by Mike Ashley
The Feminine Future
DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS
The Feminine Future
EARLY SCIENCE FICTION BY WOMEN WRITERS
EDITED BY MIKE ASHLEY
DOVER PUBLICATIONS, INC.
Mineola, New York
DOVER THRIFT EDITIONS
GENERAL EDITOR: MARY CAROLYN WALDREP EDITOR OF THIS VOLUME: JIM MILLER
Copyright
Copyright © 2015 by Dover Publications, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Bibliographical Note
This Dover edition, first published in 2015, is a new compilation of early science fiction stories by women writers, selected and edited by Mike Ashley. For information on the sources of the texts, see page 227.
International Standard Book Number
eISBN-13: 978-0-486-80340-1
Manufactured in the United States by Courier Corporation
79023101 2015
www.doverpublications.com
Contents
Introduction: Forgotten Pioneers
Mike Ashley
When Time Turned
Ethel Watts Mumford
The Painter of Dead Women
Edna W. Underwood
The Automaton Ear
Florence McLandburgh
Ely’s Automatic Housemaid
Elizabeth W. Bellamy
The Ray of Displacement
Harriet Prescott Spofford
Those Fatal Filaments
Mabel Ernestine Abbott
The Third Drug
Edith Nesbit
A Divided Republic—An Allegory of the Future
Lillie Devereux Blake
Via the Hewitt Ray
M. F. Rupert
The Great Beast of Kafue
Clotilde Graves
Friend Island
Francis Stevens
The Artificial Man
Clare Winger Harris
Creatures of the Light
Sophie Wenzel Ellis
The Flying Teuton
Alice Brown
Acknowledgments and Sources
INTRODUCTION: FORGOTTEN PIONEERS
THERE HAVE LONG been two misconceptions which I like to think are changing, but I’m not always entirely convinced. The first is that science fiction is only about adventures in space and time, with alien monsters or mad scientists or superheroes. Many critics of science fiction are set in their beliefs and aren’t about to change overnight, but over the last twenty years or so there does seem to have been a mood swing, albeit begrudging at times, to recognize that some works of “literature” might also be science fiction; works like George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four or Thomas Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow.
The second misconception is that until recently few women wrote science fiction. This even though one of the very first works regarded as science fiction was by a woman, Frankenstein by Mary W. Shelley. It is recognized that considerably more women are writing science fiction today and, indeed, the two misconceptions can be brought together because so many women are writing science fiction “literature”—Margaret Atwood, Doris Lessing, P. D. James, Ursula K. Le Guin, and so on.
Yet the early contribution of women to the field continues to be overlooked. We have certain milestones, such as Clare Winger Harris being the first woman to contribute to the science fiction magazines, and Anne McCaffrey being the first woman to win the science fiction achievement award, the Hugo.
But if we were to only look back and consider what many women were writing, we will see that they were producing science fiction from time to time, and often helping develop new ideas and define the nature of what science fiction is.
And that’s what this anthology is all about. I’ve brought together a selection of early stories, most, but not all, pre-1920s, all of which are science fiction, though some may come as a surprise. The fact that not all of the writers are household names is itself a sad reflection on our understanding of our literary roots. Some were well known in their day: Alice Brown, Harriet Prescott Spofford, Clotilde Graves, but over time their stars have faded. And because so many are forgotten, so is their contribution to science fiction. Which is one reason why we say so few women wrote science fiction in the early days: it’s because we’ve simply forgotten them.
This anthology hopes to redress this situation.
Here are stories that help develop many of the basic ideas of science fiction—alternate worlds, other dimensions, invisibility, super-powers, shifts in time, automatons and cyborgs, thought-reading, immortality—in some cases amongst the earliest treatment of that theme, making them of historical significance. I was also keen to present stories that showed the human side of life—what the impact of technological progress was likely to be on us as human beings, and how we might cope.
I’ve looked for a diversity of treatment as well as ideas. Some stories are humorous, others serious and even shocking in their outlook on life and society. As well as being enjoyable, they cast a light back into those dark corners of science fiction history and hopefully provide at least some idea of what women were writing.
Mike Ashley
WHEN TIME TURNED
Ethel Watts Mumford (1876–1940)
There’s a good chance you’ve heard of Ethel Watts Mumford without realizing it, or at least one of her quotations: “God gives us our relatives—thank God we can choose our friends.” It comes from The Cynic’s Calendar which she compiled with her friend Addison Mizner. Starting in 1903 the two of them produced a calendar where each week there was a new epigram or aphorism casting a cynical eye over the human condition. They added the name of Oliver Herford to the book as a joke, but it proved a good sales pitch because Herford, regarded as the American Oscar Wilde, was known for his wit. It was Herford who encouraged Mumford to write.
Born Ethel Watts, in New York, she was the daughter of a wealthy businessman and had a good education. She travelled extensively in her youth but married young, in 1894, to the lawyer George Mumford. It was an unhappy marriage, as he disapproved of her writing and painting. At this time she was becoming not only an accomplished artist but a decent poet and a fledgling playwright, penning a number of farces. She tired of her husband’s controlling arrogance and in 1899 ran away to San Francisco with their son and sued for divorce.
