“Well, I do,” replied the invalid, “and what’s more I’m going to show you; I’ve always disliked that woman, and now I know why. I’d turn her out of the house if it wasn’t for Elmer Skee. That man’s as good as gold under all his foolishness, and if he can get any satisfaction out of that meringue he’s welcome. Dr. Hale doesn’t hate women, child, but a woman broke his heart once — and then he made an idiot of himself by vowing never to marry.”
She showed her friend’s letter, and Vivian read it with rising color. “O, Grandma! Why that’s worse than I ever thought — even after what Dr. Bellair told us. And it was his brother! No wonder he’s so fond of boys. He tries to warn them, I suppose.”
“Yes, and the worst of it is that he’s really got over his grouch; and he’s in love — but tied down by that foolish oath, poor man.”
“Is he, Grandma? How do you know? With whom?”
“You dear, blind child!” said the old lady, “with you, of course. Has been ever since we came.”
The girl sat silent, a strange feeling of joy rising in her heart, as she reviewed the events of the last two years. So that was why he would not stay that night. And that was why. “No wonder he wouldn’t come here!” she said at length. “It’s on account of that woman. But why did he change?”
“Because she went over there to see him. He wouldn’t come to her. I heard her ‘phone to him one evening.” The old lady chuckled. “So she marched herself over there — I saw her, and I guess she got her needin’s. She didn’t stay long. And his light burned till morning.”
“Do you think he cares for her, still?”
“Cares for her!” The old lady fairly snorted her derision. “He can’t bear the sight of her — treats her as if she wasn’t there. No, indeed. If he did she’d have him fast enough, now. Well! I suppose he’ll repent of that foolishness of his all the days of his life — and stick it out! Poor man.”
Mrs. Pettigrew sighed, and Vivian echoed the sigh. She began to observe Dr. Hale with new eyes; to study little matters of tone and manner — and could not deny her grandmother’s statement. Nor would she admit it — yet.
The old lady seemed weaker and more irritable, but positively forbade any word of this being sent to her family.
“There’s nothing on earth ails me,” she said. “Dr. Hale says there’s not a thing the matter that he can see — that if I’d only eat more I’d get stronger. I’ll be all right soon, my dear. I’ll get my appetite and get well, I have faith to believe.”
She insisted on his coming over in the evening, when not too busy, and staying till she dropped asleep, and he seemed strangely willing to humor her; sitting for hours in the quiet parlor, while Vivian played softly, and sang her low-toned hymns.
So sitting, one still evening, when for some time no fretful “not so loud” had come from the next room, he turned suddenly to Vivian and asked, almost roughly— “Do you hold a promise binding? — an oath, a vow — to oneself?”
She met his eyes, saw the deep pain there, the long combat, the irrepressible hope and longing.
“Did you swear to keep your oath secret?” she asked.
“Why, no,” he said, “I did not. I will tell you. I did not swear never to tell a woman I loved her. I never dreamed I should love again. Vivian, I was fool enough to love a shallow, cruel woman, once, and nearly broke my heart in consequence. That was long years ago. I have never cared for a woman since — till I met you. And now I must pay double for that boy folly.”
He came to her and took her hand.
“I love you,” he said, his tense grip hurting her. “I shall love you as long as I live — day and night — forever! You shall know that at any rate!”
She could not raise her eyes. A rich bright color rose to the soft border of her hair. He caught her face in his hands and made her look at him; saw those dark, brilliant eyes softened, tear-filled, asking, and turned sharply away with a muffled cry.
“I have taken a solemn oath,” he said in a strained, hard voice, “never to ask a woman to marry me.”
He heard a little gasping laugh, and turned upon her. She stood there smiling, her hands reached out to him.
“You don’t have to,” she said.
* * * * *
A long time later, upon their happy stillness broke a faint voice from the other room:
“Vivian, I think if you’d bring me some bread and butter — and a cup of tea — and some cold beef and a piece of pie — I could eat it.”
