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"'He that rebuketh a man afterwards shall find more favor than he that flattereth with his tongue,'" said Mr. Solomon Bankside to his wife Mary.
"Its the other way with a woman, I think;" she answered him, "you might put that in."
"Tut, tut, Molly," said he; "'Add not unto his words,'—do not speak lightly of the wisdom of the great king."
"I don't mean to, dear, but—when you hear it all the time"—
"'He that turneth away his ear from the law, even his prayer shall be an abomination,'" answered Mr. Bankside.
"I believe you know every one of those old Proverbs by heart," said his wife with some heat. "Now that's not disrespectful!—theyareold!—and I do wish you'd forget some of them!"
He smiled at her quizzically, tossing back his heavy silver-gray hair with the gesture she had always loved. His eyes were deep blue and bright under their bushy brows; and the mouth was kind—in its iron way. "I can think of at least three to squelch you with, Molly," said he, "but I won't."
"O I know the one you want! 'A continual dropping in a very rainy day and a contentions woman are alike!' I'mnotcontentious, Solomon!"
"No, you are not," he frankly admitted. "What I really had in mind was this—'A prudent wife is from the Lord,' and 'He that findeth a wife findeth a good thing; and obtaineth favor of the Lord.'"
She ran around the table in the impulsive way years did not alter, and kissed him warmly.
"I'm not scolding you, my dear," he continued: "but if you had all the money you'd like to give away—there wouldn't be much left!"
"But look at what you spend on me!" she urged.
"That's a wise investment—as well as a deserved reward," her husband answered calmly. "'There is that scattereth and yet increaseth,' you know, my dear; 'And there is that withholdeth more than is meet—and it tendeth to poverty!' Take all you get my dear—its none too good for you."
He gave her his goodby kiss with special fondness, put on his heavy satin-lined overcoat and went to the office.
Mr. Solomon Bankside was not a Jew; though his last name suggested and his first seemed to prove it; also his proficiency in the Old Testament gave color to the idea. No, he came from Vermont; of generations of unbroken New England and old English Puritan ancestry, where the Solomons and Isaacs and Zedekiahs were only mitigated by the Standfasts and Praise-the-Lords. Pious, persistent pigheaded folk were they, down all the line.
His wife had no such simple pedigree. A streak of Huguenot blood she had (some of the best in France, though neither of them knew that), a grandmother from Albany with a Van to her name; a great grandmother with a Mac; and another with an O'; even a German cross came in somewhere. Mr. Bankside was devoted to genealogy, and had been at some pains to dig up these facts—the more he found the worse he felt, and the lower ran his opinion of Mrs. Bankside's ancestry.
She had been a fascinating girl; pretty, with the dash and piquancy of an oriole in a May apple-tree; clever and efficient in everything her swift hands touched; quite a spectacular housekeeper; and the sober, long-faced young downeasterner had married her with a sudden decision that he often wondered about in later years. So did she.
What he had not sufficiently weighed at the time, was her spirit of incorrigible independence, and a light-mindedness which, on maturer judgment, he could almost term irreligious. His conduct was based on principle, all of it; built firmly into habit and buttressed by scriptural quotations. Hers seemed to him as inconsequent as the flight of a moth. Studying it, in his solemn conscientious way, in the light of his genealogical researches, he felt that all her uncertainties were accounted for, and that the error was his—in having married too many kinds of people at once.
They had been, and were, very happy together none the less: though sometimes their happiness was a little tottery. This was one of the times. It was the day after Christmas, and Mrs. Bankside entered the big drawing room, redolent of popcorn and evergreen, and walked slowly to the corner where the fruits of yesterday were lovingly arranged; so few that she had been able to give—so many that she had received.
There were the numerous pretty interchangeable things given her by her many friends; "presents," suitable to any lady. There were the few perfectly selected ones given by the few who knew her best. There was the rather perplexing gift of Mrs. MacAvelly. There was her brother's stiff white envelope enclosing a check. There were the loving gifts of children and grand-children.
Finally there was Solomon's.
It was his custom to bestow upon her one solemn and expensive object, a boon as it were, carefully selected, after much thought and balancing of merits; but the consideration was spent on the nature of the gift—-not on the desires of the recipient. There was the piano she could not play, the statue she did not admire, the set of Dante she never read, the heavy gold bracelet, the stiff diamond brooch—and all the others. This time it was a set of sables, costing even more than she imagined.
Christmas after Christmas had these things come to her; and she stood there now, thinking of that procession of unvalued valuables, with an expression so mixed and changeful it resembled a kaleidoscope. Love for Solomon, pride in Solomon, respect for Solomon's judgment and power to pay, gratitude for his unfailing kindness and generosity, impatience with his always giving her this one big valuable permanent thing, when he knew so well that she much preferred small renewable cheap ones; her personal dislike of furs, the painful conviction that brown was not becoming to her—all these and more filled the little woman with what used to be called "conflicting emotions."
She smoothed out her brother's check, wishing as she always did that it had come before Christmas, so that she might buy more presents for her beloved people. Solomon liked to spend money on her—in his own way; but he did not like to have her spend money on him—or on anyone for that matter. She had asked her brother once, if he would mind sending her his Christmas present beforehand.
"Not on your life, Polly!" he said. "You'd never see a cent of it! You can't buy 'em many things right on top of Christmas, and it'll be gone long before the next one."
