CHAPTER 6.

Comparisons Are Odious

I had always been proud of my country, of course. Everyone is. Compared

with the other lands and other races I knew, the United States of

America had always seemed to me, speaking modestly, as good as the best

of them.

But just as a clear-eyed, intelligent, perfectly honest, and

well-meaning child will frequently jar one’s self-esteem by innocent

questions, so did these women, without the slightest appearance of

malice or satire, continually bring up points of discussion which we

spent our best efforts in evading.

Now that we were fairly proficient in their language, had read a lot

about their history, and had given them the general outlines of ours,

they were able to press their questions closer.

So when Jeff admitted the number of “women wage earners” we had, they

instantly asked for the total population, for the proportion of adult

women, and found that there were but twenty million or so at the

outside.

“Then at least a third of your women are--what is it you call them--wage

earners? And they are all _poor_. What is _poor_, exactly?”

“Ours is the best country in the world as to poverty,” Terry told them.

“We do not have the wretched paupers and beggars of the older countries,

I assure you. Why, European visitors tell us, we don’t know what poverty

is.”

“Neither do we,” answered Zava. “Won’t you tell us?”

Terry put it up to me, saying I was the sociologist, and I explained

that the laws of nature require a struggle for existence, and that in

the struggle the fittest survive, and the unfit perish. In our economic

struggle, I continued, there was always plenty of opportunity for the

fittest to reach the top, which they did, in great numbers, particularly

in our country; that where there was severe economic pressure the lowest

classes of course felt it the worst, and that among the poorest of all

the women were driven into the labor market by necessity.

They listened closely, with the usual note-taking.

“About one-third, then, belong to the poorest class,” observed Moadine

gravely. “And two-thirds are the ones who are--how was it you so

beautifully put it?--‘loved, honored, kept in the home to care for the

children.’ This inferior one-third have no children, I suppose?”

Jeff--he was getting as bad as they were--solemnly replied that, on the

contrary, the poorer they were, the more children they had. That too, he

explained, was a law of nature: “Reproduction is in inverse proportion

to individuation.”

“These ‘laws of nature,’” Zava gently asked, “are they all the laws you

have?”

“I should say not!” protested Terry. “We have systems of law that go

back thousands and thousands of years--just as you do, no doubt,” he

finished politely.

“Oh no,” Moadine told him. “We have no laws over a hundred years old,

and most of them are under twenty. In a few weeks more,” she continued,

“we are going to have the pleasure of showing you over our little land

and explaining everything you care to know about. We want you to see our

people.”

“And I assure you,” Somel added, “that our people want to see you.”

Terry brightened up immensely at this news, and reconciled himself to

the renewed demands upon our capacity as teachers. It was lucky that we

knew so little, really, and had no books to refer to, else, I fancy we

might all be there yet, teaching those eager-minded women about the rest

of the world.

As to geography, they had the tradition of the Great Sea, beyond the

mountains; and they could see for themselves the endless thick-forested

plains below them--that was all. But from the few records of their

ancient condition--not “before the flood” with them, but before that

mighty quake which had cut them off so completely--they were aware that

there were other peoples and other countries.

In geology they were quite ignorant.

As to anthropology, they had those same remnants of information about

other peoples, and the knowledge of the savagery of the occupants of

those dim forests below. Nevertheless, they had inferred (marvelously

keen on inference and deduction their minds were!) the existence and

development of civilization in other places, much as we infer it on

other planets.

When our biplane came whirring over their heads in that first scouting

flight of ours, they had instantly accepted it as proof of the high

development of Some Where Else, and had prepared to receive us as

cautiously and eagerly as we might prepare to welcome visitors who came

“by meteor” from Mars.

Of history--outside their own--they knew nothing, of course, save for

their ancient traditions.

Of astronomy they had a fair working knowledge--that is a very old

science; and with it, a surprising range and facility in mathematics.

Physiology they were quite familiar with. Indeed, when it came to the

simpler and more concrete sciences, wherein the subject matter was at

hand and they had but to exercise their minds upon it, the results were

surprising. They had worked out a chemistry, a botany, a physics,

with all the blends where a science touches an art, or merges into

an industry, to such fullness of knowledge as made us feel like

schoolchildren.

Also we found this out--as soon as we were free of the country, and

by further study and question--that what one knew, all knew, to a very

considerable extent.

I talked later with little mountain girls from the fir-dark valleys

away up at their highest part, and with sunburned plains-women and agile

foresters, all over the country, as well as those in the towns, and

everywhere there was the same high level of intelligence. Some knew far

more than others about one thing--they were specialized, of course; but

all of them knew more about everything--that is, about everything the

country was acquainted with--than is the case with us.

