Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  A more amusing memory is of staying with some pleasant people in Liverpool, my host a “fruiterer” by trade. He was an intelligent, well-read man as far as I could see. In the course of conversation he remarked to me that we had no grapes in America. This I took calmly, only asking what he meant by “no grapes.” “Just what I say. You don’t raise grapes in America.”

  I thought of the wild grapes of New England — did not the exploring Norsemen call it “Vineland”? — of the grape-arbor in every back yard, of the New York state crop, of “the reeling, wheeling aisles of the vineyards, miles on miles,” in California. But I merely asked, “How do you know?” “How do I know? Why we export grapes to America!”

  Then I understood. Hot-house grapes. Cheap coal. Cheap labor. Supplying the steam-ships. “But that’s not grapes!” I said. Then I told him there was hardly a state in the union without them, of the workman taking home a basket for ten cents, and so on — but alas! he didn’t believe me. American brag.

  Another of those kind friends who took me in and cared for me so hospitably was Miss Gertrude Roecliff of Newcastle. “Charming,” says the diary. “She treats me like a sick princess.”

  Between visits, in London, I did some of the “ought tos,” as “Went to Westminster Abbey and prowled awhile,” and “Went to National Gallery of paintings and saw more than I could hold.” At the British Museum I was treated with marked politeness by Dr. Garnett, on account of my father, who was widely known as a great librarian. Also I visited the Tower of London and saw the Crown Jewels, or their replicas, of which the most numerous and impressive were the tall, massive gold Salt Cellars! Some of them seemed to be a foot high.

  One golden opportunity I missed was an invitation to dinner to meet Justin M’Carthy and George Meredith. Laboring heavily under an overtrained conscience, I thought it was not right to break a previous much less important engagement for this one, so I declined, but have since wished that on that occasion I had done wrong!

  But I did meet William Morris, both at the Congress and in his home in Hammersmith. Gray and glorious he was, and most kind. I addressed a local group in his little neighboring hall. The most vivid memory of that visit is of Mrs. Morris, the adored model of the Pre-Raphaelite, her rich hair white and splendid, holding up a great silver candelabrum that I might see Rossetti’s portrait of her in youth.

  May Morris, their daughter, had a little house near by; she became a dear and lasting friend. The Cobden-Sandersons also lived near, and they showed me over “The Dove Bindery,” with its strange and beautiful books.

  If I had been well and clear-headed all this would have been a vivid and wonderful time. But I was still dragging up from that last collapse, and often had hardly wit enough to get about. Once, while unable to do any kind of work, I was riding on an omnibus, painfully conscious of the minimum of intelligence left me, and had this horrible thought: here were the other people beside me, also able to sit up and ride on an omnibus — perhaps they had no more brains than I did.

  My entries are often dismal. “Find that I am really very low again, Oh dear! It is so long.” “Am very weak and miserable.” “Another miserable day.” “Still miserable. Cannot write nor do anything.” “Still miserable. I am alarmed at it.” “Ghastly tired.” “This illness seems more physical than usual. Doubtless sympathetic collapse internally.” “I notice, gradually in the past month or two, a loss of my ready control of words.”

  I do not wish to cumber this story with a hundredth part of such items, but, as in that tedious chapter on The Breakdown, to make clear the interminable handicap under which I lived. Nevertheless, I wrote some, visited variously and spoke often; in halls and drawing-rooms, once on London Docks standing on a chair in the rain, in Liverpool, in the market-place in Shields, in Newcastle.

  The most impressive sight of all that English land was the “New Castle upon Tyne.” This huge, age-blackened block of stone, in which the rooms are hollowed like holes in cheese — there was a little chapel in the thickness of the wall! — stands in the fork of a railway. Signal towers with red and green lights gleamed on either side of it; the trains rushed by; and that thousand-year-old black block stood there like a boulder parting a stream.

  As my stay extended I became a boarder with those pleasant friends in Camden. I learned much as colder weather came; as the “feel” of an unwarmed stone house, a house without a furnace. That is why English people so love their great stuffed chairs — the fire in the grate keeps them warm in front, but the room is cold, and the thick chair behind their backs is a needed comfort.

