Herland
looked ripe, and went on, impressed, for all our gay bravado by the
sense of quiet potency which lay about us.
Here was evidently a people highly skilled, efficient, caring for their
country as a florist cares for his costliest orchids. Under the soft
brilliant blue of that clear sky, in the pleasant shade of those endless
rows of trees, we walked unharmed, the placid silence broken only by the
birds.
Presently there lay before us at the foot of a long hill the town or
village we were aiming for. We stopped and studied it.
Jeff drew a long breath. “I wouldn’t have believed a collection of
houses could look so lovely,” he said.
“They’ve got architects and landscape gardeners in plenty, that’s sure,”
agreed Terry.
I was astonished myself. You see, I come from California, and there’s no
country lovelier, but when it comes to towns--! I have often groaned
at home to see the offensive mess man made in the face of nature, even
though I’m no art sharp, like Jeff. But this place! It was built mostly
of a sort of dull rose-colored stone, with here and there some clear
white houses; and it lay abroad among the green groves and gardens like
a broken rosary of pink coral.
“Those big white ones are public buildings evidently,” Terry declared.
“This is no savage country, my friend. But no men? Boys, it behooves us
to go forward most politely.”
The place had an odd look, more impressive as we approached. “It’s like
an exposition.” “It’s too pretty to be true.” “Plenty of palaces, but
where are the homes?” “Oh there are little ones enough--but--.” It
certainly was different from any towns we had ever seen.
“There’s no dirt,” said Jeff suddenly. “There’s no smoke,” he added
after a little.
“There’s no noise,” I offered; but Terry snubbed me--“That’s because
they are laying low for us; we’d better be careful how we go in there.”
Nothing could induce him to stay out, however, so we walked on.
Everything was beauty, order, perfect cleanness, and the pleasantest
sense of home over it all. As we neared the center of the town the
houses stood thicker, ran together as it were, grew into rambling
palaces grouped among parks and open squares, something as college
buildings stand in their quiet greens.
And then, turning a corner, we came into a broad paved space and
saw before us a band of women standing close together in even order,
evidently waiting for us.
We stopped a moment and looked back. The street behind was closed by
another band, marching steadily, shoulder to shoulder. We went
on--there seemed no other way to go--and presently found ourselves quite
surrounded by this close-massed multitude, women, all of them, but--
They were not young. They were not old. They were not, in the girl
sense, beautiful. They were not in the least ferocious. And yet, as I
looked from face to face, calm, grave, wise, wholly unafraid, evidently
assured and determined, I had the funniest feeling--a very early
feeling--a feeling that I traced back and back in memory until I caught
up with it at last. It was that sense of being hopelessly in the wrong
that I had so often felt in early youth when my short legs’ utmost
effort failed to overcome the fact that I was late to school.
Jeff felt it too; I could see he did. We felt like small boys, very
small boys, caught doing mischief in some gracious lady’s house. But
Terry showed no such consciousness. I saw his quick eyes darting here
and there, estimating numbers, measuring distances, judging chances of
escape. He examined the close ranks about us, reaching back far on every
side, and murmured softly to me, “Every one of ’em over forty as I’m a
sinner.”
Yet they were not old women. Each was in the full bloom of rosy health,
erect, serene, standing sure-footed and light as any pugilist. They had
no weapons, and we had, but we had no wish to shoot.
“I’d as soon shoot my aunts,” muttered Terry again. “What do they
want with us anyhow? They seem to mean business.” But in spite of that
businesslike aspect, he determined to try his favorite tactics. Terry
had come armed with a theory.
He stepped forward, with his brilliant ingratiating smile, and made low
obeisance to the women before him. Then he produced another tribute, a
broad soft scarf of filmy texture, rich in color and pattern, a lovely
thing, even to my eye, and offered it with a deep bow to the tall
unsmiling woman who seemed to head the ranks before him. She took it
with a gracious nod of acknowledgment, and passed it on to those behind
her.
He tried again, this time bringing out a circlet of rhinestones, a
glittering crown that should have pleased any woman on earth. He made a
brief address, including Jeff and me as partners in his enterprise, and
with another bow presented this. Again his gift was accepted and, as
before, passed out of sight.
“If they were only younger,” he muttered between his teeth. “What on
earth is a fellow to say to a regiment of old Colonels like this?”
In all our discussions and speculations we had always unconsciously
assumed that the women, whatever else they might be, would be young.
Most men do think that way, I fancy.
“Woman” in the abstract is young, and, we assume, charming. As they get
older they pass off the stage, somehow, into private ownership mostly,
or out of it altogether. But these good ladies were very much on the
stage, and yet any one of them might have been a grandmother.
We looked for nervousness--there was none.
For terror, perhaps--there was none.
For uneasiness, for curiosity, for excitement--and all we saw was what
might have been a vigilance committee of women doctors, as cool as
cucumbers, and evidently meaning to take us to task for being there.
