Lavina L. Dock is a trained nurse of long and wide experience in more than one country. She is the author of “A Text Book of Materia Medica for Nurses,” now in its fourth edition, revised and enlarged, and, in collaboration with M. D. Nutting, R.N., of “The History of Nursing,” in two volumes.
Miss Dock’s present book, “Hygiene and Morality,” is of far wider appeal than either of the former works. The title is a good one, for it links two aspects of one subject, and presents the new case without ignoring the old one.
The work deals in the main, in plain, simple moderate language, with the pathological aspects of what is called “the social evil”; laying stress not so much upon the moral danger, long known, as on the physical danger, to which we are but just awakening.
The first part gives clear descriptions of the venereal diseases, now known to be caused by specific germs; and to be both infectious and contagious in the highest degree; giving statistics as to their prevalence.
The general estimate, in syphilis, she quotes as from five to eighteen per cent of the population, varying in the different countries. Taking the most modest estimate for ours, and allowing our population at 80,000,000–this would give us an army of 4,000,000 syphilitics at large among us–unknown to the public.
Say they had leprosy, or cholera, or smallpox, and imagine our horror; yet these diseases are not comparable in their terrible consequences; not only to the victims, but to their children and grandchildren.
In gonorrhoea, a cause of sterility, blindness of babies, and all manner of surgical operations and “diseases peculiar to women,” so common among innocent wives, Miss Dock shows us that European records give about seventy-five per cent of men as infected. In America things are better, a conservative estimate giving the proportion of our men having either syphilis or gonorrhoea as about sixty per cent.
As each of these diseases affects both wife and child, it is specially necessary that women should be informed about them.
The second part treats of Prostitution; the efforts made at its control and regulation, and the new widespread movement for its abolition; and gives melancholy figures to show not only the immense extent of this evil, but the fact that the large majority of its victims are _unwilling_ ones.
Abnormal women who might wish to follow this trade are so few that in order to supply the market, innocent young girls, numbering in America about fifty thousand a year, must be forced into this profession, into shame, disease and painful death; hence the “White-Slave traffic.”
The third part discusses Prevention; with wise and hopeful words; telling how chance infection may be avoided, how patients with these diseases should be isolated; and how all children should be educated in full knowledge of this danger and its best avoidance.
Miss Dock is also very clear and strong in showing that women can best reduce this evil through the use of the ballot; and gives conclusive evidence of what is already accomplished in those states and countries having equal suffrage.
It is a clean, forcible interesting book, most moderate in tone; and giving a long list of scientific authorities.
*
Now for an amusing book!
This is “Marriage as a Trade,” by Cicely Hamilton, a clever and forcible English writer, co-author of that delicious little play “How The Vote Was Won.”
A keen and accurate weapon is Miss Hamilton’s pen; and in this work she uses it with delicious dexterity to prick bubbles, to slice off masks, cut veils and bandages, and dissect ancient idols.
Her special matter in discussion is exactly given in the title, and she does not stray from her theme; but brings out, sharply and inescapably, the universal fact, that marriage, to a woman, is not only a happiness (or a grief!), not only a duty, or at least a natural function, but a trade–she earns her living by it!
Miss Hamilton points out very forcibly that not all women are fitted by nature for following the same trade, that not all of them like it; that it produces low grade work and discontented lives; and that many women would infinitely prefer working at some other business.
The value of this book is is the sharp light thrown on this large subject from the woman’s view–or at least from a woman’s view; and one that will be shared by many others.
Its amusing quality is for those who like trenchant wit and penetrating satire.
*
Mary Jonston is a writer of good novels, strong, thrilling, excellent in workmanship, as all who have read her “To Have and To Hold” will agree; and it was that quality of literary skill which made me seize upon this, in the Woman’s Journal of October 8th, before I noticed the name of the author:
THE WISE HOUSEKEEPER:
Will be against
A HOW BUILT ON SAND.
Will be for
THE CATEGORICAL IMPERATIVE.
Will be against
GROUNDS WITHOUT SHADE AND WATER.
Will be for
CONSERVATISM.
Will be against
QUARRELS WITH NEIGHBORS.
Will be for
INTERNATIONAL ARBITRATION.
Will be against
EXTRAVAGANT HOUSEKEEPING.
Will be for
ECONOMY IN ADMINISTRATION.
Will be against
PENNY WISDOM AND POUND FOOLISHNESS. Will be for
LIBERAL APPROPRIATIONS FOR COMMON WELFARE.
Will be against
DISHONEST SERVANTS.
Will be for
INTELLIGENCE AND HONOR IN OFFICE.
Will be against
DIRT.
Will be for
CLEAN POLITICS.
Will be against
MOTHS, RUST AND MILDEW
Will be for
AN END TO GRAFT.
Will be against
UNTRIMMED LAMPS.
Will be for
THE INITIATIVE AND REFERENDUM.
Will be against
UNPAID BILLS.
Will be for
JUSTICE.
Will be against
DARK CORNERS.
Will be for
COMMON OWNERSHIP IN COMMON NEEDS.
Will be against
DARKENED WINDOWS.
Will be for
COMPULSORY EDUCATION.
Will be against
CANDLES BURNED AT BOTH ENDS.
Will be for
ABOLITION OF CHILD LABOR.
Will be against
CARELESS BREAKAGE.
Will be for
ACTS LOOKING TO PREVENTION OF MINE, RAILWAY AND FACTORY ACCIDENTS.
Will be against
HOUSEHOLD DRUDGES.
Will be for
AN EIGHT-HOUR DAY.
Will be against
BAD DRAINS.
Will be for
A FEDERAL DEPARTMENT OF HEALTH.
