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Please find enclosed $_____ as subscription to "The Forerunner" from _____ 19___ to _____ 19___
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[Advertisement]
This is a gratuitous advertisement, benefitting
a) The Child; whose pain stops;
b) The Mother; who doesn't have to hear him cry;
c) The Nearest Druggist—a little.
CALENDULA is a good standard old drug—made of marigolds—in themateria medica.You buy a little bottle of tincture of calendula, and keep it on the shelf. Nobody will drink it by mistake—it doesn't taste good.
Presently Johnny falls down hard—he was running—he fell on a gritty place—his poor little knee is scraped raw. And he howls, how he howls! square-mouthed and inconsolable.
Then you hastily get a half a tea-cupful of water, a little warm if you have it, and put in a few drops of calendula. Wet a soft clean rag in it, bind it softly on the wound, keep it wet—and the pain stops.
Many many times has this quieted my infant anguish; also have I used it as a grown up. The effect is the same.
CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMANAUTHOR, OWNER & PUBLISHER
Forgive the Past—and forget it!—don't carry a grudge againstgraveyards.Accept the Present—you have to—here it is.Concentrate on the Future—still yours to make—and get busy!
A Song
Given a central sun—and a rolling world;Into the light we whirl—and call it day;Into the dark we turn—and call it night;Glow of the dawn—glory of midday light—Shadow of eve—rest of the fragrant nightAnd the dawn again!
Given a constant Power—and a passing frame;Into the light we grow—and call it life;Into the dark we go—and call It death;Glory of youth—beauty and pride and power—Shadow of age—rest of the final hour—And are born again!
The trouble with our "New Year Resolutions" is that they are too personal. We are always fussing about our little individual tempers and weaknesses and bad habits.
While we, Socially, behave as badly as we do, we individually can accomplish little.
Says the wiseacre—"Ah! but if each of us was individually perfectSociety would be perfect!"
Not at all! You can amass any number of perfect parts of a mechanism—or organism—but if they do notwork together rightthe thing is no good.
And you can't learn to work together by trying to be perfect separately.Can you?
We need collective aims, collective efforts, collective attainments.
Let us collectively resolve:
That we will stop wasting our soil and our forests and our labor!
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That we will stop poisoning and clogging our rivers and harbors.
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That we will stop building combustible houses.
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That we willnow—this year—begin in good earnest to prevent all preventable diseases.
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That we will do our duty by our children and young people, as a wiseSociety should, and cut off the crop of criminals by not making them.
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That—; no; here are quite enough resolutions for one year.
On the top floor of a New York boarding-house lived a particularly attractive woman who was an actress. She was also a widow, not divorcee, but just plain widow; and she persisted in acting under her real name, which was Mrs. Leland. The manager objected, but her reputation was good enough to carry the point.
"It will cost you a great deal of money, Mrs. Leland," said the manager.
"I make money enough," she answered.
"You will not attract so many—admirers," said the manager.
"I have admirers enough," she answered; which was visibly true.
She was well under thirty, even by daylight—and about eighteen on the stage; and as for admirers—they apparently thought Mrs. Leland was a carefully selected stage name.
Besides being a widow, she was a mother, having a small boy of about five years; and this small boy did not look in the least like a "stage child," but was a brown-skinned, healthy little rascal of the ordinary sort.
With this boy, an excellent nursery governess, and a maid, Mrs. Leland occupied the top floor above mentioned, and enjoyed it. She had a big room in front, to receive in; and a small room with a skylight, to sleep in. The boy's room and the governess' rooms were at the back, with sunny south windows, and the maid slept on a couch in the parlor. She was a colored lady, named Alice, and did not seem to care where she slept, or if she slept at all.
"I never was so comfortable in my life," said Mrs. Leland to her friends. "I've been here three years and mean to stay. It is not like any boarding-house I ever saw, and it is not like any home I ever had. I have the privacy, the detachment, the carelessness of a boarding-house, and 'all the comforts of a home.' Up I go to my little top flat as private as you like. My Alice takes care of it—the housemaids only come in when I'm out. I can eat with the others downstairs if I please; but mostly I don't please; and up come my little meals on the dumbwaiter—hot and good."
"But—having to flock with a lot of promiscuous boarders!" said her friends.
"I don't flock, you see; that's just it. And besides, they are not promiscuous—there isn't a person in the house now who isn't some sort of a friend of mine. As fast as a room was vacated I'd suggest somebody—and here we all are. It's great."
"But do youlikea skylight room?" Mrs. Leland's friends further inquired of her?"
"By no means!" she promptly replied. "I hate it. I feel like a mouse in a pitcher!"
"Then why in the name of reason—?"
"Because I can sleep there!Sleep!—It's the only way to be quiet in New York, and I have to sleep late if I sleep at all. I've fixed the skylight so that I'm drenched with air—and not drenched with rain!—and there I am. Johnny is gagged and muffled as it were, and carried downstairs as early as possible. He gets his breakfast, and the unfortunate Miss Merton has to go out and play with him—in all weathers—except kindergarten time. Then Alice sits on the stairs and keeps everybody away till I ring."
Possibly it was owing to the stillness and the air and the sleep till near lunchtime that Mrs. Leland kept her engaging youth, her vivid uncertain beauty. At times you said of her, "She has a keen intelligent face, but she's not pretty." Which was true. She was not pretty. But at times again she overcame you with her sudden loveliness.
All of which was observed by her friend from the second floor who wanted to marry her. In this he was not alone; either as a friend, of whom she had many, or as a lover, of whom she had more. His distinction lay first in his opportunities, as a co-resident, for which he was heartily hated by all the more and some of the many; and second in that he remained a friend in spite of being a lover, and remained a lover in spite of being flatly refused.
His name in the telephone book was given "Arthur Olmstead, real estate;" office this and residence that—she looked him up therein after their first meeting. He was rather a short man, heavily built, with a quiet kind face, and a somewhat quizzical smile. He seemed to make all the money he needed, occupied the two rooms and plentiful closet space of his floor in great contentment, and manifested most improper domesticity of taste by inviting friends to tea. "Just like a woman!" Mrs. Leland told him.
"And why not? Women have so many attractive ways—why not imitate them?" he asked her.
"A man doesn't want to be feminine, I'm sure," struck in a pallid, overdressed youth, with openwork socks on his slim feet, and perfumed handkerchief.
