Evening Star Newspaper, August 3, 1930, Page 94

Theresa The Story of a Repentant Daughter. By Fannie Hurst. N no end of ways, the mother of Theresa was a trial. No getting away from that. And as she grew older, the many aggravating little facets to her per- sonality grew more pronounced. She had been a dominating young girl, she had been a dominating wife and, not un- naturally, a dominating mother. Not that her dominance had ever actually outbalanced her thousand and one ingratiating traits. Like all emphatic personalities, she was no good at halfway measures. The mother of Theresa, all her life, had been as high-handed as she was soft-hearted; as domineering as she was merciful. " Her husband, whom she fretted, even as she was later to fret her daughter, declared all of his married hife with her that she enervated him with her excess of vitality, robbed him of ambition by virtue of the superabundance of hers, wore him down, tired him out, ex- bausted him. And yet, with these legitimate grievances, he adored her, as those who knew the mother of Theresa could testify—gloried in_her dominance, complained bitterly of her aif his life, and died in her arms, blessing her. With Theresa, her only child, every one predicted total eclipse. There was no with- standing the overshadowing figure of her mother. 'rheglfloouldmtboexp:cutcdh: develop a personality of her own while mother ate for her, slept for her, thought for her and reached decisions for her. ND all that was true enough until Theresa reached the age of 20, when suddenly there developed in the girl, who lived beneath the shadow of her parent like a chick under the wing of the hen, a slow, a cumulative, a re- bellious kind of anger that gathered within her like a storm, but unlike a storm did not burst but rolled up, rather, into a great, portentous Strange, but for some time the mother of Theresa, too absorbed in her career of living for her daughter, did not relaize the change. And therein lay danger for the mother of Theresa, because slowly, oh so slowly and im- perceptibly, the girl was bucking her will against the alleged iron one of her parent, and it was to transpire in the end that the mother of Theresa had no iron will at all, but an ex- fremely malleable one, only awaiting the indi- vidual with the purpose to overthrow it. . And so0 it was that gradually, but with un- relenting consistency, slowly, surely, the daugh- ter gained the upper hand in the relationship parent and offspring, and within & 12-month 3 she was 20 the transposition of their _positions was complete. Almost imperceptibly robbed of her domina- $ion by a daughter who would no longer toler- ate dictation, you could see the mother whiten, weaken, age, as she loosed her hold and gave way to what time had shown to be the stronger ty of the two. Not that there was an open issue. Out- wardly, the situation was practically the same. That is, in the beginning at least, the old re- spect and obedience to the dictates of the parent were there. But somehow, within her- self; and to her own secret loathing, the girl Bad turned against her parent. The older woman “got on her nerves,” as the saying goes. She was capable of being short with her, curt in her replies, even rude. And under this treatment, the mother of Theresa, so sstonishingly vulnerable to domination once you pierced her armor, became a timid, haunted creature, a little afraid of her child. Ndr but what the younger woman fought off this power of hers when she beheld it descending into her hands. She wanted to be gentle with her mother and patient and all the things that as a faithful, doting parent she knew were deserved, but the terrible impatience and rancor were stronger than her will. “Have you noticed how badly Theresa's daughter is treating her these days? What has come over the girl? Why, she is positively rude ;:horrldmhzr. And what a change in She stands for it.” True, all true, but not quite so simple as it seemed on the surface. Underneath her sense of triumph over the old domineering ways of her mother, the girl was waging a bitter strug- gle to throw off this tendency to feel annoyed &t her mother’s slightest remark; to resent her interest in her affairs; to leave her many questions unanswered and to give her the curt, uncourteous reply instead of the considerate one she would grant & mere stranger. It came to be almost a madness with her &k was practically impossible for the daughter of Theresa to be civil to her mother, although she would awaken from a troubled sleep re- solved to atone in a thousand ways for yes- terday’s rudeness; and then, just let her so THE SUNDAY STAR, WASHINGTON, D. C, AUGUST 5, 1930. I .