SCYLLA AND CHARYBDIS
When the elders of our family could think of nothing else to worry about they put in their time to good advantage on little Cousin Maria Pearl Manley. Yes—Maria Pearl—that was really the poor child’s name, given in baptism. You can see that her troubles began early. That name was symbolical of what her life was to be, sharply divided between her mother’s family (they were the ones who insisted on the Maria) and her father’s folks, who stood out for the Pearl. Her father had died before she was born, and her mother lived only a few months after the baby came, and was so mortally ill that no one thought of naming the poor little girl. It was after her mother’s death, when the two hostile families could collect themselves, that the long struggle over the child began by giving her that name.
Thereafter she was Maria for six months of the year, the period when she stayed with the Purdons; and Pearl the other half-year, when she was with her father’s family, the Manleys. “The poor little tyke, not even a fixed name of her own,” my grandmother used to say, pitying the child’s half-yearly oscillations between those two utterly dissimilar houses “where there’s nothing the way it should be in either one!” The circle of compassionate elders used to continue, “Dear, dear! What can the poor little thing ever learn, with such awful examples always before her eyes.”
As I look back now, I must admit that such severe characterizations were really not due to the natural tendency of all elders to be sure that children are being badly brought up. Those two houses which formed the horizon of Maria Pearl’s life were certainly extravagant examples of how not to conduct life. The Purdon grandfather and grandmother and aunt were the strictest kind of church people (the kind who make you want to throw a brick through the church-windows), narrow, self-righteous, Old-Testament folks, who dragged little Maria (the “Pearl” was never pronounced inside their doors) to Church and Sunday-School and prayer-meeting and revivals and missionary meetings, and made her save all her pennies for the heathen. Not that she had very many to save, for the Purdons, although very well-to-do, were stingier than any other family in town. They loved money, it tore at the very fibers of their being to part with it, and they avoided this mental anguish with considerable skill. Although their competent “management” allowed them to live comfortably, there were few occasions which brought them to the point of letting any actual cash out of their hands. The dark, plain, well-fitting garments which clothed little Maria were never bought, but made over out of her grandmother’s clothes; the soap which kept her clothes immaculately clean had cost no money, but was part of the amazing household economies in which old Mrs. Purdon was expert and into which she introduced Maria with conscientious care. The child learned to darn and patch and how to make soap out of left-over bits of fat, and how to use the apple-culls for jelly and how, year after year, to retrim last season’s hat for this.
From morning till night she lived in a close, airless round of intensive housekeeping and thrift. She spread newspapers down over the rugs, so the sun should not fade them; she dried every scrap of orange peel to use as kindling, she saved the dried beef jars to use for jams, she picked berries all day long instead of playing, and then sat up late with Aunt Maria and Grandmother, picking them over and canning them, on the stove in the woodshed, to avoid litter in the kitchen. She always wore gingham aprons, even to school, which no other children did, and she was treated as though she had offended against the Holy Ghost, if she forgot to wash her rubbers and put them in their place in the closet under the stairs. She was rigorously held to a perfect performance of her share of the housework, making up her bed with the fear of the Lord in her poor little heart lest the corners be not square enough, poking desperately at the corner of the windows she washed and polished, and running her finger anxiously over the dishes she wiped to be sure they had that glass-smooth surface which only repeated rinsings in very hot water can give. Then when all was done, her reward was to take her seat in their appallingly neat sitting-room and, to the accompaniment of Aunt Maria’s reading aloud out of a church paper, to set tiny stitches in the stout, unbleached cotton of which her underwear was made. They were really dreadful, the six months she passed with her mother’s people.
But the other half-year was scarcely better, although she might have journeyed to another planet with less change in her surroundings. When the day came, the first of January, for her departure from the Purdon household, her solidly-constructed little trunk was filled with her solidly-constructed little clothes, her hair was once more rebraided to an even harder finish, her face was once more polished with the harsh, home-made soap, and her nails were cut to the quick. “It’s the last time the poor child will have any decent care, till she comes back,” Grandmother Purdon would say bitterly, buttoning up with exactitude the stout, plain warm little coat, and pulling down over Maria’s ears the firmly knit toque of dark-blue wool. They all went down to the station to make sure she took the right train, and put her, each of them separately, in the hands of the Conductor. They kissed her good-by, all but Grandfather, who shook hands with her hard. It was at that moment that Maria’s frozen little heart felt a faint warmth from the great protecting affection they had for her, which underlay the rigor of their training and which they hid with such tragic completeness.
