Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  It was immensely amusing, the cheerful good-will and colossal ignorance of these co-laborers. Even the laundry work we did, putting the clothes to soak over night, and attacking them with washing-machine and wringers next day. Good Mrs. McDaniels and I were the only ones present who knew how to wash, and we exchanged sad glances to see gallant college professors and high-minded poets toiling at the wringers while buttons flew away and spots remained.

  One day there was a happy excursion up Mt. Hurricane. “Four hours up. Two and a half down. Splendid time.” Most joyously recalled is the blueberrying — a pleasure I had not had since youthful days. Huge ones they, hanging thick and easy; that night when I shut my eyes I saw blueberries, a dense pattern, like wallpaper.

  Mr. Radcliffe-Whitehead, that nice Englishman who had heard me lecture in New York and called afterward, was at the other end of the valley, at St. Hubert’s Inn. He called, and arranged for me to give a lecture at the Inn, which I did, to a dull crowd of expensive people who had no use for it. That impressive man of learning, Professor Thomas Davidson, had a group of his own up there; we went to hear him, and I remark, “Listen for an hour and a half, and take notes — great gain for my head.” Entries are scarce. “Go blueberrying.” “Iron some.” “Iron some more.” It was not an exciting life, but immensely beneficial.

  By August 14th I was back in New York, met at the station by my Cousin Houghton and — Katharine! She was to be with me for a few days before starting for Europe with her father and second mother. Rules or no rules, she fled past the gatemen and came flying down the platform to meet me....

  Twelve years old, and a darling ... Houghton and I took her to Bedloes Island next day, where she went up the inside of the Goddess of Liberty, then to the aquarium. Monday we went shopping together, Katharine and I. Tuesday: “A fine long day in the park with Katharine. We do everything pretty much, and she has a very good time. Is especially delighted to learn to row, which she does in astonishingly quick time.” Wednesday: “Put in a few stitches on Kate’s pongees, pack her valise and take her down to Hotel Albert.”

  There I saw my dear Grace, and had a chance to do a few errands for her. They sailed on the Westerland....

  My little stepmother went off for a three days’ vacation, and I kept house for her. “Fri., Aug. 20th. Quiet day, mend tablecloth. Entertain boarders.” By the twenty-third I was off again, to no less a place than “Greenacre,” Maine, where Miss Sarah Farmer had a species of summer school of a metaphysical sort. Dharmaputra, a Buddhist of Ceylon, was there. I remember him enthroned in a rocking-chair, surrounded by admiring women who stood. He discoursed also under the pines, all squatting on the ground about him. All who were able, that is; one elderly spinster was much chagrined because she had to have a camp-stool.

  Following upon the Congress of Religions at the World’s Fair in ‘93, there came to us many of those swarthy preachers, who were attended by crowds of devout women as if the preaching was something superior to Christianity, which it was not.

  I had been invited to that place by Miss Farmer, who wrote, “Give us your best thought,” so I had arranged to speak on the “New Motherhood.” But after arrival I was told by a friend that there was opposition to my giving this address. Miss Ida C. Hultin, a Unitarian minister from Moline, Illinois, objected on the ground that I was not a fit person to lecture on motherhood — that I had “given up my child.” Miss Farmer came to me herself to ask me to change my topic. Being forewarned I was calm, and asked the reason for the change. She was obliged to repeat the charge — that I had given up my child.

  “But I haven’t,” I explained. “It is a temporary arrangement. While I am unable to maintain her as well as her father can. He has a right to some of her society certainly, and she to his. If I was keeping her in a boarding school would you say I had given her up?” “No, that would be different.” ... It was a little odd that in this extremely “advanced” group should be the only such misjudgment I had found east of California.

  So I spoke, as requested, on “The Social Organism,” just as willingly, and note on the next day: “Much call for ‘The New Motherhood.’ Agree to give it to whomever will come.” I started in that afternoon, and on Saturday: “Talk a lot to various people, from 10:30 at Miss Chamberlain’s cottage to a big group, all day to others until 8 o’clock — all but meals and a few moments rest. About nine hours talk!” There was more next day, so I got “The New Motherhood” over pretty generally. August 30th: “Am paid by the hotel clerk, for Miss Farmer, $16.50” (plus expenses I think).

