But Mrs. Bell, though an ineffectual housekeeper, did not fail in the children. They had grown up big and vigorous, sturdy, handsome creatures, especially the two younger ones. Diantha was good-looking enough. Roscoe Warden thought her divinely beautiful. But her young strength had been heavily taxed from childhood in that complex process known as "helping mother." As a little child she had been of constant service in caring for the babies; and early developed such competence in the various arts of house work as filled her mother with fond pride, and even wrung from her father some grudging recognition. That he did not value it more was because he expected such competence in women, all women; it was their natural field of ability, their duty as wives and mothers. Also as daughters. If they failed in it that was by illness or perversity. If they succeeded—that was a matter of course.
He ate another of Diantha's excellent biscuits, his greyish-red whiskers slowly wagging; and continued to eye her disapprovingly. She said nothing, but tried to eat; and tried still harder to make her heart go quietly, her cheeks keep cool, and her eyes dry. Mrs. Bell also strove to keep a cheerful countenance; urged food upon her family; even tried to open some topic of conversation; but her gentle words trailed off into unnoticed silence.
Mr. Bell ate until he was satisfied and betook himself to a comfortable chair by the lamp, where he unfolded the smart local paper and lit his pipe. "When you've got through with the dishes, Diantha," he said coldly, "I'll hear about this proposition of yours."
Diantha cleared the table, lowered the leaves, set it back against the wall, spreading the turkey-red cloth upon it. She washed the dishes,—her kettle long since boiling, scalded them, wiped them, set them in their places; washed out the towels, wiped the pan and hung it up, swiftly, accurately, and with a quietness that would have seemed incredible to any mistress of heavy-footed servants. Then with heightened color and firm-set mouth, she took her place by the lamplit table and sat still.
Her mother was patiently darning large socks with many holes—a kind of work she specially disliked. "You'll have to get some new socks, Father," she ventured, "these are pretty well gone."
"O they'll do a good while yet," he replied, not looking at them. "I like your embroidery, my dear."
That pleased her. She did not like to embroider, but she did like to be praised.
Diantha took some socks and set to work, red-checked and excited, but silent yet. Her mother's needle trembled irregularly under and over, and a tear or two slid down her cheeks.
Finally Mr. Bell laid down his finished paper and his emptied pipe and said, "Now then. Out with it."
This was not a felicitious opening. It is really astonishing how little diplomacy parents exhibit, how difficult they make it for the young to introduce a proposition. There was nothing for it but a bald statement, so Diantha made it baldly.
"I have decided to leave home and go to work," she said.
"Don't you have work enough to do at home?" he inquired, with the same air of quizzical superiority which had always annoyed her so intensely, even as a little child.
She would cut short this form of discussion: "I am going away to earn my living. I have given up school-teaching—I don't like it, and, there isn't money enough in it. I have plans—which will speak for themselves later."
"So," said Mr. Bell, "Plans all made, eh? I suppose you've considered your Mother in these plans?"
"I have," said his daughter. "It is largely on her account that I'm going."
"You think it'll be good for your Mother's health to lose your assistance, do you?"
"I know she'll miss me; but I haven't left the work on her shoulders. I am going to pay for a girl—to do the work I've done. It won't cost you any more, Father; and you'll save some—for she'll do the washing too. You didn't object to Henderson's going—at eighteen. You didn't object to Minnie's going—at seventeen. Why should you object to my going—at twenty-one."
"I haven't objected—so far," replied her father. "Have your plans also allowed for the affection and duty you owe your parents?"
"I have done my duty—as well as I know how," she answered. "Now I am twenty-one, and self-supporting—and have a right to go."
"O yes. You have a right—a legal right—if that's what you base your idea of a child's duty on! And while you're talking of rights—how about a parent's rights? How about common gratitude! How about what you owe to me—for all the care and pains and cost it's been to bring you up. A child's a rather expensive investment these days."
Diantha flushed. she had expected this, and yet it struck her like a blow. It was not the first time she had heard it—this claim of filial obligation.
"I have considered that position, Father. I know you feel that way—you've often made me feel it. So I've been at some pains to work it out—on a money basis. Here is an account—as full as I could make it." She handed him a paper covered with neat figures. The totals read as follows:
Miss Diantha Bell,To Mr. Henderson R. Bell, Dr.
To medical and dental expenses . . . $110.00To school expenses . . . $76.00To clothing, in full . . . $1,130.00To board and lodging at $3.00 a week . . . $2,184.00To incidentals . . . $100.00————$3.600.00
He studied the various items carefully, stroking his beard, half in anger, half in unavoidable amusement. Perhaps there was a tender feeling too, as he remembered that doctor's bill—the first he ever paid, with the other, when she had scarlet fever; and saw the exact price of the high chair which had served all three of the children, but of which she magnanimously shouldered the whole expense.
The clothing total was so large that it made him whistle—he knew he had never spent $1,130.00 on one girl's clothes. But the items explained it.
Materials, three years at an average of $10 a year . . . $30.00Five years averaging $20 each year . . . $100.00Five years averaging $30 each year . . . $50.00Five years averaging $50 each year . . . $250.00———-$530.00
The rest was "Mother's labor, averaging twenty full days a year at $2 a day, $40 a year. For fifteen years, $600.00. Mother's labor—on one child's, clothes—footing up to $600.00. It looked strange to see cash value attached to that unfailing source of family comfort and advantage.
The school expenses puzzled him a bit, for she had only gone to public schools; but she was counting books and slates and even pencils—it brought up evenings long passed by, the sewing wife, the studying children, the "Say, Father, I've got to have a new slate—mine's broke!"
