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- Herausgeber: Booksell-Verlag
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
In "Cecilia of the Pink Roses," Katharine Haviland-Taylor crafts a poignant narrative that explores themes of identity, love, and resilience against the backdrop of early 20th-century America. Stylistically rich yet accessible, Haviland-Taylor employs vivid imagery and lyrical prose to evoke the beauty and struggles of her protagonist, Cecilia, as she navigates a world rife with societal expectations and personal aspirations. The novel'Äôs nuanced portrayal of femininity, complemented by its exploration of interpersonal relationships, positions it firmly within the literary context of both feminist literature and the tradition of the domestic novel. Katharine Haviland-Taylor, an influential figure in early American women'Äôs literature, drew upon her own experiences and observations of gender roles and societal constraints in shaping her characters. Born into a time when women'Äôs voices were often marginalized, Haviland-Taylor'Äôs work reflects her commitment to exploring the inner lives of women, giving substance to their stories in a rapidly changing world. Her literary contributions stem from her desire to challenge the status quo, making her a pivotal figure in advocating for women'Äôs narratives during her time. "Cecilia of the Pink Roses" is a must-read for those interested in historical fiction that interweaves personal dilemmas with broader societal issues. Haviland-Taylor's deft storytelling and profound insights into the human experience invite readers to embark on a reflective journey, making this novel an enriching addition to any literary collection.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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Cecilia of the Pink Roses
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I WHERE IS GAWD?
The Madden flat was hot and the smell of frying potatoes filled it. Two or three flies buzzed tirelessly here and there, now and again landing with sticky clingingness on a small boy of four who screamed with their advent. When this happened a girl of seven stepped from the stove and shooed them away, saying: "Aw now, Johnny!" and Johnny would quiet.
The perspiration stood out on her upper lip and there were shadows, deeper than even Irish ones should be, beneath her eyes. The sun beat in cruelly at one window which was minus a shade. At another the shade was torn and run up crookedly.
In the hall there was the sound of a scuffle, then a smart slap, and a child's whimpering wail.
"What's—that?" came in a feeble voice from the bedroom off the kitchen.
"It's the new gent in the flat across whackin' his kid," answered the small girl.
"Oh," was the weak answer, and again there was quiet, broken by the sizzle of hot fat, the tireless buzz of the flies, and now and then the little boy's cry.
"Here, Johnny," commanded the small maiden, "come have your face washed off." Johnny objected. She picked him up with decision, and set him on the table with resounding emphasis, where he screamed loudly during the rite.
The door opened. A man in overalls came in. "Hello, Paw," said Cecilia Evangeline Agnes Madden. He answered her with a grunt and kicked off his heavy shoes.
"Gawd, it's hot!" he said with his first contribution to the conversation. "Two Dagos got sunstruck. One of 'em he just went like a goldfish outa water, keeled over, then flop,—flop. The Boss he up an'—"
"Supper, Paw," said Cecilia. She pushed a chair up to the oil-clothed table, and the man settled, beginning to eat loudly. He stopped and pointed with his knife to the bedroom door. "How's she?" he asked in a grating whisper.
"She ain't so good," answered the small girl. Her eyes filled with tears and she turned away her face.
"Maw—Maw—Maw!" cried Johnny.
"Aw now!" said his sister while she picked up his hot little person to comfort him.
"Maw—Maw!" he echoed.
Cecilia looked up. Her eyes were like those of a small dog that has been whipped. "I ain't the same," she said across his brick-dust curls. "He wants her, I ain't the same. I do my best, but I ain't her."
The man laid aside his knife. He set his teeth on his lower lip, and then he asked a question as if afraid to.
"Has the doctor been here?"
"Yes," answered Cecilia.
"Whatud he say?"
"He sez she wasn't so good. He sez she wouldn't be no better 'til the weather was cooler an'—"
"Celie!" came in the voice from the bedroom. Cecilia put down Johnny.
"Yes, Maw," she answered gently.
"Celie!" came again in almost a scream. Celie vanished. She reappeared in a few moments. She was whiter than before.
