Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  For each and all there was, if wanted, tea and coffee, crackers and cheese; simple fare, of unvarying excellence, and from each and all, into the little cashbox, ten cents for these refreshments. From the club members this came weekly; and the club members, kept up by a constant variety of interests, came every week. As to numbers, before the first six months was over The Haddleton Rest and Improvement Club numbered five hundred women.

  Now, five hundred times ten cents a week is twenty-six hundred dollars a year. Twenty-six hundred dollars a year would not be very much to build or rent a large house, to furnish five hundred people with chairs, lounges, books, and magazines, dishes and service; and with food and drink even of the simplest. But if you are miraculously supplied with a club-house, furnished, with a manager and servant on the spot, then that amount of money goes a long way.

  On Saturdays Mrs. Morrison hired two helpers for half a day, for half a dollar each. She stocked the library with many magazines for fifty dollars a year. She covered fuel, light, and small miscellanies with another hundred. And she fed her multitude with the plain viands agreed upon, at about four cents apiece.

  For her collateral entertainments, her many visits, the various new expenses entailed, she paid as well; and yet at the end of the first year she had not only her interest, but a solid thousand dollars of clear profit. With a calm smile she surveyed it, heaped in neat stacks of bills in the small safe in the wall behind her bed. Even Sally did not know it was there.

  The second season was better than the first. There were difficulties, excitements, even some opposition, but she rounded out the year triumphantly. “After that,” she said to herself, “they may have the deluge if they like.”

  She made all expenses, made her interest, made a little extra cash, clearly her own, all over and above the second thousand dollars.

  Then did she write to son and daughter, inviting them and their families to come home to Thanksgiving, and closing each letter with joyous pride: “Here is the money to come with.”

  They all came, with all the children and two nurses. There was plenty of room in the Welcome House, and plenty of food on the long mahogany table. Sally was as brisk as a bee, brilliant in scarlet and purple; Mrs. Morrison carved her big turkey with queenly grace.

  “I don’t see that you’re over-run with club women, mother,” said Jeannie.

  “It’s Thanksgiving, you know; they’re all at home. I hope they are all as happy, as thankful for their homes as I am for mine,” said Mrs. Morrison.

  Afterward Mr. Butts called. With dignity and calm unruffled, Mrs. Morrison handed him his interest — and principal.

  Mr. Butts was almost loath to receive it, though his hand automatically grasped the crisp blue check.

  “I didn’t know you had a bank account,” he protested, somewhat dubiously.

  “Oh, yes; you’ll find the check will be honored, Mr. Butts.”

  “I’d like to know how you got this money. You can’t ‘a’ skinned it out o’ that club of yours.”

  “I appreciate your friendly interest, Mr. Butts; you have been most kind.”

  “I believe some of these great friends of yours have lent it to you. You won’t be any better off, I can tell you.”

  “Come, come, Mr. Butts! Don’t quarrel with good money. Let us part friends.”

  And they parted.

  THE COTTAGETTE

  “Why not?” said Mr. Mathews “It is far too small for a house, too pretty for a hut, too — unusual — for a cottage.”

  “Cottagette, by all means,” said Lois, seating herself on a porch chair. “But it is larger than it looks, Mr. Mathews. How do you like it, Malda?”

  I was delighted with it. More than delighted. Here this tiny shell of fresh unpainted wood peeped out from under the trees, the only house in sight except the distant white specks on far off farms, and the little wandering village in the river-threaded valley. It sat right on the turf, — no road, no path even, and the dark woods shadowed the back windows.

  “How about meals?” asked Lois.

  “Not two minutes walk,” he assured her, and showed us a little furtive path between the trees to the place where meals were furnished.

  We discussed and examined and exclaimed, Lois holding her pongee skirts close about her — she needn’t have been so careful, there wasn’t a speck of dust, — and presently decided to take it.

