,
Are infants "with no language but a cry."

It is for food that all live creatures cry,
For food the sparrow's or the lion's prayer,
And need of food is the continuing cause,
Of all this deafening tumult in our ears.
Had we our food secure--! Then human speech
Might make mild music, and a wiser world!

*

Poor hungry world! No wonder that you cry;
Elaborate speech reduced to primal prayer:
To save our ears let us remove the cause!

A COINCIDENCE

"O that! It was a fortunate coincidence, wasn't it? All things work
together for good with those who love the Lord, you know, and Emma
Ordway is the most outrageously Christian woman I ever knew. It did
look that Autumn as if there was no way out of it, but things do happen,
sometimes.

I dropped in rather late one afternoon to have a cup of tea with Emma,
hoping against hope that Mirabella Vlack wouldn't be on hand; but she
was, of course, and gobbling. There never was such a woman for candy
and all manner of sweet stuff. I can remember her at school, with those
large innocent eyes, and that wide mouth, eating Emma's nicest tidbits
even then.

Emma loves sweets but she loves her friends better, and never gets
anything for herself unless there is more than enough for everybody.
She is very fond of a particular kind of fudge I make, has been fond of
it for thirty years, and I love to make it for her once in a while, but
after Mirabella came--I might as well have made it for her to begin
with.

I devised the idea of bringing it in separate boxes, one for each, but
bless you! Mirabella kept hers in her room, and ate Emma's!

"O I've left mine up stairs!" she'd say; "Let me go up and get it;"--and
of course Emma wouldn't hear of such a thing. Trust Emma!

I've loved that girl ever since she was a girl, in spite of her
preternatural unselfishness. And I've always hated those Vlack girls,
both of them, Mirabella the most. At least I think so when I'm with
her. When I'm with Arabella I'm not so sure. She married a man named
Sibthorpe, just rich.

They were both there that afternoon, the Vlack girls I mean, and
disagreeing as usual. Arabella was lean and hard and rigorously well
dressed, she meant to have her way in this world and generally got it.
Mirabella was thick and soft. Her face was draped puffily upon its
unseen bones, and of an unwholesome color because of indigestion. She
was the type that suggests cushioned upholstery, whereas Arabella's
construction was evident.

"You don't look well, Mirabella," said she.

"I am well," replied her sister, "Quite well I assure you."

Mirabella was at that time some kind of a holy thoughtist. She had
tried every variety of doctor, keeping them only as long as they did not
charge too much, and let her eat what she pleased; which necessitated
frequent change.

Mrs. Montrose smiled diplomatically, remarking "What a comfort these
wonderful new faiths are!" She was one of Emma's old friends, and was
urging her to go out to California with them and spend the winter. She
dilated on the heavenly beauty and sweetness of the place till it almost
made my mouth water, and Emma!--she loved travel better than anything,
and California was one of the few places she had not seen.

Then that Vlack girl began to perform. "Why don't you go, Emma?" she
said. "I'm not able to travel myself," (she wouldn't admit she was
pointedly left out), "but that's no reason you should miss such a
delightful opportunity. I can be housekeeper for you in your absence."
This proposition had been tried once. All Emma's old servants left, and
she had to come back in the middle of her trip, and re-organize the
household.

Thus Mirabella, looking saintly and cheerful. And Emma--I could have
shaken her soundly where she sat--Emma smiled bravely at Mrs. Montrose
and thanked her warmly; she'd love it above all things, but there were
many reasons why she couldn't leave home that winter. And we both knew
there was only one, a huge thing in petticoats sitting gobbling there.

One or two other old friends dropped in, but they didn't stay long; they
never did any more, and hardly any men came now. As I sat there
drinking my pale tea I heard these people asking Emma why she didn't do
this any more, and why she didn't come to that any more, and Emma just
as dignified and nice as you please, telling all sorts of perforated
paper fibs to explain and decline. One can't be perfect, and nobody
could be as absolutely kind and gracious and universally beloved as Emma
if she always told the plain truth.

