Unfortunately, as one learns to lay out one’s ancestors in concentric circles, doubling the number with each ring after the simple “Father and Mother” in the first, these glittering lines leading to far-off dignitaries shrink to mere isolated threads, and are overwhelmed by crowding multitudes of ordinary people — or worse. Looking only eleven generations back, to the worshipful Catherine Fiennes, we may count in her ring two thousand and forty-eight ancestors — unless reduced by inter-marriage of relatives. When we reach the kings, Edward III being in the seventeenth circle, there are 131,072 ancestors — and only one king!
Our nearer forebears, in this country, were mainly persons of piety and learning, with very many ministers; plenty to furnish standings among Daughters and Dames, but I have never bothered to find them all out, being glutted as it were, with this list of remote glories.
The immediate line I am really proud of is the Beecher family. Dr. Lyman Beecher was my father’s grandfather, his twelve children were world-servers. It is the fashion of late among juveniles of quite different origins to contemptuously dismiss the settlers and builders of New England as “Puritanic.” One needs more historical perspective than is possessed by these persons to appreciate the physical and moral courage of those Great Adventurers; their energy and endurance; their inventive progressiveness. The “Blue Laws” of Connecticut, so widely sneered at, were a great advance in liberality from the English laws behind them.
As characters broadened with the spread of the growing nation new thinkers appeared, the urge toward heaven was humanized in a widening current of social improvement, making New England a seed-bed of progressive movements, scientific, mechanical, educational, humanitarian as well as religious. Into this moving world the Beechers swung forward, the sons all ministers, the daughters as able. Harriet Beecher Stowe is best known, but Catherine Beecher, who so scandalized the German theologian by her answer to “Edwards on the Will,” is still honored in the middle west for her wide influence in promoting the higher education of women; and Isabella Beecher Hooker was one of the able leaders in the demand for equal suffrage.
Mary Beecher, my grandmother, the only daughter not doing public work, married Thomas C. Perkins, a lawyer of Hartford, Connecticut, and had four children, Frederick, Emily, Charles and Katherine. Emily married Edward Everett Hale, the distinguished Unitarian divine, author and lecturer; Katherine married William C. Gilman; Charles followed his father’s footsteps in the Hartford law office; and Frederick, the oldest, my father, took to books as a duck to water. He read them, he wrote them, he edited them, he criticized them, he became a librarian and classified them. Before he married he knew nine languages, and continued to learn others afterward.
As an editor he helped to found, or worked on, the Independent, the Christian Union (now the Outlook), the Galaxy, Old and New, and various other papers and magazines. As a librarian he introduced the decimal system of classification, and his reference book, The Best Reading, was for long the standard. When I first visited the British Museum, Dr. Garnett was most polite to me for my father’s sake. In those days, when scholarship could still cover a large proportion of the world’s good books, he covered them well. Uncle E. E. Hale told me that he never asked my father a question that he could not immediately answer, or tell him where to find the answer.
But — with all these abilities went certain marked characteristics which prevented assured success. While a student in Yale he thrashed a professor, who had, he said, insulted him; which exhibition of temper cut short his college attendance. He was keen to feel injustice and quick to resent it; impatient of any dictation, careless of consequences when aroused. In an Irish riot in New York, during the Civil War, a Negro was being chased through the streets by a mob. Down rushed Mr. Perkins from his office, dragged the Negro into the hallway and faced the mob, but was himself pulled into safety by friends. A courageous man and a good boxer, but unwise. He did not, be it noted, enlist. When about thirty-one he married Mary Fitch Westcott of Providence, Rhode Island, and they had three children in three years, of whom I was the third.
The doctor said that if my mother had another baby she would die. Presently my father left home. Whether the doctor’s dictum was the reason or merely a reason I do not know. What I do know is that my childhood had no father. He was an occasional visitor, a writer of infrequent but always amusing letters with deliciously funny drawings, a sender of books, catalogues of books, lists of books to read, and also a purchaser of books with money sadly needed by his family.
