Herland
bull by the horns--the cow, I should say!--and asked Somel.
“I want to find some flaw in all this perfection,” I told her flatly.
“It simply isn’t possible that three million people have no faults. We
are trying our best to understand and learn--would you mind helping us
by saying what, to your minds, are the worst qualities of this unique
civilization of yours?”
We were sitting together in a shaded arbor, in one of those
eating-gardens of theirs. The delicious food had been eaten, a plate of
fruit still before us. We could look out on one side over a stretch of
open country, quietly rich and lovely; on the other, the garden, with
tables here and there, far apart enough for privacy. Let me say right
here that with all their careful “balance of population” there was no
crowding in this country. There was room, space, a sunny breezy freedom
everywhere.
Somel set her chin upon her hand, her elbow on the low wall beside her,
and looked off over the fair land.
“Of course we have faults--all of us,” she said. “In one way you
might say that we have more than we used to--that is, our standard
of perfection seems to get farther and farther away. But we are not
discouraged, because our records do show gain--considerable gain.
“When we began--even with the start of one particularly noble mother--we
inherited the characteristics of a long race-record behind her. And they
cropped out from time to time--alarmingly. But it is--yes, quite six
hundred years since we have had what you call a ‘criminal.’
“We have, of course, made it our first business to train out, to breed
out, when possible, the lowest types.”
“Breed out?” I asked. “How could you--with parthenogenesis?”
“If the girl showing the bad qualities had still the power to appreciate
social duty, we appealed to her, by that, to renounce motherhood. Some
of the few worst types were, fortunately, unable to reproduce. But if
the fault was in a disproportionate egotism--then the girl was sure
she had the right to have children, even that hers would be better than
others.”
“I can see that,” I said. “And then she would be likely to rear them in
the same spirit.”
“That we never allowed,” answered Somel quietly.
“Allowed?” I queried. “Allowed a mother to rear her own children?”
“Certainly not,” said Somel, “unless she was fit for that supreme task.”
This was rather a blow to my previous convictions.
“But I thought motherhood was for each of you--”
“Motherhood--yes, that is, maternity, to bear a child. But education is
our highest art, only allowed to our highest artists.”
“Education?” I was puzzled again. “I don’t mean education. I mean by
motherhood not only child-bearing, but the care of babies.”
“The care of babies involves education, and is entrusted only to the
most fit,” she repeated.
“Then you separate mother and child!” I cried in cold horror, something
of Terry’s feeling creeping over me, that there must be something wrong
among these many virtues.
“Not usually,” she patiently explained. “You see, almost every woman
values her maternity above everything else. Each girl holds it close
and dear, an exquisite joy, a crowning honor, the most intimate, most
personal, most precious thing. That is, the child-rearing has come to
be with us a culture so profoundly studied, practiced with such subtlety
and skill, that the more we love our children the less we are willing to
trust that process to unskilled hands--even our own.”
“But a mother’s love--” I ventured.
She studied my face, trying to work out a means of clear explanation.
“You told us about your dentists,” she said, at length, “those quaintly
specialized persons who spend their lives filling little holes in other
persons’ teeth--even in children’s teeth sometimes.”
“Yes?” I said, not getting her drift.
“Does mother-love urge mothers--with you--to fill their own children’s
teeth? Or to wish to?”
“Why no--of course not,” I protested. “But that is a highly specialized
craft. Surely the care of babies is open to any woman--any mother!”
“We do not think so,” she gently replied. “Those of us who are the
most highly competent fulfill that office; and a majority of our girls
eagerly try for it--I assure you we have the very best.”
“But the poor mother--bereaved of her baby--”
“Oh no!” she earnestly assured me. “Not in the least bereaved. It is her
baby still--it is with her--she has not lost it. But she is not the only
one to care for it. There are others whom she knows to be wiser. She
knows it because she has studied as they did, practiced as they did, and
honors their real superiority. For the child’s sake, she is glad to have
for it this highest care.”
I was unconvinced. Besides, this was only hearsay; I had yet to see the
motherhood of Herland.
CHAPTER 8.
The Girls of Herland
At last Terry’s ambition was realized. We were invited, always
courteously and with free choice on our part, to address general
audiences and classes of girls.
I remember the first time--and how careful we were about our clothes,
and our amateur barbering. Terry, in particular, was fussy to a degree
about the cut of his beard, and so critical of our combined efforts,
that we handed him the shears and told him to please himself. We
began to rather prize those beards of ours; they were almost our sole
distinction among those tall and sturdy women, with their cropped hair
and sexless costume. Being offered a wide selection of garments, we had
chosen according to our personal taste, and were surprised to find,
on meeting large audiences, that we were the most highly decorated,
especially Terry.
He was a very impressive figure, his strong features softened by the
somewhat longer hair--though he made me trim it as closely as I knew
how; and he wore his richly embroidered tunic with its broad, loose
girdle with quite a Henry V air. Jeff looked more like--well, like a
Huguenot Lover; and I don’t know what I looked like, only that I felt
very comfortable. When I got back to our own padded armor and its
starched borders I realized with acute regret how comfortable were those
Herland clothes.
