“Bound” (1897)

In this short story, Honor E. Woulfe presents several women, on boats with their families, who are bound by netting. Their demand for freedom suggests an allegory for women’s demand for equal suffrage. The story was commissioned by and appeared in the April 24, 1897, edition of Woman’s Journal, a weekly magazine dedicated to women’s rights and founded in 1870 by Lucy Stone and her husband Henry Browne Blackwell, of Boston.

For the Woman’s Journal.

BOUND.

BY HONOR E. WOULFE.

I.

Boats were gliding down a stream; a stream at times calm and beautiful, and again rough and unfair.

In the foremost boat were a man and woman. They were talking and laughing, and seemed very happy. He was sitting at her head and a little above her, his hands hanging idly, for the current was carrying them. She lay at full length in the bottom of the boat, and the fair and rounded symmetry of her limbs, with the storm-browned wood for a background, looked like an unsurpassable work in bas-relief. Her lips were of that form made for kisses, and her hair changed color under the light of either the sun or the moon. The man gazed upon her, and he knew that she was beautiful.

They passed a bed of flowers growing on the bank.

"Oh, I want them, I want them!" she exclaimed, clapping her white tiny hands as a baby or child would do.

He steered the boat over to them, and leaped on the shore to gather some. The boat rocked gently on the waters and drifted a little, but she lay there wholly unconscious of it, and played with the network that stretched above her and around her and under her, and was securely fastened to the side.

He came back with an armful of the flowers, and threw them in the bottom of the boat. She laughed a rippling laugh that went over the waters and echoed back again. She forgot the network around her, and played with the flowers, and held up the tips of her fingers to be kissed.

Soon another bed of flowers attracted her, and, as before, she clapped her hands and called for them; but he frowned and said, "You cannot have them; they are not good for you."

She pouted, a very tiny pout: “You wore one yesterday."

"Ah, yes, but I am a man. It is different; they are not good for you."

In a. very little time the lips were again smiling and the lingers running through the network. She looked up at him, slight curiosity in her face. "What is this for, this network? "

"To protect you. I put that there because I love you. It will keep the storms from you, and the rain and the hot sun. It is a custom to put this protection about our women, we are so solicitous for their comfort."

She looked up at him and smiled, never realizing that she was bound.

The boat passed on, and others came in quick succession, and drifted on with the current. In every boat was a man-, and a woman bound; and in some of the boats were children.

II.

The evening sun rested on the waters. White clouds, like immense sea-birds, covered the sky. A boat bearing a man and a woman and a child was slowly drifting. The child's dark curls hung over her white shoulders, and her eyelashes were darker than her hair.

They passed a bed of flowers. "Oh, see the beautiful flowers! Please get them for me," the woman cried; but the man's face grew sullen and dark, as he said, "Have I not told you often that you cannot have those flowers? They are not for you. All the women that have gone in the boats before have done without them, and I will not be the first to break the custom by gathering them for you."

Angry tears were in her eyes, and she clinched the little hands that lay under the netting. Then she said, "Unbind me, and let me out to get them for myself."

He looked at her surprised, amazed. Of such open rebellion he had never dreamed.

"Hush, hush!" he said, in a low constrained voice. "I would not for the world they heard you in the other boats. It is disgraceful. Why can you not be contented, like the others? They never wanted any but what the men have bought them."

“I would not for the world they heard you in the other boats. It is disgraceful. Why can you not be contented, like the others?”

Her lips parted sarcastically. "How do you know they are content, that they never want more? Perhaps they are afraid to tell what they want; or perhaps they think it useless."

"You are very unthankful for the kindnesses I lavish upon you."

"I would rather have freedom."

"How strangely you talk! Any one would think you were a prisoner."

"I am bound."

"Ah. no, you are only protected. And if you would lie quiet as I advise, you would not feel the cords."

"Still they would be there."

"What matter, if they did not hurt?"

"Ah, but they would hurt, thinking of the injustice of it."

"It is not unjust. It is the custom."

"That does not make it right."

"We know what is best for you."

"You cannot know.”

"Why?"

"Because you are men. We are women. You can only understand the wants of men."

"Your mind is wandering," he said. "I will go for a stroll on the shore. Perhaps you will be rational when I return."

"Well, go," she answered bitterly. "It is ever thus you put me off. But the time will come when you will be compelled to listen to the voice of reason."

