SCENE.—A sewing-room, with the usual piles of unfinished or unmended
clothing heaped on tables and chairs. Mrs. Lester, a pretty, fussy
little woman, is trying on her own gowns and then tossing them aside,
one after another.
Enter Miss Cotton, a visiting dressmaker.
Mrs. Lester: Oh, Miss Cotton, I’m so glad you’ve come! I’m nearly
frantic. Excuse the looks of this sewing-room. I don’t see why a
sewing-room never can keep itself cleared up! I suppose it’s because
they never have any closets in them; or if they do, you have to hang
your best dresses there—there’s no other place. And so this room gets
simply jammed with white work and mending and hats, and I don’t know
what all! My husband says it’s like the Roman Forum done in dry-goods.
But he’s a regular Miss Nancy about neatness and order. Now, to-day,
Miss Cotton, we’re going to do sleeves. See? Sleeves! And nothing else.
I’m simply driven crazy by them.
Oh, don’t look as if you didn’t know what I meant! You know, all my
gowns have elbow sleeves, and I must either have long ones put in or
throw the whole dress away.
Yes, I know I said I’d wear the short sleeves, if other people did
insist on having long ones. I know I said I’d be independent, and at
least wear out the ones I have. But I’m conquered! I admit it! It isn’t
any fun to go to a luncheon and be the only woman at the table with
elbow sleeves!
Yesterday I went to Mrs. Ritchie’s Bridge, and my partner, that big Mrs.
Van Winkle, with chains of scarabs all over her chest till she looked
like the British Museum, kept pulling her long sleeves down farther over
her knuckles just to annoy me.
Yes, I know it, my forearm is white and round, but I declare it makes me
feel positively indecent to go with it bared nowadays. If those suffrage
people would only get for women the right to bare arms, they’d do
something worth while.
No, indeed, I can’t afford to get new gowns. These are too good to throw
away.
Well, they may not be the latest style, but I don’t want those
bolster-slip arrangements for mine.
Mrs. Van Bumpus, now—you know her, don’t you? Well, it would take two
kimonos to go round her, I’m sure; and I saw her the other day in one of
those clinging satin rigs. My! she looked exactly like a gypsy-wagon,
the kind that has canvas stretched over its ribs.
No, it’s sleeves, sleeves, I’m after to-day—and that’s why I sent for
you.
I’m going to superintend them, you understand, but I want you to help,
and to do the plain sewing.
Well, to begin on this mauve crépon. I want to wear it this afternoon,
and I think we can easily get it done, between us.
I’ve bought a paper pattern—I bought three—for I mean to spare no
expense in getting my sleeves right.
So I bought three different makes, and think this one is best. It was a
sort of bargain, too, for they sold the sleeve pattern and a pattern for
little boys’ pajamas, all for ten cents. I don’t know what to do with
the pajamas pattern—so that does seem a waste. I’ve no little boy, and
I shouldn’t make pajamas for him if I had. I think the one-piece
nighties far more sensible. If you know of any one who has a little boy,
I’ll sell that pattern for half price. Still, ten cents wasn’t much to
pay for this sleeve pattern. You see, it’s really three sleeve patterns.
One plain, with dart; one plain, without dart; and one tucked. I’ll use
them all, in different waists, but for this mauve crépon, I think, we’ll
try the tucked one. It would be sweet in net or chiffon. Yes, I bought
both materials, for I didn’t know which you’d think prettier; I trust a
great deal to your judgment and experience, though I always rely on my
own taste.
Now, here’s the tucked sleeve. Merciful powers! Look at the length of
it! Oh, it’s to be tucked all the way up, you see, and that brings it
the right length. Wouldn’t it be easier to cut the sleeve from net
already tucked? No, that’s so—I couldn’t match the shade in tucked
stuff of any sort. I tried in seven shops. Well, let’s see. These rows
of perforations match these rows. No—that isn’t right. That would make
the tucks wider than the spaces. Why, I never saw such millions of
perforations in one piece of paper before! Look here, this isn’t a
sleeve pattern at all! It’s a Pianola roll! I’m going to put through and
see if it isn’t that old thing in F, or something classic. Cut out the
tucked sleeve, Miss Cotton. Oh, wait, I didn’t mean that literally! My
husband reproves me so often for using slang. I mean, I won’t have my
arms done up in Bach’s fugues; I should feel like a hand-organ.
Let’s try this plain sleeve with dart. H’m—“lay the line of large
perforations lengthwise of the material.” And here are large
perforations sprinkled all over the thing! Oh, no, that isn’t the way!
Yes, I’m quite willing you should show me, if you know yourself—but I
see these directions confuse you as much as they do me; and if there’s
to be a mistake made in cutting this expensive material, I’d rather make
it myself. This says, “developed in piqué it will produce satisfactory
results.” Well, I can’t wear piqué sleeves in a crépon gown! Can I?
There—I’ve cut it! Now, “close seam, gather between double crosses,
make no seam where there are three crosses, bring together corresponding
lines of perforations—and finish free edges!” Well! I rather guess
those free edges will finish me! However, baste it up, Miss Cotton, and
I’ll try it on. It’s easy to make sleeves, after all, isn’t it?
Why! I can’t begin to get my arm into that pipe-stem! What? I should
have allowed seams? Why didn’t you tell me? Oh, no, I didn’t scorn your
advice! Why, that’s what I have you here for! Well, those sleeves are
ruined. A living skeleton couldn’t get into those. It’s most confusing,
the way some patterns allow seams and some don’t. I was going to get one
with “all seams allowed,” but it had another part to it—a “brassière.”
I don’t know what that is, but probably some sort of a brass pot or
other bric-à-brac junk, and I don’t want any more of that. The den is
full now. Well, I’m tired of making sleeves. What do you think, Miss
Cotton, of just adding lace lower halfs? I bought a lovely pair, in case
the sleeves didn’t turn out well. Now, I’ll put on the bodice, and you
pin them on, and we’ll see how they look.
Oh, they’re not nearly long enough! They ought to come well below my
wrists. And such beautiful lace—it’s a shame not to use them. Yes,
perhaps a band of lace at the elbow might help. No, that looks awfully
patchy—take it away. A ruching at the wrist? No, nobody wears that. Oh,
dear, what can we do? I must have this gown for this afternoon!
Here’s a pair of long lace sleeves, whole ones, I bought in case I
needed them. Would they do? No—the lace doesn’t match that on the
bodice. Dye them? No, thank you! I bought some dye once, and the package
said on the outside in big letters: “Dyeing at Home! No trouble at all!”
and it gave me such a turn, I never could think of wearing a dyed
sleeve! What can I do? I believe I’ll wear them as they are. I hate long
sleeves anyway. They get so soiled, and they bag at the elbows, and
they’re terribly unbecoming. Oh, I’ve a whole black net guimpe! I bought
it, thinking it might be useful for something. Suppose we rip out these
sleeves, and the lace neck, and just wear the bodice over this guimpe!
Oh! oh! it looks horrid! just like an old-fashioned “jumper” suit!
You’ll have to put the neck back as it was.
But then what can we do with the sleeves?
Nothing! Just nothing! I shall have to stay at home until I can get some
entirely new gowns made. It’s a sin and shame, the way we poor women
have to be slaves to Fashion! And I know, just as soon as I am fitted
out with long sleeves, the pretty, short ones will come in style again!