That kitchen by the way was a sort of joke, built from the big boxes and crates my furniture came in, with windows supplied by some large pieces of glass found on the place. It cost me only some nails and carpenter work, about thirteen dollars as I remember.
The old fellow washed his hands at the hydrant and came in to supper with us. Then I sought to get rid of him, as Grace was coming as usual to work with me on a play. No proposed place of entertainment attracted him however, not even the Y. M. C. A. So he sat around while I read to Katharine, and then I helped him move my hard little lounge out into the kitchen.
“If you should git skeered in the night don’t be afraid to call on me,” he gallantly urged, and I said nothing of the risk I was taking. Grace came, we worked as usual, and the night passed without event. In the morning my undesired guest again made his toilet at the hydrant, and came to breakfast. While eating a thought struck him, a misgiving, possibly.
“Where is your husband, Ma’am?” he asked.
“In Providence, Rhode Island,” I told him.
He thumped down both fists on the table, knife and fork upheld. “If I’d ‘a known that,” quoth he with decision, “nothin’ would have induced me to stay here!”
So that’s what I got by facing scandal to do a kindness, and it paid richly in amusement.
Another incident of that year was that I was driven to consult a physician, an excellent woman, Dr. Follansbee of Los Angeles, and found that there were now certain internal difficulties of a purely physical nature added to my mental ones with ensuing complications and need for prolonged treatment.
Besides “Similar Cases” the most outstanding piece of work of 1890 was “The Yellow Wallpaper.” It is a description of a case of nervous breakdown beginning something as mine did, and treated as Dr. S. Weir Mitchell treated me with what I considered the inevitable result, progressive insanity.
This I sent to Mr. Howells, and he tried to have the Atlantic Monthly print it, but Mr. Scudder, then the editor, sent it back with this brief card:
DEAR MADAM,
Mr. Howells has handed me this story.
I could not forgive myself if I made others as miserable as I have made myself!
Sincerely yours,
H. E. SCUDDER.
This was funny. The story was meant to be dreadful, and succeeded. I suppose he would have sent back one of Poe’s on the same ground. Later I put it in the hands of an agent who had written me, one Henry Austin, and he placed it with the New England Magazine. Time passed, much time, and at length I wrote to the editor of that periodical to this effect:
DEAR SIR,
A story of mine, “The Yellow Wallpaper,” was printed in your issue of May, 1891. Since you do not pay on receipt of ms. nor on publication, nor within six months of publication, may I ask if you pay at all, and if so at what rates?
They replied with some heat that they had paid the agent, Mr. Austin. He, being taxed with it, denied having got the money. It was only forty dollars anyway! As a matter of fact I never got a cent for it till later publishers brought it out in book form, and very little then. But it made a tremendous impression. A protest was sent to the Boston Transcript, headed “Perilous Stuff” —
TO THE EDITOR OF THE TRANSCRIPT:
In a well-known magazine has recently appeared a story entitled “The Yellow Wallpaper.” It is a sad story of a young wife passing the gradations from slight mental derangement to raving lunacy. It is graphically told, in a somewhat sensational style, which makes it difficult to lay aside, after the first glance, til it is finished, holding the reader in morbid fascination to the end. It certainly seems open to serious question if such literature should be permitted in print.
The story can hardly, it would seem, give pleasure to any reader, and to many whose lives have been touched through the dearest ties by this dread disease, it must bring the keenest pain. To others, whose lives have become a struggle against an heredity of mental derangement, such literature contains deadly peril. Should such stories be allowed to pass without severest censure?
M.D.
Another doctor, one Brummel Jones, of Kansas City, Missouri, wrote me in 1892 concerning this story, saying: “When I read ‘The Yellow Wallpaper’ I was very much pleased with it; when I read it again I was delighted with it, and now that I have read it again I am overwhelmed with the delicacy of your touch and the correctness of portrayal. From a doctor’s standpoint, and I am a doctor, you have made a success. So far as I know, and I am fairly well up in literature, there has been no detailed account of incipient insanity.” Then he tells of an opium addict who refused to be treated on the ground that physicians had no real knowledge of the disease, but who returned to Dr. Jones, bringing a paper of his on the opium habit, shook it in his face and said, “Doctor, you’ve been there!” To which my correspondent added, “Have you ever been — er —— ; but of course you haven’t.” I replied that I had been as far as one could go and get back.