"She throwed up fierce," she said to her father; "something fierce, an' all black. Don't you want no coffee?" The man shook his head. He reached for his shoes.
"Where yuh goin'?" asked Cecilia.
"Doctor's," she was answered. He went into the bedroom. "Well, old woman," he said loudly, "how yuh feelin', better?" The thin creature on the bed nodded, and tried to smile. The smile was rather dreadful, for it pulled long lines instead of bringing dimples. Her blue lips stretched and the lower cracked. A drop of blood stood out on it.
"Gawd, it was hot to-day," said the man. He settled by her bed in a broken-backed chair. She stretched out a thin hand toward him.
"Mary—!" he said, then choked.
"Aw, Jerry!" said the woman. In her voice was little Cecilia's tone of patience, with the lilt removed by a too hard life.
"Do yuh feel some better?" he entreated.
"Sure—I do. Gimme that glass of water—" She drank a mouthful and again vomited rackingly.
"Oh, Gawd!" said Jeremiah Madden. He laid a rough hand on her forehead and she pulled it down against her cheek.
"Jerry," she said between long gasps, "I been happy. I want you should always remember that I been happy. Awful happy, Jerry."
"Oh, Gawd, Mary!" said the man. "If I'd a knew how hard you'd a had to work, I wouldn't have brung yuh!"
"Don't!" she begged. "Don't say that!" She looked at him, time faded, and with it a hot and smelling flat. She stood on a wind-swept moor. Jerry, only eighteen, stood by her. His arm was around her with that reverent touch that comes in Irish love. "I'll send fer yuh," he'd said, "after I make me fortune in America."
She had cried and clung to him. With her touch, reason and a rolling moor had faded for him. "I can't leave you," he had said, "I can't! Mary, you come with me." And Mary had come. Those days had been beautiful.... But fortunes in America did not come as advertised. Sometimes Mary thought of green turf, and the gentle drip-drip of fog, like rain. That rain that came so often.... Now she thought of it more than ever. She hoped that the Virgin would allow her a little corner of Heaven that would look like an Irish moor.... The gold the priest talked of was "grand," but heresy or not, she wanted a bit of green, with the gentle drip of rain on it.
Jeremiah bent and kissed her. Then he rubbed the spot of blood of her lip from his. "It wasn't no mistake," he said. Her eyes grew moist.
"Jerry," she said, "Celie is a good kid. She kin do fer yuh. Ain't she, right along? She won't give yuh no trouble neither. But the kid—he ain't so easy. It's the kids growin' up in America better'n their folks, that go to the devil. Watch him, Jerry, watch him good. Won't yuh now?" The man nodded; she closed her eyes. After a few moments that throbbed with the heat of the flat, she spoke again.
"Jerry," she said.
"Darlin'?"
"It's this way, Jerry. I always wanted to be a lady—"
"Yuh are!" he interrupted hotly.
"NOW LAUGH! PAW'S COMING HOME AND HE NEEDS ALL OUR LAUGHS"
"No," she stated quietly, "I ain't, an' I always thought I could be. The Irish learns fast. It's this way, Jerry; if ever the time comes when you get money, you send Celie to one of them schools that learns 'em French and drawin' and such, Jerry, will yuh?"
"Before Gawd, I will, Mary. If I ever kin."
She closed her eyes and slept quietly, clinging to his hand.
The next day was Sunday so Jeremiah went to Mass and heard it with especial intention. If his thoughts were more on the gentle Saint slowly dying in a hot flat than on the Gentle Mother, who can blame him.
Jeremiah went from the baroqued church vastly comforted, and painfully aware of his Sunday collar, which had rough edges. Cecilia had rubbed soap on it, but it still scratched. Outside Jeremiah went, not in the direction of his home, but in the other. He passed a beggar's entreating wail, and then retraced his steps to bestow a penny,—and even pennies were not easily spared. Jerry was still a little child at heart. He was courting divine favour. He needed God and all the Saints on his side.
