Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  ‘I know the facts, of course,’ her sister agreed. ‘You wrote me of your engagement, sent wedding cards and baby-cards, and all — and photographs of everybody. But you never were much of a letter-writer — you always did talk better than you wrote, Elsie. What I want you to talk about is first your happiness — and, second, your superiority.’

  ‘My superiority! Why, Irma! What do you mean?’

  ‘Just a little air of “Poor Irma” I detect about you — that’s all. I’m perfectly well; I’m doing nicely with my prunes and apricots; I want to know why you think you’re happier than I am.’

  Elsie met the affectionate quizzical gray eyes with the peaceful conviction of her own soft blue ones. ‘You certainly know that, Irma. You’ve seen Hugh — and the children.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen Hugh and the children — they are dears — I cheerfully agree to that. But what I want is the story of your life.

  Come — I’ve been a day at your house and here a week, getting acquainted all over again — and this is the first clear safe quiet time we’ve had together. You’re just as sweet as ever, and I love to see you so contented — you haven’t changed a bit, for all your “Hugh and the children.”’

  ‘There isn’t anything to tell, Irma, but what you know. Hugh came the year you left. It helped me not to miss you so cruelly. We couldn’t marry for some time — he had to save, and I waited. But I was glad to — I’d have waited till now for Hugh.... Then we had to struggle along for a good while — you knew that, too, and often helped, bless you! The children came pretty soon — and then we lost little Bobby... and the dear baby that never even lived to be named.’ The blue eyes filled, but she looked at the gay young tennis players again and turned bravely back to her sister. ‘There was waiting, and work, and going without — there always has been a lot of planning and some sacrifices, of course. But there has been love, always, and the blessed children... even the grief — we had together.... It is life, Irma, it is living — and if I seem to say, “Poor Irma!” — which I deny, it is only on that account. A woman who hasn’t married, who isn’t a mother — I don’t care how successful she is — she hasn’t lived.’

  ‘I see,’ said Irma, somewhat drily. ‘I thought as much. I wanted you to say it, that’s all. And now will you answer me a few questions. How do you spend your time?’

  ‘My time?’ Elsie looked at her perplexedly. ‘Spend my time? Why, as any woman does.’

  ‘Yes, but specify, please — what do you do? Hour by hour — what does your day mean to you?’

  The conscienceless novelist behind the green slats had been half dozing on the little hard sofa in the corner, and carrying on a half-hearted skirmish with the rudiments of ordinary people’s principles. Now he trampled on those principles, kicked them out entirely, drew forth a worn little note-book, and devoted himself with whole-hearted enthusiasm to the business of listening. ‘Invaluable material!’ he murmured inaudibly.

  ‘I don’t know as I ever thought of it that way,’ Elsie said slowly.

  ‘Well — think of it that way now,’ her sister urged. ‘You get up at — shall we say seven? What do you do — with brain and hand and heart, all day?’

  ‘I — why, I keep house. You know!’ protested Elsie.

  ‘Do you make the fire? Get breakfast? Wash and iron?’

  ‘No indeed — of course not. That was one reason Hugh waited. He said his wife was not to be his servant,’ quoted Mrs Maxwell proudly.

  ‘I see. Well — what do you do?’

  ‘Why — when the children were little there was more to do than there is now — of course, night and day too.’

  ‘You had no nurse?’

  ‘No — we couldn’t afford that. Besides, I preferred to care for my children myself — it is a mother’s sacred duty, I think. And a pleasure,’ she added carefully.

  Irma looked at her sister with tender sympathy. She loved her far too much to suggest that for this sacred duty she had never prepared herself by either study or practice, and that in performance of it she had lost fifty per cent, of her children. That would have been cruel — and useless.

  ‘We’ll skip the babies, Elsie. Your youngest is fifteen. You haven’t had to spend many hours a day on them for ten years or so, now have you? Come — what do you do with your time? Twenty-four hours a day; eight out for sleep, one for toilet activities, two for three meals — that leaves thirteen. What do you do for a day’s work in thirteen hours?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s not that!’ protested Elsie. ‘It can’t be!’

