Herland by Charlotte Perkins Gilman Page A

white ones are public buildings evidently,” Terry declared. “This is no savage country, my friend. But no men? Boys, it behooves us to go forward most politely.”
    The place had an odd look, more impressive as we approached. “It’s like an exposition.” “It’s too pretty to be true.” “Plenty of palaces, but where are the homes?” “Oh there are little ones enough—but—.” It certainly was different from any towns we had ever seen.
    “There’s no dirt,” said Jeff suddenly. “There’s no smoke,” he added after a little.
    “There’s no noise,” I offered; but Terry snubbed me—“That’s because they are laying low for us; we’d better be careful how we go in there.”
    Nothing could induce him to stay out, however, so we walked on.
    Everything was beauty, order, perfect cleanness, and the pleasantest sense of home over it all. As we neared the center of the town the houses stood thicker, ran together as it were, grew into rambling palaces grouped among parks and open squares, something as college buildings stand in their quiet greens.
    And then, turning a corner, we came into a broad paved space and saw before us a band of women standing close together in even order, evidently waiting for us.
    We stopped a moment and looked back. The street behind was closed by another band, marching steadily, shoulder to shoulder. We went on—there seemed no other way to go—and presently found ourselves quite surrounded by this close-massed multitude, women, all of them, but—
    They were not young. They were not old. They were not, in the girl sense, beautiful. They were not in the least ferocious. And yet, as I looked from face to face, calm, grave, wise, wholly unafraid, evidently assured and determined, I had the funniest feeling—a very early feeling—a feeling that I traced back and back in memory until I caught up with it at last. It was that sense of being hopelessly in the wrong that I had so often felt in early youth when my short legs’ utmost effort failed to overcome the fact that I was late to school.
    Jeff felt it too; I could see he did. We felt like small boys, very small boys, caught doing mischief in some gracious lady’s house.But Terry showed no such consciousness. I saw his quick eyes darting here and there, estimating numbers, measuring distances, judging chances of escape. He examined the close ranks about us, reaching back far on every side, and murmured softly to me, “Every one of ’em over forty as I’m a sinner.”
    Yet they were not old women. Each was in the full bloom of rosy health, erect, serene, standing sure-footed and light as any pugilist. They had no weapons, and we had, but we had no wish to shoot.
    “I’d as soon shoot my aunts,” muttered Terry again. “What do they want with us anyhow? They seem to mean business.” But in spite of that businesslike aspect, he determined to try his favorite tactics. Terry had come armed with a theory.
    He stepped forward, with his brilliant ingratiating smile, and made low obeisance to the women before him. Then he produced another tribute, a broad soft scarf of filmy texture, rich in color and pattern, a lovely thing, even to my eye, and offered it with a deep bow to the tall unsmiling woman who seemed to head the ranks before him. She took it with a gracious nod of acknowledgment, and passed it on to those behind her.
    He tried again, this time bringing out a circlet of rhinestones, a glittering crown that should have pleased any woman on earth. He made a brief address, including Jeff and me as partners in his enterprise, and with another bow presented this. Again his gift was accepted and, as before, passed out of sight.
    “If they were only younger,” he muttered between his teeth. “What on earth is a fellow to say to a regiment of old Colonels like this?”
    In all our discussions and speculations we had always unconsciously assumed that the women, whatever else they might be, would be young. Most men do think