\ [ ety | 0’“ I mother seemed everywhere about the i I\ { \ 1 \ v, much as make a simple statement or evidence a natural interest in her daughter's affairs, anc there she was, ready with the stinging re- tort or display of ugly manner. “If only Mother wouldn't be meek about it all,” she prayed to herself. “If only she would put me in my place the way she used to when I was a child. If only she wouldn’t break my heart and madden me by standing for it all. Why did I walk out and slam the door on her just now? Dear darling, she would go “He Knezv -About Women” Continued from Sirth Page caught the words of the refrain: “I may be wrong—but I think you're wonderful.” “I won't take you in,” said Philip, as they entered the door of the club once more. “I'm damed if I want to go into that stuffy ball room. I'm going to walk home under the stars.” “I wish I could, but I came with a party.” “Johnny will be furious at me, but just tell him I had to leave.” “Oh—Johnny. You seem to have him on your mind, Precious.” “Listen. It's the most absurd thing in the world, but you don't even know my name. I'm Philip Ackerly, Johnny's brother.” “I thought maybe you were,” unimpressed. “I said to Marjorie, ‘Who is that dark, hand- some man skulking behind the palms?’ and she said, ‘Philip Ackerly.’ So I just put two and two together and——" “You little fraud. You adorable—" “Stop, Philip! Not here. The doorman is looking. But who in Sam Hill do you think I am?” Philip chortled gleefully. “I knew who you were all along. But I had a horrid prejudice to overcome.” “Heavens! It’s all overcome?” Philip answered her merely with a glance, but it was enough. “GOOD MORNING, Mr. Ackerly,” said Miss Johnson to Johnny in surprise. She for- got to be owlish and looked merely flustered. “Your brother isn't here yet. Ah—so early,” she murmured. “I'll wait in here,” Johnny, pushing his way into the private office. He was still waiting, angrily and impatiently, at 10 o’clock, when Philip, debonair and radiant and wearing a bright flower in his buttonhole, entered. “Ha, the early bird,” said Philip heartily. “For Pete’s sake,” burst forth Johnny at once, “why did you run off like that last night?” “I know I shouldn’t have run off,” admitted Philip. “and I hereby tender an apology.” “I should think you would,” sputtered John- ny. “What is this, a stall? You said you wanted to meet Hortense.” “I met your Horicuse—and she’s adorable. But you can’t marry her.” “What do you mean, I can’t marry her?” “Because I'm going to marry her myself.” Johnny stared. “I suppose that is one of your cock-eyed legal jokes. I was with her all evening and you never came near us.” “You were—— What are you talking about?” “I say Hortense and I waited the whole evening expecting you to turn up, and you were cruising over half of Manhattan with Bunny Cutting.” “Wait. Wait. Let me get this straight. I was with—— Great guns, I was with the Cut- ting cousin, was I1?” “Certainly.” “And Hortense was the girl in blue?” “She wore blue, yes. And if you had stayed you'd have heard her sing some songs. She sang ‘My Little Gray Home in the West,’ and house, even her voice with a dodging note in it lingered on the stillness of the rooms. \ The dead, cowed footsteps of her " through fire for me, and I am a beast to ber. Why was I rude to her in front of her friends? How crushed she looked. Oh, Mother, how can I treat you sol!” AND yet, somehow, the daughter of this mother could and did until, in their circle of friends, it was not unusual to hear an ex- asperated parent exclaim to a child, “Don’t be rude about it. Youll soon have the reputa- By M. Kohler things like that. Everybody was crazy about Hortense.” “Um. The Cutting cousin. Well, I'll be——" Philip put his head back and roared with laughter. Johnny regarded him in alarm. “What’s the matter, old man? You're acting awfully funny. Don't you feel well?” “T feel fine, marvelous, wonderful. top of the world.” “Well, can I marry Hortense?” “Take her. Marry her with my blessing. I think we’re going to need a refining influence in the family—if I know women.” (Oopyright, 1930.) College Boy Bands. Continued from Fifteenth Page On the gether. Today most of his band members are college youths. RED WARING, one of the most prosperois and best known of the playing leaders, was a pioneer with his Pennsylvanians. Today he has his own Broadway office and a whole stable of bands. His self-conducted unit is, of course, the headliner. But Waring started out to be an architect. He holds today his architectural degree in the University of Pennsylvania. Eddie Elkins, another young man who has a large