Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  It was Robert!

  Now I had worried — just the least little bit — about coming back, wondering if he were still of the same mind, and how I should take it if he was. But I needn’t have worried even that little.

  As to me, I had met several men since I left Robert. One or two of them had been sincerely attracted to me, so I got kind of used to the pressure — I couldn’t fall in love with them all, you see. And quite a number had manifested that sort of devotion which makes any cool-headed woman discount the whole lot; it is at once so selfish and so impersonal.

  It’s no compliment — far from it! You being a Female, a Young Unattached Female, and they being Males (of any age, attached or at large), the proper thing is for them to make advances. Also the proper thing for the woman is to make retreats — according to the conventions. In which case they continue to come on.

  But I followed different tactics.

  I got my first scare in a Chicago workshop — on the stairs leading to it, that is. There were rather dark and narrow stairs and the foreman was coming up as I went down. He took right hold of me and kissed me before I could stop him, but he repented all the way down — back down and head first.

  It washed off, all right, and I got another job — didn’t go back there, even for my wages. But I was somewhat alarmed as well as angry, and determined to provide against that sort of thing as well as the slower kind.

  There was a fine woman doctor I used to see at the Settlement and I went to her.

  “Doctor,” I said, “I am a young woman, working for my living. I find that some men are disagreeable and some dangerous. Will you give me some very clear advice, both as to the nature and the extent of the danger, and the best methods of self-protection.”

  She tilted back in her office chair and looked me over. “You are certainly a very cool young woman,” she said.

  “Why not?” I answered. “If I were traveling in the jungles of Hindustan I’d want to know all about the snakes and tigers; how to avoid them, how to fight them, how to treat injuries. It appears that we women are in another kind of jungle and some of us have never even heard that the cobra is dangerous. I know better than that, but I want to know more. I want some straight, practical knowledge, anatomical and psychological.”

  “You shall have it,” she said. And she gave me books and pamphlets to read — quite a number of them.

  I learned a lot. Out of the lot there are two bits of information which ought to prove useful to damsels in distress.

  One, for extreme cases, is “the womanly art of self-defense.” A woman is not a mouse and a man is not an elephant.

  Of course, if one is overwhelmed by numbers, that’s another story, or if one is stunned with an unexpected blow. But when just one man tries to “make love” offensively to a woman who doesn’t want him to, she need not run, nor shriek, nor faint.

  Stand steady, cold, quiet, with a steely eye. If he is not checked by that psychological wall, if he comes too close, kick, kick hard and accurately. This is “unladylike,” but not so regrettable as being mishandled.

  But there aren’t many of those melodramatic episodes. I never had but one, besides that little kiss on the stairs. The real frequent trouble is just impertinence, familiarity and undesired attentions.

  And here any woman alive who has the spirit for it may use that so-called “woman’s weapon,” the tongue. Not to plead, or protest, or scold, but to present, in clear, well-chosen words, the reason of the case.

  For instance, a man followed me one night, spoke to me, tried to take my arm. I stopped quite still, under a streetlight, and looked him in the eye.

  “Sir,” I said, “it is painfully apparent that you have amorous intentions. May I assure you that they are not reciprocated. Will you show your good taste by selecting an object for your attentions who will be more congenial. Good evening.”

  I went off — alone. He seemed permanently placed under the lamp post, staring.

  Being “spoken to” doesn’t hurt a woman. Why should not one human being speak to another? Being “insulted” is not an irrecoverable injury. But unless a man is drunk he can hear reason and should be made to.

  Well, that’s a long digression, but it’s what made the difference about Robert. Before I went away he was the First — the Only. And there’s no denying that there is a force in first impressions. Now I had seen others. I had seen all kinds of men — young, old, and middle-aged — and that any one of them was “in love” with me was not so startling a fact.

  Dear Robert! He was just as nice a man as ever; nicer, in fact, older and wiser and cleverer. And I was just as fond of him as ever, if not more so.

  I am yet. He is my brother-in-law.

  That is, of course, what I had hoped would happen, but I was pleased to find how honestly glad I was.

  Poor little Peggy! She was deeply in love with him. I doubt if she would have been so overwhelmed if it hadn’t been for her struggling with it, on my account, bless her heart!

  You see, that foolish young man had told her he loved me and she suspected that I had gone away on that account. I don’t know how she reasoned it out, but that was her idea, and she had tried to comfort him and be a sister to him and keep the place warm for me to come back to, as it were.

  Then he fell in love with her and was ashamed to own it, and she with him, and they were ashamed to own it. And there they were.

  It was high time I came home. One night with Peggy, one good talk with Robert— “Why you blessed children,” I said, looking very old and wise, “you dear, heroic, conscientious, noble-hearted geese — just listen to reason, both of you.

  “I do not love Robert — hear me swear! Robert does not love me — he needn’t swear — he doesn’t have to. He’s head over ears in love with you, Peggy, and you know it.

  “As for your feelings toward him I will not commit myself, but leave you to first find out and then admit.”

