* * * *
Mr. Aster tried to shun her all during the next day, in fact he had fell in love with Margot. He thought Verbena had been after him, and Verbena had thought the same, So there they were, but the truth came out at last. “What a fool I was, could not I have seen it?” Aster had said when being told. Verbena had tried to appear very much surprised when she heard of it. At the supper table they seemed embarrassed, but soon it was of the past, and they were on as good terms as before. The last Raymond excursion took two happy couples and an old gentleman for the east. What did he say? The rich inauspicious man said, “It was all right.”
Always there were things afoot for some local benefit in Pasadena. In the interest of establishing a public library, a prolonged fair or kirmess was held, wherein there were loan exhibits, shows, sales and booths of all sorts, for a week. I had a small booth with signs upon it such as, “Poetry made while you wait.” “Rondeaux ready in a moment.” “Try a triolet.” “Verses to order on any subject.” From this I anticipated considerable quick work, some fun and some money, but it met with absolutely no recognition from those Pasadenians — and I had but one order, from a transient visitor, a boy from Harvard.
One local undertaking I sought to promote was a sort of residence shop where women out of work — there were ever so many stranded women there, who had come with tuberculous relatives — too late — could fill the frequent need of other tourists for sewing and mending. This was good business and a double benefit, but it was too much for the residents to visualize, and fell through. I remember this well, because it, and the proposed magazine, came to a premature end on the same day. With my numb immunity to disappointments I took both blows with stoical indifference.
On February 21, 1891, Uncle Edward Everett Hale and Cousin Nellie arrived in Pasadena. It was a great joy to me to see some of “mine own people” again. He was most kind; I find in the diary, “Uncle Edward says, ‘You are getting to be a famous woman, my dear.’ Says ‘Similar Cases’ is ‘a great campaign document.’ “ He was kind enough to listen to one of my lectures, as a critic, and told me that I put too many ideas into it; that a sermon should have but one, and a lecture but two or three.
He was a friend of Edward Bellamy, and a Nationalist, said it was true Americanism. At my request he gave the Los Angeles group an address on the new faith, crowds attending, which was an immense pleasure to me.
Meanwhile, a call had come from San Francisco, where a brilliant and farseeing woman, Mrs. Emily Parkhurst, was organizing the Pacific Coast Woman’s Press Association. I was asked to join, railroad transportation was furnished to all delegates, Mrs. Parkhurst asked me to visit her, and on March 14th I went, with Katharine, to the city by the Golden Gate.
Uncle Edward was there also, and I received some reflected glory from his relationship. My paper read at the P.C.W.P.A. Convention made an impression, other engagements opened, both to write and speak.
Mrs. Parkhurst was more than kind. Her mother, Mrs. Swett, most thoughtfully invited little Katharine to stay with her in the country while I was so crowdingly occupied in town. The dear child went, and won golden opinions for her sweet reasonableness, at six. She was a very nice person, that child — and is yet.
When I returned from a few days with her there, I was amazed to find my picture in the windows, and that I had a “manager.” This young man had just arrived from Australia, with a theatrical troupe, was stranded, and as my name was prominent at the time, he thought he saw an opportunity. Mrs. Parkhurst thought so too, and I found myself booked for several lectures, at $50.00 each. I gave one or two, but as he did not give the money promised I refused to go on unless he paid up, and we parted without affection. He expressed himself with some virulence to the effect that I might be a writer, but that I should never make a lecturer.
CHAPTER X. OAKLAND
IN two years of work in Pasadena something had been accomplished. Verses widely quoted, not “poetry” in exalted sense, but living words; and enough in story and article to have already won some small market. The lecturing was a valuable asset, though fees were almost negligible still, as $5.00 for a paper at the Friday Morning Club of Los Angeles, $9.50 from the W.C.T.U. in San Francisco, and the little driblets from my Nationalist groups. But it was free expression of a growing philosophy, and a power of delivery which increased with use.
My Socialism was of the early humanitarian kind, based on the first exponents, French and English, with the American enthusiasm of Bellamy. The narrow and rigid “economic determinism” of Marx, with its “class consciousness” and “class struggle” I never accepted, nor the political methods pursued by Marxians. My main interest then was in the position of women, and the need for more scientific care for young children. As to women, the basic need of economic independence seemed to me of far more importance than the ballot; though that of course was a belated and legitimate claim, for which I always worked as opportunity offered. The first visit to San Francisco made a favorable impression, and some friends, even receiving some pleasant press comment. Colonel Irish, a prominent newspaper man, with the personal peculiarity of eschewing neck-ties, wrote something on California Literary Genius in which he said, “It seems to us that a genius has arisen here that may deserve the honor of compelling the definite beginning of a distinct character for California. Mrs. Stetson, to whom many have listened with raised spirits, and who has been read by more with emotions entirely new, is in our judgment the distinct product of the physical individuality of California.” (sic!) “It is quite impossible to foresee the further effects of environment upon this evident genius, and all that one can ask is the respect and kindliness of California to the promise that is in it.” (This is amusing in view of what California did give me.) Then he foretold the appearance of a distinct literary group like that of Boston, “all wrought out under the inspiration of this young priestess who has caught the spark and lighted the waiting lamp.”
