The Parce are not exclusively residents of Athens. Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, sometimes in dual rather than triple form, preside over human destinies in every town in the middle west. Unlike their classic eponyms, however, they do not occupy themselves spinning a thread from wool. They are accustomed, rather, to animate rocking-chairs. Frequently they chew gum.
The railroad tracks which ran through Maple Valley cut the town into two parts, the business section on one side, the residence district on the other. On Leclair Avenue, in the block above the tracks on the residence side, surrounded by boarding-houses, and adjoined by at least one candy-shop that had strayed into the neighbourhood and looked a little shy, stood a double-house, that is two houses identically constructed of timber painted a blue white, united in the middle like the Siamese twins. The porch floor of these houses formed one continuous level, but the two sections were separated by a fence, so that, in order to go from one to another, it was necessary to descend a step. These porches commanded an enviable view of the goings and comings of the inhabitants of Maple Valley. Everybody, indeed, passed them at least once a week; almost everybody passed them once or twice a day.
One of these houses was occupied by Mrs. Bierbauer, an excessively stout female whose husband, Eddie Bierbauer, was a travelling salesman for a Chicago wholesale house; in the other dwelt Mrs. Fox, a scraggy, wizened woman, whose consort served as conductor on a railroad, the headquarters of which were located at Maple Valley. Neither of these women was blessed with offspring; neither of them boasted any social connections. They had, however, each other. Their combined ages amounted to ninety years. Divide this sum by two and you would have the exact age of either.
As the husbands of both were abroad most of the time, and as their houses were small and contained only the absolutely essential articles of furniture, neither of them was compelled to devote much time to housework. Shortly after an early breakfast, the necessary sweeping and dusting out of the way, the occasional baking or washing accomplished, clad in pink or blue or yellow calico wrappers, their hair severely combed back and tied in knots, they both emerged from their houses, usually at almost precisely the same moment, so entirely ceremonial had this habit become in the course of years, sat down in rocking-chairs, each on her own piazza, and began to rock, and observe, and comment. During the warm season they sat thus for two or three hours in the morning; they sat thus for two or three hours in the afternoon; they sat thus for two or three hours in the evening. They had been sitting thus for fifteen years, and they would sit thus, unless the houses were torn down, or one of them died, for forty more, rocking back and forth, dealing out destinies in badly placed, but discreetly smothered voices. They were acquainted with all the gossip of the town. What they could not acquire from direct observation they learned through the butcheror bakeror grocer-boy, or over the clothes-lines in the back-yard from the neighbours' servants.
At exactly eight o'clock in the morning of June 17, 1897, Mrs. Bierbauer opened her screen-door and waddled out into the open. A moment later she was rocking back and forth in her clumsy, wooden chair, scanning the street north and south, like the night-watch on a battleship peering into the deep for periscopes. At one minute past eight, Mrs. Fox, mindful that flies and moths and other insect vermin were especially pestiferous this summer, opened her screen-door to the slightest possible degree and slid out in the manner of the slender Bernhardt of the eighties leaving Scarpia's room in La Tosca. She bowed to her friend.
Mornin', Mrs. Bierbauer.
Mornin', Mrs. Fox. You're a little late this mornin'.
It was characteristic of the formal nature of their relationship that neither had ever addressed the other by her Christian name.
I was thinkin' you were a little early.
No, jes' the same as usual. Mrs. Bierbauer, with some effort, bent forward and stooped to pluck a withered leaf from a pathetic umbrella-plant which was not trying very hard to grow in a pink and blue jardiniere which stood on the edge of her porch.
That Barnes man jes' went by, she continued, to a considerable extent deprived of breath after her exertion.
Have you heard about his daughter? Lemme see, Bertha, is it?
Her name's Clara, Clara Barnes.
Mrs. Bierbauer fanned herself with a palm-leaf fan. The snoring and snorting and wheezing of Mrs. Fox's fat and asthmatic pug-dog, Free Silver, prone and panting at his mistress's feet, was extremely audible.
That's so, Mrs. Bierbauer, her name is Clara, now that I think on it. Anyhow you know she's been singin' at church sociables and such, and now they've decided to send her to Chicago to study.
There won't nothin' come of it; Mrs. Bierbauer's voice assumed a darkly prophetic tone.