  ‘Irma produced pencil and paper. ‘What time do you get up — seven?’

  ‘Ye — es—’ agreed her sister, rather faintly.

  ‘Seven-thirty,’ wrote Irma. ‘Breakfast at eight?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘An hour to eat it?’

  ‘Oh, no — half an hour — the children have to get off — and Hugh. We’re always through by eight-thirty.’

  ‘What time is lunch?’

  ‘One o’clock — that doesn’t take long either — the children have to hurry — say half an hour.’

  ‘And dinner?’

  ‘Dinner’s at seven — Hugh is so often late. I’d like it at six-thirty — on account of the cook — but it’s seven.’

  ‘Well, now, my dear sister. I’ll give you your evening to play in; but you have from eight-thirty to one, and one-thirty to seven to account for — ten hours. A good working day — what do you do with it?’

  ‘Ten hours!’ Elsie would not admit it.

  ‘Ten hours — your own figures. I’ll give you another half-hour after breakfast, and after lunch — just to dawdle, read the paper, and so on, but that leaves nine. Now then, Elsie — speak up!’

  Elsie spoke up, a little warmly.

  ‘You can’t measure housekeeping that way — by hours. Sometimes it’s one thing and sometimes another. There is always something to do — always! And then there’s one thing you forget — people coming in — and my going out.’

  ‘Exercise — we’ll allow an hour for exercise — you don’t walk more than an hour a day, do you, sister?’

  ‘I don’t mean just walking — one hasn’t time to walk much. I mean calling — and shopping.’

  ‘And you haven’t any idea how many hours a day — or a week — you call — or shop?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I tell you it’s impossible to figure it out that way. And then when the children come home I have to be there.’ She grasped a thought, and lifted her head rather defiantly. ‘That’s what housekeeping is,’ she said proudly. ‘It’s being there!’

  ‘I see,’ said Irma, and wrote it down. (So did the novelist.) ‘I’ll stop quizzing you as to hours, child — it’s evident you never made a time-schedule in your life — much less kept one. Did you ever make a budget? Do you know, as a matter of fact, if your housekeeping is more or less efficient, more or less expensive, than your neighbors?’

  Elsie drew herself up, a little hurt. ‘I am sure nobody could be more economical than I am. Hugh always says I am such a good manager. I often make my house-dresses myself, and Betty’s; and I watch the sales—’

  ‘But you don’t know — nor Hugh — anything definite about it? Comparing with other families of the same size — on a similar amount?’

  ‘I’d like to know what you’re driving at, Irma. No — we neither of us has made any such calculation. No two families are alike. Each one is a law to itself — has to be. If I am satisfied — and Hugh is — whose business is it besides?’

  ‘Not mine,’ agreed Irma cheerfully. ‘Excuse me, dear, if I’ve offended you. I wanted to get at the real working of your life if I could, to compare with mine. Let’s take a new tack. Tell me — have you kept up your physical culture?’

  ‘I have not,’ said Elsie, a little sharply. ‘Motherhood interferes with gymnastics.’

  ‘Are you as strong and active as you used to be?’

  ‘I am not,’ still a little sharply. ‘You don’t seem
to understand, Irma — I suppose you can’t, not being a mother — that if you have children you can’t have everything else.’

  ‘Have you kept up your music? Or your languages?’

  ‘No — for the same reason.’

  ‘Have you learned anything new? Now, Elsie, don’t be angry — what I’m getting at is this: You have spent twenty years in one way, I in another. You have certain visible possessions and joys which I have not. You have also had experiences — griefs — cares — which I have not. I’m just trying to see if besides these you have other gains, or if these are the only gains to offset what I may show.’

  ‘I’m not angry with you, Irma — how could I be? You are my only sister, and you’ve always been good to me. I’ll make you all the concessions you wish. Marriage is a mutual compromise, dear. A man gives up his freedom and a woman gives up hers. They have their love — their home — their children. But nobody can have everything.’

