At No. 1 Major Street these three families undertook this method of living, with the usual results of disappointment and failure. Mrs. Stevens had a daughter by a former marriage, Harriet White, and for her I conceived my second devout affection. As with the Talcott child, this expressed itself in giving her what I best loved, my three chiefest treasures, a garnet ring, a gold cross, an old mother-of-pearl cardcase — the only lovely, precious things I had. It now looks to me a little grasping, to take such presents from a child, but these were accepted.
It was a strange group, immersed in the mystic doctrine of “Correspondence,” according to which everything in the Bible means something else; floating and wallowing about in endless discussion of proofless themes and theories of their own, with a sort of revelation occasionally added by Mrs. Stevens, the real leader. They would sit around the table long after meals were over, interminably talking on matters of religion and ethics.
My brother and I got from this atmosphere a settled distaste for anything smacking of the esoteric or occult; but it had one advantage, to me at least, that of hearing ideas discussed as the important things of life, instead of gossip and personalities.
Our great-aunts in Hartford died, one of them leaving her half of their tiny property to us children. Mother raised money on Thomas’s share and sent us to good private schools.
Mine was kept by Mrs. Fielding and Miss Chase, in the Music Hall building. So behold me at fourteen, earnest and eager, beginning again at school. It was always beginning again my bits of schooling, as I never had time to finish anywhere. Teachers were always impressed, at first, by the natural intelligence manifested, and the unusual array of general information, but later they were disappointed. I never did very well in school studies.
The trouble was that the methods pursued seemed to me wrong, a perception correct enough, as later knowledge showed, but interfering with academic progress. A tendency to versify, giving recitations in history, grammar, once even in arithmetic, in rhyme, was perhaps indicative of future powers, but no help in examinations. There was one instance of what seemed to me an injustice, for which I carried a grudge for twenty years or more. In grammar I was in the infant class, never having studied it before. One of the exercises given was to rewrite from memory a fable of Æsop’s previously read to us. This I did in verse, clearly and correctly. The paper was perfect, but I had made three little curly lines under my signature, and for that the teacher took off half a point, and I just missed the only 100 per cent I ever came so near.
In 1897 or so, giving a lecture in Providence in that same Music Hall, my old grammar teacher was present, and when she came up, pleased and proud, to congratulate me, I brought up this incident of 1875 for which she expressed regret. Nice temper to have.
Not particularly good in any study as far as I recall, unless in elocution, in which I delighted. This abstruse art was taught by a slender little gentleman named Wentworth, who trained us in “Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight” and “The Brides of Enderby.”
Poetry was always a delight to me. I learned it by heart, miles of it, from early childhood, and at this time used to keep a book open on my bureau and learn long poems while combing my hair, such as “Horatius at the Bridge,” “The Rhyme of the Duchess May,” and “The Letter L.” That had over two hundred stanzas, quatrains only.
I was not afraid of dramatic expression, exulted in it, and having always liked tongue-twisters, followed the elocutionist’s exercises with ease and pleasure. One of these was to give the word “strangledst,” leaving off one consonant after another to the last “t” and then building it up again, sounding each one distinctly. “Gldst,” pronounced clearly, is quite a task for even a nimble tongue. We were set to whispering, a loud clear whisper, and the little man said to me: “Your whisper could be heard in Music Hall,” to my great pride.
Calisthenics, taught by an upright young Dr. Brooks, strongly appealed to me. I became so erect that I fairly leaned backward, and marched with such conscientious precision that he called me out as an object lesson, to march around with him.
Dr. Studley, a woman physician, gave a lecture to the school, on hygiene, which made an indelible impression on my earnest mind. Forthwith I took to “dress reform,” fresh air, cold baths, every kind of attainable physical exercise. To that one lecture is to be attributed the beginning of a life-long interest in physical culture. Dress reform was a young movement then, it reached me in what were then called “chemiloons,” a wrist-and-ankle reaching garment of red flannel in winter, more merciful cotton in summer.
A little Latin I tried, with a more advanced class, but gave it up later, writing,
Farewell to thee, O Latin Class, no more with sisters dear,
The verbs I cram from Sum, I am, to Audio, I hear.
Farewell to thee, a long farewell! I shall forget with rapture
That Moneo ere meant Advise or Capio to capture.
The one real study which did appeal to me, deeply, was Physics, then called Natural Philosophy. Here was Law, at last; not authority, not records of questionable truth or solemn tradition, but laws that could be counted on and Proved. That was my delight, to know surely. There were experiments, and to those given I added more. When we were shown how a pen-knife, inserted in a lead pencil, slant-wise, near the point, would make it balance on the end of a finger, precariously leaning forward, I inserted two pen-knives, opposite one another, and made the pencil stand upright.