  I distinctly remember that day’s talking. Instead of exhaustion I had a triumphant feeling of having at last had a chance to say all I wished to on that topic — for once. From Greenacre I betook myself to Laconia, New Hampshire, visiting Mrs. Hackett, a good friend of Grace and Katharine — they had visited there before me.

  Here, on Tuesday, Auguest 31st, record: “Begin my book on the Economic Relation of the Sexes as a Factor in Social Development.”

  CHAPTER XVI. COMING UP

  THE nineteenth century, now so contemptuously discredited as “Victorian,” was distinguished not only by its large achievements in practical science and mechanical invention, but by such swift strides in psychic progress as set it high among the most important since our historic birth. Alfred Russel Wallace placed it highest of all.

  The development of the theory of Evolution alone was enough to give glory to this age; practically the entire range of the Woman’s Movement was within it; think of belittling a century when women began to rise! In our belated freeing of the slave we see the end of one economic period, in the rise of Socialism the beginning of another.

  In my youth the world was full of “Movements,” of an eager massing together to work for “causes.” There was the Labor Movement, the Temperance Movement, the Woman’s Suffrage Movement, the Dress Reform Movement, a general movement toward better methods in education, from the Kindergarten to University Extension, and a broad, deep, liberalizing of religion. There was the Society for The Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, and another to protect children — the state reaching out at last to recognize the child as a citizen, not the property of the parents. There was the Organization of Charities, steps in Prison Reform and in the Care of the Insane; a demand for right teaching of children as to sex, and for an equal standard of chastity, equalized up, not down; there was that wide-spread educator, the Woman’s Club.

  Full of the passion for world improvement, and seeing the position of women as responsible for much, very much, of our evil condition, I had been studying it for years as a problem of instant importance. The political equality demanded by the suffragists was not enough to give real freedom. Women whose industrial position is that of a house-servant, or who do no work at all, who are fed, clothed, and given pocket-money by men, do not reach freedom and equality by the use of the ballot.

  So after years of thinking, with the progressively illuminating effort of teaching others as far as I could develop the theme, I now set to work on my first book, in prose, named by the publishers, Women and Economics. The first day I wrote 1700 words, and “some planning.” The second day 2400 words; the third, 3600; the fourth, 4000. “Doing finely,” says the diary.

  I well remember that 4000-word day, the smooth, swift, easy flow — it was done in about three hours and a half — the splendid joy of it — I went and ran, just raced along the country road, for sheer triumph.

  The stay in Laconia lasted till September 6th, then a night in Boston and a little visit with Cousin Mary Phelon in Providence. September 8th, “Write 2800 words.” This record does not involve laborious counting. It was all hand-writing, of course, and ran one hundred words to the page very regularly. The amounts were not great, three thousand words in three hours is my usual output when well. Friday the tenth, “Some re-writing of Wednesday’s work and finish 5th chapter.”

  It was a pleasure to be in Providence again, and see relatives and old friends, but by Wednesday fifteenth I
returned to Boston, and visited my dear friend Martha Luther Lane, in Hingham. Here I worked on the sixth chapter Thursday, and Friday seventeenth, “Write more — no good.” Saturday, “Write about 2000 words — goes better,” and Monday, twentieth, “Write fine chapter seven, real good.” Next day another chapter, a short one.

  Wednesday twenty-second was an interesting day in Boston. I met Sylvester Baxter — a friend already through my verses; he took me to the Atlantic Monthly office, “Introduces me to Mr. Walter Page. Very cordial. Also to New England Magazine office and Mr. Edwin D. Meade. Also to Small, Maynard and Company — Bliss Carman is the ‘Company.’ He was there! They want to publish my poems. All very friendly and polite.”

  These young publishers had been to England and knew my reputation there, I think. Appleton’s also offered to take the book, but I chose the new men just starting, partly because they were beginners, partly because they made the proposition entirely without recommendation. In later years when asked how I made my “market” so to speak, I explained that it was by giving away my work until it made an impression.