Will be against
STAINS THAT WILL NOT COME OUT.
Will be for
JUVENILE COURTS.
Will be against
POISONS LEFT WHERE THE CHILDREN CAN GET THEM. Will be for
WAR AGAINST THE SOCIAL EVIL.
WAR AGAINST ALCOHOL.
Will be against
MISTAKEN PARTNERSHIPS.
Will be for
WISER MARRIAGE LAWS.
Will be against
SPOILED CHILDREN.
Will be for
A FEDERAL DEPARTMENT OF EUGENICS.
Will be against
A MISTRESS OF THE HOUSE WITHOUT AUTHORITY. Will be for
THE FRANCHISE FOR WOMEN.
*
“To-day’s Problems” is a good ten cents’ worth–or five, if you live in Chicago.
It is a pocket-size pamphlet, full of short bits from some hundred and fifty leading writers, workers, and speakers, along lines of Social Progress.
Ministers, college professors, economists, sociologists, editors, authors, organizers, poets, orators; a millionaire, a member of parliament, a prince,–it’s a great booklet. And not a thing in it that fills one page, even.
_To-day’s Problems._ Trade Union Book Concern. Chicago, Ill.
*
We mean to carry lists of books useful to our readers. We wish to prove that it will pay publishers to advertise with us. If you order any book reviewed here, please send your order to The FORERUNNER.
“Pure Sociology,” by Lester F. Ward, Macmillan, Pub., $4.00.
“Hygiene and Morality,” by Lavina L. Dock, R. N., G. P. Putnam’s Sons, Pub., $1.25.
“Marriage as a Trade,” by Cicely Hamilton, Moffat, Yard & Co., Pub., $1.25.
PERSONAL PROBLEMS
_Question._–A radical woman and conservative man are married, have been married for years. The woman now wants to do a share of work for votes for women. The man takes it as a personal reflection. He thinks outsiders will conclude that a woman suffragist must have a family grievance at home. How much suffrage work do you advise her to do?
_Answer._–I advise her to do all the suffrage work she thinks right; and any other work she thinks right. What her husband thinks somebody else will think, is a pretty poor obstacle.
If a woman so lives as to hold the love and respect of her husband, she can differ from him quite widely–for conscience sake–and not break their bond.
If he does not love and respect her–why should she mind what he thinks?
*
Here are some earnest questions from an artist:
1. “How shall I be most efficient?
2. “Which of my work is best–what I think best, or what other people think best?
3. “If my best work is done by accident, what’s the use of trying?”
_Answer._–1. Live to your fullest development in all lines–and keep your health. Do not so concentrate on art as to neglect life–and your art will be greater.
2. Do the work you think best, with all your might, accepting others’ judgement only when it convinces yours.
3. Trying, always–that is, doing your best work, life long–is what allows those happy accidents. Keep on trying.
*
In this department in August, “E. M. K.” asked:
“Would you please outline a plan of organization among married women who wish to continue practicing their profession, through which they may arouse other women; and also reach the authorities who have control over their work?”
I then recommended political organization as the best possible; but have been called upon since to mention The Married Women Teachers’ Association, of New York, as an instance of what may be done. The Secretary is Mrs. Anna G. Walsh, 22 Harvard Avenue, Jamaica, N. Y.
FROM LETTERS OF SUBSCRIBERS
“Charlotte Perkins Gilman: Since the first of January, 1904, I’ve been writing you this letter! ‘The Women’s Journal,’ of Boston, presented you to me–and I’ve been acknowledging the introduction ever since!! ‘—–‘ I bought–and read–and re-read your ‘Women and Economics’ and ‘The Home, It’s Work and Influence.’ I then as now, _knew_–that I had known these things always–you had only beat me to its expression.”
*
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*
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*
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*
“Its going to be well worth a dollar, this Forerunner of yours, if the forerunner I have received of The Forerunner is to be taken as typical, I am immensely interested in your philosophy of life. Your tale of Diantha I turned over to my eldest daughter and its effect is pronounced. She is looking for the next number.”
*
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*
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*
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*
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*
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*
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*
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*
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*
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“The paper is great. May it be able to outlive the necessity for its mission.”
(Encloses three subscriptions).
*
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*
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*
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*
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*
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*
“How much liberty do you wish us to take in the matter of quotations from The Forerunner ‘—–‘ Both January copies have just come to hand. Your stories are more interesting than any I’ve read for a long time. I hope you will continue these ‘Housekeeping Problems.’
*
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*
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*
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*
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*
“The January Forerunner is especially rich. ‘Here is the earth,’ is worth the subscription price, to put it mildly.”
*
“Mother’s copy of The Forerunner has just come, and I want to subscribe right off, before I read it! I know it will be the very cleverest and most stimulating thing in print. I want to lend it to the other girls at college.”
*
“I _must_ take a few moments to say how much I enjoy The Forerunner.”
*
“To speak commercially, I never saw so much value given for the price, in my life! And then the stuff itself! Well;
“‘Her Housekeeper,’ gave me such joy that I read it four times, to be sure I had extracted _all_ the juice. A _real_ love story! I suppose perhaps the only one that was ever written! I, at least, do not recall, in all the tons of fiction I have swum through a story of real LOVE before. * * * Apropos of this not seeing–not grasping the idea–comes ‘The Barrel.’ Oh fine! More power to your right arm.”
*
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*
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*
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*
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*
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*
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*
“A word or two of appreciation from Iowa! Your magazine The Forerunner is splendid and no mere words can tell you how I have enjoyed it. The whole thing, from cover to cover, is excellent and vigorous.”