What's that? Mrs. Fox had understood the original pronouncement, but it was the kind of remark she enjoyed hearing repeated.
I say there won't nothin' come of it.
You think not, Mrs. Bierbauer?
I know it, the pinguid female snapped. Nothin' ever come of any o' that family. Her ma was a church singer in Watertown, but when she got married she give it up, and hain't sung a note since. I don't believe she's good enough for the Maple Valley Congregational Church choir; they'd have her if she was.
With a fastuous air of finality Mrs. Bierbauer folded her hands over her vast expanse of stomach. Mrs. Fox reached for the long handle of a wire flyswatter which lay on the floor beside her chair, and began a vigorous attack on the flies.
Flies is awful this summer, she averred.
An' mosquitoes.
An' moths.
An' roaches.
An' . . .
Mrs. Fox! The look of surprised distaste gradually faded from Mrs. Bierbauer's eyes as she composed herself to question: How's your balsams, Mrs. Fox?
They're doin' better. How's your peonies?
Nearly gone. The phlox is comin' along. There's worms in the tomato vines, Mrs. Bierbauer announced in the identical manner with which Olga Nethersole that very night, in whatever metropolitan playhouse she was appearing, would inform her leading-man how sinful her past had been.
There's Dr. Sinclair drivin' down.
S'pose he's goin' to call on Mrs. Wiltbank, Mrs. Bierbauer put forward.
O! do you think . . . ?
She ain't no more sick than you are, Mrs. Fox, an' he goes callin' on her every day. It's a blessin' his wife don't catch on!
She ain't none too spry these days.
He orter be home carin' for her'stead o' gallivantin' round with well folks.
The doctor, driving his buggy, passed the house.
Mornin', doctor, Mrs. Bierbauer hailed him in her most ingratiating tones.
Good morning, Mrs. Bierbauer, the physician replied. Nice weather we're having.
Too hot! she shouted. Her expression changed as she turned to her friend. Did you see him? she demanded triumphantly. He was red as a beet!
At this juncture Mrs. Bierbauer's black tom-cat came out from under the porch, walked up the steps, his tail high in the air, approached his mistress, sniffed her feet once or twice, circled around several times, rubbed his side ecstatically against the pink and blue jardiniere, and finally curled up in a ball and fell asleep.
Trilby ain't been feelin' very well.
What's the matter with him?
He et a robin last week. I think it's the feathers.
In the house next door an invisible pair of hands began to pound out Ethelbert Nevin's Narcissus at a terrific tempo.
I jes' love music, Mrs. Fox declared.
I don't know jes' what I'd do without music an' flowers, Mrs. Bierbauer assented. She regarded her frail umbrella-plant with some pride, almost with an air of motherhood.
At this moment from the street which crossed Leclair Avenue a block above the railroad tracks, a young man turned into the avenue and walked past the house. He was a tall, handsome boy, with brown hair which he parted in the centre, frank, brown eyes, a well-shaped, but rather small nose, and a firm mouth and chin. He was wearing a brown derby hat, a chocolate-shaded coat with padded shoulders, very tight tan trousers, a very high, stiff collar with an Ascot tie, and pointed, patent-leather boots. He passed the house without hailing the Parce. He did not know them, nor was he aware that they were Parce.
Gareth Johns, the town dude, exclaimed Mrs. Bierbauer.
Sissy, I call him, Mrs. Fox corroborated a little shrilly.
They're talkin' o' sendin' him to college. After he gets out I s'pose he'll come home an' do the housework.
Mrs. Fox released a little screech of pleasure at this extremely witty sally.
You do say the funniest things, Mrs. Bierbauer!
Well, ain't it so? What else can he do? Foolin' round all day with that old maid school-teacher. He orter be spanked an' put to work.
That's where he belongs, Mrs. Fox agreed. Boys o' that age ain't got no business loafin'.
You speak the gospel, Mrs. Fox. When Eddie was five years old he was earnin' his livin'.
Mr. Fox begun at ten. First thing you know, that boy'll get it in the neck where the chicken got the ax.
The invisible hands in the next house, having pounded out Narcissus four times, began a relentlessly fortissimo assault on To a wild rose. Reflectively, Mrs. Bierbauer scratched a mosquito bite: on her flabby, red wrist. Presently she spoke again: Old man Baker's gone on another toot.
You don't say!