She put the check away and turned to examine her queerest gift. Upon which scrutiny presently entered the donor.
"I'm ever so much obliged, Benigna," said Mrs. Bankside. "You know how I love to do things. It's a loom, isn't it? Can you show me how it works?"
"Of course I can, my dear; that's just what I ran in for—I was afraid you wouldn't know. But you are so clever with your hands that I'm sure you'll enjoy it. I do."
Whereat Mrs. MacAvelly taught Mrs. Bankside the time-honored art of weaving. And Mrs. Bankside enjoyed it more than any previous handicraft she had essayed.
She did it well, beginning with rather coarse and simple weaves; and gradually learning the finer grades of work. Despising as she did the more modern woolens, she bought real wool yarn of a lovely red—and made some light warm flannelly stuff in which she proceeded to rapturously enclose her little grandchildren.
Mr. Bankside warmly approved, murmuring affectionately, "'She seeketh wool and flax—she worketh willingly with her hands.'"
He watched little Bob and Polly strenuously "helping" the furnace man to clear the sidewalk, hopping about like red-birds in their new caps and coats; and his face beamed with the appositeness of his quotation, as he remarked, "She is not afraid of the snow for her household, for all her household are clothed with scarlet!" and he proffered an extra, wholly spontaneous kiss, which pleased her mightily.
"You dear man!" she said with a hug; "I believe you'd rather find a proverb to fit than a gold mine!"
To which he triumphantly responded: "'Wisdom is better than rubies; and all the things that may be desired are not to be compared to it.'"
She laughed sweetly at him. "And do you think wisdom stopped with that string of proverbs?"
"You can't get much beyond it," he answered calmly. "If we lived up to all there is in that list we shouldn't be far out, my dear!"
Whereat she laughed again smoothed his gray mane, and kissed him in the back of his neck. "Youdearthing!" said Mrs. Bankside.
She kept herself busy with the new plaything as he called it. Hands that had been rather empty were now smoothly full. Her health was better, and any hint of occasional querulousness disappeared entirely; so that her husband was moved to fresh admiration of her sunny temper, and quoted for the hundredth time, "'She openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness.'"
Mrs. MacAvelly taught her to make towels. But Mrs. Bankside's skill outstripped hers; she showed inventive genius and designed patterns of her own. The fineness and quality of the work increased; and she joyfully replenished her linen chest with her own handiwork.
"I tell you, my dear," said Mrs. MacAvelly, "if you'd be willing to sell them you could get almost any price for those towels. With the initials woven in. I know I could get you orders—through the Woman's Exchange, you know!"
Mrs. Bankside was delighted. "What fun!" she said. "And I needn't appear at all?"
"No, you needn't appear at all—do let me try."
So Mrs. Bankside made towels of price, soft, fine, and splendid, till she was weary of them; and in the opulence of constructive genius fell to devising woven belts of elaborate design.
These were admired excessively. All her women friends wanted one, or more; the Exchange got hold of it, there was a distinct demand; and finally Mrs. MacAvelly came in one day with a very important air and a special order.
"I don't know what you'll think, my dear," she said, "but I happen to know the Percy's very well—the big store people, you know; and Mr. Percy was talking about those belts of yours to me;—of course he didn't know they are yours; but he said (the Exchange people told him I knew, you see) he said, 'If you can place an order with that woman, I can take all she'll make and pay her full price for them. Is she poor?' he asked. 'Is she dependent on her work?' And I told him, 'Not altogether.' And I think he thinks it an interesting case! Anyhow, there's the order. Will you do it?'
Mrs. Bankside was much excited. She wanted to very much, but dreaded offending her husband. So far she had not told him of her quiet trade in towels; but hid and saved this precious money—the first she had ever earned.
The two friends discussed the pros and cons at considerable length; and finally with some perturbation, she decided to accept the order.
"You'll never tell, Benigna!" she urged. "Solomon would never forgive me, I'm afraid."
"Why of course I won't—you needn't have a moment's fear of it. You give them to me—I'll stop with the carriage you see; and I take them to the Exchange—and he gets them from there."
"It seems like smuggling!" said Mrs. Bankside delightedly. "I always did love to smuggle!"
"They say women have no conscience about laws, don't they?" Mrs.MacAvelly suggested.
"Why should we?" answered her friend. "We don't make 'em—nor God—nor nature. Why on earth should we respect a set of silly rules made by some men one day and changed by some more the next?"
"Bless us, Polly! Do you talk to Mr. Bankside like that?"
"Indeed I don't!" answered her hostess, holding out a particularly beautiful star-patterned belt to show to advantage. "There are lots of things I don't say to Mr. Bankside—'A man of understanding holdeth his peace' you know—or a woman."
She was a pretty creature, her hair like that of a powdered marchioness, her rosy checks and firm slight figure suggesting a charmer in Dresden china.
Mrs. MacAvelly regarded her admiringly. "'Where there is no wood the fire goeth out; so where there is no tale bearer the strife ceaseth,'" she proudly offered, "I can quote that much myself."
But Mrs. Bankside had many misgivings as she pursued her audacious way; the busy hours flying away from her, and the always astonishing checks flying toward her in gratifying accumulation. She came down to her well-planned dinners gracious and sweet; always effectively dressed; spent the cosy quiet evenings with her husband, or went out with him, with a manner of such increased tenderness and charm that his heart warmed anew to the wife of his youth; and he even relented a little toward her miscellaneous ancestors.