Adhesion, cohesion, torsion, the law of the screw, and the lever, the pendulum, and that crowning miracle, the law of the hydraulic press, these were meat and drink to me. Presently I made the observation that these laws had parallels in psychology. Friction produces heat, yes, in the bureau drawer that sticks and in the person pulling it. Friction, i.e., hindrance, interference, produces anger as naturally as heat. Action and reaction are equal, yes, and oppression produces rebellion. The law of inertia, both active and passive, operates in mind as well as matter, and from the hydraulic press mystery — that inward pressure of one pound on one inch of water in a closed vessel results in outward pressure of one pound on every inch of that vessel — I derived the commensurate law that strength developed in the small matters of everyday life will serve to meet the greatest tests in larger need. One could practice courage on mice for instance, and find it ready to use on lions.
Outside of schooling, what? Not much. Mother had put upon me two more prohibitions, I was to read no novels and to have no intimate friends.
The very greatest and most rare delight was the theater. There was given in the Providence Opera House, about the time we moved in town, a most successful amateur performance called “The Frog Opera.” It was arranged by an early friend of my mother’s and acted in by many of her friends and relatives; we children were allowed to go. Then and there I developed a grand passion for the Prince, a tall, imposing youth whose success in the part resulted in his becoming a professional actor.
This was a most remote and visionary affair, for I never met the young man, and, as I heard him spoken of disparagingly by those who knew him, never much wanted to. But I was used to living on visions, and one sight of him on the street or in a theater lobby thrilled me for a week. All my scanty allowance, whatever gifts I acquired, every cent was saved to buy theater tickets — for three, mother and Thomas had to go too. Fortunately the cost was but a dollar then. Not only did I take rapturous delight in the plays, but the Prince was sure to be hanging about, there was a sort of stag-line in the lobby watching the audience come out.
I chanced to read the life of one of our best actresses, and author of one of the first good American plays. Of course I wished to be an actress, and later experience has shown that I should have been a good one, but also that such a life would never have satisfied me.
Another pleasure well remembered of those years was a visit to Uncle Edward Hale in Roxbury. Father was, I think, boarding with his sister then, he was at the head of the Boston Public Library, and she wished to keep
alive his interest (if any) in his children. Thomas and I went down one Christmas time, and were most affectionately received by a whole flock of cousins, from dear Ellen, the second mother of the family, down to charming little Robert. Here, for the first time, I saw how lovely family life could be. Instead of teasing and ridicule here was courtesy and kindness. Arthur, the eldest, was playing chess with me when little Robert came up and interrupted. I expected the big brother would shove him off, perhaps harshly, but he put his arm around him, tenderly — it was quite a revelation to me. My brother and I “had fun” together, we should have missed each other no doubt, but tenderness — never. Never from any one, and I did want it.
Two proposed inventions I had visualized in my mind before leaving Rehoboth, one a sort of bicycle, with wheels, parallel, the seat and pedaling apparatus between; the other a color concert, such as we have seen approximated in recent years. My theory was that the colors of the spectrum and the notes of the octave could be connected, so that on touching a piano key, a spark was lit behind a jar of tinted water, and the color thrown on a screen. For piano music a rain of falling sparks, but for the organ I wanted it to be in rolling clouds.
The vivid attraction of the “Frog Prince” did not interfere with my heart’s devotion to Miss White. With her I studied shorthand with Mr. Hemperly, the pale and slender young Swedenborgian minister. This art was forgotten later, but proved amusing for several years, as when my cousin Arthur Hale and I played chess, by post-card, in shorthand.
Books of travel I was allowed, and made pleasant acquaintance with Bayard Taylor. Some historical novels were permitted, for I enjoyed the Rev. William Ware’s book about Zenobia, and one about Egypt. Also, iniquitously, I read the Wandering Jew. This had been long forbidden, yet with profound confidence in our obedience we were allowed to look at the pictures, most exciting pictures, by Tony Johannot. I do not doubt that adolescent curiosity was an influence in this signal piece of disobedience — the only one I recall in those years — yes, and the only one I can think of before that was also reading something forbidden. I read the two volumes through, standing before the book-case and promptly looking for another book if mother came near. But I was completely disappointed in finding anything which seemed to me evil. We waste a great deal of anxiety in protecting children from things they do not see at all.
Aside from this misdemeanor I was bent on doing my best, and eager for self-improvement. Being a somewhat hollow-chested little New Englander, probably from much reading, mother was constantly urging me to “hold my shoulders back” — it was many years later when I learned that lifting the sternum is the real need. I strove to comply, holding back those slender shoulders till they fairly ached, but the following reaction left them more drooping than before. Observing this I made my first real discovery in practical psychology, working out a system of self-development which is of genuine value. At the time I could by no means realize the basic truth of the process, save only that I found it worked.
My formula was simple: “Do it whenever you think of it, stop before you are tired.”
The first difficulty in acquiring any new self-determined habit is to think of it, the second to make it easy and unfailing. Application of nerve force along unaccustomed lines soon exhausts the carrying power, time must pass before we can repeat the effort, and more effort is required to produce the same result. We are tired, discouraged, give it up. But if, in undertaking the process, at every flicker of remembrance the effort is made, strongly, of set purpose, and then deliberately withdrawn while yet unwearied, there is no reaction, the thought recurs at shorter intervals, the effort may be longer maintained, the victory is as good as won. By “rule of thumb” I discovered this, and practised it successfully, from straightening those shoulders to many years of progressive improvement, physical and mental.
