More formative and valuable was friendship with the family of Dr. William F. Channing, son of William Ellery Channing, the great Unitarian divine. Here I found broad free-thinking, scientific talk, earnest promotion of great causes — life. There were two beautiful daughters, lifelong friends, one closer than a sister to this day.
The handsomest girls of all I knew were Helen Hazard, Nellie Sharpe, and Jessie Luther, the last two still alive and lovely; the most utterly charming was May Diman, cut off by an accident in her rich youth. Another kind and helpful friend of my youth, somewhat older than I and appreciative of my strenuous efforts at well doing, was Miss Kate Bucklin, who used to take me to the theater and buy me books. Dear woman! she is still sending me presents.
Among other benefactions she took me to Ogunquit, Maine, for vacation visits, with other friends. We stayed at the Cliff House, successor to which still stands on that sheer cliff, about which is a turmoil of rock delightful to geologists. One deep, narrow chasm they named Charlotte Perkins’s Leap, because I jumped across it. It was not really very wide, but looked dangerous enough if one was not clear-headed and sure-footed.
One year there was a handsome Harvard boy in the party, who invited me out to sit on the rocks in the moonlight. Thus romantically placed, he confided to me that he had kissed more than one girl for what he was sure was the first time. Replying, I soberly inquired if he did not expect to marry some day, which he admitted. “When you first kiss the girl you mean to marry, don’t you wish that to be her ‘first time’?” Yes, he did. “Then don’t you see that every time you kiss these other girls first you are robbing some other man of that dear pleasure?” He saw. Our conversation continued on a most friendly and confidential basis, but I noticed that next night he took one of the pretty waitresses out on the rocks — they were nice neighborhood girls.
Some months after, that fine young fellow shot himself. His parents were sternly pious people and thought he would be damned, for committing suicide, and I was most happily able to lift that load from their hearts by repeating to them what he had told me of black misery of mind, of how he often thought of suicide, but intended not to use the pistol his father gave him, lest such a use of it hurt his feelings! The indication of growing melancholia was so clear that the agonized parents felt sure he was insane, and even the kind of God they believed in would hardly damn a lunatic.
One frequent pleasure of my youth was whist. I liked all games, as far as I knew them, save cribbage and backgammon, but whist and chess best of all. There were several cousins of mother’s who used to play whist with us, and two serious-minded young Brown students who called often, but solemnly inquired for Aunt Caroline instead of me.
Aside from such safe and limited companionship, mother was rigorous in refusing all manner of invitations for me. I was denied so often that I found it saved emotion to “fight fire with fire,” to deny myself beforehand, and, strengthened by Emerson, Socrates, Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius, I became a genuine stoic.
This process was promoted by one experience so drastic as to render later deprivations of small account. During my seventeenth year one of mother’s cousins, ten years older than I, invited me to a students’ concert at Brown. Mother declined for me. She, in her lovely girlhood, had known many college boys — she had some obscure objection to my “getting in with the students.” I made no complaint, being already inured to denial. But that same day another of those cousins, twenty years older than I, asked me to go with him and his sisters to sit in a box, and see Edwin Booth in Hamlet.
Booth! Hamlet! A box! Nothing in all the world could have meant so much to me at the time. And mother refused. Why? She afterwards explained that having refused Robert, she feared that if she accepted Edward’s invitation it would hurt Robert’s feelings. How about mine? ... The unparalleled glory offered and the pitiful inadequacy of the reason for its denial made a ghastly impression on my mind. Something broke. Perhaps it was like what is called “a broken heart.” At any rate I have never since that day felt the sharp sting of disappointment, only a numb feeling. So deep was the effect of continuous denials and my own drastic training in endurance, that it was many years later before I learned to accept an offered pleasure naturally.