As the days shortened and darkened she sparkled more and more; with little snatches of song now and then; gay ineffectual strumming on the big piano; sudden affectionate darts at him, with quaintly distributed caresses.
"Molly!" said he, "I don't believe you're a day over twenty! What makes you act so?"
"Don't you like it, So?" she asked him. That was the nearest she ever would approximate to his name.
He did like it, naturally, and even gave her an extra ten dollars to buy Christmas presents with; while he meditated giving her an electric runabout;—to her!—who was afraid of a wheelbarrow!
When the day arrived and the family were gathered together, Mrs. Bankside, wearing the diamond brooch, the gold bracelet, the point lace handkerchief—everything she could carry of his accumulated generosity—and such an air of triumphant mystery that the tree itself was dim beside her; handed out to her astonished relatives such an assortment of desirable articles that they found no words to express their gratitude.
"Why,Mother!"said Jessie, whose husband was a minister and salaried as such, "Why,Mother—how did you know we wanted just that kind of a rug!—and a sewing-machinetoo!And this lovely suit—and—and—whyMother!"
But her son-in-law took her aside and kissed her solemnly. He had wanted that particular set of sociological books for years—and never hoped to get them; or that bunch of magazines either.
Nellie had "married rich;" she was less ostentatiously favored; but she had shown her thankfulness a week ago—when her mother had handed her a check.
"Sh, sh! my dear!" her mother had said, "Not one word. I know! What pleasant weather we're having."
This son-in-law was agreeably surprised, too; and the other relatives, married and single; while the children rioted among their tools and toys, taking this Christmas like any other, as a season of unmitigated joy.
Mr. Solomon Bankside looked on with growing amazement, making computations in his practiced mind; saying nothing whatever. Should he criticize his wife before others?
But when his turn came—when gifts upon gifts were offered to him—sets of silken handkerchiefs (he couldn't bear the touch of a silk handkerchief!), a cabinet of cards and chips and counters of all sorts (he never played cards), an inlaid chess-table and ivory men (the game was unknown to him), a gorgeous scarf-pin (he abominated jewelery), a five pound box of candy (he never ate it), his feelings so mounted within him, that since he would not express, and could not repress them, he summarily went up stairs to his room.
She found him there later, coming in blushing, smiling, crying a little too—like a naughty but charming child.
He swallowed hard as he looked at her; and his voice was a little strained.
"I can take a joke as well as any man, Molly. I guess we're square on that. But—my dear!—where did you get it?"
"Earned it," said she, looking down, and fingering her lace handkerchief.
"Earned it! My wife, earning money! How—if I may ask?"
"By my weaving, dear—the towels and the belts—I sold 'em. Don't be angry—nobody knows—my name didn't appear at all! Please don't be angry!—It isn't wicked, and it was such fun!"
"No—it's not wicked, I suppose," said he rather grimly. "But it is certainly a most mortifying and painful thing to me—most unprecedented."
"Not so unprecedented, Dear," she urged, "Even the woman you think most of did it! Don't you remember 'She maketh fine linen and selleth it—and delivereth girdles unto the merchants!'"
Mr. Bankside came down handsomely.
He got used to it after a while, and then he became proud of it. If a friend ventured to suggest a criticism, or to sympathize, he would calmly respond, "'The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no need of spoil. Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates.'"
We are told, on the authority of the Greatest Sociologist, that it is more blessed to give than to receive.
So patent and commonplace a fact as this ought to meet with general acceptance. Anyone can see that it is so, by a little study or by less practice. To give implies having. You must be in possession before you can give. To receive implies wanting, at its best—to receive what you do not want is distinctly unpleasant. To have is more blessed than to want. Of course it is.
To give gratifies several natural feelings; the mother-instinct of supplying needs, the pride of superior power and the generosity; and, if you are a sordid soul, the desire to "lay up treasure in heaven" or, as the Buddhists frankly put it—to "acquire merit."
None of these pleasures pertain to receiving. There is a certain humiliation about it always, a childish sense of dependence and inferiority. Only children can continuously receive without degradation; and as soon as they begin to realize life at all they delight to give as we all do. "Let me help!" says the child, and plans birthday presents for mama as eagerly as he hopes for them himself.
The instinct of giving is the pressure of the surplus; the natural outgo of humanity, its fruit. We are not mere receptacles, we are productive engines, of immense capacity; and, having produced, we must distribute the product. To give, naturally, is to shed, to bear fruit; a healthy and pleasurable process.
What has confused us so long on this subject? Why have we been so blind to this glaring truth that we have stultified our giving instinct and made of it an abnormal process called "Charity," or a much restricted pleasure only used in families or at Christmas time?
Two things have combined to prevent our easy acceptance of this visible truth; one the time-honored custom of "sacrifice," and the other our ignorance of social economics.
Sacrificing is not giving. That black remnant of lowest savagery dates back to the time when a pursuing beast was placated by the surrender of something, or somebody; and a conqueror bought off by tribute. The medicine man made play with this race habit, and gross idols were soothed and placated by sacrifices—on which the medicine man lived. Always the best and finest were taken naturally by the hungry beast; as naturally by the greedy conqueror; and not unnaturally by the dependent priesthood. Sacrificing is a forced surrender with personal hope as the reason. It is not giving.