I'd brought in my last protege that day, Dr. Lucy Barnes, a small quaint
person, with more knowledge of her profession than her looks would
indicate. She was a very wise little creature altogether. I had been
studying chemistry with her, just for fun. You never know when yon may
want to know a thing.

It was fine to see Dr. Lucy put her finger on Mirabella's weakness.

There that great cuckoo sat and discoursed on the symptoms she used to
have, and would have now if it wasn't for "science"; and there I sat and
watched Emma, and I declare she seemed to age visibly before my eyes.

Was I to keep quiet and let one of the nicest women that ever breathed
be worn into her grave by that--Incubus? Even if she hadn't been a
friend of mine, even if she hadn't been too good for this world, it
would have been a shame. As it was the outrage cried to heaven.--and
nobody could do anything.

Here was Emma, a widow, and in her own house; you couldn't coerce her.
And she could afford it, as far as money went, you couldn't interfere
that way. She had been so happy! She'd got over being a widow--I mean
got used to it, and was finding her own feet. Her children were all
married and reasonably happy, except the youngest, who was unreasonably
happy; but time would make that all right. The Emma really began to
enjoy life. Her health was good; she'd kept her looks wonderfully; and
all the vivid interests of her girlhood cropped up again. She began to
study things; to go to lectures and courses of lectures; to travel every
year to a new place; to see her old friends and make new ones. She
never liked to keep house, but Emma was so idiotically unselfish that
she never would enjoy herself as long as there was anybody at home to
give up to.

And then came Mirabella Vlack.

She came for a visit, at least she called one day with her air of
saintly patience, and a miserable story of her loneliness and
unhappiness, and how she couldn't bear to be dependent on
Arabella--Arabella was so unsympathetic!--and that misguided Emma
invited her to visit her for awhile.

That was five years ago. Five years! And here she sat, gobbling, forty
pounds fatter and the soul of amiability, while Emma grew old.

Of course we all remonstrated--after it was too late.

Emma had a right to her own visitors--nobody ever dreamed that the thing
was permanent, and nobody could break down that adamantine wall of
Christian virtue she suffered behind, not owning that she suffered.

It was a problem.

But I love problems, human problems, better even than problems in
chemistry, and they are fascinating enough.

First I tried Arabella. She said she regretted that poor Mirabella
would not come to her loving arms. You see Mirabella had tried them,
for about a year after her husband died, and preferred Emma's.

"It really doesn't look well," said Arabella. "Here am I alone in these
great halls, and there is my only sister preferring to live with a
comparative stranger! Her duty is to live with me, where I can take
care of her."

Not much progress here. Mirabella did not want to be taken care of by a
fault-finding older sister--not while Emma was in reach. It paid, too.
Her insurance money kept her in clothes, and she could save a good deal,
having no living expenses. As long as she preferred living with Emma
Ordway, and Emma let her--what could anybody do?

It was getting well along in November, miserable weather.

Emma had a cough that hung on for weeks and weeks, she couldn't seem to
gather herself together and throw it off, and Mirabella all the time
assuring her that she had no cough at all!

Certain things began to seem very clear to me.

One was the duty of a sister, of two sisters. One was the need of a
change of climate for my Emma.

One was that ever opening field of human possibilities which it has been
the increasing joy of my lifetime to study.

I carried two boxes of my delectable fudge to those ladies quite
regularly, a plain white one for Emma, a pretty colored one for the
Incubus.

"Are you sure it is good for you?" I asked Mirabella; "I love to make it
and have it appreciated, but does your Doctor think it is good for you?"

Strong in her latest faith she proudly declared she could eat anything.
She could--visibly. So she took me up short on this point, and ate
several to demonstrate immunity--out of Emma's box.

Nevertheless, in spite of all demonstration she seemed to grow
somewhat--queasy--shall we say? --and drove poor Emma almost to tears
trying to please her in the matter of meals.