It was then Mumford turned to writing fiction in earnest. She entered the following story in a contest run by The Black Cat magazine. This magazine was famous in its day for discovering new authors, perhaps the best known being Jack London. It published what it called “clever” stories, which used unusual ideas in an original way. Her story “was a genuine brand-new idea,” she later wrote. It was indeed—that we might start living our lives in reverse. This concept is probably best known from F. Scott Fitzgerald’s story “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button” (1922), but here it is, twenty years earlier.
Mumford later returned to New York and remarried, this time to a man who appreciated her literary and artistic talents. Thankfully we can still appreciate her ingenious prize-winning story.
I DROPPED in at my friend Dr. Lamison’s rooms, for I had been dull and bored all day, and Lamison, partly by reason of his profession, partly because of his own odd humor and keen insight, is a delightful companion.
To my disgust he was not alone, but deep in an animated discussion with an elderly gentleman of pleasant appearance. Being in no mood to talk to strangers, I was about to make my excuses and retire, but Lamison signed to me to remain. “Let me present my friend Robertso
n, Mr Gage,” he said politely, as we both bowed with due formality. “Robertson,” he continued, addressing me, “you will be interested in what this gentleman has to say on the Philippines—he has spent some years out there.”
Mr Gage smiled reminiscently. “Yes, I spent some little time in the Islands. In fact, I am just on the point of going there now, and am very sorry I shall not see them again.”
“What?” I asked. “If you’re going, why do you say you will never see the place again?”
Lamison broke in abruptly. “That is a long story. Let’s go on with the question we had in hand. You were saying that the Malays are singularly shrewd and cunning.”
Mr Gage brightened visibly. “They are, indeed. Now, when I was in Manila,”—and he launched into a highly instructive lecture on the Malay and all his works, talking rapidly and tersely; his phrases full of vigour and originality, his descriptions vivid and picturesque; in fact, it has rarely been my good fortune to listen to so brilliant a conversationalist—though conversation it could hardly be called, for by common consent he had the floor to himself. Occasionally I asked a question, or Lamison punctuated the discourse with nods of approval as he flicked his cigar ashes on the floor.
From the Philippines we wandered to the Chinese empire and its destiny. Gage had spent two years in Tientsin and Hong Kong and was as well informed and interesting as a man could be. His observation was phenomenal, and his memory likewise, and he had a way of presenting his facts that was positively evocative. I felt, after listening to him, that the recollections were my own, so distinctly did he force his mental pictures into my consciousness. He was eminently moderate in all his views, avoiding extremes and holding a mean of charity and common sense that is, to say the least, unusual.
A flash of lightning that stared suddenly through the windows, and was followed by a terrific thunder clap, made us start and pause. Mr Gage arose and, going to the window, looked out into the murky night, remarking as he did so on the suddenness and violence of storms in the tropics.
I seized the occasion to nod to Lamison. “What a brilliant chap,” I said. “I never heard a man express himself so well and sanely—who is he, anyway?”
“A gentleman and a scholar, also my guest for the present,” my host answered. “So you think him well balanced?”
“Eminently so,” I said heartily. “Not many men could state the facts of an international feud with such moderation.”
Dr. Lamison smiled a strange, grave smile.
Our companion came back from the window whereon the heavy wash of the rain was now playing, and refilled his glass from the pitcher of shandygaff.
“So you are just on the point of making your first trip to the East?” Lamison asked, to my unutterable amazement.
Gage nodded. “Yes. In a few days I shall have decided.”
I looked blankly at him.
“Then I suppose you will have, your quarrel with the family by next week?” my friend went on.
Gage sighed deeply. “Yes, I shall have to go through with it again. Fortunately the worst stages come first, and I have been feeling the after effect for some days already.”
Lamison looked at my confusion with amusement.
“Tell Robertson about it all, old man,” he said. “He is perfectly trustworthy, and yours is such an interesting story. To begin with, tell him how old you are.”
Gage laughed, a quick boyish chuckle, and sprang up gaily, stretching himself before the sparkling fire. “Just three and twenty,” he answered hilariously.
I looked at him carefully. His iron-gray hair, the infinitesimal tracery of lines that covered his face and hand like a fine-spun web, and the slight stiffness of his joints, in spite of his quick and rather graceful movements, bespoke a man in the later fifties. I understood now. He was doubtless one of the curious cases of mania which the doctor was constantly picking up and studying.
“Tell him how it happened,” Lamison suggested.
Gage’s face grew grave. “It’s very sad, part of it—but on the whole I have been blest above all men, for I have lived my life twice over. It was this way”—he sat down once more in the easy chair from which he had risen; “I was devotedly fond of my wife—one of the most charming women in the world, Mr Robertson; but I lost her. She died, very suddenly, under singularly painful circumstances.” His mouth twitched, but he controlled himself. “I was away on business in Washington when the news of her sudden illness reached me. I waited for nothing, but left by the first train. I remember giving ten dollars to the driver of the cab I hailed on my arrival, if he would reach my house in ten minutes. Aside from that the journey is only a blur of strain and horror. My memory becomes clear again with the moment when I saw my doorstep, wet and shining in the rain. I noted the reflected carriage lamp on the streaming pavement. The servant who opened the door at the sound of the stopping of my cab was crying.
