Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  “I do — I care immensely. If this movement is right—”

  “There speaks New England! Well, you must prove all things, you know. Paul was wise in that remark, anyway. I’m going to give you two easy ones to begin on; easy, I mean, in that they are strong, attractive books, not too violently doctrinaire. Get The Citadel by Samuel Merwin. Mr. Widfield will like that, I think — enough to read it anyhow. It is not ‘Socialistic’ in any specific sense, but it shows the way intelligent native Americans are waking up as to the vicious folly of present methods. Then read Wells’s New Worlds for Old — that is the best book I know to start a thinking person with.”

  Stella’s mind swept back to the time when she had asked Morgan if he had read In the Days of the Comet. She had not touched a book of Wells’s since.

  “Isn’t he — rather dreadful — Wells?” she asked.

  “He has his limitations, like most of us. But a more finely sensitive, high-keyed social soul I do not know. And the power of him — the sheer power! The way that little bunch of battling Englishmen are laboring to shake up ‘all the obese, unchallenged old things which stifle and overlie us’ — it is a splendid sight to see them.”

  “But wasn’t Ann Veronica really — disgusting?”

  “It disgusted some people. But surely, Mrs. Widfield, you can be thankful for the power and glory that is in a writer, in spite of his open defects, can’t you?”

  “I’ll read the one you suggest, anyhow, and the Merwin book. Tell me some more. And incidentally, tell me some more about Mr. Smith.”

  “The short and simple annals of the poor” in this case were quite long and varied. There was travel and tragedy involved, heroic labor and self-denial, phenomenal progress.

  “We think him here quite the strongest of the younger men. But he does need to know more of life — the general life of the world. It is difficult, I know, for those of us who have been for so long conscious and vocal, able to read, write, associate freely and exchange ideas, and to whom ‘the masses’ have just been that — mere indiscriminate masses, without personality — it is hard to turn the tables and see that from the point of view of the poor we are just such a mass, smaller, but just as indiscriminate and impersonal. We are ‘the rich,’ unknown, misunderstood, and now regarded with growing malevolence.”

  Stella nodded earnestly. “I see, and it is immensely important that a man like this should know whereof he speaks. Well, Miss Woodstone, if I may serve as ‘the rich’ in this case I will do my best to introduce Mr. Smith to our alien mysteries.”

  “You’ll be doing something worthwhile, and I, for one, shall feel personally obliged to you.”

  “Oh, you needn’t, I assure you. I can’t say that I like the man, but I begin to see what he stands for — and it’s worth helping.”

  “Exactly. And a woman can do it — a woman like you, not a girl, not personally at all within its range, and yet able to smooth the way for him as no man could.”

  “I’m sorry, but Mr. Widfield has taken a dislike to him, I’m afraid—”

  “That’s too bad. But there are husbandless hours — afternoons — teatimes—”

  “Yes, and I can interest some other people.”

  “It is no use patronizing him,” Miss Woodstone explained. “I have tried, as delicately as I knew how, to get some nice people to ‘take him up’ — but he won’t be taken. The reason I think you can manage it is because he approves of you.” She was amused to see Mrs. Widfield’s expression. “‘Approves’ is just the word. He was in here this morning on some newspaper errand, and took occasion to tell me so.

  ‘I have been dining with some friends of yours,’ he said. ‘I dare say I have you to thank for it — if it is anything to be thankful for.’”

  “He’s a gracious person, isn’t he?” Stella suggested.

  “‘Gracious’ is exactly the word for him. I told him he needn’t have gone unless he wanted to, and he said he went because of his play. I think he hoped something of Mr. Tillotson, perhaps — was he nice to him?”

  “I think Mr. Tillotson was interested, really — and impressed. We all were. But as to being nice to him—” Stella laughed at the recollection. “We were lucky to escape at any price! Such violent eloquence!”