"Broken, Dina," her Mother would gently correct, while he demanded, "How did you break it?" and scolded her for her careless tomboy ways. Slates—three, $1.50—they were all down. And slates didn't cost so much come to think of it, even the red-edged ones, wound with black, that she always wanted.
Board and lodging was put low, at $3.00 per week, but the items had a footnote as to house-rent in the country, and food raised on the farm. Yes, he guessed that was a full rate for the plain food and bare little bedroom they always had.
"It's what Aunt Esther paid the winter she was here," said Diantha.
Circuses—three . . . $1.50Share in melodeon . . . $50.00
Yes, she was one of five to use and enjoy it.
Music lessons . . . $30.00
And quite a large margin left here, called miscellaneous, which he smiled to observe made just an even figure, and suspected she had put in for that purpose as well as from generosity.
"This board account looks kind of funny," he said—"only fourteen years of it!"
"I didn't take table-board—nor a room—the first year—nor much the second. I've allowed $1.00 a week for that, and $2.00 for the third—that takes out two, you see. Then it's $156 a year till I was fourteen and earned board and wages, two more years at $156—and I've paid since I was seventeen, you know."
"Well—I guess you did—I guess you did." He grinned genially. "Yes," he continued slowly, "I guess that's a fair enough account. 'Cording to this, you owe me $3,600.00, young woman! I didn't think it cost that much to raise a girl."
"I know it," said she. "But here's the other side."
It was the other side. He had never once thought of such a side to the case. This account was as clear and honest as the first and full of exasperating detail. She laid before him the second sheet of figures and watched while he read, explaining hurriedly:
"It was a clear expense for ten years—not counting help with the babies. Then I began to do housework regularly—when I was ten or eleven, two hours a day; three when I was twelve and thirteen—real work you'd have had to pay for, and I've only put it at ten cents an hour. When Mother was sick the year I was fourteen, and I did it all but the washing—all a servant would have done for $3.00 a week. Ever since then I have done three hours a day outside of school, full grown work now, at twenty cents an hour. That's what we have to pay here, you know."
Thus it mounted up:
Mr. Henderson R. Bell,To Miss Diantha Bell, Dr.
For labor and services—
Two years, two hours a day at 10c. an hour . . . $146.00Two years, three hours a day at 10c. an hour . . . $219.00One year, full wages at $5.00 a week . . . $260.00Six years and a half, three hours a day at 20c . . . $1423.50————$2048.50
Mr. Bell meditated carefully on these figures. To think of that child's labor footing up to two thousand dollars and over! It was lucky a man had a wife and daughters to do this work, or he could never support a family.
Then came her school-teaching years. She had always been a fine scholar and he had felt very proud of his girl when she got a good school position in her eighteenth year.
California salaries were higher than eastern ones, and times had changed too; the year he taught school he remembered the salary was only $300.00—and he was a man. This girl got $600, next year $700, $800, $900; why it made $3,000 she had earned in four years. Astonishing. Out of this she had a balance in the bank of $550.00. He was pleased to see that she had been so saving. And her clothing account—little enough he admitted for four years and six months, $300.00. All incidentals for the whole time, $50.00—this with her balance made just $900. That left $2,100.00.
"Twenty-one hundred dollars unaccounted for, young lady!—besides this nest egg in the bank—I'd no idea you were so wealthy. What have you done with all that?"
"Given it to you, Father," said she quietly, and handed him the third sheet of figures.
Board and lodging at $4.00 a week for 4 1/2 years made $936.00, that he could realize; but "cash advance" $1,164 more—he could not believe it. That time her mother was so sick and Diantha had paid both the doctor and the nurse—yes—he had been much cramped that year—and nurses come high. For Henderson, Jr.'s, expenses to San Francisco, and again for Henderson when he was out of a job—Mr. Bell remembered the boy's writing for the money, and his not having it, and Mrs. Bell saying she could arrange with Diantha.
Arrange! And that girl had kept this niggardly account of it! For Minnie's trip to the Yosemite—and what was this?—for his raisin experiment—for the new horse they simply had to have for the drying apparatus that year he lost so much money in apricots—and for the spraying materials—yes, he could not deny the items, and they covered that $1,164.00 exactly.
Then came the deadly balance, of the account between them:
Her labor . . . $2,047.00Her board . . . $936.00Her "cash advanced" . . . $1,164.00————-$4,147.00His expense for her . . . $3,600————-Due her from him . . . $547.00
Diantha revolved her pencil between firm palms, and looked at him rather quizzically; while her mother rocked and darned and wiped away an occasional tear. She almost wished she had not kept accounts so well.
Mr. Bell pushed the papers away and started to his feet.
"This is the most shameful piece of calculation I ever saw in my life," said he. "I never heard of such a thing! You go and count up in cold dollars the work that every decent girl does for her family and is glad to! I wonder you haven't charged your mother for nursing her?"
"You notice I haven't," said Diantha coldly.
"And to think," said he, gripping the back of a chair and looking down at her fiercely, "to think that a girl who can earn nine hundred dollars a year teaching school, and stay at home and do her duty by her family besides, should plan to desert her mother outright—now she's old and sick! Of course I can't stop you! You're of age, and children nowadays have no sense of natural obligation after they're grown up. You can go, of course, and disgrace the family as you propose—but you needn't expect to have me consent to it or approve of it—or of you. It's a shameful thing—and you are an unnatural daughter—that's all I've got to say!"
Mr. Bell took his hat and went out—a conclusive form of punctuation much used by men in discussions of this sort.