Six of them stepped forward now, one on either side of each of us, and
indicated that we were to go with them. We thought it best to accede, at
first anyway, and marched along, one of these close at each elbow, and
the others in close masses before, behind, on both sides.
A large building opened before us, a very heavy thick-walled impressive
place, big, and old-looking; of gray stone, not like the rest of the
town.
“This won’t do!” said Terry to us, quickly. “We mustn’t let them get us
in this, boys. All together, now--”
We stopped in our tracks. We began to explain, to make signs pointing
away toward the big forest--indicating that we would go back to it--at
once.
It makes me laugh, knowing all I do now, to think of us three
boys--nothing else; three audacious impertinent boys--butting into an
unknown country without any sort of a guard or defense. We seemed to
think that if there were men we could fight them, and if there were only
women--why, they would be no obstacles at all.
Jeff, with his gentle romantic old-fashioned notions of women as
clinging vines. Terry, with his clear decided practical theories that
there were two kinds of women--those he wanted and those he didn’t;
Desirable and Undesirable was his demarcation. The latter as a large
class, but negligible--he had never thought about them at all.
And now here they were, in great numbers, evidently indifferent to
what he might think, evidently determined on some purpose of their own
regarding him, and apparently well able to enforce their purpose.
We all thought hard just then. It had not seemed wise to object to going
with them, even if we could have; our one chance was friendliness--a
civilized attitude on both sides.
But once inside that building, there was no knowing what these
determined ladies might do to us. Even a peaceful detention was not to
our minds, and when we named it imprisonment it looked even worse.
So we made a stand, trying to make clear that we preferred the open
country. One of them came forward with a sketch of our flier, asking by
signs if we were the aerial visitors they had seen.
This we admitted.
They pointed to it again, and to the outlying country, in different
directions--but we pretended we did not know where it was, and in
truth we were not quite sure and gave a rather wild indication of its
whereabouts.
Again they motioned us to advance, standing so packed about the door
that there remained but the one straight path open. All around us and
behind they were massed solidly--there was simply nothing to do but go
forward--or fight.
We held a consultation.
“I never fought with women in my life,” said Terry, greatly perturbed,
“but I’m not going in there. I’m not going to be--herded in--as if we
were in a cattle chute.”
“We can’t fight them, of course,” Jeff urged. “They’re all women,
in spite of their nondescript clothes; nice women, too; good strong
sensible faces. I guess we’ll have to go in.”
“We may never get out, if we do,” I told them. “Strong and sensible,
yes; but I’m not so sure about the good. Look at those faces!”
They had stood at ease, waiting while we conferred together, but never
relaxing their close attention.
Their attitude was not the rigid discipline of soldiers; there was no
sense of compulsion about them. Terry’s term of a “vigilance committee”
was highly descriptive. They had just the aspect of sturdy burghers,
gathered hastily to meet some common need or peril, all moved by
precisely the same feelings, to the same end.
Never, anywhere before, had I seen women of precisely this quality.
Fishwives and market women might show similar strength, but it was
coarse and heavy. These were merely athletic--light and powerful.
College professors, teachers, writers--many women showed similar
intelligence but often wore a strained nervous look, while these were as
calm as cows, for all their evident intellect.
We observed pretty closely just then, for all of us felt that it was a
crucial moment.
The leader gave some word of command and beckoned us on, and the
surrounding mass moved a step nearer.
“We’ve got to decide quick,” said Terry.
“I vote to go in,” Jeff urged. But we were two to one against him and he
loyally stood by us. We made one more effort to be let go, urgent, but
not imploring. In vain.
“Now for a rush, boys!” Terry said. “And if we can’t break ’em, I’ll
shoot in the air.”
Then we found ourselves much in the position of the suffragette trying
to get to the Parliament buildings through a triple cordon of London
police.
The solidity of those women was something amazing. Terry soon found that
it was useless, tore himself loose for a moment, pulled his revolver,
and fired upward. As they caught at it, he fired again--we heard a
cry--.
Instantly each of us was seized by five women, each holding arm or leg
or head; we were lifted like children, straddling helpless children, and
borne onward, wriggling indeed, but most ineffectually.
We were borne inside, struggling manfully, but held secure most
womanfully, in spite of our best endeavors.
So carried and so held, we came into a high inner hall, gray and bare,
and were brought before a majestic gray-haired woman who seemed to hold
a judicial position.
There was some talk, not much, among them, and then suddenly there fell
upon each of us at once a firm hand holding a wetted cloth before mouth
and nose--an order of swimming sweetness--anesthesia.
CHAPTER 3.
A Peculiar Imprisonment
From a slumber as deep as death, as refreshing as that of a healthy
child, I slowly awakened.
It was like rising up, up, up through a deep warm ocean, nearer
and nearer to full light and stirring air. Or like the return to
consciousness after concussion of the brain. I was once thrown from a
horse while on a visit to a wild mountainous country quite new to me,
and I can clearly remember the mental experience of coming back to life,
through lifting veils of dream. When I first dimly heard the voices of