To Chicago. Eddie saw him goin' into a burlesque show. There was livin' pitchers an' hoochiecoochie dancers.
It's a blessin' his wife don't know about him. Her piety'd get an awful whack if she heard that!
Yes, an' her always goin' round convertin' people. She came here oncet. She'd orter begin at home.
At this point Trilby suddenly woke up, opened first one eye, then the other, made a quick snap at a fly, caught it, chewed it, swallowed it, and went back to sleep, after emitting a sigh of content. The snoring and snorting and wheezing of Free Silver continued. Mrs. Bierbauer was scanning the columns of the Maple Valley Star.
I see, she observed presently, that they got boats now what go under water.
What do they call 'em?
Submarines. They've invented telephones an' telegraphs an' electric lights an' steam locomobiles. It's certainly wonderful what they've invented. . . . And now there's the X Ray.
What's that?
Why they turn a light on a body an' you can see right through.
'Tain't decent. What's it for?
To see your insides, Mrs. Fox. It's for doctors.
It's certainly wonderful the things they're inventin'. Who'd've thought it a few years ago?
They can't go no further. Some fools still think they can fly, but they can't go no further. It'd be slappin' the face o' God if they did.
The piano no longer sounded. In her nasal voice Mrs. Bierbauer began to sing softly:
Take her, boy, you're mighty lucky . . .
Suddenly, she broke off. Look! she cried, pointing up the street to a youth curved over the handle-bars of his bicycle on which he was coasting down hill. There's that Ray Cameron scorchin' again.
He'll kill himself.
'Twon't be no great loss. He ain't had no bringin' up since his mother's took drugs.
They say 'twas that time she had rheumatiz she took morphine to stop the pains.
Well, she's mighty queer most o' the time now. She went past here yesterday while you was makin' the bed without a hat on.
Without a hat!
Yes.
What next! She'll be goin' without her corsets soon.
Or her skirt.
Or her waist.
Or her shoes.
They'll lock her up in the lunatic asylum. An' her son out scorchin' on a bicycle!
The sunlight caught the glint of Mrs. Bierbauer's gold front teeth. She lifted a novel in a yellow cover from the top of a table, bereft of varnish by nights of inclement weather.
Have you read Gunter's new book? she asked.
I don't get much time to read, you know, Mrs. Bierbauer, Mrs. Fox apologized.
I don't neither but this is quite a good book. After you get your chores done you might want to borrow it.
I've got to make some fried-cakes today. Mr. Fox is partial to fried-cakes with his coffee.
What does he say about the country?
He says everything'll be all right now with McKinley. Cleveland . . .
I know! Them Democrats! Since Carter Harrison's been elected mayor o' Chicago there's been more holdups an' crime. It's always that way when the Democrats is in.
That's right. That's what Mr. Fox says.
That's what Eddie says.
That Price girl next door's gettin' married, the hired-girl tells me, Mrs. Fox confided. You know she was down to Marshalltown last month.
Some Marshalltown feller?
Yes, he's blind. I says to the hired-girl, Well, it mighta been worse; he mighta lost his arms. He has, she says.
There was a pause. Trilby, in a dream, began twitching his tail and rubbing his paw mechanically over his nose. Free Silver snorted and snored and wheezed. Mrs. Bierbauer, absent-mindedly, again referred to the Star, humming to herself:
Got no money but a good excuse . . .
As her attention became concentrated on the society column she gradually ceased to sing. Both females continued to rock.
Well, I declare, she exclaimed, after a moment's perusal of the sheet, that Countess's comin' back.
Who? What Countess?
Lou Poore's sister. She ain't been here for twenty years, the paper says. She married an Fyetalian. I bet she'll notice changes. This town ain't the same place it was twenty years ago.
I should say not.
There's the new water-works . . .
An' soon there'll be the new depot . . .
An' brick pavin' . . .
Iowa's gettin' to be a pretty important state. The biggest battleship in the navy's named after Iowa.
That's so.
Children were passing the house on their way to school; business men on their way to business. Mrs. Townsend, bound for market, drove by in her surrey. On a neighbouring lawn, the grass of which grew in irregular clumps, a robin, smart, alert, and scarlet-breasted, pecked worms from the turf, swallowed them, then gazed about with pride as he hopped, hopped. The Parcæ continued to rock.