Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  THE UNEXPECTED

  I

  ‘IT is the unexpected which happens,’ says the French proverb. I like the proverb, because it is true — and because it is French.

  Edouard Charpentier is my name.

  I am an American by birth, but that is all. From infancy, when I had a French nurse; in childhood, when I had a French governess; through youth, passed in a French school; to manhood, devoted to French art, I have been French by sympathy and education.

  France — modern France — and French art — modern French art — I adore!

  My school is the ‘pleine-aire,’ and my master, could I but find him, is M. Duchesne. M. Duchesne has had pictures in the Salon for three years, and pictures elsewhere, eagerly bought, and yet Paris knows not M. Duchesne. We know his house, his horse, his carriage, his servants and his garden-wall, but he sees no one, speaks to no one; indeed, he has left Paris for a time, and we worship afar off.

  I have a sketch by this master which I treasure jealously — a pencil sketch of a great picture yet to come. I await it.

  M. Duchesne paints from the model, and I paint from the model, exclusively. It is the only way to be firm, accurate, true. Without the model we may have German fantasy or English domesticity, but no modern French art.

  It is hard, too, to get models continually when one is but a student after five years’ work, and one’s pictures bring francs indeed, but not dollars.

  Still, there is Georgette!

  There, also, were Emilie and Pauline. But now it is Georgette, and she is adorable!

  ’Tis true, she has not much soul; but, then, she has a charming body, and ’tis that I copy.

  Georgette and I get on together to admiration. How much better is this than matrimony for an artist! How wise is M. Daudet!

  Antoine is my dearest friend. I paint with him, and we are happy. Georgette is my dearest model. I paint from her, and we are happy.

  Into this peaceful scene comes a letter from America, bringing much emotion.

  It appears I had a great-uncle there, in some northeastern corner of New England. Maine? No; Vermont.

  And it appears, strangely enough, that this northeastern great-uncle was seized in his old age with a passion for French art; at least I know not how else to account for his hunting me up through a lawyer and leaving me some quarter of a million when he died.

  An admirable great-uncle!

  But I must go home and settle the property; that is imperative. I must leave Paris, I must leave Antoine, I must leave Georgette!

  Could anything be further from Paris than a town in Vermont? No, not the Andaman Islands.

  And could anything be further from Antoine and Georgette than the family of great-cousins I find myself among?

  But one of them — ah, Heaven! some forty-seventh cousin who is so beautiful that I forget she is an American, I forget Paris, I forget Antoine — yes, and even Georgette! Poor Georgette! But this is fate.

  This cousin is not like the other cousins. I pursue, I inquire, I ascertain.

  Her name is Mary D. Greenleaf. I shall call her Marie.

  And she comes from Boston.

  But, beyond the name, how can I describe her? I have seen beauty, yes, much beauty, in maid, matron and model, but I never saw anything to equal this country girl. What a figure!

  No, not a ‘figure’ — the word shames her. She has a body, the body of a young Diana, and a body and a figure are two very different things. I am an artist, and I have lived in Paris, and I know the difference.

  The lawyers in Boston can settle that property, I find.

  The air is delightful in northern Vermont in March. There are mountains, clouds, trees. I will paint here a while. Ah, yes; and I will assist this shy young soul!

  ‘Cousin Marie,’ say I, ‘come, let me teach you to paint!’

  ‘It would be too difficult for you, Mr Carpenter — it would take too long!’

  ‘Call me Edouard!’ I cry. ‘Are we not cousins? Cousin Edouard, I beg of you! And nothing is difficult when you are with me, Marie — nothing can be too long at your side!’

  ‘Thanks, cousin Edward, but I think I will not impose on your good nature. Besides, I shall not stay here. I go back to Boston, to my aunt.’

  I find the air of Boston is good in March, and there are places of interest there, and rising American artists who deserve encouragement. I will stay in Boston a while to assist the lawyers in settling my property; it is necessary.

  I visit Marie continually. Am I not a cousin?