Our economic ignorance and confusion is partly based on this same old period of cruelty and darkness. Labor was extorted as the price of life; and the fruits of labor taken by force through warring centuries. A guarded and grudging system of exchange gradually developed; the robbing instinct slowly simmering down to legally limited extortion; but each party surrendering his goods reluctantly, and only with the purpose of gaining more than he lost. Here also is the basic spirit of sacrifice—to get something now or in the far future—always the trading spirit at the bottom. Selling is not giving.
The real basis of giving is motherhood; and that is merely the orderly expression of life's progressive force. Living forms must increase—spread—grow—improve. The biological channel for this force is through mother-love; and, later, father-love. The sociological channel is in the pouring flood of productive activity, which fills the world with human fruit—the million things we make and do.
This ceaseless output is not dragged out of us as a sacrifice, it is not produced by want and hunger and the grasping spirit of exchange. It is the natural expression of social energy; blossoming in every form of art, stirring the brain to ceaseless action, filling the world with the rich fruit of human handiwork.
Having produced, we must distribute—we must discharge, we mustgive.
To be human is to be a producer, to make, to do, to have some output either in goods or services whereby the sum of welfare is increased. To have this productive energy and to use it normally, is to give. Not to have it, not to use it, is not to be human—to be a minus quantity; to live parasitically on the labor of others—to receive.
It is more blessed to give than to receive.
I was a slave, because I could not seeThat work for one another is our law;I hated law. I work? I would be free!Therefore the heavy law laid hands on meAnd I was forced to work in slavery—Until I saw.
I was a hireling, for I could not seeThat work was natural as the breath I drew,Natural? I would not work without the fee!So nature laid her heavy hands on meAnd I was forced by fear of poverty—Until I knew.
Now I am free. Life is new-seen, recastTo work is to enjoy, to love, to live!The shame and pain of slavery are past,Dishonor and extortion follow fast,I am not owned, nor hired, full-born at last,My power I give.
A peaceable elderly Englishman of a bald and scholarly aspect, inquired, following a lecture on Socialism, "Will the speaker state in one sentence what Socialism is?" He wore an air of mild gentlemanly triumph; apparently imagining that he had demanded the impossible.
But the speaker, seeming unconscious of any difficulty replied, "Certainly; Socialism is the public ownership of all natural monopolies and the means of production."
This simple definition is advanced to start with, that we may know what we are talking about. This is the essence of Socialism—public ownership of public things; the real point at issue being "What things are public?"
The vast majority of us do not yet understand this easy and clear definition; and no wonder; for the Socialists themselves are for the most part so lost in grief over the sufferings of the poor and in rage over the misbehavior of the rich, that they find it hard to speak gently. Most of us, having but vague ideas of Socialism, fear it on several grounds, some of them easily removable as mere mistakes; others requiring careful treatment.
The mistakes are these:
ERROR I. "Socialism will abolish private property."
ANSWER. Quite wrong. It will do no such thing. You are thinking of Communism. The early Communists, like the early Christians, held all things in common, but Socialism urges no such doctrine. It does, however, restrict our definition of what is private property; just as was done when human slavery was abolished.
Slavery was once universal, and still exists In many countries. It was held legal and honest to personally own human beings—they were property. In our great civil contest of half a century since, the north—from a southern point of view—confiscated property when the slaves were freed. But from the northern point of view the slave was not property at all. This is a very vivid instance of change of opinion on property rights. Such "rights" are wholly of our own making; and change from age to age.
Parents once held property rights in children and men "owned" their wives; they could be punished, imprisoned, sold—even killed, at will of the owner. The larger public sense has long since said, "Women and children are not private property."
Laws about property are not God's laws; not Nature's laws; they are just rules and regulations people make from time to time according to their standards of justice. There is nothing novel in proposing to change them—they have often been changed. There is nothing immoral or dangerous in changing them; it is constantly done in all legislatures, in varying degree, as when private estates are "condemned" for public use.
Socialism advances the idea that private property rights do not legitimately apply to public necessities like coal, water, oil and land. As a matter of fact we do not really "own" land now—we only rent it of the government, calling our rent "taxes." If we do not pay our rent the government gets it again, like any other owner.
The utmost restriction of private property under Socialism leaves us still every article of personal use and pleasure. One may still "own" land by paying the government for it as now; with such taxation, however, as would make it very expensive to own too much! One may own one's house and all that is in it; one's clothes and tools and decorations; one's horses, carriages and automobiles; one's flying machines—presently. All "personal property" remains in our personal hands.
But no man or group of men could own the country's coal and decide how much the public can have, and what we must pay for it. Private holding of public property would be abolished.
ERROR 2. Socialism would reduce us all to a dead level.
ANSWER. Quite wrong. Eating at the same table in the same family does not reduce brothers and sisters to the same level; some remain far smarter and stronger than others. By a wiser system of education we may greatly increase the difference in people—Socialism would not hinder it. A higher average level of income—which is what Socialism ensures, will give people a chance to differ more than they do now. Our machine-like educational system, long hours of labor, specialized monotony of mill work, and "the iron law of wages" do tend to reduce us to a dead level. Socialism does not.
ERROR 3. Socialists are atheists.
ANSWER. How anyone can say this when they know of the immense organization of Christian Socialists is amazing; but then it is always amazing to see how queerly people think. Some Socialists are atheists. So are some monarchists and some republicans. A Socialist may be an atheist, or a homeopathist, or a Holy Roller—it has nothing to do with Socialism.