A certain man had a Poor Relation, who was only kept in the family as aServant, who was certainly open to criticism, and who got it.
"He is so dirty!" said the Head of the Family, "That is why we make him sleep over the stable."
"He is careless and clumsy—he soils, breaks and loses things—that is why his furniture and clothing are so poor."
"He is a stupid fellow—not to be trusted with any important business—that is why he does the scullery work!"
"He is a sickly wretch too—it costs us a deal of money to have him cared for in the hospital and his defects attended to."
"Worst of all he has criminal tendencies—he is a disgrace and an expense to the Family on this account alone."
"Why do you keep him at all?" I asked.
"We have to—he is after all a relation. Besides—someone must do the scullery work."
"What do you pay him?" I asked.
"We don't really pay him anything; we just keep him alive—and clothed—so that he can do his work."
"Was he born defective?" I asked.
"No—I've heard my mother say he was as good a baby as I."
"And what relation did you say he was?"
"I rather hate to own it—but he's my brother!"
Why should the Stronger Sex require,To hold him to his tasks,Two medicines of varied fire?The Weaker Vessel asks.
Hobbling between the rosy cupAnd dry narcotic brown,—One daily drug to stir him upAnd one to soothe him down.
OUR ANDROCENTRIC CULTURE; or, THE MAN-MADE WORLD
The family is older than humanity, and therefore cannot be called a human institution. A post office, now, is wholly human; no other creature has a post office, but there are families in plenty among birds and beasts; all kinds permanent and transient; monogamous, polygamous and polyandrous.
We are now to consider the growth of the family in humanity; what is its rational development in humanness; in mechanical, mental and social lines; in the extension of love and service; and the effect upon it of this strange new arrangement—a masculine proprietor.
Like all natural institutions the family has a purpose; and is to be measured primarily as it serves that purpose; which is, the care and nurture of the young. To protect the helpless little ones, to feed and shelter them, to ensure them the benefits of an ever longer period of immaturity, and so to improve the race—this is the original purpose of the family.
When a natural institution becomes human it enters the plane of consciousness. We think about it; and, in our strange new power of voluntary action do things to it. We have done strange things to the family; or, more specifically, men have.
Balsac, at his bitterest, observed, "Women's virtue is man's best invention." Balsac was wrong. Virtue—the unswerving devotion to one mate—is common among birds and some of the higher mammals. If Balsac meant celibacy when he said virtue, why that is one of man's inventions—though hardly his best.
What man has done to the family, speaking broadly, is to change it from an institution for the best service of the child to one modified to his own service, the vehicle of his comfort, power and pride.
Among the heavy millions of the stirred East, a child—necessarily a male child—is desired for the credit and glory of the father, and his fathers; in place of seeing that all a parent is for is the best service of the child. Ancestor worship, that gross reversal of all natural law, is of wholly androcentric origin. It is strongest among old patriarchal races; lingers on in feudal Europe; is to be traced even in America today in a few sporadic efforts to magnify the deeds of our ancestors.
The best thing any of us can do for our ancestors is to be better than they were; and we ought to give our minds to it. When we use our past merely as a guide-book, and concentrate our noble emotions on the present and future, we shall improve more rapidly.
The peculiar changes brought about in family life by the predominance of the male are easily traced. In these studies we must keep clearly in mind the basic masculine characteristics: desire, combat, self-expression—all legitimate and right in proper use; only mischievous when excessive or out of place. Through them the male is led to strenuous competition for the favor of the female; in the overflowing ardours of song, as in nightingale and tomcat; in wasteful splendor of personal decoration, from the pheasant's breast to an embroidered waistcoat; and in direct struggle for the prize, from the stag's locked horns to the clashing spears of the tournament.
It is earnestly hoped that no reader will take offence at the necessarily frequent, reference to these essential features of maleness. In the many books about women it is, naturally, their femaleness that has been studied and enlarged upon. And though women, after thousands of years of such discussion, have become a little restive under the constant use of the word female: men, as rational beings, should not object to an analogous study—at least not for some time—a few centuries or so.
How, then, do we find these masculine tendencies, desire, combat and self-expression, affect the home and family when given too much power?
First comes the effect in the preliminary work of selection. One of the most uplifting forces of nature is that of sex selection. The males, numerous, varied, pouring a flood of energy into wide modifications, compete for the female, and she selects the victor, this securing to the race the new improvements.
In forming the proprietary family there is no such competition, no such selection. The man, by violence or by purchase, does the choosing—he selects the kind of woman that pleases him. Nature did not intend him to select; he is not good at it. Neither was the female intended to compete—she is not good at it.
If there is a race between males for a mate—the swiftest gets her first; but if one male is chasing a number of females he gets the slowest first. The one method improves our speed: the other does not. If males struggle and fight with one another for a mate, the strongest secures her; if the male struggles and fights with the female—(a peculiar and unnatural horror, known only among human beings) he most readily secures the weakest. The one method improves our strength—the other does not.
When women became the property of men; sold and bartered; "given away" by their paternal owner to their marital owner; they lost this prerogative of the female, this primal duty of selection. The males were no longer improved by their natural competition for the female; and the females were not improved; because the male did not select for points of racial superiority, but for such qualities as pleased him.