*
“The first number came. And I devoured it from cover to cover and back again before I let anyone else see it. Now they are all reading it and chuckling over ‘How doth the Hat,’ and discussing the serious parts with great gusto. It makes me glad when I think that more numbers are coming regularly now and I can look forward to the next one and waylay the postman when the time comes. Certainly this number has made me (for one), sit up and think a bit. I wish the next one were due to-morrow.”
*
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*
“Accept my hearty congratulations upon The Forerunner. The first number is delightful, and exceedingly clever. ‘What Diantha did,’ and ‘Androcentric Culture,’ are deep and clear and stimulating, and ‘How doth the hat’ should make all who read it sit up and take notice. It seems to me that every thinking woman who sees this copy will become a subscriber. I enclose a check for my subscription and that of my mother, Mrs. —– —–.”
*
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*
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*
“My mother wants you to know of her enthusiasm over the second issue of The Forerunner, which she thinks an advance even over the first number. Her points were these: 1. Such a pleasure to read a homogeneous magazine instead of having to skip from lion hunting to Christian Science and from that to flying machines. 2. Admires the way you take the individual problems of individual women, and by means of the individual problems lead these women into the larger view of life and into an understanding of the androcentric culture. 3. Article on Socialism most concise, clearest and most convincing she has ever read. In this I heartily agree.” * * * “4. The trite phrase about ‘not one dull word from cover to cover’ applies literally and without the slightest exaggeration to this number of The Forerunner.”
*
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*
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*
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*
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*
“To say that we greatly appreciate it is to only hint our mood. It is by far the strongest and best expressed word on these problems of society in which are inextricably mingled the position of woman. We read it with the greatest satisfaction and feel sure that your message is coming most timely.” * * *
*
“Here is my subscription to The Forerunner–one of the most cheerful purchases I ever made, and certainly a bargain! Success attend your efforts, for they mean _much_ to mankind.”
*
“Let me compliment you on your excellent articles on Androcentric Culture. They contain knowledge combined with so much beauty of expression that they feed and charm the mind alike.”
*
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*
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A FRIENDLY RESPONSE
The editor wishes to acknowledge with cordial thanks the warm response to the appeal to subscribers to “renew, and get another.”
They are doing it, quite rapidly, and only three or four–so far–have discontinued. One of these did it twice! Evidently The Forerunner was _non persona grata_ there.
We begin to feel that we have more friends–and warmer ones–than at first appeared.
OUR BOUND VOLUME AS A CHRISTMAS PRESENT
The first year comprises fourteen issues–November, 1909, to December, 1910, inclusive.
In it is the Housekeeping novel–“What Diantha Did”–which will interest many, both men and women. It offers a very practical solution to the Servant Question.
In it is also the Book About Men–“The Man-Made World, or Our Androcentric Culture.”
There have been books and books about women–mostly, unpleasant. This is the first one about men, as such; men as distinguished from Human Beings–as women have always been distinguished from Human Beings.
You won’t wholly like the book–just consider whether it is true!
The novel separately, or the book separately, would also make good presents, but the date of their publication is not settled, while in the bound volume of the magazine you get them both for only 25c. more than one would cost.
This set, making a volume of some 420 pages, with its twelve short stories, its articles, fables, verse, and other matter, will make a very good gift–for some people. Ready early in December. $1.25.
TO THOSE SPECIALLY INTERESTED IN THiS MAGAZINE, OR SPECIALLY INTERESTED IN FIFTY DOLLARS
This is not a “Popular Magazine.” It does not try to be. It is a magazine which meets the needs of a comparatively few, but they like it immensely–as is shown by the extracts from their letters we are now publishing.
We want to reach, if possible, all the people who would like The Forerunner if they knew about it.
For the rest of this year we are making a special offer to anyone who will get us new subscribers; the regular commission of 25 per cent., and a rising premium which goes up to a total of 50 per cent. for a hundred new paid year’s subscriptions.
$50.00 for one hundred new subscribers!
For a girl in college who wants to help herself;
For a woman in a liberal church, or with a wide acquaintance among progressive thinkers;
For a Suffragist in touch with similar believers;
For any man or woman who can reach organizations of liberal-minded people;
For anybody who thinks they would like to earn $50.00 that way–it is a good offer.
Write for full terms, samples, etc.
IF YOU RENEW
The first year runs through December; fourteen copies.
Renew from January, 1911, and get the whole of next year.
IF YOU DISCONTINUE
So far one subscriber has discontinued.
She will get the magazine two months more.
If you must discontinue, please let us know.
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585 Boylston St., Boston, Mass.
Official Organ of the National American Woman Suffrage Association
A weekly newspaper devoted to winning the ballot for women Contains all the best news about women and their progress
FOUNDED 1870 BY LUCY STONE AND HENRY B. BLACKWELL
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The Woman’s Journal is published in Boston and controlled by the National American Woman Suffrage Association whose headquarters are at 505 Fifth Avenue, New York City. It gives suffrage news from every state in the Union, and especially from the states where campaigns are under way; it gives important suffrage news from all the countries where the women have the full right of suffrage, and from the countries where the battle is waging; it gives official announcements and rousing news.
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The Englishwoman
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$3.50 post free per annum to any part of the United States
“The Englishwoman” is intended to reach the cultured public and bring before it, in a convincing and moderate form, the case for the Enfranchisement of Women. No support will be given to any particular party in politics.
The magazine will be inspired from the first page to the last by one continuous policy, which is to further the Enfranchisement of Women.