The first day of the arrival at the Manley’s was always a dream of delight! To emerge from the silent rigidity of the Purdon house into the cheerful, easy-going, affectionate noise of the Manley home, to exchange the grim looks of Grandmother Purdon for the exuberant caresses of Grandmother Manley; to leave behind all stringent admonitions to put your wraps on a certain hook, and to be allowed to fling them down on the floor where you stood.... Little Pearl (she was never called Maria by the Manleys) felt herself rebounding into all the sunshine and good-nature, as a rubber ball rebounds from a hard stone wall. She flung herself around Aunt Pearl’s neck, and paid back with interest the “forty thousand kisses” which were the tradition in that home. She flung herself into play with the innumerable little cousins, who cluttered up the floor; for there was always a married aunt or two back home, with her family, while an invisible uncle-by-marriage tried somewhere in a vague distance, to get a hypothetical job. She flung herself into her bed at night joyfully reveling in the fact that its corners were not turned squarely, and that the pillow-case had last seen the wash-tub on about the same date that Aunt Carry’s husband had last had a job. It was a care-free dream to go to bed whenever she pleased—eleven o’clock if that suited her taste—with nobody to tell her to wash, or to brush her teeth, or comb her hair; and to lie there watching Aunt Carry and Aunt Pearl, who always sat up till midnight at least, putting their hair in curl-papers and talking about the way the neighbor next door treated his wife. This was life!
But already the very next morning the dream was not quite so iridescent, as with no one to wake her, she opened her eyes at twenty minutes of nine, and knew that she had to be at school at nine! She sprang up, shivering in the cold room (Grandfather Manley never could manage the furnace, and also there were periods when there was mighty little money to buy coal) and started to claw herself into her clothes. But always just at first she forgot the Manley ways, and neglected to collect everything she had taken off, and put it under her pillow, the only spot in which you could keep things for yourself in that comfortably communistic family. Her shoes were gone, her nice new calf-skin school shoes. She went flying out, comb in hand, tearing at the tangles in her hair, as she went, asking if anybody had seen her shoes. Aunt Carry, still in her nightgown, with a smeary baby in her arms, said, yes, she’d let her Elmer have them to run down to the grocery store to get some bread. Somehow they’d got out of bread and poor Aunt Pearl had had to go off to her work with only some crackers to eat. Surely little Pearl didn’t grudge the loan of her shoes to her cousin. The bread was for all of them, and Elmer couldn’t find his shoes, and anyhow one of them had a big hole in it and the snow was deep.
“But, Aunt Carry, how can I get to school? I’ll be late!”
“Well, gracious, what if you are! Don’t be so fussy! Time was made for slaves!” That was Aunt Carry’s favorite motto, which she was always citing, and for citing which there were plenty of occasions in her life. Little Pearl thought somewhat resentfully, as she rummaged in her trunk for her other shoes, that if Aunt Carry had to enter the school-room late and get scolded, she’d think differently about time! But anyhow it was fun to wear her best shoes if she liked, and to watch their patent leather tips twinkling as she scurried about. They twinkled very fast during that quarter of an hour, as Pearl collected her wraps (her mittens she never did find after that day) and tried to scare up something for breakfast in the disordered kitchen, where the cat, installed on the table, was methodically getting a breakfast by licking the dirty plates clean. Pearl was not so lucky, and had to go off to school with a cracker in one hand and a piece of marshmallow cake in the other. The less said about her hair the better! Grandmother Manley’s “forty thousand kisses” were not quite so wonderful this morning as they had been last night.
