Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  And she had tried. It was one of the expressions of her new impulse to do, to work, which had set her at bits of description and analysis. She had covered many stray sheets with rough sketches of the violently earnest Mr. Smith, a practice which enabled her with better grace to bear that violence and even to draw him on to fuller expression. Other sheets were devoted to most friendly description of this quiet friend, and further to an effort to understand and to explain his atmosphere of strength and comfort.

  Mrs. MacAvelly excused herself early, stating that with the weight of advancing years she found herself waking up earlier and earlier every morning, so that unless she went to bed with equal recession she should have no sleep at all.

  Very trim and capable she looked as she said it, but neither ventured to contradict her.

  “You remind me of the logical extension of the old rhyme,” he said, rising to open the door for her. “You remember the beginning, ‘He that would thrive must rise at five’?”

  “Well — what next?”

  “It is perfectly obvious: ‘He that would thrive more must rise at four. He that would still more thriving be must always leave his bed at three. He that all others would outdo must be prepared to rise at two. He who would never be outdone must briskly leave his bed at one. He who would flourish best of all must never go to bed at all!’”

  “That may do for editors but not for me, Mr. Tillotson. Good night, Stella. I only meant to stay a minute and it’s been hours.”

  He glanced at the clock.

  “Nonsense,” said Stella. “We’ve only just begun. And you know you ‘never go to bed at all.’”

  “You’d like me to stay a bit longer?”

  “Of course — do sit down.”

  “On one condition — you have to pay for the privilege of further companionship.”

  “What do you mean?” She was laughing but puzzled.

  “You have to show it to me.”

  “Show it to you? Show what?”

  “Your work, of course.”

  She dropped into a chair and looked at him with such childlike eyes, so big with astonishment, and a funny sense of guilt discovered, that he laughed aloud.

  “Bring it out,” he commanded. “I will eat all my words. Good, bad or indifferent, I want to see it. And I think you can trust me to be editor and friend too.”

  “I confess you tax my credulity,” she said. “I know at least enough to realize that a man in your position cannot — possibly — want to be bothered with any more word stuff than he has to handle every day.” She regarded him with puzzled eyes. “You must think a good deal of me,” she said.

  “I do,” he assured her. He tossed the cold end of his cigarette into the fire, and stood before it. “I will own, frankly, that I have very little interest in what is written outside of the pile I have to work through. But I have a very great interest in you.”

  She leaned back on her cushions and regarded him with a most girlish interest. His tone was quite matter-of-fact, wholly impersonal. It carried no faintest hint of any further feeling than the interest he owned to. And that met so fairly her own interest in him that it gave her a peculiar pleasure.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Why am I interested in you?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked at her in a critical estimating way, as if she were so much “copy” instead of a very attractive woman.

  “I’ve no objection to telling you,” he said. “You interest me, have interested me from the first, as having potential energies as yet untouched. I think you have it in you to do something —— — You see—” He hesitated. “I know it is a poor compliment to praise one woman at the expense of others, but — your harp has a thousand strings, we may put it — and theirs have only one!”

  “Oh no, no!” she protested hotly. “I won’t stand it. Women are not like that!”

  “Most of them are,” he insisted stubbornly. “Now, see here — I’m not making love to you. I’m not praising your peerless beauties and graces — I’ve seen handsomer women.”

  Thanks to her apprenticeship with Mr. Smith she took this without the quiver of an eyelash.

  “But these ‘beautiful dolls’ are tedious — little as they think it,” he went on. “Of course a man knows his weaknesses — none better. But he can see when he’s being led by the nose — even when he follows — and he does not respect the process.”

  She was still displeased. “But there are hundreds — yes, thousands and millions of women today who are not like that — women with big brains and warm hearts, who would be ashamed to play that old onestringed harp the whole time — or anytime!”