There is a locality in northern Africa, where young girls are deliberately fed with a certain oily seed, to make them fat,—that they may be the more readily married,—as the men like fat wives. Among certain more savage African tribes the chief's wives are prepared for him by being kept in small dark huts and fed on "mealies' and molasses; precisely as a Strasbourg goose is fattened for the gourmand. Now fatness is not a desirable race characteristic; it does not add to the woman's happiness or efficiency; or to the child's; it is merely an accessory pleasant to the master; his attitude being much as the amorous monad ecstatically puts it, in Sill's quaint poem, "Five Lives,"
"O the little female monad's lips!O the little female monad's eyes!O the little, little, female, female monad!"
This ultra littleness and ultra femaleness has been demanded and produced by our Androcentric Culture.
Following this, and part of it, comes the effect on motherhood. This function was the original and legitimate base of family life; and its ample sustaining power throughout the long early period of "the mother-right;" or as we call it, the matriarchate; the father being her assistant in the great work. The patriarchate, with its proprietary family, changed this altogether; the woman, as the property of the man was considered first and foremost as a means of pleasure to him; and while she was still valued as a mother, it was in a tributary capacity. Her children were now his; his property, as she was; the whole enginery of the family was turned from its true use to this new one, hitherto unknown, the service of the adult male.
To this day we are living under the influence of the proprietary family. The duty of the wife is held to involve man-service as well as child-service, and indeed far more; as the duty of the wife to the husband quite transcends the duty of the mother to the child.
See for instance the English wife staying with her husband in India and sending the children home to be brought up; because India is bad for children. See our common law that the man decides the place of residence; if the wife refuses to go with him to howsoever unfit a place for her and for the little ones, such refusal on her part constitutes "desertion" and is ground for divorce.
See again the idea that the wife must remain with the husband though a drunkard, or diseased; regardless of the sin against the child involved in such a relation. Public feeling on these matters is indeed changing; but as a whole the ideals of the man-made family still obtain.
The effect of this on the woman has been inevitably to weaken and overshadow her sense of the real purpose of the family; of the relentless responsibilities of her duty as a mother. She is first taught duty to her parents, with heavy religious sanction; and then duty to her husband, similarly buttressed; but her duty to her children has been left to instinct. She is not taught in girlhood as to her preeminent power and duty as a mother; her young ideals are all of devotion to the lover and husband: with only the vaguest sense of results.
The young girl is reared in what we call "innocence;" poetically described as "bloom;" and this condition is held one of her chief "charms." The requisite is wholly androcentric. This "innocence" does not enable her to choose a husband wisely; she does not even know the dangers that possibly confront her. We vaguely imagine that her father or brother, who do know, will protect her. Unfortunately the father and brother, under our current "double standard" of morality do not judge the applicants as she would if she knew the nature of their offenses.
Furthermore, if her heart is set on one of them, no amount of general advice and opposition serves to prevent her marrying him. "I love him!" she says, sublimely. "I do not care what he has done. I will forgive him. I will save him!"
This state of mind serves to forward the interests of the lover, but is of no advantage to the children. We have magnified the duties of the wife, and minified the duties of the mother; and this is inevitable in a family relation every law and custom of which is arranged from the masculine viewpoint.
From this same viewpoint, equally essential to the proprietary family, comes the requirement that the woman shall serve the man. Her service is not that of the associate and equal, as when she joins him in his business. It is not that of a beneficial combination, as when she practices another business and they share the profits; it is not even that of the specialist, as the service of a tailor or barber; it is personal service—the work of a servant.
In large generalization, the women of the world cook and wash, sweep and dust, sew and mend, for the men.
We are so accustomed to this relation; have held it for so long to be the "natural" relation, that it is difficult indeed to show that it is distinctly unnatural and injurious. The father expects to be served by the daughter, a service quite different from what he expects of the son. This shows at once that such service is no integral part of motherhood, or even of marriage; but is supposed to be the proper industrial position of women, as such.
Why is this so? Why, on the face of it, given a daughter and a son, should a form of service be expected of the one, which would be considered ignominious by the other?
The underlying reason is this. Industry, at its base, is a feminine function. The surplus energy of the mother does not manifest itself in noise, or combat, or display, but in productive industry. Because of her mother-power she became the first inventor and laborer; being in truth the mother of all industry as well as all people.
Man's entrance upon industry is late and reluctant; as will be shown later in treating his effect on economics. In this field of family life, his effect was as follows:
Establishing the proprietary family at an age when the industry was primitive and domestic; and thereafter confining the woman solely to the domestic area, he thereby confined her to primitive industry. The domestic industries, in the hands of women, constitute a survival of our remotest past. Such work was "woman's work" as was all the work then known; such work is still considered woman's work because they have been prevented from doing any other.
The term "domestic industry" does not define a certain kind of labor, but a certain grade of labor. Architecture was a domestic industry once—when every savage mother set up her own tepee. To be confined to domestic industry is no proper distinction of womanhood; it is an historic distinction, an economic distinction, it sets a date and limit to woman's industrial progress.
In this respect the man-made family has resulted in arresting the development of half the field. We have a world wherein men, industrially, live in the twentieth century; and women, industrially, live in the first—and back of it.
To the same source we trace the social and educational limitations set about women. The dominant male, holding his women as property, and fiercely jealous of them, considering them always ashis,not belonging to themselves, their children, or the world; has hedged them in with restrictions of a thousand sorts; physical, as in the crippled Chinese lady or the imprisoned odalisque; moral, as in the oppressive doctrines of submission taught by all our androcentric religions; mental, as in the enforced ignorance from which women are now so swiftly emerging.
