Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman

by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

  But my most characteristic performance at the reception was as follows: On entrance we were passed along that imposing line of footmen, and our names were cried aloud from man to man as we approached the grand staircase on whose first landing stood the ladies receiving. Drawing near the stairs I saw two members of our Congress, plainly dressed and looking timidly up at the array of tiaras on the landing. They said they had no one to introduce them. “Come on,” quoth I, serenely, “tell me your names and I’ll introduce you.” One was Susa Young Gates, daughter of Brigham Young, who became a lasting friend, the other Emmiline Wells, I think, another Mormon lady. And so I introduced them to the Duchess of Sutherland, gloriously tall and beautiful, to the Countess of Warwick, her sister; and then, turning to the third, I cheerfully remarked, “This one I don’t remember.”

  Which was true, and quite habitual with me, but on this occasion most unfortunate, as the third hostess was Lady Aberdeen, the President of The International Council of Women! She was very pleasant about it but I think not unnaturally displeased — who wouldn’t have been!

  The most distinguished honor offered to the delegates was an invitation to take tea with the Queen at Windsor Castle. With glowing anticipations the women of all nations prepared for this supreme opportunity. I was as usual very tired, always too tired to meet the demands of these great gatherings; and I shrewdly suspected that this would not be a wholly enjoyable affair, so I did not go. Afterwards I heard that they all had to stand about for two hours in a stone courtyard, which for a woman like Susan B. Anthony and others near her age must have been a serious tax on their strength. At last Victoria appeared, in the carriage named for her, and drove slowly about. Lady Aberdeen knelt on the step and kissed her hand, then presenting one only of the delegates, a lady from Canada who had a title, and the Queen drove out again. After which august spectacle tea was served by flunkies; as a matter of boasting all the others could proudly state that they had been to tea with the Queen, but I could proudly state that I’d been asked and wouldn’t go.

  They told a somewhat similar story of our Antoinette Sterling, the great contralto, who was a popular favorite in England. Her magnificent voice was so renowned that Victoria summoned her to sing before her. Mrs. Sterling, who had arranged to sing for some charity on that day, replied that she had another engagement and could not come. The Queen, who approved her putting charity first, repeated her invitation for another date. The musical Quaker replied that she could not come because she never wore décolleté gowns as required at court, and the patient Queen told her to wear what she pleased. So Antoinette went at last, and sang so gloriously that her majesty gave her a silver tea-set; — I tell the tale as it was told to me.

  It appeared the friendly Lady Warwick really meant her invitation. She repeated it at that reception, and somewhat later sent me a telegram three pages long — sixty-three words, a letter, really, urging me to come and address some pen-workers from Birmingham whom she was trying to organize; and to spend the night; so at last I went.

  It was but one night, but memorable for the fairytale of that cream-walled castle by the shadowy Avon; the white peacocks on the velvet lawns; the harebells on the battlements — I went up there and picked one so I know. My bedroom was liberally decorated with crests and coronets, on the writing paper, of which there was a plentiful supply; on the chinaware, the towels, the water-cans, the sheets and pillow-cases — even the soft, thick rose-colored blankets had a massive one like an inverted soup-plate. It made me think of a steam-boat.

  The baronial hall was a revelation in size; three distinct parties might have been held in it without disturbing one another. In the deep embrasure of one window stood a knight in armor on horseback, life-size, — and he made no more impression than a rubber plant.

  Any one could visit Warwick for a shilling a head, but when the “trippers” were being shown about by the austere exhibitor, I felt amusingly superior, being on the other side of the rope! Childishly ignorant among all this gorgeousness was I, and when asked about breakfast in bed cheerfully replied that I preferred to get up. So I came down in the morning to that huge dining-hall, with the great Vandyke — or was it Velásquez? — at one end. It seemed depressingly empty, no one else eating but a remote governess and her charge, the few footmen coldly disapproving. Evidently one was not expected to get up to breakfast. The Earl of Warwick was at home, and also the Countess’s mother, Lady Roslyn. She was much pleased with my poems and asked me to visit her at Roslyn Castle. Also Lady Warwick urged me to come to them at their summer cottage, and, later, the Duchess of Sutherland asked me to visit her — that was on account of Women and Economics.