ERROR 4. Socialists are immoral.
ANSWER. Again—some are; but so are some other people. The immorality of which we hear most in the papers is by no means that of Socialists; but of most prominent capitalists.
ERROR 5. Socialism is unnatural—you must "alter human nature" before it would be possible.
ANSWER. This is a very common position, based like most of the foregoing, on lack of understanding. It assumes that Socialism requires a state of sublime unselfishness and mutual deference, in which all men are willing to work for nothing. But why assume this? It is no product of Socialism. Our socialistic public parks and libraries do not presuppose that people shall be angels. They may tend to make them such, but the progress is not rapid enough to alarm us. In regard to this particular error we should learn that Socialism is not a totally new and different scheme of things; but a gradual and legitimate extension of previous tendencies. Human nature is socialistic—and is progressively extending socialism.
ERROR 5. Socialism will pay every one alike and so destroy the incentive of personal ambition.
ANSWER. This idea of equal payment is not Socialism. Some socialists hold it—more do not. The essential idea of public ownership and management of public property does not include this notion of equal payment.
ERROR 7. Socialism will destroy competition. Competition, most of us believe, "is the life of trade;" in other words we are supposed to work, not merely to get something for ourselves, but to get ahead of other people.
ANSWER. Admitting that we do; admitting that such an incentive is useful; the simple answer is that Socialism would not destroy competition.
Even in financial reward some would still be paid more than others; and far beyond this lies the larger competition for fame and glory and public esteem, which has always moved men more strongly than the love of money. This remains always open.
MAIN ERROR. Passing over all these minor objections, due to mere ignorance and easily understood, we come to the one major objection, honestly held by intelligent people; that under Socialism people would not work. This is why so many good and intelligent persons do honestly distrust and fear it. Their position is this:
PREMISE A. Work must be done to keep civilization going. Work is done by individuals in order to get something they want. Work would not be done by anyone without the immediate stimulus of personal desire.
PREMISE B. Socialism, in some mysterious way will supply the needs of the people gratuitously.
CONCLUSION. The people being so provided for would not work. Then follows the downfall of civilization.
This is the honest opinion of the individualist, the older economist, and is entitled to respect and fair answer.
If the premises were correct the terrible conclusion would be correct, and the Socialist position visionary and dangerous. Of course people are afraid of anything that controverts the laws of economics and human nature—they ought to be. But are those premises correct?
To remove the easiest one first let us observe the absurdity of the idea, that Socialism will provide for people without their working. Provide them with what, pray? All wealth is produced by human labor—there is no socialist patent for drawing bread and circuses from the sky. People must always and forever work for what they have, and have in proportion to the quantity and quality of their work.
So thoroughly is this true that the socialist grieves to see so many people living to-day without working; receiving wealth out of all proportion to their usefulness. If this was common to all of us it would mean the downfall of civilization. As we live now a great many people work too hard, too long, under unsanitary conditions, a sort of living sacrifice to the rest of the world; and a few people do visibly and ostentatiously consume and waste the very things the workers so painfully lack.
Socialism claims to ensure decent payment for all labor, and see that we all receive it—all of us; not the same for everyone; but enough for everyone. Further, Socialism claims that by such procedure the quantity and quality of human work would be improved; that more wealth would be produced—far more.
By thus removing Premise B, Premise A becomes anon sequitur.We will, however, remove this also, to make a clean sweep.
It is not true that work is only done in order to get something. Some work is done that way by some people. But it is not the only kind of work—and they are not the only kind of people. Even the savage, having exerted himself to get his dinner, and having had his dinner, and being, in a small way, human, begins to exert himself further to decorate his tools and weapons, his canoes and totem poles—because he likes to. Nobody pays him for it. He enjoys the act of doing it, and the results.
The reason any ordinary man prefers any one kind of work to another is that he experiences a certain pleasure in the performance of certain actions—more than others. He is beginning to specialize.
The reason the highly specialized social servant, artist, teacher, preacher, scientific student, true physician, inventor, chooses his work, follows it often under disadvantages; and in the case of the enthusiast, even under conditions of danger, pain and death—is that he likes that kind of work, enjoys doing it, indeedhas to do it—is uncomfortable if prevented.
This is a social instinct which our earlier economists have not recognized. It is proven an instinct by the fact that children have it—all normal children. They like any kind of ordinary work, want to learn how, want to help, long before they attach any idea of gain to the labor.
The little girl in the kitchen wants to make cookies—as well as eat them; longs to print little figures around the pies, and then hold the plate on poised spread fingers and trim off that long broken ribbon of superfluous pastry—wants to do things, as well as to have things. The one instinct is as natural as the other.
The reasons so many of us to-day hate and despise work, avoid it, give it up as soon as possible, are simple and clear. First because of the cruel difficulties with which we have loaded what should be a pleasure—the monotony, the long hours, the disagreeable surroundings, the danger and early death, and the grossly insufficient pay. Any normal boy enjoys working with carpenter's tools, or blacksmith's tools; enjoys running a machine; but when such work is saddled with the above conditions, he does not like it. Of course. It is not the work we are averse to, it is what goes with it;—difficulties of our own making.
Further; besides the physical disadvantages, we have loaded this great natural process of human labor with a mass of superstitions and degrading lies. The lazy old orientals called it a curse! Work, a curse! Work; which is the essential process of human life; man's natural function and means of growth!