After a brisk walk of many blocks he turned into a house with a doctor's sign on it. The office was crowded; he sat, outwardly submissive, to wait his turn. "Blessed Mother," he prayed, "make him mak'er well. Mother of the Saviour—" his thoughts were a chaos. "A gold heart!" he promised rashly, even while he remembered the unpaid grocer's bill. A woman with a pallid skin and hacking cough crept from the office. Across from him a boy exhibited a burn to an interested neighbour. "Blessed Mother,—" entreated Jeremiah, even while his eyes saw the burn and he wondered how it had happened.
A crisp young person in white, who gave an impression of great coolness, said, "Your turn next." Jerry jumped and got up. Two little girls, at the Sheraton period in legs, giggled loudly at his jump, but Jerry didn't notice. He stopped on the threshold of the inner office. He twirled his hat in his hands. "Mister," he said, "it's my wife I come about." The doctor had been up all night. Added to his fact was the fact that he was fitted, emotionally, to run a morgue.
"Name?" growled the doctor. Jeremiah Madden sank to a chair and told his name, of his wife, and how sick she was. He also interspersed a few facts about Irish moors, love and business in America. And he ended with: "An my doc he sez' no one can save her but Doctor Van Dorn. He's the cancer man of New York. The only one who can possibly save her! He sez that," repeated Jeremiah. "Oh fer Gawd's sake, Doc! I can't pay yuh now but—"
The doctor swung about in his swivel chair. "My time is entirely mortgaged," he stated curtly. "I can't keep up to my work. Your wife will probably die anyway; accept the inevitable. You couldn't pay me, and I haven't the time. All New York bothers me. Good morning."
He turned back to his desk. Jeremiah went toward the door. His step was a blind shuffle. Hand on the knob, he paused. "Doc," he said, "I love her so, an' the little kids, they need her. I feel like she'd live if you'd help her. I promise I'd pay. All my life I'd pay an' thank Gawd I could—" he stopped. The doctor moved his shoulders impatiently.
"The Virgin will reward yuh—" said Jeremiah. "Oh, Doc! Fer Gawd's sake!"
"Good morning," answered the doctor with another impatient move of his shoulders. Jeremiah left. A young person in crisp white said, "Your turn next, Madam." Madam went in. "Oh, Doctor, my heart—" she began. The doctor got up to move her chair so that the light would not trouble her.
Jeremiah spent the morning in going from office to office. First he told the unfavourable report of his doctor. He met sympathy in some quarters, curt refusals in others, and worst of all he sometimes met: "Cancer of the stomach? Not much chance—"
At half after one, sick from the sunlight of the cruelly hot streets, he turned into an office for his last try. He felt numb.... His tongue was thick. He looked with resentment on a well-dressed woman who waited opposite him. "Flowers on her bunnit," he thought, "while my Mary—" He thought of his hard labour and, with bitterness, of the "Boss." He had never felt this way before. If he'd had money, he reflected, how quickly that first doctor would have helped him.... The other refusals had come from truer reasons. His own doctor's report, although Jeremiah didn't realise this, had stopped all efforts. If the doctor had said no one but Van Dorn could help her, Lord, what chance had they? This was their line of reason.
Jeremiah sat in the outer waiting room. At last his turn came. The doctor looked tired; he was gruff in his questions. "I'll come with you and look at her," he said at last. Jeremiah felt a sob rise in his throat. The doctor rang a bell.
"Tell Miss Evelyn," he said to the maid who answered him, "that we'll have to give up our drive this afternoon. She's my little girl," he explained to Jeremiah. "Her mother's dead,—I don't see as much of her as I should. A doctor has no business with a family. I'm ready. Come on."
They went out by a back door, leaving an office full of patients. The sun was hot. Jeremiah prayed fervently even while he answered the doctor's questions and responded to his pleasantries. At last they came to the building which held Jeremiah's home. They mounted the long stairs. Two or three children, playing on them, stopped their squabbling and looked after the doctor with awe.
"He's got a baby in that case," said one, a fat little girl with aggressive pig-tails.
"There is too many now," said a boy. "They don't all get fed, and they're all beat up fierce. Our teacher in that there corner mission sez as how Gawd is love. Why don't he come down here an' love?"
There was an awed silence after this. Outright heresy as it was, the immediate descent of a thunderbolt was expected.