He was gone before she had finished, and the little girl came and laid her cool cheek against the woman's burning one, and they wound their arms around each other. Then the woman whispered with terrible intensity between her closed teeth: "Never let them bind you tight! When they go to put the net over you, raise yourself up as high as you can, and they will place it that much higher. Then watch how they tie the cords, and some night when you are left alone, undo the cords, and seize the oars, and go down the stream as fast as you can. They may catch you—no doubt they will—but no matter, you will have had a little of the glorious life of freedom and the heroic pleasure of breaking the bonds."

The child's arm's closed tighter and tighter around the woman as she promised; "I will, I will. If ever I get the chance, I will break the bonds."

III.

It was midnight, and a boat rocked the wind-tossed waters. A man and a woman and two children, a boy and a girl, were in the boat. Flashes of light leapt from the angry sky, and disclosed living clouds of black, full of suppressed wrath. The man at the oars strained his eyes in the vain effort to find a port of safety, and drops of perspiration stood on his brow.

The children each suggested a different course, and cried in their fright. The woman leaned on her elbow and scanned the water. Her lips were white and set, as much in anger as in fear, as she now directed to the right and now to the left.

"Oh, if I were only free! I could help you guide the boat," She moaned and beat at the net till her hands were blistered.

"Oh, no, no!" he quickly answered, "the work would be too rough for you; I could not think of letting you do it. It would kill you."

"Ah, why will you talk sophistry in such a time as this? You know well that work does not kill half so many as idleness does. How do you know my strength? You have never tested it. You have never encouraged or tried to help me to develop into anything but what I am, a woman bound. I do not mind it so much in the sunshine, but when the storms come, these cords seem to cut through the flesh into my heart, when I see my children in danger and you trying to steer the boat alone, when I know two are needed for the work, and I am compelled to lie here bound. See even now how the storm rages and roars about us, and the children cling crying to my skirts! They know as well as I do that I am bound, and that my promises of protection are lies. They know that I have not the power to protect them, since power to protect myself is taken from me."

There was bitterness and sarcasm in her voice, and he answered her bluntly:

"It isn't your duty to protect; it is your duty to guide. They have been under your care and teaching. If you had done your duty, they would know what to do when this storm came. They would lie flat in the boat, and cease their screaming."

"Ah, yes; I tried to inculcate that theory; but when the storm came they forgot all my teachings. How vain to think that I could guide when the danger came, guide without protecting! It can never be done. It is only a make-believe, a shift of responsibility, a mockery. It can never be done." She turned to the man with that look in her eyes you see in the gazelle or the mother deer when the hunter catches the fawn.

She clutched and tore at the netting till some of the cords broke, but they were red in her blood first. No one saw it, for the storm still raged.

"Undo these cords," she pleaded. "You must undo these cords. I want to help my children. Quick, quick! Or, if evil befall them, I will curse the day they were given into my keeping. Unbind me! Unbind me!" She clutched and tore at the netting till some of the cords broke, but they were red in her blood first. No one saw it, for the storm still raged. The boy and the girl tried to help her, but their hands were weak, and they knew when the daylight should come the ones in the boats following would laugh at their futile efforts.

A great gust of wind caught up the boat and hurled the children away from the woman, down to the stern. The boat seemed about to capsize. They climbed to the high edge and clung to each other in terror. The woman saw them—a moment—and sent a shrill scream over the stormy water. The next moment the treacherous wind again caught the boat and hurled it in the opposite direction, plunging the children into the black water. One wild cry, and two bleeding arms stretched into the unseeing night, and all was quiet again.

The fury of the storm abated, and the wind, having spent its force, travelled with less noise and speed; transmitting sound along the river. The woman in the boat rose up on her elbows Her face and hands were smeared with dry blood, and her hair was white. The man had dropped the oars and sat dejectedly, his head drooping forward. There was something uncanny in the woman's voice, for it could be distinctly heard even at a greater distance than the fleet wind could carry it.

Every boat stood still in wonder, and consternation, and thought, as she cried out, "O women, why are you so blind, and so senseless, and so cruel? Why do you bring children into the world to be like yourselves, bound? The shackles on your own limbs should teach you mercy and consideration. If you are denied the right to protect your offspring, how dare you bear it and turn it loose to the caprice of the heartless storms? You are told your mission is to teach and to guide; but what avails your guiding and teaching when you have to abandon your subjects to the alluring and treacherous snares of an unknown sea? It is then your voices are needed to counsel, your hands to restrain, and your love to protect. But you are bound; you cannot follow. For us there may be no hope of freedom. The bonds are very strong, and we are weak. But for the ones that must follow, there is hope—nay, there is certainty, if only you now do your duty. Lift your voices up loud and strong and ceaseless, and war against this bondage; make it odious, till the ones that tighten the cords will see the wrong they do, and blush for the blindness of the past. Make it odious, till the new ones to be bound will fight and rebel, and die before they submit to this cruelty that ages have sanctioned, and that church tenets under the unchallenged cognomen of Christianity have pampered and succored and spread."

