HERLAND(她乡)

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HERLAND

by Charlotte Perkins Stetson Gilman 1860-1935

HERLAND

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

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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.

HERLAND

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

HERLAND

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

HERLAND

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.

HERLAND

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.

HERLAND

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

HERLAND

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,

HERLAND

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.

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HERLAND1HERLANDbyCharlottePerkinsStetsonGilman1860-1935HERLAND2CHAPTER1ANotUnnaturalEnterpriseThisiswrittenfrommemory,unfortunately.IfIcouldhavebroughtwithmethematerialIsocarefullyprepared,thiswouldbeaverydifferentstory.Wholebooksfullofnotes,carefullycopiedrecords,firsthanddescriptions,andthepicture...

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