  None of these things did I do, reasons quite forgotten, but I really wanted to accept the last invitation, because when my Grandmother Perkins had been in England with Aunt Harriet Stowe they had been entertained by the former Duchess of Sutherland, who was a special friend of the Queen. She was unable for reasons of state openly to receive Aunt Harriet as she wished to do, and made this arrangement with her friend instead. However I didn’t go.

  As an offset to all these grandeurs let me describe my reception by Miss Purdie’s maid. Miss Purdie was a fine, liberal-minded Scotch lady, who had me give a parlor lecture in 1896, and now, when entertainment was being planned for the foreign visitors, had asked for me. I had mostly forgotten the former meeting, and went to spy out the land and see if I wanted to be with her.

  I never had any impressive clothes, and in England it makes far more difference than it does here. I trotted about in my very ordinary raiment, with my everlasting little black bag, just as I would at home, and so attired rang Miss Purdie’s bell. The door was opened by a severe Scotch maid.

  “Is Miss Purdie at home?” “She is.” “Can I see her?” “What do you wish to see her for?” “I wish to call upon her,” and I offered my card. The card mollified her somewhat, but not much, for it had no crest, no name of house or address, not even “Mrs.,” nothing but Charlotte Perkins Stetson.

  She let me in, grudgingly, and started up the stairs. I was uncertain of what was expected. “Shall I come up?” I asked, “or wait here?” This admission of ignorance she considered most damaging, and sternly replied, “If you are really a caller you may come up!” I came up, was received with open arms by Miss Purdie, and spent a week there very happily. Doubtless that worthy watch-dog took me for an agent — why shouldn’t she?

  Like a few pictures out of a big book too hastily turned in a dim light, are these memories. There was one urgent luncheon invitation from a Lady — Grove, I think it was. I was torn between my habit of always seeing people who needed me, and increasing weariness, and wrote as much, saying that unless she wished to see me imperatively I could not come. The answering demand was most imperative, so I went; finding a large, handsome lady with two admirers (one of whom was George Eliot’s second husband, Mr. Cross), who talked with her incessantly, and a spare elderly husband who talked not at all — and myself, evidently only an exhibit.

  The Congress over, there remained many friends to see, and always work to do. I wrote an article for Ainslee’s Magazine and another for the Arena, about the Congress, and extremely poor stuff it was. With ease and freedom and some merit, I write thoughts, ideas, reasoning, yes, and feeling too, but descriptive work, such as makes a war correspondent famous, is beyond me.

  One delightful visit was with the family of Mrs. Bland (Edith Nesbit), at Well Hall, Eltham, Kent. The earlier mansion, built for Margaret Roper by her father, Sir Thomas More, had been burned, and replaced by this one which they said “was only Georgian.” Behind the house, just across a little vine-walled bridge, was a large rectangular lawn, surrounded by thick-grown trees and shrubs, outside which lay the moat that once guarded the older building. Here, in absolute privacy, those lovely children could run barefoot, play tennis and badminton, wear any sort of costume; it was a parlor out of doors. We all joined in merry games, acted little plays and fairy-tales, and took plentiful photog
raphs.

  There was another visit to Edinburgh, where I lectured for the Summer School, for the University, on Castle Hill. My dear Mrs. Dowie was staying at Levenhall, Musselbirgh, near by, and I spent a few days with her, most happily. From there back to Newcastle, where I renewed friendship with Miss Roecliffe, my kind entertainer of 1896.

  In these English travels I found no difficulty whatever either in audiences or in personal contacts. Hearers laughed at my jokes just as they did at home; one man told a friend, “I’d give half a crown any day just to see that woman smile.” Also, my personal work went on. Strangers confided in me as at home. One old gentleman with whom I fell into converse on a train in Scotland, pulled himself up at last, protesting in surprise that he never talked with strangers! I explained that I was not a stranger, and I wasn’t — people were people anywhere and my service was for all. So they told me their troubles as usual, and I helped as I could, finding always that the losses and sufferings, mistakes and misdeeds of my own life gave me the key to the hearts of others.