We boast a good deal of our “high level of general intelligence” and our

“compulsory public education,” but in proportion to their opportunities

they were far better educated than our people.

With what we told them, from what sketches and models we were able to

prepare, they constructed a sort of working outline to fill in as they

learned more.

A big globe was made, and our uncertain maps, helped out by those in

that precious yearbook thing I had, were tentatively indicated upon it.

They sat in eager groups, masses of them who came for the purpose, and

listened while Jeff roughly ran over the geologic history of the earth,

and showed them their own land in relation to the others. Out of that

same pocket reference book of mine came facts and figures which were

seized upon and placed in right relation with unerring acumen.

Even Terry grew interested in this work. “If we can keep this up,

they’ll be having us lecture to all the girls’ schools and colleges--how

about that?” he suggested to us. “Don’t know as I’d object to being an

Authority to such audiences.”

They did, in fact, urge us to give public lectures later, but not to the

hearers or with the purpose we expected.

What they were doing with us was like--like--well, say like Napoleon

extracting military information from a few illiterate peasants. They

knew just what to ask, and just what use to make of it; they had

mechanical appliances for disseminating information almost equal to ours

at home; and by the time we were led forth to lecture, our audiences

had thoroughly mastered a well-arranged digest of all we had previously

given to our teachers, and were prepared with such notes and questions

as might have intimidated a university professor.

They were not audiences of girls, either. It was some time before we

were allowed to meet the young women.

“Do you mind telling what you intend to do with us?” Terry burst

forth one day, facing the calm and friendly Moadine with that funny

half-blustering air of his. At first he used to storm and flourish quite

a good deal, but nothing seemed to amuse them more; they would gather

around and watch him as if it was an exhibition, politely, but with

evident interest. So he learned to check himself, and was almost

reasonable in his bearing--but not quite.

She announced smoothly and evenly: “Not in the least. I thought it was

quite plain. We are trying to learn of you all we can, and to teach you

what you are willing to learn of our country.”

“Is that all?” he insisted.

She smiled a quiet enigmatic smile. “That depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Mainly on yourselves,” she replied.

“Why do you keep us shut up so closely?”

“Because we do not feel quite safe in allowing you at large where there

are so many young women.”

Terry was really pleased at that. He had thought as much, inwardly; but

he pushed the question. “Why should you be afraid? We are gentlemen.”

She smiled that little smile again, and asked: “Are ‘gentlemen’ always

safe?”

“You surely do not think that any of us,” he said it with a good deal of

emphasis on the “us,” “would hurt your young girls?”

“Oh no,” she said quickly, in real surprise. “The danger is quite the

other way. They might hurt you. If, by any accident, you did harm any

one of us, you would have to face a million mothers.”

He looked so amazed and outraged that Jeff and I laughed outright, but

she went on gently.

“I do not think you quite understand yet. You are but men, three men,

in a country where the whole population are mothers--or are going to be.

Motherhood means to us something which I cannot yet discover in any

of the countries of which you tell us. You have spoken”--she turned to

Jeff, “of Human Brotherhood as a great idea among you, but even that I

judge is far from a practical expression?”

Jeff nodded rather sadly. “Very far--” he said.

“Here we have Human Motherhood--in full working use,” she went on.

“Nothing else except the literal sisterhood of our origin, and the far

higher and deeper union of our social growth.

“The children in this country are the one center and focus of all our

thoughts. Every step of our advance is always considered in its effect

on them--on the race. You see, we are _Mothers_,” she repeated, as if

in that she had said it all.

“I don’t see how that fact--which is shared by all women--constitutes

any risk to us,” Terry persisted. “You mean they would defend their

children from attack. Of course. Any mothers would. But we are not

savages, my dear lady; we are not going to hurt any mother’s child.”

They looked at one another and shook their heads a little, but

Zava turned to Jeff and urged him to make us see--said he seemed to

understand more fully than we did. And he tried.

I can see it now, or at least much more of it, but it has taken me a

long time, and a good deal of honest intellectual effort.

What they call Motherhood was like this:

They began with a really high degree of social development, something

like that of Ancient Egypt or Greece. Then they suffered the loss of

everything masculine, and supposed at first that all human power and

safety had gone too. Then they developed this virgin birth capacity.

Then, since the prosperity of their children depended on it, the fullest

and subtlest coordination began to be practiced.

