All these things were taught at her knee to each child in turn by Rosalie’s mother, and each was taught out of the self-same books, miraculously preserved by Rosalie’s mother; the backs of most of them carefully stitched and re-stitched, and marked all through by the dates of each child’s daily lesson, written in pencil by Rosalie’s mother. The dates ranged from 1869 when Harold was being taught and when the books were fresh and clean, and Rosalie’s mother fresh and ardent with her first-born, to 1884, when Rosalie was being taught, and the books very old and thumbed and most terribly crowded with pencil marks, and Rosalie’s mother no longer fresh but rather worn, but teaching as fondly and earnestly as ever, because it was her duty. Literally at the knee of Rosalie’s mother these things were taught. On her knee with one of her arms about you for the Bible teaching; and standing at her knee, hands behind you, for the teaching of most of the rest. Yes, that was the early education, and the manner of the education, of Rosalie and of her brothers and sisters, and one perceives with indignation the spectacle of a mother wasting her time like that and wasting her children’s time like that. Rosalie’s mother did everything in the house and she was always doing something in the house--for somebody else. She never rested and she was always worried. Her brows were always wrinkled with the feverish concentration of one anxiously doing one thing while anxiously thinking of another thing waiting to be done. She had a driven and a hunted look. Now Rosalie’s father had a driving and a hunting look. Rosalie’s father in his youth threw away everything. Rosalie’s mother throughout the whole of her life gave away everything. Rosalie’s father was a tragic figure dwelling in a house of bondage; but he was at least a tragic king, ruling his house and venting his griefs upon his house. Rosalie’s mother was a tragic figure and she was a tragic slave in the house of bondage. The life of Rosalie’s father was a tragedy, but a tragedy in some measure relieved because he knew it was a tragedy and could wave his arms and shout and smash things and hurl beefsteaks through the air because of the tragedy of it. But the life of Rosalie’s mother was an infinitely deeper tragedy because she never knew or suspected that it was a tragedy. Still, that is so often the difference between the tragedy of a woman and the tragedy of a man. CHAPTER IV