Complete Works of Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Page 3

  “It’s not because I don’t love you, Mother. It’s because I do. And it’s not because I don’t love Ross either: — it’s because I do. I want to take care of you, Mother, and make life easier for you as long as you live. I want to help him — to help carry that awful load — and I’m going — to — do — it!”

  She stood up hastily, for a step sounded on the back porch. It was only her sister, who hurried in, put a dish on the table, kissed her mother and took another rocking-chair.

  “I just ran in,” said she, “to bring those berries. Aren’t they beauties? The baby’s asleep. Gerald hasn’t got in yet. Supper’s all ready, and I can see him coming time enough to run back. Why, Mother! What’s the matter? You’re crying!”

  “Am I?” asked Mrs. Bell weakly; wiping her eyes in a dazed way.

  “What are you doing to Mother, Diantha?” demanded young Mrs. Peters. “Bless me! I thought you and she never had any differences! I was always the black sheep, when I was at home. Maybe that’s why I left so early!”

  She looked very pretty and complacent, this young matron and mother of nineteen; and patted the older woman’s hand affectionately, demanding, “Come — what’s the trouble?”

  “You might as well know now as later,” said her sister. “I have decided to leave home, that’s all.”

  “To leave home!” Mrs. Peters sat up straight and stared at her. “To leave home! — And Mother!”

  “Well?” said Diantha, while the tears rose and ran over from her mother’s eyes. “Well, why not? You left home — and Mother — before you were eighteen.”

  “That’s different!” said her sister sharply. “I left to be married, — to have a home of my own. And besides I haven’t gone far! I can see Mother every day.”

  “That’s one reason I can go now better than later on,” Diantha said. “You are close by in case of any trouble.”

  “What on earth are you going for? Ross isn’t ready to marry yet, is he?”

  “No — nor likely to be for years. That’s another reason I’m going.”

  “But what for, for goodness sake.”

  “To earn money — for one thing.”

  “Can’t you earn money enough by teaching?” the Mother broke in eagerly. “I know you haven’t got the same place this fall — but you can get another easy enough.”

  Diantha shook her head. “No, Mother, I’ve had enough of that. I’ve taught for four years. I don’t like it, I don’t do well, and it exhausts me horribly. And I should never get beyond a thousand or fifteen hundred dollars a year if I taught for a lifetime.”

  “Well, I declare!” said her sister. “What do you expect to get? I should think fifteen hundred dollars a year was enough for any woman!”

  Diantha peered into the oven and turned her biscuit pan around.

  “And you’re meaning to leave home just to make money, are you?”

  “Why not?” said Diantha firmly. “Henderson did — when he was eighteen. None of you blamed him.”

  “I don’t see what that’s got to do with it,” her mother ventured. “Henderson’s a boy, and boys have to go, of course. A mother expects that. But a girl — Why, Diantha! How can I get along without you! With my health!”

  “I should think you’d be ashamed of yourself to think of such a thing!” said young Mrs. Peters.

  A slow step sounded outside, and an elderly man, tall, slouching, carelessly dressed, entered, stumbling a little over the rag-mat at the door.

  “Father hasn’t got used to that rug in fourteen years!” said his youngest daughter laughingly. “And Mother will straighten it out after him! I’m bringing Gerald up on better principles. You should just see him wait on me!”

  “A man should be master in his own household,” Mr. Bell proclaimed, raising a dripping face from the basin and looking around for the towel — which his wife handed him.

  “You won’t have much household to be master of presently,” said Mrs. Peters provokingly. “Half of it’s going to leave.”

  Mr. Bell came out of his towel and looked from one to the other for some explanation of this attempted joke, “What nonsense are you talking?” he demanded.

  “I think it’s nonsense myself,” said the pretty young woman — her hand on the doorknob. “But you’d better enjoy those biscuits of Di’s while you can — you won’t get many more! There’s Gerald — good night!” And off she ran.