Mr. Olmstead smiled a broad friendly smile. He was standing near the young man, a little behind him, and at this point he put his hands just beneath the youth's arms, lifted and set him aside as if he were an umbrella-stand. "Excuse me, Mr. Masters," he said gravely, but you were standing on Mrs. Leland's gown."
Mr. Masters was too much absorbed in apologizing to the lady to take umbrage at the method of his removal; but she was not so oblivious. She tried doing it to her little boy afterwards, and found him very heavy.
When she came home from her walk or drive in the early winter dusk, this large quietly furnished room, the glowing fire, the excellent tea and delicate thin bread and butter were most restful. "It is two more stories up before I can get my own;" she would say—"I must stop a minute."
When he began to propose to her the first time she tried to stop him. "O please don't!" she cried."Pleasedon't! There are no end of reasons why I will not marry anybody again. Why can't some of you men be nice to me and not—that! Now I can't come in to tea any more!"
"I'd like to know why not," said he calmly. "You don't have to marry me if you don't want to; but that's no reason for cutting my acquaintance, is it?"
She gazed at him in amazement.
"I'm not threatening to kill myself, am I? I don't intend going to the devil. I'd like to be your husband, but if I can't—mayn't I be a brother to you?"
She was inclined to think he was making fun of her, but no—his proposal had had the real ring in it. "And you're not—you're not going to—?" it seemed the baldest assumption to think that he was going to, he looked so strong and calm and friendly.
"Not going to annoy you? Not going to force an undesired affection on you and rob myself of a most agreeable friendship? Of course not. Your tea is cold, Mrs. Leland—let me give you another cup. And do you think Miss Rose is going to do well as 'Angelina?'"
So presently Mrs. Leland was quite relieved in her mind, and free to enjoy the exceeding comfortableness of this relation. Little Johnny was extremely fond of Mr Olmstead; who always treated him with respect, and who could listen to his tales of strife and glory more intelligently than either mother or governess. Mr. Olmstead kept on hand a changing supply of interesting things; not toys—never, but real things not intended for little boys to play with. No little boy would want to play with dolls for instance; but what little boy would not be fascinated by a small wooden lay figure, capable of unheard-of contortions. Tin soldiers were common, but the flags of all nations—real flags, and true stories about them, were interesting. Noah's arks were cheap and unreliable scientifically; but Barye lions, ivory elephants, and Japanese monkeys in didactic groups of three, had unfailing attraction. And the books this man had—great solid books that could be opened wide on the floor, and a little boy lie down to in peace and comfort!
Mrs. Leland stirred her tea and watched them until Johnny was taken upstairs.
"Why don't you smoke?" she asked suddenly. "Doctor's orders?"
"No—mine," he answered. "I never consulted a doctor in my life."
"Nor a dentist, I judge," said she.
"Nor a dentist."
"You'd better knock on wood!" she told him.
"And cry 'Uncle Reuben?' he asked smilingly.
"You haven't told me why you don't smoke!" said she suddenly.
"Haven't I?" he said. "That was very rude of me. But look here. There's a thing I wanted to ask you. Now I'm not pressing any sort of inquiry as to myself; but as a brother, would you mind telling me some of those numerous reasons why you will not marry anybody?"
She eyed him suspiciously, but he was as solid and calm as usual, regarding her pleasantly and with no hint of ulterior purpose. "Why—I don't mind," she began slowly. "First—I have been married—and was very unhappy. That's reason enough."
He did not contradict her; but merely said, "That's one," and set it down in his notebook.
"Dear me, Mr. Olmstead! You're not a reporter, are you!"
"O no—but I wanted to have them clear and think about them," he explained. "Do you mind?" And he made as if to shut his little book again.
"I don't know as I mind," she said slowly. "But it looks so—businesslike."
"This is a very serious business, Mrs. Leland, as you must know. Quite aside from any personal desire of my own, I am truly 'your sincere friend and well-wisher,' as the Complete Letter Writer has it, and there are so many men wanting to marry you."
This she knew full well, and gazed pensively at the toe of her small flexible slipper, poised on a stool before the fire.
Mr. Olmstead also gazed at the slipper toe with appreciation.
"What's the next one?" he said cheerfully.
"Do you know you are a real comfort," she told him suddenly. "I never knew a man before who could—well leave off being a man for a moment and just be a human creature."
"Thank you, Mrs. Leland," he said in tones of pleasant sincerity. "I want to be a comfort to you if I can. Incidentally wouldn't you be more comfortable on this side of the fire—the light falls better—don't move." And before she realized what he was doing he picked her up, chair and all, and put her down softly on the other side, setting the footstool as before, and even daring to place her little feet upon it—but with so businesslike an air that she saw no opening for rebuke. It is a difficult matter to object to a man's doing things like that when he doesn't look as if he was doing them.
"That's better," said he cheerfully, taking the place where she had been. "Now, what's the next one?"
"The next one is my boy."
"Second—Boy," he said, putting it down. "But I should think he'd be a reason the other way. Excuse me—I wasn't going to criticize—yet! And the third?"
"Why should you criticize at all, Mr. Olmstead?"
"I shouldn't—on my own account. But there may come a man you love." He had a fine baritone voice. When she heard him sing Mrs. Leland always wished he were taller, handsomer, more distinguished looking; his voice sounded as if he were. And I should hate to see these reasons standing in the way of your happiness," he continued.
"Perhaps they wouldn't," said she in a revery.
"Perhaps they wouldn't—and in that case it is no possible harm that you tell me the rest of them. I won't cast it up at you. Third?"
"Third, I won't give up my profession for any man alive."
"Any man alive would be a fool to want you to," said he setting down,"Third—Profession."
"Fourth—I likeFreedom!"she said with sudden intensity. "You don't know!—they kept me so tight!—sotight—when I was a girl! Then—I was left alone, with a very little money, and I began to study for the stage—that was like heaven! And then—O whatidiotswomen are!" She said the word not tragically, but with such hard-pointed intensity that it sounded like a gimlet. "Then I married, you see—I gave up all my new-won freedom tomarry!—and he kept me tighter than ever." She shut her expressive mouth in level lines—stood up suddenly and stretched her arms wide and high. "I'm free again, free—I can do exactly as I please!" The words were individually relished. "I have the work I love. I can earn all I need—am saving something for the boy. I'm perfectly independent!"