organization, holds a degree in a dentistry at California. He, too, wandered eastward some years back. Al Jolson discovered him on a Western tour and encouraged him to tackle the big leagues. Ben Bernie, also nationally known, came out of New York University. The stories vary fe- garding how rapidly he emerged, but there's a tale in Broadway that he was booted out for some college prank. The first of the “mammy state” groups to make good in the bright light was brought to Manhattan by Tommy Christian, who for sev- eral seasons headed the Paramount Hotel players. Tommy's home town is Carrollton, Ga., and therehis first musical appearance was made as a tooter in the home-town band. He went to the University of Alabama and there got his band together. Or take Hal Kemp, whose bunch of syn- ' copators from the University of North Caro- lina have been doing more than passingly well. Or Jack Albin, who thought he was going to be a mechanical engineer until jazz banding engaged his fancy. Syracuse University was his alma mater. Paul Whiteman discovered him, Or John “Sleepy” Hall, who earned his nick- the college banjo club and, as thrum & mean tune. He paid college by strumming out Southern tunes went on teur with his school organisation. (Gopyright, 1930.) tion of treating me as the mother of Theresa is treated by her daughter.” Inevitably, it got about, this tyranny of daughter over parent, and the situation became pretty well unbearable all the way around. Ex- cept, strangely, the mother of Theresa, even while her daughter wilted and agonized over what was happening seemed fascinated by the change. There was something actually sad- distic about the way she bared herself for the blows of her child, asking questions that she must have known would bring wrath upon her head. “Daughter, why do you wear your skirts so short. They're ugly.” “For the reason that it pleases me to, and if you don’t like them, don’t look.” “Daughter. where are you going?” “When I want to announce every move I make, I'll post a bulletin.” “Daughter, you look a little pale tonight. Are you tired?” “Mother, if you ask me that again I'll go It was chocking, it was terrible, it was em- barrassing even to have to hear, and it seemed to the daughter that sometimes she actually went about that home with little needles and pins of irritation popping out all over her. Every move of her mother's seemed a source of irritation. To hear her crack nuts; see her spill a bit of coffes over into her saucer; have to listen ‘to the rasp in her voice when she telephoned, were such anathema to her that she would rush upstairs into her room, slamming the door, locking it, crying there. At 62, after years of this domination which had reduced her to some one little and gray, the mother of Theresa died, quietly, one night in her sleep, and it was to linger with her daughter forever after that her last words to her had been: “For goodness sakes, Mother, if you don't stop cracking those nuts I'll go mad. Haven't you any regird for the nerves of others?” That memory in itself seemed to the girl sufficient punishment; the recollection of those words dancing in fire before her as the still form, in its small-sized bier, was borne tilted from the house. But her actual scourging lay in the years to come. ¢ WI-IY had she treated her so? The dead, cowed footsteps of her parent seemed everywhere about the house. Her voice, almost with & dodging note in it, as if fearful of re- buke, lingered on the stillness of the halls and rooms. Here was a girl who, after her mother’s death, had everything to reproach herself for. She had heard people say of others after a death, “Well, she has nothing to reproach her- self for.” The daughter of this dead woman had! And down through the years she went reproaching. Down through the years she went unforgetting and yearning, with that most terrible of all futilities, for the opportunity to live her life with her mother over again. Yes, she had much to reproach herself for. When she was 30, a bachelor from a neigh- boring town, in love with a certain wistful quality he saw in her, came wooing her for marriage. It is doubtful if his offer, any more than his personality, would have meant anythng, except that in his plea for his case, he men- tioned apologetically the need for his aged mother to live with him after marriage. “She's old, gets on my nerves a good bit, but there’s nothing else to do but have her with us, dear, the few years she has left.” re was her chance, and she grasncd it, and indulge and protect, from the pos- tness of her son, a mother-in-law. name of & mother who, alas, had not REE¥.BS (Copyright. 1930.)