Wednesday spoke twice, Thursday once, and took 9 P.M. for Concordia. That was a broken journey. “Chair car to Strong City. Common car to Manchester. Chair car to Concordia. Hour and forty minutes wait in Strong City. Stood it first rate. Two good rooms at boarding house, alone. Nap. Write. Say a few words at Institute. Dine well. Sleep three hours. Speak in evening on ‘The Royal Road to Learning.’ $25.00.” Saturday the twenty-seventh, it was “U.P. to Clay Center, Rock Island to Wichita, Mo. P. to Eureka”; again visiting the Addisons, and preaching next day in the Congregational church — $4.00.
On Monday the Twenty-ninth was another amusing trip. Good Mrs. Addison had planned all my connections and arranged for entertainment, so that I had been met and cared for everywhere; but this was the last engagement on her tour, and when I reached Yates Center I found I had no directions whatever. It was a small, dingy wooden station standing quite alone on the wide prairie — nothing else in sight. One vehicle, a sort of carry-all, stood waiting. Into it got the two traveling men who were the only other passengers alighting there, and I followed — there was nothing else to do.
“Where you goin’?” demanded the driver of first one and then the other of the two men. They told him, and then he turned to me. “Where you goin’?” To which I calmly replied, “I have not the faintest idea.” But he had, fortunately. “Guess you’re the lady that’s goin’ to Mrs. Clapp’s” — and he was right. “A nice woman, Mrs. Clapp. Speak in Baptist church on Woman’s Suffrage and Men’s Sufferings. Very poor address. Tired out and an abominable audience, dull and antagonistic.”
Next day: “Speak again, evening, on ‘Kingdom Come.’ A little better but not much. Leave on one-thirty train, night. Don’t want to see this place again. A person, presumably here, printed on the white satin lining of my hat ‘Better get your face plated.’ The exact nature of this I am yet unable to grasp. Y.C. paid $15.00.”
One more stop, in Bedford, Iowa, with a friend’s friends, and an address — $5.45, and so back to Chicago.
On Wednesday, July 8th, started for England.
CHAPTER XIV. ENGLAND
THIS first visit to England was made to attend the International Socialist and Labor Congress of 1896, to which I was a delegate from California. It was intended that I should go as a Socialist, to which end they sent me the membership card; but when I read that card I utterly refused to sign it; sharply disagreeing with both theory and method as advanced by the followers of Marx.
Among the various unnecessary burdens of my life is that I have been discredited by conservative persons as a Socialist, while to the orthodox Socialists themselves I was quite outside the ranks. Similarly the anti-suffrage masses had me blackly marked “Suffragist,” while the suffragists thought me a doubtful if not dangerous ally on account of my theory of the need of economic independence of women. One of the suffrage leaders once said to me, “After all I think you will do our cause more good than harm, because what you ask is so much worse than what we ask that they will grant our demands in order to escape yours.”
Not being able to go as a Socialist, I went as a delegate from the Alameda County, California, Federation of Trades, duly accredited. This was the group which had given me the medal for the best essay on the labor question, while I was in Oakland — the others must have been poor indeed!
I left Chicago by train, then by boat from Toronto down the St. Lawrence, through the Thousand Islands and the rapids, to Montreal, and sailed July 10th, on S.S. Mongolian, Allen Line, for $50.00. Before leaving Chicago my diary remarks, “Feel calm and happy. Cash low however, down to $10.00 in envelope. $20.00 in purse. Never mind.” And I didn’t.
The steamer was a “whaleback” cattle-boat, one “class,” pleasant people enough. Our bovine passengers grew steadily more perceptible as days passed, until the dining-room port-holes had to be closed, to keep them out, as it were.