* * * * *
Upon the rapid and complete recovery of her grandmother’s health, and the announcement of Vivian’s engagement, Mr. and Mrs. Lane decided to make a visit to their distant mother and daughter, hoping as well that Mr. Lane’s cough might be better for a visit in that altitude. Mr. and Mrs. Dykeman also sent word of their immediate return.
Jeanne, using subtle powers of suggestion, caused Mrs. Pettigrew to decide upon giving a dinner, in honor of these events. There was the betrothed couple, there were the honored guests; there were Jimmie and Susie, with or without the baby; there were the Dykemans; there was Dr. Bellair, of course; there was Mr. Skee, an even number.
“I’m sorry to spoil that table, but I’ve got to take in Mrs. St. Cloud,” said the old lady.
“O, Grandma! Why! It’ll spoil it for Dick.”
“Huh!” said her grandmother. “He’s so happy you couldn’t spoil it with a mummy. If I don’t ask her it’ll spoil it for Mr. Skee.”
So Mrs. St. Cloud made an eleventh at the feast, and neither Mr. Dykeman nor Vivian could find it in their happy hearts to care.
Mr. Skee arose, looking unusually tall and shapely in immaculate every-day dress, his well-brushed hair curling vigorously around the little bald spots; his smile wide and benevolent.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, both Domestic and Foreign, Friends and Fellowtownsmen and Women — Ladies, God Bless ‘em; also Children, if any: I feel friendly enough to-night to include the beasts of the fields — but such would be inappropriate at this convivial board — among these convivial boarders.
“This is an occasion of great rejoicing. We have many things to rejoice over, both great and small. We have our healths; all of us, apparently. We are experiencing the joys of reunion — in the matter of visiting parents that is, and long absent daughters.
“We have also the Return of the Native, in the shape of my old friend Andy — now become a Benedict — and seeming to enjoy it. About this same Andy I have a piece of news to give you which will cause you astonishment and gratification, but which involves me in a profuse apology — a most sincere and general apology.
“You know how a year or more ago it was put about in this town that Andrew Dykeman was a ruined man?” Mrs. St. Cloud darted a swift glance at Mr. Dykeman, but his eyes rested calmly on his wife; then at Mr. Skee — but he was pursuing his remorseful way.
“I do not wish to blame my friend Andy for his reticence — but he certainly did exhibit reticence on this occasion — to beat the band! He never contradicted this rumor — not once. He just went about looking kind o’ down in the mouth for some reason or other, and when for the sake o’ Auld Lang Syne I offered him a job in my office — the cuss took it! I won’t call this deceitful, but it sure was reticent to a degree.
“Well, Ladies — and Gentlemen — the best of us are liable to mistakes, and I have to admit — I am glad to humble myself and make this public admission — I was entirely in error in this matter.
“It wasn’t so. There was nothing in it. It was rumor, pure and simple. Andy Dykeman never lost no mine, it appears; or else he had another up his sleeve concealed from his best friends. Anyhow, the facts are these; not only that A. Dykeman as he sits before you is a prosperous and wealthy citizen, but that he has been, for these ten years back, and we were all misled by a mixture of rumor and reticence. If he has concealed these facts from the wife of his bosom I submit that that is carrying reticence too far!” Again Mrs. St. Cloud sent a swift glance at the reticent one,
and again caught only his tender apologetic look toward his wife, and her utter amazement.
Mr. Dykeman rose to his feet.
“I make no apologies for interrupting my friend,” he said. “It is necessary at times. He at least can never be accused of reticence. Neither do I make apologies for letting rumor take its course — a course often interesting to observe. But I do apologize — in this heartfelt and public manner, to my wife, for marrying her under false pretenses. But any of you gentlemen who have ever had any experience in the attitude of,” he hesitated mercifully, and said, “the World, toward a man with money, may understand what it meant to me, after many years of bachelorhood, to find a heart that not only loved me for myself alone, but absolutely loved me better because I’d lost my money — or she thought I had. I have hated to break the charm. But now my unreticent friend here has stated the facts, and I make my confession. Will you forgive me, Orella?”
