36 A kitchen-view of society

Three unrelated incidents of those otherwise uneventful months stand out in my mind. Not that they were spectacular, or of particular interest in themselves, except as they sharpened my understanding of certain mental concepts that form an impressive guard between the sheep and the goats.

Mrs. H. informed us one morning that she was expecting a house guest: a very dear friend. There would be no fuss. A dinner and a tea, perhaps. Nothing elaborate, for the lady was unwell, and desired a quiet rest. The visitor arrived next day, and to my astonishment, for I had been anticipating a delicate, dainty female, the lady looked about as fragile as a mountain lion. Tall, stout, with a square, though not unhandsome face, she was anything but the type one associates with condiments and cushions. Yet, within the hour, this heroic bulk, eased of its stays, was gracelessly overflowing the softest arm-chair in madam’s lounge.

Then it was, against intent and inclination, that I overheard an illuminating shred of dialogue. Entering with a tea-tray it was impossible not to hear the delicious chatter:

‘Of course, it’s impossible at your age, Edith. You couldn’t be expected to submit to such a thing, darling!’ This from Mrs. H.

‘I certainly cannot. A baby would be too ridiculous!’ the lioness rumbled.

At which awkward moment I perforce set down the tray! Bless their buttons, I dare say neither one thought I had sense enough to follow such erudite reasoning. I can’t say that I was shocked. Long since, I had reached the conclusion that accidental and undesired parenthood was no great blessing. That this squarefaced Amazon rebelled, albeit tardily, at the beautiful boon of Eve, was not so startling. I had heard a deal of grumbling in the hospital. What sent a wave of hot resentment from head to heel was the quick realization that in her case the attitude was accepted as eminently practical.

I remembered a rag of a girl, pleading vainly for help in a similar situation. How horrible that was! How wretchedly sinful! The folly in either case is beside the point. What struck me like a blow was the obvious injustice of a society which exacts the letter of the law only from the less fortunate.

The incident had its humorous aspect. Next morning Mistress Edith hasted away on her pertinent mission, and shortly thereafter returned in a somewhat shattered state. The bell screaming shrilly, up I flew, hot-footed, to the lady’s chamber. What a sight to see! A helpless giantess in distress, the poor woman, half stripped, stood amid the clutter of discarded garments, tearing at her corset with shaking fingers.

‘For God’s sake, help me out of this,’ she yelped, ‘I’m dying. I’m dead!—I’ve got to get a cup of tea!’

Easier said than done! However, at the cost of great groaning, frantic fumbling, and desperate hauling on miles of laces, the feat was finally accomplished, and the victim tucked into bed.

The rest of the day devolved into a marathon between the kitchen, where I was helping Hattie prepare for a formal dinner, and the bedroom, where I supported the guest of honour towards a better lease of life.

The dinner was set for eight o’clock. Little dreaming the fortitude of socially ambitious females, I kept wondering how the patient expected to attend her own party. At seven the bell rang peremptorily, and off I bounced, to receive yet another enlightening shock.

Draped in a blue wrapper, Mistress Edith was up, seated at the dressing-table, calmly applying blobs of cream. On the bed lay a bell-shaped moiré underslip and a shimmering, white satin Princess dress. Beside these the wicked corset, with its multiple straps, clasps, and strings, looked a fearsome strait-jacket.

I could guess the pleasant job before me. What hectic pinching, pulling, and alarming breath-holdings it required to jockey the unruly flesh into proper mould. How the wicked laughter chortled in me as the fat rolled up under the thick, unlovely arms, and down upon the heavy thighs in order to achieve the fashionable wasp waist which, presumably, gladdened appreciative male eyes.

Then, panting but triumphant, on with the moiré slip; on with cream and powder and perfume; on with the resplendent gown, fortified with whalebone and its thousand and one safeguarding hooks and eyelets.

At eight o’clock the lady swept down the winding stairs, three-foot train rustling majestically, and the saints alone knew at what cost she stepped so lightly, laughed so blithely, in response to the greeting of the gentleman who led her in to dinner.

Throughout the many courses Mistress Edith maintained her gaiety, which, happily, hid her total lack of appetite. The following day she spent in bed. The cold had settled on her chest, you understand. When she finally took her joyous departure she generously presented me with a fifty-cent ribbon for my hair—which I ungenerously dropped in the ash-bin.