  Then a little visit with dear Aunt Emily Hale in Roxbury, and Thursday twenty-third: “Write on book A.M.” Friday: “Write on book.” Saturday eleventh: “Call on ‘my publishers’ “ (it did feel good to have some real professional ones!) “Bliss Carman has now read my poems and approves. Good. See only Mr. Small this time. They want to do the poems and also to look at the book. Good.” I had given them a brief and impressive account of that book, which I was in the midst of writing, on my previous call.

  So I went away happy and made my first visit to Norwich, Connecticut, staying with Mrs. Jean Porter Rudd, a friend of Grace’s and of mine, a widow, a brave, strong talented woman, admirably bringing up a family of small children. She wrote, wrote more than well, but life gave her small time for that work. My Cousin Houghton was visiting his aunts in Norwich at the time; he called on me and Mrs. Rudd, and took me to see his aunts in the old home. The diary says: “Nice people, nice house.” Little did I think I should come to live in it!

  New York again by October 2nd, and by the sixth, “Write on ninth chapter of book.” Thursday seventh, “Begin Cha. Am feeling very well these days, strong, cheerful, hopeful.” Friday, October 8th: “Finish book, 356 pages. That is finish first draft. Date and arrange the separate chapters as written in different houses, and do it up.”

  This first draft, some 35,600 words, was rather less than half the book when published; but it contained the argument, it showed method and style, it was the manuscript the publishers accepted. It was done in seventeen days, in five different houses, on this little string of visits.

  I settled down at my stepmother’s boarding-house again, contentedly. Made a little visit to the married twin, in Ridgewood, New Jersey. “Step-adopted-brother-in-law very polite.” My principal work at this time was the careful copying of poems for the publishers. I began to run down again, as was my custom. A series of bad entries, ‘til November 3rd: “Bad night. This is really a very low time, worst since England.”

  Already it has been tedious enough, all this record of recurrent incapacity and misery, but I wish to have it clearly understood that the spurts of energy and accomplishment have been fragmentary compared with the helplessness and distress; they show, however, and the misery doesn’t.

  Pulled up again somewhat, spoke in Wilmington, Harrisburg, Brookline, Cambridge and Boston. November 8th: “Notman, photographer, asks to take my picture. Cheerfully let’em. Take my book to the publishers and leave it to be read. Talk poems. By Wednesday, November 10th: “Call on publishers. Small, Maynard & Company, 6 Beacon St. They take book. Give me new Whitman. I feel fine over the book.”

  In New York by the thirteenth, and, sixteenth: “Begin on book again.” “Not strong yet but doing much better.” On the twenty-first I had a game of chess with Houghton: “But Oh I cannot play! Tires me much. Read him the new chapters of the book. He begins to be really impressed. Good.”

  Here is an idea I deemed worthy of putting down, Tuesday, November 30th: “Woke up with big thought — the sense of duty is developed in proportion to our specialization — Ethics is only conscious physics.” This “duty” means social duty, not the arbitrary religious sentiment. Ethics is the science of social relation, as is physics of material relation.

  December: “Feel fine. Houghton comes. Read last three chapters — ten done. He is more and more impressed.” I read some of it at Mrs. Richard Hovey’s— “Great excitement, all much impressed.”

  Wednesday, December 8, was memorable. Jane Addams was in town, back from a tour in Europe, even Russia, where she visited Tolstoi, and I had the honor of introducing Mr. Howells to her. “And they talk about Tolstoi — she brought a message from him to Mr. Howells. Very interesting.” That was another of the times when I felt modest.

  The book was finished on December 14th. Mr. Small called on the sixteenth and took it away. Twenty-three days’ work this time, total of forty.

  He called again on the nineteenth. “Is greatly impressed with the book, wants it as soon as possible, print in January.” The Macmillan Publishing House now wrote me, asking to read the poems with a view to publication, which pleased me. By December 27th I set to work on the final copying and revising, well content. A very quiet Christmas, with the closing note of the year: “Health pretty fair now. Am able to work. Literary reputation steadily increasing. Things look bright.”