“Speech! Speech!” cried Mr. Skee. But Mrs. Dykeman could not be persuaded to do anything but blush and smile and squeeze her husband’s hand under the table, and Mr. Skee arose once more.
“This revelation being accomplished,” he continued cheerfully; “and no one any the worse for it, as I see,” he was not looking in the direction of Mrs. St. Cloud, whose slippered foot beat softly under the table, though her face wore its usual sweet expression, possibly a trifle strained; “I now proceed to a proclamation of that happy event to celebrate which we are here gathered together. I allude to the Betrothal of Our Esteemed Friend, Dr. Richard Hale, and the Fairest of the Fair! Regarding the Fair, we think he has chosen well. But regarding Dick Hale, his good fortune is so clear, so evidently undeserved, and his pride and enjoyment thereof so ostentatious, as to leave us some leeway to make remarks.
“Natural remarks, irresistible remarks, as you might say, and not intended to be acrimonious. Namely, such as these: It’s a long lane that has no turning; There’s many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip; The worm will turn; The pitcher that goes too often to the well gets broken at last; Better Late than Never. And so on and so forth. Any other gentleman like to make remarks on this topic?”
Dr. Hale rose, towering to his feet.
“I think I’d better make them,” he said. “No one else could so fully, so heartily, with such perfect knowledge point out how many kinds of a fool I’ve been for all these years. And yet of them all there are only two that I regret — this last two in which if I had been wiser, perhaps I might have found my happiness sooner. As that cannot be proven, however, I will content myself with the general acknowledgment that Bachelors are Misguided Bats, I myself having long been the worst instance; women, in general, are to be loved and honored; and that I am proud and glad to accept your congratulations because the sweetest and noblest woman in the world has honored me with her love.”
“I never dreamed you could put so many words together, Doc — and really make sense!” said Mr. Skee, genially, as he rose once more. “You certainly show a proper spirit at last, and all is forgiven. But now, my friends; now if your attention is not exhausted, I have yet another Event to confide to you.”
Mr. and Mrs. Lane wore an aspect of polite interest. Susie and Jim looked at each other with a sad but resigned expression. So did Mrs. Dykeman and her husband. Vivian’s hand was in her lover’s and she could not look unhappy, but they, too, deprecated this last announcement, only too well anticipated. Only Mrs. St. Cloud, her fair face bowed in gentle confusion, showed anticipating pleasure.
Mr. Skee waved his hand toward her with a large and graceful gesture.
“You must all of you have noticed the amount of Platonic Friendship which has been going on for some time between my undeserving self and this lovely lady here. Among so many lovely ladies perhaps I’d better specify that I refer to the one on my left.
“What she has been to me, in my lonely old age, none of you perhaps realize.” He wore an expression as of one long exiled, knowing no one who could speak his language.
“She has been my guide, counsellor and friend; she has assisted me with advice most wise and judicious; she has not interfered with my habits, but has allowed me to enjoy life in my own way, with the added attraction of her companionship.
“Now, I dare say, there may have been some of you who have questioned my assertion that this friendship was purely Platonic. Perhaps even the lady herself, knowing the heart of man, may have doubted if my feeling toward her was really friendship.”
Mr. Skee turned his head a little to one side and regarded her with a tender inquiring smile.
To this she responded sweetly: “Why no, Mr. Skee, of course, I believed what you said.”
“There, now,” said he, admiringly. “What is so noble as the soul of woman? It is to this noble soul in particular, and to all my friends here in general, that I now confide the crowning glory of a long and checkered career, namely, and to wit, that I am engaged to be married to that Peerless Lady, Mrs. Servilla Pettigrew, of whose remarkable capacities and achievements I can never sufficiently express my admiration.”