This abnormal restriction of women has necessarily injured motherhood. The man, free, growing in the world's growth, has mounted with the centuries, filling an ever wider range of world activities. The woman, bound, has not so grown; and the child is born to a progressive fatherhood and a stationary motherhood. Thus the man-made family reacts unfavorably upon the child. We rob our children of half their social heredity by keeping the mother in an inferior position; however legalized, hallowed, or ossified by time, the position of a domestic servant is inferior.
It is for this reason that child culture is at so low a level, and for the most part utterly unknown. Today, when the forces of education are steadily working nearer to the cradle, a new sense is wakening of the importance of the period of infancy, and its wiser treatment; yet those who know of such a movement are few, and of them some are content to earn easy praise—and pay—by belittling right progress to gratify the prejudices of the ignorant.
The whole position is simple and clear; and easily traceable to its root. Given a proprietary family, where the man holds the woman primarily for his satisfaction and service—then necessarily he shuts her up and keeps her for these purposes. Being so kept, she cannot develop humanly, as he has, through social contact, social service, true social life. (We may note in passing, her passionate fondness for the child-game called "society" she has been allowed to entertain herself withal; that poor simiacrum of real social life, in which people decorate themselves and madly crowd together, chattering, for what is called "entertainment.") Thus checked in social development, we have but a low grade motherhood to offer our children; and the children, reared in the primitive conditions thus artificially maintained, enter life with a false perspective, not only toward men and women, but toward life as a whole.
The child should receive in the family, full preparation for his relation to the world at large. His whole life must be spent in the world, serving it well or ill; and youth is the time to learn how. But the androcentric home cannot teach him. We live to-day in a democracy-the man-made family is a despotism. It may be a weak one; the despot may be dethroned and overmastered by his little harem of one; but in that case she becomes the despot—that is all. The male is esteemed "the head of the family;" it belongs to him; he maintains it; and the rest of the world is a wide hunting ground and battlefield wherein he competes with other males as of old.
The girl-child, peering out, sees this forbidden field as belonging wholly to men-kind; and her relation to it is to secure one for herself—not only that she may love, but that she may live. He will feed, clothe and adorn her—she will serve him; from the subjection of the daughter to that of the wife she steps; from one home to the other, and never enters the world at all—man's world.
The boy, on the other hand, considers the home as a place of women, an inferior place, and longs to grow up and leave it—for the real world. He is quite right. The error is that this great social instinct, calling for full social exercise, exchange, service, is considered masculine, whereas it is human, and belongs to boy and girl alike.
The child is affected first through the retarded development of his mother, then through the arrested condition of home industry; and further through the wrong ideals which have arisen from these conditions. A normal home, where there was human equality between mother and father, would have a better influence.
We must not overlook the effect of the proprietary family on the proprietor himself. He, too, has been held back somewhat by this reactionary force. In the process of becoming human we must learn to recognize justice, freedom, human rights; we must learn self-control and to think of others; have minds that grow and broaden rationally; we must learn the broad mutual interservice and unbounded joy of social intercourse and service. The petty despot of the man-made home is hindered in his humanness by too much manness.
For each man to have one whole woman to cook for and wait upon him is a poor education for democracy. The boy with a servile mother, the man with a servile wife, cannot reach the sense of equal rights we need to-day. Too constant consideration of the master's tastes makes the master selfish; and the assault upon his heart direct, or through that proverbial side-avenue, the stomach, which the dependent woman needs must make when she wants anything, is bad for the man, as well as for her.
We are slowly forming a nobler type of family; the union of two, based on love and recognized by law, maintained because of its happiness and use. We are even now approaching a tenderness and permanence of love, high pure enduring love; combined with the broad deep-rooted friendliness and comradeship of equals; which promises us more happiness in marriage than we have yet known. It will be good for all the parties concerned—man, woman and child: and promote our general social progress admirably.
If it needs "a head" it will elect a chairman pro tem. Friendship does not need "a head." Love does dot need "a head." Why should a family?
I watched and waited for Margharita's Soul through eleven glittering chapters of fair words; and when it appeared at last, in the twelfth chapter, it was the funniest little by-product, born of imminent peril and ice-water.
A beautiful great body had Margharita and a beautiful great voice; but her long-delayed soul was the size of a small island and one family. Funny notion of a soul! A hen might have it. No, not a hen—she is a light-minded promiscuous creature; but a stork, let us say; she is monogamous and quite bound up in her family. No—not a stork either—storks migrate; no island would satisfy her. Apparently it takes a human creature to be proud of a soul that size.
It is a very pretty story.
Thesis: the only thing a woman is for is matrimony and much childbearing! If she don't like it—no soul.
To develop thesis: Some unusual conditions; and a weird feminine product, of such sort that her lover's sudden surrender and frantic marriage is as it were involuntary. It is of the kind that requires no soul in the beloved object, a soul might have been a little in the way in that violent attack.
Then—to sharply accent and enforce the thesis, our soulless charmer—(her overwhelming allure for the men about her, during this period, casts a sharp sidelight on the value of Soul as an Attraction!) is given a Golden Voice.
This Voice is evidently one to give measureless pleasure to thousands; not only so, but is shown to have such power as to touch hard hearts and lead them heavenward; she with no soul assisting the souls of others; long careful chapters are given to this voice; evidently as one decks out a sacrifice; for the world comforting voice is only given her that she may give it up—for Roger!
It seems a pity—with all this arranged, to ruin that voice by the shock and exposure which aroused her Soul, She herself regretted it—having so much less to give up—for Roger. She meant to give it up anyway, she said. Perhaps the author didn't trust that new Soul completely—knowing her previous character. Anyway there she is, plus a soul and minus a voice; living on the island and populating it as rapidly as possible, perfectly happy, and a lesson for us all.