  So I kissed her — and even gave him one, as a Brother Elect — and cleared out.

  Peace settled on that part of the household. And a mighty good thing it was; he’s been the nicest kind of a husband, and really a son, a good son, to Mother. Also a good brother to me — but then, I have several.

  When that was straightened out we just kept things running smoothly and sat around waiting for Miss Windsor to get well.

  She did. It took time, but she did. And she and Mother just grew together. There are some women to whom a congenial friendship seems to open a wider range of happiness than even love — that is, the ordinary, average kind of love.

  Mother broadened, strengthened, and grew in Mary Allen Windsor’s companionship, more than she realized herself; more than any of us realized, until the test came.

  They read together books Mother never would have heard of any other way, and talked, discussed things, helped other people to read and discuss. And Miss Windsor seemed so contented and happy with Mother — it was beautiful.

  We learned after a while that the man Miss Windsor had loved had died; that is why she was single. And she said she had never expected to be as happy as she was with us.

  There we all were, peaceful and contented; Peggy and Robert getting ready to be married some day, and everybody preparing for Christmas.

  We were all sitting about in the pleasant parlor one evening — the family, I mean, including Miss Windsor. As it happened the rest of the boarders were all off somewhere or in their rooms, or over in the other house, so it was just us.

  Mother had had new curtains put up, lovely ones, and hangings by the folding doors to match. She had bought one or two pictures that she really liked; not works of art, just pictures — colored prints they were, at five dollars apiece, and some photogravures for less — and flowers. The place fairly sang with them.

  Peggy, with Robert of course, played softly at the piano, in the shady end of the room. Mother and Miss Windsor and I sat around the big table, each with her favorite magazine.

  There was an open
fire, another of Mother’s luxuries; and the more it blew and snowed outside, the happier we felt.

  Then all at once there was a great scuffling and stamping on the steps; the front door opened, letting a fine, cold blast swing our curtains and making the fire flash up — and in walked Father!

  There was another man, still stamping in the hall, but that didn’t count.

  Father! He had come back!

  We all started up and stood staring. Mother had her hand to her heart and couldn’t seem to speak. Miss Windsor took her other hand and said softly: “Steady, dear.” She saw who it was, of course.

  “’Tis a fine welcome you are giving me,” he said presently, for we were all literally too much astonished to speak.

  Then Peggy ran forward and gave him a kiss, and I did, somewhat more slowly, and then Mother. But it was different. I watched her. She had stood there a moment, holding on to her friend’s hand; then she had pulled herself together and came to him — sweet, cordial, and so beautiful!

  Somehow I had never realized how beautiful Mother was until that night. She was plumper than in her timid, worried days; straighter, so that she looked taller, and her head held like a queen’s. She was richly dressed, too — something that I never remembered as a child — gray and rose and silver it was that night, and what with the firelight and the excitement, her face was like a glowing rose.

  “You are welcome home, Andrew,” she said. “We were startled — not expecting you. But you are welcome.” She kissed him, sweetly enough, and turned to the others.

  “This is Robert Aylesworth, that I wrote you of, our son-to-be; and this is my friend — my sister — Mary Windsor.”

  Father was stiffly polite.

  “Aye!” he said. “I heard of this son and came to look him over. And I have heard of you, too, Madam.” He bowed to her. “I have brought another new relation home with me — come in, laddie.”

  And there came in from the hall, blushing with shyness, yet bravely cordial, a tall, lean, high-colored young Scotchman.

  “Kiss your cousins, my lad!” cried Father, slapping him on the back. “Make him welcome, girls— ’tis your own bloodkin, Home MacAvelly, of Homeburn.”

  Of course we knew there were cousins, Scotch cousins, whole rows and ranks of them, but we had never thought to see one in the flesh. He was good to look on, too, and Mother greeted him like the dear she was.

  We got out a jolly little supper for them and sat about talking for a while.

  Miss Windsor went to her room and Robert to his; the young cousin was shown another. We girls were sent to bed, and there was no one in the big, bright parlor by the red fire but Mother and Father.

  I couldn’t stand it. I’m a good creeper, and I crept downstairs again — the back stairs — and in through the kitchen and dining room to the closed parlor doors. A table knife wedged them open softly and the fine new hangings were a further shield.

  I wasn’t going to have my lifework upset, maybe, and not know about it.

  Father was looking well; older, a bit grayer, and thin — his Scotch diet was not so rich as ours, maybe, and perhaps his prolonged stay in other peoples’ homes had made him somewhat more appreciative of this one.

  Also I fancy he was a trifle awed by the new Something about Mother — not only her air of prosperity and beauty, but a different mental attitude. She was no longer merely something of his, she was her own.

  But he gathered himself together and began to lay down the law. Doubtless he had rehearsed it to himself many times on the voyage over, or in those cold stone-built chambers on the other side.

  He had come back now; he saw his way to making a good living (Father always saw his way, but seldom got to it), and all this boardinghouse experiment must stop at once.

  Did he like Robert? Mother asked.