  I talk to her of life, of art, of Paris, of M. Duchesne. I show her my precious sketch.

  ‘But,’ says she, ‘I am not wholly a wood nymph, as you seem fondly to imagine. I have been to Paris myself — with my uncle — years since.’

  ‘Fairest cousin,’ say I, ‘if you had not been even to Boston, I should still love you! Come and see Paris again — with me!’ And then she would laugh at me and send me away. Ah, yes! I had come even to marriage, you see!

  I soon found she had the usual woman’s faith in those conventions. I gave her ‘Artists’ Wives.’ She said she had read it. She laughed at Daudet and me!

  I talked to her of ruined geniuses I had known myself, but she said a ruined genius was no worse than a ruined woman! One cannot reason with young girls!

  Do not believe I succumbed without a struggle. I even tore myself away and went to New York. It was not far enough, I fear. I soon came back.

  She lived with an aunt — my adorable little precisian! — with a horrible strong-minded aunt, and such a life as I led between them for a whole month!

  I call continually. I bury her in flowers. I take her to the theatre, aunt and all. And at this the aunt seemed greatly surprised, but I disapprove of American familiarities. No; my wife — and wife she must be — shall be treated with punctilious respect.

  Never was I so laughed at and argued with in my life as I was laughed at by that dreadful beauty, and argued with by that dreadful aunt.

  The only rest was in pictures. Marie would look at pictures always, and seemed to have a real appreciation of them, almost an understanding, of a sort. So that I began to hope — dimly and faintly to hope — that she might grow to care for mine. To have a wife who would care for one’s art, who would come to one’s studio — but, then, the models! I paint from the model almost entirely, as I said, and I know what women are about models, without Daudet to tell me!

  And this prudish New England girl! Well, she might come to the studio on stated days, and perhaps in time I might lead her gently to understand.

  That I should ever live to commit matrimony!

  But Fate rules all men.

  I think that girl refused me nine times. She always put me off with absurd excuses and reasons: said I didn’t know her yet; said we should never agree; said I was French and she was American; said I cared more for art than I did for her! At that I earnestly assured her that I would become an organ-grinder or a bank-clerk rather than lose her — and then she seemed downright angry, and sent me away again.

  Women are strangely inconsistent!

  She always sent me away, but I always came back.

  After about a month of this torture, I chanced to find her, one soft May twilight, without the aunt, sitting by a window in the fragrant dusk.

  She had flowers in her hand — flowers I had sent her — and sat looking down at them, her strong, pure profile clear against the saffron sky.

  I came in quietly, and stood watching, in a rapture of hope and admiration. And while I watched I saw a great pearl tear roll down among my violets.

  That was enough.

  I sprang forward, I knelt beside her, I caught her hands in mine, I drew her to me, I cried, exultantly: ‘You love me! And I — ah, God! how I love you!’

  Even then she would have put me from her. She insisted that I did not know her yet, that she ought to tell me — but I held her close and kissed away her words, and said: ‘You love me, perfect one, and I love you. The
rest will be right.’

  Then she laid her white hands on my shoulders, and looked deep into my eyes.

  ‘I believe that is true,’ said she; ‘and I will marry you, Edward.’

  She dropped her face on my shoulder then — that face of fire and roses — and we were still.

  II

  It is but two months’ time from then; I have been married a fortnight. The first week was heaven — and the second was hell!

  O my God! my wife! That young Diana to be but — ! I have borne it a week. I have feared and despised myself. I have suspected and hated myself. I have discovered and cursed myself. Aye, and cursed her, and him, whom this day I shall kill!

  It is now three o’clock. I cannot kill him until four, for he comes not till then.

  I am very comfortable here in this room opposite — very comfortable; and I can wait and think and remember.

  Let me think.

  First, to kill him. That is simple and easily settled.

  Shall I kill her?

  If she lived, could I ever see her again? Ever touch that hand — those lips — that, within two weeks of marriage —— —— ? No, she shall die!