  Diantha set the plateful on the table, puffy, brown, and crisply crusted. “Supper’s ready,” she said. “Do sit down, Mother,” and she held the chair for her. “Minnie’s quite right, Father, though I meant not to tell you till you’d had supper. I am going away to work.”

  Mr. Bell regarded his daughter with a stern, slow stare; not so much surprised as annoyed by an untimely jesting. He ate a hot biscuit in two un-Fletcherized mouthfuls, and put more sugar in his large cup of tea. “You’ve got your Mother all worked up with your nonsense,” said he. “What are you talking about anyway?”

  Diantha met his eyes unflinchingly. He was a tall old man, still handsome and impressive in appearance, had been the head of his own household beyond question, ever since he was left the only son of an idolizing mother. But he had never succeeded in being the head of anything else. Repeated failures in the old New England home had resulted in his ruthlessly selling all the property there; and bringing his delicate wife and three young children to California. Vain were her protests and objections. It would do her good — best place in the world for children — good for nervous complaints too. A wife’s duty was to follow her husband, of course. She had followed, willy nilly; and it was good for the children — there was no doubt of that.

  Mr. Bell had profited little by his venture. They had the ranch, the flowers and fruit and ample living of that rich soil; but he had failed in oranges, failed in raisins, failed in prunes, and was now failing in wealth-promising hens.

  But Mrs. Bell, though an ineffectual housekeeper, did not fail in the children. They had grown up big and vigorous, sturdy, handsome creatures, especially the two younger ones. Diantha was good-looking enough. Roscoe Warden thought her divinely beautiful. But her young strength had been heavily taxed from childhood in that complex process known as “helping mother.” As a little child she had been of constant service in caring for the babies; and early developed such competence in the various arts of house work as filled her mother with fond pride, and even wrung from her father some grudging recognition. That he did not value it more was because he expected such competence in women, all women; it was their natural field of ability, their duty as wives and mothers. Also as daughters. If they failed in it that was by illness or perversity. If they succeeded — that was a matter of course.

  He ate another of Diantha’s excellent biscuits, his greyish-red whiskers slowly wagging; and continued to eye her disapprovingly. She said nothing, but tried to eat; and tried still harder to make her heart go quietly, her cheeks keep cool, and her eyes dry. Mrs. Bell also strove to keep a cheerful countenance; urged food upon her family; even tried to open some topic of conversation; but her gentle words trailed off into unnoticed silence.

  Mr. Bell ate until he was satisfied and betook himself to a comfortable chair by the lamp, where he unfolded the smart local paper and lit his pipe. “When you’ve got through with the dishes, Diantha,” he said coldly, “I’ll hear about this proposition of yours.”

  Diantha cleared the table, lowered the leaves, set it back against the wall, spreading the turkey-red cloth upon it. She washed the dishes, — her kettle long since boiling, scalded them, wiped them, set them in their places; washed out the towels, wiped the pan and hung it up, swiftly, accurately, and with a quietness that would have seemed incredible to any mistress of heavy-footed servants. Then with heightened color and firm-set mouth, she took her place by the lamplit table and sat still.

  Her mother was patiently darning large socks with many holes — a kind of work she specially disliked. “You’ll have to get some new socks, Fathe
r,” she ventured, “these are pretty well gone.”

  “O they’ll do a good while yet,” he replied, not looking at them. “I like your embroidery, my dear.”

  That pleased her. She did not like to embroider, but she did like to be praised.

  Diantha took some socks and set to work, red-checked and excited, but silent yet. Her mother’s needle trembled irregularly under and over, and a tear or two slid down her cheeks.

  Finally Mr. Bell laid down his finished paper and his emptied pipe and said, “Now then. Out with it.”

  This was not a felicitious opening. It is really astonishing how little diplomacy parents exhibit, how difficult they make it for the young to introduce a proposition. There was nothing for it but a bald statement, so Diantha made it baldly.

  “I have decided to leave home and go to work,” she said.

  “Don’t you have work enough to do at home?” he inquired, with the same air of quizzical superiority which had always annoyed her so intensely, even as a little child.