  He chuckled a little. “That’s another difference, my friend. They’d be ashamed to play that string — anytime. Most likely they haven’t it — never had — or it’s broken. You’ve got it all right — but there are others. And I suppose I’m man enough to like a woman ‘as is a woman’ even when she’s none of mine. Come now, don’t let’s talk personality anymore. Get out your manuscript and let’s see what you can do.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Mrs. Widfield’s quiet living room held a new piece of furniture, a large, imposing piece of furniture, an object of beauty and of undeniable and evident use, yet somewhat incongruous with the general tone. It was a darkly polished, high-standing rolltop desk of rich mahogany. Stella had bought it with the first check she received for work — that is, with the first check that was big enough.

  All her life she had secretly hungered for a desk like that, her small correspondence not giving her the faintest excuse for possessing one, but now, without any conscious effort, the seven large drawers, the two little ones, the fourteen pigeon holes, square and long, the twelve letter boxes, were all occupied, if not filled.

  She regarded that desk with more pride than her piano, with more affection than her entire wardrobe; dusted it sacramentally with a silken cloth, adorned it with smooth clean blotting paper and a careful selection of the various implements of her new occupation.

  Stella was at work.

  Perhaps the discovery of one’s natural work, when eager, blundering youth is passed, may result in an enthusiasm similar to that of which we pityingly remark, “There’s no fool like an old fool.” Of all the thousands of people who were writing in New York, no burning young genius from the South, starving in order to follow the gleam, was happier in the work than this quiet, comely married woman, no longer young.

  No longer young in years, that is, in the smooth, bright-eyed bloom of girlhood, in the vision of a hoped-for love that should outshine all others.

  That youth had quietly, softly, slipped away, with the reasonable fruition of most of its hopes.

  Love, marriage, motherhood, a home of her own — all these had been hers, were hers still. In all her earnest conscientious fulfillment of duty — and she had neglected nothing of her cycle of sweet labors — she had never felt the peculiar personal satisfaction that now refreshed her tired nerves.

  “This is mine,” she thought, tipping softly back in the swivel chair; “all that I’ve had was the joy — and the duty — of a ‘girl,’ a ‘mother,’ a ‘housekeeper’ — this is the joy and duty of Stella Widfield.”

  Mr. Tillotson had casually looked over one of her neatly paged manuscripts, his kind, rather amused and affectionate expression hardening, as she watched, into the coldly professional, and then kindling into a restrained enthusiasm.

  He ran over another, glanced at a third, and then laid them down on his knees and looked at her for a while in silence.

  Her eyes were eager, timid, hopeful; she did not speak.

  “You’ll have to let me take this stuff home,” he said; “it’s better than I thought. Not masterpieces — don’t let me deceive you — but it does look as if you had it in you to do something.”

  That was four months ago.

  He was perfectly right. The little things that Stella did were not masterpieces, but they were distinctive, original, new, and
caught the popular taste more suddenly than many a greater thing. Little sketches, scarce more, delicate but strong, describing common things, people and feelings, so that the average readers felt as if they had written it themselves.

  One or two in the “magazine section” of his paper, two or three in a popular weekly, and two taken, with warm praise, by a “real magazine,” as she called it — in four months, and with checks coming in that astonished her.

  But the difference inside was what astonished her the most. It was as if a cramped and overtended house had suddenly spread to a palace, a narrow city garden opened to the mountains and the sea.

  When she woke in the morning she had that cheery feeling of something new and pleasant, before the definite memory of it awoke, the always open prospect.

  At first she had brought all this bubbling joy to Morgan, as a matter of course, but to her puzzled surprise, he took only a perfunctory interest in it.

  “I’m delighted, my dear, of course — delighted. Awfully proud of you,” he had said. “But I don’t need any new cause for being ‘proud’ of my wife — I was before.”

  And while he was never openly indifferent, his interest seemed so halfhearted, almost forced, that in spite of herself she drew off a little and solaced the hurt in the joy of working.

  “Why should he care?” she thought, philosophically; “I don’t care about leather — not really, only on his account. I’ll not bother him anymore.”