Altogether, I felt that there was a better opening for my work than in the south. One other necessity drove me. My brother in Utah, with whom mother had been living, wrote that he could no longer keep her — it was my turn. This was something that had to be met. I borrowed the money to send for her, and she arrived in Oakland the same day I did.
At first we boarded, at 673 Grove Street, with a very pleasant woman, Mrs. Barrows. It was cheap enough. I find in the diary, “Board for month (this was for the three of us) $62.50,” and again, $63.00.” Debts I brought with me, owing my former landlord $35.00, and various people $20.00, $50.00 and $100.00. It was many a long year before there was no load of debt to carry.
On September 26th I faced the position: It was always my custom to put things on paper, hopes, purposes, difficulties — I could meet them better.
On Friday, Sept. 18th, I came here to live with Dora [I will call this new friend Dora, which is not her name.] Mother is with me also, and Katharine, of course. The pleasure in the new relation is that I now have some one to love me, and whom I love [This meant Dora]. It is a Home. The duties of the position are these; First as always to live higher daily, to be loving, tender, thoughtful, courteous, wise, dignified, true, gracious. To do right by mother and by Katharine, to help Dora. To maintain the position it is necessary that I should earn twenty dollars a week. Let me now consider ways and means.
To follow fairly the adventures and misadventures of these years it should be borne in mind that, although thirty-one years old, I was green; young in the sense of lack of social experience. I had always lived among friends, where mannerisms were understood, and intentions respected. My outside work, so far had been among simple people who were warmly appreciative, and groups of women of interests somewhat similar to mine. I had not yet stood alone in what we call “the world” — as if we had previously lived elsewhere!
Moreover, all my early impressions had been of life in New England, among people of clean and dignified traditions. Now I was to live and teach among an entirely different sort. At first t
he impression made in the earlier visit, with my distinguished Uncle as a strong assistance, remained; but as time passed and the nature of my teaching became clearer, I was not so popular.
I tried every kind of work that opened, even to a brief attempt at reporting: “Oct. 12th. Call at Tribune office and am detailed to work up Mary Gilson case — Christian science and a bullet wound. Do it successfully.” But this avenue soon closed, instead of bringing in facts, I would persist in offering opinions!
There was a class formed for me in San Francisco; “Oct. 27th. Meet at Mrs. Lansing’s. Eleven ladies present. Coffee and cakes. Very pleasant and encouraging, $25.00 paid in (that was for the course). Came home hilarious.” The opening paper was on “What we Were, Are and Might Be.” Next day, “Go to Times office and get pay for Woman’s Papers, $3.75.” This day ends, “Came home exhausted,” which I hope was not due solely to the difference in income. On the twenty-ninth, visiting my doctor: “She says I put myself back three weeks by my exhaustion of yesterday.” “Nov. 7th, Nationalists send up whole collection — $3.40.”
On November 25th a very special entry: “I am called to the ministry!” More particularly: “Mr. and Mrs. Salzer (Nationalists), come and invite me to preach, Sunday evenings, a little group guaranteeing $5.00, and the Gilsons willing to let Hamilton Hall for half that.” Next day being Thanksgiving I find: “I am exceedingly thankful. For Dora, mother here, Katharine, improved health, outlook on work — and last night’s honor.”
I had a class in Oakland also, and one in Alameda, close by. There were but few interested, and fewer who came regularly, the fees were small, but it kept me busy writing papers for them and developing ideas. Always the personal work kept on, people coming to me for advice, help, encouragement; as “Dec. 23rd. Mr. —— comes for me in great distress to go with him, help him, try to see his wife — she has left him. I go to court with him, he had got her there on a writ of habeas corpus, but he could not prove she was detained against her will. Ride a little with him and try to cheer him up.” I haven’t the faintest memory of this sad husband, nor for that matter of most of the names in the diary, but the record shows the kind of calls I had, from all kinds of people.
Health remained poor. “Dr. Kellog in. She doubts if I can stand the strain of our present family arrangement much longer. Write some of sermon on ‘Pain.’ “ Next day: “Still pretty weak. Write entire new sermon on ‘The Human Will.’ Give it in the evening. Dora nurses me all day.” The “strain” was with mother, my friend was still a deep comfort, and Katharine always an unfailing joy, never a care or trouble. December 31st: “I am by no means well. Two fits of wretchedness in a week is bad. Still the year shows some gain. It is the anxiety about mother that is wearing me now. That must be borne. May next year help more!”
In “Memoranda” at the back of the book I find the following characteristic bit: “N. Y. Dec. 15th, 1890. Scurrilous attack on Walter’s exhibition of pictures at Amer. Art Assn. galleries. Find out author and punish him.” But he went unpunished, so far as I know.