  She would cut short this form of discussion: “I am going away to earn my living. I have given up school-teaching — I don’t like it, and, there isn’t money enough in it. I have plans — which will speak for themselves later.”

  “So,” said Mr. Bell, “Plans all made, eh? I suppose you’ve considered your Mother in these plans?”

  “I have,” said his daughter. “It is largely on her account that I’m going.”

  “You think it’ll be good for your Mother’s health to lose your assistance, do you?”

  “I know she’ll miss me; but I haven’t left the work on her shoulders. I am going to pay for a girl — to do the work I’ve done. It won’t cost you any more, Father; and you’ll save some — for she’ll do the washing too. You didn’t object to Henderson’s going — at eighteen. You didn’t object to Minnie’s going — at seventeen. Why should you object to my going — at twenty-one.”

  “I haven’t objected — so far,” replied her father. “Have your plans also allowed for the affection and duty you owe your parents?”

  “I have done my duty — as well as I know how,” she answered. “Now I am twenty-one, and self-supporting — and have a right to go.”

  “O yes. You have a right — a legal right — if that’s what you base your idea of a child’s duty on! And while you’re talking of rights — how about a parent’s rights? How about common gratitude! How about what you owe to me — for all the care and pains and cost it’s been to bring you up. A child’s a rather expensive investment these days.”

  Diantha flushed, she had expected this, and yet it struck her like a blow. It was not the first time she had heard it — this claim of filial obligation.

  “I have considered that position, Father. I know you feel that way — you’ve often made me feel it. So I’ve been at some pains to work it out — on a money basis. Here is an account — as full as I could make it.” She handed him a paper covered with neat figures. The totals read as follows:

  Miss Diantha Bell,

  To Mr. Henderson R. Bell, Dr.

  To medical and dental expenses... $110.00

  To school expenses... $76.00

  To clothing, in full... $1,130.00

  To board and lodging at $3.00 a week... $2,184.00

  To incidentals... $100.00

  —— —— $3.600.00

  He studied the various items carefully, stroking his beard, half in anger, half in unavoidable amusement. Perhaps there was a tender feeling too, as he remembered that doctor’s bill — the first he ever paid, with the other, when she had scarlet fever; and saw the exact price of the high chair which had served all three of the children, but of which she magnanimously shouldered the whole expense.

  The clothing total was so large that it made him whistle — he knew he had never spent $1,130.00 on one girl’s clothes. But the items explained it.

  Materials, three years at an average of $10 a year... $30.00

  Five years averaging $20 each year... $100.00

  Five years averaging $30 each year... $50.00

  Five years averaging $50 each year... $250.00

  —— — $530.00

  The rest was “Mother’s labor”, averaging twenty full days a year at $2 a day, $40 a year. For fifteen years, $600.00. Mother’s labor — on one child’s, clothes — footing up to $600.00. It looked strange to see cash value attached to that unfailing source of family comfort and advantage.

  The school expenses puzzled him a bit, for she had only gone to public schools; but she was counting books and slates and even pencils — it brought up evenings long passed by, the sewing wife, the studying children, the “Say, Father, I’ve got to have a new slate — mine’s broke!”

  “Broken, Dina,” her Mother would gently correct, while he demanded, “How did you break it?” and scolded her for her careless tomboy ways. Slates — three, $1.50 — they were all down. And slates didn’t cost so much come to think of it, even the red-edged ones, wound with black, that she always wanted.

  Board and lodging was put low, at $3.00 per week, but the items had a footnote as to house-rent in the country, and food raised on the farm. Yes, he guessed that was a full rate for the plain food and bare little bedroom they always had.

  “It’s what Aunt Esther paid the winter she was here,” said Diantha.

  Circuses — three... $1.50

  Share in melodeon... $50.00

  Yes, she was one of five to use and enjoy it.

  Music lessons... $30.00

  And quite a large margin left here, called miscellaneous, which he smiled to observe made just an even figure, and suspected she had put in for that purpose as well as from generosity.

