Threads of Grey and Gold Part 19

There are degrees in comfort, varying from the easy, perfect fit of one's own skin to a party gown which dazzles envious observers, and why is the adjective reserved for the educated but abbreviated Mother Hubbard?

"The apparel oft proclaims the man," and even more is woman dependent upon her clothes for physical, moral, and intellectual support. An uncorseted body will soon make its influence felt upon the mind. The steel-and-whalebone spine which properly reinforces all feminine vertebra is literally the backbone of a woman's self-respect.

Would the iceman or the janitor hesitate to "talk back" to the uncorseted lady in a pink dressing-sack?--Hardly!

But confront the erring man with a quiet, dignified woman in a crisp s.h.i.+rt-waist and a clean collar--verily he will think twice before he ventures an excuse for his failings.

The iceman and the grocery boy see more dressing-sacks than most others, for they are privileged to approach the back doors of residences, and to hold conversations with the lady of the house, after the departure of him whose duty and pleasure it is to pay for the remnants. And in the lower strata they are known by their clothes.

"Fifty pounds for the red dressing-sack," says the iceman to his helper, "and a hundred for the blue. Step lively now!"

And how should madame know that her order for a steak, a peck of potatoes, and two lemons, is registered in the grocery boy's book under the laconic t.i.tle, "Pink"?

After breakfast, when she sits down to read the paper and make her plans for the day, the insidious dressing-sack gets in its deadly work.

"I won't dress," she thinks, "until I get ready to go out." After luncheon, she is too tired to go out, and too nearly dead to dress.

Friends come in, perhaps, and say: "Oh, how comfortable you look!

Isn't that a dear kimono?" Madame plumes herself with conscious pride, for indeed it is a dear kimono, and already she sees herself with a reputation for "exquisite negligee."

The clock strikes six, and presently the lord of the manor comes home to be fed. "I'm dreadfully sorry, dear, you should find me looking so," says the lady of his heart, "but I just haven't felt well enough to dress. You don't mind, do you?"

The dear, good, subdued soul says he is far from minding, and dinner is like breakfast as far as dressing-sacks go.

Perhaps, in the far depths of his nature, the man wonders why it was that, in the halcyon days of courts.h.i.+p, he never beheld his beloved in the midst of a gunny--no, a dressing-sack. Of course, then, she didn't have to keep house, and didn't have so many cares to tire her. Poor little thing! Perhaps she isn't well!

Isn't she? Let another woman telephone that she has tickets for the matinee, and behold the transformation! Within certain limits and barring severe headaches, a woman is always well enough to do what she wants to do--and no more.

As the habit creeps upon its victim, she loses sight of the fact that there are other clothes. If she has a golf cape, she may venture to go to the letter-box or even to market in her favourite garment.

After a while, when the habit is firmly fixed, a woman will wear a dressing-sack all the time--that is, some women will, except on rare and festive occasions. Sometimes in self-defence, she will say that her husband loves soft, fluffy feminine things, and can't bear to see her in a tailor-made outfit. This is why she wears the "soft fluffy things," which, with her, always mean dressing-sacks, all the time he is away from home, as well as when he is there.

It is a mooted question whether s.h.i.+ftlessness causes dressing-sacks, or dressing-sacks cause s.h.i.+ftlessness, but there is no doubt about the loving a.s.sociation of the two. The woman who has nothing to do, and not even a shadow of a purpose in life, will enshrine her helpless back in a dressing-sack. She can't wear corsets, because, forsooth, they "hurt" her. She can't sit at the piano, because it's hard on her back. She can't walk, because she "isn't strong enough." She can't sew, because it makes a pain between her shoulders, and indeed why should she sew when she has plenty of dressing-sacks?

This type of woman always boards, _if she can_, or has plenty of servants at her command, and, in either case, her mind is free to dwell upon her troubles.

First, there is her own weak physical condition. Just wait until she tells you about the last pain she had. She doesn't feel like dressing for dinner, but she will try to wash her face, if you will excuse her!

When she returns, she has plucked up enough energy to change her dressing-sack!

The only cure for the habit is a violent measure which few indeed are brave enough to adopt. Make a bonfire of the offensive garments, dear lady; then stay away from the remnant counters, and after a while you will become immune.

Nothing is done in a negligee of this sort which cannot be done equally well in a s.h.i.+rt-waist, crisp and clean, with a collar and belt.

There is a popular delusion to the effect that household tasks require slipshod garments and unkempt hair, but let the frowsy ones contemplate the trained nurse in her spotless uniform, with her snowy cap and ap.r.o.n and her s.h.i.+ning hair. Let the doubtful ones go to a cooking school, and see a neat young woman, in a blue gingham gown and a white ap.r.o.n, prepare an eight-course dinner and emerge spotless from the ordeal. We get from life, in most cases, exactly what we put into it. The world is a mirror which gives us smiles or frowns, as we ourselves may choose. The woman who faces the world in a s.h.i.+rt-waist will get s.h.i.+rt-waist appreciation, while for the dressing-sack there is only a slipshod reward.

In the Meadow

The flowers bow their dainty heads, And see in the s.h.i.+ning stream A vision of sky and silver clouds, As bright as a fairy's dream.