“Get to the foremost prow and the rearmost stern and am happy,” says the diary. There is no such chance to be alone with the sea on the big liner. “Sit about contentedly with books, papers and writing things.” “Icebergs! Yes, lots of them. Just like the pictures and descriptions.” “Pleasant morning alone in the stern. Pleasant afternoon making paper dolls for the chicks.” Whose “chicks” I have utterly forgotten, but children were always a comfort. “Crochet a cap, close fitting, as my beloved hat blows somewhat.” “Crochet cap for one Mr. Roberts. Three men have lost caps overboard.”
It was an eleven-day voyage, landing at Birkenhead on Tuesday the twenty-first, and going to Liverpool by lighter.
There were two jokes on me, this trip. One was the row I made when I found the “outside room” I had stipulated when buying my ticket in Chicago merely opened into a passage, with a sort of skylight there. I was furious, being passionately addicted to fresh air, and wanting to look out at the water. There was no redress, however, and I prepared to suffocate, avoiding both berths and taking the hard little sofa on which I could have my head right by the open door. The cold sea air poured down that skylight affair in such a torrent that I caught a heavy cold, and became more reconciled to my room.
The other was my becoming a smuggler without knowing it. My method of selling my little paper books was of the crudest. I always carried some with me for the purpose, and I had quite a lot of the second edition in my trunk, which I hoped to dispose of in England. The trunk had not come when I reached the steamer, so I took a cab and brought it from the railroad, and it was hauled on board hurriedly at the last minute.
I spoke to one of the officers, regretting the haste, there had been no time for examination by the customs officers. He reassured me, “There’s nothing dutiable that you’d be likely to have, only tobacco and liquor — books.” “Books!” I rather gasped. “Oh, not such books as you’d take, Madam, only books to sell.” The trunk was in the hold. No use telling him about it now. I would explain when I got to England, and pay what I must.
But in all the bustle of arrival I could not find my keys. I searched and searched, called upon the stewards for help and got none — they seemed somehow amused! — landed, and was met by Alfred Hicks, an English friend I had known in America. To him I explained my predicament, we told the customs officers, and sent for the loose keys they keep for such emergencies; but they were in a hurry, judged us harmless, and I got into England with my contraband, untouched. Then I nobly gave them away, instead of selling!
I stayed with the Hicks family in Camden Town, London, and most kind they were to me. Good Mrs. Amie Hicks, a wise, strong woman, I adopted as my English mother, and the whole family, with Claire, an adopted sister, became like brothers and sisters.
My first call was on T. Fisher Unwin, my English publisher. He showed me reviews, many and good, was most polite and kind. I found in England a far higher reputation than at home, based on the little book of poems. John Davidson, in his The Man Forbid and Other Essays, has an amusing reference to them. There is an argument between two initialed gentlemen, as to whether women can write poetry or not. One is sure that they cannot, that they have not the clear strength of mind or some such requirement. The other then quotes a stanza from the most brutal bit of satire I ever wrote, “The Brood Mare,” and his opponent says that proves just what he was saying — no woman could have written a thing like that— “While she is looking for an agate to fit her sling, a man will throw bricks, mud, anything — and hit the mark.” I quote from memory, the bit of criticism always pleased me.
For sightseeing I went up into the tiptop of St. Paul’s, long familiar from reading. Next day a long row on the Thames with Alfred Hicks, from Richmond to Hampton Court. I surveyed the exquisite neatness, the close-cut velvet lawns, trimmed as with scissors to the water’s edge, mile upon mile of lovely decorum. “Beautiful!” I agreed. “Beautiful! But where do you go when you want to get out of doors?” He knew America east and west, and appreciated the difference. But the peaceful cleanness and greenness of England are dear to the heart of any real American.
Next day, Monday, the opening, in Queen’s Hall, the largest in London. There were distinguished Socialists from many countries, the more conservative Labor group, and many earnest Anarchists trying to secure seats. Tuesday I record: “Fighting still on credentials and ‘Zurich Resolution.’ Anarchist bodies finally refused admission.” But in the evening I went to their meeting and heard Prince Kropotkin, Elisee Reclus, Louise Michel — desperately earnest souls.