  “You’d get hardened to that if you worked with us a while. Violent eloquence is the breath of their nostrils. But he told me that you appeared to have some mind — I think that’s the way he put it.”

  “Very kind of him, I’m sure!”

  “Wasn’t it! But seriously, Mrs. Widfield, if you can put up with his rudeness and ignorance in consideration of his real ability, and help that fellow to a better understanding of life, you’ll be doing real social service.”

  “I can try,” Stella answered slowly. “But you’ve no idea how I hate to do anything Mr. Widfield does not like.”

  “This is not anything he would really object to, is it?”

  “Why, no — not seriously. Of course he does not interfere with anything I want to do, but I never want to do anything that does not please him.”

  “He must be devotedly fond of you.”

  Stella said nothing.

  “Perhaps — really — he’d be fonder if you did do something you wanted to now and then.”

  At this Mrs. Widfield stiffened a little, and Miss Woodstone asked if she would not like to see some of their rooms.

  “We haven’t much going on until evening, except for the children, but the nursery is always in full swing — and the playground.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t stay; it’s later than I thought. I shall be late for dinner, as it is,” and Mrs. Widfield excused herself.

  She started home with her head buzzing with new ideas and purposes. She had meant to stop and buy those books, but there was no time now. That place always took longer to reach than she allowed for. There was nothing for it but the subway, and at that she would be late for dinner. With an idea of getting an express at once she took a surface car to Brooklyn Bridge. A crowded, smelly car it was, full of the kind of people she had come down there to find out about. She did not like their looks. Every delicate, well-bred sense was offended. Making the universal error, she blamed them for their appearance — as if they had chosen to be so born, so reared, so dressed, so overtired, underfed, and perceptibly unwashed. Why they should be so dirty especially troubled her. Like most people who have convenient bathrooms, hot and cold water, plenty of time, no heavy labor, a clean environment and an intensely critical social atmosphere, she found it hard to understand the lack of cleanliness in those others around her. She had never used her imagination in following out the daily lives of these millions, and as she gazed upon them now, the swarms in the street, and the pushing crowd in the car, the big woman in a wig who breathed so hotly beside her, the slouching, pale-faced old-young man on the other side, the general stunted look of all of them, and the hard, haggard faces, a sense of horror grew within her.

  “They don’t look like people — it’s a nightmare. It does not have to be like this,” she told herself, and eagerly escaped to take the subway.

  In her easy, guarded life, warned by her husband and friends, able to choose her hours, and generally taking a surface car or a taxi if their car was, as at present, out of order, she had known only by hearsay of the “subway crush.” Before she realized it she had dropped her ticket in that cavernous glass box and was borne along by the hurrying people down the stairs to the platform. Finding there a solid swaying mass, malodorous, and ruthless in determination to get on the already well-filled trains, she at first thought of return, but a glance at the numbers between her and the stairs, and at the solid wall coming down, appalled her.

  “I can stand it for once,” she thought. “They do. People ought to do their shopping earlier.” And then she had sense enough to laugh at herself — these people were not downtown for pleasure. They could not choose their hours. Behind them was a long day’s work. Before them — at an unwalkable distance — their f
amilies and something to eat. They must go as quickly as possible.

  So down the stairs they poured, making a “saturated solution” of the already packed crowd, and when the trains drew in, there was need indeed for those gray guards. Such as desired to come out had to fight hard for the privilege. The mass obtruded itself against the doorways and was pressed in like a paste, pushed from without resistlessly, moving their own feet only to keep standing. Some, finding the whole space filled, strove to resist those behind them, but after the car was filled it was packed, and after it was packed it was jammed, and after it was jammed Mrs. Widfield saw a burly guard use his whole force to ram an unresisting man into the side door, find it a physical impossibility, and pull him off again as a dentist might scrape off an unnecessary bit of filling.