It will try to do so, first by securing the sympathy and holding the attention of that public which is interested in letters, art and culture generally. and by an impartial statement of facts. Its chief features will be:
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There are in England something like twenty-five National Societies for promoting the enfranchisement of women. The oldest of these is the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies, which was started in 1861 and whose President is Mrs. Fawcett, LL.D. The National Union has over two hundred branches in Great Britain, and a total membership of about 20,000. It is the only British Woman’s Suffrage Society affiliated to the International Woman Suffrage Alliance.
The Common Cause
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THE FORERUNNER
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“THE CRUX”
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Volume 1. No. 14
DECEMBER, 1910
Copyright for 1910
C. P. Gilman
You can’t give what you haven’t got.
The best gifts are love and wisdom, courage and power. Lay in some!
IN AS MUCH
The Christian arose upon Christmas Day And solemnly cleared his score:
He called on the sick, to the needy gave alms, And entered the prison door.
He lent to his friends, gave away his old coat Was never by sinners enticed,
And handed the man who complained of a throat A cup of cold water–iced.
He bestowed on a newsboy a new pair of shoes, And quoted in pious glee:
“In as much as ye’ve done it to one of these least Ye have done it unto me.”
*
That night he dreamed upon judgment Day: Men’s hearts were all in their throats; To his pained surprise he was hustled away And herded among the goats!
“Oh Lord,” he cried, “there is some mistake, I have always remembered Thee!”
But the world’s neglected children rose And gazed reproachfully.
And a voice replied, “Thy punishment take; Thy duty thou didst not see!
In as much as ye have NOT done it to ONE Ye have NOT done it unto me.”
A WORD IN SEASON
“Children pick up words like pigeons peas, And utter them again as God shall please.”
When Grandma came to the breakfast table with her sour little smile and her peremptory “Good morning,” every one said “good morning” as politely and pleasantly as they could, but they didn’t say very much else. They attempted bravely.
“A fine morning, Mother,” Papa observed, but she only answered “Too cold.”
“Did you sleep well, Mother?” ventured Mama; and the reply to that was, “No, I never do!”
Then Uncle John tried–he always tried once.
“Have you heard of our new machine, Mrs. Grey? We’ve got one now that’ll catch anything in a room–don’t have to talk right into it.”
Mrs. Grey looked at him coldly.
“I do not take the least interest in your talking machines, Henry, as I have told you before.”
She had, many times before, but Uncle Henry never could learn the astonishing fact. He was more interested in his machines than he was in his business, by far; and spent all his spare time in tinkering with them.
“I think they are wonderful,” said little Josie.
“You’re my only friend, Kid! I believe you understand ’em almost as well is I do,” her Uncle answered gaily; and finished his breakfast as quickly as possible.
So did everybody. It was not appetizing to have Grandma say “How you do dawdle over your meals, Louise!”
Little Josephine slipped down from her chair, with a whispered “Scuse me Mama!” and whisked into her play room.
“How you do spoil that child!” said Grandma, and Mama closed her lips tight and looked at her husband.
“Now Mother, don’t you fret about Josie,” said he. “She’s a good little girl and quiet as a mouse.”
“Anything I can do for you downtown, Mother?”
“No thank you Joseph. I’ll go to my room and be out of Louise’s way.”
“You’re not in my way at all, Mother–won’t you sit down stairs?”
Young Mrs. Grey made a brave effort to speak cordially, but old Mrs. Grey only looked injured, and said “No thank you, Louise,” as she went upstairs.
Dr. Grey looked at his wife. She met his eyes steadily, cheerfully.
“I think Mother’s looking better, don’t you dear?” she said.
“There’s nothing at all the matter with my mother–except–” he shut his mouth hard. “There are things I cannot say, Louise,” he continued, “but others I can. Namely; that for sweetness and patience and gentleness you–you beat the Dutch! And I do appreciate it. One can’t turn one’s Mother out of the house, but I do resent her having another doctor!”
“I’d love your Mother, Joseph, if–if she was a thousand times worse!” his wife answered; and he kissed her with grateful love.
Sarah came in to clear the table presently, and Ellen stood in the pantry door to chat with her.
“Never in my life did I see any woman wid the patience of her!” said Ellen, wiping her mouth on her apron.
“She has need of it,” said Sarah. “Any Mother-in-law is a trial I’ve heard, but this wan is the worst. Why she must needs live with ’em I don’t see–she has daughters of her own.”
“Tis the daughter’s husbands won’t put up wid her,” answered Ellen, “they havin’ the say of course. This man’s her son–and he has to keep her if she will stay.”
“And she as rich as a Jew!” Sarah went on. “And never spendin’ a cent! And the Doctor workin’ night and day!”–
Then Mama came in and this bit of conversation naturally came to an end.
A busy, quiet, sweet little woman was Mama; and small Josie flew into her arms and cuddled there most happily.
“Mama Dearest,” she said, “How long is it to Christmas? Can I get my mat done for Grandma? And _do_ you think she’ll like it?”
“Well, well dear–that’s three _questions!_ It’s two weeks yet to Christmas; and I think you can if you work steadily; and I hope she’ll like it.”
“And Mama–can I have my party?”
“I’m afraid not, dearest. You see Grandma is old, and she hates a noise and confusion–and parties are expensive. I’m sorry, childie. Can’t you think of something else you want, that Mother can give you?”
“No,” said the child, “I’ve wanted a party for three years, Mama! Grandma just spoils everything!”
“No, no, dear–you must always love Grandma because she is dear Papa’s mother; and because she is lonely and needs our love.
“We’ll have a party some day, Dearest–don’t feel badly. And _we_ always have a good time together, don’t we?”
They did; but just now the child’s heart was set on more social pleasures, and she went sadly back to her playroom to work on that mat for Grandma.
