Herland, Chapter 1: A Not Unnatural Enterprise (Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman)

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

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

"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

"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 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 used to argue learnedly about the
physiological limitations of the sex.

We were not in the least "advanced" on the woman question,
any of us, then.

So we joked and disputed and speculated, and after an
interminable journey, we got to our old camping place at last.

It was not hard to find the river, just poking along that side
till we came to it, and it was navigable as far as the lake.

When we reached that and slid out on its broad glistening bosom,
with that high gray promontory running out toward us, and the straight
white fall clearly visible, it began to be really exciting.

There was some talk, even then, of skirting the rock wall and
seeking a possible footway up, but the marshy jungle made that
method look not only difficult but dangerous.

Terry dismissed the plan sharply.

"Nonsense, fellows! We've decided that. It might take
months--we haven't got the provisions. No, sir--we've got to take
our chances. If we get back safe--all right. If we don't, why,
we're not the first explorers to get lost in the shuffle. There are
plenty to come after us."

So we got the big biplane together and loaded it with our
scientifically compressed baggage: the camera, of course; the
glasses; a supply of concentrated food. Our pockets were
magazines of small necessities, and we had our guns, of course--
there was no knowing what might happen.

Up and up and up we sailed, way up at first, to get "the lay
of the land" and make note of it.

Out of that dark green sea of crowding forest this high-
standing spur rose steeply. It ran back on either side, apparently,
to the far-off white-crowned peaks in the distance, themselves
probably inaccessible.

"Let's make the first trip geographical," I suggested.
"Spy out the land, and drop back here for more gasoline.
With your tremendous speed we can reach that range and
back all right. Then we can leave a sort of map on board--
for that relief expedition."

"There's sense in that," Terry agreed. "I'll put off being
king of Ladyland for one more day."

So we made a long skirting voyage, turned the point of the cape
which was close by, ran up one side of the triangle at our best speed,
crossed over the base where it left the higher mountains, and so back
to our lake by moonlight.

"That's not a bad little kingdom," we agreed when it was
roughly drawn and measured. We could tell the size fairly by our
speed. And from what we could see of the sides--and that icy
ridge at the back end--"It's a pretty enterprising savage who
would manage to get into it," Jeff said.

Of course we had looked at the land itself--eagerly, but we
were too high and going too fast to see much. It appeared to be
well forested about the edges, but in the interior there were wide
plains, and everywhere parklike meadows and open places.

There were cities, too; that I insisted. It looked--well, it
looked like any other country--a civilized one, I mean.

We had to sleep after that long sweep through the air, but we
turned out early enough next day, and again we rose softly up
the height till we could top the crowning trees and see the broad
fair land at our pleasure.

"Semitropical. Looks like a first-rate climate. It's wonderful
what a little height will do for temperature." Terry was studying
the forest growth.

"Little height! Is that what you call little?" I asked. Our
instruments measured it clearly. We had not realized the long
gentle rise from the coast perhaps.

"Mighty lucky piece of land, I call it," Terry pursued.
"Now for the folks--I've had enough scenery."

So we sailed low, crossing back and forth, quartering the
country as we went, and studying it. We saw--I can't remember
now how much of this we noted then and how much was supplemented
by our later knowledge, but we could not help seeing this much,
even on that excited day--a land in a state of perfect cultivation,
where even the forests looked as if they were cared for; a land
that looked like an enormous park, only it was even more evidently
an enormous garden.

"I don't see any cattle," I suggested, but Terry was silent. We
were approaching a village.

I confess that we paid small attention to the clean, well-built
roads, to the attractive architecture, to the ordered beauty of the
little town. We had our glasses out; even Terry, setting his machine
for a spiral glide, clapped the binoculars to his eyes.

They heard our whirring screw. They ran out of the houses
--they gathered in from the fields, swift-running light figures,
crowds of them. We stared and stared until it was almost too late
to catch the levers, sweep off and rise again; and then we held
our peace for a long run upward

"Gosh!" said Terry, after a while.

"Only women there--and children," Jeff urged excitedly.

"But they look--why, this is a CIVILIZED country!" I protested.
"There must be men."

"Of course there are men," said Terry. "Come on, let's find 'em."

He refused to listen to Jeff's suggestion that we examine the
country further before we risked leaving our machine.

"There's a fine landing place right there where we came
over," he insisted, and it was an excellent one--a wide, flattopped
rock, overlooking the lake, and quite out of sight from the interior.

"They won't find this in a hurry," he asserted, as we scrambled
with the utmost difficulty down to safer footing. "Come on, boys--
there were some good lookers in that bunch."

Of course it was unwise of us.

It was quite easy to see afterward that our best plan was to
have studied the country more fully before we left our swooping
airship and trusted ourselves to mere foot service. But we were
three young men. We had been talking about this country for
over a year, hardly believing that there was such a place, and now
--we were in it.

It looked safe and civilized enough, and among those upturned,
crowding faces, though some were terrified enough, there was great
beauty--on that we all agreed.

"Come on!" cried Terry, pushing forward. "Oh, come on!
Here goes for Herland!"


Originally published in Forerunner (1915).

Etext from Project Gutenberg.

This public domain text has been presented as found (with some minor format changes); this website and its owners are not responsible for errors, substantive and/or minor.

No comments:

Post a Comment

Thank you for stopping by; feel free to post comments.

Due to spam, all blog comments are moderated by admin.