  She told him, of course, of each little triumph, each fresh upward step, and he had to admire the desk — though he seemed somehow to resent it, too.

  In some way his dislike of the “wordsmith,” as he called him, was connected with the desk; and Stella’s frequent mention of Mr. Tillotson, her gratitude for his advice and help, did not shake this arbitrary idea.

  Associate feelings cling close in spite of facts.

  Morgan came in one afternoon, a bit early, his hands full of letters and papers.

  “Mail enough for an editor!” he rather resentfully thought, depositing it on the desk. “Stella! O Stella!”

  Stella was not there, evidently. He looked in her room, in the dining room. She was not in the house, apparently. The tea table stood there in all its careful imitation of the English meal, and he regarded it gloomily.

  “No wife — and no tea. Well, I’ll make it myself,” he muttered a little irritably.

  He was a trifle tired that day — things had been going a bit awry. He had had to cordially agree with various warm praises of that last thing of Stella’s, and somehow found it difficult.

  He wanted to say to them, “What difference does it make? Anybody can write good stuff nowadays. But she is my wife — and that’s enough.” He did not say these things, even to himself, but that was the way he felt.

  He dragged out the wicker table, tried to light the spirit lamp and found it empty; filled it from the little long-nosed copper can, and managed to spill some on the rug. This he hastily mopped up with his handkerchief, lest it discolor the hardwood floor, and Alicia coming in, in her neighborly way, found him squatting there.

  “O, Morgan, how nice!” she said with an air of pleased surprise.

  He continued to wipe up the wet spot, remarking dryly, “What’s nice?”

  “To find you in, of course, and also a chance to be useful. Let me — please.”

  She was going to seat herself in Stella’s pet rocking chair and pour the tea for him, but he forestalled her.

  “No, thank you, Cousin Alicia; I’m doing very nicely. You shall wait on me when I call at your house. Allow me—”

  He offered her biscuit — cake — thin bread and butter. He made tea, wiggling the fat little tea ball in the cup, and gave her some.

  Alicia scorned it. “It’s not hot,” she said. “The kettle hasn’t boiled.”

  He received this suggestion with indifference. “Oh, well. It will boil sooner or later — then you can have some that’s hotter. Just wait a bit.”

  But Alicia was not pleased.

  “Indeed, I’m not going to. You don’t deserve to be visited — you’re not a bit nice. I’ll go up and make some good tea in my own little teapot.”

  She stood a moment, lingering prettily, her hand on the back of the chair. “You’d better come up and have some of mine,” she suggested.

  “Thanks,” he said, poking at the wick of the lamp, “I think I’ll stay down.”

  She came a little nearer. “It’ll be very nice tea!”

  But all she received was, “This is good enough for me, thank you.”

  Then she sat down again, plumply.

  “Why, Cousin Morgan! What is the matter with you lately? You used to be so nice to me — and now you are so — so—”

  “So what, Alicia? Here — it is boiling now.” He filled the teapot and offered her some.

  She waved the cup aside. “So unkind. You used to sit by me and talk — or not talk. You used to say I rested you!” Her big blue eyes were quite wet, her soft, amiable mouth drooped pathetically.

  “So you did, Alicia,” he agreed pleasantly.

  “And now I don’t? Is that it?” she persisted, with such apparent distress that he hastily reassured her.

  “Why, you’re all right, my dear cousin — always were. If I’ve been rude to you, I’m sure I’m very sorry.” And he put sugar and cream in the cup she had rejected, and tasted it approvingly.

  “Oh, no, you’re not rude — but—” (he was sipping his tea calmly) “but I feel as if you didn’t care to have me rest you anymore!”

  “My dear Alicia!” Morgan sat up, looking a little nettled. “Don’t be absurd! You can’t expect a man to want to rest — or be rested — all the time, can you?”

  “Oh, you are cross!” she protested; “I’ll take myself off till you are better natured.” She started up, still rather reluctantly, and looking back.