We scanned that audience, looking for the three bright faces we knew;
but they were not to be seen. Just a multitude of girls: quiet, eager,
watchful, all eyes and ears to listen and learn.
We had been urged to give, as fully as we cared to, a sort of synopsis
of world history, in brief, and to answer questions.
“We are so utterly ignorant, you see,” Moadine had explained to us. “We
know nothing but such science as we have worked out for ourselves,
just the brain work of one small half-country; and you, we gather, have
helped one another all over the globe, sharing your discoveries, pooling
your progress. How wonderful, how supremely beautiful your civilization
must be!”
Somel gave a further suggestion.
“You do not have to begin all over again, as you did with us. We have
made a sort of digest of what we have learned from you, and it has been
eagerly absorbed, all over the country. Perhaps you would like to see
our outline?”
We were eager to see it, and deeply impressed. To us, at first, these
women, unavoidably ignorant of what to us was the basic commonplace of
knowledge, had seemed on the plane of children, or of savages. What we
had been forced to admit, with growing acquaintance, was that they
were ignorant as Plato and Aristotle were, but with a highly developed
mentality quite comparable to that of Ancient Greece.
Far be it from me to lumber these pages with an account of what we so
imperfectly strove to teach them. The memorable fact is what they taught
us, or some faint glimpse of it. And at present, our major interest was
not at all in the subject matter of our talk, but in the audience.
Girls--hundreds of them--eager, bright-eyed, attentive young faces;
crowding questions, and, I regret to say, an increasing inability on our
part to answer them effectively.
Our special guides, who were on the platform with us, and sometimes
aided in clarifying a question or, oftener, an answer, noticed this
effect, and closed the formal lecture part of the evening rather
shortly.
“Our young women will be glad to meet you,” Somel suggested, “to talk
with you more personally, if you are willing?”
Willing! We were impatient and said as much, at which I saw a flickering
little smile cross Moadine’s face. Even then, with all those eager young
things waiting to talk to us, a sudden question crossed my mind: “What
was their point of view? What did they think of us?” We learned that
later.
Terry plunged in among those young creatures with a sort of rapture,
somewhat as a glad swimmer takes to the sea. Jeff, with a rapt look on
his high-bred face, approached as to a sacrament. But I was a little
chilled by that last thought of mine, and kept my eyes open. I found
time to watch Jeff, even while I was surrounded by an eager group of
questioners--as we all were--and saw how his worshipping eyes, his grave
courtesy, pleased and drew some of them; while others, rather stronger
spirits they looked to be, drew away from his group to Terry’s or mine.
I watched Terry with special interest, knowing how he had longed for
this time, and how irresistible he had always been at home. And I could
see, just in snatches, of course, how his suave and masterful approach
seemed to irritate them; his too-intimate glances were vaguely resented,
his compliments puzzled and annoyed. Sometimes a girl would flush, not
with drooped eyelids and inviting timidity, but with anger and a quick
lift of the head. Girl after girl turned on her heel and left him, till
he had but a small ring of questioners, and they, visibly, were the
least “girlish” of the lot.
I saw him looking pleased at first, as if he thought he was making
a strong impression; but, finally, casting a look at Jeff, or me, he
seemed less pleased--and less.
As for me, I was most agreeably surprised. At home I never
was “popular.” I had my girl friends, good ones, but they were
friends--nothing else. Also they were of somewhat the same clan, not
popular in the sense of swarming admirers. But here, to my astonishment,
I found my crowd was the largest.
I have to generalize, of course, rather telescoping many impressions;
but the first evening was a good sample of the impression we made. Jeff
had a following, if I may call it that, of the more sentimental--though
that’s not the word I want. The less practical, perhaps; the girls who
were artists of some sort, ethicists, teachers--that kind.
Terry was reduced to a rather combative group: keen, logical, inquiring
minds, not overly sensitive, the very kind he liked least; while, as for
me--I became quite cocky over my general popularity.
Terry was furious about it. We could hardly blame him.
“Girls!” he burst forth, when that evening was over and we were by
ourselves once more. “Call those _girls!_”
“Most delightful girls, I call them,” said Jeff, his blue eyes dreamily
contented.
“What do _you_ call them?” I mildly inquired.
“Boys! Nothing but boys, most of ’em. A standoffish, disagreeable lot at
that. Critical, impertinent youngsters. No girls at all.”
He was angry and severe, not a little jealous, too, I think. Afterward,
when he found out just what it was they did not like, he changed his
manner somewhat and got on better. He had to. For, in spite of his
criticism, they were girls, and, furthermore, all the girls there
were! Always excepting our three!--with whom we presently renewed our
acquaintance.
When it came to courtship, which it soon did, I can of course best
describe my own--and am least inclined to. But of Jeff I heard somewhat;
he was inclined to dwell reverently and admiringly, at some length,