"And perfectly happy!" he cordially endorsed her. "I don't blame you for not wanting to give it up."
"O well—happy!" she hesitated. "There are times, of course, when one isn't happy. But then—the other way I was unhappy all the time."
"He's dead—unfortunately," mused Mr. Olmstead.
"Unfortunately?—Why?"
He looked at her with his straightforward, pleasant smile. "I'd have liked the pleasure of killing him," he said regretfully.
She was startled, and watched him with dawning alarm. But he was quite quiet—even cheerful. "Fourth—Freedom," he wrote. "Is that all?"
"No—there are two more. Neither of them will please you. You won't think so much of me any more. The worst one is this. I like—lovers! I'm very much ashamed of it, but I do! I try not to be unfair to them—some I really try to keep away from me—but honestly I like admiration and lots of it."
"What's the harm of that?" he asked easily, setting down,"Fifth—Lovers."
"No harm, so long as I'm my own mistress," said she defiantly. "I take care of my boy, I take care of myself—let them take care of themselves! Don't blame me too much!"
"You're not a very good psychologist, I'm afraid," said he.
"What do you mean?" she asked rather nervously.
"You surely don't expect a man to blame you for being a woman, do you?"
"All women are not like that," she hastily asserted. "They are too conscientious. Lots of my friends blame me severely."
"Women friends," he ventured.
"Men, too. Some men have said very hard things of me."
"Because you turned 'em down. That's natural."
"You don't!"
"No, I don't. I'm different.".
"How different?" she asked.
He looked at her steadily. His eyes were hazel, flecked with changing bits of color, deep, steady, with a sort of inner light that grew as she watched till presently she thought it well to consider her slipper again; and continued, "The sixth is as bad as the other almost. I hate—I'd like to write a dozen tragic plays to show how much I hate—Housekeeping! There! That's all!"
"Sixth—Housekeeping," he wrote down, quite unmoved. "But why should anyone blame you for that—it's not your business."
"No—thank goodness, it's not! And never will be! I'mfree,I tell you and I stay free!—But look at the clock!" And she whisked away to dress for dinner.
He was not at table that night—not at home that night—not at home for some days—the landlady said he had gone out of town; and Mrs. Leland missed her afternoon tea.
She had it upstairs, of course, and people came in—both friends and lovers; but she missed the quiet and cosiness of the green and brown room downstairs.
Johnny missed his big friend still more. "Mama, where's Mr. Olmstead? Mama, why don't Mr. Olmstead come back? Mama! When is Mr. Olmstead coming back? Mama! Why don't you write to Mr. Olmstead and tell him to come back? Mama!—can't we go in there and play with his things?"
As if in answer to this last wish she got a little note from him saying simply, "Don't let Johnny miss the lions and monkeys—he and Miss Merton and you, of course, are quite welcome to the whole floor. Go in at any time."
Just to keep the child quiet she took advantage of this offer, and Johnnie introduced her to all the ins and outs of the place. In a corner of the bedroom was a zinc-lined tray with clay in it, where Johnnie played rapturously at making "making country." While he played his mother noted the quiet good taste and individuality of the place.
"It smells so clean!" she said to herself. "There! he hasn't told me yet why he doesn't smoke. I never told him I didn't like it."
Johnnie tugged at a bureau drawer. "He keeps the water in here!" he said, and before she could stop him he had out a little box with bits of looking-glass in it, which soon became lakes and rivers in his clay continent.
Mrs. Leland put them back afterward, admiring the fine quality and goodly number of garments in that drawer, and their perfect order. Her husband had been a man who made a chowder of his bureau drawers, and who expected her to find all his studs and put them in for him.
"A man like this would be no trouble at all," she thought for a moment—but then she remembered other things and set her mouth hard. "Not for mine!" she said determinedly.
By and by he came back, serene as ever, friendly and unpresuming.
"Aren't you going to tell me why you don't smoke?" she suddenly demanded of him on another quiet dusky afternoon when tea was before them.
He seemed so impersonal, almost remote, though nicer than ever to Johnny; and Mrs. Leland rather preferred the personal note in conservation.
"Why of course I am," he replied cordially. "That's easy," and he fumbled in his inner pocket.
"Is that where you keep your reasons?" she mischievously inquired.
"It's where I keep yours," he promptly answered, producing the little notebook. "Now look here—I've got these all answered—you won't be able to hold to one of 'em after this. May I sit by you and explain?"
She made room for him on the sofa amiably enough, but defied him to convince her. "Go ahead," she said cheerfully.
"First," he read off, "Previous Marriage. This is not a sufficient objection. Because you have been married you now know what to choose and what to avoid. A girl is comparatively helpless in this matter; you are armed. That your first marriage was unhappy is a reason for trying it again. It is not only that you are better able to choose, but that by the law of chances you stand to win next time. Do you admit the justice of this reasoning?"
"I don't admit anything," she said. "I'm waiting to ask you a question."
"Ask it now."
"No—I'll wait till you are all through. Do go on."
"'Second—The Boy,'" he continued. "Now Mrs. Leland, solely on the boy's account I should advise you to marry again. While he is a baby a mother is enough, but the older he grows the more he will need a father. Of course you should select a man the child could love—a man who could love the child."
"I begin to suspect you of deep double-dyed surreptitious designs, Mr. Olmstead. You know Johnnie loves you dearly. And you know I won't marry you," she hastily added.
"I'm not asking you to—now, Mrs. Leland. I did, in good faith, and I would again if I thought I had the shadow of a chance—but I'm not at present. Still, I'm quite willing to stand as an instance. Now, we might resume, on that basis. Objection one does not really hold against me—now does it?"
He looked at her cheerily, warmly, openly; and in his clean, solid strength and tactful kindness he was so unspeakably different from the dark, fascinating slender man who had become a nightmare to her youth, that she felt in her heart he was right—so far. "I won't admit a thing," she said sweetly. "But, pray go on."
He went on, unabashed. "'Second—Boy,' Now if you married me I should consider the boy as an added attraction. Indeed—if you do marry again—someone who doesn't want the boy—I wish you'd give him to me. I mean it. I think he loves me, and I think I could be of real service to the child."
He seemed almost to have forgotten her, and she watched him curiously.