The woman ceased speaking, and the man by her side still sat with his head bowed. In most of the boats the women were raised up, intently listening. The men and the children too heard her words. Some of the faces were blank and some were sarcastic, and others were sad and thoughtful.

“I could have saved them had I not been bound—my God, my God! had I not been bound.”

After a few moments, the woman spoke again; but her voice was hoarse and could scarcely be heard: "Believe all that I say. I do not speak at random. I know the servileness of bondage, and I know what I could have done had I been free. I had two children, a boy and a girl. I taught the, and warned them against all kinds of danger. They were very attentive to my counsels while the sun shone, but in the storm, in the rapidity of the shock of danger, they forgot all, and were lost to me forever. I could have saved them had I not been bound—my God, my God! had I not been bound."

The woman covered her face with her hands, and low moans came through the delicate fingers. The man looked around, half bewildered, for a moment or two. Then he took a knife from his pocket, and slowly opened the blade, and one by one deliberately cut the cords that bound her, and, gathering the net that had enwrapped her, he cast it into the water.

The woman's face was covered, so she did not know that she was free until he put his strong arras around her and lifted her up, and set her by his side. She smiled at him through her tears, and wound her soft arms about his neck.

"You are breaking an old, old custom,” she said. "Are you not afraid they will scorn you?"

"I will not mind their scorn," he answered stoutly. "The light has come. Through all these years I have been blind, and you have borne the burden patiently and alone; but now I will help you; I will make what reparation I can. I will work hard to help you make others free."

For answer she took one of his hands and held it in both of hers; and the boats glided on. But strange unusual murmurs were heard all over the waters.  

IV.

Morning awoke. The sun danced a myriad of fantastic figures on the water, darting in and out and over the boats. Flocks of birds swooped down to dip their bills in the water and then be off again. The place was rife with sound, and animated and earnest conversation was heard all about.

The occupants from a cluster of boats talked across to each other. Others joined them. The few grew into an army that thickly studded the space, until little room was left between.

They were discussing the bold and impassioned utterances they had heard in the early morning, and the later speech by the man who had unbound the woman with the white locks and blood-stained hands.

One girl's voice was heard above all the others, and soon every eye was on her.

She stood gracefully poised on the seat of the boat, her back foot firmly set, indicative of determination and concentrated force, while the front foot lightly rested a little to the side, as if on the alert and ready for any action. She was not a fully developed woman, but a chrysalis on the banks of the river Transformation, ready to cross at the first signal. She resembled the early pink blush on a spring peach ere the sun's rays have had time to change it to the deep red of the later summer.

One girl’s voice was heard above all the others, and soon every eye was on her.

"I for one will never be bound," she said; and her voice was clear as the water on which her little boat stood. "I will never be bound. No one has the right to bind me. Every soul in the world should be free, and no one should hold jurisdiction over another. If any one should try to bind me, do you know what I would do?" Her flashing eyes swept the throng. "I would take this boat and turn it over, and I would dive down to the bottom of the water, and wind my arms around something there, even though it were a monster, and I'd cling to it as long as there was any breath in my body; and then, when I could hold on no longer, I would not care if my body floated to the surface, for then no one would want to bind me. Oh, I should stifle, suffocate, die, if I were bound. I must be free! free! free!" She changed her weight to the forward foot, and waved her bare arms insultingly in the air.

From boat to boat there ran quick glances of wonder and alarm and admiration, but no word was spoken, until, as if by one impulse, a shout arose from the women: "We, too, want to be free. We demand that you cut these cords. You had no authority ever to place them here." And a few male voices joined in, saying: "It is only just they should he free. We have overstepped the law."

In one of the boats an old man arose and demanded silence. Then he turned to the girl, who still stood balanced on the seat of the boat, and said, "Who is with you?"

"No one," she answered.

"How come you to be alone?"

"I will tell you." She sat down on the seat and clasped her hands across her knees, and her eyes wandered over the water, and above to the blue sky, as she began.