It was a busy day. Mama’s married sister came to see her, and the child was sent out of the room. Two neighbors called, and waited, chatting, some time before Mama came down.
Grandma’s doctor–who was not Papa–called; and her lawyer too; and they had to wait some time for the old lady to dress as she thought fitting.
But Grandma’s doctor and lawyer were very old friends, and seemed to enjoy themselves.
The minister came also, not Grandma’s minister, who was old and thin and severe and wore a long white beard; but Mama’s minister, who was so vigorous and cheerful, and would lift Josephine way up over his head–as if she was ten years old. But Mama sent her out of the room this time, which was a pity.
To be sure Josephine had a little secret trail from her playroom door–behind several pieces of furniture–right up to the back of the sofa where people usually sat, but she was not often interested in their conversation. She was a quiet child, busy with her own plans and ideas; playing softly by herself, with much imaginary conversation. She set up her largest doll, a majestic personage known as “The Lady Isobel,” and talked to her.
“Why is my Grandma so horrid? And why do I have to love her? How can you love people–if you don’t, Lady Isobel?
“Other girls’ Grandmas are nice. Nelly Elder’s got a lovely Grandma! She lets Nelly have parties and everything. Maybe if Grandma likes my mat she’ll–be pleasanter.
“Maybe she’ll go somewhere else to live–sometime. Don’t you think so, Lady Isobel?”
The Lady Isobel’s reply, however, was not recorded.
Grandma pursued her pious way as usual, till an early bedtime relieved the family of her presence. Then Uncle Harry stopped puttering with his machines and came out to be sociable with his sister. If Papa was at home they would have a game of solo–if not, they played cribbage, or quiet.
Uncle Harry was the life of the household–when Grandma wasn’t around.
“Well, Lulu,” he said cheerfully, “What’s the prospect? Can Joe make it?”
“No,” said Mama. “It’s out of the question. He could arrange about his practice easily enough but it’s the money for the trip. He’ll have to send his paper to be read.”
“It’s a shame!” said the young man, “He ought to be there. He’d do those other doctors good. Why in the name of reason don’t the old lady give him the money–she could, easy enough.”
“Joe never’ll ask her for a cent,” answered Mrs. Grey, “and it would never occur to her to give him one! Yet I think she loves him best of all her children.”
“Huh! _Love!_” said Uncle Harry.
*
Grandma didn’t sleep well at night. She complained of this circumstantially and at length.
“Hour after hour I hear the clock strike,” she said. “Hour after hour!”
Little Josephine had heard the clock strike hour after hour one terrible night when she had an earache. She was really sorry for Grandma.
“And nothing to take up my mind,” said Grandma, as if her mind was a burden to her.
But the night after this she had something to take up her mind. As a matter of fact it woke her up, as she had napped between the clock’s strikings. At first she thought the servants were in her room–and realized with a start that they were speaking of her.
“Why she must live with ’em I don’t see–she has daughters of her own–“
With the interest of an eavesdropper she lay still, listening, and heard no good of herself.
“How long is it to Christmas?” she presently heard her grandchild ask, and beg her mother for the “party”–still denied her.
“Grandma spoils everything!” said the clear childish voice, and the mother’s gentle one urged love and patience.
It was some time before the suddenly awakened old lady, in the dark, realized the source of these voices–and then she could not locate it.
“It’s some joke of that young man’s” she said grimly–but the joke went on.
It was Mrs. Grey’s sister now, condoling with her about this mother-in-law.
“Why do you have to put up with it Louise? Won’t any of her daughters have her?”
“I’m afraid they don’t want her,” said Louise’s gentle voice. “But Joe is her son, and of course he feels that his home is his mother’s. I think he is quite right. She is old, and alone–she doesn’t _mean_ to be disagreeable.”
“Well, she achieves it without effort, then! A more disagreeable old lady I never saw, Louise, and I’d like nothing better than to tell her so!”
The old lady was angry, but impressed. There is a fascination in learning how others see us, even if the lesson is unpleasant. She heard the two neighbors who talked together before Mama came down, and their talk was of her–and of how they pitied young Mrs. Grey.
“If I was in her shoes,” said the older of the two, “I’d pick up and travel! She’s only sixty-five–and sound as a nut.”
“Has she money enough?” asked the other.
“My, yes! Money to burn! She has her annuity that her father left her, and a big insurance–and house rents. She must have all of three thousand a year.”
“And doesn’t she pay board here?”
“Pay board! Not she. She wouldn’t pay anything so long as she has a relative to live on. She’s saved all her life. But nobody’ll get any good of it till she’s dead.”
This talk stopped when their hostess entered, changing to more general themes; but the interest revived when men’s voices took up the tale.
“Yes–wants her will made again. Always making and unmaking and remaking. Harmless amusement, I suppose.”
“She wastes good money on both of us–and I tell her so. But one can’t be expected to absolutely refuse a patient.”
“Or a client!”
“No. I suppose not.”
“She’s not really ill then?”
“Bless you, Ruthven, I don’t know a sounder old woman anywhere. All she needs is a change–and to think of something besides herself! I tell her that, too–and she says I’m so eccentric.”
“Why in all decency don’t her son do her doctoring?”
“I suppose he’s too frank–and not quite able to speak his mind. He’s a fine fellow. That paper of his will be a great feature of our convention. Shame he can’t go.”
“Why can’t he? Can’t afford it?”
“That’s just it. You see the old lady don’t put up–not a cent–and he has all he can do to keep the boys in college.” And their conversation stopped, and Grandma heard her own voice–inviting the doctor up to her room–and making another appointment for the lawyer.