Of all the “literature” with which our seats were papered, the funniest of all were the plaints of the anarchists, as to their lack of organized numbers. They said that the principles of anarchism had been taught in England for many years, and that society after society had been formed to further the teaching; but that when differences of opinion arose, as no one would give way to another, they of course divided, and so subdivided until the society disappeared! A better exposition of the essential weakness of that philosophy could hardly be offered.
Jaurés, the great French Socialist, was with us, said to be the greatest orator in France. He was certainly the greatest I ever heard. A stocky man, thick-necked and heavy, with one gesture, a sort of hammering motion with his right hand. As his emphasis increased he pounded the air, harder and harder; his face and neck reddened, his veins swelled and stood out, purple. And in this rising storm of eloquence the great audience was deeply moved, we rose in our seats again and again, fairly gasping with excitement. It was of no importance that the English-speaking crowd did not understand the language, oratory does not need understanding. I was as much stirred as any one, and did not know a word he said.
The Fabian Society, that group of intelligent, scientific, practical and efficient English Socialists, honored me with membership. I sat with them during the meetings, and was delighted to meet some who were known to me already as writers. I saw a good deal of “the great G.B.S.” as he was called, Mr. Shaw. He and others of the Fabian group wore knee-breeches, soft shirts, woolen hose and sandals.
Some of these sandals were made by Edward Carpenter, who lived in a small cottage in the country, near a little brook which served as a bathtub, and “Worked with his hands.” I was taken to see him, later, and he measured my feet and made me a pair of those strong leather sandals, still in working order.
At a most miscellaneous reception given during the Congress by those distinguished Fabians, Mr. and Mrs. Sydney Webb, I stood talking to two men at once, an English coal-miner and a charming blue-eyed Italian Prince — Prince Borghese.
The Webbs later invited me to their place in the country, near Saxmundham. Mr. Shaw was there at the time, and the Miss Payne Townsend whom he afterward married. There was a tent and a summerhouse on either side of the lawn; he sat in one working on his plays, and I in the other with my writing. I remember the little cubes of wood he placed here and there, visualizing the positions of his characters on the stage. The note in the diary: “Some talk with Bernard Shaw on literary work. Very good and useful criticism.”
He was kind enough to send to London for “Candida,” asking my opinion of it. It did not seem to me at all convincing — the assumption that the puny poet was the stronger of the two men, and that Candida was so superior to her efficient husband. If that impressive lady had had to go out and earn her living she might not have been so impressive.
The kind interest of these people was all due to the little first book of poems. Mrs. Webb had me read some of them, and later ones, to the group of Fabians gathered there for the week-end, and listened attentively. To my great surprise she then advanced this dictum: “You will do critical work but you will never be able to do original work.”
I had always supposed that critical work involved more education than mine, and that if my work had any merit it was originality. But as I studied her cryptic judgment I saw at last what she meant— “original” was research work, and critical was pointing out what was the matter with society, no matter how original was the analysis.
“All these men are funny all the time. Miss Townsend listens,” says the diary. Conversation, where Mr. Shaw took part, was bitterly brilliant. He made jokes about his sister’s grave. Just once I answered him successfully. We were at dinner, and the talk drifted into animadversions on the U.S.A. Presently Mr. Shaw turned to me as I sat quietly beside him and caustically remarked that he supposed I would put all this into the newspapers when I reached home. I assured him that I did not write for the papers, and was not that kind of a writer, anyway.
“Then what were you thinking about?” he demanded. To which I peacefully replied, “About the effect of geography on the mind.” After a little they all laughed, and made no more remarks about my country.
There were other pleasant visits, meeting many interesting people, one with Mrs. Stanton Blatch, a daughter of Elizabeth Cady Stanton. At her home I met J. A. Hobson, the economist, and his nice American wife. “Lots of talk on woman’s economic evolution. He doesn’t like it.”