"A long, long time ago, <i man sat here, and a woman was with him, bound. But one day he went off to the mountains to gather something, and he never came back. Then the woman cried and cried, for she had no way to help herself. Often the boat ran ashore, and we had to sit and wait for the water to carry us out again. And sometimes the boat struck hard against a rock or a piece of drift-wood, and then the woman would cry in terror; but I only laughed, for I did not know the danger. As I grew older I discovered that I could row, and I loved the work; I loved to see the boat dart here or there as my will and muscles dictated; so when the woman told me that some day they would take the oars away, I was angry, and rowed all the harder and faster. I tried to break the cords that bound her, but I could not, for I had nothing hut my teeth to work with, and though the cords were silken and soft on the outside, I found a hard steel wire between, and it broke my teeth; so 1 had to leave her bound. One morning I found that she and the net had disappeared, and there was no trace of either, except a decayed spot in the wood where she had lain so long. At first I was terribly frightened to think that I was all alone; but I was more alarmed at the thought that perhaps some one would capture me and bind me as she had been bound. So every day I steered away out to the edge of the water where I could be alone; then at night, when it was dark, I came in among the crowd. So have I lived, and so am I going to live."

Her eyes came in from their distant travel, and rested steadily on the old man.

He looked about uneasily, and after a little nervous cough, thus addressed the girl:

"I am sorry, very sorry, for the state of your mind and for the unfitting words you have so boldly spoken. I am sorry, too, that the women and the children have heard you. Such deviation from long-held sacred custom cannot but have a corrupting influence. Know now that what you call bondage is only protection. What more would you have than we are willing to give?"

"I would have freedom."

"You want to be like us?"

"No. I want to be only myself, but unbound."

"Ah! you would quickly see your error. You would cease to be a woman. Your voice would grow harsh and your cheek rough, and your limbs would lose their roundness, and the wind would crack your hair. In a word, you would become as a man."

"What? Has the Creator made such a bungle of nature that the light of His sun will change one of a species into another, and that the only way to keep them distinct is to hide one away in the darkness? I cannot believe it! I cannot believe it."

The girl stood in the bottom of the boat, her arms folded across her breast. The old man leaned against an oar. In all the boats the children and the men were eagerly straining their necks for a glimpse of the speakers. Many of the women were clamoring to be free, and trying to tear the nets that enveloped them.

“Hear me, all ye here on the water. I can no longer follow this old man nor his old doctrine. My conscience and my reason are against both.”

A young man with a few masterly strokes of his oar brought his boat close up to the girl's and directly in front of the old man, and, without asking permission to speak, he said: "Hear me, all ye here on the water. I can no longer follow this old man nor his old doctrine. My conscience and my reason are against both. There is no logic in either. He says, unbind the women and they will grow like men. That is proven a falsehood. Look at this girl. She has always been free. Is she like a man? Are her arms sinewy and unfair like ours? No! Look for yourselves. How beautifully the wrists taper, and how graceful the curves of the upper arm! See her hair. Has the wind cracked it? Oh, no, it has only made it glossy and wavy and silken. Show me the one among you whose limbs are half so lovely. Where is the roundness that can compare with the chiselling of her fair form? Ah, freedom has not made her a man, it has only added firmness to the beauty that bondage would never have allowed to develop,"

He turned to the men: "How would you like to be bound? Suppose that we could change places for a while, how would you like it? For shame! Cut the cords. Let every man take out his knife and cut the cords of the woman with him; then will all be out of bondage. Then will the kiss you receive be that of freedom and not of slavery."

There was much argument now on every side, but all over the water at little intervals could be seen an unbound woman arising.

The young man pulled his boat alongside the girl's. The two boats touched. He stood up and addressed her thus:

"I have something further to say, but it concerns not the crowd, but you. Have I your permission to speak?"

"Speak," she said; and her eyes from his to the bottom of the boat.

"You are beautiful; but it is not of that I came to speak. Your voice is clear and Arm and sweet, and your eyes see far into the distance. If ever terrible storms come, the kind that toss and lash the boats to pieces, if you were by my side, your sweet voice to counsel and your eyes to help me, I know that my oars could vanquish the waves, no matter how high nor how hard they came. And through the valley and up the mountain sides we would go hand in hand, to gather the flowers and the rare specimens of ore that are scattered all around. Will you come?"

She lifted her eyes from the bottom of the boat and held out her hand to him, saying, "I will come."

He took her in his arms and kissed her there before all the crowd.

In the evening they were seen wandering together hand in hand, and the mountains and the valleys were peopled with men and women and children gathering flowers, and chasing butterflies.

Together the men and the women wove wreaths and laughingly crowned the fair brows of the children. And when they went back to the boats, the nets and the cords had disappeared.

No vestige of bondage was left, but instead triumphant, sweet smiles on the faces of happy women, and an expression of noble justice in the eyes of the men.

All that night the harmony of music was heard. Free voices filled the air with grand choruses, and high up in the heavens an invisible choir sang a Te Deum of praise.

Velasco, Tex.

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