Once I remember his holding me by the heels when I had casually swallowed a pin. “It cannot be a pin!” protested my mother, but I managed to explain that I had put it in the bread and milk myself — why, I cannot imagine.
Once he brought some black Hamburg grapes to mother, and would not let her give them to us as her heart desired. There was a game of chess at which I beat him, or thought I did — being but nine I now doubt the genuineness of that victory; one punishment, halfhearted, and never repeated, at the same age; and a visit some two years later, when we lived in the country and he brought my twelve-year-old brother a gun; these are the sum of my memories of my father in childish years.
There must have been other visits. I think he used to come at Christmas when possible, but nothing else has stayed in my mind. He made no official separation, said his work kept him elsewhere. No word of criticism did I ever hear, mother held him up to us as a great and admirable character. But he was a stranger, distant and little known. The word Father, in the sense of love, care, one to go to in trouble, means nothing to me, save indeed in advice about books and the care of them — which seems more the librarian than the father.
By heredity I owe him much; the Beecher urge to social service, the Beecher wit and gift of words and such small sense of art as I have; but his learning he could not bequeath, and far more than financial care I have missed the education it would have been to have grown up in his society.
A profound believer in the divine right of mothers once stated, in answer to some suggestion of mine as to the need of expert assistance in child-culture, that the mother was in any case the best person to bring up her children; if she was a good mother she was an example to be followed, if a bad one, an example to be avoided.
If unswerving love, tireless service, intense and efficient care, and the concentrated devotion of a lifetime that knew no other purpose make a good mother, mine was of the best. To appraise the story of that motherhood needs a background.
Her father, Henry Westcott, was descended from Stukely Westcott, one of Roger Williams’s deacons and fellow-settler of “Providence Plantations” in days when being a Baptist took some courage, and he, my grandfather, was a Unitarian when being a Unitarian took even more. I remember him dimly, a mild, gray man, whom I horrified by crawling downstairs face foremost at an early age. Mother told me lovely tales of his tenderness and benevolence. He would start for home with a well-filled market-basket and give most of the contents to needy persons on the way. Grandmother’s reaction she did not mention. In that characteristic bit of Irish rebellion, the Dorr War, grandfather had to stand guard with a musket, but he saw to it that it was not loaded — killed he might be, but he did not propose to kill any one else.
He was a widower with a little girl of four when he married Clarissa Fitch Perkins, a child of fifteen. A small child too; I have a little dress she made and wore, the softest finest muslin, scanty and short as some of our recent abbreviated garments, with a tiny Empire waistlet and short sleeves, mere shoulder-bits. Deeply embroidered is this frail garment, with inset lace in the big Persian pattern figures, all the work of those slim fingers.
At seventeen she had a baby, which died, and another at eighteen, Mary Fitch Westcott, my mother. I remember grandmother as up and about, visiting us, but before I was eight she became bedridden — of arthritis I suppose — and was the object of my childish prayers and sympathetic letters. She was cared for, almost to her death, by her mother, who was Cl
arissa Fitch, of Windham, Connecticut. Clarissa married Edward Perkins, cousin of my paternal grandfather. Great-grandma was a handsome stiff-backed old lady, wearing a brown “front” and a cap, and managing those about her with swift competence.
Mary Westcott, darling of an elderly father and a juvenile mother, petted, cossetted and indulged, grew up in frail health. She was “given up” by one physician, who said she had consumption and could not survive a date he set. She did, but he signified his displeasure by not recognizing her afterward. Delicate and beautiful, well educated, musical, and what was then termed “spiritual minded,” she was femininely attractive in the highest degree.
Her adventures and sorrows in this field began when she was a school-girl of fifteen in pantalettes, and an admiring gentleman, named Wilder, asked permission of the thirty-three-year-old mother to “pay his addresses” to her daughter. From that time there were always lovers, various and successive. The still childlike Mary, even at seventeen, used to excuse herself from callers and go upstairs to put her dolls to bed.