But is there not also Madam Schumann-Heinck? A great sweet voice and a great sweet mother too? Has she not a Soul?
*
This Duty of Childbearing is evidently weighing on the minds of men, in these days. The thing must be done—they cant do it themselves, and they are mightily afraid we won't, if we have half a chance to do anything else. If a woman was by way of being a Dante or a Darwin, she had better give it up—for Roger—and take to replenishing the earth. She can't do both—that is the main assumption; and if she chooses to serve the world outside of the home that is sheer loss.
Says this wise Searcher of Feminine Souls: "For if all the wisdom and experience and training that the wonderful sex is to gain by its exodus from the home does not get back into it ultimately, I can't (in my masculine stupidity) quite see how it's going to get back into the race at all! And then what good has it done?"
The gentleman does not see any way of advancing the human race except by physical heredity—or by domestic influence.
What Shakespeare wrought into the constitution and character of his daughter Judy is all that matters of his life and work. Keats, having no children, contributed nothing to the world. George Washington, childless, was of no social service. Lincoln is to be measured by the number and quality of his offspring. Florence Nightingale, in lifting the grade of nursing for the world, accomplished nothing. Uncle Tom's Cabin was of no service except as it might in some mysterious way "get back into the home." What mortal perversity is it that cannot see Humanity in women as well as Sex; see that Social Service is something in itself, quite over and above all the domestic and personal relations.
This getting back into the race means only the boys. It would do no good for generations of Margaritas to inherit that Golden Voice—each and all must give it up—for Roger. The race gets no music till the bass, barytone or tenor appear.
Books like this are pathetic in their little efforts to check social progress.
We suspect the author's name to be Mr. Partington.
*
(The Life and Times of Anne Royall. By Sarah Harvey Porter, M.A. 12mo.Cloth, 209 pp. $1.50 net; postage 12 cents.)
Biography has never been a favorite study with me; but I was interested in this book because the woman whose life it described seemed worth while. Reading it, I found not only the life of Anne Royall, but the life of America in the early part of the nineteenth century, in our young, crude, dangerous days of national formation. A novel has been defined as "a corner of life seen through a temperament." If that is a true definition, then this is a novel, for Anne Royall had "temperament" if ever anyone had, and she saw a large corner of life through it.
Who was Anne Royall? An American woman, pioneer born and bred, familiar with the life-and-death struggle of the frontier, and full of the spirit of '76. She was born in 1769, and lived through the War of the Revolution, the War of 1812, the Mexican War, and almost up to the Civil War, dying in 1854. In 1797 she was married to Captain William Royall, an exceptional man, a Virginian, cultivated, liberal, singularly broad-minded and public-spirited, and life with him added years of genuine culture to the energy of a naturally bright mind. Left a widow at the age of forty-four, and, after ten years of travel and experience, defrauded of the property left to her by her husband, she began to live a brave self-supporting independent life at an age when most of the women of her years were white-capped grandmothers.
Instead of sinking into the position of a dependent female relative, she insisted on earning her own living. This she did as so many women do to-day, by the use of her pen, a rarer profession in those times. The more remarkable thing is that in the face of overwhelming odds she stood for a religion, at a period when old-fashioned Calvinism was still a dominant power. The most remarkable, is her absolute devotion to the public interests, to social service as she saw it.
There were a good many women writers even at that time, some of high merit, but there were few publicists among them. Some espoused this or that "Cause" and gave to it the passionate devotion so natural to a woman's heart. But Anne Royall, while she also was passionately devoted to several well-defined "Causes," was unique in that she kept in view the general situation of her country, political, economic, geographic, and educational, and wrote steadily for thirty-one years on matters of national importance.
It is not a question of whether she was right or wrong—though she was mostly right, as history has proved; but the impressive thing is that this old woman, with "troubles of her own," was overwhelmingly interested in her country and its service. There are not so many, either men or women, of this mind, that we can afford to overlook this sturdy pioneer "new woman." She had virtues, too, good solid Christian virtues of the rarer sort; she visited the sick and afflicted, gave to him that asked, and from him that would borrow turned not away. Even to her own weaker sisters she was a strength and comfort, greatly injuring her own position by this unusual charity. Also she was brave, honest, truthful, persevering, industrious—"manly" virtues these.
But—and here we have the reason why Anne Royall made no greater mark, why she was "unsuccessful," why most of us never heard of her—she attacked great powers, and she fought unwisely. Her abusive writing sounds abominably to-day, but must be judged, of course, by the standard of her time. The worst things she said were not as bad as things Shelley said—as the bitter invective and scurrilous attacks common to pamphleteers of the time. If our newspapers are yellow, theirs were orange in the matter of personalities.
But even then this woman had a keen-cutting weapon, and used it unsparingly. Being alone, with no male relative to defend her; being poor, and so further defenceless; being old, thus lacking weak woman's usual protection of beauty, she had absolutely nothing to fall back on when her enemies retaliated.
This picture of one lone woman defying and blackguarding what was almost an established church, is much like Jack the Giantkiller—with a different result. It was deemed necessary to crush this wasp that stung so sharply; and in 1829, in the capitol city of the United States of America, a court of men tried—and convicted—this solitary woman of sixty as a Common Scold. They raked up obsolete laws, studied and strove to wrest their meanings to apply to this case, got together some justification, or what seemed to them justification for their deeds, and succeeded in irretrievably damaging her reputation.
She was not to be extinguished, however. In 1831 she started a newspaper, with the ill-chosen name of PAUL PRY. In 1836 another took its place, called THE HUNTRESS. And on the sale of these newspapers and her books, the indomitable old lady lived to fight and fought to live till she was eighty-five.