  Never did I know the real joy and peace of living, before that blessed summer at “High Court.” It was a mountain place, easy enough to get to, but strangely big and still and far away when you were there.

  The working basis of the establishment was an eccentric woman named Caswell, a sort of musical enthusiast, who had a summer school of music and the “higher things.” Malicious persons, not able to obtain accommodations there, called the place “High C.”

  I liked the music very well, and kept my thoughts to myself, both high and low, but “The Cottagette” I loved unreservedly. It was so little and new and clean, smelling only of its fresh-planed boards — they hadn’t even stained it.

  There was one big room and two little ones in the tiny thing, though from the outside you wouldn’t have believed it, it looked so small; but small as it was it harbored a miracle — a real bathroom with water piped from mountain springs. Our windows opened into the green shadiness, the soft brownness, the bird-inhabited quiet flower-starred woods. But in front we looked across whole counties — over a far-off river-into another state. Off and down and away — it was like sitting on the roof of something — something very big.

  The grass swept up to the door-step, to the walls — only it wasn’t just grass of course, but such a procession of flowers as I had never imagined could grow in one place.

  You had to go quite a way through the meadow, wearing your own narrow faintly marked streak in the grass, to reach the town-connecting road below. But in the woods was a little path, clear and wide, by which we went to meals.

  For we ate with the highly thoughtful musicians, and highly musical thinkers, in their central boarding-house nearby. They didn’t call it a boarding-house, which is neither high nor musical; they called it “The Calceolaria.” There was plenty of that growing about, and I didn’t mind what they called it so long as the food was good — which it was, and the prices reasonable — which they were.

  The people were extremely interesting — some of them at least; and all of them were better than the average of summer boarders.

  But if there hadn’t been any interesting ones it didn’t matter while Ford Mathews was there. He was a newspaper man, or rather an ex-newspaper man, then becoming a writer for magazines, with books ahead.

  He had friends at High Court — he liked music — he liked the place — and he liked us. Lois liked him too, as was quite natural. I’m sure I did.

  He used to come up evenings and sit on the porch and talk.

  He came daytimes and went on long walks with us. He established his workshop in a most attractive little cave not far beyond far beyond us — the country there is full of rocky ledges and hollows, and sometimes asked us over to an afternoon tea, made on a gipsy fire.

  Lois was a good deal older than I, but not really old at all, and she didn’t look her thirty-five by ten years. I never blamed her for not mentioning it, and I wouldn’t have done so, myself, on any account. But I felt that together we made a safe and reasonable household. She played beautifully, and there was a piano in our big room. There were pianos in several other little cottages about — but too far off for any jar of sound. When the wind was right we caught little wafts of music now and then; but mostly it was still — blessedly still, about us. And yet that Calceolaria was only two minutes off — and with raincoats and rubbers we never minded going to it.

  We saw a good deal of Ford and I got interested in him, I couldn’t help it. He was big. Not extra big in pounds and inches, but a man with big view and a grip — with purpose and real power. He was going to do things. I thought he was doing them no
w, but he didn’t — this was all like cutting steps in the ice-wall, he said. It had to be done, but the road was long ahead. And he took an interest in my work too, which is unusual for a literary man.

  Mine wasn’t much. I did embroidery and made designs.

  It is such pretty work! I like to draw from flowers and leaves and things about me; conventionalize them sometimes, and sometimes paint them just as they are, — in soft silk stitches.

  All about up here were the lovely small things I needed; and not only these, but the lovely big things that make one feel so strong and able to do beautiful work.

  Here was the friend I lived so happily with, and all this fairy land of sun and shadow, the free immensity of our view, and the dainty comfort of the Cottagette. We never had to think of ordinary things till the soft musical thrill of the Japanese gong stole through the trees, and we trotted off to the Calceolaria.

  I think Lois knew before I did.

  We were old friends and trusted each other, and she had had experience too.

