Herland, Charlotte Perkins Gilman [books successful people read TXT] 📗

“Why, yes—some low forms, of course.”

“How low—or how high, rather?”

“Well—there are some rather high forms of insect life in which it occurs. Parthenogenesis, we call it—that means virgin birth.”

She could not follow him.

“BIRTH, we know, of course; but what is VIRGIN?”

Terry looked uncomfortable, but Jeff met the question quite calmly. “Among mating animals, the term VIRGIN is applied to the female who has not mated,” he answered.

“Oh, I see. And does it apply to the male also? Or is there a different term for him?”

He passed this over rather hurriedly, saying that the same term would apply, but was seldom used.

“No?” she said. “But one cannot mate without the other surely. Is not each then—virgin—before mating? And, tell me, have you any forms of life in which there is birth from a father only?”

“I know of none,” he answered, and I inquired seriously.

“You ask us to believe that for two thousand years there have been only women here, and only girl babies born?”

“Exactly,” answered Somel, nodding gravely. “Of course we know that among other animals it is not so, that there are fathers as well as mothers; and we see that you are fathers, that you come from a people who are of both kinds. We have been waiting, you see, for you to be able to speak freely with us, and teach us about your country and the rest of the world. You know so much, you see, and we know only our own land.”

In the course of our previous studies we had been at some pains to tell them about the big world outside, to draw sketches, maps, to make a globe, even, out of a spherical fruit, and show the size and relation of the countries, and to tell of the numbers of their people. All this had been scant and in outline, but they quite understood.

I find I succeed very poorly in conveying the impression I would like to of these women. So far from being ignorant, they were deeply wise—that we realized more and more; and for clear reasoning, for real brain scope and power they were A No. 1, but there were a lot of things they did not know.

They had the evenest tempers, the most perfect patience and good nature—one of the things most impressive about them all was the absence of irritability. So far we had only this group to study, but afterward I found it a common trait.

We had gradually come to feel that we were in the hands of friends, and very capable ones at that—but we couldn’t form any opinion yet of the general level of these women.

“We want you to teach us all you can,” Somel went on, her firm shapely hands clasped on the table before her, her clear quiet eyes meeting ours frankly. “And we want to teach you what we have that is novel and useful. You can well imagine that it is a wonderful event to us, to have men among us—after two thousand years. And we want to know about your women.”

What she said about our importance gave instant pleasure to Terry. I could see by the way he lifted his head that it pleased him. But when she spoke of our women—someway I had a queer little indescribable feeling, not like any feeling I ever had before when “women” were mentioned.

“Will you tell us how it came about?” Jeff pursued. “You said `for two thousand years’—did you have men here before that?”

“Yes,” answered Zava.

They were all quiet for a little.

“You should have our full history to read—do not be alarmed —it has been made clear and short. It took us a long time to learn how to write history. Oh, how I should love to read yours!”

She turned with flashing eager eyes, looking from one to the other of us.

“It would be so wonderful—would it not? To compare the history of two thousand years, to see what the differences are— between us, who are only mothers, and you, who are mothers and fathers, too. Of course we see, with our birds, that the father is as useful as the mother, almost. But among insects we find him of less importance, sometimes very little. Is it not so with you?”

“Oh, yes, birds and bugs,” Terry said, “but not among animals— have you NO animals?”

“We have cats,” she said. “The father is not very useful.”

“Have you no cattle—sheep—horses?” I drew some rough outlines of these beasts and showed them to her.

“We had, in the very old days, these,” said Somel, and sketched with swift sure touches a sort of sheep or llama,” and these”—dogs, of two or three kinds, “that that”—pointing to my absurd but recognizable horse.

“What became of them?” asked Jeff.

“We do not want them anymore. They took up too much room—we need all our land to feed our people. It is such a little country, you know.”

“Whatever do you do without milk?” Terry demanded incredulously.

“MILK? We have milk in abundance—our own.”

“But—but—I mean for cooking—for grown people,” Terry blundered, while they looked amazed and a shade displeased.

Jeff came to the rescue. “We keep cattle for their milk, as well as for their meat,” he explained. “Cow’s milk is a staple article of diet. There is a great milk industry—to collect and distribute it.”

Still they looked puzzled. I pointed to my outline of a cow. “The farmer milks the cow,” I said, and sketched a milk pail, the stool, and in pantomime showed the man milking. “Then it is carried to the city and distributed by milkmen—everybody has it at the door in the morning.”

“Has the cow no child?” asked Somel earnestly.

“Oh, yes, of course, a calf, that is.”

“Is there milk for the calf and you, too?”

It took some time to make clear to those three sweet-faced women the process which robs the cow of her calf, and the calf of its true food; and the talk led us into a further discussion of the meat business. They heard it out, looking very white, and presently begged to be excused.