I remember how long Terry balked at the evident unanimity of these

women--the most conspicuous feature of their whole culture. “It’s

impossible!” he would insist. “Women cannot cooperate--it’s against

nature.”

When we urged the obvious facts he would say: “Fiddlesticks!” or “Hang

your facts--I tell you it can’t be done!” And we never succeeded in

shutting him up till Jeff dragged in the hymenoptera.

“‘Go to the ant, thou sluggard’--and learn something,” he said

triumphantly. “Don’t they cooperate pretty well? You can’t beat it. This

place is just like an enormous anthill--you know an anthill is nothing

but a nursery. And how about bees? Don’t they manage to cooperate and

love one another?

As the birds do love the Spring,

Or the bees their careful king,

as that precious Constable had it. Just show me a combination of male

creatures, bird, bug, or beast, that works as well, will you? Or one of

our masculine countries where the people work together as well as they

do here! I tell you, women are the natural cooperators, not men!”

Terry had to learn a good many things he did not want to. To go back to

my little analysis of what happened:

They developed all this close inter-service in the interests of their

children. To do the best work they had to specialize, of course; the

children needed spinners and weavers, farmers and gardeners, carpenters

and masons, as well as mothers.

Then came the filling up of the place. When a population multiplies

by five every thirty years it soon reaches the limits of a country,

especially a small one like this. They very soon eliminated all the

grazing cattle--sheep were the last to go, I believe. Also, they worked

out a system of intensive agriculture surpassing anything I ever heard

of, with the very forests all reset with fruit- or nut-bearing trees.

Do what they would, however, there soon came a time when they were

confronted with the problem of “the pressure of population” in an acute

form. There was really crowding, and with it, unavoidably, a decline in

standards.

And how did those women meet it?

Not by a “struggle for existence” which would result in an everlasting

writhing mass of underbred people trying to get ahead of one

another--some few on top, temporarily, many constantly crushed out

underneath, a hopeless substratum of paupers and degenerates, and no

serenity or peace for anyone, no possibility for really noble qualities

among the people at large.

Neither did they start off on predatory excursions to get more land from

somebody else, or to get more food from somebody else, to maintain their

struggling mass.

Not at all. They sat down in council together and thought it out. Very

clear, strong thinkers they were. They said: “With our best endeavors

this country will support about so many people, with the standard of

peace, comfort, health, beauty, and progress we demand. Very well. That

is all the people we will make.”

There you have it. You see, they were Mothers, not in our sense of

helpless involuntary fecundity, forced to fill and overfill the land,

every land, and then see their children suffer, sin, and die, fighting

horribly with one another; but in the sense of Conscious Makers

of People. Mother-love with them was not a brute passion, a mere

“instinct,” a wholly personal feeling; it was--a religion.

It included that limitless feeling of sisterhood, that wide unity in

service, which was so difficult for us to grasp. And it was National,

Racial, Human--oh, I don’t know how to say it.

We are used to seeing what we call “a mother” completely wrapped up in

her own pink bundle of fascinating babyhood, and taking but the faintest

theoretic interest in anybody else’s bundle, to say nothing of the

common needs of _all_ the bundles. But these women were working all

together at the grandest of tasks--they were Making People--and they

made them well.

There followed a period of “negative eugenics” which must have been an

appalling sacrifice. We are commonly willing to “lay down our lives” for

our country, but they had to forego motherhood for their country--and it

was precisely the hardest thing for them to do.

When I got this far in my reading I went to Somel for more light. We

were as friendly by that time as I had ever been in my life with any

woman. A mighty comfortable soul she was, giving one the nice smooth

mother-feeling a man likes in a woman, and yet giving also the clear

intelligence and dependableness I used to assume to be masculine

qualities. We had talked volumes already.

“See here,” said I. “Here was this dreadful period when they got far too

thick, and decided to limit the population. We have a lot of talk about

that among us, but your position is so different that I’d like to know a

little more about it.

“I understand that you make Motherhood the highest social service--a

sacrament, really; that it is only undertaken once, by the majority of

the population; that those held unfit are not allowed even that; and

that to be encouraged to bear more than one child is the very highest

reward and honor in the power of the state.”

(She interpolated here that the nearest approach to an aristocracy

they had was to come of a line of “Over Mothers”--those who had been so

honored.)

“But what I do not understand, naturally, is how you prevent it. I

gathered that each woman had five. You have no tyrannical husbands to

hold in check--and you surely do not destroy the unborn--”

The look of ghastly horror she gave me I shall never forget. She started

from her chair, pale, her eyes blazing.

“Destroy the unborn--!” she said in a hard whisper. “Do men do that in

your country?”