We have despised it because women did it. Glory to the women—without them we should have had no industry. We have despised it because slaves did it. Glory to the slaves! They built the pyramids—not Cheops. They built every one of the marvelous relics and ruins of the past—the slaves built Athens!
We despise it now because the low and ignorant do it. If there was ever an instance of consummate folly, of churlish ingratitude, it is our general attitude toward work and the workers. Here are three millions of laboring benefactors; feeding us; clothing us; building our houses; spinning and weaving and sewing for us;—hewing wood and drawing water;—keeping the world alive and moving; and we look down on the work and the workers. As we are not really brutes and fools, how is this absurd position to be accounted for?
By that old fallacy of Premise A. "They are only doing it for themselves," we say. "They are paid for what they do. They wouldn't do it if they weren't paid for it!" That is the vital core of the real opposition to Socialism, this erroneous economic idea about work.
If that can ever be changed, if we can look at work with new eyes, then we can look at Socialism with new eyes too; and not be afraid. Then cautiously and rationally, we shall say:
"So this new system of yours proposes to increase human wealth, does it? To promote and develop all kinds of legitimate work and to distribute the product so as to improve the people? That sounds pretty good to me. But how do you know you can do it? I'm from Missouri myself—you'll have to show me."
And then perhaps our wiser Socialists will appeal to the people as a whole, of every grade and class; and teach the natural orderly development of this simple and practical system of economics; teach its splendid benefits to all classes; and the methods of its legitimate and gradual introduction; by careful massing of the facts; by visible proof of things already accomplished. They must show us that we are not facing a great leap in the dark, but clear straight steps in the light, in the orderly progress of social evolution.
The children in the Poor HouseMay die of many an ill,But the Poor House does not profitBy their labor in the mill!
The children in the OrphanageWear raiment far from fine,But no Orphanage is financedBy child labor in a mine.
The Cruel Law may send themTo Reform School's iron sway,But it does not set small childrenTo hard labor by the day.
Only the Loving Family,Which we so much admire,Is willing to support itselfOn little children's hire.
Only the Human Father,A man, with power to think,Will take from little childrenThe price of food and drink.
Only the Human Mother—Degraded, helpless thing!Will make her little children workAnd live on what they bring!
No fledgling feeds the father-bird!No chicken feeds the hen!No kitten mouses for the cat—This glory is for men.
We are the Wisest, Strongest Race—Loud my our praise be sung!—The only animal aliveThat lives upon its young!
We make the poverty that takesThe lives of babies so.We can awake! rebuild! remake!—And let our children grow!
The brooding bird fulfills her task,Or she-bear lean and brown;All parent beasts see duty true,All parent beasts their duty do,We are the only kind that asksFor duty upside down.
The stiff-rayed windmill stood like a tall mechanical flower, turning slowly in the light afternoon wind; its faint regular metallic squeak pricked the dry silence wearingly. Rampant fuchsias, red-jewelled, heavy, ran up its framework, with crowding heliotrope and nasturtiums. Thick straggling roses hung over the kitchen windows, and a row of dusty eucalyptus trees rustled their stiff leaves, and gave an ineffectual shade to the house.
It was one of those small frame houses common to the northeastern states, which must be dear to the hearts of their dwellers. For no other reason, surely, would the cold grey steep-roofed little boxes be repeated so faithfully in the broad glow of a semi-tropical landscape. There was an attempt at a "lawn," the pet ambition of the transplanted easterner; and a further attempt at "flower-beds," which merely served as a sort of springboard to their far-reaching products.
The parlor, behind the closed blinds, was as New England parlors are; minus the hint of cosiness given by even a fireless stove; the little bedrooms baked under the roof; only the kitchen spoke of human living, and the living it portrayed was not, to say the least, joyous. It was clean, clean with a cleanness that spoke of conscientious labor and unremitting care. The zinc mat under the big cook-stove was scoured to a dull glimmer, while that swart altar itself shone darkly from its daily rubbing.
There was no dust nor smell of dust; no grease spots, no litter anywhere. But the place bore no atmosphere of contented pride, as does a Dutch, German or French kitchen, it spoke of Labor, Economy and Duty—under restriction.
In the dead quiet of the afternoon Diantha and her mother sat there sewing. The sun poured down through the dangling eucalyptus leaves. The dry air, rich with flower odors, flowed softly in, pushing the white sash curtains a steady inch or two. Ee-errr!—Ee-errr!—came the faint whine of the windmill.
To the older woman rocking in her small splint chair by the rose-draped window, her thoughts dwelling on long dark green grass, the shade of elms, and cows knee-deep in river-shallows; this was California—hot, arid, tedious in endless sunlight—a place of exile.
To the younger, the long seam of the turned sheet pinned tightly to her knee, her needle flying firmly and steadily, and her thoughts full of pouring moonlight through acacia boughs and Ross's murmured words, it was California—rich, warm, full of sweet bloom and fruit, of boundless vitality, promise, and power—home!
Mrs. Bell drew a long weary sigh, and laid down her work for a moment.
"Why don't you stop it Mother dear? There's surely no hurry about these things."
"No—not particularly," her mother answered, "but there's plenty else to do." And she went on with the long neat hemming. Diantha did the "over and over seam" up the middle.
"Whatdoyou do it for anyway, Mother—I always hated this job—and you don't seem to like it."
