What Diantha Did. Charlotte Perkins Gilman
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Or she-bear lean and brown;
All parent beasts see duty true,
All parent beasts their duty do,
We are the only kind that asks
For duty upside down.
The stiff-rayed windmill stood like a tall mechanical flower, turning slowly in the light afternoon wind; its faint regular metallic squeak pricked the dry silence wearingly. Rampant fuchsias, red-jewelled, heavy, ran up its framework, with crowding heliotrope and nasturtiums. Thick straggling roses hung over the kitchen windows, and a row of dusty eucalyptus trees rustled their stiff leaves, and gave an ineffectual shade to the house.
It was one of those small frame houses common to the northeastern states, which must be dear to the hearts of their dwellers. For no other reason, surely, would the cold grey steep-roofed little boxes be repeated so faithfully in the broad glow of a semi-tropical landscape. There was an attempt at a “lawn,” the pet ambition of the transplanted easterner; and a further attempt at “flower-beds,” which merely served as a sort of springboard to their far-reaching products.
The parlor, behind the closed blinds, was as New England parlors are; minus the hint of cosiness given by even a fireless stove; the little bedrooms baked under the roof; only the kitchen spoke of human living, and the living it portrayed was not, to say the least, joyous. It was clean, clean with a cleanness that spoke of conscientious labor and unremitting care. The zinc mat under the big cook-stove was scoured to a dull glimmer, while that swart altar itself shone darkly from its daily rubbing.
There was no dust nor smell of dust; no grease spots, no litter anywhere. But the place bore no atmosphere of contented pride, as does a Dutch, German or French kitchen, it spoke of Labor, Economy and Duty—under restriction.
In the dead quiet of the afternoon Diantha and her mother sat there sewing. The sun poured down through the dangling eucalyptus leaves. The dry air, rich with flower odors, flowed softly in, pushing the white sash curtains a steady inch or two. Ee-errr!—Ee-errr!—came the faint whine of the windmill.
To the older woman rocking in her small splint chair by the rose-draped window, her thoughts dwelling on long dark green grass, the shade of elms, and cows knee-deep in river-shallows; this was California—hot, arid, tedious in endless sunlight—a place of exile.
To the younger, the long seam of the turned sheet pinned tightly to her knee, her needle flying firmly and steadily, and her thoughts full of pouring moonlight through acacia boughs and Ross's murmured words, it was California—rich, warm, full of sweet bloom and fruit, of boundless vitality, promise, and power—home!
Mrs. Bell drew a long weary sigh, and laid down her work for a moment.
“Why don't you stop it Mother dear? There's surely no hurry about these things.”
“No—not particularly,” her mother answered, “but there's plenty else to do.” And she went on with the long neat hemming. Diantha did the “over and over seam” up the middle.
“What do you do it for anyway, Mother—I always hated this job—and you don't seem to like it.”
“They wear almost twice as long, child, you know. The middle gets worn and the edges don't. Now they're reversed. As to liking it—” She gave a little smile, a smile that was too tired to be sarcastic, but which certainly did not indicate pleasure.
“What kind of work do you like best—really?” her daughter inquired suddenly, after a silent moment or two.
“Why—I don't know,” said her mother. “I never thought of it. I never tried any but teaching. I didn't like that. Neither did your Aunt Esther, but she's still teaching.”
“Didn't you like any of it?” pursued Diantha.
“I liked arithmetic best. I always loved arithmetic, when I went to school—used to stand highest in that.”
“And what part of housework do you like best?” the girl persisted.
Mrs. Bell smiled again, wanly. “Seems to me sometimes as if I couldn't tell sometimes what part I like least!” she answered. Then with sudden heat—“O my Child! Don't you marry till Ross can afford at least one girl for you!”
Diantha put her small, strong hands behind her head and leaned back in her chair. “We'll have to wait some time for that I fancy,” she said. “But, Mother, there is one part you like—keeping accounts! I never saw anything like the way you manage the money, and I believe you've got every bill since you were married.”
“Yes—I do love accounts,” Mrs. Bell admitted. “And I can keep run of things. I've often thought your Father'd have done better if he'd let me run that end of his business.”
Diantha gave a fierce little laugh. She admired her father in some ways, enjoyed him in some ways, loved him as a child does if not ill-treated; but she loved her mother with a sort of passionate pity mixed with pride; feeling always nobler power in her than had ever had a fair chance to grow. It seemed to her an interminable dull tragedy; this graceful, eager, black-eyed woman, spending what to the girl was literally a lifetime, in the conscientious performance of duties she did not love.
She knew her mother's idea of duty, knew the clear head, the steady will, the active intelligence holding her relentlessly to the task; the chafe and fret of seeing her husband constantly attempting against her judgment, and failing for lack of the help he scorned. Young as she was, she realized that the nervous breakdown of these later years was wholly due to that common misery of “the square man in the round hole.”
She folded her finished sheet in accurate lines and laid it away—taking her mother's also. “Now you sit still for once, Mother dear, read or lie down. Don't you stir till supper's ready.”
And from pantry to table she stepped, swiftly and lightly, setting out what was needed, greased her pans and set them before her, and proceeded to make biscuit.
Her mother watched her admiringly. “How easy you do it!” she said. “I never could make bread without getting flour all over me. You don't spill a speck!”
Diantha smiled. “I ought to do it easily by this time. Father's got to have hot bread for supper—or thinks he has!—and I've made 'em—every night when I was at home for this ten years back!”
“I guess you have,” said Mrs. Bell proudly. “You were only eleven when you made your first batch. I can remember just as well! I had one of my bad headaches that night—and it did seem as if I couldn't sit up! But your Father's got to have his biscuit whether or no. And you said, 'Now Mother you lie right still on that sofa and let me do it! I can!' And you could!—you did! They were bettern' mine that first time—and your Father praised 'em—and you've been at it ever since.”
“Yes,” said Diantha, with a deeper note of feeling than her mother caught, “I've been at it ever since!”
“Except when you were teaching school,” pursued her mother.
“Except when I taught school at Medville,” Diantha corrected. “When I taught here I made 'em just the same.”
“So you did,” agreed her mother. “So you did! No matter how tired you were—you wouldn't admit it. You always were the best child!”
“If I was tired it was not of making biscuits anyhow. I was tired enough of teaching school though. I've got something to tell you, presently, Mother.”
She covered the biscuits with a light cloth and set them on the shelf over the stove; then poked among the greasewood roots to find what she wanted and started a fire. “Why don't you get an oil stove? Or a gasoline? It would be a lot easier.”
“Yes,” her mother agreed. “I've wanted one for twenty years; but you know your Father won't have one in the house. He says they're dangerous. What are you going to tell me, dear? I do hope you and Ross haven't quarrelled.”
“No