  In sheer terror she hung back and waited for a train or two, but the crowd steadily increased, and at last she was borne forward and forced against a humanity-packed entrance. She could move neither forward nor back, but a gentleman several persons farther in, seeing her plight, reached forth a long arm and literally pulled her on board, so that the door slid shut behind her.

  In that impossible compression, occupying less space than she would in her coffin, Mrs. Widfield did some thinking. There was a strange uncomfortable excitement in being part of such a solid human substance. She could see, had to see, details of necks and ears, of chins and mouths and collars, such as had never before been forced upon her ken, and she must feel as well as see, to her shuddering objection. The grossness of men’s clothing affected her strongly, such heavy cloth, such continuous wear, such impossibility of cleanliness in that material, part wool, part cotton, part sheer dirt. And against the women she registered a heavy protest in the matter of hats. A stiff quill jabbed her cheek as the car lurched; a bristling bunch of feathers affronted the other ear; and she saw, just beyond, a straggling “willow plume” tickle a man’s face till his expression changed from angry offense to a more offensive pleasure.

  Men and women, black and white, young and old, they were pressed solidly against one another in the thick warmth, and, swaying with the swaying cars, joggling back and forth as they stopped and started, experienced a physical intimacy closer than that of ranked steers in a cattle car. One sharp-voiced girl remarked: “And they don’t want women to be jostled at the polls,” to the amusement of those who heard her.

  As they thinned a little in the uptown region, Mrs. Widfield saw, in the corner opposite her, Mr. Tillotson, reading a newspaper in closely folded sections. He joined her as soon as it was possible, and they stood for a moment, glad to merely breathe again.

  “Why do you do it!” he protested. “This is discomfort and degradation for men — it is impossible for women.”

  “There seem to be a good many of them,” she answered, “and they seem to stand it — literally — as well as the men. I suppose they have to.”

  “But you do not have to, surely. I hope it was only a temporary aberration.”

  “Exactly that,” she agreed. “You see, I was so stirred up by that young iconoclast last night that I have been down to see Miss Woodstone and ask more about him — and about what he told us.”

  “Now that you are quite safe and comfortable above ground, needing no assistance whatever, may I not ‘see you safe home,’ Mrs. Widfield?”

  “Why, as you say, it is not in the least necessary, but I am glad of your company. I must hurry, though. See here, Mr. Tillotson, won’t you come in and have dinner with us tonight — not a party — come just as you are.”

  “You are very kind. I am really tempted to accept. But I suspect you of self-defense.”

  “Self-defense! You’ll have to explain—”

  “Why, you are nervous about that dinner. Only pressing haste would have driven you into that black hole of New York. Before you looms a hungry husband, reproachful, ravening, but if you bring me in he will have a new cause of offense and not upbraid you for being late!”

  “You surely are a mind reader, Mr. Tillotson! And even further — if you are there, dutifully eating cold soup and burned roast, and saying how good it is, he cannot condemn the dinner so unsparingly. No, seriously, he told me last night to ask you to dinner — not specifying today, to be sure, but really wanting to see more of you.”

  “That is very fortunate — I want to see more of him. I accept with pleasure.”

  Mr. Widfield showed no offense at a belated dinner and a missing wife, but did seem a little annoyed that she was so profuse in apology and explanation.

  “Glad to see you, Mr. Tillotson. Perhaps tonight you and I can say something. Cape Henry! What a talker that fellow was!”

  “Unparalleled intellect!” he exclaimed. “You have invented a new oath. Do you always swear geographically?”

  “Frequently. Got the idea from that old tale of the quiet, pious Englishman abroad, who noticed that the swearing diners were always waited on first, so he brought his fist down as they did, and bellowed, ‘Northumberland, Cumberland and Durham!”’

  “It did the trick, I’ve no doubt. May I keep you hungry a moment longer while I remove a layer of subway deposit?” begged Mr. Tillotson.

  “You have deceived me, Mrs. Widfield,” he protested later. “The soup is hot, the roast perfect. Is your cook a mind reader, too?”