Then I began to take them both out to ride in my motor, and to call
quite frequently on Arabella; they couldn't well help it, you see, when
I stopped the car and hopped out. "Mrs. Sibthorpe's sister" I'd always
say to the butler or maid, and she'd always act as if she owned the
house--that is if Arabella was out.

Then I had a good talk with Emma's old doctor, and he quite frightened
her.

"You ought to close up the house," he said, "and spend the winter in a
warm climate. You need complete rest and change, for a long time, a
year at least," he told her. I urged her to go.

"Do make a change," I begged. "Here's Mrs. Sibthorpe perfectly willing
to keep Mirabella--she'd be just as well off there; and you do really
need a rest."

Emma smiled that saintly smile of hers, and said, "Of course, if
Mirabella would go to her sister's awhile I could leave? But I can't
ask her to go."

I could. I did. I put it to her fair and square,--the state of Emma's
health, her real need to break up housekeeping, and how Arabella was
just waiting for her to come there. But what's the use of talking to
that kind? Emma wasn't sick, couldn't be sick, nobody could. At that
very moment she paused suddenly, laid a fat hand on a fat side with an
expression that certainly looked like pain; but she changed it for one
of lofty and determined faith, and seemed to feel better. It made her
cross though, as near it as she ever gets. She'd have been rude I
think, but she likes my motor, to say nothing of my fudge.

I took them both out to ride that very afternoon, and Dr. Lucy with us.

Emma, foolish thing, insisted on sitting with the driver, and Mirabella
made for her pet corner at once. I put Dr. Lucy in the middle, and
encouraged Mirabella in her favorite backsliding, the discussion of her
symptoms--the symptoms she used to have--or would have now if she gave
way to "error."

Dr. Lucy was ingeniously sympathetic. She made no pretence of taking up
the new view, but was perfectly polite about it.

"Judging from what you tell me", she said, "and from my own point of
view, I should say that you had a quite serious digestive trouble; that
you had a good deal of pain now and then; and were quite likely to have
a sudden and perhaps serious attack. But that is all nonsense to you I
suppose."

"Of course it is!" said Mirabella, turning a shade paler.

We were running smoothly down the to avenue where Arabella lived.

"Here's something to cheer you up," I said, producing my two boxes of
fudge. One I passed around in front to Emma; she couldn't share it with
us. The other I gave Mirabella.

She fell upon it at once; perfunctorily offering some to Dr. Lucy, who
declined; and to me. I took one for politeness's sake, and casually put
it in my pocket.

We had just about reached Mrs. Sibthorpe's gate when Mirabella gave in.

"Oh I have such a terrible pain!" said she. "Oh Dr. Lucy! What shall I
do?"

"Shall I take you down to your healer?" I suggested; but Mirabella was
feeling very badly indeed.

"I think I'd better go in here a moment," she said; and in five minutes
we had her in bed in what used to be her room.

Dr. Lucy seemed averse to prescribe.

"I have no right to interfere with your faith, Mrs. Vlack," she said.
"I have medicines which I think would relieve you, but you do not
believe in them. I think you should summon your--practitioner, at
once."

"Oh Dr. Lucy!" gasped poor Mirabella, whose aspect was that of a small
boy in an August orchard. "Don't leave me! Oh do something for me
quick!"

"Will you do just what I say?"

"I will! I will; I'll do _anything_!" said Mirabella, curling up in as
small a heap as was possible to her proportions, and Dr. Lucy took the
case.

We waited in the big bald parlors till she came down to tell us what was
wrong. Emma seemed very anxious, but then Emma is a preternatural
saint.

Arabella came home and made a great todo. "So fortunate that she was
near my door!" she said. "Oh my poor sister! I am so glad she has a
real doctor!"

The real doctor came down after a while. "She is practically out of
pain," she said, "and resting quietly. But she is extremely weak, and
ought not to be moved for a long time."

"She shall not be!" said Arabella fervently. "My own sister! I am so
thankful she came to me in her hour of need!"

I took Emma away. "Let's pick up Mrs. Montrose," I said. "She's tired
out with packing--the air will do her good."