And then occurred one of the major events of a lifetime, making an indelible impression, opening an entire new world of action. Scene, the little bedroom I shared with mother. I was sitting up in bed, my hands clasped around my knees. She stood by the bureau, combing her hair, holding it at the crown of her head in one hand while she combed. The kerosene lamp threw moving shadows on the ceiling.
“You must do it,” said mother, “or you must leave me.” “It” was to apologize to Mrs. Stevens — for a thing I had not done. The alleged offense was this: there was a grape-vine in the back yard. Mrs. S. had eaten a bunch of grapes from it, I, sitting at a window, had observed her. She, being something of a psychic, asserted that I had thought harsh things of her — that as one of a coöperative group she had no right to eat those grapes. I denied having thought anything about it, which was true, but mother, being greatly under this woman’s influence, believed her, and insisted that I apologize. This I declined to do. Hence the ultimatum.
“You must leave me” was no threat of being cast off deliberately, it was an expression of her profound belief that the only modus vivendi for a child with a parent was absolute obedience. Never before had my own conscience come squarely against hers. To apologize for what I had not done was flatly dishonest, a lie, it was wrong.
So I sat there and made answer, slowly, meaning to say the first part, and the last part saying itself: “I am not going to do it, — and I am not going to leave you — and what are you going to do about it?”
Doubtless she was horrified beyond words at this first absolute rebellion from a hitherto docile child. She came over and struck me. I did not care in the least. She might do what she would, it could not alter my decision. I was realizing with an immense illumination that neither she, nor any one, could make me do anything. One could suffer, one could die if it came to that, but one could not be coerced. I was born....
CHAPTER IV. BUILDING A RELIGION
THE incident passed with no visible consequences at the time, but the great discovery remained, and there followed a period of mental turmoil, with large ultimate results. If I was a free agent what was I going to do with my freedom? If I could develop character as I chose, what kind of character was I going to develop? This at fifteen.
The Major Street group broke up in February, 1876. We children were not told why. School was finally ended for me. We spent a month with mother’s half-sister, Mrs. Caroline Robbins, on Vernon Street, another with Mrs. Peck, our opposite neighbor in Rehoboth, thereafter settling again in Providence on the second floor of a two-family house on Manning Street, just east of Gano. I think father must have contributed to the support of his children at this time, however irregularly. More than once I saw mother without any money or any definite prospect of any.
The lack of money never impressed me at all. Not only were we used to it, but in the literature we fed on, as Louisa Alcott, Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney, the Youth’s Companion, etc., the heroes and heroines were almost always poor, and good, while the rich people were generally bad. It was many years before I was wholly assured that rich people could be just as good as poor ones.
We lived in this small flat, four rooms, with two on the top floor and half-rights in the cellar and yard, for about five years. Thomas presently went to the Massachusett Institute of Technology, father paying.
Out of much consideration I finally came to a definite decision as to my duty. The old condition of compelled obedience was gone forever. I was a free agent, but as such I decided that until I was twenty-one I would still obey. I saw that mother was probably wiser than I, that she had nothing to live for but us two children and would probably suffer much if we were rebellious, and that, furthermore, she had a right to her methods of education, while we were minors. So I told her that I would obey her until I was of age, and then stop. Dismissing this matter, I then marked out a line of work.
In my seventeenth year I wrote to my father, saying that I wished to help humanity, that I realized I must understand history, and where should I begin. He was always effective in book advice, none better, and sent me a fine list of reliable works. I have the little scrap of paper yet, in his handwriting —
Rawlinson’s
Five Great Empires
Rawlinson’s
Sixth Great Empire
Rawlinson’s
Seventh Great Empire
Dawkins,
Cave Hunting
Fergusson,
Rude Stone Monuments
Lubbock,
Prehistoric Times and Origins of Civilization
Tylor,
Early History of Mankind
Tylor,
Primitive Culture
Also he sent a large number of Popular Science Monthlies, a valuable magazine then, in the hands of the Youmans, carrying the still fresh discussion of evolution, such works as Andrew White’s Warfare of Religion and Science, the general new urge in studies of natural law.
This was the beginning of a real education, always allowing for the excellent foundation laid by mother in early years. I now read connectedly, learning the things I most wanted to know, in due order and sequence, none of them exhaustively but all in due relation; enough of astronomy to get a clear idea of the whirling wonder of the earth’s formation, enough of geology to grasp the visible age of this small world and the fossil evidence of evolution.
Humanity was always the major interest, the sciences held useful as they showed our origin, our lines of development, the hope and method of further progress. Here the path was clear; biology, anthropology, ethnology, sociology. History soon showed itself as an amusingly limited and partial account of what had happened; Lecky was helpful here. I presently joined “The Society for the Encouragement of Studies at Home,” headed by Miss Tichnor of Boston. My courses were in Ancient History, a year with the Ancient Hebrews, one on Egypt, another with several early peoples, all intensely interesting. At one of our annual meetings, in the house still standing on the corner of Park and Beacon streets, Boston, we were addressed by Oliver Wendell Holmes, a small, delightful man.
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 249
