Growing Up (Vorse)/Chapter 1
THE Marceys' education began by Tom's mother leaving the goldfish at the house when she went away on a visit. She was a voluminous and stately lady, and try as she would, Alice could never link her up with Tom. It could never seem to her as if she was his mother. There was something about her vaguely Victorian. She belonged to another time and another way of looking at things, and her elegance was that of another generation. She lived alone on the top of a hill, and when she descended, her flowing draperies around her, she looked august as a Thackeray Dowager.
She had two mongrel dogs alleging to be terriers, which Alice had to feed in her absence. It was the second day after the elder Mrs. Marcey's departure, that Alice flew down the hill as though in the wake of disaster.
Usually she liked this walk. From her mother-in-law's big house you could see the whole wide valley spread out below you, through the chestnut trees. Alice knew half the people who lived in the houses she passed by; pleasant houses, they were, of a well-to-do New York suburb; houses with children in them, and with flowers growing in the little gardens; neat little houses, white with green blinds, set down in the midst of big trees, looking as if they had strolled in at random.
Sue Grayson, Alice's chum, called to her—"Come in for a minute, what are you in such a hurry about?"
"I've got to get back," said Alice, and hurried along. Things, she felt, were not right at home. She felt she couldn't get home quickly enough. She wanted to know the worst. She wanted to know if Robert had disobeyed again. She didn't trust Laurie,—what do nurses of Scotch-Irish ancestry know about discipline—no matter how long they've been with you. Alice didn't trust anybody to watch Robert in this emergency; she didn't even trust Tom.
What had happened was that the Mooted Question which sooner or later comes into the lives of all parents had come to cloud the life of Tom and Alice Marcey. This question goes:
Should we spank our child?
Before the question of To Spank or Not to Spank, the question of To Be or Not to Be pales into mere philosophical sniveling. For while you are discussing being, you Are; and while you are discussing Spanking, your child runs down the path ahead of you, turning to you his unsuspecting rear, which has never been defiled by what is euphemistically known as "Corporal Punishment," and when you have gotten to the point of discussing whether you shall apply it or not, something has gone wrong.
What sort of parents are you if you must resort to violence? What moral bankruptcy it shows when you have to become a terrorist to make your two and a half year old child mind?
In this fashion the question had spread its dark wings over the lives of Tom and Alice Marcey. They lay awake nights discussing it; they stopped talking about whether they should send Robert to a technical school or to college, they had even put aside the question of whether he had better go to public school or whether he had better be registered right away for one of the best private schools.
Instead they discussed such questions as: Is it good for any children, ever? or are there certain things that all children must learn, even at the cost of a spanking? Is spanking an unpardonable crime against childhood, or is this extreme view a sentimental weakness? They argued it back and forth as have thousands of other unhappy parents ever since the old ideas on the bringing up of children softened, and the simple theory, "Spare the rod and spoil the child," gave place to these heart-burning midnight discussions. Like other parents they couldn't bear to face the awful deed. They learned the tragic inwardness of the old joke: "It hurts me more than it does you."
The question came to them as a dark enigma—
"Your child," it said, "has defied you. At two and a half he sets up his will. What are you going to do? Are you going to let him catch his grandmother's gold fish, which were confided to your care? How are you going to stop him? All your theories have failed. Moral suasion is bankrupt. He wants those goldfish. Meantime I am here."
Thus the question stood waiting to be answered. No parent having answered it can ever again be quite as sure again of his judgment.
Whichever you answer, you will forever ask yourself, "Have I done right?"
It was on account of the Mooted Question that Alice could not stand the thought of stopping to talk to Gladys, no such question had ever darkened Sue Greyson's life, there was not a single crack in her friend's complacency, nor had any such disgraceful decision, she was sure, ever confronted the parents of the Alden twins who were just now turning out of their yard. A low stone wall separated the garden from the street. They were preceded by their Dandie Dinmont and they were followed by their austere English nurse. No fear that things had ever gotten to such a pass in that family that a spanking would be required.
No fear that the Alden twins would be overcome by an irresistible impulse to fish for goldfish with their bare hands. It was these goldfish that threatened the complacency of the Marceys. They swam around and around in a large globe; their scales flashed in the sun, their tails flapped them along with ease. Robert put his hand in the globe with the intention of taking one of the fish out. Alice remonstrated with him.
"Those are your grandma's fish," she told him. To which Robert replied:
"I want 'em."
She led him away and interested him in other things. He was always easily turned from one amusement to another, and he was so well balanced that he had concealed his personality under an impenetrable mask of good nature. Now it came to the surface. He intended to catch a fish. You might lead him away. He would go with you, bide his time, and return. If you asked him if he intended to mind Mama he replied with firmness:
"I want 'em." If he was asked if he wanted to hurt the poor little fish he still replied: "I want 'em." He was irritatingly serene, and he was equally definite and straightforward.
With a sense of disaster growing upon her Alice hastened her footsteps. Everywhere were flowers, everywhere children were playing. She could catch sight behind the vines of the voluminous Mrs. Painter who was chirruping to a cage of canaries.
Alice turned up into her own yard. Robert was nowhere in sight. The front hall, in comparison with the sunlight, seemed dark, but shining in the midst of it was the rear of Robert's unsuspecting white rompers.
"How's my sweet baby?" Alice began, with treacherous sweetness. He ran to her and clasped her around the knees. She ran a perfidious hand down over the sleeve of his romper, the cuff was soaking wet.
"Oh, Robert!" she cried, "you disobeyed mother, you've been fishing again, Robert!"
He nodded three times, in confirmation, looking at her fearlessly. He was so little, she was so big, and yet he had shattered her complacency. Alice Marcey, the complacent parent, had ceased to exist.