  And, if she lived, what would be before her but more shame, and more, till she felt it herself?

  Far better that she die!

  And I?

  Could I live to forget her? To carry always in my heart a black stone across that door? To rise and rise, and do great work — alone!

  Never! I cannot forget her!

  Better die with her, even now.

  Hark! Is that a step on the stair? Not yet.

  My money is well bestowed. Antoine is a better artist than I, and a better man, and the money will widen and lighten a noble life in his hands.

  And little Georgette is provided for. How long ago, how faint and weak, that seems! But Georgette loved me, I believe, at least for a time — longer than a week.

  To wait — until four o’clock!

  To think — I have thought; it is all arranged!

  These pistols, that she admired but day before yesterday, that we practised with together, both loaded full. What a shot she is! I believe she can do everything!

  To wait — to think — to remember.

  Let me remember.

  I knew her a week, wooed her a month, have been married a fortnight.

  She always said I didn’t know her. She was always on the point of telling me something, and I would not let her. She seemed half repentant, half in jest — I preferred to trust her. Those clear, brown eyes — clear and bright, like brook water with the sun through it! And she would smile so. ’Tis not that I must remember.

  Am I sure? Sure! I laugh at myself.

  What would you call it, you — any man? A young woman steals from her house, alone, every day, and comes privately, cloaked and veiled, to this place, this den of Bohemians, this building of New York studios! Painters? I know them — I am a painter myself.

  She goes to this room, day after day, and tells me nothing.

  I say to her gently: ‘What do you do with your days, my love?’

  ‘Oh, many things,’ she answers; ‘I am studying art — to please you!’

  That was ingenious. She knew she might be watched.

  I say, ‘Cannot I teach you?’ and she says, ‘I have a teacher I used to study with. I must finish. I want to surprise you!’ So she would soothe me — to appearance.

  But I watch and follow, I take this little room. I wait, and I see.

  Lessons? Oh, perjured one! There is no tenant of that room but yourself, and to it he comes each day.

  Is that a step? Not yet. I watch and wait. This is America, I say, not France. This is my wife. I will trust her. But the man comes every day. He is young. He is handsome — handsome as a fiend.

  I cannot bear it. I go to the door. I knock. There is no response. I try the door. It is locked. I stoop and look through the key-hole. What do I see? Ah, God! The hat and cloak of that man upon a chair, and then only a tall screen. Behind that screen, low voices!

  I did not go home last night. I am here to-day — with these!

  That is a step. Yes! Softly, now. He has gone in. I heard her speak. She said: ‘You are late, Guillaume!’

  Let me give them a little time.

  Now — softly — I come, friends. I am not late!

  III

  Across the narrow passage I steal, noiselessly. The door is unlocked this time. I burst in.

  There stands my young wife, pale, trembling, startled, unable to speak.

  There is the handsome Guillaume — behind the screen. My fingers press the triggers. There is a sharp double report. Guillaume tumbles over, howling, and Marie flings herself between us.

  ‘Edward! One moment! Give me a moment for my life! The pistols are harmless, dear — blank cartridges. I fixed them myself. I saw you suspected. But you’ve spoiled my surprise. I shall have to tell you now. This is my studio, love. Here is the picture you have the sketch of. I am “M. Duchesne” — Mary Duchesne Greenleaf Carpenter — and this is my model!’

  IV

  We are very happy in Paris, with our double studio. We sometimes share our models. We laugh at M. Daudet.

  CICUMSTANCES ALTER CASES

  I

  ‘ARE you going to let a wretched prejudice like this stand against my love?’ he asked; ‘an empty impersonal sex-prejudice against a man’s lifelong devotion? You say you love me, and yet you won’t marry me because I don’t agree with you in all your ideas! A pretty kind of love!’