  ‘That’s a fact — I’ll grant you that, Elsie. But tell me one more thing — what do you look forward to?’

  ‘I don’t look forward,’ protested Elsie stoutly. ‘I don’t believe in it. “Sufficient unto the day—”’

  ‘“Is the evil thereof”?’ asked Irma. ‘Please do look forward. You are forty-two. You’ll live, I hope, to be twice that. What do you expect to accomplish in the next forty years?’ There was a deeper note in her voice.

  Elsie dropped her work and looked at her, a little shaken.

  ‘As long as you have lived before — and no preliminary childhood to wade through! From now on, full grown, experienced, with your home, your happiness, your motherhood achieved; with your housekeeping surely no great burden by this time. With no more children coming and these two fairly grown — they’ll be off your hands entirely soon — college — business — marriage. Then you won’t have to “be there” so much, will you? What are you going to do — with forty years of life?’

  ‘I may not live—’ suggested Elsie, rather as if it were an agreeable alternative.

  ‘And you may. We’re a long-lived lot, all of us. And you know motherhood really adds to the chances of longevity — if you don’t die at it. I’ll excuse you from the last ten though; after seventy you can rock all the time. Call it thirty years, ten hours a day — or nine — or eight — why Elsie — don’t you even want to do anything?’

  Elsie gave a little nervous laugh. ‘I feel like quoting from Potash and Perlmutter,’ she said, “‘Whadda y’ mean do anything?” Come, you leave off questioning me and let’s hear all the fine things you’ve been doing — you never would write about yourself.’

  Irma rose and walked softly, smoothly, up and down the piazza, watched with slanting eagerness by the eyes behind the slats. She came back and stood near her sister, leaning against the railing.

  ‘All right — I’ll make up for it now. And in the first place, Elsie, I don’t want you to think I minimize your happiness — it is a great big splendid slice of life that you’ve had and I haven’t. I’m sorry I’ve missed it — I’d like to have had that too. Well — here’s my record:

  ‘I went to California as you know at twenty-one. Sort of governess-companion. All of our people protested — but I was twenty-one — they couldn’t stop me. I went because I wanted to grow — and I have grown. I studied the place, the people, the opportunities. I kept at work, saved my salary, added to my capacities. Took that chance to go to Europe with the Cheeseboro kids — saw a lot — learned a lot — got three languages, a world of experience — and a good bit of money. That was at twenty-four.

  ‘Came back to the coast and invested my money in a small private school business.’

  ‘You gave me some of it, you dear thing,’ Elsie interrupted, affectionately.

  ‘Oh, well — that was natural. I had enough left to start. I did well with the school, and set up a sort of boarding-school — a health-and-educational stunt, up in the foot-hills. Bought land up there — a fine breezy mesa it is, with an artesian well of its own.

  ‘I worked — but it’s work I love. Built on, enlarged my staff, cautiously. Added a sort of winter camp for adults — not invalids. By the time I was thirty I had quite a place up there, a lovely home of my own all by itself on a sort of promontory — with such a garden! O Elsie — you’re coming out to see me some day — all of you!

  ‘Then I went very cautiously, used my accumulating experience, invested wisely and slowly. Things move rather quickly out there, but common sense keeps on being useful. As to money I’m very comfortable indeed, and may be rich — rich enough. All sweet, safe, honestly-earned money — my own.

  ‘But that’s the least of it. What I’m gladdest of is the living. The kind of work I’ve done has helped people — lots of people — especially children. I’ve been a sort of foster-mother to hundreds of them, you see, some fifteen years, averaging twenty new ones a year — that’s three hundred, besides those in the first five beginning years.

  ‘Also — I adopted some.’

  Elsie started. ‘And never said a word about it!’

  ‘No — I wanted to see how it would turn out. But I’ve got four I call my own — took ’em as babies, you know. They’re a splendid lot. Two about the age of Tom and Betty — two younger — I’ll show you their pictures presently.