Comes the next year’s diary. As usual I begin with recorded aspiration, finishing December 31st with:
For this new year unknown whose steady wing
Joy, Peace or Pain may bring, I plan one thing.
In this new year which finds me still so weak
From loss the past can speak, one thing I seek.
For one thing shall my soul’s hands lift and reach,
Praying the year may teach more perfect speech.
Clean, honest, wise, correct, strong, gentle too —
Courteous as angels, set in order due, perfectly true.
Then, watching the old year out, this, near twelve o’clock:
I wait the coming year too sad for fear,
Too old for hope, too wise for real despair,
Wait it in patient prayer.
It matters little about me if so I be
Able to make the effort of one soul
Help on the whole.
Only not too much pain! Oh not again
That anguish of dead years —
Terror and tears!
Jan. 1st. The year is born. As far as I have power I’ll try
To make this year when past nobler than was the last.
January 16th marks a change in method: “The first time I have spoken, not read. Do not make a success of it, nor enjoy it, but shall try again.”
On that day, by request of Dr. McLean, a leading Congregational clergyman of Oakland, I spoke in his prayer-meeting: “Read and pray earnestly, Dr. McLean very kind — people interested — a real success.” There was soon more of this, reading and speaking in various churches.
On the eighteenth I met some interesting people. A reception was given by our P.C.W.P.A. to visiting delegates from the International League. I went with Susan Hale, Uncle Edward’s sister, who had been in San Francisco for some time. Kate Field was there, “very nice to me”; but most impressive was Mrs. Frank Leslie Wilde and her husband, brother to Oscar Wilde. He was a huge person with large ox-like eyes, and in a vast bewilderment at his utterly strange surroundings. She was painted and decorated like a new house, her charms further enhanced by a rubber — shall we say chest-protector? It was finished above by a jeweled “dog-collar,” and disappeared below where her dress began, appropriately tinted, and undulating freely as she moved her head. She was a woman of real intelligence and ability, but she did not look it.
On February 6th we moved (Dora, Katharine and I) to 1258 Webster Street, taking three furnished rooms. Good Dr. Kellog, now married to a Mr. Lane, took mother to board for a while. On the eighth: “I take Katharine to her first school, Miss Wyman, on Alice Street a lovely girl, the teacher, just a pleasant little home school, Kate likes it.”
An Ethical Society was formed by a group of working people which I was asked to lead, opening February 14th: “About 18 join. Object, The Study of Human Conduct with a view to its Improvement by Scientific Methods.” We had most interesting times at these meetings, somewhat marred by a convinced fatalist, who was always on his feet to explain that we had no responsibility. As this doctrine greatly interfered with what I was trying to teach, I sought to counteract it, as thus:
“Do I understand you correctly? — That a bad man is not to be blamed for his acts, that he only sins from the effects of heredity and environment, that he cannot help it; and similarly that a good man is not to be praised for his virtues, since he so behaves because he cannot help it?”
He agreed that this was precisely what he meant. Then said I to the group: “Hereafter when this brother speaks, remember that he is not trying to help you or hurt you, he only talks because he cannot help it.” His words lacked weight after that.
Our house was a large and pleasant one, on a nice street, with a good yard behind it, an excellent place for Katharine. The lady who kept it, a Mrs. Palmer, had to leave suddenly to join a sick brother, I think, and I decided to take it as it stood, and keep boarders as she had done. As to furniture, that was to stay till she needed it. “If you won’t charge rent I won’t charge storage,” I told her. There were several boarders, and what we had been paying for our three furnished rooms went a long way on the entire rent, which was $50.00. The house was owned by an aged man who kept one room for himself and took off ten dollars a month for it, so I had to pay but forty. On February 29th— “Nine people in the house. Eight to cook for. I can’t have mother yet.” I do not remember who it was who did not eat!
Then came a new invitation. “Rev. Mr. Goodenough calls and asks me to take his pulpit next Sunday.” Here was something of a facer. I had addressed prayer-meetings as such, but this was to carry the entire service alone. However it was not wrong, he asked me — I did not ask him — and I said I would. As we discussed the service he inquired: “Have you been regularly ordained?” I said “No” — and he made no further remark on that point. It must have been due to pure heredity that I felt as perfectly at home in that pulpit as if I had grown u
p in it. The congregation were pleased and wanted me to come again, and ever since, in every kind of church which has invited me, I have enjoyed real preaching better even than lecturing, which is mostly preaching too — my kind. I have preached for Unitarians and Universalists of course, for Congregationalists, Methodists, Baptists, once for some reluctant Presbyterians, I think, for “Christians,” Spiritualists, and Mormons.
My small daughter had the measles. The record says: “Write to-day and to-morrow’s lecture for Unity Club. Long, good. Measles galore. No sleep, no regular meals, housework allee samee.” Across two days presently— “Just work and measles.” That angel child bore her affliction philosophically, but one day I heard her swearing softly after the fashion of her beloved Arabian Nights — as she rubbed her poor eyes— “O Moses! O Aaron! O Ezra’s Ass!”
Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page 258
