Wild Life (15 page)

 

If I were writing in a serious vein, I should worry that the literary value and aesthetic considerations of “women's writing” has never been seriously addressed at all. Women with a literary vocation have in times past been banished to the periphery, where they were encouraged to focus upon letter-writing and the intimate diary. But writing is a profession which is now said to be thoroughly compatible with the modern understanding of a woman's role: the “authorine,” after all, may work at home out of the public eye, close to the nursery, the sickroom, the parlor, the kitchen, and thus bring into the family a modest income which does not challenge the idea that a woman's first duty is to her husband and children. That she must write, or try to, between visits, dinners, housework, sewing, and so on is understood.

Of course, while we are told that writing is one of the few careers now open to women on equal terms with men, women who wish to write are relegated to special fields where we will not disturb or occupy the space designated for the male Artist. In men's literature, of course, there may be Human Beings in all their terrible contradictions and distress: men and women who struggle with their ignorance, their doubt; men and women who are overwhelmed and exhausted by their circumstances but who, despite bleakness of landscape, refuse to be overcome by the violence, cruelty, and apparent hopelessness of their societies. Women, on the other hand, should write only about other women and the domestic issues of love and nurturing (and nothing else); in women's literature, women must be incapable of committing evil deeds or even imagining them; in women's novels, heroines should always be good and generous, and when they are unjustly overpowered or attacked, they must seek a male champion.

And since women are rarely mentioned in articles and other works of literary criticism that present a history of literature, these omissions are compensated for by including separate chapters dedicated to “women who write” and preparing collections of stories and essays just for women (that in general are not read by men). One can presume the literary standards in such a “one-eyed, blinking sort o' place” must suffer accordingly.

Of course, I am not great myself—cannot take myself seriously as an Artist. I write Romance, certainly, full of action and a wild, fierce life—stories without much more than a glimpse of the shop or the town, stories in which there are frozen landscapes and fiery interiors, wild mountains, rivers whose sources have never been hunted out—but my writing is frankly “light” and does not try to be anything else: the lower forms of cloak-and-sword, without a glimpse of the Truth.

As to plot, I am in substantial agreement with Haggard: there must be a sacred stone, and in front of the altar a trapdoor under which burns a constant fire into which condemned prisoners are thrown. There may very well be a gigantic volcano beneath which lies a vast limestone cavern illuminated by columns of fire or electrical light from a mysterious source. I am fond of colliding planets, invisible airships, elixirs that confer immortality, and crumbling temples guarded by ancient snares and pitfalls. In my stories, mystics and villains enter a drugged trance, leave their bodies, and travel through the world on a spiritual plane. I am a devotee, like Verne, of the possibilities of science and engineering: bulletproof vests, lie-detector chairs, electrocution machines, artificial men of steam and iron, as well as a proliferation of high-speed comfortable trains fitted up like hotels.

I am, however, no fan of Haggard's priestesses and empresses, who seem to me symbols of the Woman-Monster whom men worship and fear—Vampyres who would suck the vital strength from Men. On the other hand, although domestic novels are useful weapons in women's undeclared war against male society, and while I am sympathetic to plots involving husbands who drink, gamble, and chase, as well as runaway daughters and sons who stray, sickness, poverty, insecurity, and so forth, I would never write them myself. I am thoroughly tired of the Loose Woman, Handsome Seducer, Sick Husband, Other Woman, Brave Wife, Tortured Hero, Tubercular Child, and Martyred Indian Maiden who seem to live upon every page of the magazines women favor
—Godey's, Ladies Home Journal,
the
Casket,
et al.—and in so very many of the cheap novels to be found in women's hands. It is my feeling that the one thing worth doing as a writer is to dwell upon things that arouse the imagination—upon swords and gabled cities and ancient forests, upon temples and palaces, giant apes in their revolt, and imprisoned princesses in their unhappiness.

As a thoroughgoing Feminist and a woman who has herself thrown over the traces of domestication as much as can be done without risking arrest, I do my best to swim against the tide. For heroine of a scientific romance, I will always choose the scientifically inclined daughter or sister of a world-renowned anthropologist; and for the western romance, look for a girl who can ride and shoot, a ranch girl born and raised in the West (though of course not in a trapper's shack—it must be a wealthy ranch, a
minor island of culture possessed of cupboards of books, fine furniture, and a piano); and—it will turn out—she has been to boarding school in the East: the cultivated heroine aglow with the strength of the wilderness.

I am, of course, driven by the marketplace. My thoroughly unrepentant, ungenteel tomboys and Amazons must be killed saving the hero's life. And my lovely girl hero, who may exhibit composure, courage, self-reliance, and practical competence until five pages from the end, must ultimately be propelled off the range and into the ranch house—the running of her life given over to a man.

I bore from within as much as may be: in courtship, the dear girl never falls into a romantic swoon but keeps a clear head about her—chooses her husband for his qualities as a companion—and keeps her spunky spirit unto The End. I hope it may be inferred of my girls they would never take mistreatment from a man—would rather pack up the children and move to Alaska, where they would all pan for gold and live in a tent.

