Herland
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HERLAND
by Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman
CHAPTER 1.
A Not Unnatural Enterprise
This is written from memory, unfortunately. If I could have brought with
me the material I so carefully prepared, this would be a very different
story. Whole books full of notes, carefully copied records, firsthand
descriptions, and the pictures--that’s the worst loss. We had some
bird’s-eyes of the cities and parks; a lot of lovely views of streets,
of buildings, outside and in, and some of those gorgeous gardens, and,
most important of all, of the women themselves.
Nobody will ever believe how they looked. Descriptions aren’t any good
when it comes to women, and I never was good at descriptions anyhow. But
it’s got to be done somehow; the rest of the world needs to know about
that country.
I haven’t said where it was for fear some self-appointed missionaries,
or traders, or land-greedy expansionists, will take it upon themselves
to push in. They will not be wanted, I can tell them that, and will fare
worse than we did if they do find it.
It began this way. There were three of us, classmates and friends--Terry
O. Nicholson (we used to call him the Old Nick, with good reason), Jeff
Margrave, and I, Vandyck Jennings.
We had known each other years and years, and in spite of our differences
we had a good deal in common. All of us were interested in science.
Terry was rich enough to do as he pleased. His great aim was
exploration. He used to make all kinds of a row because there was
nothing left to explore now, only patchwork and filling in, he said. He
filled in well enough--he had a lot of talents--great on mechanics and
electricity. Had all kinds of boats and motorcars, and was one of the
best of our airmen.
We never could have done the thing at all without Terry.
Jeff Margrave was born to be a poet, a botanist--or both--but his folks
persuaded him to be a doctor instead. He was a good one, for his age,
but his real interest was in what he loved to call “the wonders of
science.”
As for me, sociology’s my major. You have to back that up with a lot of
other sciences, of course. I’m interested in them all.
Terry was strong on facts--geography and meteorology and those; Jeff
could beat him any time on biology, and I didn’t care what it was they
talked about, so long as it connected with human life, somehow. There
are few things that don’t.
We three had a chance to join a big scientific expedition. They needed
a doctor, and that gave Jeff an excuse for dropping his just opening
practice; they needed Terry’s experience, his machine, and his money;
and as for me, I got in through Terry’s influence.
The expedition was up among the thousand tributaries and enormous
hinterland of a great river, up where the maps had to be made, savage
dialects studied, and all manner of strange flora and fauna expected.
But this story is not about that expedition. That was only the merest
starter for ours.
My interest was first roused by talk among our guides. I’m quick at
languages, know a good many, and pick them up readily. What with that
and a really good interpreter we took with us, I made out quite a few
legends and folk myths of these scattered tribes.
And as we got farther and farther upstream, in a dark tangle of rivers,
lakes, morasses, and dense forests, with here and there an unexpected
long spur running out from the big mountains beyond, I noticed that more
and more of these savages had a story about a strange and terrible Woman
Land in the high distance.
“Up yonder,” “Over there,” “Way up”--was all the direction they could
offer, but their legends all agreed on the main point--that there was
this strange country where no men lived--only women and girl children.
None of them had ever seen it. It was dangerous, deadly, they said, for
any man to go there. But there were tales of long ago, when some brave
investigator had seen it--a Big Country, Big Houses, Plenty People--All
Women.
Had no one else gone? Yes--a good many--but they never came back. It was
no place for men--of that they seemed sure.
I told the boys about these stories, and they laughed at them. Naturally
I did myself. I knew the stuff that savage dreams are made of.
But when we had reached our farthest point, just the day before we all
had to turn around and start for home again, as the best of expeditions
must in time, we three made a discovery.
The main encampment was on a spit of land running out into the main
stream, or what we thought was the main stream. It had the same muddy
color we had been seeing for weeks past, the same taste.
I happened to speak of that river to our last guide, a rather superior
fellow with quick, bright eyes.
He told me that there was another river--“over there, short river, sweet
water, red and blue.”
I was interested in this and anxious to see if I had understood, so I
showed him a red and blue pencil I carried, and asked again.
Yes, he pointed to the river, and then to the southwestward.
“River--good water--red and blue.”
Terry was close by and interested in the fellow’s pointing.
“What does he say, Van?”
I told him.
Terry blazed up at once.
“Ask him how far it is.”
The man indicated a short journey; I judged about two hours, maybe
three.
“Let’s go,” urged Terry. “Just us three. Maybe we can really find
something. May be cinnabar in it.”
“May be indigo,” Jeff suggested, with his lazy smile.
It was early yet; we had just breakfasted; and leaving word that we’d
be back before night, we got away quietly, not wishing to be thought
too gullible if we failed, and secretly hoping to have some nice little
discovery all to ourselves.
