LESS THAN THE DUST

Evening Star, Issue 22817, 27 November 1937, Page 3

LESS THAN THE DUST

{Written by Mabt Scott, for the ‘ Evening Star.’] This, surely, represents the epitome of *ll scorn, the Ultimate pettiness, deserving of not one moment’s serious consideration. What could be less important, more foolishly trifling? “Less than the dust,” whether beneath chariot wheels or on the scullery floor; what, indeed, could be less than that? At least, I am sure that was how the writer of the ‘ Indian Love Lyrics ’ looked at the question, and that was how the metaphor had remained with me for years, ever since those youthful _ days of mine when “musical evenings ” _ had still to be endured and dramatic baritones and soulful contraltos loved to let themselves go about pale hands and the rust that never stained thy sword. Less than, dust; yes, the composer had chosen his metaphor well—or, at least so I thought until I met Cousin Hilda. Now I (know that the poet was all wrong. Dust is tremendously important; it can permeate the very pores of your being, sap your vitality, exhaust your energies, fill your whole horizon. I know that it fills Hilda’s completely, 60 that everything else—her husband, her children, as well as such details as thd Chinese war and the income tax problem—are in very truth less than the dust. Much less. And by all this I do not mean that Hilda has been an explorer in the Sahara fir has even driven herself in a baby Austin through Northern Australia. She has never, indeed, penetrated beyond New Zealand; she has been far too busy attending to the dust for that. For, after all, if dust he your Public Enemy _ No. 1, if you are willing to make its defeat and rout your whole mission in life, you can do it just as well in an ordinary New Zealand house as in the desert. And yet for a moment as I write, my thoughts toy with the pleasing vision of Cousin Hilda in the Sahara; there, at last, she would have infinite scope. I can see her, the very first morning after her arrival, issuing brightly from her tent, neatly over-ailed, calmly efficient, trim and workmanlike, casting one comprehensive glance about her and. then seizing a broom. Not for her the wonders of sunrise upon the desert, the magic, of sand and sky and shimmering mirage; she would give them one shrewd and belittling look and epitomise the situation briefly enough. “ Well, all I can say is that some people must have been very careless. Look at that dust.” Less than the dust the glories about her; much less than the dust is everything. , ~ , , It is, indeed, the work to which she has dedicated her life. Other sidelines she has temporarily exploited, such as a husband, a couple of spotless children, a canary in a cage. Not cats or 'dogs, of course, for they “ make work”: children, like the canary, will stay put and stay clean, but even the most toy-like and least doggy of dogs will occasionally have - muddy paws. There is no room for such intruders in Hilda’s house; they would be allies, not of their mistress, hut of her enemy. They would bring dust_ and dirt. Therefore let them be banished with all the other dear dirty little joys, the illicit small pleasures, the spice of life, ‘ .... Do not imagine that I am egotistically trying to pass judgment upon my Cousin Hilda. It is, after all, her life, not mine. If her gods—a spotless house, an orderly desk, a floor that you could eat from—although I never can imagine why you should want to—are not my gods, are they therefore necessarily false? So I tell myself broadmindedly, perpetually, at times enviously—-as, for example, this morning when I was trying to find my fountain pen—but not really convincingly. For the truth is that I do not understand Hilda’s main interests in life nor appreciate them; to me it does not even seem a life-at all. , , , , Moreover, I could wish that she had not decided to live it quite so close to me. It acts, I fear, as an irritant. I see her perfect house, her shining windows, her glittering stove, that kitchen floor upon which I can only remain upright with concentration and care; and then I think of the gay disorder of my bedroom, of the time it took me to find my address book this morning, of the hook lying open on the living-room couch, and the heap of darning thrust dishonestly beneath a cushion. I glance uneasily at the scrubbed concrete of her backyard (from . which she is at th« moment wiping the mark of my dog’s muddy paw, since I have been unable to convince him that the woman exists who does hot secretly like him), and think of the grass which I am encouraging to grow between the bricks of my yard, of the mellow tint that abstention from soap and water is giving to their pleasant faces—arid I creep dejectedly home, tie Dion up so that he will not distract me, and set to work, determined to have “ a spotless house ” for once. I spend the day carrying out this grim resolve; I tidy my desk, darn all the socks in the house, climb up to the highest shelves of the bookcase and remove the dust blandly ignored by my beloved Maori “ char,” and don’t let Dion into the scullery until the floor is dry. And what is the result? I cannot anywhere find .the rough copy of this article; the next washing yields me a rich crop of more undarned socks, no one can see any difference in the bookshelf because it is Bft high, and Dion harks himself to a husky and resentful standstill. Moreover, I am thoroughly cross when the family come home and crawl to bed knowing that I must rise at dawn to type this article if I am to catch the mail. Nor is the family decently grateful or sympathetic. “ For goodness sake don’t catch the Hilda gem; it may b© her mission in life; it certainly isn’t yours,” says the Man of the House severely. “It isn’t only tiredness; it’s an inferiority complex that is wrong with you,” says the Eldest Daughter shrewdly. And, moreover, for once she is right. # . But what a strange design for living is my cousin Hilda’s! To work all day long in order that you may have a tidy house, and then rise betimes next morning and do it all over again ! To be unable to rest or enjoy life if there is a little dust on the scullery shelf or a newspaper left carelessly lying on the living room floor I To work and work, to battle and toil, and to wage an unceasing war against the dust that looms so large as to shroud your whole horizon, cloud the sun itself and hide the very sky from your world. What a wicked waste of life and joy and fun and golden hours I It is, moreover, such a losing battle. You can never stagger ’mme from the conflict, wipe the sweat from your brow, and say “it is over ”; you cannot even spare time to lean upon your sword, and, when you do sink to your warrior’s couch, it is only to spring from it shortly and begin all over again. And so on and on, all through life, while books remain unread, people unloved, life unlived, “ I haven’t read a book for months; my house takes all my time,” said my cousin to me the other day. Her children are as spotless as her house, and adequately fed; but already they have learned to go out for their pleasures. “We can’t play at home; it makes a mess.” Hei; husband*

too, returns to the office or goes to his club in the evenings. More and more they are acquiring the habit of leaving Hilda alone—with her enemy. What a struggle—and all to be beaten at last! For the sad truth remains that some day Hilda’s battle must end, as all ends, in death, that “ dust will return to dust.” Dust? I cannot think of such an anti-climax, and so I have broached the subject of cremation to Hilda. ‘‘ Cremation? , A nasty, unnatural business. Besides, I’ve always hated ashes; they’re worse than dust.” So the dust is to win in the end. There are moments when I have a nightmare fear that'it will lie heavily, crnshingly, vengefully upon Hilda’s grave—triumphant at the last.