The Superwoman

VIII

“I am Mother of all the tribe,” she said with dignity. “These”—she indicated the women about her—“are mothers of the clans. You may speak—openly. Why is the birth of a male child cause for congratulation among your people?”

“Why? Why? Why, it’s obvious,” he said impatiently, baffled by the puerility of the topic and her determination to pursue it. “If a boy has ten chances to a girl’s one to make a living; if he has a hundred chances to a girl’s one to distinguish himself—in business, in the professions, as a statesman, an artist, anything; if he has a thousand to her one to get the mate he wants and liberty to—to enjoy himself besides, would you want your child to be a girl or a boy?”

She did not answer. Evidently she could not. She and the women about her were staring at him as though he were mad. It compelled him to further expression.

“It seems,” he began tentatively, stumbling over the words and trying to make himself clear, “it seems to be somewhat difficult for you to credit. But it’s true, I assure you. In fact, I don’t see how it could be otherwise. It’s natural and it’s right. Who could imagine a world where the rulers, big and little, in family and in state, were not men—the real rulers, I mean, however the title of royalty may be vested? We give our women a chance, a very fair chance. But the prizes of the world belong to the men, of course. How else could it be?”

“How else!” The Mother spoke threateningly; her breast heaved and her somber eyes shone with displeasure. “How else! We shall teach you how else.” In insulted dignity she faced him.

“Hush—hush!” The woman closest to her put a hand upon hers. “See—do not be angered, Mother. A wise woman is never angered by a fool, nor a truthful one by her who tells lies.”

“True, true. Thank you, Brida.” The Mother turned from her and faced Welburn calmly. “What is your name?” she asked. “Son of what mother? Or would you pretend that in your topsy-turvy country descent is through the father? Does the man there bear the child?” And leaning back in her chair she laughed heartily, while the women about her gave way to immoderate laughter. [ . . . ]

IX

[ . . . ] He was still sitting with this amaze upon his face, in his eyes the refusal to believe what one fears is true, when old Ainu came in to him.

“Ainu,” he asked quickly, “how long has Wyn, the Mother, ruled here?”

“I was a man of fifty when she came to rule,” answered the little old man.

“And—and Ainu”—Welburn’s voice was tentative, hesitating, a hesitancy that made him indignant at himself—“did her father rule before her?”

“Her father!” Ainu looked at him curiously. “No. How could that be?” “Who? Who then?” Welburn demanded with quickening breath.

“Why—the mother, the mother of Wyn, who is mother to Gurtha, who shall one day be the Mother if she lives and strengthens the tribe.”

Welburn looked at him in dismay, and the kindly little old man met that look and puzzled over it.

“How should it be otherwise?” he asked patiently. “What child shall know its father for certain? Surely descent is through the mother. What have you of the father but his belief—his mere belief—in his own paternity?” “In—in families of chiefs, of rulers?” asked Welburn. It was a forlorn hope.

Old Ainu lost patience. “In all families. How else?” he demanded with rare self-assertion. “Is there any way of tracing, of proving the father’s connection with the child?”

Hopelessly Welburn looked at him and looked away. He had more questions. They surged within him; they crowded to his lips. But he could not ask them, so sure he was what the answer would be.

“See then,” old Ainu said soothingly as he bent himself over his tasks over the stone hearth, “what foolish questions a man may ask. From the Mother Earth comes all life. From the mother woman comes human life. She is the creator. She is ruler, head of the tribe, of the clan, of the family. She makes the laws for her children and her children’s children, and, by reason of their common motherhood, communes with the Mother Goddess over all. She chooses her mates and strengthens the tribe with that source of strength—girl children—if the Mother Goddess be favorable. She presides in council, being wise and experienced in ruling her own family. She decides vexed questions for the good of the people, having mother love in her heart of course. She fixes the fishing season, being a good housewife, portions the fields, cures the ailing, prays for the dead.”

“And—and man?”

“Man!” Again Ainu bent that curious, doubting look upon him, as though questioning his sanity. “What of man? What is left for him?”

Old Ainu turned his back indignantly and busied himself with his pots.

“What does man do?” repeated Welburn. “Tell me.”

The old man turned upon him, pot in hand, stirring its contents while he talked.

“Behold,” he said with simple dignity, “what man does.”

“He cooks!” exclaimed Welburn. “Aye, cooks and sews and nurses, if he be weak and old. If he be young and strong, he builds houses and ships which the architects plan, plows fields, makes roads, spending his great strength as a docile animal might, or a great machine, under the direction of one not so strong always in muscles but greater in wisdom and authority.”

“A woman?”

“A woman.”