Plainly I am better off single.
I walk to my front window, and stretch my arms above my head. There is a
light fall of snow upon the ground. This late snow is trying: in its
season, it is beautiful; but out of season, it breeds a cheerlessness
that emphasises one's loneliness. I look out through the leafless trees
toward the lake, but it is hidden by the whirling, eddying snowflakes. I
see Mr. Thrush hurrying home to his little nest.
"Yes," I say to myself, repeating my last thought with a certain
obstinacy, "yes, I am better off without a husband, and yet I wish I had
one--one would answer, on a pinch--one at a time, at least. A husband is
like a world in that respect; one at a time, is the proper proportion."
"It's far better to have none, unless you learn to cook him." These
words recurred to me, just as I was on the point of taking a life
partner, in a figurative sense.
The woman that deliberates is lost; consequently, as it won't do to
think the matter over, I plunge in.
My spouse is now pacing up and down the room in a rampant manner,
complaining of his dinner, the world in general, and _me_ in particular.
What am I to do?
Charles Reade has written a recipe that applies very well just here. It
is briefly expressed:
"Put yourself in his place."
I could not have done this a few years ago, but now I can. Never, until
I undertook the management of my business affairs--never until I had some
knowledge of business cares and anxieties, the weight of notes falling
due; the charge of business honor to keep; the excited hope of fortunate
prospects; and the depression following hard upon failure and
disappointment--never until I learned all this, did I realize what home
should mean to a man, and how far wide of the mark many women shoot,
when they aim to establish a restful retreat for their husbands.
I have returned to my domicile, after a fatiguing day up town, with a
feeling of exhaustion that lies far deeper than the mere physical
structure--a spent feeling as if I have given my all, and must be
replenished before I can make another move. I once had a housekeeper
whose very face I dreaded at such times. She always took advantage of my
silence and my limp condition, to relate the day's disasters. She had no
knowledge of what a good dinner meant, and no tact in falling in with my
tastes or needs. On the contrary; if there was a dish I disliked, it was
sure to appear on those most weary evenings. In brief, from the very
moment I reached home, she did nothing but brush my fur up, instead of
down, and I did nothing but spit at her.
Now, many women are like this housekeeper. I wonder their husbands don't
slay them. If you would look out in my back yard, I fear you would see
the bones of several of these tactless, exasperating housekeepers,
bleaching in the wind and rain.
I marvel that other back yards are not filled with the bones of stupid,
tactless, irritating wives. The fact that no such horror has as yet been
unearthed, bears eloquent testimony to the noble self-control and
patience of many of the sterner sex.
"Oh, that sounds well," said my neighbor, over the way, "but then you
forget we women have our trials too."
"Is it going to diminish those trials to make a raging lion out of your
husband?"
"No, but he ought to understand that we are tired, and that our work is
hard."
"Certainly," I said, "by all means; and by the time he thoroughly
understands, you generally have occasion to be still more tired."
"Well, what would you do?"
"I'll tell you what I'd do; follow the advice of a sensible little
friend of mine, who has four children all of an age, and has
incompetent service to rely on, when she has any at all."
"And what is that, pray?"
"She says that come rain, hail, or fiery vapor, she takes a nap every
day."
"I don't know how she manages it; I can't, and I have one less child
than she, and a fairly good maid."
"Her children are trained, as children should be; the three younger ones
take long naps after luncheon, and while they are sleeping, she gives
the oldest child some picture book to look at, and simple stories to
read, and she herself goes to sleep in the same room with him. The
little fellow keeps as still as a mouse."
"I think that is a cruel shame."
"So do I. It would be far kinder if she let him have his liberty, and
stayed up to take care of him, and then became so tired out that, by the
time her husband came home she would be unable to keep her mouth (closed
for it is only a well rested woman who can maintain a cheerful
silence), and avoid a family quarrel."
"No, I think it's better not to quarrel, but I can't take a nap, and
often I'm so tired when Fred comes home, that, if he happens to be tired
too, it's just like putting fire to gunpowder."