One of the New England Magazine’s editors wrote to me asking if the story was founded on fact, and I gave him all I decently could of my case as a foundation for the tale. Later he explained that he had a friend who was in similar trouble, even to hallucinations about her wallpaper, and whose family were treating her as in the tale, that he had not dared show them my story till he knew that it was true, in part at least, and that when he did they were so frightened by it, so impressed by the clear implication of what ought to have been done, that they changed her wallpaper and the treatment of the case — and she recovered! This was triumph indeed.
But the real purpose of the story was to reach Dr. S. Weir Mitchell, and convince him of the error of his ways. I sent him a copy as soon as it came out, but got no response. However, many years later, I met some one who knew close friends of Dr. Mitchell’s who said he had told them that he had changed his treatment of nervous prostration since reading “The Yellow Wallpaper.” If that is a fact, I have not lived in vain.
A few years ago Mr. Howells asked leave to include this story in a collection he was arranging — Masterpieces of American Fiction. I was more than willing, but assured him that it was no more “literature” than my other stuff, being definitely written “with a purpose.” In my judgment it is a pretty poor thing to write, to talk, without a purpose.
All these literary efforts providing but little, it was well indeed that another avenue of work opened to me at this time.
California is a state peculiarly addicted to swift enthusiasms. It is a seed-bed of all manner of cults and theories, taken up, and dropped, with equal speed. In 1890 the countryside was deeply stirred by Bellamy’s Looking Backward. Everywhere was new interest in economics, in the labor question. The Nationalist, in which “Similar Cases” appeared, was the chief organ of the Bellamy doctrines, and Nationalist clubs sprang up over the land; California, always fertile, blossomed with them.
One day, while riding in the bus, a lady spoke to me, a stranger, and asked me to speak for the Nationalist Club of Pasadena. This was an entirely new proposition. I had never given a public address nor expected to. But here was an opportunity, not wrong, and I accepted it. All I knew of the art of oratory was something I had read in a newspaper when a child — that a public speaker should address the farthest person in the room, then every one could hear. That had struck me as good sense, and I had laid it up, to prove most useful now.
I wrote the lecture, on the main topic of all my work — Human Nature — I have it yet. The meeting was held in a vacant store, the small audience sitting on benches, chairs, whatever they could find, one big fellow on a barrel over against the wall. He was the farthest one, and when he came up, among others to shake hands and make complimentary remarks, I asked him if he could hear me. “You bet I could hear you,” he cheerfully replied, “If I couldn’t I’d ‘a come nearer.”
The lecture was warmly received, others followed, soon I was speaking on alternate Sundays in Los Angeles and Pasadena, and in neighboring towns occasional
ly. It was pleasant work — I had plenty to say and the Beecher faculty for saying it. My hearers were for the most part rather ignorant, at any rate uncritical, knowing which, I was saved from undue pride in their approval.
Their method of financing these lectures was simple. A collection was taken, out of which they paid for the hall and whatever expenses there were, and they gave me the rest. “$3.50” I find in that scrappy little diary of mine, and again, “Collection $3.00.” Once a big, black-bearded working man, shaking hands after the lecture, cordially urged, “You come and talk to us — we’ll give you a nickel every time!”
One poor woman was extremely anxious that I should come to dinner with her, after the lecture in Los Angeles, and I went. Her husband was a day laborer, her daughter in service, and she herself worked out by the day. They lived in a henhouse, literally, one of those longish, slant-roofed affairs, divided into three compartments, bedroom, living-room, kitchen. I rested on a sagging couch in the middle room and thought, “Why this isn’t so bad — it’s small and shabby, but here are the necessities—” and then I thought, “Suppose I could never get out of this henhouse!” and it looked less possible.
All those early lectures are written. I have them yet, a goodly number of them, for the two or three years before I took to notes, and then embarked on the purely extemporaneous. Opening the larger and fuller diary of 1891 I find on Jan. 3rd, Sat. “Begin lecture on Nationalism and Religion,” 4th, “Write 24 double pages on Nationalism and Religion.” Deliver same in afternoon. Mrs. Carr there, Dr. Channing and Miss Knight. Very successful. Got $4.30 — Mrs. Carr put in a whole dollar! Awfully tired with the day’s work.”