There is strong contrast between my clear memories of the earnest “living” which was going on inside during these years, and the trivial entries in these juvenile diaries of mine. Externally it was a meager, poverty-stricken, repressed life. There was the housework— “Rose at four. Ironing done by six” (This was for two only). There was the sewing and mending and dressmaking: a new hat— “first in three years, $3.75.” There was, while sixteen, the record of that unattainable Prince, “Saw him! Oh joy!” and “didn’t see him! Oh dear!” and then mention of various minor hims now quite forgotten, some of whom seem from this distance to show a forthcoming disposition, but whom I note only with the remark, “Poor little snipe!” or “Nice little fellow!”
One I do remember who brought his guitar, and essayed a compliment as to the clear luster of the white of my eyes, to which I encouragingly replied, “What color should they be?” By the local youth I was set down as too smart, what would now be called a “highbrow.” My theory was that a girl should meet a boy with the same straightforward friendliness she would show another girl; that it was ignominious and wrong to flaunt one’s femininity so to speak. It was far too late for popularity before I learned that this was precisely what men wanted, ordinary men, that is.
It was different when I visited in Boston and Cambridge, with our good friend Mrs. Smith and her son Walter, with the Hales, and with the dear Hedges in Cambridge. Walter Smith and Arthur Hale were in Harvard, I met the kind of people I liked, young and old, and was far more popular than in Providence. Here is a day which seems to be high-watermark. I was nineteen:
CAMBRIDGE, 11 P.M., Thurs., Jan. 1st, 1880. Pen of gold and pearl [This must have been a Christmas present, the adored hope of childhood at last — only it wasn’t pink.] and book of stainless paper are none too good for such a day as this. Rose late. Conversed with the charming Walter. Wrote note to mother asking to stay til Monday. Made New Year’s call on May Diman and Retta Clark. Then on Aunt Emily Hale. Saw Arthur. Edward goes down to the Clark’s with me, departing with George, while May, Retta and I go to Nellie’s Studio. See my portrait there. Home to Mrs. S’s to lunch. More Walter. Much Walter. Goes out with me and my bag when I start for here at 3:30. On arriving here whom do I find but Mr. Dodge! My first New Year’s call. Is very. Very. Very. Scurry and dress. Very pretty, lace and flowers. Go to party at Mrs. Wells’ in carriage with Mrs. Holland and Henry Holland. Quite a crowd, 1st, talk quite a lot with Ivan Panin. 2nd, long and interesting “One Word” with Henry Holland. 3rd, Mr. Greeley at supper time. 4th, Ben Wells. 5th, “Criticism” Am criticized. Good fun. 6th, “Blow out the candle.” Beastly game. Come home at eleven or near it, regretting not having said good-by to Greeley, and, can I believe my senses, find that identical youth artlessly happening by as we get out of the hack!!! Am going to a museum with him to-morrow! — I never was so courted and entertained and done for in all my little life. It seems as if the memory of to-day would last me in solid comfort through all the ills that flesh is heir to. I thought noth — (it is Jan. 2nd.)ing was needful to my happiness when I rode home, and then to find Lewis Greeley actually loitering about to see Me! I cannot understand it. Not that I mean him especially, but the attention. — The — the — why to think of its being me!
My facility in verse crops out even in the diary, as:
Jan. 23rd: Refrained like a fool from going to school as Mama with a headache appeared, but was grieved to remain for she suffered no pain the moment the weather had cleared. 6 cents did I spend for three pinks to the end of enhancing L. G.’s valentine, and the day spent in painting the spray, with effect most uncommonly fine. Went round to see Ray, at 2 P.M. to-day, to get means for our next month’s survival; had a letter from T. full of pleasure and glee announcing his bo
x’s arrival. Left the dishes to Belle, who delighteth full well on some pretext to come in and stay, and by Bolan the gifted our ashes were sifted and the cellar cleaned up on small pay. i.e., 6octs.
There was plenty more of the kind, verse was as easy as prose.
A special blank book has a large collection of valentines, which I wrote with joyous abandon. One year I sent fifteen to charming May Diman, a few carefully arranged so that she would attribute them to me, the others written to seem as if from different men she knew, and had them copied by various friends and mailed to her from afar.
