In the course of my papers various domestic revolutions have occurred.
Our Marianne has gone from us with a new name to a new life, and a
modest little establishment not many squares off claims about as much of
my wife's and Jennie's busy thoughts as those of the proper mistress.
Marianne, as I always foresaw, is a careful and somewhat anxious
housekeeper. Her tastes are fastidious; she is made for exactitude: the
smallest departures from the straight line appear to her shocking
deviations. She had always lived in a house where everything had been
formed to quiet and order under the ever-present care and touch of her
mother; nor had she ever participated in these cares more than to do a
little dusting of the parlor-ornaments, or wash the best china, or make
sponge-cake or chocolate-caramels. Certain conditions of life had always
appeared so certain that she had never conceived of a house without
them. It never occurred to her that such bread and biscuit as she saw at
the home-table would not always and of course appear at every
table,--that the silver would not always be as bright, the glass as
clear, the salt as fine and smooth, the plates and dishes as nicely
arranged as she had always seen them, apparently without the thought or
care of any one,--for my wife is one of those housekeepers whose touch
is so fine that no one feels it. She is never heard scolding or
reproving,--never entertains her company with her recipes for cookery or
the faults of her servants. She is so unconcerned about receiving her
own personal share of credit for the good appearance of her
establishment, that even the children of the house have not supposed
that there is any particular will of hers in the matter,--it all seems
the natural consequence of having very good servants.
One phenomenon they had never seriously reflected on,--that, under all
the changes of the domestic cabinet which are so apt to occur in
American households, the same coffee, the same bread and biscuit, the
same nicely prepared dishes and neatly laid table always gladdened their
eyes; and from this they inferred only that good servants were more
abundant than most people had supposed. They were somewhat surprised
when these marvels were wrought by professedly green hands, but were
given to suppose that these green hands must have had some remarkable
quickness or aptitude for acquiring. That sparkling jelly, well-flavored
ice-creams, clear soups, and delicate biscuits could be made by a raw
Irish girl, fresh from her native Erin, seemed to them a proof of the
genius of the race; and my wife, who never felt it important to attain
to the reputation of a cook, quietly let it pass.
For some time, therefore, after the inauguration of the new household,
there was trouble in the camp. Sour bread had appeared on the
table,--bitter, acrid coffee had shocked and astonished the
palate,--lint had been observed on tumblers, and the spoons had
sometimes dingy streaks on the brightness of their first bridal
polish,--beds were detected made shockingly awry,--and Marianne came
burning with indignation to her mother.
"Such a little family as we have, and two strong girls," said
she,--"everything ought to be perfect; there is really nothing to do.
Think of a whole batch of bread absolutely sour! and when I gave that
away, then this morning another exactly like it! and when I talked to
cook about it, she said she had lived in this and that family, and her
bread had always been praised as equal to the baker's!"
"I don't doubt she is right," said I. "Many families never have anything
but sour bread from one end of the year to the other, eating it
unperceiving, and with good cheer; and they buy also sour bread of the
baker, with like approbation,--lightness being in their estimation the
only virtue necessary in the article."
"Could you not correct her fault?" suggested my wife.
"I have done all I can. I told her we could not have such bread, that it
was dreadful; Bob says it would give him the dyspepsia in a week; and
then she went and made exactly the same;--it seems to me mere
wilfulness."
"But," said I, "suppose, instead of such general directions, you should
analyze her proceedings and find out just where she makes her
mistake,--is the root of the trouble in the yeast, or in the time she
begins it, letting it rise too long?--the time, you know, should vary so
much with the temperature of the weather."
"As to that," said Marianne, "I know nothing. I never noticed; it never
was my business to make bread; it always seemed quite a simple process,
mixing yeast and flour and kneading it; and our bread at home was always
good."
"It seems, then, my dear, that you have come to your profession without
even having studied it."