At noon Pearl ran home, her stomach in her heels, all one voracious demand for good food. Aunt Carry was crocheting by the window and there was no sign of any lunch. “Mercy me!” cried Grandmother Manley, “Is it noon? Why, how the morning has gone!” And then with the utmost compunction they both rushed out into the kitchen and began to hurry with all their might to get something for Pearl to eat. The kitchen fire was pretty low, and there were no potatoes cooked, and Aunt Carry had forgotten to order any eggs, and the milk bottle had been left outside and was frozen hard. Hurry as they might and apologize to Pearl almost with tears as they did, it was very little that Pearl had eaten when she went back to school, and she knew well enough that they would forget to-morrow, just as they had to-day. No, already Pearl felt that life could not be made wholly out of kisses and good nature. By nightfall, her thin kid shoes were rather scuffed and very wet, with a break in one of the patent leather tips where Cousin Tom had stepped on it, in a scuffle with his brother. Little Pearl nursed her sore toe and broken shoe with a weary feeling.
Always at the end of the six months with the Manleys, Pearl was nearly a nervous wreck. She was behind in her lessons, since there was not a quiet spot in the house to study, and even if there had been you couldn’t escape from the noise of the trombone, which Aunt Carry’s oldest was learning to play; she was underweight and anæemic for lack of regular food and enough sleep ... it wasn’t much use to go to bed when nobody else did, and Aunt Pearl and Aunt Carry always visited in more than audible voices as they put up their hair in curlers; she had nothing to wear (since nothing had been renewed or mended) except a blue silk dress which Grandfather Manley had bought for her in a fit of affection, and some mostly-lace underwear which Aunt Carry had sat up till all hours making for her, so that “she should have something pretty like the other girls!” But for an active little girl, mostly-lace underwear soon was reduced to the quality of mosquito netting; and a blue silk dress in the Manley’s house was first cousin to Sir Walter Raleigh’s cloak in the mud-puddle.
With all the family she had been night after night to the moving pictures and not infrequently was kept up afterwards by the hysterics of little Nelly, Aunt Carry’s nervous, high-strung five-year-old, who saw men with revolvers pointed at her, and desperadoes about to bind and gag her, till Pearl more than half saw them too, and dreamed of them afterwards. She had suffered the terrible humiliation of having the teacher send her home with a note saying that her hair must be washed and kept in better order, a humiliation scarcely lessened by the outraged affection of the Manleys, who had taken her into their loving arms, to moan over their darling’s hurt feelings. She had thereafter made frantic efforts to keep her own hair in order, with what brush and comb she could salvage out of the jetsam in the room which was at once hers and the aunts’ bedroom; but if she complained that her hair-ribbons disappeared, or were crumpled in a corner of the drawer, she was told comfortably, not to be fussy, “For goodness’ sakes, don’t make such a fuss about things! Folks that do never have a minute’s comfort in life, nor nobody else in the house either.”
Yes, it was a rather pale, wild-eyed little Pearl, who on the first day of July scrambled together into her trunk what she could find, put on the hat which had been so bright and pretty when Aunt Pearl gave it to her at Easter, and which now after two months with the Manleys looked like a floor-cloth. She did not put her hands over her ears to deaden a little the volume of noise as they all crowded about her in the station to say their affectionate and vociferous good-byes, but that was only because she did not want to hurt their feelings. The instant she was in the train, she always hid her face in her arms, quivering all over with nervous tension. Oh, the noise the Manleys always made over everything, and the confusion they were always in, when they tried to do anything, colliding with each other, and dropping things, and squealing and screaming! And it was all right for them to be warm-hearted and generous—but when they slathered money on ice-cream, and then didn’t have enough to pay for her ticket, till they’d borrowed it ...!
Well, then there was the re-entrance into the Purdon house, the beautiful, fragrant cleanliness of everything, the dustless order, her own room, with the clean, white sheets, and her own safe closet into which nobody would ever plunge rummaging. And Aunt Maria so quiet and calm, with her nice low voice, and Grandmother Purdon so neat with her white lace collar, and her lovely white hair so well-brushed, and oh, the good things to eat.... To sit down to a well-ordered table, with a well-cooked savory mutton stew, and potatoes neither watery nor underdone, and clear apple jelly quivering in a glass dish! And the clean, clean dishes! Had Maria ever complained of having to rinse the dishes too often! She remembered the dried-on bits of food always to be felt on the Manley plates ...!