The best worth quoting is one with an answer. In Cambridge, at a little party with the Hedges, we played some game with forfeits. I was a victim, and Miss Hedge being arbiter, said, “You must propose to Fred Almy.” ... The Almy twins were two delightful Harvard boys, most gifted and entertaining were they. I thought it well to get this over with at once, so I kneeled to him before them all and begged, “Wilt thou be mine?” The youth was somewhat flustered, murmured something about delay, suggested that I wait a year. After which, next Valentine’s Day, I sent him this:
O rock and ice! I offered you my hand,
I owned I loved you, dear,
You only smiled with heartless self-command
And bade me wait a year.
And I have waited, with an aching breast,
While spring to summer turned;
Waited while darkly in the distant west
The autumn sunsets burned.
Waited until the winter came at last
With whirling snow and rain,
Waited until the weary year was passed
And I might ask again.
Will you be mine? The true love on my part
I think you well can guess,
I listen with a horror in my heart
Lest you should answer “Yes!”
Before night I got an answer, by telegraph —
Can ice resist the sun?
Do icebergs melt and live?
An answer, ruthless paragon,
I prithee give.
Death be my happy fate,
Gladly for thee I die
Yet hold — what words of cunning hate
Appal mine eye!
Does horror fill your heart?
O woful words to me!
I now consent, a harder part
To live for thee.
Aside from such very occasional divertissements, my real “living” became increasingly strenuous. Childish dreams of being the best of everything turned to a determination to become the best I could in all lines possible to me. This pious ambition was stiffened by a practical philosophy and made easy in execution by that excellent process of mine.
Up to sixteen or seventeen there was no character to be specially proud of; impressionable, vacillating, sensitive, uncontrolled, often loafing and lazy — only a few years earlier good Mrs. Smith had said to mother that I seemed “all froth and foam.” Mother told me this, for my good, knowing how much I respected that lady, and I laid up the saying most solemnly. Five or six years from the time of her dictum I asked her if she still thought so, and she reversed her opinion completely, said I was the most determined and firmly based young woman she knew, to my immense satisfaction. Perhaps that relentless memory and determination to make her “eat her words” shows some inner force of character, if only contradictoriness.
The flaccidity of will which had impressed that kind critic I saw to be a weakness to be outgrown, and set about it. The first step was to establish prompt and easy execution of decisions, to connect cerebral action with the motor nerves. Short of idiocy we all have this power, but most of us neglect it. “You couldn’t do it if you hadn’t inherited the capacity!” says the fatalist. Of course we inherit it. If you inherit a fortune does it prove that you haven’t any? We do have the capacity, and can develop it, like any other power, by use.
My advantage was the Yankee inventiveness which devised means for doing easily what is usually found difficult. I deliberately set about a course of exercises in which small and purely arbitrary decisions were sharply carried out: “In ten minutes I will take another chair.” “At five-thirty-eight I will walk around the block.” “I will get out of bed at thirteen minutes to seven.” The essence of this method is in its complete detachment. There is no temptation to be overcome, no difficulty to be met, nothing but a simple expression of will. Such exercises, carried on thoroughly, do develop the habit of executing one’s decisions, and make it easy when there is something serious to be done.
With each trait to be acquired the Process was used; determination, self-suggestion, “making up the mind”— “I will think before I speak!” This was one of my most needed ones. The determination is forgotten, the thoughtless words go on, but after a while the memory revives — then welcome it, waste no moment in regret, say, “Ah, here you are!,” and jam it in again, harder than before, “I will think before I speak!” You will remember it sooner next time, smile and jam it in again. At last the thought comes before the word, you catch yourself in the act and check the unkind or unwise speech — but only once that day. Twice the next day, then three times, and so slowly, not straining the new connection, until you have established the habit you desire.