  “Malda,” she said, “let us face this thing and be rational.” It was a strange thing that Lois should be so rational and yet so musical — but she was, and that was one reason I liked her so much.

  “You are beginning to love Ford Mathews — do you know it?”

  I said yes, I thought I was.

  “Does he love you?”

  That I couldn’t say. “It is early yet,” I told her. “He is a man, he is about thirty I believe, he has seen more of life and probably loved before — it may be nothing more than friendliness with him.”

  “Do you think it would be a good marriage?” she asked. We had often talked of love and marriage, and Lois had helped me to form my views — hers were very clear and strong.

  “Why yes — if he loves me,” I said. “He has told me quite a bit about his family, good western farming people, real Americans. He is strong and well — you can read clean living in his eyes and mouth.” Ford’s eyes were as clear as a girl’s, the whites of them were clear. Most men’s eyes, when you look at them critically, are not like that. They may look at you very expressively, but when you look at them, just as features, they are not very nice.

  I liked his looks, but I liked him better.

  So I told her that as far as I knew it would be a good marriage — if it was one.

  “How much do you love him?” she asked.

  That I couldn’t quite tell, — it was a good deal, — but I didn’t think it would kill me to lose him.

  “Do you love him enough to do something to win him — to really put yourself out somewhat for that purpose?”

  “Why — yes — I think I do. If it was something I approved of. What do you mean?”

  Then Lois unfolded her plan. She had been married, — unhappily married, in her youth; that was all over and done with years ago; she had told me about it long since; and she said she did not regret the pain and loss because it had given her experience. She had her maiden name again — and freedom. She was so fond of me she wanted to give me the benefit of her experience — without the pain.

  “Men like music,” said Lois; “they like sensible talk; they like beauty of course, and all that,—”

  “Then they ought to like you!” I interrupted, and, as a matter of fact they did. I knew several who wanted to marry her, but she said “once was enough.” I don’t think they were “good marriages” though.

  “Don’t be foolish, child,” said Lois, “this is serious. What they care for most after all is domesticity. Of course they’ll fall in love with anything; but what they want to marry is a homemaker. Now we are living here in an idyllic sort of way, quite conducive to falling in love, but no temptation to marriage. If I were you — if I really loved this man and wished to marry him, I would make a home of this place.”

  “Make a home? — why it is a home. I never was so happy anywhere in my life. What on earth do you mean, Lois?”

  “A person might be happy in a balloon, I suppose,” she replied, “but it wouldn’t be a home. He comes here and sits talking with us, and it’s quiet and feminine and attractive — and then we hear that big gong at the Calceolaria, and off we go stopping through the wet woods — and the spell is broken. Now you can cook.” I could cook. I could cook excellently. My esteemed Mama had rigorously taught me every branch of what is now called “domestic science;” and I had no objection to the work, except that it prevented my doing anything else. And one’s hands are not so nice when one cooks and washes dishes, — I need nice hands for my needlework. But if it was a question of pleasing Ford Mathews —

  Lois went on calmly. “Miss Caswell would put on a kitchen for us in a minute, she said she would, you know, when we took the cottage. Plenty of people keep house up here, — we, can if we want to.”

  “But we don’t want to,” I said, “we never have wanted to. The very beauty of the place is that it never had any house-keeping about it. Still, as you say, it would be cosy on a wet night, we could have delicious little suppers, and have him stay—”

  “He told me he had never known a home since he was eighteen,” said Lois.

  That was how we came to install a kitchen in the Cottagette. The men put it up in a few days, just a lean-to with a window, a sink and two doors. I did the cooking. We had nice things, there is no denying that; good fresh milk and vegetables particularly, fruit is hard to get in the country, and meat too, still we managed nicely; the less you have the more you have to manage — it takes time and brains, that’s all.