Engagements were made, broken and renewed, and re-broken. One sudden adorer proposed to her at first sight. The penultimate engagement — with a Mr. Glazier, a theological student in the strongly Baptist city of Providence — was broken on account of his faith; but he saw another light and became a Unitarian. They were again betrothed, and he was visiting at the house immediately before their approaching marriage, when he contracted typhoid fever and died. Poor mother!
In course of time she met her mother’s second cousin, Frederick Beecher Perkins of Hartford. They were engaged, that engagement also was broken, but finally, at the extreme old maidenhood of twenty-nine, she married him.
Of those three swiftly appearing babies the first died from some malpractice at birth; the second, Thomas A. Perkins, is still living, and in fourteen months I followed, on the afternoon of July third, 1860. If only I’d been a little slower and made it the glorious Fourth! This may be called the first misplay in a long game that is full of them.
There now follows a long-drawn, triple tragedy, quadruple perhaps, for my father may have suffered too; but mother’s life was one of the most painfully thwarted I have ever known. After her idolized youth, she was left neglected. After her flood of lovers, she became a deserted wife. The most passionately domestic of home-worshiping housewives, she was forced to move nineteen times in eighteen years, fourteen of them from one city to another. After a long and thorough musical education, developing unusual talent, she sold her piano when I was two, to pay the butcher’s bill, and never owned another. She hated debt, and debts accumulated about her, driving her to these everlasting moves. Absolutely loyal, as loving as a spaniel which no ill treatment can alienate, she made no complaint, but picked up her children and her dwindling furniture and traveled to the next place. She lived with her husband’s parents, with her own parents, with his aunts, in various houses here and there when he so installed her, fleeing again on account of debt.
My childish memories are thick with railroad journeys, mostly on the Hartford, Providence and Springfield; with occasional steamboats; with the smell of “hacks” and the funny noise the wheels made when little fingers were stuck in little ears and withdrawn again, alternately. And the things we had to wear! When I protested, mother said it was the easiest way to carry them. This I long resented, not in the least realizing how many things she must have had to carry, with two small children to convoy.
After some thirteen years of this life, mother, urged by friends, and thinking to set my father free to have another wife if he would not live with her, divorced him. This he bitterly resented, as did others of the family. So long as “Mary Fred” was a blameless victim they pitied her and did what they could to help, but a divorce was a disgrace. Divorced or not she loved him till her death, at sixty-three. She was with me in Oakland, California, at the time, and father was then a librarian in San Francisco, just across the bay. She longed, she asked, to see him before she died. As long as she was able to be up, she sat always at the window watching for that beloved face. He never came. That’s where I get my implacable temper.
This tragic life carried another grief, almost equal to loss of home and husband — the perplexed distress of the hen who hatched ducks. My mother was a baby-worshiper, even in her own childhood, always devoted to them, and in her starved life her two little ones were literally all; all of duty, hope, ambition, love and joy. She reared them with unusual intelligence and effectiveness, using much of the then new Kindergarten method, and so training herself with medical books that the doctor said he could do no better by us.
But as these children grew they grew away from her, both of them. The special gift for baby-care did not apply so well to large youngsters; the excellent teaching in first steps could not cope with the needs of changing years; and the sublime devotion to duty, the unflinching severity of discipline made no allowance for the changing psychology of children whose characters were radically different from her own. She increasingly lost touch with them, wider and wider grew the gulf between; it reminds one of that merciless old text: “From him who hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath.”
There is a complicated pathos in it, totally unnecessary. Having suffered so deeply in her own list of early love affairs, and still suffering for lack of a husband’s love, she heroically determined that her baby daughter should not so suffer if she could help it. Her method was to deny the child all expression of affection as far as possible, so that she should not be used to it or long for it. “I used to put away your little hand from my cheek when you were a nursing baby,” she told me in later years; “I did not want you to suffer as I had suffered.” She would not let me caress her, and would not caress me, unless I was asleep. This I discovered at last, and then did my best to keep awake till she came to bed, even using pins to prevent dropping off, and sometimes succeeding. Then how carefully I pretended to be sound asleep, and how rapturously I enjoyed being gathered into her arms, held close and kissed.