  “This board account looks kind of funny,” he said— “only fourteen years of it!”

  “I didn’t take table-board — nor a room — the first year — nor much the second. I’ve allowed $1.00 a week for that, and $2.00 for the third — that takes out two, you see. Then it’s $156 a year till I was fourteen and earned board and wages, two more years at $156 — and I’ve paid since I was seventeen, you know.”

  “Well — I guess you did — I guess you did.” He grinned genially. “Yes,” he continued slowly, “I guess that’s a fair enough account. ‘Cording to this, you owe me $3,600.00, young woman! I didn’t think it cost that much to raise a girl.”

  “I know it,” said she. “But here’s the other side.”

  It was the other side. He had never once thought of such a side to the case. This account was as clear and honest as the first and full of exasperating detail. She laid before him the second sheet of figures and watched while he read, explaining hurriedly:

  “It was a clear expense for ten years — not counting help with the babies. Then I began to do housework regularly — when I was ten or eleven, two hours a day; three when I was twelve and thirteen — real work you’d have had to pay for, and I’ve only put it at ten cents an hour. When Mother was sick the year I was fourteen, and I did it all but the washing — all a servant would have done for $3.00 a week. Ever since then I have done three hours a day outside of school, full grown work now, at twenty cents an hour. That’s what we have to pay here, you know.”

  Thus it mounted up:

  Mr. Henderson R. Bell,

  To Miss Diantha Bell, Dr.

  For labor and services!!!!!

  Two years, two hours a day at 10c. an hour... $146.00

  Two years, three hours a day at 10c. an hour... $219.00

  One year, full wages at $5.00 a week... $260.00

  Six years and a half, three hours a day at 20c... $1423.50

  —— —— $2048.50

  Mr. Bell meditated carefully on these figures. To think of that child’s labor footing up to two thousand dollars and over! It was lucky a man had a wife and daughters to do this work, or he could never support a family.

  Then came her school-teaching years. She had always been a fine scholar and he had felt very proud of his girl when she got a good sc
hool position in her eighteenth year.

  California salaries were higher than eastern ones, and times had changed too; the year he taught school he remembered the salary was only $300.00 — and he was a man. This girl got $600, next year $700, $800, $900; why it made $3,000 she had earned in four years. Astonishing. Out of this she had a balance in the bank of $550.00. He was pleased to see that she had been so saving. And her clothing account — little enough he admitted for four years and six months, $300.00. All incidentals for the whole time, $50.00 — this with her balance made just $900. That left $2,100.00.

  “Twenty-one hundred dollars unaccounted for, young lady! — besides this nest egg in the bank — I’d no idea you were so wealthy. What have you done with all that?”

  “Given it to you, Father,” said she quietly, and handed him the third sheet of figures.

  Board and lodging at $4.00 a week for 4 1/2 years made $936.00, that he could realize; but “cash advance” $1,164 more — he could not believe it. That time her mother was so sick and Diantha had paid both the doctor and the nurse — yes — he had been much cramped that year — and nurses come high. For Henderson, Jr.’s, expenses to San Francisco, and again for Henderson when he was out of a job — Mr. Bell remembered the boy’s writing for the money, and his not having it, and Mrs. Bell saying she could arrange with Diantha.

  Arrange! And that girl had kept this niggardly account of it! For Minnie’s trip to the Yosemite — and what was this? — for his raisin experiment — for the new horse they simply had to have for the drying apparatus that year he lost so much money in apricots — and for the spraying materials — yes, he could not deny the items, and they covered that $1,164.00 exactly.

  Then came the deadly balance, of the account between them:

  Her labor... $2,047.00

  Her board... $936.00

  Her “cash advanced”... $1,164.00

  —— —— $4,147.00

  His expense for her... $3,600

  —— —— Due her from him... $547.00

  Diantha revolved her pencil between firm palms, and looked at him rather quizzically; while her mother rocked and darned and wiped away an occasional tear. She almost wished she had not kept accounts so well.