I knew that, for I had heard the explosions from across the street. You
know in our climate, in the summer, people practically live in the
street, with every window and door open; your neighbor has full
possession of all remarks above E. And most of Mr. and Mrs. Purblind's
notes on the tired nights, are above E.
I have no patience with that woman, anyhow. She hasn't the first idea of
comfort and good cheer. Her rooms are always in disorder, and there is
no suggestion of harmony in the furniture (on the contrary every article
seems, as the French say, to be swearing at every other article); all
her lights are high--why, I've run in there of an evening and found that
man wandering around like an uneasy ghost, trying to find some easy
spot in which he could sit down, and read his paper comfortably. He
didn't know what was the matter--the poor wretches don't, but he was like
a cat on an unswept hearth.
In contrast to this woman's stupidity, I have the natural loveliness of
the little brown thrush, on my one side, and the hoary-headed wisdom of
Mrs. Owl, on my other side.
Look at the latter a moment. Not worth looking at, you say; angular,
without beauty of form or feature. Nothing but the humorous curve to her
lips, and the twinkle in her eye, to attract one; nothing, unless it
were a general air of neatness, intelligence, and good humor.
But I assure you that woman's worth living with if she is not worth
looking at!
Now her spouse is one of those lowering fellows, the kind that seems to
be at outs with mankind. Just the material to become sulky in any but
the most skillful hands, the sort to degenerate into a positive brute,
in such blundering hands as Mrs. Purblind's over the way.
I had a chance to watch this man one evening last summer. Having no
domestic affairs of my own, as a matter of course I feel myself entitled
to share my neighbors'. And this particular evening I was lonely. It was
a nasty night, the fog blown in from the lake slapped one rudely in the
face every time one looked out, and the air was as raw as a new wound--it
went clear to the bone.
Now on such a night as this I have known Mrs. Purblind to serve her lord
cold veal and lettuce, simple because it was July, and a suitable time
for heat. And I assure you that sufficient heat was generated before
this cold supper was consumed. But to return to Mrs. Owl, on that
particular night. I saw her watching at door and window, for her partner
was late. I peeped into the parlor, and it was as cosy and inviting as a
glowing fire, a shaded lamp, and a comfortable sofa wheeled near the
table, could make it.
By and by, he came glowering along. What will she say, I asked myself.
Will it be:
"Oh, how late you are! What's the matter? What kept you? Well, come in,
you must be cold. Lie down on the sofa while I get supper, but don't put
your feet up till I get a paper for them to rest on."
All this would have answered well enough with a decent sort of a man,
but this homo required peculiar treatment.
It was what she didn't say that was most remarkable.
After a cheerful "How-de-do" she didn't speak a word for some time, but
walked into the house humming a lively air, and busied herself with his
supper. She didn't set this in the dining room, but right before that
open fire. Without any fuss or commotion she broiled a piece of steak
over those glowing coals, while over her big lamp she made a cup of
coffee, and in her chafing dish prepared some creamed potatoes. She had
bread and butter ready, and some little dessert, and so with a wave of a
fairy wand, as it seemed, there was the cosiest, most tempting little
supper you ever saw on the table at his side.
Meanwhile he had found the sofa, the fire, and the lamp, and was reading
his paper. He threw the latter down when supper was announced, and she
joined him at the table; poured his coffee, ate a bit now and then for
company, and talked--why, how that woman did talk! I couldn't hear a word
that she said, but I knew by the expression of her face it was humorous;
and laugh, how she laughed! and erelong he joined in--why, once he leaned
back, and actually ha-haed.
When supper was over, she left him to his paper again, while she cleared
everything away. Later on she joined him, and the next I knew they were
playing chess, and still later, talking and reading aloud.
This is but a sample of her life with him--in everything she consults
his mood, his comfort, his tastes. She never jars him--never rubs him the
wrong way, and meanwhile she has all she wants, for she can do anything
with him, and he thinks the sun rises and sets with her.
It is a good cook that makes an appetizing dish out of poor material,
and when a woman makes a delicious husband out of little or nothing she
may rank as a _chef_.