I think it was on this visit that I acquired information upon English topography. A group of us were walking along the smooth country road, and I observed between its crown and the hedge, in a stretch of grass, a quiet piece of water, resembling a small irrigation ditch. In this walked a man in hip boots, hoeing the weeds on the bottom.
Now I always endeavor, in a foreign land, to speak of all its advantages, and say nothing of its disadvantages — till I get home. So I expressed warm admiration at this sight. “How wonderfully neat you are in this country! Just look — there is a man cleaning the bottom of the ditch.” “Ditch!” they almost screamed. “That is the river Wye!” Then they piled local history onto that little river till it almost looked like something, but in spite of its battles and ruins I could not feel much respect for a stream I could jump over, a little thing running by the roadside like that.
One short visit with Mrs. Jacob Bright; her husband was brother of John Bright. The address was delightfully English— “The Chestnuts, Woburn near Maidenhead, Bourne End,” and more. Among the guests was to be Grant Allen, and when I learned this, it brought me face to face with an ethical problem.
After three years’ consideration I had arrived at a definite conclusion as to the duty of the individual in reacting against other individuals guilty of evil conduct. This I held so important that I had recorded it at the time. “July 29, 1894. Hurrah! my puzzle in ethics is solved. It is the duty of the individual to react. We are the environment of one another and we must establish causation by our action and interaction. Write it out briefly.”
We do this, sharply enough with legally punishable malefactors, but in many other cases we let pass various offenses without comment. My conclusion was that it was a social duty promptly to show an offender that he was offending — this not involving punishment or retaliation but merely the expression of one’s feeling.
The first time I had occasion to try out this principle in public was at a banquet of some sort, in California, when a pretty little W.C.T.U. woman told this story: At an election with some temperance issue involved, she stood at the polling place, offering the temperance ballot to the voters. Opposite her was a saloon representative, with the other kind of ballot. A man approached, already somewhat intoxicated, and she persuasively offered him her paper. He was not as drunk as that, however, and refused it, taking the other. Then she asked him to let her look at his ballot, and when he politely allowed her, she changed it for the one she had, so the man went in and voted for the temperance ticket.
This she related with modest pride as if she had done a smart thing, and had probably told it before, no one commenting. I sat near her, and without saying a word created such a chill atmosphere of
condemnation that she looked at me in some alarm, with “You don’t think that was right?” All I said was “No,” but it carried such depth of feeling that other ladies took heart of grace and also expressed disapproval; and the foolish little lady learned that she had done a horrid thing instead of a commendable one.
Now Grant Allen had been for some time my favorite example of what in my ethics is social treason. His work in popularizing science was of immense value to the world, incalculable; but instead of doing it, he was writing novels, poor novels at that, just for money. But I had never expected to meet the culprit and have to take him to task for it.
Moreover, though this was, to my mind, a social duty, there was also the duty of a guest — I certainly ought not to inject my ethics into a pleasant dinner-party. We had some earnest talk over it in the Hicks family, and one of the girls wisely suggested that while I could not do it at the table, I could if I saw him alone. This was hopeful, but alas! no sooner were we introduced than he invited me to walk in the garden. So there we were, and having decided this thing was right to do, do it I must.
“Mr. Allen,” said I, making a tremendous effort, “don’t you think it is wicked for a man who does such splendid work as your scientific books” — and I enlarged, honestly, on their value— “to give it up and spend his time writing novels which you yourself admit are not good ones?”
He took it like a lamb, told me he was “congenitally moral,” could not do what he thought wrong; that this was no more wrong than if he was jewel-grinding; that a man’s first duty was to his family and he could provide more money for them this way.
I said no more. He had a right to his point of view, of course, the ethical question being whether the family or society came first. Almost every one would agree with him. But if we do not “ring true” in showing one another our conduct values, we withhold the force of public opinion. Whether wise or not, what I remember best of that meeting is its difficulty.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 264