  Also, I learned why most English cooking is so “plain.” There is the little soft coal fire in the open grate, the oven at the side, the “hob” for the teakettle. Food is put in the pot, or in the oven, and thankfully left, there is no temptation to fuss with anything, standing over an open fire. In an exhibition I attended in Newcastle there was shown an “American Cooking Stove.” The thing had a sort of shutter in front, with slats, so that they could see the fire; and it was filled level to the covers with fine anthracite, almost “pea coal.”

  One unforgetable visit was with Alfred Russel Wallace, in Parkstone, Dorset. I lectured in a small neighboring hall, on “Our Brains and What Ails Them,” with Mr. Wallace in the chair. This was one of the rare occasions on which I have felt modest and inferior, that world-renowned intellect was an overpowering presence. We played two games of chess, one he won, one was a draw — which was better than I expected.

  Immediately after the Congress, J. Ramsay MacDonald called to interview me on the American situation, and engaged an article for their new magazine, the Progressive Review. He was a handsome, brilliant young fellow, just engaged to a lovely blonde girl, Miss Gladstone. I liked them immensely, but did not dream that he would become a premier.

  At my first Fabian Society meeting I noted, “Very exciting. J. R. MacDonald moves to withdraw Tract 70. Animated discussion. The executive wins — tract retained. Mrs. Hubert Bland asks to be introduced and asks me to dinner.” This was the beginning of a most pleasant friendship with a delightful family. She was “Edith Nesbit,” a well-known author, and her husband, Hubert Bland, wrote for the Manchester Guardian. There were several youngsters, all attractive; I had most enjoyable visits with them, then and in later years.

  Having adopted dear Mrs. Hicks for my English mother, I now added a Scotch one to my list. A lecture engagement taking me to Glasgow I went on to Edinburgh, and visited Mrs. Dowie, who had invited me when she ordered the poems from San Francisco. No one could have been kinder, and no one in Edinburgh more competent to show the beauties of that most beautiful city. She was a Miss Chambers, of the great publisher’s family; her uncle had “restored” the Cathedral, with other benefaction. She showed me all that I should see, knowing more about everything than the curators; and told me many tales, as of Marjorie Fleming, whose childish boast was, “I put my hand on every chair that said ‘don’t touch’ in Holyrood.”

  Wednesday, September 16th: “Go out alone between showers and see beautiful Edinburgh from Castle Hill — sunset and moonrise — bugle notes — all glamor and loveliness.” 17th, “Get very friendly with my hostess and ‘Struey,’ a shaggy waggy little doggie.” “18th. Mrs. D. shows me over the Castle — herself a living guide book.... Am still bed-breakfasted and lunch-napped, most luxuriously. Am improving.”

  A few days’ care had evident effects, for by Sunday, the twentieth, comes this cheerful record: “Up earlier than usual and take 8:30 train for Glasgow, pleasant ride. Able to read and enjoy it. Quiet time in my beloved Hotel Drummond. Lunch, nap, speak P.M. for Labor church on ‘The New Religion.’ Enthusiastically received. Wanted again. Back on 5 P.M. after a hasty dinner with the Gilchrists. Not tired!!!”

  Still feeling well next day, and met several people, including “an old Miss Burton who had known Aunt Harriet Stowe.” By the twenty-second I hopefully remark, “Third day of feeling well. I believe the tide has turned.” Soon I returned to Newcastl
e, where kind Miss Roecliffe took me in once more— “Everybody is so good to me!” I gratefully record.

  October 3rd has a heavy black line. “William Morris died to-day.” That was a great loss to the progress of England, of the world. Fortunately he left large work, long years of glorious giving.

  Back and forth I went to various towns, for lectures and visits, with another stay in London, and with Mrs. Dowie again. She took me to hear “an eminent archæologist, Professor Hildebrandt”— “insufferably tedious,” and to call on Mrs. Maclaren, sister of John Bright. Her son, Walter Stowe Maclaren, M.P., was born while Aunt Harriet Stowe was in Edinburgh, and named for her. Next evening we heard Professor Flinders Petrie, and at a reception thereafter met him, and the tedious Professor Hildebrandt, who wore twenty-three decorations. A very German professor.

  Then a week of engagements in Glasgow, of which I remark— “A week of foregone failure, hard work and heavy sledding. Pay $16.25! Stood it fairly well.” Tuesday, November 19th: “Furnessia sails.”