“Men!” I began to answer, rather hotly, and then saw the gulf before

me. None of us wanted these women to think that _our_ women, of whom we

boasted so proudly, were in any way inferior to them. I am ashamed

to say that I equivocated. I told her of certain criminal types of

women--perverts, or crazy, who had been known to commit infanticide. I

told her, truly enough, that there was much in our land which was

open to criticism, but that I hated to dwell on our defects until they

understood us and our conditions better.

And, making a wide detour, I scrambled back to my question of how they

limited the population.

As for Somel, she seemed sorry, a little ashamed even, of her too

clearly expressed amazement. As I look back now, knowing them better, I

am more and more and more amazed as I appreciate the exquisite courtesy

with which they had received over and over again statements and

admissions on our part which must have revolted them to the soul.

She explained to me, with sweet seriousness, that as I had supposed, at

first each woman bore five children; and that, in their eager desire

to build up a nation, they had gone on in that way for a few centuries,

till they were confronted with the absolute need of a limit. This fact

was equally plain to all--all were equally interested.

They were now as anxious to check their wonderful power as they had

been to develop it; and for some generations gave the matter their most

earnest thought and study.

“We were living on rations before we worked it out,” she said. “But we

did work it out. You see, before a child comes to one of us there is a

period of utter exaltation--the whole being is uplifted and filled with

a concentrated desire for that child. We learned to look forward to that

period with the greatest caution. Often our young women, those to whom

motherhood had not yet come, would voluntarily defer it. When that deep

inner demand for a child began to be felt she would deliberately engage

in the most active work, physical and mental; and even more important,

would solace her longing by the direct care and service of the babies we

already had.”

She paused. Her wise sweet face grew deeply, reverently tender.

“We soon grew to see that mother-love has more than one channel of

expression. I think the reason our children are so--so fully loved, by

all of us, is that we never--any of us--have enough of our own.”

This seemed to me infinitely pathetic, and I said so. “We have much that

is bitter and hard in our life at home,” I told her, “but this seems to

me piteous beyond words--a whole nation of starving mothers!”

But she smiled her deep contented smile, and said I quite misunderstood.

“We each go without a certain range of personal joy,” she said, “but

remember--we each have a million children to love and serve--_our_

children.”

It was beyond me. To hear a lot of women talk about “our children”! But

I suppose that is the way the ants and bees would talk--do talk, maybe.

That was what they did, anyhow.

When a woman chose to be a mother, she allowed the child-longing to

grow within her till it worked its natural miracle. When she did not so

choose she put the whole thing out of her mind, and fed her heart with

the other babies.

Let me see--with us, children--minors, that is--constitute about

three-fifths of the population; with them only about one-third, or

less. And precious--! No sole heir to an empire’s throne, no solitary

millionaire baby, no only child of middle-aged parents, could compare as

an idol with these Herland children.

But before I start on that subject I must finish up that little analysis

I was trying to make.

They did effectually and permanently limit the population in numbers, so

that the country furnished plenty for the fullest, richest life for all

of them: plenty of everything, including room, air, solitude even.

And then they set to work to improve that population in quality--since

they were restricted in quantity. This they had been at work on,

uninterruptedly, for some fifteen hundred years. Do you wonder they were

nice people?

Physiology, hygiene, sanitation, physical culture--all that line of work

had been perfected long since. Sickness was almost wholly unknown among

them, so much so that a previously high development in what we call the

“science of medicine” had become practically a lost art. They were a

clean-bred, vigorous lot, having the best of care, the most perfect

living conditions always.

When it came to psychology--there was no one thing which left us so

dumbfounded, so really awed, as the everyday working knowledge--and

practice--they had in this line. As we learned more and more of it, we

learned to appreciate the exquisite mastery with which we ourselves,

strangers of alien race, of unknown opposite sex, had been understood

and provided for from the first.

With this wide, deep, thorough knowledge, they had met and solved the

problems of education in ways some of which I hope to make clear later.

Those nation-loved children of theirs compared with the average in our

country as the most perfectly cultivated, richly developed roses compare

with--tumbleweeds. Yet they did not SEEM “cultivated” at all--it had all

become a natural condition.

And this people, steadily developing in mental capacity, in will power,

in social devotion, had been playing with the arts and sciences--as

far as they knew them--for a good many centuries now with inevitable

success.

Into this quiet lovely land, among these wise, sweet, strong women, we,

in our easy assumption of superiority, had suddenly arrived; and now,

tamed and trained to a degree they considered safe, we were at last

brought out to see the country, to know the people.