On the twenty-first was another good one, of which I made entry: “It was a great success. Some of the women cried, and they actually clapped at times! Then an attempt at organizing, lots of enthusiasm and introductions without number. Also an engagement there for next Wednesday fortnight, and one in Rosedale to be arranged. Also $6.20 in cash! That is worth while. And money more fairly earned I never saw — free gift for well appreciated honest work. It does me good.”
There were many great plans made by our own earnest little group. While Mr. Stetson was still there we all became hotly interested in a proposed new magazine which was to be a credit to the coast. Mr. Stetson made beautiful designs for the cover and department heads. Professor Holder was to be the principal editor. I wrote to Uncle Edward Hale, Charles Dudley Warner and other literary lights I knew, to bespeak contributions; we had our letter-paper printed; all looked very promising. But at the last moment, Professor Holder wisely shrank from the financial risk, and the whole thing dropped out of sight. Yet for a while I was almost an editor, and received some manuscripts in that capacity. Of these I have preserved a gem, from an ambitious German-American girl about fifteen years old, so delightfully funny that it is good enough to insert:
A WINTER IN CALIFORNIA
“Well, father have you desided”? asked a prurient young lady who had been sitting or standing for the last half hour, waiting for this question answered. She had been pacing the room like an excited child, and when she heard the well-known foot-steps she had quickly seated herself, to appear in a composed manner; as she knew how her father hated her “hilarious” or “puerile” ways. The gentleman apparently did not notice the anxious tone of the speaker, or else he was an obdurate old man who liked to keep people in suspense. Anyhow he was comfortably seated in an easy chair; arranged his necktie and put on his glasses before he spoke. “I think we will go to the west,” those were all the words he said, but they sent a glad thrill through the girl; losing all composure she cried; “Oh how good of you pa. Wont we have a fine time,” and clasping her arms around his neck she laught for joy. “Come, come this is enough,” said the curator to his charge. “I’ve told you, and now you must help me to get ready.” “When will we start?” “That is just what I was going to say,” replied the father impatiently. “It depends on ourselfs,” so saying he left the room. Verbena stood by the vacant chair a long while seemingly in a impeccable hallucination. She heard the hurrying foot-steps in the hall. She heeded them not. Far off her thoughts had carried her. She was already in the west. It would be her first winter in society. Wasn’t she eighteen last week? She must then throw off her child’s guise, and wear a woman’s. A gentle hand touched her at this junction “Verbena must dress for supper” said her maid, and she found herself suddently in her own room staring at a vacant chair. A month or so, after this found her and her father whirling out of New York bound for California. It was the month of November, and the snow was falling fast, covering all the landscape with a white coating. In the warm cars the passengers were amusing them-selfs in various ways. Some were reading, while others in an loquacious mood, were chiping away like woodpeckers. Verbena with the help of her maid was arranging her baggage in their several places. In the farther end of the car stood a young man gazing listlessly around, when his eyes fell on Verbena. “A pretty girl and a good housekeeper, from the looks I admit. I wonder who she is; looks like a sensible girl.” He had not long to wonder; as down the aisle of the car strode a man of middle age. “Who is this now,” he asked himself, his attention attracted by this new object. “Well if this isn’t old Merrit.” They both recognized each other, and were surprised to meet in such an unexpected place. “So you are for the west also,” conjugated the old man, after the brief greeting was over. “Yes, for a season, the winters here are to hard on me. I suppose you are along?” asked the younger man. “No, not so, that puts me in mind of my daughter” the other elated. “Come I will give you an introduction.” He lead the young man towards the seat where Verbena was. “This is my daughter, Mr. Aster,” proudly he spoke, presenting her to him. Mr. Aster with his frank, courteous ways; put her in a comfortable situation, and they were soon engaged, with a cosmorama of their unseen winter resort; each seeing it with the minds eye, by the others vastless reflux on the subject. They were both on high terms before they parted, and many afternoons were spent likewise. The days rolled rapidly away amidst friends and newfound acquaintances. The eastern states had long been past, and now or then an endless chapparral opened before them. The scenery was grand in some parts. The days of their journey was nearly ended, and one more day will bring them to their destination. One morning the passengers are awakened with the sudden cessation of the train, a snort, a slamming of doors, and the