"Now, to go on," he continued. "'Third-Profession.' As to your profession," said he slowly, clasping his hands over one knee and gazing at the dark soft-colored rug, "if you married me, and gave up your profession I should find it a distinct loss, I should lose my favorite actress."
She gave a little start of surprise.
"Didn't you know how much I admire your work?" he said. "I don't hang around the stage entrance—there are plenty of chappies to do that; and I don't always occupy a box and throw bouquets—I don't like a box anyhow. But I haven't missed seeing you in any part you've played yet—some of 'em I've seen a dozen times. And you're growing—you'll do better work still. It is sometimes a little weak in the love parts—seems as if you couldn't quite take it seriously—couldn't let yourself go—but you'll grow. You'll do better—I really think—after you're married "
She was rather impressed by this, but found it rather difficult to say anything; for he was not looking at her at all. He took up his notebook again with a smile.
"So—if you married me, you would be more than welcome to go on with your profession. I wouldn't stand in your way any more than I do now. 'Fourth—Freedom,'" he read slowly. "That is easy in one way—hard in another. If you married me,"—She stirred resentfully at this constant reference to their marriage; but he seemed purely hypothetical in tone; "Iwouldn't interfere with your freedom any. Not of my own will. But if you ever grew to love me—or if there were children—it would makesomedifference. Not much. There mightn't be any children, and it isn't likely you'd ever love me enough to have that stand in your way. Otherwise than that you'd have freedom—as much as now. A little more; because if you wanted to make a foreign tour, or anything like that, I'd take care of Johnnie. 'Fifth—Lovers.'" Here he paused leaning forward with his chin in his hands, his eyes bent down. She could see the broad heavy shoulders, the smooth fit of the well-made, coat, the spotless collar, and the fine, strong, clean-cut neck. As it happened she particularly disliked the neck of the average man—either the cordy, the beefy or the adipose, and particularly liked this kind, firm and round like a Roman's, with the hair coming to a clean-cut edge and stopping there.
"As to lovers," he went on—"I hesitate a little as to what to say about that. I'm afraid I shall shock you. Perhaps I'd better leave out that one."
"As insuperable?" she mischievously asked.
"No, as too easy," he answered.
"You'd better explain," she said.
"Well then—it's simply this: as a man—I myself admire you more because so many other men admire you. I don't sympathize with them, any!—Not for a minute. Of course, if you loved any one of them you wouldn't be my wife. But if you were my wife—"
"Well?" said she, a little breathlessly. "You're very irritating! What would you do? Kill 'em all? Come—If I were your wife?—"
"If you were my wife—" he turned and faced her squarely, his deep eyes blazing steadily into hers, "In the first place the more lovers you had that you didn't love the better I'd be pleased."
"And if I did?" she dared him.
"If you were my wife," he purused with perfect quietness, "you would never love anyone else."
There was a throbbing silence.
"'Sixth—Housekeeping,'" he read.
At this she rose to her feet as if released. "Sixth and last and all-sufficient!" she burst out, giving herself a little shake as if to waken. "Final and conclusive and admitting no reply!"—I will not keep house for any man. Never! Never!! Never!!!"
"Why should you?" he said, as he had said it before; "Why not board?"
"I wouldn't board on any account!"
"But you are boarding now. Aren't you comfortable here?"
"O yes, perfectly comfortable. But this is the only boarding-house I ever saw that was comfortable."
"Why not go on as we are—if you married me?"
She laughed shrilly. "With the other boarders round them and a whole floor laid between," she parodied gaily. "No, sir!IfI ever married again—and I wont—I'd want a home of my own—a whole house—and have it run as smoothly and perfectly as this does. With no more care than I have now!"
"If I could give you a whole house, like this, and run it for you as smoothly and perfectly as this one—then would you marry me?" he asked.
"O, I dare say I would," she said mockingly.
"My dear," said he, "I have kept this house—for you—for three years."
"What do you mean?" she demanded, flushingly.
"I mean that it is my business," he answered serenely. "Some men run hotels and some restaurants: I keep a number of boarding houses and make a handsome income from them. All the people are comfortable—I see to that. I planned to have you use these rooms, had the dumbwaiter run to the top so you could have meals comfortably there. You didn't much like the first housekeeper. I got one you liked better; cooks to please you, maids to please you. I have most seriously tried to make you comfortable. When you didn't like a boarder I got rid of him—or her—they are mostly all your friends now. Of course if we were married, we'd fire 'em all." His tone was perfectly calm and business like. "You should keep your special apartments on top; you should also have the floor above this, a larger bedroom, drawing-room, and bath and private parlor for you;—I'd stay right here as I am now—and when you wanted me—I'd be here."
She stiffened a little at this rather tame ending. She was stirred, uneasy, dissatisfied. She felt as if something had been offered and withdrawn; something was lacking.
"It seems such a funny business—for a man," she said.
"Any funnier than Delmonico's?" he asked. "It's a business that takes some ability—witness the many failures. It is certainly useful. And it pays—amazingly."
"I thought it was real estate," she insisted.
"It is. I'm in a real estate office. I buy and sell houses—that's howI came to take this up!"
He rose up, calmly and methodically, walked over to the fire, and laid his notebook on it. "There wasn't any strength in any of those objections, my dear," said he. "Especially the first one. Previous marriage, indeed! You have never been married before. You are going to be—now."
It was some weeks after that marriage that she suddenly turned upon him—as suddenly as one can turn upon a person whose arms are about one—demanding.
"And why don't you smoke?—You never told me!"
"I shouldn't like to kiss you so well if you smoked!"—said he.
"I never had any idea," she ventured after a while, "that it could be—like this."
She beats upon her bolted door,With faint weak hands;Drearily walks the narrow floor;Sullenly sits, blank walls before;Despairing stands.
Life calls her, Duty, Pleasure, Gain—Her dreams respond;But the blank daylights wax and wane,Dull peace, sharp agony, slow pain—No hope beyond.
Till she comes a thought! She lifts her head,The world grows wide!A voice—as if clear words were said—"Your door, o long imprisoned,Is locked inside!"
There is more sense in that convenient trick of blaming "the old Adam" for our misbehavior than some of us have thought. That most culpable sinner we no longer see as a white-souled adult baby, living on uncooked food in a newmade garden, but as a husky, hairy, highly carnivorous and bloodthirsty biped, just learning his giant strength, and exercising it like a giant.