"They wear almost twice as long, child, you know. The middle gets worn and the edges don't. Now they're reversed. As to liking it—" She gave a little smile, a smile that was too tired to be sarcastic, but which certainly did not indicate pleasure.
"What kind of work do you like best—really?" her daughter inquired suddenly, after a silent moment or two.
"Why—I don't know," said her mother. "I never thought of it. I never tried any but teaching. I didn't like that. Neither did your Aunt Esther, but she's still teaching."
"Didn't you like any of it?" pursued Diantha.
"I liked arithmetic best. I always loved arithmetic, when I went to school—used to stand highest in that."
"And what part of housework do you like best?" the girl persisted.
Mrs. Bell smiled again, wanly. "Seems to me sometimes as if I couldn't tell sometimes what part I like least!" she answered. Then with sudden heat—"O my Child! Don't you marry till Ross can afford at least one girl for you!"
Diantha put her small, strong hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. "We'll have to wait some time for that I fancy," she said. "But, Mother, there is one part you like—keeping accounts! I never saw anything like the way you manage the money, and I believe you've got every bill since yon were married."
"Yes—I do love accounts," Mrs. Bell admitted. "And I can keep run of things. I've often thought your Father'd have done better if he'd let me run that end of his business."
Diantha gave a fierce little laugh. She admired her father in some ways, enjoyed him in some ways, loved him as a child does if not ill-treated; but she loved her mother with a sort of passionate pity mixed with pride; feeling always nobler power in her than had ever had a fair chance to grow. It seemed to her an interminable dull tragedy; this graceful, eager, black-eyed woman, spending what to the girl was literally a lifetime, in the conscientious performance of duties she did not love.
She knew her mother's idea of duty, knew the clear head, the steady will, the active intelligence holding her relentlessly to the task; the chafe and fret of seeing her husband constantly attempting against her judgment, and failing for lack of the help he scorned. Young as she was, she realized that the nervous breakdown of these later years was wholly due to that common misery of "the square man in the round hole."
She folded her finished sheet in accurate lines and laid it away—taking her mother's also. "Now you sit still for once, Mother dear, read or lie down. Don't you stir till supper's ready."
And from pantry to table she stepped, swiftly and lightly, setting out what was needed, greased her pans and set them before her, and proceeded to make biscuit.
Her mother watched her admiringly. "How easy you do it!" she said. "I never could make bread without getting flour all over me. You don't spill a speck!"
Diantha smiled. "I ought to do it easily by this time. Father's got to have hot bread for supper—or thinks he has!—and I've made 'em—every night when I was at home for this ten years back!"
"I guess you have," said Mrs. Bell proudly. "You were only eleven when you made your first batch. I can remember just as well! I had one of my bad headaches that night—and it did seem as if I couldn't sit up! But your Father's got to have his biscuit whether or no. And you said, 'Now Mother you lie right still on that sofa and let me do it! I can!' And you could!—you did! They were bettern' mine that first time—and your Father praised 'em—and you've been at it ever since."
"Yes," said Diantha, with a deeper note of feeling than her mother caught, "I've been at it ever since!"
"Except when you were teaching school," pursued her mother.
"Except when I taught school at Medville," Diantha corrected. "When I taught here I made 'em just the same."
"So you did," agreed her mother. "So you did! No matter how tired you were—you wouldn't admit it. You always were the best child!"
"If I was tired it was not of making biscuits anyhow. I was tired enough of teaching school though. I've got something to tell you, presently, Mother."
She covered the biscuits with a light cloth and set them on the shelf over the stove; then poked among the greasewood roots to find what she wanted and started a fire. "Whydon'tyou get an oil stove? Or a gasoline? It would be a lot easier."
"Yes," her mother agreed. "I've wanted one for twenty years; but you know your Father won't have one in the house. He says they're dangerous. What are you going to tell me, dear? I do hope you and Ross haven't quarrelled."
"No indeed we haven't, Mother. Ross is splendid. Only—"
"Only what, Dinah?"
"Only he's so tied up!" said the girl, brushing every chip from the hearth. "He's perfectly helpless there, with that mother of his—and those four sisters."
"Ross is a good son," said Mrs. Bell, "and a good brother. I never saw a better. He's certainly doing his duty. Now if his father'd lived you two could have got married by this time maybe, though you're too young yet."
Diantha washed and put away the dishes she had used, saw that the pantry was in its usual delicate order, and proceeded to set the table, with light steps and no clatter of dishes.
"I'm twenty-one," she said.
"Yes, you're twenty-one," her mother allowed. "It don't seem possible, but you are. My first baby!" she looked at her proudly
"If Ross has to wait for all those girls to marry—and to pay his father's debts—I'll be old enough," said Diantha grimly.
Her mother watched her quick assured movements with admiration, and listened with keen sympathy. "I know it's hard, dear child. You've only been engaged six months—and it looks as if it might be some years before Ross'll be able to marry. He's got an awful load for a boy to carry alone."
"I should say he had!" Diantha burst forth. "Five helpless women!—or three women, and two girls. Though Cora's as old as I was when I began to teach. And not one of 'em will lift a finger to earn her own living."
"They weren't brought up that way," said Mrs. Bell. "Their mother don't approve of it. She thinks the home is the place for a woman—and so does Ross—and so do I," she added rather faintly.