  New Year’s Day came a letter from the Illustrated American, asking for articles — at one cent a word. I remember how large this looked to me. I fell to work with calculation of how much it would be at my rate of 3,000 words a day, six days a week, throughout the year, and felt rich indeed — $9,390.00! Poor little idiot.

  Sunday, second: “Copy chapter V, five thousand words. Also finish Fabian article, a page or two only. Houghton comes, Reads 5th chapter. We go through the whole five and correct errors. A big day’s work — must not do it again. Very tired.”

  January 3rd: “Very poor day, only sixteen pages of an easy chapter.” The copying went on, usually a chapter a day, to January 15th: “Still fairly well, finish chapter 15th, the last. Tired though. Some battledore with Dr. S., 900 and something. Have to get out some knitting for amusement.” Sixteenth: “Am pretty weak-headed” but seventeenth: “Ah! Feels like vacation. Loaf. Guess I don’t break down this time.” The last chapter went to the printer that night. The entire time spent on that book was fifty-eight days — just inside of two months....

  A little lecture trip to Boston, Lynn, and Newtonville, January 19th to 29th, netted me about $45.00, and involved pleasant visits and seeing old friends and new. One of these was Frederic Peabody, who heard me lecture and took me to his home: “Splendid baby. Dine and talk — good talk.” More important was meeting William Lloyd Garrison, another link with the Great Lifters of earlier days.

  Back in New York on the twenty-ninth, and settle down comfortably to sewing, writing, and seeing people. Also to the evening games of battledore— “Over 200 with my left.” February 3rd, a friend called for me and “We spend the rest of the morning with Annie Russell, the actress. She wanted to see ‘The Pretty Idiot.’ I stop on my way home and get it, of Maude Adams.” Grace and I hovered always on the brink of great hopes for our plays, but they never materialized.

  Went with my Cousin Houghton to my first opera, Die Walkure. Didn’t like it. Never liked any grand opera. The drama has its conventions and limitations, but they are to my mind more rational, more possible, than those of the opera. No acting, no singing, can make a middle-aged, portly woman like Madame Nordica, leading a tame old white horse of which she is visibly afraid, look like a Valkyr. When two people supposedly in the throes of desperate passion, and quite able to fall into each other’s arms, stand at a distance and sing at each other instead, it becomes comic. When poor Valentine in Faust, run through the lungs and dying on the ground, cheerfully raises himself on one elbow and sings — the effect is farcical. Th
ose who know enough and care enough for music, seem able to overlook these flagrant absurdities, but music is the one art in which I am wholly incompetent.

  Proof-reading was my principal occupation for a while. My good publishers had engaged a competent, scholarly young woman, a Miss Rollins, to correct my manuscripts, and how she did plane smooth all the cheerful eccentricities of my style! But I was to have the last word — February 7th: “Feel well. Read proof and correct Miss Rollins’ corrections.” Most of her work was genuine improvement. I was never a careful writer.

  The poem proofs were coming in, too. Even in verse I was not fussy in details. When the Atlantic wanted to make some little change in “The Beds of Fleur-de-lys” as a condition to taking it, I let them. “Do it as you like,” I said. “When it comes out in the book I’ll do it my way.” Those publishers of mine were so much pleased with my imitation of Maeterlinck in “The Impress” that they reprinted it in a little magazine they ran for a while; also they made a booklet of “The Yellow Wallpaper.”

  Life ran on pleasantly enough in the boarding-house. My charming sister May had a crowd of admirers dancing attendance. Occasionally I visited the other twin, now a mother. February 19th: “Talk to Peg, and hold the baby — nice baby. Feels good to have one in my arms again.”

  The writing of articles went on all the time, but most of them were for magazines which did not pay anything. There were ups and downs in health, pleasant friends, interesting meetings. One of these was funny. A social group in Brooklyn, the Merickawyck Club, had invited one they thought a violent Socialist to address them. He was unable to keep the engagement and I went as a substitute. Houghton accompanied me. They looked for a wild-haired “Red,” and behold! a lady in a smooth-flowing “princess dress” of dark plum-colored satin, and a gentleman in irreproachable evening clothes.