Upstairs Jeremiah opened the door of the flat. The kitchen was full of women. Several of them sobbed loudly.... Johnny Madden sat on the table, eating a piece of bread thickly spread with molasses. On seeing Jeremiah the women were suddenly silent. Jeremiah swayed and leaned against the door.
The small Cecilia heard him and came from the bedroom.
"Paw," she said, "I'll do all I kin fer yuh. I always will.... She was happy. She sez as how she seen green fields an' rain." Jeremiah took her in his arms. He hid his face against her thin little shoulder. His shook. Cecilia was very quiet. She had not cried. She looked over her father's head at the roomful of gaping women. Something flashed across her face. Her teeth set.
"She always wanted a bunnit with pink roses on it," said Cecilia. "I don't see why Gawd didn't give her jest one."
The man sobbed convulsively and Cecilia remembered him. "She was happy," Cecilia said in a less assured tone. "She sez as how she seen green fields with rain on 'em like Ireland."
CHAPTER II THE VISION OF A PROMISED LAND
As Mrs. Madden had said, "The kids that grow up better than their folks go to the devil." Cecilia felt this at eleven, for she was all of Johnny's mother, and the role was a difficult one. She had learned to spat him and kiss him judiciously, and at the proper times. She had learned to understand his marble games and to coax him into attendance at Catechism.
Cecilia had begun to understand a great many things at eleven that some of us never understand. One thing made learning easy for her,—she loved so greatly that she was often submerged into the loved, and so saw their viewpoint.
"Paw," said Cecilia. She had turned about on the piano stool, and Jeremiah looked up from his paper. "Well?" he questioned.
"I been thinking," she said, "that it would be genteel to ask the priest to supper. It ain't as though we hadn't a hired girl to do fer us, an' it would be polite."
"That's so, that's so," said Jeremiah. He laid aside his paper. "You're like your maw," he added. Cecilia knew he was pleased. She smiled happily.
"An' have ice-cream?" suggested the interested Jeremiah.
"Yes," said Cecilia, "an' chicken, an' fried potatoes, an' waffles, an' of course pie, an' biscuits, an' suchlike. I'd like to entertain Father McGowan, he's been good to us."
"Yes," answered Jeremiah. They were both silent. The vision of an overcrowded and smelling flat had come to sober them. Also the memory that always went with it.... "Play me 'The Shepherd Boy,'" said Jeremiah. He closed his eyes while Cecilia banged it out in very uneven tempo, owing to difficulties in the bass.
Johnny came in. He sat down on a lounge covered with a green and red striped cloth. He looked at Jeremiah with a supercilious expression.
"The other fellahs' fathers wears their shoes in the house," he stated coldly. "The Shepherd Boy" stopped suddenly. Cecilia went toward the "parlor." "Johnny!" she called on reaching it. Johnny followed meekly. The parlor was the torture chamber. When he went in Cecilia put her hands on his shoulders.
"Johnny," she said in her gentle little way. "Um?" he answered, wriggling beneath her hands.
"Johnny," she repeated, "it ain't polite to call down your paw."
"But Celie," objected John, "he ain't like the other fellahs' fathers. They wears collars an' shoes, all the time."
"I know, dear," said Cecilia. "I know, but it ain't polite to call down your paw, an' nothing can make it so."
"Aw right," answered John sullenly. Cecilia leaned over and kissed him. John didn't mind, "none of the fellahs being around." He went back to the living room. Jeremiah had put on his shoes. He looked at Johnny, awaiting his approval.
"An' Norah," said Cecilia, excited to the point of hysteria, "you see that I get the plate with the crack in it, an' the glass with the piece outa it."
"Sure, I will," answered Norah. "Now go 'long."
Cecilia went to the dining room. They were going to eat there, because they were going to have company. Norah was not going to sit down with them either. It was to be most formal and "elegant."
And now for the decorations. Cecilia put on two candlesticks, each at a corner of the table. They did not match, but why be particular? Then she took a bunch of peonies, and, removing all foliage, jammed them tightly in a vase that had the shape of a petrified fibroid growth, and had accumulated gilt, and a seascape for decoration.