“The house was brilliantly lit and I could hear hurried footsteps on the floor above and catch a glimpse of the blue-clad figure of a trained nurse. I rushed upstairs and into my wife’s room. She raised one hand feebly towards me, and a flash of recognition lit up her face for an instant and then faded into waxen blankness. I can’t describe that hour—it is too keenly terrible for me to repeat and it is not necessary to the story.
“At last it was all over, and her dear eyes closed forever, as I thought then. A great emptiness settled upon my brain and heart. Then came a slow tightening and straining sensation, somewhere inside the dome of my skull, that seemed as fast as St. Peter’s. A snap, sharp as a broken banjo string and as perfectly audible, was its climax. Then I steadied myself and looked about. Nothing had changed. The room was still, for the others had gone and we were left alone together—my wife and I. The silence was awful. Only the clock ticked louder and louder and louder, till it beat like a drum.
“Then I glanced at the timepiece, an ordinary little porcelain thing that my wife kept by her on the medicine table, and a cold fear gripped me as I looked, for I realised that something wonderful and terrible was happening. With each tick the second hand jerked one second backwards—the hands were moving around the clock face from right to left. I started, and almost at the same instant I felt the hand I held in mine grow relaxed and warm. I gave a cry. The door opened. The nurse, who had been the last to leave the chamber of death, came in. I saw her do exactly what she had done before—but reversed. Then my sister backed in from the opposite side, exactly as she had walked out, and turning, showed me her tear-stained, convulsed face with the very movement with which she had left us. The others came in; it was a strange phenomenon. The doctor was there now, standing at the head of the bed. I looked at the clock. It was ticking and the hands slowly turning backwards. All at once I realised what had happened. Time had turned.
“I gasped when the thing dawned on me, it was so stupendous. But I saw my sweet wife’s eyelids flutter, I saw her breath coming with difficulty, and I suffered once more with all my soul that terrible death agony. She turned toward me and lifted her hand with the gesture I had seen as I entered the room. In spite of myself I rose, and left her. I went down the stairs—the servant was there—I passed out into the street, to find the cab that had brought me standing before the door. I backed in. The horse trotted backward all the way to the station and I found myself on the train speeding backwards to the city I had left to come post haste to my darling’s bedside.
“My reason shivered in my skull. If I could not sift this matter I knew I should go mad. The thing was strange past all endurance. So I sat in the train that was carrying me over the miles so recently covered, and considered. A dawn of delight came to me. It would not be so long before all this horror would have doubly passed. I would have to go to the hotel and receive that terrifying, crushing telegram announcing Isabelle’s illness once more. Then I should go over the business that had called me on to Washington, but after that I should go back to my wife to find her strong and well, to live over again the happy years of ou
r married life, to watch her growing daily younger, while I grew young with her.
“What matter that little tiffs re-occurred—they were so few, and the joy of those years so infinitely great. And that, Mr Robertson, is just, what happened.”
He went on, after a pause, in which he seemed lost in happy reverie. “In a week I had grown somewhat accustomed to doing over again the things I had done, only reversed; it seemed almost a matter of course; and, after all, I cared little, for I knew I was soon going to find Isabelle, to be greeted by her good-bye kiss, the same with which she had bid me Godspeed on the fatal journey. I could hardly hold my impatience as, at last, I backed up to the house, and when I saw her standing on the porch as I had last seen her, well and strong, dressed in the pretty gray cloth, so becoming to her bright complexion and copper-coloured hair, I could have cried with joy. She greeted me as I expected, with good-byes, but my heart sang with delight as we went into the house together. I put down my dress suit case, and we ate luncheon together, beginning with dessert, and ending with the delicate omelette she had prepared herself, in honour of my unusual freedom to lunch with her. We went over our old conversations. I was longing to tell her of my delight in her presence, of my gratitude for the extraordinary reversal of nature that gave her back to me, but I could not. I was under bondage of the past. I could only say what I had said, do what I had done.
“Luncheon over—or, rather, correctly speaking, before it had begun—l bade her goodbye in my heart, but greeted her in my speech and went down to the treadmill round of my office work. My recent bereavement made me so tender of her presence, so hungry for the sight of her, that my very soul longed to expand itself in loving words and acts; I yearned to do and say a thousand affectionate things, but I could only do as I had done. I began to appreciate how I had let our relations become commonplace, and I hated myself for it. I saw a thousand ways in which I could have made her happier, or spared her pain, yet I could not take advantage of my new realisation of my love of her. Ah, it takes such an experience as mine to make a man understand what he has missed and what he might have been. But even if I could not be to her what I so dearly longed to show myself, yet in my heart no gesture of hers went unnoted, no tone of her voice unloved. She delighted me wholly and completely, and the caresses that I gave her in seeming perfunctoriness, and the words seemingly mere habits of expression, were really the outlet of my soul’s yearning to her. We were very happy. For years we were constantly together, and never was wife so appreciated.
