In this warm summer weather Gissing slept on a little outdoor balcony
that opened off the nursery. The world, rolling in her majestic seaway,
heeled her gunwale slowly into the trough of space. Disked upon this
bulwark, the sun rose, and promptly Gissing woke. The poplars flittered
in a cool stir. Beyond the tadpole pond, through a notch in the
landscape, he could see the far darkness of the hills. That fringe of
woods was a railing that kept the sky from flooding over the earth.
The level sun, warily peering over the edge like a cautious marksman,
fired golden volleys unerringly at him. At once Gissing was aware and
watchful. Brief truce was over: the hopeless war with Time began anew.
This was his placid hour. Light, so early, lies timidly along the
ground. It steals gently from ridge to ridge; it is soft, unsure.
That blue dimness, receding from bole to bole, is the skirt of Night's
garment, trailing off toward some other star. As easily as it slips from
tree to tree, it glides from earth to Orion.
Light, which later will riot and revel and strike pitilessly down, still
is tender and tentative. It sweeps in rosy scythe-strokes, parallel to
earth. It gilds, where later it will burn.
Gissing lay, without stirring. The springs of the old couch were creaky,
and the slightest sound might arouse the children within. Now, until
they woke, was his peace. Purposely he had had the sleeping porch built
on the eastern side of the house. Making the sun his alarm clock, he
prolonged the slug-a-bed luxury. He had procured the darkest and
most opaque of all shades for the nursery windows, to cage as long as
possible in that room Night the silencer. At this time of the year, the
song of the mosquito was his dreaded nightingale. In spite of fine-mesh
screens, always one or two would get in. Mrs. Spaniel, he feared, left
the kitchen door ajar during the day, and these Borgias of the insect
world, patiently invasive, seized their chance. It was a rare night when
a sudden scream did not come from the nursery every hour or so. “Daddy,
a keeto, a keeto!” was the anguish from one of the trio. The other two
were up instantly, erect and yelping in their cribs, small black paws on
the rail, pink stomachs candidly exposed to the winged stilleto. Lights
on, and the room must be explored for the lurking foe. Scratching
themselves vigorously, the fun of the chase assuaged the smart of those
red welts. Gissing, wise by now, knew that after a forager the mosquito
always retires to the ceiling, so he kept a stepladder in the room.
Mounted on this, he would pursue the enemy with a towel, while the
children screamed with merriment. Then stomachs must be anointed with
more citronella; sheets and blankets reassembled, and quiet gradually
restored. Life, as parents know, can be supported on very little sleep.
But how delicious to lie there, in the morning freshness, to hear the
earth stir with reviving gusto, the merriment of birds, the exuberant
clink of milk-bottles set down by the back-door, the whole complex
machinery of life begin anew! Gissing was amazed now, looking back upon
his previous existence, to see himself so busy, so active. Few
people are really lazy, he thought: what we call laziness is merely
maladjustment. For in any department of life where one is genuinely
interested, he will be zealous beyond belief. Certainly he had not
dreamed, until he became (in a manner of speaking) a parent, that he had
in him such capacity for detail.
This business of raising a family, though--had he any true aptitude
for it? or was he forcing himself to go through with it? Wasn't he,
moreover, incurring all the labours of parenthood without any of
its proper dignity and social esteem? Mrs. Chow down the street, for
instance, why did she look so sniffingly upon him when she heard the
children, in the harmless uproar of their play, cry him aloud as Daddy?
Uncle, he had intended they should call him; but that is, for beginning
speech, a hard saying, embracing both a palatal and a liquid. Whereas
Da-da--the syllables come almost unconsciously to the infant mouth.
So he had encouraged it, and even felt an irrational pride in the
honourable but unearned title.
A little word, Daddy, but one of the most potent, he was thinking.
More than a word, perhaps: a great social engine: an anchor which, cast
carelessly overboard, sinks deep and fast into the very bottom. The
vessel rides on her hawser, and where are your blue horizons then?
But come now, isn't one horizon as good as another? And do they really
remain blue when you reach them?
Unconsciously he stirred, stretching his legs deeply into the
comfortable nest of his couch. The springs twanged. Simultaneous
clamours! The puppies were awake.
They yelled to be let out from the cribs. This was the time of the
morning frolic. Gissing had learned that there is only one way to deal
with the almost inexhaustible energy of childhood. That is, not to
attempt to check it, but to encourage and draw it out. To start the day
with a rush, stimulating every possible outlet of zeal; meanwhile taking
things as calmly and quietly as possible himself, sitting often to take
the weight off his legs, and allowing the youngsters to wear themselves
down. This, after all, is Nature's own way with man; it is the wise
parent's tactic with children. Thus, by dusk, the puppies will have run
themselves almost into a stupor; and you, if you have shrewdly husbanded
your strength, may have still a little power in reserve for reading and
smoking.
The before-breakfast game was conducted on regular routine. Children
show their membership in the species by their love of strict habit.
Gissing let them yell for a few moments--as long as he thought the
neighbours would endure it--while he gradually gathered strength and
resolution, shook off the cowardice of bed. Then he strode into the
nursery. As soon as they heard him raising the shades there was complete
silence. They hastened to pull the blankets over themselves, and lay
tense, faces on paws, with bright expectant upward eyes. They trembled a
little with impatience. It was all he could do to restrain himself from
patting the sleek heads, which always seemed to shine with extra
polish after a night's rolling to and fro on the flattened pillows. But
sternness was a part of the game at this moment. He solemnly unlatched
and lowered the tall sides of the cribs.
He stood in the middle of the room, with a gesture of command. “Quiet
now,” he said. “Quiet, until I tell you!”