The first evening too was always dream-like, the quiet, deft despatching of the dishes, in the kitchen shining with cleanliness, and then all the evening free, and so quiet, so blessedly quiet, with no trombone, and no whoops of chatter or boisterous crying and laughing; no piano banging (except perhaps Aunt Maria softly playing a hymn or two), no children overturning chairs and slamming doors, no one falling up or downstairs, no crash of breaking crockery from the kitchen ... little Maria sat on the well-swept porch behind the well-trained vines and soaked herself in the peace and quiet.
But by the next morning, the shine was a little off. When Aunt Maria came to wake her at half past six, half past six ... why, no one at Grandfather Manley’s thought of stirring till eight! And she was expected to wash and dress ... not a button unbuttoned or a hair out of place under penalty of a long lecture on neatness ... and “do” her room, even to wiping off the woodwork; and make her bed. Heavens! How fussy they were about those old corners! All this before she had a bit of breakfast. Then, breakfast with everybody’s whole soul fixed on the work to be done, and nobody so much as dimly aware that it was a glorious, sunny, windy, summer day outside. Maria’s heart sank, sank, sank, as she drank her perfectly made chocolate, and ate her golden-brown toast, till it struck the dismal level where it usually lived during the Purdon half-year. “Come, Maria, don’t loiter over your food. The only way to get the work done is to go right at it!”
“Oh, Maria, do you call that folding your napkin? I call it crumpling it into a ball.”
“You forgot to put your chair back against the wall, Maria. If we each do faithfully our share of what is to be done, it will be easier for us all.”
“No, the spoons go there ... mercy, no! not the forks!”
“Don’t twitch the curtain so as you go by. It takes all the fresh out of it. I only ironed them yesterday.”
“Why, Maria, whistling! Like a little street boy!”
The July sun might shine and the wind blow outside, inside the house it was always gray, windless November weather. She felt herself curl up like a little autumn leaf, and, with a dry rattle, blow about the rooms before the chill admonitory breath of Grandmother Purdon and Aunt Maria.
Yes, the family elders were right in pitying her, as a child brought up just as badly as it was possible to be; and nobody was surprised or blamed her a bit, when she got out of both families as rapidly and as unceremoniously as she could, by making a very early marriage with an anonymous young man, somebody she had met at a high-school dance. He seemed just like any young man, from the glimpse of him, which was all the family had, before their marriage; but nobody knew a thing about his character or whether he would make a good husband. And, indeed, there was a big doubt in the family mind as to whether Maria Pearl would be any sort of wife or home-maker. How could she have learned anything about rational living, the poor little tyke, hustled from one bad example to another through all the impressionable years of her life? Suppose she kept house like the Manleys! Horrors! Or suppose she took after the Purdons! Her poor husband!
* * * * * * *
Nothing of the sort! There’s not a happier home anywhere in the country than hers, nor a better housekeeper, nor a wiser mother. It’s a perfect treat to visit in her cheerful, sunny, orderly house, or to talk with her well-brought-up, jolly children, or to see her well-fed, satisfied husband. And she herself is a joy to the eye, stout and rosy and calm. She is neither fussy nor slack, neither stingy nor extravagant, neither cold and repressed, nor slushy and sentimental.
How did it happen? Probably Maria Pearl doesn’t know. But I do. And since it has happened, I can see perfectly how inevitable it was. Whenever the routine of her housekeeping begins to set too hard, and she feels like flying at muddy-footed, careless children with the acrimony natural to the good housekeeper, the memory of forlorn little Pearl among the Purdons softens and humanizes her words. And when the balance begins to swing the other way, when she tastes that first delicious, poisonous languor of letting things slide, when her Manley blood comes to the top, she has other memories to steady her. I have seen her sitting at the breakfast table, after the children are off to school, begin to sag in her chair, and reach with an indolent gesture for a tempting novel; and I knew what was in her mind as she sprang up with a start and began briskly to clear off the table and plan the lunch.