Shortly hereafter, I inferred from Hattie’s apologetic murmur that the younger son of the house was coming home to digest some indiscretion. As not infrequently happens, he was his mother’s idol, and Hattie implored the Holy Saints to smooth the way of the transgressor. It would be so terrible for madam if the father were too harsh.

Nothing daunted, the young man arrived, and, apparently, had no difficulty in squaring himself with his parents. Certainly Mrs. H. glowed with pleasure to have him home, fluttering and fussing over the darling boy’s every whim and foible. For several days he behaved with admirable docility, perpetrating no greater mischief than driving his sisters into abortive rages.

Then, one afternoon, as I was pottering about the second floor, I heard the vestibule door below open with a crash, and, simultaneously, the sound of some heavy object striking against a chair; a smothered yelp of pain, then uneasy steps on the stairs.

It was Master Jim—a very groggy Jim—listing windward, a nasty, greenish pallor in his youthful face. Catching sight of me, at the stair head, the gallant waved a cheery fin, but the effort of supporting both equilibrium and charm was disastrous. The poor thing clutched his midriff and, with a brave bound concluding the stairs, dived for the bathroom.

Mrs. H., enjoying a pleasant nap, had rudely wakened. What was that noise, she demanded irritably, though unsuspicious. What on earth had I done out there, making such a clatter? To which I answered nothing, trusting that indolence would outbid curiosity, and the scapegrace find cover before his mother aroused sufficiently to quit her easy couch.

Which he did, though by so mean a margin I had barely time to obliterate the stains of iniquity. Mrs. H., accusative and cross, confronted me as I emerged from the bathroom.

‘What is going on—’ she began, and faltered uneasily as a malodorous whiff struck her offended nostrils. Something bordering on consternation showed in her face for a fleeting moment, then she broke out crossly: ‘What was that—that noise?’

‘Was there a noise, madam?’ said I, no muttonhead more dumb.

‘Of course there was a noise! It woke me,’ she carped, obviously on the horns of a dilemma, wanting the truth, and fearing the confirmation of her suspicions.

‘I was putting the linen away. The door often slams,’ I offered, which was true—up to a point.

Whatever she may have thought, it went unspoken, for suddenly she remembered the gentleman with senatorial connections.

‘Mr. K. will be here any minute! And the wretched drains are smelling!’ she gasped. ‘For goodness’ sake, open the window, and ask Hattie what to do!’

The episode had its anticlimax some days later. It happened I was hurrying down the same stairs, and found my way barred by gallant Mr. Jim.

‘See here, can’t you be a bit friendly to a loving young man?’ he demanded, wearing his most fetching expression. ‘You can’t be such an icicle,’ he pursued, improving upon invention in fine, histrionic style.

Oh well, a sturdy, bovine stare is more effective than a million words. The loving creature dropped his arms, and off I went about my business. Keeping myself to myself. So far as I was personally concerned, the incident had no significance. I had no taste for backstair flirtation, and lacked the vanity either to be flattered or insulted. I simply chalked up another score against a class which has such scant respect for the sensibilities of those whom ill circumstances confine to humble service.

I had my own, specific temptations, less easily dismissed. Sometimes I spent my Sunday with Laura in the tantalizing folly of window shopping. Spring was almost upon us, and everywhere a hundred pretty garments teased our eyes. There were so many things we needed, so many more we should have been delighted to wear.

In the case of myself, none of this was so urgent. But for Laura, who was expected to look smart, the situation was distressing. Yet how distressing I was not to understand for several months. That she was pale and nervous, so that the slightest noise made her jump, I could see, and I had the uncomfortable feeling that to dress herself she went without food. And she was always fastidiously clean, which meant that, however hungry she was, the laundry had to be paid.

She suffered from loneliness, too, for, unlike myself, she had no interest in books. It made her jumpy trying to read after working hours. It made her boiling mad to follow the impossible successes of the bright mortals spun out of the heads of comfortable nitwits who thought that life was an angel cake. And the stuff I mooned over gave her the jitters. Imagine getting a kick out of The Laughing Man!