Then it was the young minister, a cheerful, brawny youth, whom she had once described as a “Godless upstart!”
He appeared to be comforting young Mrs. Grey, and commending her. “You are doing wonders,” he said, as their voices came into hearing, “and not letting your right hand know it, either.”
“You make far too much of it, Mr. Eagerson,” the soft voice answered, “I am so happy in my children–my home–my husband. This is the _only_ trouble–I do not complain.”
“I know you don’t complain, Mrs. Grey, but I want you to know that you’re appreciated! ‘It is better to dwell in a corner of the housetop, than with a woman in a wide house’–especially if she’s your mother-in-law.”
“I won’t allow you to speak so–if you are my minister!” said young Mrs. Grey with spirit; and the talk changed to church matters, where the little lady offered to help with time and service, and regretted that she had no money to give.
There was a silence, save for small confused noises of a day time household; distant sounds of doors and dishes; and then in a sad, confidential voice–“Why is Grandma so horrid? And why do I have to love her? How can you love people you don’t, Lady Isobel?”
Grandma was really fond of quiet little Josephine, even if she did sometimes snub her as a matter of principle. She lay and listened to these strictly private remarks, and meditated upon them after they had ceased. It was a large dose, an omnibus dose, and took some time to assimilate; but the old lady had really a mind of her own, though much of it was uninhabited, and this generous burst of light set it to working.
She said nothing to anyone, but seemed to use her eyes and ears with more attention than previously, and allowed her grand-daughter’s small efforts toward affection with new receptiveness. She had one talk with her daughter-in-law which left that little woman wet-eyed and smiling with pleasure, though she could not tell about it–that was requisite.
But the family in general heard nothing of any change of heart till breakfast time on Christmas morning. They sat enjoying that pleasant meal, in the usual respite before the old lady appeared, when Sarah came in with a bunch of notes and laid one at each plate, with an air of great importance.
“She said I was to leave ’em till you was all here–and here they are!” said Sarah, smiling mysteriously, “and that I was to say nothing–and I haven’t!” And the red-cheeked girl folded her arms and waited–as interested as anybody.
Uncle Harry opened his first. “I bet it’s a tract!” said he. But he blushed to the roots of his thick brown hair as he took out, not a tract, but a check.
“A Christmas present to my son-in-law-by-marriage; to be spent on the improvement of talking machines–if that is necessary!”
“Why bless her heart!” said he, “I call that pretty handsome, and I’ll tell her so!”
Papa opened his.
“For your Convention trip, dear son,” said this one, “and for a new dress suit–and a new suit case, and a new overcoat–a nice one. With Mother’s love.”
It was a large check, this one. Papa sat quite silent and looked at his wife. She went around the table and hugged him–she had to.
“You’ve got one, too, Louise,” said he–and she opened it.
“For my dear daughter Louise; this–to be spent on other people; and _this_” (_this_ was much bigger) “to be inexorably spent on herself–every cent of it! On her own special needs and pleasures–if she can think of any!”
Louise was simply crying–and little Josephine ran to comfort her.
“Hold on Kiddie–you haven’t opened yours,” said Uncle Harry; and they all eagerly waited while the child carefully opened her envelope with a clean knife, and read out solemnly and slowly, “For my darling Grand-child Josephine, to be spent by herself, for herself, with Mama’s advice and assistance; and in particular to provide for her party!”
She turned over the stiff little piece of paper–hardly understanding.
“It’s a check, dear,” said Papa. “It’s the same as money. Parties cost money, and Grandma has made you a Christmas present of your party.”
The little girl’s eyes grew big with joy.
“Can I?–Is there really–a party?”
“There is really a party–for my little daughter, this afternoon at four!”
“O where is Grandma!” cried the child–“I want to hug her!”
They all rose up hurriedly, but Sarah came forward from her scant pretense of retirement, with another note for Dr. Grey.
“I was to give you this last of all,” she said, with an air of one fulfilling grave diplomatic responsibility.
“My dear ones,” ran the note, “I have gathered from my family and friends, and from professional and spiritual advisers the idea that change is often beneficial. With this in mind I have given myself a Christmas present of a Cook’s Tour around the world–and am gone. A Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to you all!”
She was gone.
Sarah admitted complicity.
“Sure she would have no one know a thing–not a word!” said Sarah. “And she gave us something handsome to help her! And she’s got that young widder Johnson for a companion–and they went off last night on the sleeper for New York!”
The gratitude of the family had to be spent in loving letters, and in great plans of what they would do to make Grandma happy when she came back.
No one felt more grateful than little loving Josephine, whose dearest wishes were all fulfilled. When she remembered it she went very quietly, when all were busy somewhere else, climbed up on the step ladder, and took down the forgotten phonograph from the top of the wardrobe.
“Dear Grandma!” she said. “I do hope she liked it!”
CHRISTMAS LOVE
When the Writer or the Preacher or one who chances to be both considers a Christmas sermon, a Christmas story, what is the idea that comes uppermost?
Love, of course. Not sex-love: that’s for every day. Not Mother-love: that’s always and always. Not any of the minor brands of admiring devotion, gratitude, sympathy, friendship, attraction of any sort. No. When we say “Love” at Christmas time we mean Love, the Spirit of Life.
About once a year we give thought to it. About once a year we seek to express it; and, pitiful and limited though that expression be, its forms are right.
These main forms of Christmas expressions are two-fold: the Spirit of Joy, of Celebration, of High Festival–the highest of all; and the Spirit of Giving. These are found wherever Christmas is kept, and make it, as it should be, the glory of the year. In joy and in giving we are most absolutely in line with the mainspring of the Universe: unmeasured happiness–happiness that cannot be quenched–cannot be kept to ourselves. What must run over and pour forth on other people: that is real Love, Christmas Love–and that, of course, finds physical expression in gay festivities and showering gifts.