  Lois likes to do housework, but it spoils her hands for practicing, so she can’t; and I was perfectly willing to do it — it was all in the interest of my own heart. Ford certainly enjoyed it. He dropped in often, and ate things with undeniable relish. So I was pleased, though it did interfere with my work a good deal. I always work best in the morning; but of course housework has to be done in the morning too; and it is astonishing how much work there is in the littlest kitchen. You go in for a minute, and you see this thing and that thing and the other thing to be done, and your minute is an hour before you know it.

  When I was ready to sit down the freshness of the morning was gone somehow. Before, when I woke up, there was only the clean wood smell of the house, and then the blessed out-of-doors: now I always felt the call of the kitchen as soon as I woke. An oil stove will smell a little, either in or out of the house; and soap, and — well you know if you cook in a bedroom how it makes the room feel differently? Our house had been only bedroom and parlor before.

  We baked too — the baker’s bread was really pretty poor, and Ford did enjoy my whole wheat, and brown, and especially hot rolls and gems. it was a pleasure to feed him, but it did heat up the house, and me. I never could work much — at my work — baking days. Then, when I did get to work, the people would come with things, — milk or meat or vegetables, or children with berries; and what distressed me most was the wheelmarks on our meadow. They soon made quite a road — they had to of course, but I hated it — I lost that lovely sense of being on the last edge and looking over — we were just a bead on a string like other houses. But it was quite true that I loved this man, and would do more than this to please him. We couldn’t go off so freely on excursions as we used, either; when meals are to be prepared someone has to be there, and to take in things when they come. Sometimes Lois stayed in, she always asked to, but mostly I did. I couldn’t let her spoil her summer on my account. And Ford certainly liked it.

  He came so often that Lois said she thought it would look better if we had an older person with us; and that her mother could come if I wanted her, and she could help with the work of course. That seemed reasonable, and she came. I wasn’t very fond of Lois’s mother, Mrs. Fowler, but it did seem a little conspicuous, Mr. Mathews eating with us more than he did at the Calceolaria.

  There were others of course, plenty of them dropping in, but I didn’t encourage it much, it made so much more work. They would come in to supper, and then we would have musical eveni
ngs. They offered to help me wash dishes, some of them, but a new hand in the kitchen is not much help, I preferred to do it myself; then I knew where the dishes were.

  Ford never seemed to want to wipe dishes; though I often wished he would.

  So Mrs. Fowler came. She and Lois had one room, they had to, — and she really did a lot of the work, she was a very practical old lady.

  Then the house began to be noisy. You hear another person in a kitchen more than you hear yourself, I think, — and the walls were only boards. She swept more than we did too. I don’t think much sweeping is needed in a clean place like that; and she dusted all the time; which I know is unnecessary. I still did most of the cooking, but I could get off more to draw, out-of-doors; and to walk. Ford was in and out continually, and, it seemed to me, was really coming nearer. What was one summer of interrupted work, of noise and dirt and smell and constant meditation on what to eat next, compared to a lifetime of love? Besides — if he married me — I should have to do it always, and might as well get used to it.

  Lois kept me contented, too, telling me nice things that Ford said about my cooking. “He does appreciate it so,” she said.

  One day he came around early and asked me to go up Hugh’s Peak with him. It was a lovely climb and took all day. I demurred a little, it was Monday, Mrs. Fowler thought it was cheaper to have a woman come and wash, and we did, but it certainly made more work.

  “Never mind,” he said, “what’s washing day or ironing day or any of that old foolishness to us? This is walking day — that’s what it is.” It was really, cool and sweet and fresh, — it had rained in the night, — and brilliantly clear.

  “Come along!” he said. “We can see as far as Patch Mountain I’m sure. There’ll never be a better day.”

  “Is anyone else going?” I asked.

  “Not a soul. It’s just us. Come.”

  I came gladly, only suggesting— “Wait, let me put up a lunch.”

  “I’ll wait just long enough for you to put on knickers and a short skirt,” said he. “The lunch is all in the basket on my back. I know how long it takes for you women to ‘put up’ sandwiches and things.”