"It looks bare," said Cecilia. She went to her room and brought out a new hair-ribbon, worn only twice. She unearthed this from below a hat trimmed with pink roses. The hat was gorgeous and beautiful, but she could not wear it.... Looking on "bunnits with pink roses on 'em" always made her a little sick. The hair-ribbon was tied around the vase in a huge bow. Cecilia stood off to admire.
"Norah!" she called.
Norah appeared. "Ain't that grand?" she commented. "Now ain't it?"
"Well," answered Cecilia, "I don't care if I do say it, I think it's pretty swell! Norah, you use the blue glass butter dish, won't you?"
"Sure," answered Norah, and then with mutters of waffle batter, she disappeared. Cecilia stood a moment longer looking at the table in all its beauty. The plates were upside down. Napkins (that all matched) stood upright in tumblers. The knives and forks were crossed in what was to Cecilia the most artistic angle.
"It's grand!" she said with a little catch in her breath. "Just swell!" Then with a backward glance, she vanished. "I hope paw'll like it," she muttered as she went upstairs.
Father McGowan was a charming guest. He looked at the decorations and then on the small Cecilia with softened eyes: "Now I'll bet you fixed this beautiful table!" he said. Cecilia nodded, speechless. She drew a long, shaky breath. Life was so beautiful.... Father McGowan put his hand on her curls. (She sat next to him at the table.) His touch was very gentle.
"Good little woman?" inquired the priest of Jeremiah.
"She's maw and all to all of us," answered Jeremiah. There was a silence while they ate.
"This chicken," said Father McGowan, "is fine!"
"It's too brown, I'm afraid," answered Cecilia with the deprecatory attitude proper while speaking of one's own food. Her father looked at her with pride. The priest's eyes twinkled.
"Paw," said Cecilia, leaning across the table and putting her hand on her father's, "tell Father McGowan how yuh hit the boss on the ear with the brick." Jeremiah sat back in his chair, first laying his knife and fork with the eating ends on the plate and the others on the cloth. He drew a long breath and told a long tale, at which the priest laughed heartily. He ended it thus: "An' I sez, 'I ain't deependent on no man. Yuh can do yer own brick layin' an' here's one to start with!'" With that Jerry had hit him on the ear. It was a dramatic tale, and one which made Cecilia swell with pride over a wonderful paw!
The priest leaned across the table. "Have you a patent protection on those bricks?" he asked.
"Why, no," answered Jeremiah. The priest talked long and fast. Cecilia could not understand all of what he said, but he mentioned unusual qualities of Jeremiah's product. His own knowledge of such things came through a brother in the same business. The necessity of a little risk and a big push. He talked loudly, and excitedly. He mentioned Cecilia and John as the incentive to gain.... He spoke of what he knew to be true of Jeremiah's product. Jeremiah sat very silent. If what the priest said were true! They went to the living room, where, over a pitcher of beer, there was more talk, incomprehensible to Cecilia.
Then the priest smiled, and said: "All right, Jerry. In five years you'll be a millionaire. Now, Cecilia, I want to hear a piece." Cecilia sat down to play "The Shepherd Boy." Her fingers trembled so that it wasn't as good as usual, but the priest was pleased. Then she left, and wiped the rest of the dishes for Norah. Norah said that the priest was a "swell talker" and that she hadn't minded the extra work.
Cecilia went up to bed very happy. She slipped out of her pink silk dress and hung it in the closet. As she reached up, a hat, all over bobbing roses, slid from the closet shelf to the floor. Cecilia's smile faded. She put it back, and shut the door.
CHAPTER III THE FIRST STEP INTO CANAAN
Cecilia stood in her bedroom in the new house. The paper in her bedroom was pink and hung in panels. At the top of each panel was a hip-diseased, and goitered cupid, who threw roses around,—roses that looked like frozen cabbages, and stuck in the air as if they'd been glued there. Father Madden had picked out the paper as a surprise for Celie. When she had seen it she had gasped and then kissed him very hard. He had said, "There, Celie, I knew you'd like it."