The great trees nod their sleepy boughs, The song birds come and go, And all day long, to the waving ferns The south wind whispers low.

All day among the blossoms sweet, The laughing sunbeams play, And down the stream, in rose-leaf boats The fairies sail away.

One Woman's Solution of the Servant Problem

Being a professional woman, my requirements in the way of a housemaid were rather special. While at times I can superintend my small household, and direct my domestic affairs, there are long periods during which I must have absolute quiet, untroubled by door bell, telephone, or the remnants of roast beef.

There are two of us, in a modern six room apartment, in a city where the servant problem has forced a large and ever-increasing percentage of the population into small flats. We have late breakfasts, late dinners, a great deal of company, and an amount of was.h.i.+ng, both house and personal, which is best described as "unholy."

Five or six people often drop in informally, and unexpectedly, for the evening, which means, of course, a midnight "spread," and an enormous pile of dishes to be washed in the morning. There are, however, some advantages connected with the situation. We have a laundress besides the maid; we have a twelve-o'clock breakfast on Sunday instead of a dinner, getting the cold lunch ourselves in the evening, thus giving the girl a long afternoon and evening; and we are away from home a great deal, often staying weeks at a time.

The eternal "good wages to right party" of the advertis.e.m.e.nts was our inducement also, but, apparently, there were no "right parties!"

The previous inc.u.mbent, having departed in a fit of temper at half an hour's notice, and left me, so to speak, "in the air," with dinner guests on the horizon a day ahead, I betook myself to an intelligence office, where, strangely enough, there seems to be no intelligence, and grasped the first chance of relief.

Nothing more unpromising could possibly be imagined. The new maid was sad, ugly of countenance, far from strong physically, and in every way hopeless and depressing. She listened, unemotionally, to my glowing description of the situation. Finally she said, "Ay tank Ay try it."

She came, looked us over, worked a part of a week, and announced that she couldn't stay. "Ay can't feel like home here," she said. "Ay am not satisfied."

She had been in her last place for three years, and left because "my's lady, she go to Europe." I persuaded her to try it for a while longer, and gave her an extra afternoon or two off, realising that she must be homesick.

After keeping us on tenter-hooks for two weeks, she sent for her trunk. I discovered that she was a fine laundress, carefully was.h.i.+ng and ironing the things which were too fine to go into the regular wash; a most excellent cook, her kitchen and pantry were at all times immaculate; she had no followers, and few friends; meals were ready on the stroke of the hour, and she had the gift of management.

Offset to this was a furious temper, an atmosphere of gloom and depression which permeated the house and made us feel funereal, impertinence of a quality difficult to endure, and the callous, unfeeling, almost inhuman characteristics which often belong in a high degree to the Swedes.

For weeks I debated with myself whether or not I could stand it to have her in the house. I have spent an hour on my own back porch, when I should have been at work, because I was afraid to pa.s.s through the room which she happened to be cleaning. Times without number, a crisp m.u.f.fin, or a pot of perfect coffee, has made me postpone speaking the fateful words which would have separated us. She sighed and groaned and wept at her work, worried about it, and was a fiend incarnate if either of us was five minutes late for dinner. We often hurried through the evening meal so as to leave her free for her evening out, even though I had long since told her not to wash the dishes after dinner, but to pile them neatly in the sink and leave them until morning.

Before long, however, the strictly human side of the problem began to interest me. I had cherished lifelong theories in regard to the brotherhood of man and the uplifting power of personal influence. I had at times been tempted to try settlement work, and here I had a settlement subject in my own kitchen.

There was not a suggestion of fault with the girl's work. She kept her part of the contract, and did it well; but across the wall between us, she glared at--and hated--me.

But, deliberately, I set to work in defence of my theory. I ignored the impertinence, and seemingly did not hear the crash of dishes and the banging of doors. When it came to an issue, I said calmly, though my soul quaked within me: "You are not here to tell me what you will do and what you won't. You are here to carry out my orders, and when you cannot, it is time for you to go."

If she asked me a question about her work which I could not answer offhand, I secretly consulted a standard cook-book, and later gave her the desired information airily. I taught her to cook many of the things which I could cook well, and imbued her with a sort of sneaking respect for my knowledge. Throughout, I treated her with the perfect courtesy which one lady accords to another, ignoring the impertinence.

I took pains to say "please" and "thank you." Many a time I bit my lips tightly against my own rising rage, and afterward in calmness recognised a superior opportunity for self-discipline.

For three or four months, while the beautiful theory wavered in the balance, we fought--not outwardly, but beneath the surface. Daily, I meditated a summary discharge, dissuaded only by an immaculate house and perfectly cooked breakfasts and dinners. I still cherished a lingering belief in personal influence, in spite of the wall which reared itself between us.

A small grey kitten, with wobbly legs and an infantile mew, made the first breach in the wall. She took care of it, loved it, petted it, and began to smile semi-occasionally. She, too, said "please" and "thank you." My husband suggested that we order ten kittens, but I let the good work go on with one, for the time being. Gradually, I learned that the immovable exterior was the natural protection against an abnormal sensitiveness both to praise and blame. Besides the cat, she had two other "weak spots"--an unswerving devotion to a widowed sister with two children, whom she partially supported, and a love for flowers almost pathetic.