One of my worst characteristics was bitterly bewailed by mother. “Shall I never teach you to think of other people! You are so thoughtless.” She was right. I was not thoughtful of others, I could see that the characters I admired and strove to imitate were so, and I set to work to acquire this virtue. Evidently a large order, a year, perhaps two, required for its acquisition. First the firm determination, repeated as it recurred. When at last I thought of it in time, I’d gaze at some caller of mother’s and consider what, if anything, I could do for that person; get a foot-stool, a glass of water, change a window-shade, any definitely conceived benefit. So with other people in other places, laboriously seeking to think of them. With this I undertook a course of minor self-denials, for the sole purpose of reversing the current, turning my mind from what I wanted to what other people wanted. This from no delusion of virtue; what I was after was the reversal of tendency, the turning of consciousness from self to others.
But this was too slow, too restricted, and I devised a larger scheme. There was a certain crippled girl, with a poor little mother, maker of lace caps for old ladies. Among the benevolent church members who cared for them were some of mother’s cousins, and it was easy to be introduced to the poor invalid. Half-blind she was, wearing a shade over her eyes, lying curled up on her couch, a most unhappy object. Of this damsel I inquired, “Will you do me a service?”
She laughed with some bitterness at the idea that she could do anything for me, but I explained that I was quite in earnest, that she could help me most practically. “You see,” I pursued seriously, “I don’t think about other people, and I’m trying to learn. Now I don’t care anything about you, yet, but I’d like to. Will you let me come and practise on you?”
This she thought to be merely a concealment of benevolent feelings, but it wasn’t. I didn’t care in the least about her, but I knew that I should if I did things for her; love grows by service. So I visited that unhappy creature, and studied what I could do to benefit her, beyond being amusing.
Her limitations were many and painful. I read to her, that was easy. Her eating was restricted, but she could smell, and I brought her flowers. Then, with a long, careful saving from my most narrow and uncertain resources, I bought her a small musicbox, for $3.00 — a huge sum for me; it was a mere toy, but proved a great comfort to her. And sure enough, after a while I became quite fond of the girl.
In about two years I heard through a kind cousin that some old lady had said that she did like Charlotte Perkins — she was so thoughtful of other people. “Hurrah!” said I, “another game won!”
Each year I would lay out one, or perhaps two, desirable traits to acquire, and in a leisurely manner acquire them. We are told to hitch our wagons to a star, but wh
y pick on Betelgeuse? I selected more modestly, more gradually, carefully choosing for imitation some admired character in history or fiction, not too far beyond me, and then catching up; followed by the selection of another more difficult. At the time when this long effort calamitously ended I had got as far as Socrates....
One New Year’s prayer heard during these years provoked me almost to interrupt. The minister was droning along in the “Thou knowest” style — (if it was plain “you know” how inelegant it would be!) “Thou knowest how a year ago we made good resolutions and have broken them. Thou knowest how we undertook to develop a better character and have failed.” ... I wanted to speak out and tell him that there was one person present who had undertaken to develop better character and succeeded, who had made good resolutions and kept them every one. But I was careful not to make too many at once.
One of the later and more difficult was the establishing a habit of absolute truthfulness. Not that I had ever been a liar, but that now I meant to practise the most meticulous accurary, to become so reliable that people would declare, “If Charlotte Perkins says so, it’s so.” There came a day when I was sorely tried in the acquirement of this stern reputation. A young acquaintance, well known for the exact opposite, called on me with solemn purpose.
“Charlotte, I have heard that you said that I lied! You didn’t, did you?” This was not easy. We are more carefully trained in not hurting people’s feelings than stark truth. But I hung on to my principles, and the arms of my chair. “Yes, I did.”
She was thunder-struck, had never dreamed that I would own it, protested, “But you don’t believe it do you?” Another effort, harder than the last. “Yes, I do.”
That was a real test. Being successfully met it enabled me to meet others with less strain. And as to consequences — I lost a “friend,” but she gained what should have been a salutary lesson.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 251