  I have not the least recollection of how I got together enough money for the return trip, though it was about $50.00 as before. There are no cash accounts during these months abroad, but after reaching home I find December 1st begins: “In hand $9.25,” so it was evidently a close thing.

  That trip on the Furnessia is memorable for my first seasickness and for philosophy therewith. I had a stateroom to myself, but it was far down in the lower regions of the ship, and poorly ventilated. Having to sleep there at the dock before starting was enough to make anybody sick. I was up and out next morning, but off Movill those long Irish swells were too much for me. So I managed to get back to my berth that Friday morning, and stayed there till Tuesday before I had strength enough to undress.

  But those long days were calm (save for unavoidable interruptions), and meditative. “I’m unable to take my clothes off,” I ruminated. “How fortunate it is that they are such as to be quite comfortable to sleep in, and not injured by it. I cannot eat nor drink, but then I do not want to. I cannot do any thing whatever, but again, I have nothing whatever to do. This stateroom is small and low down, but how fortunate I am to have it to myself. It is so pleasant to have it all freshly painted white — if it were pale green — ! There is only one thing hopelessly bad, that is the air; but the worst that can do is to make me sick — and I’m sick already! So that’s no harm.” Surely a philosophic invalid.

  Presently it was Thanksgiving Day, and I remark: “I give thanks earnestly for a good world, a good God, and to be able to eat dinner again!”

  Monday, November 30th, we reached New York.

  CHAPTER XV. WANDER YEARS

  “ARRIVE,” says the diary, “about two P.M. Drive up to my ‘Mama’s’ 20 W. 32nd St. They are glad to see me. Letters waiting. Little upstairs room — will be $7.00 a week. Visit a while first. Very comfy.”

  It was very comfortable indeed. A settled residence for a while was restful, and some family atmosphere most pleasant. My pretty stepsisters were cordial, the little stepmother affectionate. My father was no longer with them. He had broken down completely.

  “Mother gets letter saying Father is worse. Go to see him at sanitarium, Delaware Water Gap. He is much better and seems glad to see me.” I stayed overnight, next day: “Little talk with Father. Give him $5.” — if from me or mother I do not recall. There were many such visits when I was in or near New York. He seemed to value my coming — so long as he knew me. He lingered on, till the beginning of 1900. Softening of the brain. It is not right that a brilliant intellect should be allowed to sink to idiocy, and die slowly, hideously. Some day when we are more civilized we shall not maintain such a horror.

  December was mainly sewing, I made most of my clothes; occasionally some “meeting” where I “said a few words” or read from my verses. As: “Go to Pilgrim Mother’s Dinner at the Tuxedo. Read two poems. Great hit. Sold eleven copies forthwith. Go to Social Reform Club in evening, speak a little on social reform in England. Another book sold. Tired but feel good.”

  My fellow-boarders were pleasant and kind. One, Dr. Edmund P. Shelby, has remained a warm friend ever since. He and his brother Evan had the big front rooms on the first floor, and in that long, high-ceiled parlor the doctor and I used to play battledore and shuttlecock. We became so proficient as to score over a thousand; we played left-handed, we played with two birds at once, and made 500 at that. With badminton racquets, not the noisy parchment things, it is a charming house game and especially good because it keeps the head up — offsets the stoop of constant reading, writing or sewing.

  “Dec. 31. Received the New Year alone as usual. Health and Work!”

  Of the many people I met during these years I was particularly impressed by Elizabeth Cady Stanton. To have been with her and “Aunt Susan,” as we called the great Susan B. Anthony, seemed to establish connection with a splendid period of real heroism. It amuses me when the short-memoried young people of to-day introduce me as “one of the Pioneers.” The pioneers of the Woman’s Movement began with Mary Wollstonecraft, early in the last century, and ceased to be such when their message was listened to politely.

  The Blackwell family were among my most honored friends, brave progressive people; Elizabeth Blackwell, the first woman physician in England; Henry Blackwell coming to this country and marrying Lucy Stone, one of the first — and sweetest — of our suffrage leaders, in days when speaking for that cause meant real danger as well as abuse; and also a genuine pioneer in establishing a married woman’s right to keep her own name. Another Blackwell married Antoinette Brown, our first woman minister.