Diantha put her pan of white puff-balls into the oven, sliced a quantity of smoked beef in thin shavings, and made white sauce for it, talking the while as if these acts were automatic. "I don't agree with Mrs. Warden on that point, nor with Ross, nor with you, Mother," she said, "What I've got to tell you is this—I'm going away from home. To work."
Mrs. Bell stopped rocking, stopped fanning, and regarded her daughter with wide frightened eyes.
"Why Diantha!" she said. "Why Diantha! You wouldn't go and leave yourMother!"
Diantha drew a deep breath and stood for a moment looking at the feeble little woman in the chair. Then she went to her, knelt down and hugged her close—close.
"It's not because I don't love you, Mother. It's because I do. And it's not because I don't love Ross either:—it's because Ido.I want to take care of you, Mother, and make life easier for you as long as you live. I want to help him—to help carry that awful load—and I'm going—to—do—it!"
She stood up hastily, for a step sounded on the back porch. It was only her sister, who hurried in, put a dish on the table, kissed her mother and took another rocking-chair.
"I just ran in," said she, "to bring those berries. Aren't they beauties? The baby's asleep. Gerald hasn't got in yet. Supper's all ready, and I can see him coming time enough to run back. Why, Mother! What's the matter? You're crying!"
"Am I?" asked Mrs. Bell weakly; wiping her eyes in a dazed way.
"What are you doing to Mother, Diantha?" demanded young Mrs. Peters. "Bless me! I thought you and she never had any differences! I was always the black sheep, when I was at home. Maybe that's why I left so early!"
She looked very pretty and complacent, this young matron and mother of nineteen; and patted the older woman's hand affectionately, demanding, "Come—what's the trouble?"
"You might as well know now as later," said her sister. "I have decided to leave home, that's all."
"To leave home!" Mrs. Peters sat up straight and stared at her. "To leave home!—And Mother!"
"Well?" said Diantha, while the tears rose and ran over from her mother's eyes. "Well, why not? You left home—and Mother—before you were eighteen."
"That's different!" said her sister sharply. "I left to be married,—to have a home of my own. And besides I haven't gone far! I can see Mother every day."
"That's one reason I can go now better than later on," Diantha said."You are close by in case of any trouble."
"What on earth are you going for? Ross isn't ready to marry yet, is he?"
"No—nor likely to be for years. That's another reason I'm going."
"But whatfor,for goodness sake."
"To earn money—for one thing."
"Can't you earn money enough by teaching?" the Mother broke in eagerly. "I know you haven't got the same place this fall—but you can get another easy enough."
Diantha shook her head. "No, Mother, I've had enough of that. I've taught for four years. I don't like it, I don't do well, and it exhausts me horribly. And I should never get beyond a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars a year if I taught for a lifetime."
"Well, I declare!" said her sister. "What do youexpectto get? I should think fifteen hundred dollars a year was enough for any woman!"
Diantha peered into the oven and turned her biscuit pan around.
"And you're meaning to leave home just to make money, are you?"
"Why not?" said Diantha firmly. "Henderson did—when he was eighteen.None of you blamed him."
"I don't see what that's got to do with it," her mother ventured. "Henderson's a boy, and boys have to go, of course. A mother expects that. But a girl—Why, Diantha! How can I get along without you! With my health!"
"I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself to think of such a thing!" said young Mrs. Peters.
A slow step sounded outside, and an elderly man, tall, slouching, carelessly dressed, entered, stumbling a little over the rag-mat at the door.
"Father hasn't got used to that rug in fourteen years!" said his youngest daughter laughingly. "And Mother will straighten it out after him! I'm bringing Gerald up on better principles. You should just see him wait on me!"
"A man should be master in his own household," Mr. Bell proclaimed, raising a dripping face from the basin and looking around for the towel—which his wife handed him.
"You won't have much household to be master of presently," said Mrs.Peters provokingly. "Half of it's going to leave."
Mr. Bell came out of his towel and looked from one to the other for some explanation of this attempted joke, "What nonsense are you talking?" he demanded.
"I think it's nonsense myself," said the pretty young woman—her hand on the doorknob. "But you'd better enjoy those biscuits of Di's while you can—you won't get many more! There's Gerald—good night!" And off she ran.
Diantha set the plateful on the table, puffy, brown, and crisply crusted. "Supper's ready," she said. "Do sit down, Mother," and she held the chair for her. "Minnie's quite right, Father, though I meant not to tell you till you'd had supper. I am going away to work."
Mr. Bell regarded his daughter with a stern, slow stare; not so much surprised as annoyed by an untimely jesting. He ate a hot biscuit in two un-Fletcherized mouthfuls, and put more sugar in his large cup of tea. "You've got your Mother all worked up with your nonsense," said he. "What are you talking about anyway?"
Diantha met his eyes unflinchingly. He was a tall old man, still handsome and impressive in appearance, had been the head of his own household beyond question, ever since he was left the only son of an idolizing mother. But he had never succeeded in being the head of anything else. Repeated failures in the old New England home had resulted in his ruthlessly selling all the property there; and bringing his delicate wife and three young children to California. Vain were her protests and objections. It would do her good—best place in the world for children—good for nervous complaints too. A wife's duty was to follow her husband, of course. She had followed, willy nilly; and it was good for the children—there was no doubt of that.
Mr. Bell had profited little by his venture. They had the ranch, the flowers and fruit and ample living of that rich soil; but he had failed in oranges, failed in raisins, failed in prunes, and was now failing in wealth-promising hens.