Growing self-conscious and intelligent, he developed an ethical sense, and built up system after system of morals, all closely calculated to advance his interests in this world or the next. The morals of the early Hebrews, for instance, with which we are most familiar, were strictly adjusted to their personal profit; their conception of Diety definitely engaging to furnish protection and reward in return for specified virtuous conduct.
This is all reasonable and right in its way. If good conduct were not ultimately advantageous it would not be good. The difficulty with the ancient scheme of morality lies in its narrow range. "The soul that sinneth it shall die," is the definite statement; the individual is the one taken to task, threatened, promised, exhorted and punished. Our whole race-habit of thought on questions of morality is personal. When goodness is considered it is "my" goodness or "your" goodness—not ours; and sins are supposed to be promptly traceable to sinners; visible, catchable, hangable sinners in the flesh. We have no mental machinery capable of grasping the commonest instances of collective sin; large, public continuing sin, to which thousands contribute, for generations upon generations; and under the consequences of which more thousands suffer for succeeding centuries. Yet public evils are what society suffer from most to-day, and must suffer from most in increasing ratio, as years pass.
In concrete instance, we are most definitely clear as to the verb "to steal." This is wrong. It says so in the Bible. It if a very simple commandment. If a man steals he is a thief. And our law following slowly along after our moral sense, punishes stealing. But it is one man stealing from one other man who is a thief. It is the personal attack upon personal property, done all at once, which we can see, feel, and understand. Let a number of men in combination gradually alienate the property of a number of other men—a very large number of other men, and our moral sense makes no remark. This is not intended in any ironic sense—it is a plain fact, a physiological, or psychological fact.
The racial mind, long accustomed to attach moral values to personal acts only, cannot, without definite effort, learn to attach them to collective acts. We can do it, in crude instances, when mere numbers are in question and the offence is a plain one. If a number of men in a visible moving group commit murder or arson before our eyes, we had as lief hang a dozen as one: but when it comes to tracing complicity and responsibility in the deaths of a few screaming tenants of firetrap tenements, a death unnecessary perhaps, but for the bursting of the fire hose—then we are at fault. The cringing wretch who lit the oilsoaked rags in the cellar we seize in triumph. He did it. Him we can hang. "The soul that sinneth it shall die." But if the fire is "an accident," owing to "a defective flue," if the fire-escape breaks, the stairs give away under a little extra weight, or ill-built walls crumble prematurely—who can we lay hands on? Where is the soul that sinneth?
Our brains are not trained to follow a complex moral relation; we travel in the deep ruts of mental habit as old as Adam aforesaid. Our sense of duty, of obligation, of blame or praise is all hopelessly egotistic. "Who is to blame?" we continue to say; when we should say, "Who are to blame?" One heavy dose of poison resulting in one corpse shows us murder. A thousand tiny doses of poison, concealed in parcels of food, resulting in the lowered vitality, increased illness and decreased efficiency of thousands of persons, shows us nothing. There is need to-day for very honest mental effort in readjusting our moral sense so that we may recognize social evils, social offenders and social responsibility.
Here we are all together, rising and falling in masses under the influence of other person's conduct, with no possibility of tracing the death of this particular baby to the dirty hands of that particular milker of far-off cows. It wasn't murder—he never saw the baby. You can't hang a man for not washing his hands. We see babies die, look in vain for the soul that sinneth, and do nothing.
We should have a poor opinion of any state where there was no moral sense ai all, no weight of public opinion to uphold standards, no measures to protect innocence and punish crime. This we should call barbarism or savagery, and feel proud of our Christian civilization, where we legislate so profusely and punish so severely—when we can lay hands on individual offenders, whose crimes, though small, are at least whole ones. But we are in precisely that state of barbarism in regard to the fractional crimes of our complex social life.
If seven doctors in succession refuse to answer a poor man's call and he dies for lack of medical aid—who has killed him? Has he seven murderers—or is each doctor one-seventh of a murderer? Or is it not murder at all just to let a man die?
If again, the doctor does his duty and the man dies because the medicine given him was different from what the doctor ordered—a cheaper, weaker drug, an adulteration or substitute—then who killed him? The druggist who sold—the clerk who put up the prescription—the advertiser of the stuff—the manufacturer of it—or those who live on money invested in the manufacturing company? "The clerk!" we cry, delightedly. "He put up the poison! He knew it was not what was ordered! He did it with his hands!" "The soul that sinnethitshall die." And perhaps it does—or at least the body of it. Yet the same drug goes on poisoning.
We might perhaps pass on from that shaggy Adam of our remote past and his necessary limitations, and begin to study the real relation of human beings in modern life, learning at last that human conduct changes as society develops, that morality is no longer a mere matter of "thou shalt" and "thou shalt not," but a vast complex of mutually interactive conduct in which personal responsibility has small place.
Take an evil like our railroad management with its yearly tale of bloodshed and dismemberment, its hundreds and thousands of killed and wounded. We cannot pick out and hang a director or president when the dead brakeman is dragged out from between the cars that did not have automatic couplers. The man is dead, is killed, is murdered—but we cannot fix responsibility. Can we arrest for murder the poor mother who is caring for her boy sick with typhoid fever; just because she empties slops on a watershed that feeds a little brook, that feeds a river, that feeds a city—and thousands die of that widespread disease? She is not personally guilty of murder. There are others in plenty between her and the victim and many back of her to blame for her ignorance. Who can untangle the responsibility for the ruin of a girl who was utterly untaught, underpaid, improperly dressed, ill-fed, influenced by every gorgeously dressed idle woman who stood before her counter, and tempted by many men in turn? There is the one "sin"—but is she the only "sinner"?
Consider the two awful instances of recent date—the Iroquois Theatre fire in Chicago, the Slocum disaster in New York. Even if it were possible to "fix responsibility," to find the one person, or more than one whom we could prove to blame for these holocausts, what could we do to these persons as fit punishment for such an injury to society? If we could devise tortures prolonged and painful enough to make such criminals feel as felt their dying victims, what good would that do? It would raise no dead, restore no health, prevent no repetition of similar horrors. That much has been established by the history of our primitive systems—punishment does not prevent.
What does?