  While in Newcastle one unexpected amusement was going to the circus — Barnum and Bailey’s — in England! Very popular it was, too. Back to London and my favorite Midland Temperance Hotel on Guilford St., a little last shopping and calling, and then I prefaced my departure by trying Brush’s Remedy for seasickness. Sailed on August 31, SS. Menominee. “Room 8. Berth 4. Nice sofa bed under porthole. Am not sick.” And next day, “Blessed be Brush! Am not sick at all.”

  As to ocean travel in general, I dislike it intensely. There is no privacy except in bed, and not then unless one has a whole stateroom. Planted in a steamer-chair, the strip of deck before one’s face is a promenade, a ceaseless procession of humanity. As to “sea air” — unless one can get to the very prow, or bear the full blast of the wind, what one gets is ship air, and if any beast has a fouler breath than a ship, I have not met it. Anywhere to the leeward it pours out from every door that’s open, and from those slow-whirling ventilators which reach down to the very bowels of the ship — and distribute its odors. An ocean steamer is a big, inescapable garden-party, reception, afternoon tea — a constant, swirling crowd. Sorry, but I don’t like it.

  Landed Monday, September 11th, and back to mother’s; one dollar in my pocket. But by Friday came the check from Ainslee’s, $125.00! the most I had ever received up to that time. Things were going well now. There were many “downs” during the summer, but now the little book says “Feel fine,” “Do good morning’s work on letters and papers and am not tired.” But by the twenty-first. “Feel so badly P.M. that I try to take a ride on the cars and have to come back.”

  Presently Mr. Small, my publisher, called. He came eagerly up the stairs and greeted me warmly, anxious for other books. “We quite understand,” he said, “that further arrangements will have to be on a different basis.” Women and Economics was a success. The discrepancy between its really enormous vogue and its very meager returns I have never understood. It sold and sold and sold for about twenty-five years. It sold widely in England, so much so that Putnam’s brought out a seventh edition with a new introduction in 1911. It was translated into French — but alas! the translator couldn’t find a publisher! — into German, Dutch, Italian, Hungarian and Japanese. From none of the translations did I get anything, save the Italian. That was done by the Contessa Pironti, and she sent me $30.00 — noblesse oblige!

  The reviews were surprising, numerous, respectful, a most gratifying recognition. So Small agreed to take my next book, Human Work, which I proposed to spend the winter in writing. They offered $500.00 down, 15 per cent to 5000 and then 18 per cent; I was launched.

  Lecturing also began to go well. For two in Boston I got $87.00, for another $25.00, and from the Saturday Evening Post, for several editorials, $48.00; from the Puritan, $25.00. By October I record a grand total of $231.56. But next day I sent Katharine $25.00, and to various creditors $50, $38, $30, $50, $20 — there was never much surplus.

  From a pleasant Boston visit with the Blackwells, always so good to me, I was off, October 19th for Toledo, staying again with the family of Mayor Jones. Here I did my first “campaign speaking”; did not take to it much. But there was one funny incident while there. I was hurrying to a down-town meeting when the horse-car was stopped by an altercation between the slender young conductor and a big, elderly man who insisted that his transfer was good, and refused to pay another fare as demanded. The conductor threatened to throw him off, but the passenger got in behind the brake — the back platform was only open at one end — and defied him. The driver looked around grinning, the complacent Americans inside looked on in amusement — but I was in a hurry. So I rose with a most philanthropic air and came forward with, “Let me pay this poor man’s fare.” “Oh no, Madam, no indeed!” protested the insulted disputant, out came his purse and on went the car — it was a mean trick, but the car should not be so delayed.

  Then to Indianapolis, October 25th. “Address Contemporary Club on ‘What Work Is.’ Rather hard sledding but struck some kindred notes.” Especially in a youth who turns out to be Booth Tarkington. As I delighted in and deeply honored his work, it was a pleasure to find how agreeable he was personally — I called on him next morning and we had a nice talk. Back to Toledo, more speeches, and preached twice on Sunday. Then to St. Louis, visiting the Crundens’, and speaking for the Pedagogical Society again. “Big house, went well.” So to Chicago, and dear Mrs. Dow.