Light, color, music–all that is sweet and gay and comforting; games, dances and performances that show the happy heart; and always the overflow–giving, giving, giving. That is the Spirit of Life.
It is the children’s festival because children are more in line with the Life Spirit than weazened old folk: the child has the passionate thirst for joy which marks his high parentage.
Whatever else is true about the Central Power of the Universe, this is true: it _is_ power. And it pours forth in Radiant Energy. All “inanimate nature,” so called, expresses this Power, each form after its kind; and all animate nature, crowned with consciousness, not only expresses it, but _feels_ it,–which is called “Living.”
We human beings are the highest, finest, subtlest instrument on this planet to receive and to transmit these waves of pouring Power. When we feel it most we call it Happiness. In two ways it reaches our consciousness, as it comes in and as it goes out, via the sensory and motor nerves. The joy of receiving power is great: “stimulus” we call it. It comes to us along the avenues of sense and thrills us with increased well being. But this kind of pleasure is sadly limited by those sense nerves of ours. We are but a little tea-cup: we cannot hold much. The Music of the Spheres might pour round us; the light of a thousand suns, the sweetness of piled banks of flowers, and all honey and sugar and rich food: every sense can be fed to its little limit only–and there the Happiness stops.
We can only feel so much–coming in. But there seems to be no limit to the joy we feel when Power goes out through us. It seems so self-evident, so needless, to say “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” Why _of course_ it is: any child even knows that.
True, a child, having a fresh, unsated sensorium, can receive with more vivid pleasure than an adult–for a while. But it is easily over-tired, easily over-fed with sensation, easily bored and weary with receiving.
Not with giving! Every child delights to let out the Power which is in him–in her; delights to make and delights to give. Therefore, to children is this their festival: the busy weeks of happiness in making gifts, the swelling, glowing pride of giving them!
It’s all right as far as it goes, but why, when such a thing is such transcendent splendid blessedness, why only once a year? Why should this beautiful experience in which we not only remember the birth of the man who taught the world most of love but even try to practise what He preached–why should it be limited to a mere memorial of His birthday, plastered over the remnants of ancient festivals of the return of the Sun God–the Goodness of the Earth Mother?
If Christmas is good, why not more of it? Then we smile, wryly, and say, “Why, of course, we couldn’t. The rest of life isn’t like that–and we have to live, you see.”
Ah, that is where we are wrong–utterly wrong. The rest of life _is_ like that. That is _life_–Loving and Giving.
“Tut! Tut!” says the Practical Man. “That’s emotional nonsense. That’s womanish.” Two-thirds right, my practical friend. It is not nonsense, but it is “emotional” and it is “womanish.”
Emotion is _consciousness under pressure._ When we feel Power, we call it emotion. Emotions vary: some are helpful and some hateful, according to the nature of the instrument; but not to be emotional at all is not to be alive. Those who spend their lives lit by a blaze of emotion, warmed by a deep, slow-burning fire of emotion, pouring forth that emotion in great works–we call Geniuses. Genius is simply more Power.
As to being womanish: that word is no longer a term of reproach or belittlement. To be womanish is to be human, and we may now turn round and pitifully dismiss much old world folly and passion as merely “mannish.” To be womanish–and practical–let us repeat, Life _is_ Loving and Giving. When we realize this, intelligently and completely, we shall have a “continuous performance” of Christmases and a higher level of happiness the year round, varied by greater heights. At present the natural flood of Life Force, pouring through us in unbounded creative energy, resulting in the myriad forms of human achievement and manufacture, is sadly thwarted in its output by lingering remains of our old period.
For a long time we lived by getting: to hunt, to catch, to kill, to eat was all we knew: no loving or giving there save as the mother fulfilled the law. But since our Humaness began, since all our thousand powers and talents grew for mutual service, since we learned to do things for each other–to make things for each other, to give things to each other–then grew in us that rising tide of Power which lives out in expression.
In spite of our old world perverseness, that Power pours on. Though we scorn the gifts of those who make the comforts of life for us, though we despise their service and so cruelly use them as to greatly thwart their love–still we are fed and housed and clothed and carried by the love and service of our kind, the daily, hourly gifts of those who work.
“They are not gifts,” cries the Practical Man. “They are paid for–every bit of ’em.” Yes, Brother. And how paid for? Paid how much? What scant reward, what meagre living, what miserable houses, what stinted food, what limited education, and what poisoned pleasures do we pay to those who make every necessity, comfort, convenience and luxury for us!
Pay indeed! If a man “saves your life” once, and you give him twenty cents an hour for his exertions in your behalf–have you paid him? By the life-long labor of the human race–all those dead workers who built up the structure of our present world, all those living workers who keep the wheels revolving now–by these labors we live, all of us, all the time.
Pay? Pay for daily–hourly–maintenance, protection, food, shelter, safety, comfort? Pay for being kept alive?
Life is giving–Loving and Giving. You can’t pay for it. You don’t pay for it. But this you do: you hinder it, by your paying. This pitiful trickle of measurement, this ticking and pricing and holding back the world’s flood of outpouring energy by our wretched turnstiles–this is what keeps us poor!
We need to let loose the Power that is in us. We need to Love more and Give more–a plain truth, Jesus taught some centuries ago, largely in vain. We have but to let out the love that is in us: there is no limit to its flood.