  “Not at all. But to tell you the truth she is a slow person, and unless I am here to hurry matters, is apt to be behindhand.”

  “What a delightful arrangement! If you are on time, so is the dinner; if you are late, the dinner keeps step with you. Being a bachelor I find much pleasure in my friends’ dinners, Mr. Widfield.”

  “Glad you do. Let me give you this piece — it’s hotter,” and he served his guest bountifully. Morgan liked to have people in to dinner, especially in this informal way. Stella was too careful, he always felt, too elaborate in preparations. What he enjoyed was openhanded hospitality — to the right sort of people. The conscientiousness, the intellectual power, the tireless patience with which his wife had studied and mastered her household problems he had never appreciated. To his mind women were housekeepers by nature. Given a wife, with a husband who was a good provider, and a home was the natural result. If the home was not smooth-running, comfortable and pleasant, it was the fault of the wife of course, reflecting in a general way upon her womanhood.

  The difficulties of the first years of housekeeping to the young bride were as invisible to him as was the easy monotony of the later period, when the not impossible task is mastered, and the hours of the day grow longer.

  In his own life the enlarging business kept pace with his enlarging abilities. He had as much exercise for all his powers today as he had when he married — more perhaps. With his world widening and changing about him, with the responsibilities and interests of politics beyond those of business, he naturally expected of his home the same high level of beautiful comfort and relaxation. And of late years here was Stella growing more tense and anxious instead of less. He was especially glad now of friends and visitors, and said as much.

  “I wish you’d drop in often, Tillotson,” he said. “There’s always something to eat, and it’s a favor to us. We’re very much alone, now that the boys are gone.”

  “You won’t have to urge me much,” the visitor replied. “Down in our hearts we all of us like hospitality better than entertainments — don’t you think so, Mrs. Widfield?”

  Mrs. Widfield did think so. She liked this man, liked to hear him talk, was immensely pleased to see that Morgan enjoyed his society.

  Her worry about being late had all faded away; it did not seem to make the least difference. She smiled affectionately at her husband across the table, found a chance to kiss him, unnoticed, when they gathered in the other room, and found the evening restful as well as enjoyable.

  After the guest had gone there was a little quiet time when they sat talking of Mr. Tillotson and what he had said, Stella vivid and appreciative, Morgan enjoying her bright color and cheerfulness.<
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  “We must have more company,” he said. “It does you good, my dear.”

  “It’s not only the company — it’s being so interested,” she replied. “I’ve got a list of books to read. I’m going to find out things.”

  “Find out anything you like — be as interested as you like — but don’t ask me to be. I’m interested in seeing you look happier, though.”

  She was happier already.

  CHAPTER 8

  The laborious daring of those who seek to photograph the wild beast in his lair, pushing their impudent cameras into the seclusion of leonine family circles, and spying on the siestas of elephants, combined with the patience and firmness of those who train performing tigers, was now manifested by Mrs. Widfield in her dealings with the refractory Mr. Smith. Rooted and deep was his prejudice against “the rich,” profound his ignorance of every condition and result of riches. She could hardly have borne with him at first, but for that illuminating comparison of Miss Woodstone’s; and when he seemed most unreasonable she drew a hasty parallel in her own mind between his attitude towards the friends and circumstances she knew so well, and her own toward his friends and circumstances.

  Presently she found a strong sense of interest, as of exploration in strange lands, or of keen laboratory research. His lack of what, to her training, was common courtesy carried offense at first. But she soon found that he meant no offense and that while her delicate shades of disapproval were quite lost on him, he was not sensitive to frank criticism and suggestion.

  Against his torrent of discourse, which ignored any faint hint of would-be interruption, but which ruthlessly interrupted her whenever she did find a chance for a few words, she finally made flat protest. “See here, Mr. Smith, do you really want to deliver a series of lectures to me — or one lecture in serial chapters? Or are you willing that I should have some opportunity to say what I think?”