HERLAND (Wisehouse Classics - Original Edition 1909-1916). Charlotte Perkins Gilman

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      “‘Fraid the ladies will eat you?” he scoffed.

      “We’re not so sure about those ladies, you know,” drawled Jeff. “There may be a contingent of gentlemen with poisoned arrows or something.”

      “You don’t need to go if you don’t want to,” Terry remarked drily.

      “Go? You’ll have to get an injunction to stop me!” Both Jeff and I were sure about that.

      But we did have differences of opinion, all the long way.

      An ocean voyage is an excellent time for discussion. Now we had no eavesdroppers, we could loll and loaf in our deck chairs and talk and talk—there was nothing else to do. Our absolute lack of facts only made the field of discussion wider.

      “We’ll leave papers with our consul where the yacht stays,” Terry planned. “If we don’t come back in-say a month—they can send a relief party after us.”

      “A punitive expedition,” I urged. “If the ladies do eat us we must make reprisals.”

      “They can locate that last stopping place easy enough, and I’ve made a sort of chart of that lake and cliff and waterfall.”

      “Yes, but how will they get up?” asked Jeff.

      “Same way we do, of course. If three valuable American citizens are lost up there, they will follow somehow—to say nothing of the glittering attractions of that fair land—let’s call it ‘Feminisia,’” he broke off.

      “You’re right, Terry. Once the story gets out, the river will crawl with expeditions and the airships rise like a swarm of mosquitoes.” I laughed as I thought of it. “We’ve made a great mistake not to let Mr. Yellow Press in on this. Save us! What headlines!”

      “Not much!” said Terry grimly. “This is our party. We’re going to find that place alone.”

      “What are you going to do with it when you do find it—if you do?” Jeff asked mildly.

      Jeff was a tender soul. I think he thought that country—if there was one—was just blossoming with roses and babies and canaries and tidies, and all that sort of thing.

      And Terry, in his secret heart, had visions of a sort of sublimated summer resort—just Girls and Girls and Girls—and that he was going to be—well, Terry was popular among women even when there were other men around, and it’s not to be wondered at that he had pleasant dreams of what might happen. I could see it in his eyes as he lay there, looking at the long blue rollers slipping by, and fingering that impressive mustache of his.

      But I thought—then—that I could form a far clearer idea of what was before us than either of them.

      “You’re all off, boys,” I insisted. “If there is such a place—and there does seem some foundation for believing it—you’ll find it’s built on a sort of matriarchal principle, that’s all. The men have a separate cult of their own, less socially developed than the women, and make them an annual visit—a sort of wedding call. This is a condition known to have existed—here’s just a survival. They’ve got some peculiarly isolated valley or tableland up there, and their primeval customs have survived. That’s all there is to it.”

      “How about the boys?” Jeff asked.

      “Oh, the men take them away as soon as they are five or six, you see.”

      “And how about this danger theory all our guides were so sure of?”

      “Danger enough, Terry, and we’ll have to be mighty careful. Women of that stage of culture are quite able to defend themselves and have no welcome for unseasonable visitors.”

      We talked and talked.

      And with all my airs of sociological superiority I was no nearer than any of them.

      It was funny though, in the light of what we did find, those extremely clear ideas of ours as to what a country of women would be like. It was no use to tell ourselves and one another that all this was idle speculation. We were idle and we did speculate, on the ocean voyage and the river voyage, too.

      “Admitting the improbability,” we’d begin solemnly, and then launch out again.

      “They would fight among themselves,” Terry insisted. “Women always do. We mustn’t look to find any sort of order and organization.”

      “You’re dead wrong,” Jeff told him. “It will be like a nunnery under an abbess—a peaceful, harmonious sisterhood.”

      I snorted derision at this idea.

      “Nuns, indeed! Your peaceful sisterhoods were all celibate, Jeff, and under vows of obedience. These are just women, and mothers, and where there’s motherhood you don’t find sisterhood—not much.”

      “No, sir—they’ll scrap,” agreed Terry. “Also we mustn’t look for inventions and progress; it’ll be awfully primitive.”

      “How about that cloth mill?” Jeff suggested.

      “Oh, cloth! Women have always been spinsters. But there they stop—you’ll see.”

      We joked Terry about his modest impression that he would be warmly received, but he held his ground.

      “You’ll see,” he insisted. “I’ll get solid with them all—and play one bunch against another. I’ll get myself elected king in no time—whew! Solomon will have to take a back seat!”

      “Where do we come in on that deal?” I demanded. “Aren’t we Viziers or anything?”

      “Couldn’t risk it,” he asserted solemnly. “You might start a revolution—probably would. No, you’ll have to be beheaded, or bowstrung—or whatever the popular method of execution is.”

      “You’d have to do it yourself, remember,” grinned Jeff. “No husky black slaves and mamelukes! And there’d be two of us and only one of you—eh, Van?”

      Jeff’s ideas and Terry’s were so far apart that sometimes it was all I could do to keep the peace between them. Jeff idealized women in the best Southern style. He was full of chivalry and sentiment, and all that. And he was a good boy; he lived up to his ideals.

      You might say Terry did, too, if you can call his views about women anything so polite as ideals. I always liked Terry. He was a man’s man, very much so, generous and brave and clever; but I don’t think any of us in college days was quite pleased to have him with our sisters. We weren’t very stringent, heavens no! But Terry was “the limit.” Later on—why, of course a man’s life is his own, we held, and asked no questions.

      But barring a possible exception in favor of a not impossible wife, or of his mother, or, of course, the fair relatives of his friends, Terry’s idea seemed to be that pretty women were just so much game and homely ones not worth considering.

      It was really unpleasant sometimes to see the notions he had.

      But I got out of patience with Jeff, too. He had such rose-colored halos on his womenfolks. I held a middle ground, highly scientific, of course, and СКАЧАТЬ