C. B. D.

May 1904

 

C. B. D. (1905; unpublished)

T
ATOOSH OF THE
S
EE
-A
H
-T
IKS; OR
,
A G
IRL'S
A
DVENTURES
A
MONG
M
OUNTAIN
G
IANTS

 

C
HAPTER
T
WO
: T
HE
H
ORRIBLE
S
IGHT

 

A fearful encounter—Helena cast into darkness—A message sent by invisible means—Helena bravely poses a question—Journey across the mountains

 

Having the habit and inclination of a scientist, the brave girl bent her attention to a close observation of this abomination of nature, even as she stood in dire peril from it. Though erect of posture and in other ways resembling a man, the creature towered above the forest floor to a hideously unnatural stature of more than seven feet, its monstrous physique covered thickly with short, black, coarse hair, which had the effect of transforming its appearance to that of a hitherto unknown species of giant ape or gorilla. Its huge, swarthy head
was placed low upon immense sloping shoulders, and a thick, bearded chest gave upon a narrowing waist. Its feet were wide and flat, with toes all of a length, and seemingly not possessing the gripping strength of the known great apes of Africa and Asia. Further, there was no prehensile tail. Its hands, while huge, were delicately formed and possessed of fully opposable thumbs. Although science would have it that no such creature lives in the vast Cascadian forests, nor ever has, the creature's conduct was entirely natural, as though it was native to these environs.

In its upright and naked condition, the creature's masculinity was manifestly disclosed, and though Miss Reed was a seasoned explorer, the sight struck her with such force that a small gasp of abhorrence was wrung from her lips. The monster, which might otherwise have remained unaware of our young adventurer, chanced to hear the telltale sound, and at once it laid flashing black eyes upon her. She glimpsed rows of glittering yellow teeth in a hideously wide red mouth, and the world, in that moment, spun about her in a kaleidoscope of colors. Though she resisted with every fiber of her strength, she was relentlessly drawn down into the helpless darkness of oblivion.

For an indeterminate time, no sound came to her ears, but then she began to hear a musical murmuring voice which filled her with an uncommon sense of peace and tranquillity. “Have I awakened unto Death?” she wondered, without the least sense of fear or foreboding. “No,” she was told by the most euphonious of voices, as if she had spoken her thought aloud. “You are quite alive, safe, and unharmed.” The words entered into her very being, in the manner of melodious bells being rung at a distance too far to perceive save in the vibrations of one's soul. She might have believed that she had entered upon Heaven, had she not become suddenly aware of her earthly body. Her eyes opened at last, upon a view of the crystalline blue sky and the overarching verdure of the great forest. It was only when she became aware of the hideous mountain giant, its face now but inches from her, that she recalled all with a rush of apprehension. “Do not be afraid,” the magical, musical voice reassured her once again, and as a peaceful quietude reentered her mind, she beheld the deep-set black eyes of the forest beast gazing upon her with something approaching tenderness and innocence.

Realizing she was unharmed, she sat up resolutely and looked about her. Her knapsack had fallen open when she had swooned, and its contents were arrayed on the mossy forest floor: dry stockings and foot plasters, compass and watch, sandwich, strong twine, minnow netting and a folder of trout flies, two-bladed jack-knife, rubber blanket, strike-anywhere matches, and a large tinned coffee cup. When she returned her attention to the mountain giant, its voice—for she had by now realized that the invisible words indeed emanated from the creature before her—spoke once again as if within her very brain: “From the items in your sack I should judge you to be a ready adventurer, and perhaps quite used to startling discoveries and frightful sights such as I must be to you.”

Only her father, the renowned explorer James Reed, had ever supported her in her chosen vocation, and she had become sadly accustomed to amusement and doubt arising from both men and women when they first learned of her intention to become the first woman accepted for full membership in the National Geographical society. Indeed, those who heard of her experiences in Java and Africa were likely to respond with disapproval, even revulsion, as if a woman adventurer were an abhorrent and unnatural thing. The creature's frank and immediate faith in her abilities was both satisfying and unexpected. “Indeed, I am not usually given to such swoons,” she said in dismay, and was immediately, though wordlessly, reassured that the swoon was not due to her own weakness, but to an arcane art of the creature before her. What relief!

She now betook herself to stand, and having regained her feet and her aplomb, she spoke again to her monstrous companion: “I have heard certain tales from the native tribes in these regions, describing just such creatures as yourself. In the legends of the Kwakiutls, I believe, there is a hairy giant known as Tzooniquaw, and among the Tsinuks the name given is Hoquiam.”

The giant replied in the musical telepathy to which Helena had by now become accustomed: “Among the Indian people, our names are many: Skoocoom, Swalalahist, Om-mah, Sa-sa-katch. Among certain of the Cowelits Indians we are known as See-Ah-Tiks, which in the Cowelits language has the meaning People of the Forest.”

Helena, by means of the creature's unspoken words, understood
that this appellation pleased him, and she resolved henceforth to address the hairy giants, in word or thought, as the See-Ah-Tiks, the Forest People.

He continued: “I am myself called Tatoosh, which in your language might be said as the Scented Flower.” “Tatoosh” seemed completely unaware of the irony of a creature of such masculine girth and strength as himself, bearing such a feminine and pacific name.

“Dear Mr. Tatoosh, I am known as Miss Helena Reed,” she replied, and taking a shuddering breath of determination, offered her small hand to the animal. Though he at first seemed without understanding of this human gesture, a mental image may have passed from Helena's mind to his, for he soon took her hand tenderly in his huge fist. The ape's palm was smooth and quite hairless, manlike in every way but for its size.

She had already become quite used to the See-Ah-Tik's animal-like appearance, and with this familiarity had come the realization that what had heretofore seemed horrific and monstrous was in fact well disposed and benign. Indeed, the See-Ah-Tik's teeth, on closer inspection, were the blunt molars of a vegetarian, and his sunken, glittering black eyes were round as a child's and fringed with thick lashes. His huge, delicately formed hands were expressive and gentle in the manner of a refined man of breeding. Most interesting to Helena Reed, his overall demeanor demonstrated neither the animosity of the feral animal to the human, nor the dominion of male over female, but a respectful equality as between two beings of correspondent rank. From what sort of race had this creature come? she wondered. What habits of his culture had encouraged this respect for other species, and indeed for the opposite sex? She became curious to observe the See-Ah-Tiks in their native intercourse, males and females together.