She is well worth reading about. The history of her times rises and lives around her. In her vivid description we see the new rugged country, over which she travelled from end to end; in her accounts of current literature we pick up stray bits of information as to new authors and new words. "Playfulness," for instance, is one which she stigmatizes as "silly in sound and significance," and declares that she does not read the new novels "with the exception of Walter Scott's." More interesting still to most of us is to study over the long lists of her pen-portraits and see our ancestors as the others saw them. Few Americans of three generations but can find some grandfather or great uncle halo-ed or pilloried by this clear-eyed observer.
Miss Porter has done her work well. It is clear, strong and entertaining—this biography. If the writer seems more enthusiastic about Anne Royall than the reader becomes, that is clearly due to an unusual perception of life-values; a recognition of the noble devotion and high courage of her subject, and an intense sympathy with such characteristics.
*
The discussion as to whether we should or should not teach children the Santa Claus myth pops up anew with Christmas time; and puzzles anew anyone who regards this festival from a religious viewpoint.
If it was a choice between Santa Claus and nothing, we might prefer Santa Claus; but here we have before us three things: first, the basis of fact, the world old festival of the turn of the year, the coming of the sun; second, a history of rejoicing peoples throughout all the ages, keeping up the celebration under changing gods and dogmas; and third, the story of beauty and wonder about the birth of Jesus.
Any child could be taught the meaning of the Coming of the Sun. The growing light, the longer days, the beautiful future of flowers and birds and playing in the grass; the joy of the young year. If we want legends and stories, every religion behind us is full of them; stories of sun-gods and their splendid triumph; stories of the great earth mother and her bounty; stories of elves and gnomes and druids and all manner of fairy tales.
But why avoid our own religion—the first which has emphatically taught Love as the Law of Life—peace on earth and good-will to men. Are we ashamed of our religion or don't we believe it any more? If we do accept it in all the long-told tales of miracle and wonder, then we have stories enough to tell our children; stories of simple human beauty, stories of heavenly glory, stories of mystery and magic and delight.
If we do not wish to tell them these things as literally true; or even as beautiful legends, there remains enough historic foundation to begin with; and enough of the enduring glory of human love to last us a lifetime.
"What is Christmas, Mama?"
"Christmas is a festival as old as the world, dear child—as old as our human world; historic people have feasted and danced and sung for thousands upon thousands of years, at this time of the year; and offered gifts."
"Why do they give things at Christmas, Mama?"
"Because they are happy, dear; because they feel rich and glad and loving now that the sun is coming back. As if Mama had been away—and you could just see her—a long, long way off. You had seen her go—and go—and go—farther and farther; and then she stopped a while—with her back to you—and then all of a sudden she turned round and came toward you! Wouldn't you be glad?"
Then if the child wants to know about the tree and the candles and all the details of ceremony, there are facts and fancies to account for them all.
But if he says, "Why do they call it Christmas, Mama?"—then you must tell him the secret of Christianity—which is love.
Now, can anyone explain—or defend, in face of all this, our preference for a shallow local myth about St. Nicholas, and the corruption of that into a mere comic supplement character; a bulbous benevolent goblin, red-nosed and gross, doing impossible tricks with reindeers and chimneys, and half the time degraded to a mere adjunct of nursery government? Why do we think it beautiful? Or interesting? Or beneficial? The children like it, we say.
Children like what they are used to, generally. Also, like older people, they are prone to like what isn't good for them. They like brandy-drops among sweetmeats, but that is no reason we should supply them.
*
This brings us to a strange characteristic of most of us; we seem to prefer small cheap shallow outside things to the deep glowing beauty of life. We seem afraid to take life at its splendid best; choosing rather to live in a litter of petty ideas and feelings, and save the big ones for Sundays—or annual holidays.
*
Yet in our hearts we all love great sweeps of emotion; and children especially. Prof. Thomas, of Chicago, has given us a sidelight on this in his clever book about women, "Sex and Society." He shows how in our long pre-social period we were accustomed to strong excitement, long hours of quivering suspense, mad rushes of blind fear, and orgies of wild triumph. Our nerve channels were like the beds of mountain streams, in dry warm lands; lying shallow or even empty at times; and again roaring torrents. So that nowadays, on the paved levels of our civilized life, the well-graduated dribble of small steady feelings, the organism itself cries out for a change in the pressure.
Children and young people feel this more than older ones; the very old, indeed, resent an unusual emotion. Yet when the young grow restless and fretfully "wish something would happen!" we rebuke them; from the heights of our enforced contentment; and call this natural and healthy feeling a mere "thirst for excitement."
*
We need excitement. We have a vast capacity for it. It is a most useful thing—this excitement; and we ought to have more of it, much more. These young people are perfectly right in their uneasy feeling that it would be nice to have something happen!
With all this to bank on, why so overlook the splendid possibilities of Christmas? Why continue to make our helpless children's minds the submissive channels for poor worn-out thin old stories? Are there no gorgeous glowing truths in life—real life—now?
Then we tired aged people—born and reared in this atmosphere of cold weariness; shake our heads and say—
"No. Life is hard. Life is dreary. Life is one long grind!"
That is where we are wrong, and the children are right. They come in new every time. The earth is as young to them as it was to Adam.
If we would but once face the dignity and beauty of childhood instead of looking down on it as we do—then we could take advantage of that constant influx of force, instead of doing our best to crush it down.
This brings us sharply back to our Christmas—the festival of the Child.