  “Just as you say, my dear Alicia!” he placidly agreed. She went out with some feeling, and Morgan, still sipping his tea, glanced over the evening paper.

  He heard the bell, and looked up eagerly, but it was only Mrs. MacAvelly, whom he rose to greet.

  “All by yourself?” she said cheerily. “Stella is more uncertain in her habits than she used to be, certainly. How often I’ve found her at this time, sitting in that very chair, waiting for you! And you’re making tea all alone by yourself — how clever of you.”

  “Not at all,” he replied almost tartly; “I’d much rather my wife made it for me. But she is so — busy these days. I’ve had to learn how.”

  She gazed at him in kindly amusement. “Do you good, Mr. Widfield, do you good! Men are much happier for not being fussed over — for having to wait on themselves.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” he demurred. “There is great comfort in being waited on.”

  Mrs. MacAvelly praised his independence, however, and went on, chatting agreeably of her admiration for “dear Stella’s work.”

  His sympathy was a little constrained, but he agreed that she had certainly shown unsuspected talent.

  “And she has done wonders for my friend, Mr. Smith,” pursued his guest, with a momentary glance that showed her quite clearly his lack of enthusiasm in that direction.

  “Yes, I dare say she has,” he dryly admitted. There was a somewhat inimical silence, which was broken by the sudden and cheerful return of Cousin Alicia, Colonel Cushing rather protestingly in tow.

  “You wouldn’t come up and take my good tea,” cried Alicia, “so I’ve brought Papa down to have some of yours, even if it is bad. Isn’t it a shame, Mrs. MacAvelly — the poor man having to make his own tea!”

  “She would have it so, Morgan,” Colonel Cushing was protesting. “Women must have their wills while they live because they make none when they die,” and he bowed to Mrs. MacAvelly as if offering a compliment.

  “That old saw is certainly a back number, Colonel Cushing — you’ll have to drop it,” said Morgan, as he drew up chairs and offered cups of tea, the
first cool and strong from standing, the second hot and weak from a sudden influx of hot water. “Make yourselves comfortable. Stella’ll be in a minute, I’m sure.”

  But she did not come, though they lingered, conversing amiably, until Mrs. MacAvelly spoke of a huge book on the City of Minos she had received, a surprising present, and urged that they come and look at it. Colonel Cushing was the only one who accepted this invitation, and he looked rather as if he did so to “oblige a lady.”

  “Thus are we led about, Morgan, my boy,” he said, putting down his cup. “Women’s wills and winter’s winds change oft, eh?”

  “I don’t think that’s a very nice one, Colonel,” the lady objected. Whereat he offered to amend with “Women, wind and fortune are ever changing.”

  “If I were you, Mrs. MacAvelly, I’d change again, and cancel my invitation,” suggested Morgan, lazily.

  “No, indeed; that would only prove him right. Come along, Colonel — perhaps you will find some ancient Cretan proverbs against women.”

  Alicia watched them go, nibbling a little cake with small, childish bites around the circumference.

  “Now we are cozy again,” she said.

  At this he looked about, dispassionately replying, “Yes, it is a cozy place, I think.”

  “It doesn’t seem so homelike with that great desk in it, though. Looks like an office!” She rose and drifted about the room with an air of gentle curiosity, touching Stella’s heap of mail matter with a pink inquiring finger. “What a lot of letters!” then drifting back again. “I shouldn’t think you’d like to have your home look like an office, Morgan.”

  To this he paid scant attention, merely, “I don’t mind — I don’t think it does, really,” and turned a page of his paper.

  She sat watching him for some moments. They were on terms of almost lifelong intimacy. She had always insisted that he should read and loaf and do just as he liked — that she did enjoy seeing her friends comfortable. But she also enjoyed comforting them, and there was a new sense of indifference about this pleasant cousin. She was very fond of him, and had grown of late years to believe that certain unexpressed roughnesses in his path of life were smoothed by her light touch.