  I visited the Anthonys, Susan and her sister, in Rochester, New York, and lectured there; also preached in the Unitarian church, Dr. Gannett’s. This was in January, on my way to a Suffrage Convention in Iowa, stopping to give two or three talks in Chicago. It was a cold trip. When we reached Des Moines, January 25th, it was twenty-two below zero.

  On this, or perhaps another midwinter excursion, I learned the force of prairie winds. Being entertained in an isolated farm-house, I was given a bedroom on the ground floor. The little house stood shivering in the snow, and all around its toes were tucked in — it was banked up around the edges. Being violently addicted to fresh air I sought to open a window, and found them all double glassed and fastened for the winter. Just one had a pane in the inner one that opened, and a sliding shutter that covered three auger holes as the only means of ventilation. I was horrified at this paucity of air, but concluded that I should not die of it in one night, opened the shutter to its full capacity, and went to bed.

  The wind of the great open spaces came in through those auger-holes in such a streaming torrent that I rose and shut two of them. Even then, from one small hole the “air” I was so desirous of was shot across my bed like water from a fire-hose.

  The Convention went off well. My own address so pleased them that the Congregational minister asked me to repeat it in his church. January 29th I spoke in Highland Park College, also in Union College in the morning, and in the afternoon at the Unity Club. Sunday I preached twice. Evidently the impression was good, for a state Representative forthwith invited me to “open the house with prayer” — which I did. The same day lectured at Highland Park College on “Our Brains and What Ails Them.” $25.00. They didn’t like it much I think.

  One of those Des Moines days includes a side trip: “Start for Omaha on 8.15 train. Arrive near two. Dine at restaurant with Mrs. Ford. Speak at Woman’s Club on ‘Women and Politics.’ Read ‘Mother To Child’ by request. Make an impression. Return on 4.50 train, arrive 9.30 or so. Walk up to Sabin House. Receive $10.00 (Trip cost $9.00). Quite a day.”

  From Iowa back to Chicago, where I had a pleasant visit with my “Chicago mother,” Mrs. Dow, and another with Mrs. Coonley, giving parlor talks in various houses for ten and fifteen dollars. A lecture in Dowagiac, Michigan, February 12th, then back to Washington, D. C., where I spoke for the W. S. A., also in the high school and National P
ark Academy, reaching New York again on the twenty-second. That evening I opened a discussion at the Sunrise Club, on “Home, Past, Present and Future.” “Splendid time. Lively discussion. Make two engagements.” My engagements were always the result of previous ones, not to any agent or advertising.

  The next day marks a noteworthy ambition: “Talk with Mr. R. and Mr. L. and Mother in evening. I must learn not to talk earnestly in conversation! Awfully tired.” But alas! I never did.

  Friday 26th: “Go to hear Mr. Bryan on Bimetallism. Am not much impressed.” Before this I had heard Felix Adler, with the comment, “Not great.” Another day, “Go to Fabian Study Club. I do not take to Marx as an economist.” Here is a cryptic entry: “Wild-haired opera singer, name of Prentiss, calls to instruct me in the social problem.” And I can’t even remember if it was Soprano or Tenor!

  On the eighth of March I called at an office on Wall Street to look up a certain Cousin Houghton Gilman I had been fond of in 1879. He sat, extremely busy, writing, suspecting the approaching female to be a book-agent. I stood beside him and remarked, “You haven’t the slightest idea who I am.” Then he gazed sharply at me and replied, “Yes I have, you’re my Cousin Charlotte.” This was the beginning of a delightful renewal of earlier friendship, still continuing.

  There were various small engagements, one in Jersey City, where I gave a parlor talk and spent the night, with this note, “Very dull and difficult. Sleep ill thereafter. Also for the first time in all my travels I arise and slay bed-bugs — four fat conspicuous bed-bugs.” Long residence and acquaintance in New York in later years taught me more charity. Those indestructible insects can live a month without food — this has been scientifically established by experiments with a bottled one — they love steamheated flats and transfer their affection among changing tenants, they are enterprising travelers, and, while not beloved, are discussed without the horror of New Englanders. One New York lady, with a studio in an unfashionable quarter, calls them “Crimson Ramblers.”