If love, devotion to duty, sublime self-sacrifice, were enough in child-culture, mothers would achieve better results; but there is another requisite too often lacking — knowedge. Yet all the best she had, the best she knew, my mother gave, at any cost to herself.
Note. A fourth child was born some years later and died in infancy.
CHAPTER II. BEGINNINGS
OF infant achievements I have by hearsay this: at about three years old, being summoned to the parlor, I appeared with the announcement, “Here I come, doll in hand, to obey my mother’s command.” Further, evidently having heard tobacco condemned, and finding a visiting relative in the act of using it, the four-year-old reformer sternly remarked to him: “I disgust you, Uncle Charles!”
I taught myself to read during an illness of mother’s, having been brought almost to that point by her, but remember much greater pride in putting the last touch on ability to dress myself by buttoning my little frock all up the back, at five.
Great-aunt Catherine Beecher visited us in the old house in Apponaug, Rhode Island, which fact I happen to remember because of a shock felt by the whole nation, by the world. The newspaper was outlined in black. Aunt Catherine, with her little gray curls, and my mother facing her, sat speechless — Lincoln was dead! They took me in town that day, to Providence, and the streets were hung with black.
Mother, to us children, was mainly the disciplinarian, but all her conscientious severity was unable to anticipate the varied mischief of two lively-minded youngsters without sufficient occupation. She taught us, admirably; Object Lessons were our delight, and Hooker’s Child’s Book of Nature.
We took Our Young Folks, in which some pleasant papers on natural science made an indelible impression on me, and one story, “Andy’s Adventures,” convinced me forever of the essential folly of lying. It occurred to me even then, that whereas mother taught us that lying was very wrong, evidently much more wrong than other misdemeanors, yet when it came to punishment we
were whipped just as severely for less offenses — that this was unjust. Once, having done something for which whipping was due, I humbled my proud spirit and confessed, begging mother to forgive me. She said she would, but whipped me just the same. This gave me a moral “set-back” in the matter of forgiveness — I’ve never been good at it.
Often during life has the first waking hour brought ideas, percepts, often of wide reach, and even in those baby years I woke once with a vast concept my inadequate vocabulary utterly failed to describe. It only provoked laughter when I said: “It felt like having the whole world on my toes” ... an enormous sense of social responsibility with power to handle it.
Our many movings we children took as a matter of course; to us the stays here and there seemed long, a six months’ visit is a little lifetime to a child. We were most lovingly entertained by my father’s aunts, Charlotte and Anna Perkins, for both of whom I was named. Those pious ladies, who used rags for handkerchiefs in order to send more to the missionaries, used to pick out the best from clothing contributed to give us children. They lived in Hartford in a square old house on the corner of Main Street and College — now Capitol Avenue.
Here mother had a little school for us, with some other children; she was a phenomenally good teacher for the very young. To one of those early schoolmates a tale belongs, funny enough to repeat. There were two little boys, let us call them Harry and Johnny Blake. Harry was a dark, handsome boy, and polite to me — a new experience. Mother took me to the Blakes’ to dinner one day, a dinner so good I remember it yet — boiled salmon, egg sauce, green peas. Mrs. Blake was most kind, but the main attraction was Harry, a most courteous young host. So I gave my seven-year-old heart to Harry — and after that summer never saw him again for some fifty years. Then, in New York, joining some friends for a theater party, a tall, dark, handsome man was introduced to me as Mr. Blake, of Hartford. “Harry Blake!” I cried, unbelievingly, but he it was. We sat down together and dropped those fifty years completely, went back to 1868, my mother’s little school, the other children, and I told him of that visit and how good his mother was to me. While completely immersed in childish reminiscences a tall, handsome, gray-haired lady was brought up and introduced to me as “Mrs. Blake.” I sprang to my feet and greeted her with affectionate enthusiasm— “Harry’s mother 1” I cried ... and it was his wife....
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 247