  Oh, aye — the lad was well enough. Girls must marry; they would soon be left to themselves and they’d need less money to live on. But he was here now — in his own home — and all this boardinghouse business must stop.

  I knew it. It was just what I had been afraid of. Oh, how did he get back?

  Then Mother spoke. I could see the pink curve of her cheek, and her fine, shapely hand lying quietly on the arm of her chair.

  “Andrew,” she said, “I am glad that you bring the matter up at once, so that we have a clear understanding to begin with. I enjoy keeping boarders. I find it a successful and fairly lucrative business and I intend to keep on with it.”

  He blustered. Somehow the ground was new; he could not drop into his old, superior tone at once. He spoke of the rights of a man in his own house.

  “You forget, Andrew,” she answered mildly, “that the house is mine. It is perfectly legal and proper for me to run this business if I choose — and I do choose.”

  He talked of her duty to him.

  “I have done my duty to you, as I saw it, for many a long year; I have loved and served you and submitted to all your opinions. Now I shall still love you. You are my husband and the father of my children, but I have opinions of my own now, Andrew. I think that this is right to do — and I shall do it.”

  It wasn’t easy for her, and yet, to my astonishment, it wasn’t half as hard as I should have thought. I suppose if she had stood up to him like that in the beginning things never would have been so hard.

  “Let us not quarrel on the night of your homecoming, Andrew,” she said in that dear, gentle voice of hers. “You are my loved husband and I am your wife. But you come home to a somewhat different woman from the poor thing you left. I truly think, my dear, that you will be happier with me now than you were then.”

  And that is precisely what happened.

  Father had a room to himself — the big one next to Mother’s — and could be grouchy in there by his own little fire if he wanted to. He grew to respect Mary Windsor, even to like her in a way. The boarders kept him in table manners, and, anyway, he wasn’t half so arrogant as he had been. Too much home life is not good for some temperaments.

  He played chess and checkers evenings, and discussed, endlessly, with those who liked it, inviting chosen ones up to his room for the purpose.

  And he seemed to be proud of Mother, to look at her as if she were someone to be considered on her own merits — not merely his wife.

  But that night it was rather overwhelming.

  I crept upstairs again after a while, quite content and happy. It was good, after all, to have Father back — so long as Mother was able to stand it better.

  I walked softly up and down my room and thought it all over.

  Mother was safe — safe and happy.

  Peggy was going to have an extremely nice husband.

  Everything was all right and seemed likely to stay so.

  And then I began to think about that new cousin. What a nice name — Home. I’d read about the Homes in Scotch history and knew we were connected.

  He was just the type of man I liked: tall, sinewy, active but quiet, able to sit still or to jump quick — and far.

  He had nice eyes, steady, keen, gray-blue eyes that looked right into one. Good, thick, sturdy hair — red-brown, vigorous, fine hair.

  Home MacAvelly!

  All at once I stopped still in my tracks, and stood, seized by an idea — MacAvelly! His name was MacAvelly, too! And I had thought I never could keep it.

  HERLAND

  Herland was printed in Gilman’s magazine The Forerunner in 1915, but only published in book form in 1979. The novel has become one of the author’s most popular and critiqued works. It is the second text in her utopian trilogy and is renowned for its feminist ideas. Gilman attempts to show the society of Herland as an ideal and one based on an entirely different set of social relations from America and Europe in the early twentieth century. It is a land free from conflict, self-interest and private accumulation, where motherhood and education are held to be the most significant factors in life. Gilman questions masculine values and a capitalist system that orders society around a
nuclear family, private property and individualism. Instead, she presents a country founded in community, love and efficiency. The raising of children, which is the chief focus of the society, is a communal not individual practice. A strong theme throughout Gilman’s works is the power of education and its central position in the transformation and improvement of society.

  The novel relates the tale of three male explorers — Van, Terry and Jeff — who hear about a land that consists of only women. They stumble upon this all-woman colony, which they name Herland, and are taken prisoner when they try to escape. The men are treated humanely and assigned tutors to educate and familiarise them with the women’s language. Van quickly notices how efficient, pragmatic and beautiful everything appears to be in this country, and how the inhabitants are intelligent, curious and temperate. The explorers soon learn that men have been extinct in Herland for thousands of years so women reproduce female offspring via parthenogenesis. The children are raised by the community, which constantly seeks to improve their minds and participate in a society based on love, respect, equality and cooperation. The education model stresses the importance of social responsibility and deviates from the masculine approach of competition and self-interest, to one of the common good and the development of the human race.

  Gilman’s eugenic beliefs are once again a feature of her work and they convey racist and classist ideas. Only certain women, those judged to have desirable characteristics and features, were permitted to have children and only those very select and superior ‘Over Mothers’ were allowed to have multiple children. Those deemed unworthy of reproducing were forced to forego motherhood for the good of Herland. These modes of social engineering do not match the extremes of Moving the Mountain, where undesirables are murdered if they are unable to be ‘cured’, but they reinforce the more troubling aspects of Gilman’s philosophy and feminism.