  November 3rd: “Go down town and see my manager, Mrs. Laura D. Pelham.” I had known this lady in Hull House, she and her husband were connected with a lecture bureau. She came to hear me, and then this bureau offered me $250.00 a week, net, if I would work for them. This was large money, but what of that? I felt sure that they overestimated my drawing power, knew that I could not do good work in six lectures a week right along, and also I was on my way to California to spend a quiet winter writing the next book. Furthermore, I had plans for the next year that brooked no postponement. In June I was to marry again, and the chances of a year’s time, when one is near forty, are worth more than millions of dollars. So that golden opportunity was passed by.

  But I lectured “on my own,” in Chicago, in Milwaukee, in Sioux City, Iowa, and Sheldon— “Big crowd but it went badly. They don’t like it. Hard sledding.” But next day some ladies called. “They like me and want me again.... Can’t always make a good impression.”

  Back to Chicago, more lectures, one in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, where my title was rendered, “Our Brains and What’s the Matter of ‘Em.”

  Thursday, November 16th: “Letter from Russia — a man has translated my book — one Kamensky.”

  In Evanston, at the Northwestern University, I had the honor of taking the place of Mr. Howells, who could not keep his engagement, and lectured on Ethics. Went well — I was really pleased. So were they, the professors and such. Then in town and take Wisconsin Central at 2:00 A.M. and off to Minneapolis.

  There was one occasion in this city when I met what is called “social attention” in a conspicuous form. I think it was later, but will tell the tale while I remember it. A friend there had arranged a lecture for me. This is no light work, as any one who has done it knows. The tickets were fifty cents. Certain ladies, knowing me by reputation, insisted that I must have some social attention. Pay fifty cents to hear me lecture they would not, but got up a lunch party in my “honor” at a hotel, where they all paid a dollar for their food, and expected me to address them, for nothing! I arrived about 11:00 A.M. — there was a coal famine, a blizzard and a strike, all at once, and such hindrance and delay that I had had almost no sleep. And here I was taken to this hotel filled with buzzing women, for this luncheon.

  “Have you engaged a room for me?” I asked wearily. No, they had not thought to do that. I suggested that I should like a room and a bath, which was presently furnished, to my relief. And all through that chattering lunch I sat thinking how to tell them, without being rude and grossly ungrateful, that to expect a
speech for nothing, of a professional speaker, was — well, shall we say unbusinesslike? When women really grow up they will be more fair-minded.

  On westward I went, stopping at Kansas City, at Denver and Greeley, Colorado, and to Ogden, Salt Lake City, and Provo, Utah — where I lectured in the Brigham Young Polysophical Academy!

  Mrs. Susa Young Gates, the greatest child of her great father, Brigham Young, one of the friends I made at the London Congress, has remained so to her death. She was a remarkable woman, herself a writer and speaker, an organiser, an editor, and mother of eleven children. I always visited her when in Utah. There were a number of lectures this time, and I had a chance to see my brother’s second wife and my nephew Basil, a dear boy.

  Another friend in Ogden, Mrs. Coulter, took me to the Aglaia, apparently a literary circle. “Hear Lamb discussed — with faint — final — reference to his possible sense of humor!” By December 8th I am in San Francisco, first time since ignominious departure in 1895.

  I love to reach the coast by the U.P. The long, upward pull to the divide, two big engines tugging and puffing like live things. Then, as we go over, the sudden change in the sound of the wheels, easy, swift, as we roll down, passing degrees of latitude in minutes almost, snow, evergreens, deciduous trees, the rich, sweet air, the growing warmth, and all at once oranges, palms, roses, California! I love that state (geographically) from end to end; love the whole Pacific Coast for that matter, but California especially.

  The mountains, the valleys, the brilliant sea, the endless profusion of rich foliage and flowers and fruit, the long, sweeping contours of the topography, the blessed calmness of the air — all these I love. Yet, when it comes to people, never have I been so misliked and misunderstood as in that state. However, those people are mostly dead by this time, and I have fulfilled my determination when hounded by evil-minded newspapers — have made a wide and good reputation in spite of them.