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127 pages

English

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Though it was originally published almost a century ago, Eleanor H. Porter's novel Mary Marie tackles an issue that is as relevant as ever: divorce and its impact on the children in the family that has been torn asunder. Groundbreaking at the time of its original publication, the novel tells the story of a young girl whose divorced parents can't agree on anything about child-rearing -- not even the name of their daughter! Will the doubly named protagonist be able to navigate this confusing situation and remain healthy and happy?

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Children's

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Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 octobre 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781775562894
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

MARY MARIE
* * *
ELEANOR H. PORTER

*
Mary Marie First published in 1920 ISBN 978-1-77556-289-4 © 2012 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
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Preface - Which Explains Things Chapter I - I Am Born Chapter II - Nurse Sarah's Story Chapter III - The Break is Made Chapter IV - When I Am Marie Chapter V - When I Am Mary Chapter VI - When I Am Both Together Chapter VII - When I Am Neither One Chapter VIII - Which is the Real Love Story Chapter IX - Which is the Test
*
TO MY FRIEND
ELIZABETH S. BOWEN
Preface - Which Explains Things
*
Father calls me Mary. Mother calls me Marie. Everybody else calls meMary Marie. The rest of my name is Anderson.
I'm thirteen years old, and I'm a cross-current and a contradiction.That is, Sarah says I'm that. (Sarah is my old nurse.) She says sheread it once—that the children of unlikes were always a cross-currentand a contradiction. And my father and mother are unlikes, and I'm thechildren. That is, I'm the child. I'm all there is. And now I'm goingto be a bigger cross-current and contradiction than ever, for I'mgoing to live half the time with Mother and the other half withFather. Mother will go to Boston to live, and Father will stay here—adivorce, you know.
I'm terribly excited over it. None of the other girls have got adivorce in their families, and I always did like to be different.Besides, it ought to be awfully interesting, more so than just livingalong, common, with your father and mother in the same house all thetime—especially if it's been anything like my house with my fatherand mother in it!
That's why I've decided to make a book of it—that is, it really willbe a book, only I shall have to call it a diary, on account of Father,you know. Won't it be funny when I don't have to do things on accountof Father? And I won't, of course, the six months I'm living withMother in Boston. But, oh, my!—the six months I'm living here withhim—whew! But, then, I can stand it. I may even like it—some.Anyhow, it'll be different . And that's something.
Well, about making this into a book. As I started to say, he wouldn'tlet me. I know he wouldn't. He says novels are a silly waste of time,if not absolutely wicked. But, a diary—oh, he loves diaries! He keepsone himself, and he told me it would be an excellent and instructivediscipline for me to do it, too—set down the weather and what I didevery day.
The weather and what I did every day, indeed! Lovely reading thatwould make, wouldn't it? Like this:
"The sun shines this morning. I got up, ate my breakfast, went toschool, came home, ate my dinner, played one hour over to CarrieHeywood's, practiced on the piano one hour, studied another hour.Talked with Mother upstairs in her room about the sunset and the snowon the trees. Ate my supper. Was talked to by Father down in thelibrary about improving myself and taking care not to be light-mindedand frivolous. (He meant like Mother, only he didn't say it right outloud. You don't have to say some things right out in plain words, youknow.) Then I went to bed."
*
Just as if I was going to write my novel like that! Not much I am. ButI shall call it a diary. Oh, yes, I shall call it a diary—till I takeit to be printed. Then I shall give it its true name—a novel. AndI'm going to tell the printer that I've left it for him to make thespelling right, and put in all those tiresome little commas andperiods and question marks that everybody seems to make such a fussabout. If I write the story part, I can't be expected to be botheredwith looking up how words are spelt, every five minutes, nor fussingover putting in a whole lot of foolish little dots and dashes.
As if anybody who was reading the story cared for that part! Thestory's the thing.
I love stories. I've written lots of them for the girls, too—littleshort ones, I mean; not a long one like this is going to be, ofcourse. And it'll be so exciting to be living a story instead ofreading it—only when you're living a story you can't peek over tothe back to see how it's all coming out. I shan't like that part.Still, it may be all the more exciting, after all, not to knowwhat's coming.