Yelpers could not help a small whine of intense emotion, which slipped
out unintended. The eyes of Groups and Bunks swivelled angrily toward
their unlucky brother. It was his failing: in crises he always emitted
haphazard sounds. But this time Gissing, with lenient forgiveness,
pretended not to have heard.
He returned to the balcony, and reentered his couch, where he lay
feigning sleep. In the nursery was a terrific stillness.
It was the rule of the game that they should lie thus, in absolute
quiet, until he uttered a huge imitation snore. Once, after a
particularly exhausting night, he had postponed the snore too long:
he fell asleep. He did not wake for an hour, and then found the tragic
three also sprawled in amazing slumber. But their pillows were wet with
tears. He never succumbed again, no matter how deeply tempted.
He snored. There were three sprawling thumps, a rush of feet, and a
tumbling squeeze through the screen door. Then they were on the couch
and upon him, with panting yelps of glee. Their hot tongues rasped
busily over his face. This was the great tickling game. Remembering his
theory of conserving energy, he lay passive while they rollicked
and scrambled, burrowing in the bedclothes, quivering imps of absurd
pleasure. All that was necessary was to give an occasional squirm, to
tweak their ribs now and then, so that they believed his heart was in
the sport. Really he got quite a little rest while they were scuffling.
No one knew exactly what was the imagined purpose of the lark--whether
he was supposed to be trying to escape from them, or they from him. Like
all the best games, it had not been carefully thought out.
“Now, children,” said Gissing presently. “Time to get dressed.”
It was amazing how fast they were growing. Already they were beginning
to take a pride in trying to dress themselves. While Gissing was in
the bathroom, enjoying his cold tub (and under the stimulus of that
icy sluice forming excellent resolutions for the day) the children were
sitting on the nursery floor eagerly studying the intricacies of their
gear. By the time he returned they would have half their garments on
wrong; waist and trousers front side to rear; right shoes on left feet;
buttons hopelessly mismated to buttonholes; shoelacings oddly zigzagged.
It was far more trouble to permit their ambitious bungling, which must
be undone and painstakingly reassembled, than to have clad them all
himself, swiftly revolving and garmenting them like dolls. But in these
early hours of the day, patience still is robust. It was his pedagogy to
encourage their innocent initiatives, so long as endurance might permit.
Best of all, he enjoyed watching them clean their teeth. It was
delicious to see them, tiptoe on their hind legs at the basin, to which
their noses just reached; mouths gaping wide as they scrubbed with very
small toothbrushes. They were so elated by squeezing out the toothpaste
from the tube that he had not the heart to refuse them this privilege,
though it was wasteful. For they always squeezed out more than
necessary, and after a moment's brushing their mouths became choked and
clotted with the pungent foam. Much of this they swallowed, for he
had not been able to teach them to rinse and gargle. Their only idea
regarding any fluid in the mouth was to swallow it; so they coughed and
strangled and barked. Gissing had a theory that this toothpaste foam
most be an appetizer, for he found that the more of it they swallowed,
the better they ate their breakfast.
After breakfast he hurried them out into the garden, before the day
became too hot. As he put a new lot of prunes to soak in cold water, he
could not help reflecting how different the kitchen and pantry looked
from the time of Fuji. The ice-box pan seemed to be continually brimming
over. Somehow--due, he feared, to a laxity on Mrs. Spaniel's part--ants
had got in. He was always finding them inside the ice-box, and wondered
where they came from. He was amazed to find how negligent he was growing
about pots and pans: he began cooking a new mess of oatmeal in the
double boiler without bothering to scrape out the too adhesive remnant
of the previous porridge. He had come to the conclusion that children
are tougher and more enduring than Dr. Holt will admit; and that a
little carelessness in matters of hygiene and sterilization does not
necessarily mean instant death.
Truly his once dainty menage was deteriorating. He had put away his fine
china, put away the linen napery, and laid the table with oil cloth. He
had even improved upon Fuji's invention of scuppers by a little
trough which ran all round the rim of the table, to catch any possible
spillage. He was horrified to observe how inevitably callers came at
the worst possible moment. Mr. and Mrs. Chow, for instance, drew up one
afternoon in their spick-and-span coupe with their intolerably spotless
only child sitting self-consciously beside them. Groups, Bunks, and
Yelpers were just then filling the garden with horrid clamour. They had
been quarrelling, and one had pushed the other two down the back steps.
Gissing, who had attempted to find a quiet moment to scald the ants out
of the ice-box, had just rushed forth and boxed them all. As he stood
there, angry and waving a steaming dishclout, two Chows appeared. The
puppies at once set upon little Sandy Chow, and had thoroughly mauled
his starched sailor suit in the driveway before two minutes were past.
Gissing could not help laughing, for he suspected that there had been a
touch of malice in the Chows coming just at that time.
He had given up his flower garden, too. It was all he could do to shove
the lawn-mower around, in the dusk, after the puppies were in bed.
Formerly he had found the purr of the twirling blades a soothing
stimulus to thought; but nowadays he could not even think consecutively.
Perhaps, he thought, the residence of the mind is in the legs, not in
the head; for when your legs are thoroughly weary you can't seem to
think.
So he had decided that he simply must have more help in the cooking and
housework. He had instructed Mrs. Spaniel to send the washing to the
steam-laundry, and spend her three days in the kitchen instead. A
huge bundle had come back from the laundry, and he had paid the driver
$15.98. With dismay he sorted the clean, neatly folded garments. Here
was the worthy Mrs. Spaniel's list, painstakingly written out in her
straggling script:--