Here is the real question for society to ask—Adam did not know enough. The age of personal morals is the age of personal punishment. The age of recognized public evils is the age of prevention. This we are beginning to see, beginning to do. After the Iroquois fire we were more stringent in guarding our theatres. After the Slocum disaster the inspection of steamships was more thorough. After the slaughter of the innocents in the burning schoolhouse, many other school buildings were condemned and more were safeguarded.
But this is only a beginning—a feeble, temporary, ineffectual effort. Social morality does not consist in spasmodic attempts to be good, following upon some terrible catastrophe. A mother's duty to a child is not mere passionate protection after it has fallen through the ice; the soldier's duty is not confined to wild efforts to recover the flag after it has been lost. We have a constant definite active duty to society, each one of us; there lies our responsibility and failing therein is our fault.
When men or women fail in full honest efficient performance of their social service, which means their special kind of work, they sin—if we must call it sin—against society. Better drop the very name and thought of "sin" and say merely, "Why are we to-day so inefficient and unreliable in our social duty?" For reason good. We are not taught social duty. For further reason that we are taught much that militates against it. Our social instinct is not yet strong enough to push and pull us into perfect relation with one another without conscious effort. We need to be taught from infancy, which way our duty lies—the most imperative duty of a human creature—to give his life's best service to humanity.
This would call for new standards in the nursery, the school and the shop, as well as the platform, press and pulpit. That is our crying need; a truer standard of duty, and the proper development of it. The School City is a step this way, a long one; as is the George Junior Republic and other specific instances of effort to bring out the social sense.
But it is in our work that we need it most. From babyhood we should be taught that we are here dependent on one another, beautifully specialized that we may serve one another; owing to the State, our great centralized body, the whole service of our lives. What every common soldier knows and most of them practice is surely not too difficult for a common business man. Our public duty is most simple and clear—to do our best work for the service of the world. And our personal sin—the one sin against humanity—is to let that miserable puny outgrown Ego—our exaggerated sense of personality—divert us from that service.
[Untitled]
With God Above—Beneath—Beside—Without—Within—and Everywhere;Rising with the resistless tideOf life, and Sure of Getting There.
Patient with Nature's long delay,Proud of our conscious upward swing;Not sorry for a single day,And Not Afraid of Anything!
With Motherhood at last awake—With Power to Do and Light to See—Women may now begin to MakeThe People we are Meant to Be!
A woman by the river's brim,A wife and servant is to him—And she is nothing more.
We have made mistakes, as old as humanity, about the world, and about women.
First, as to the world:
This we have assumed to be a general battlefield for men to struggle in; a place for free competition; full of innumerable persons whose natural mode of life was to struggle, for existence, with one another.
This is the individualist view, and is distinctly masculine.
Males are essentially individualistic—born to vary and compete; and an exclusively masculine world must be individualistic and competitive.
We have been wrong. The new Social Philosophy recognizes Society as an orderly life-form, having its own laws of growth; and that we, as individuals, live only as active parts of Society. Instead of accepting this world of warfare, disease, and crime, of shameful, unnecessary poverty and pain, as natural and right, we now see that all these evils may be removed, and we propose to remove them. Humanity is waking up, is beginning to understand its own nature, is beginning to face a new and a possible problem, instead of the dark enigma of the past.
Second, as to the woman:
Our mistake about her was a very strange one. No one knows yet how or why it was made; yet there it stands; one of the most colossal blunders ever made by mankind. In the face of all creation, where the female is sometimes found quite self-sufficient, often superior, and always equal to the male, our human race set up the "andro-centric theory," holding that man alone is the race type; and that woman was "his female." In what "Mr. Venus" described as "the vicious pride of his youth," our budding humanity distinguished itself by discrediting its mother. "You are a female," said Ancient Man, "and that's all. We are the People!"
This is the alpha and omega of the old idea about woman. It saw in her only sex—not Humanity.
The New Woman is Human first, last and always. Incidentally she is female; as man is male. As a male he has done his small share in the old physical process of reproduction; but as a Human Creature he has done practically all in the new Social processes which make civilization.
He has been Male—and Human:—She has been Female—and nothing else;—that is, in our old idea.
Holding this idea; absurd, erroneous, and mischievous to a terrible degree; we strove to carry it out in our behavior; and human history so far is the history of a wholly masculine world, competing and fighting as males must, forever seeking and serving the female as males must, yet building this our world as best they could alone.
Theirs is the credit—and the shame—of the world behind us, the world around us; but the world before us has a new element—the Humanness of Woman.
For a little over a century we have become increasingly conscious of a stir, an uprising, and protest among women. The long-suppressed "better half" of humanity has begun to move and push and lift herself. This Woman's movement is as natural, as beneficial, as irresistible as the coming of spring; but it has been misunderstood and opposed from the first by the glacial moraine of old ideas, the inert force of sheer blank ignorance, and prejudice as old as Adam.
At first the women strove for a little liberty, for education; then for some equality before the law, for common justice; then, with larger insight, for full equal rights with men in every human field; and as essential base of these, for the right of suffrage.
Woman suffrage is but one feature of the movement, but it is a most important one. The opposition to it is wholly one of sex-prejudice, of feeling, not of reason; the opposition of a masculine world; and of an individualism also masculine. The male is physiologically an individualist. It is his place in nature to vary, to introduce new characteristics, and to strive mightily with his rivals for the favor of the females. A world of males must fight.
With the whole of history of this combative sort; with masculinity and humanity identical, in the average mind; there is something alien, unnatural, even revolting, in the claim of woman to her share in the work and management of the world. Against it he brings up one constant cry—that woman's progress will injure womanhood. All that he sees in woman is her sex; and he opposes her advance on the ground that "as a woman" she is unfit to take part in "a man's world"—and that if she did, it would mysteriously but inevitably injure her "as a woman."
Suggest that she might be able to take part in "a woman's world,"—and has as much right to a world made her way as he has to his man-made world! Suggest that without any such extreme reversal, she has a right to half the world; half the work, half the pay, half the care, half the glory!
To all this replies the Male-individualist:
"The World has to be as it is. It is a place to fight in; fight for life, fight for money. Work is for slaves and poor people generally. Nobody would work unless they had to. You are females and no part of the world at all. Your place is at home: to bear and rear children—and to cook."