I like love stories the best. Father's got—oh, lots of books in thelibrary, and I've read stacks of them, even some of the stupid oldhistories and biographies. I had to read them when there wasn'tanything else to read. But there weren't many love stories. Mother'sgot a few, though—lovely ones—and some books of poetry, on thelittle shelf in her room. But I read all those ages ago.
That's why I'm so thrilled over this new one—the one I'm living, Imean. For of course this will be a love story. There'll be my lovestory in two or three years, when I grow up, and while I'm waitingthere's Father's and Mother's.
Nurse Sarah says that when you're divorced you're free, just like youwere before you were married, and that sometimes they marry again.That made me think right away: what if Father or Mother, or bothof them, married again? And I should be there to see it, and thecourting, and all! Wouldn't that be some love story? Well, I justguess!
And only think how all the girls would envy me—and they just livingalong their humdrum, everyday existence with fathers and mothersalready married and living together, and nothing exciting to lookforward to. For really, you know, when you come right down to it,there aren't many girls that have got the chance I've got.
And so that's why I've decided to write it into a book. Oh, yes, Iknow I'm young—only thirteen. But I feel really awfully old; andyou know a woman is as old as she feels. Besides, Nurse Sarah says Iam old for my age, and that it's no wonder, the kind of a life I'velived.
And maybe that is so. For of course it has been different, livingwith a father and mother that are getting ready to be divorced fromwhat it would have been living with the loving, happy-ever-after kind.Nurse Sarah says it's a shame and a pity, and that it's the childrenthat always suffer. But I'm not suffering—not a mite. I'm justenjoying it. It's so exciting.
Of course if I was going to lose either one, it would be different.But I'm not, for I am to live with Mother six months, then withFather.
So I still have them both. And, really, when you come right down toit, I'd rather take them separate that way. Why, separate they'rejust perfectly all right, like that—that—what-do-you-call-itpowder?—sedlitzer, or something like that. Anyhow, it's that whitepowder that you mix in two glasses, and that looks just like watertill you put them together. And then, oh, my! such a fuss and fizz andsplutter! Well, it's that way with Father and Mother. It'll be lotseasier to take them separate, I know. For now I can be Mary sixmonths, then Marie six months, and not try to be them both all atonce, with maybe only five minutes between them.
And I think I shall love both Father and Mother better separate, too.Of course I love Mother, and I know I'd just adore Father if he'd letme—he's so tall and fine and splendid, when he's out among folks.All the girls are simply crazy over him. And I am, too. Only, athome—well, it's so hard to be Mary always. And you see, he named meMary—
But I mustn't tell that here. That's part of the story, and thisis only the Preface. I'm going to begin it to-morrow—the realstory—Chapter One.
But, there—I mustn't call it a "chapter" out loud. Diaries don't havechapters, and this is a diary. I mustn't forget that it's a diary.But I can write it down as a chapter, for it's going to be a novel,after it's got done being a diary.
Chapter I - I Am Born
*
The sun was slowly setting in the west, casting golden beams of lightinto the somber old room.
That's the way it ought to begin, I know, and I'd like to do it, butI can't. I'm beginning with my being born, of course, and Nurse Sarahsays the sun wasn't shining at all. It was night and the stars wereout. She remembers particularly about the stars, for Father was in theobservatory, and couldn't be disturbed. (We never disturb Father whenhe's there, you know.) And so he didn't even know he had a daughteruntil the next morning when he came out to breakfast. And he was lateto that, for he stopped to write down something he had found out aboutone of the consternations in the night.
He's always finding out something about those old stars just when wewant him to pay attention to something else. And, oh, I forgot to saythat I know it is "constellation," and not "consternation." But I usedto call them that when I was a little girl, and Mother said it was agood name for them, anyway, for they were a consternation to her allright. Oh, she said right off afterward that she didn't mean that,and that I must forget she said it. Mother's always saying that aboutthings she says.
Well, as I was saying, Father didn't know until after breakfast thathe had a little daughter. (We never tell him disturbing, excitingthings just before meals.) And then Nurse told him.
I asked what he said, and Nurse laughed and gave her funny littleshrug to her shoulders.
"Yes, what did he say, indeed?" she retorted. "He frowned, looked kindof dazed, then muttered: 'Well, well, upon my soul! Yes, to be sure!'"
Then he came in to see me.
I don't know, of course, what he thought of me, but I guess he didn'tthink much of me, from what Nurse said. Of course I was very, verysmall, and I never yet saw a little bit of a baby that was pretty, orlooked as if it was much account. So ma