To so love every child that is born on earth as to provide that child with all that it needs for richest growth, for full appreciation of the splendor of human life–of conscious citizenship! Children so reared will have a thousandfold more to give, and a thousandfold greater joy in giving. Then life will roll out through our glad hearts and willing hands as the sun’s light pours abroad–only that we are conscious, we feel this light, this heat, this radiant energy. We call it–_love._
WHAT DIANTHA DID
CHAPTER XIV.
AND HEAVEN BESIDE.
They were married while the flowers were knee-deep over the sunny slopes and mesas, and the canyons gulfs of color and fragrance, and went for their first moon together to a far high mountain valley hidden among wooded peaks, with a clear lake for its central jewel.
A month of heaven; while wave on wave of perfect rest and world-forgetting oblivion rolled over both their hearts.
They swam together in the dawn-flushed lake, seeing the morning mists float up from the silver surface, breaking the still reflection of thick trees and rosy clouds, rejoicing in the level shafts of forest filtered sunlight. They played and ran like children, rejoiced over their picnic meals; lay flat among the crowding flowers and slept under the tender starlight.
“I don’t see,” said her lover, “but that my strenuous Amazon is just as much a woman as–as any woman!”
“Who ever said I wasn’t?” quoth Diantha demurely.
A month of perfect happiness. It was so short it seemed but a moment; so long in its rich perfection that they both agreed if life brought no further joy this was Enough.
Then they came down from the mountains and began living.
*
Day service is not so easily arranged on a ranch some miles from town. They tried it for a while, the new runabout car bringing out a girl in the morning early, and taking Diantha in to her office.
But motor cars are not infallible; and if it met with any accident there was delay at both ends, and more or less friction.
Then Diantha engaged a first-class Oriental gentleman, well recommended by the “vegetable Chinaman,” on their own place. This was extremely satisfactory; he did the work well, and was in all ways reliable; but there arose in the town a current of malicious criticism and protest–that she “did not live up to her principles.”
To this she paid no attention; her work was now too well planted, too increasingly prosperous to be weakened by small sneers.
Her mother, growing plumper now, thriving continuously in her new lines of work, kept the hotel under her immediate management, and did bookkeeping for the whole concern. New Union Home ran itself, and articles were written about it in magazines; so that here and there in other cities similar clubs were started, with varying success. The restaurant was increasingly popular; Diantha’s cooks were highly skilled and handsomely paid, and from the cheap lunch to the expensive banquet they gave satisfaction.
But the “c. f. d.” was the darling of her heart, and it prospered exceedingly. “There is no advertisement like a pleased customer,” and her pleased customers grew in numbers and in enthusiasm. Family after family learned to prize the cleanliness and quiet, the odorlessness and flylessness of a home without a kitchen, and their questioning guests were converted by the excellent of the meals.
Critical women learned at last that a competent cook can really produce better food than an incompetent one; albeit without the sanctity of the home.
“Sanctity of your bootstraps!” protested one irascible gentleman. “Such talk is all nonsense! I don’t want _sacred_ meals–I want good ones–and I’m getting them, at last!”
“We don’t brag about ‘home brewing’ any more,” said another, “or ‘home tailoring,’ or ‘home shoemaking.’ Why all this talk about ‘home cooking’?”
What pleased the men most was not only the good food, but its clock-work regularity; and not only the reduced bills but the increased health and happiness of their wives. Domestic bliss increased in Orchardina, and the doctors were more rigidly confined to the patronage of tourists.
Ross Warden did his best. Under the merciless friendliness of Mr. Thaddler he had been brought to see that Diantha had a right to do this if she would, and that he had no right to prevent her; but he did not like it any the better.
When she rolled away in her little car in the bright, sweet mornings, a light went out of the day for him. He wanted her there, in the home–his home–his wife–even when he was not in it himself. And in this particular case it was harder than for most men, because he was in the house a good deal, in his study, with no better company than a polite Chinaman some distance off.
It was by no means easy for Diantha, either. To leave him tugged at her heart-strings, as it did at his; and if he had to struggle with inherited feelings and acquired traditions, still more was she beset with an unexpected uprising of sentiments and desires she had never dreamed of feeling.
With marriage, love, happiness came an overwhelming instinct of service–personal service. She wanted to wait on him, loved to do it; regarded Wang Fu with positive jealousy when he brought in the coffee and Ross praised it. She had a sense of treason, of neglected duty, as she left the flower-crowned cottage, day by day.
But she left it, she plunged into her work, she schooled herself religiously.
“Shame on you!” she berated herself. “Now–_now_ that you’ve got everything on earth–to weaken! You could stand unhappiness; can’t you stand happiness?” And she strove with herself; and kept on with her work.
After all, the happiness was presently diluted by the pressure of this blank wall between them. She came home, eager, loving, delighted to be with him again. He received her with no complaint or criticism, but always an unspoken, perhaps imagined, sense of protest. She was full of loving enthusiasm about his work, and he would dilate upon his harassed guinea-pigs and their development with high satisfaction.
But he never could bring himself to ask about her labors with any genuine approval; she was keenly sensitive to his dislike for the subject, and so it was ignored between them, or treated by him in a vein of humor with which he strove to cover his real feeling.
When, before many months were over, the crowning triumph of her effort revealed itself, her joy and pride held this bitter drop–he did not sympathize–did not approve. Still, it was a great glory.
The New York Company announced the completion of their work and the _Hotel del las Casas_ was opened to public inspection. “House of the Houses! That’s a fine name!” said some disparagingly; but, at any rate, it seemed appropriate. The big estate was one rich garden, more picturesque, more dreamily beautiful, than the American commercial mind was usually able to compass, even when possessed of millions. The hotel