She was glad to come. We all sat back comfortably in the big seat and
had a fine ride; and then Mrs. Montrose had us both come in and take
dinner with her. Emma ate better than I'd seen her in months, and
before she went home it was settled that she leave with Mrs. Montrose on
Tuesday.

Dear Emma! She was as pleased as a child. I ran about with her, doing
a little shopping. "Don't bother with anything," I said, "You can get
things out there. Maybe you'll go on to Japan next spring with the
James's."

"If we could sell the house I would!" said Emma. She brisked and
sparkled--the years fell off from her--she started off looking fairly
girlish in her hope and enthusiasm.

I drew a long sigh of relief.

Mr. MacAvelly has some real estate interests.

The house was sold before Mirabella was out of bed.

SHARES

To those who in leisure may meet
Comes Summer, green, fragrant and fair,
With roses and stars in her hair;
Summer, as motherhood sweet.
To us, in the waste of the street,
No Summer, only--The Heat!

To those of the fortunate fold
Comes Winter, snow-clean and ice-bright,
With joy for the day and the night,
Winter, as fatherhood bold.
To us, without silver or gold,
No Winter, only--The Cold!

GENIUS, DOMESTIC AND MATERNAL. II.

Consider the mighty influence of Dr. Arnold, of Emma Willard; and think
of that all lost to the world, and concentrated relentlessly on a few
little Arnolds and Willards alone!

The children of such genius can healthfully share in its benefits but
not healthily monopolize them.

Our appreciation of this study is hampered by the limitation of little
exercised minds. Most of us accept things as they are--cannot easily
imagine them different, and fear any change as evil.

There was a time when there wasn't a school or a schoolhouse on earth;
people may yet be found who see no need of them. To build places for
children to spend part of the day in--away from their mothers--and be
cared for by specialists!--Horrible!

The same feeling meets us now when it is suggested that places should be
built for the babies to spend part of the day in--away from their
mothers--and be cared for by specialists!--Horrible! Up hops in every
mind those twin bugaboos, the Infant Hospital and the Orphan Asylum.
That is all the average mind can think of as an "institution" for
babies.

Think of the kindergarten. Think of the day-nursery. Multiply and
magnify these a thousand fold; make them beautiful, comfortable,
hygienic, safe and sweet and near--one for every twenty or thirty
families perhaps; and put in each, not a casual young kindergarten
apprentice or hired nurse; but Genius, Training and Experience. Then
you can "teach the mothers," for at last there can be gathered a body of
facts, real knowledge, on the subject of child culture; and it can take
its place in modern progress.

Every mother whose baby spent its day hours in such care would take home
new knowledge and new standards to aid her there; and the one mother out
of twenty or thirty who cared most about it would be in that baby house
herself--she is the Genius. Not anybody's hired "nursemaid," but a
nurse-mother, a teacher-mother, a Human Mother at last.

The same opening confronts us when we squirm so helplessly in what we
call "the domestic problem." That problem is "How can every woman carry
on the same trade equally well?"

Answer--She can't.

All women do not like to "keep house;" and there is no reason why all
men, and all children, as well as the women, should suffer in health,
comfort and peace of mind under their mal-administration. We need the
Expert, the Specialist, the Genius, here too.

Thousands of discontented women are doing very imperfectly what hundreds
could do well and enjoy.

Thousands of men are paying unnecessary bills, eating what we may
politely call "unnecessary food," and putting up with the discontented
woman. Thousands of children are growing up as best they can under
inexpert mothers and inexpert housekeepers. Thousands of unnecessary
deaths, invalids, and miserable lives; millions and millions of dollars
wasted; and all this for the simple lack of society's first
law--Specialization.

Here are all these unspecialized housekeepers wriggling miserably with
their unspecialized servants; and others--the vast majority,
remember--"doing their own work" in a crude and ineffectual manner; and
there is not even a standard whereby to judge our shortcomings! We have
never known anything better, and the average mind cannot imagine
anything better than it has ever known.

(When we have expert Childculture, we shall cultivate the imagination!)