Now what is the position toward women of this new philosophy that sees Society as one thing, and the main thing to be considered; that sees the world as a place open to ceaseless change and improvement; that sees the way so to change and improve it that the major part of our poor silly sins and sorrows will disappear utterly for lack of cause?
From this viewpoint male and female fall into two lower positions, both right and proper; useful, beautiful, essential for the replenishment of the race on earth. From this viewpoint men and women rise, together, from that lower relation, to the far higher one of Humanness, that common Humanness which is hers as much as his. Seeing Society as the real life-form; and our individual lives as growing in glory and power as we serve and develop Society; the movement of women becomes of majestic importance. It is the advance of an entire half the race, from a position of arrested development, into full humanness.
The world is no longer seen as a battlefield, where it is true, women do not belong; but as a garden—a school—a church—a home, where they visibly do belong. In the great task of cultivating the earth they have an equal interest and an equal power. Equality is not identity. There is work of all kinds and sizes—and half of it is woman's.
In that vast labor of educating humanity, till all of us understand one another; till the thoughts and feelings necessary to our progress can flow smooth and clear through the world-mind, women have preeminent part. They are the born teachers, by virtue of their motherhood, as well as in the human joy of it.
In the power of organization which is essential to our progress we have special need of women, and their rapid and universal movement in this direction is one of the most satisfactory proofs of our advance. In every art, craft and profession they have the same interests, the same power. We rob the world of half its service when we deny women their share in it.
In direct political action there is every reason for women's voting that there is for men's; and every reason for a spreading universal suffrage that there is for democracy. As far as any special power in government is called for, the mother is the natural ruler, the natural administrator and executive. The functions of democratic government may be wisely and safely shared between men and women.
Here we have our great position fairly before us:—the improvement of the world is ours to make; women are coming forward to help make it; women are human with every human power; democracy is the highest form of government—so far; and the use of the ballot is essential to democracy; therefore women should vote!
Against this rises the tottering fortress of the ultra-masculine, abetted by a petty handful of witless traitors—those petticoated creatures who also see in women nothing but their sex. They may be, in some cases, honest in their belief; but their honesty does no credit to their intelligence. They are obsessed by this dominant idea of sex; due clearly enough to the long period of male dominance—to our androcentric culture. The male naturally sees in the female, sex; first, last and always. For all these centuries she has been restricted to the exercise of feminine duties only, with the one addition of house-service.
The wife-and-mother sex, the servant sex, she is to him; and nothing more. The woman does not look at men in this light. She has to consider them as human creatures, because they monopolize the human functions. She does not consider the motorman and conductor as males, but as promotors of travel; she does not chuck the bellboy under the chin and kiss the waiter!
Inextricably mingled with the masculine view is the individualist view, seeing the world forever and ever as a place of struggle.
Then comes this great change of our time, the dawning of the Social consciousness. Here is a world of combination, of ordered grouping and inter-service. Here is a world now wasting its wealth like water—all this waste may be saved. Here is a world of worse than unnecessary war. We will stop this warfare. Here is a world of hideous diseases. We will exterminate them. Here is a world of what we call "Sin"—almost all of which is due to Ignorance, Ill-health, Unhappiness, Injustice.
When the world learns how to take care of itself decently; when there are no dirty evil places upon it, with innocent children born daily and hourly into conditions which inevitably produce a certain percentage of criminality; when the intelligence and good breeding which now distinguish some of us are common to all of us—we shan't hear so much about sin!
A socially conscious world, intelligent, courageous, earnest to improve itself, seeking to establish a custom of peaceful helpful interservice—such a world has no fear of woman, and no feeling that she is unfit to participate in its happy labors. The new social philosophy welcomes woman suffrage.
*
But suppose you are not in any sense Socialistically inclined. Suppose you are still an Individualist, albeit a believer in votes for women. Even so, merely from the woman's point of view, enough can be said to justify the promise of a New World.
What makes the peace and beauty of the Home—its order—comfort—happiness?—the Woman.
Her service is given, not hired. Her attitude is of one seeking to administer a common fund for the common good. She does not set her children to compete for their dinner—does not give most to the strongest and leave the weakest to go to the wall. It is only in her lowest helplessness; under the degrading influence of utter poverty, that she is willing to exploit her children and let them work before their time.
If she, merely as Woman, merely as wife and mother, comes forward to give the world the same service she has given the home, it will be wholly to its advantage.
Go and look at the legislation initiated or supported by women in every country where women vote—and you will see one unbroken line of social service. Not self-interest—not mercenary profit—not competition; but one steady upward pressure; the visible purpose to uplift and help the world.
This world is ours as much as man's. We have not only a right to half its management but a duty to half its service. It is our duty as human beings to help make the world better—quickly! It is our duty as Women to bring our Motherhood to comfort and help humanity—our children every one!
Here is the earth: As big, as fresh, as clean,As when it first grew green;Our little spots of dirt walled in,As easy to outgrow as sin,In the swift, sweet, triumphal hourOf nature's power.
We have not hurt the world: Still safe we restOn that great loving breast.Proud, patient mother! Strong and still!Our little years of doing illLost in her smooth, unmeasured timeOf life sublime.
We need not grieve, nor kneel our faults to own;She has not even knownThat we offended! Our misdeedsShe covers with one summer's weeds:Her love we thought so long away—Is ours to-day.
And here are we. Our bodies are as newAs ever Adam grew:Replenished still with daily touch,By the fair mother, loving much.Glad living things! Still conscious partOf earth's rich heart!
And for the soul which these fair bodies giveIncreasing room to live—?It is the same soul that was bornIn the dim, lovely, unknown mornOf Nature's waking—the same soul—Still here, and whole!
Strong? `Tis the force that governs ring on ringWhere quiet planets swing.Glad? `Tis the joy of riotous flowersAnd meadow-larks in May, now ours,Ours endlessly—to have—to give—To all who live!
No grief behind have we, no fear beforeBut only more and moreThe splendid passion of the soulIn new creation to unroll:All life, poured new in all the lands,Through our glad hands!
Duck! Dive! Here comes another one!Wait till the crest-ruffles show!Beyond is smooth water in beauty and wonder—Shut your mouth! Hold your breath! Dip your head under!Dive through the weight and the wash, and the thunder—Look out for the undertow!
If Diantha imagined that her arithmetical victory over a too-sordid presentation of the parental claim was a final one, she soon found herself mistaken.