But when she saw me wistfully eyeing a wine-coloured suit in Freeman’s window, she understood me. It was exactly the sort of thing I should wear. It would go so well with my dark brown hair and show to advantage my only attribute, a very decent figure.

I had not thought of the tempting thing in just those terms. I simply pined for it as I never before nor since pined for any scrap of ornament. It seemed to me that its mere possession would clothe me with magical virtues, and restore all my battered self-respect.

For three nights running I stole out after dark, just to look at it. And then I received a letter from Bannister that tried me sorely.

Said he, in effect, that I should remember that, whatever he had, it was mine for the asking. That he imagined things were not too easy for us, that he wished I would have faith enough to let him help me.

Dear goodness! With the letter in my pocket I marched to that window once more. I could have that precious thing. It was mine, for just a word or two. Why not? Surely that was the sensible procedure. Yes, I would do it! I would go straight up to that attic room and write the letter—

But when I had the pen and paper before me I froze with shame. I sat there, staring at the slanting walls, seeing for the first time quite clearly what I must write. Something sharp and final, that put an end to all these devoted letters. And that something must effectively break Bannister’s idealized image of me.

Well, I had always some gift of words, when it came to putting them on paper. I wrote my letter, and promptly mailed it. Then I took a farewell squint at my precious suit, and scampered home to cry myself to sleep. By return mail, I received a cryptic note. Three short, angry lines. He was leaving for the north, May 13th. He would not see me; and ending:

‘We Bannisters keep our word.’

That night I took a long walk up into the hills, where the dark lay thick, and the heavy silence, full of healing wisdom, quieted the ache in my troubled mind.

A few days later the last of the three illuminating incidents to which I referred leaped at me like an angry cur. The eldest son had come home for the Easter holidays. He was a humourless prig, filled with his own importance: as certain of success as fools were sure to give it. I had been dusting out his room, and, perhaps an hour later, was peremptorily hauled upon the mat.

He had left a cheque on his desk. It was gone. What had I done with it? There was no use lying. No use stealing it, either. It would do me no good.

Perhaps the decent instincts of the ancestors did support me then. At any rate, I had the grace to say little, and say it calmly. It was he who raged in undiluted, proletarian fervour, ripping through papers like a whirlwind, and bringing his mother on the jump by the precious clamour.

Kind soul, she was distressed. I was free to go on with my work; she would help Master Jack find the cheque. No doubt it was merely mislaid.

It was found in the book he had been reading. Mrs. H. came to tell me the glad tidings. She was sorry: she hoped I had not taken the little storm to heart. One had to be careful with money.

I was cleaning the silver, and kept on cleaning it. To be called a thief is not exactly pleasant, but it has its sharp merit. It jogs your little ego: makes you see very clearly what the poor really look like to the respectable people who save the heathen and pack such lovely Christmas hampers.

Not long thereafter Mrs. H. decided to dispense with the services of a second girl. The sons had gone about their business, her daughters would soon be leaving, on their summer holiday, and she herself was thinking of a trip east. Hattie could manage by herself, but now she wanted me to realize how pleased she had been with my behaviour. If I could find the books, I was welcome to come back in the fall and work for my board while I attended Normal School.

What was more, she had a job for me. Mrs. C., a connexion by marriage, was going to Chicago for an audience with a famous singing teacher. She expected to remain for two or three months, and wanted some trustworthy girl to take charge of her little daughter, Bea. Mrs. C. was—well—a trifle exacting and temperamental, which was to be expected of an artist, but it would quite likely prove an easy place once she had left. There seemed nothing else to do. Business was still just as slack in the stores, and the only hope on the horizon was the promise of a job at Kugler’s drug store, where Laura worked, when the fountain trade picked up. Until then, I might as well turn nursemaid.

The new household was a revelation. Mr. C. was an eminent eye-ear-nose-and-throat specialist. A dry stick of a man, years older than his india-rubber wife, with the coldest voice and eye that ever I encountered. The very first morning he fixed me with a microscopic glance, hoped I had a shred of sense, and would see to it that not a drop of water got into Bea’s ears.

‘Wipe them with a dry towel—a dry towel, do you understand?’