It was a long two hours, nearer three. I fancy the savage could have
done it alone much quicker. There was a desperate tangle of wood and
water and a swampy patch we never should have found our way across
alone. But there was one, and I could see Terry, with compass and
notebook, marking directions and trying to place landmarks.
We came after a while to a sort of marshy lake, very big, so that the
circling forest looked quite low and dim across it. Our guide told us
that boats could go from there to our camp--but “long way--all day.”
This water was somewhat clearer than that we had left, but we could not
judge well from the margin. We skirted it for another half hour or so,
the ground growing firmer as we advanced, and presently we turned the
corner of a wooded promontory and saw a quite different country--a
sudden view of mountains, steep and bare.
“One of those long easterly spurs,” Terry said appraisingly. “May be
hundreds of miles from the range. They crop out like that.”
Suddenly we left the lake and struck directly toward the cliffs. We
heard running water before we reached it, and the guide pointed proudly
to his river.
It was short. We could see where it poured down a narrow vertical
cataract from an opening in the face of the cliff. It was sweet water.
The guide drank eagerly and so did we.
“That’s snow water,” Terry announced. “Must come from way back in the
hills.”
But as to being red and blue--it was greenish in tint. The guide seemed
not at all surprised. He hunted about a little and showed us a quiet
marginal pool where there were smears of red along the border; yes, and
of blue.
Terry got out his magnifying glass and squatted down to investigate.
“Chemicals of some sort--I can’t tell on the spot. Look to me like
dyestuffs. Let’s get nearer,” he urged, “up there by the fall.”
We scrambled along the steep banks and got close to the pool that foamed
and boiled beneath the falling water. Here we searched the border and
found traces of color beyond dispute. More--Jeff suddenly held up an
unlooked-for trophy.
It was only a rag, a long, raveled fragment of cloth. But it was a
well-woven fabric, with a pattern, and of a clear scarlet that the water
had not faded. No savage tribe that we had heard of made such fabrics.
The guide stood serenely on the bank, well pleased with our excitement.
“One day blue--one day red--one day green,” he told us, and pulled from
his pouch another strip of bright-hued cloth.
“Come down,” he said, pointing to the cataract. “Woman Country--up
there.”
Then we were interested. We had our rest and lunch right there and
pumped the man for further information. He could tell us only what the
others had--a land of women--no men--babies, but all girls. No place for
men--dangerous. Some had gone to see--none had come back.
I could see Terry’s jaw set at that. No place for men? Dangerous? He
looked as if he might shin up the waterfall on the spot. But the guide
would not hear of going up, even if there had been any possible method
of scaling that sheer cliff, and we had to get back to our party before
night.
“They might stay if we told them,” I suggested.
But Terry stopped in his tracks. “Look here, fellows,” he said. “This
is our find. Let’s not tell those cocky old professors. Let’s go on home
with ’em, and then come back--just us--have a little expedition of our
own.”
We looked at him, much impressed. There was something attractive to a
bunch of unattached young men in finding an undiscovered country of a
strictly Amazonian nature.
Of course we didn’t believe the story--but yet!
“There is no such cloth made by any of these local tribes,” I announced,
examining those rags with great care. “Somewhere up yonder they spin and
weave and dye--as well as we do.”
“That would mean a considerable civilization, Van. There couldn’t be
such a place--and not known about.”
“Oh, well, I don’t know. What’s that old republic up in the Pyrenees
somewhere--Andorra? Precious few people know anything about that, and
it’s been minding its own business for a thousand years. Then there’s
Montenegro--splendid little state--you could lose a dozen Montenegroes
up and down these great ranges.”
We discussed it hotly all the way back to camp. We discussed it with
care and privacy on the voyage home. We discussed it after that, still
only among ourselves, while Terry was making his arrangements.
He was hot about it. Lucky he had so much money--we might have had to
beg and advertise for years to start the thing, and then it would have
been a matter of public amusement--just sport for the papers.
But T. O. Nicholson could fix up his big steam yacht, load his
specially-made big motorboat aboard, and tuck in a “dissembled” biplane
without any more notice than a snip in the society column.
We had provisions and preventives and all manner of supplies. His
previous experience stood him in good stead there. It was a very
complete little outfit.
We were to leave the yacht at the nearest safe port and go up that
endless river in our motorboat, just the three of us and a pilot; then
drop the pilot when we got to that last stopping place of the previous
party, and hunt up that clear water stream ourselves.
The motorboat we were going to leave at anchor in that wide shallow
lake. It had a special covering of fitted armor, thin but strong, shut
up like a clamshell.
“Those natives can’t get into it, or hurt it, or move it,” Terry
explained proudly. “We’ll start our flier from the lake and leave the
boat as a base to come back to.”
“If we come back,” I suggested cheerfully.
“‘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