It is easy to say—putting an epic in an epigram—"She seen her duty and she done it!" but the space and time covered are generally as far beyond our plans as the estimates of an amateur mountain climber exceed his achievements.
Her determination was not concealed by her outraged family. Possibly they thought that if the matter was well aired, and generally discussed, the daring offender might reconsider. Well-aired it certainly was, and widely discussed by the parents of the little town before young people who sat in dumbness, or made faint defense. It was also discussed by the young people, but not before their parents.
She had told Ross, first of all, meaning to have a quiet talk with him to clear the ground before arousing her own family; but he was suddenly away just as she opened the subject, by a man on a wheel—some wretched business about the store of course—and sent word that night that he could not come up again. Couldn't come up the next night either. Two long days—two long evenings without seeing him. Well—if she went away she'd have to get used to that.
But she had so many things to explain, so much to say to make it right with him; she knew well what a blow it was. Now it was all over town—and she had had no chance to defend her position.
The neighbors called. Tall bony Mrs. Delafield who lived nearest to them and had known Diantha for some years, felt it her duty to make a special appeal—or attack rather; and brought with her stout Mrs. Schlosster, whose ancestors and traditions were evidently of German extraction.
Diantha retired to her room when she saw these two bearing down upon the house; but her mother called her to make a pitcher of lemonade for them—and having entered there was no escape. They harried her with questions, were increasingly offended by her reticence, and expressed disapproval with a fullness that overmastered the girl's self-control.
"I have as much right to go into business as any other citizen, Mrs. Delafield," she said with repressed intensity. "I am of age and live in a free country. What you say of children no longer applies to me."
"And what is this mysterious business you're goin' into—if one may inquire? Nothin you're ashamed to mention, I hope?" asked Mrs. Delafield.
"If a woman refuses to mention her age is it because she's ashamed of it?" the girl retorted, and Mrs. Delafield flushed darkly.
"Never have I heard such talk from a maiden to her elders," said Mrs.Schlosster. "In my country the young have more respect, as is right."
Mrs. Bell objected inwardly to any reprimand of her child by others; but she agreed to the principle advanced and made no comment.
Diantha listened to quite a volume of detailed criticism, inquiry and condemnation, and finally rose to her feet with the stiff courtesy of the young.
"You must excuse me now," she said with set lips. "I have some necessary work to do."
She marched upstairs, shut her bedroom door and locked it, raging inwardly. "Its none of their business! Not a shadow! Why should Mother sit there and let them talk to me like that! One would think childhood had no limit—unless it's matrimony!"
This reminded her of her younger sister's airs of superior wisdom, and did not conduce to a pleasanter frame of mind. "With all their miserable little conventions and idiocies! And what 'they'll say,' and 'they'll think'! As if I cared! Minnie'll be just such another!"
She heard the ladies going out, still talking continuously, a faint response from her mother now and then, a growing quiet as their steps receded toward the gate; and then another deeper voice took up the theme and heavily approached.
It was the minister! Diantha dropped into her rocker and held the arms tight. "Now I'll have to take it again I suppose. But he ought to know me well enough to understand."
"Diantha!" called her mother, "Here's Dr. Major;" and the girl washed her face and came down again.
Dr. Major was a heavy elderly man with a strong mouth and a warm hand clasp. "What's all this I hear about you, young lady?" he demanded, holding her hand and looking her straight in the eye. "Is this a new kind of Prodigal Daughter we're encountering?"
He did not look nor sound condemnatory, and as she faced him she caught a twinkle in the wise old eyes.
"You can call it that if you want to," she said, "Only I thought theProdigal Son just spent his money—I'm going to earn some."
"I want you to talk to Diantha, Doctor Major," Mrs. Bell struck in. "I'm going to ask you to excuse me, and go and lie down for a little. I do believe she'll listen to you more than to anybody."
The mother retired, feeling sure that the good man who had known her daughter for over fifteen years would have a restraining influence now; and Diantha braced herself for the attack.
It came, heavy and solid, based on reason, religion, tradition, the custom of ages, the pastoral habit of control and protection, the father's instinct, the man's objection to a girl's adventure. But it was courteous, kind, and rationally put, and she met it point by point with the whole-souled arguments of a new position, the passionate enthusiasm of her years.
They called a truce.
"I can see that youthinkits your duty, young, woman—that's the main thing. I think you're wrong. But what you believe to be right you have to do. That's the way we learn my dear, that's the way we learn! Well—you've been a good child ever since I've known you. A remarkably good child. If you have to sow this kind of wild oats—" they both smiled at this, "I guess we can't stop you. I'll keep your secret—"
"Its not a secret really," the girl explained, "I'll tell them as soon as I'm settled. Then they can tell—if they want to." And they both smiled again.
"Well—I won't tell till I hear of it then. And—yes, I guess I can furnish that document with a clean conscience."
She gave him paper and pen and he wrote, with a grin, handing her the result.
She read it, a girlish giggle lightening the atmosphere. "Thank you!" she said earnestly. "Thank you ever so much. I knew you would help me."
"If you get stuck anywhere just let me know," he said rising. "ThisProddy Gal may want a return ticket yet!"
"I'll walk first!" said Diantha.
"O Dr. Major," cried her mother from the window, "Don't go! We want you to stay to supper of course!"
But he had other calls to make, he said, and went away, his big hands clasped behind him; his head bent, smiling one minute and shaking his head the next.
Diantha leaned against a pearly eucalyptus trunk and watched him. She would miss Dr. Major. But who was this approaching? Her heart sank miserably. Mrs. Warden—andallthe girls.
She went to meet them—perforce. Mrs. Warden had always been kind and courteous to her; the girls she had not seen very much of, but they had the sweet Southern manner, were always polite. Ross's mother she must love. Ross's sisters too—if she could. Why did the bottom drop out of her courage at sight of them?
"You dear child!" said Mrs. Warden, kissing her. "I know just how you feel! You want to help my boy! That's your secret! But this won't do it, my dear!"
"You've no idea how badly Ross feels!" said Madeline. "Mrs. Delafield dropped in just now and told us. You ought to have seen him!"
"He didn't believe it of course," Adeline put in. "And he wouldn't say a thing—not a thing to blame you."
"We said we'd come over right off—and tried to bring him—but he said he'd got to go back to the store," Coraline explained.