A silence fell upon the table. Mr. Skee sat down smiling, evidently in cheerful expectation of congratulations. Mrs. Pettigrew wore an alert expression, as of a skilled fencer preparing to turn any offered thrusts. Mrs. St. Cloud seemed to be struggling with some emotion, which shook her usual sweet serenity. The others, too, were visibly affected, and not quick to respond.
Then did Mr. Saunders arise with real good nature and ever-ready wit; and pour forth good-humored nonsense with congratulations all around, till a pleasant atmosphere was established, in which Mrs. St. Cloud could so far recover as to say many proper and pretty things; sadly adding that she regretted her imminent return to the East would end so many pleasant friendships.
MOVING THE MOUNTAIN
Moving the Mountain was first printed serially in Gilman’s magazine The Forerunner in 1911, before being published in book format later the same year. The novel is the first in the author’s utopian trilogy, which also includes Herland and With Her in Our Land. In the preface to the novel, Gilman clearly delineates her work as a future utopian text, although one that is ‘short distance’ and requires ‘nothing more than a change of mind, the awakening of people’. The book introduces the character John Robertson and begins by relaying his surprise encounter with his sister in Tibet, followed by his collapse and recovery. He has spent thirty years lost in the country and when he returns to America with his sister, Nellie he finds the America of 1940 to be a radically altered land; one where poverty and deprivation has been eliminated and work reduced to as little as four hours a day. This new society is depicted as being well-organised, safe, rational and efficient.
Gilman details a country powered by sustainable forces such as windmills, watermills and solar engines, and chiefly by energy captured from the tides. Hunting has been prohibited and the population has become vegetarian. The author believes this society is ‘Beyond Socialism’; this does not mean discarding socialism but ‘improving’ upon it. However, the main source for ordering and organising society is a ‘New Religion’ that Nellie describes as ‘life’ and has occurred now the world has ‘come alive’. Nellie states the real key to the transformation of America is simply that ‘we have changed our minds’; everything that is now being achieved could have happened in the past. However, while there are progressive ideas relating to education and childcare facilities, there are some disturbing eugenic notions that permeate the work. Laws were implemented so ‘Certain classes of criminals and perverts were rendered incapable of reproducing their kind’ and immigrants are only allowed to remain if they meet a ‘certain standard’ and agreed to ‘Compulsory Socialization’. The novel places one type of woman at the forefront of society while refusing to allow ‘unfit’ mothers to care for their children, unless they gain a ‘diploma’ specifying they are capable parents.
Gilman, c. 1900
CONTENTS
Preface
Chapter 1.
Ch
apter 2.
Chapter 3
Chapter 4.
Chapter 5.
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12.
Preface
ONE of the most distinctive features of the human mind is to forecast better things.
“We look before and after
And pine for what is not.”
This natural tendency to hope, desire, foresee and then, if possible, obtain, has been largely diverted from human usefulness since our goal was placed after death, in Heaven. With all our hope in “Another World,” we have largely lost hope of this one.
Some minds, still keen in the perception of better human possibilities, have tried to write out their vision and give it to the world. From Plato’s ideal Republic to Wells’ Day of the Comet we have had many Utopias set before us, best known of which are that of Sir Thomas More and the great modern instance, “Looking Backward.”
All these have one or two distinctive features — an element of extreme remoteness, or the introduction of some mysterious out-side force. “Moving the Mountain” is a short distance Utopia, a baby Utopia, a little one that can grow. It involves no other change than a change of mind, the mere awakening of people, especially the women, to existing possibilities. It indicates what people might do, real people, now living, in thirty years — if they would.
One man, truly aroused and redirecting his energies, can change his whole life in thirty years.
So can the world.
Chapter 1.
ON a gray, cold, soggy Tibetan plateau stood glaring at one another two white people — a man and a woman.
With the first, a group of peasants; with the second, the guides and carriers of a well-equipped exploring party.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 35