voice of the conductor shouting— “Raymond.” This produced what was desired, baggage was grappled, out went the pullmen people, and what a picture meet their eager eyes. On a green declivity stood the large Raymond Hotel resting peacefully under a clear, blue canopy. The surrounding grounds laid in various shaped parterres; covered with the morning dew, the rare flowers looked fresh, and their odor fill the air. In the distance rested a town, its painted roofs and walls looked like a painting engraved on a green back-ground, “green walled” by the neighboring hills. To the north were part of the Coast Range, whose high peaks were covered with snow, including Mount Old Baldy, who reared his white head in the northeast. It seem to them a new summer was there, a glorious one to the frozen easterners. Verbena was not considered handsome, but this morn as she stept from the car, draped in her citrine dress, she looked real pretty, at least to her father, who watched her pleased face. There were weeks of enjoyment for the guests, the walks, drives and excursions were made delightful, by the warm sunshine, and the jaunts along the green hills spread over by a coverlet of countless colored flowers. But through all these social engagements, Verbena found time for her charitable work. The great boom was over, leaving property in a terrible depreciation. They had their land, certainly they did, but this would not pay for bread. Then did the lazy real-estate men take their legs from the desks and follow the plow: Some said they were glad it had come to this. Mr. Aster was her true chaperon in these rounds of charity. One afternoon as she was putting on her driving gloves, when Mr. Aster stopped her in the hall. “I have just heard of a young man without money,”
he said looking anxiously at her. “Come, we can go now,” she answered, leading the way, to the carriage. They were on the way, arriving in front of a pretty cottage, clustering in a grove of orange trees “A cosy place,” thought Verbena as she stepped from the phateon. A handsome girl came to admit them. Being told their errand, she lead them into a sunny room. Near the window on a sofa laid a young man. He attempted to rise, but fell back wearily on a plead of weakness. The young girl quickly gave him something from a glass which gave him relieve. Verbena looked on with symatizing feelings. His eyes meet hers, and there came a look of pleasure in them. Seeing that the patient could not talk much, they left the room followed by the girl. She ushered them into a finely furnished parlor where they learned the brief story and life of sister and brother. They had came to California with their father, who had died lately. He had been a speculator in the boom, losing almost all. He had left his children penniless. He had then entered on a course of study for the bar, being a sedulous scholar, he had overtaxed his brain. Everything they had, except money. She did not acknowledge that, but you could see it was the only thing wanted. Edwin Aster thought of that handsome girl, and Verbena said to herself, what a pretty girl she was. He must be a fine looking man when he was in health. Every day some new dainty was sent to the cottage; every day its invalid was growing stronger, till one day, when Verbena called, she found him sitting on the veranda looking for her. (She always came Mondays.) “You look much better, Mr. Carreth,” she said, looking smilingly up at him. “I feel much better every time I see you,” he retorted, as he rose to meet her. “This is a beautiful country; no one ought to be sick,” was her sentence. The conversation grew very interesting to the two. The exquisite Knowledge of Verbena put her in a light where she shone brilliant to her hearer. The vivacious, natural tendency in which he spoke, and the polite attention he showed, spoke for him as a gentleman of culture. They were closer friends, and know more of each other from that starting point. The merry girl, said, as she dropped a scented envelope in his hands; “Don’t disappoint us next week, but try and do what this message requires.” After she was gone he opened it, and there fell out an invitation to a soiree for next Wednesday at the Raymond. When the evening came it found Carreth and his sister Margot on their to the Hotel, as they entered the large, cool drawing rooms Verbena and her father came to meet them. She was attired in a dark magenta dress giving a bewitching hue to the brunette. After supper the rooms seemed hot, and couples went out for a stroll, among them Verbena and Carreth, The garden was light with electric lamps, shading their fulgency over the flowers, the gentle zephers lifting their perfume from them. It seemed like fairyland to the two. They were walking silently towards a bench. Carreth stopped her. “Verbena I have some — something to tell you.” He did not sit down, but stood by the seat. “Go on please let me hear it,” she laughted un-easily. “I am poor Miss Merrit you know, and — and — people will say if — if — .” And there he told his first love story, and the girl listened to one the first time.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 257