  ‘I am not defending my special variety of love,’ she answered, slowly. ‘I never pretended it was all absorbing, or everlasting, or in any way equal to a man’s lifelong devotion. I am, unfortunately, one of those much-berated New England women who have learned to think as well as feel; and to me, at least, marriage means more than a union of hearts and bodies — it must mean minds, too. It would be a never-ending grief to me, starvation and bitter pain, to have you indifferent or contemptuous to my most earnest thoughts and beliefs. You see, I should love you enough to care.’

  ‘Yes, I see! I see a great deal!’ he replied, walking over to the hearth and leaning his arm against the mantel. He seemed to borrow fire from the glowing coals, for he came back and began again with restrained intensity:

  ‘It is another instance of this cursed modem education! The women of to-day develop their minds until they are stronger than heart and body together — too strong to yield to a healthy love. And so they live, and so they die, and who is the better for it!’

  ‘My dear George, you feel so keenly that it makes you unjust. You are not fair to women. It is that, more than anything else, which stands between us. If you are not fair now, to your heart’s idol, your queen and all that, what would you be to your wife?’

  She leaned back against the dull bronze green of the great chair, a lovely picture in the soft firelight, and looked at him steadily. Youth; health and beauty were in the up-turned face, and the free fine curves of body and limb showed that modern education had trained something besides intellect.

  He turned over several things in his mind before replying. It was really difficult. Masculine habits of thought, dominant for centuries, were strong within him. He was a just man in most things, and he knew it. But his sense of chivalry and love for her moved him to soften what was most natural to say; and, under all, the individual soul could but admit some truth in her accusation.

  ‘I can’t talk any more on this theme to-night,’ he said at last. ‘But once convict me of an instance of clear injustice to your sex, and I will own you are right — and that it is wiser for us to live apart. Come, won’t you sing to me a little before I go?’

  ‘With all my heart,’ said she. ‘You see it is with all my heart, not my head, so we don’t quarrel over music!’

  He suppressed an impatient rejoinder, and they went to the piano.

  II

  George Saunders and his friend Howard Clarke — schoolmates, college chums,
and partners at law — were strolling the beach next day below the high bluff where stood the imposing ‘cottage’ of Hilda Warde.

  She was, as she had said, one of those New England women who are so disproportionately numerous that they cannot marry at home, while to take them away would go far toward depopulating the country.

  They are a singular race. Violating every law of woman’s existence according to the canons, they still live, and often present a favorable contrast to their married sisters in both health and happiness. As to usefulness, of course, they have none. No trifles in the way of personal achievement can counterbalance the delinquency of unmarried women. They live, and Hilda bade fair to finally join their ranks, for she was twenty-seven, travelled, cultured, experienced, and ‘peculiar.’

  Clarke had loved her, vainly, and gotten safely over it, much to his astonishment. Saunders had loved her at the same time, and did still — not wholly in vain, for she at least professed to love him; but still she would not marry.

  ‘Howard,’ he said, after they had strolled a gloomy mile, comforted only by their cigars, ‘do you think she cares for me or not?’

  ‘Doesn’t she say so?’ inquired Howard.

  ‘Yes, she says so, but she doesn’t act so. If a woman really loves, she doesn’t hesitate over a matter of opinion. There isn’t one woman in a hundred to-day, here at least, with a heart as big as a button! I am glad I am going abroad.’

  ‘Have you made up your mind when to start?’

  ‘I shall start to-night if I can’t get anything more definite from Hilda. I’ll take the early boat to Boston, and leave by the Wednesday steamer — the Ithuriel. I had a berth engaged with the privilege of countermanding, and only came down here in hopes—’ He broke off, and looked wearily out to sea.

  ‘It’s too bad, George!’ cried Howard. ‘There isn’t a woman in Christendom that’s worth the sacrifice you are making! You would have been one of the first lawyers in the country before this, and nobody knows what politically, if you hadn’t wasted these years on that heartless jilt! Look at that Ashford case you lost. I know why you lost it. Nothing on earth but sleeplessness and misery. It’s as bad as murder! Talk about justice! If women got the justice they are so anxious for, there wouldn’t be many of them left.’