The lady rattled off the rest of the instructions, standing at a safe distance, as though afraid of contamination. She never passed either the cook or me without pinching back her skirts. Nominally, I was supposed to watch young Bea, but until the lady’s departure I might as well make myself useful, doing the upstairs work, waiting table, and wiping the dishes.

Quite a chore, since there were seven ill-assorted individuals in the house: a crotchety doctor; his tempestuous wife; an infant of three; and, in addition, the lady’s widowed brother-in-law and his three half-grown children. It certainly gave promise of more than interest! The house looked like a junk shop above stairs. In every conceivable nook and cranny were dismantled beds, antique chests, high-boys, and tables, all yelling for dusting. These treasures, I learned from cook, were being purchased to furnish the grand new home the doctor was building in Lakeside. A home to properly house this lady, and hold her voice.

Cook had other things less complimentary to tell. Mrs. C. was so mean she counted the eggs every morning! She peered into the tea canister, the sugar-bin, and the bread-box, and never in the three months that Annie had been there, had she tasted a chop, or a sliver of steak. Madam ordered exactly seven pieces, and then carped about the shrinkage.

All of which was perfectly true. We were lucky to get a scraping of vegetables and left-over bread. One night, there was a delicious row over the number of potatoes required for a creamed dish. Annie insisted upon four. Madam decided that two large ones were quite sufficient.

‘What!’ croaked cook, mournful as Hamlet’s ghost. ‘Two potatoes for nine people?’

Which was no way to speak. There were only seven people—and two servants. But this little scrimmage was nothing compared with the comedy of a later night.

All that day madam had regaled the angels with soaring rhapsodies, and not for her soul’s sake would cook have dared intrude with questions of food. Consequently when the family sat down to dinner, it consisted of a meagre blob of salt cod, riding the crest of an immense platter, and a tray of brown bread.

What a feast of joy that was! Dr. C. glared at me with his microscopic orbs. Well, was that all? What was I standing about for—where were the vegetables?

Sweet as the Paschal Lamb, I said there were none.

What, roars he, and why not? And, to my unholy glee, he ramps into battle with the undaunted prima donna.

‘Gertrude, what’s the matter with you?’ demands he. ‘Have you lost your senses? Do you expect me to put up with this—this beastly mess!’ And more of the kind.

To which the great lady replied by blaming the cook. This was the sort of thing that happened, if one trusted to the intelligence of menials. Annie was such a fool.

He would see about that, replied the master, and forthwith, bounced up from the table and out into the kitchen.

But Annie, cheerfully swishing out the solitary pot, simply waved her hand towards the pantry.

‘Have a look for yourself, Dr. C.,’ said she.

The shelves yielded a bag of prunes, and nothing else.

‘Damnation!’ muttered the indignant lord, grabbing a fistful, by way of ammunition for the final round with his wife.

After that, the vegetable bin was never empty, although everything else was whittled to the nicest fraction. But now I was to see the shining side of all this stupendous thrift.

Madam gave a dinner to celebrate her forthcoming departure, and to properly impress a well-chosen few. Food poured into the house like an avalanche. From morning until night, Annie and I struggled with an incredible variety of greens, shell-fish, chicken, ham, plain and fancy vegetables, condiments, ices, and small cakes. Boning crab, blanching almonds, stuffing dates, to say nothing of preparing hors-d’oeuvres, kept us hot and hopping.

By nine o’clock I had served this feast of fat things to the joyous crowd, for, of course, as madam explained, there was no sense hiring a waitress when I had proven myself so apt at my former place. In a white dress, borrowed from Cook, who, fortunately, was a small, trim Swede, I should look well enough.

The kitchen was a sight to see, with dishes and glassware and tumbled food stacked in every conceivable corner, even under the table. It was one o’clock before the mess was cleared away, and we small fry had a cup of coffee and a chicken sandwich.

It was the following week that Mrs. C. took me to task for inefficiency. There was no reason for wasting an hour on the upstairs. Why, she herself could make all the beds, dust, and sweep, in half the time. It was scandalous. Bea must get out into the sunlight. Unless I improved, she would hesitate to leave the baby in my care. To put it bluntly, I was not earning my wages.

‘Very well,’ said I, quite calmly, ‘in that case, I shall not take it.’ And, much to the dear lady’s indignation, away I went.