  ‘Personally, physically, I mean, I’m a hundred per cent, stronger and more efficient than I used to be. I’ve trained — years and years of it — in sunlight and mountain air. It’s not just strength, but skill. I can climb mountains, ride, shoot, fence, row, swim, play golf, tennis, billiards, dance like a youngster — or a professional. I’m more alive, literally, than I was at twenty. I have a good car and can run it as well as the man.

  ‘Then I know more — I’ve had plenty of time to study. The town is only a half-hour run — the city about an hour.

  ‘I belong to clubs, classes, societies. I’m a citizen, too — I can vote now. I begin to have ambitions of bigger service by and by — widening and deepening as I get older. I have plans for when I’m fifty — sixty — seventy.

  ‘As to prunes and apricots — they are growing well — pay well, too. I have a little cannery of my own — and a little settlement of working people near it, and a creche there for the women to tuck the babies in while they work — a jewel of a creche, mind you. And I’m promoting all manner of industries among the women. I’ve got plans — oh, I couldn’t begin to tell you of my plans — !’

  ‘You never did,’ said Elsie slowly. ‘I — I never dreamed you had spread out so. How splendid of you, Irma!’

  ‘It isn’t what I’ve done that keeps me so happy,’ mused her sister. ‘It’s the things I’m going to do! The widening horizon! Every year I feel stronger, braver, see things more clearly. Life is so — glorious!

  ‘You see, Elsie dear, I have had the babies to love and care for, even if not mine born — they were babies — and I do love them. I have a home, too, a lovely one, with comfort and beauty and peace — and space, too. The one thing I haven’t got is the husband — there you are ahead. But I’m not wearing the willow, sister. Life is big enough to bring endless happiness, even without that. Don’t you ever show me that “Poor Irma!” look again — now, will you?’

  ‘No—’ said Elsie, sitting very quiet, ‘I never will.’

  There was a hop at the Hotel that night.

  Elsie sat among the matrons, watching her son and daughter frisk with the young people.

  Irma, dressed to quiet perfection, danced; danced so well that girls, half her age, were envious of her partners.

  ‘What a woman!’ said the unprincipled novelist to himself before he danced with her.

  ‘Which is the quickest route to Southern California?’ he inquired, after he had danced with her.

  A PARTNERSHIP

  AFTER the Baby was married — not a real baby, of course, but a girl of twenty-two who could never persuade her parents to call her anything but ‘Baby’ — Mrs Haven fell to cleaning house.
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br />   She set her teeth, put clamps on her heart, and cleaned house from garret to cellar, inclusive. It was so much bigger than it had ever been before, that house. When they moved in, after quite outgrowing their first one, there had been six of them, and a cook and a second girl and a nurse-maid besides. Sometimes there was a trained nurse also, in serious illness. Sometimes there were guests. As the children grew bigger and enjoyed the big house and big yard as children should, they seemed to multiply by some infantile magic into forty children at once — they and their young friends.

  Mrs Haven had so completely given her life to her children after the fashion of conscientious American mothers (who can afford it) that she had never once thought of them as an essentially transient possession.

  They had liberally appropriated the life she gave them, had grown up as children will, and were now most undeniably gone — all of them. Both boys in business in other cities; both girls married, in other cities, and Othello’s occupation gone — clean gone. Also, as she began to find with a pressing sense of loss-her topics of conversation were gone.

  She had always held the pleasant theory that marriage was a partnership. Of course it is, in parentage; and she had done her part, her royal share of love and care and service, as faithfully as Mr Haven had paid the bills. But now, as parents, the partnership was closed out. They were has-beens. They could, it is true, read the letters of their absent young people, and discuss their hopes and chances as far as these were confided to them. But talking over occasional letters is not a sufficiently engrossing occupation for really active parents.

  After the big house was antiseptically perfect, and four new ‘spare rooms’ left coldly inviting besides the old one, and the nurse’s room, and the nursery itself, Mrs Haven felt a little vacant. She turned to the subject of sewing then, being a busy practical woman. Everything in the line of clothing was put in order, old things cleared out and sent to the proper charities, Mr Haven’s wardrobe wisely scrutinized, her own made perfect — that took some time and was fairly interesting while it lasted.