It is. If celebrates the real new year; the new-born year, the opening of another season of Life.
Dimly, very dimly, we have glimpsed this now and then, in the old triune godhead of Isis, Osiris and Horus; and in our modern worship of the Madonna and Child.
The time is coming very near when we shall see the meaning of The Child more fully; and make our worship wiser.
What we see in all our thousand homes is "my child." What the doll-taught mother sees is a sweet pretty dressable object; far more time and effort being given—even before its birth—to the making of clothing, than to the making of its constitution or character.
Then we see children as "a care," and a care they are to our worldwide incompetence. How pathetic is the inadequacy of the young mother! She would never dare to undertake to run a racing stable with no more knowledge and experience than she brings to run a family.
She loves them—?
Yes, she loves them. And Mother love is so mighty a power that we all love and honor Motherhood—in spite of its obvious deficiencies. But none of these feelings; not even the deepest mother-love, is all that we should give the child.
He needs Understanding—and Honor.
He needs to be recognized as the forefront of the world—the world of to-morrow—the world we are making.
As we bear and rear him—and her!—as we guide and teach them both, so stand the Men and Women who follow us.
*
Of course we do the best we can for our own little ones. That goes without saying.
So does a monkey.
It is far more than that the child needs.
This Young Life, celebrated in our Christian Festival; this New Life,Better Life, Life to Come, deserves more respect.
And the first meed of honor which we owe to our Successor, is to tell him the truth!
*
That ought to put an end to our paltry old story of the Benign ChimneyClimber.
What we are here for, all of us, is to make the world better and the people better. It is an easy and a pleasant game, if we would but give our minds to it. The whole swiftly spreading enchantment of our varied arts and industries is making a garden out of a wilderness; and even the limited and defective education we now offer to our children, makes better people than we used to have.
But what we have done for them is nothing to what we may do! The best brains in the world should proudly serve the child. We should consider him as a nation does its crown Prince—not a mere pet and darling—but a coming Ruler.
*
Christmas will have a rejuvenation when it is recognized in this sense as the Child's Festival. Every beautiful myth of the past remains to decorate it; every beautiful truth to vivify it. It should be a domestic, religious, civic, national and international festival.
It should mean Joy—and Hope—and Love; and teach them.
*
And Gifts?
Yes, gifts. There could be no more appropriate testimony to Joy and Hope and Love than these visible fruits. Gifts to the happy child to make him happier. Giftsfromthe happy child—and the new joy of giving. Gifts everywhere—from each to each—as showing the rich overflow of Love and joy.
And more than that—Gifts from Each to All! There is a custom worth initiating! Not charity nor anything of that sort. Not the mere visiting of the sick and the prisoner. But a yearly practice of giving something to the Community—to show you love it!
*
And suppose you don't?
If you had been properly taught as a child you would. If you teach our children properly they will. Should we not gratefully recognize the care and service that gives as everything we have? It is the most glaring lesson in life—this universal help of each to all.
Every day of our lives we are served and guarded and generally blessed by—the Community.
*
It is perfectly easy to teach this to a child. Everything that he sees about him—that is not "a natural object," some of us dead or alive have made. The accumulated services of all the people gone have given us the world as it is; those now here keep it up for us; and we—and our children may build it better.
Not love the people who have given you the world? How ungrateful!
*
At which you will remark disgustedly, "Given! Not much? They were paid for it."
That is our mistake.
In the first place they never were paid for it—and are not now—not by a long way. And further—if we had outgrown this temporary custom of paying for this—we should still have to serve each other—to live.
If we were all multi-millionaires—and so perfectly "independent"—why we'd have to have some millionaire sailors and house-builders and blacksmiths—that's all. Their money would build no houses and sail no ships.
Service is what counts—giving—the outpouring of strength and good-will.
That is what Christmas means. It is the Festival of Life. Love andService—Loving and Giving—for the Coming Race.
We have one, a mere sample, left over from last time.
Query: "My wife is spending more of my income on dress than I can afford. How can I stop her? G.
Answer: G. "By letting her earn her own income and spend it as she pleases."
G. would never be content with that. G. would get back at us and say—
Query: "How can a woman do her duty as a mother and earn her own living?"
Answer: "If your wife was doing her duty as a mother she wouldn't be spending so much money on dress!"
Answer further: Motherhood is "piecework"—it is not done by the hour. The value of a mother to her children is not to be measured by quantity, but by quality. If a mother understood any business thoroughly, she would begin to understand her mother-work better than she does now.
Query: "But how can a mother leave her children and go to work?"
Answer: "She does not have to. She could be a milliner or dressmaker at home just as well as a cook."
But these problems are general rather than personal. Here is a personal one.
Query: "I am about thirty—a woman. I wish very much to be married. All the nice men in our town have left it—or are married. There are thirty or forty more unmarried women than men. What shall I do? X."
Answer: "Leave that town and go to some place where there are more men. Go as a matter of business, earning your own living. Keep well, be as good as you know how, and trust in Providence."
Get your work DONE, to remember,—Nothing can take it away,Then shall the sun of DecemberShine brighter than goldenest May.
What is the Spring-time of flowers for?Why does the sunshine come down?What are the harvest-day hours forBut fruit? In the fruit is the crown.
Why should we grieve over losses?Why should we fret over sin?Death is the smallest of crossesTo the worker whose harvest is in.
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What is The Forerunner?It is a monthly magazine, publishing stories short and serial, article and essay; drama, verse, satire and sermon; dialogue, fable and fantasy, comment and review. It is written entirely by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.
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