ST. ROSE’S HOME FOR GIRLS
Mrs. Bossman, the matron of St. Rose’s Home for Girls, which I reached
after a railroad journey of several hours, received me with great
cordiality. She was very much in need of a secretary, she said, and,
while not able to pay a salary, would be glad to give me a comfortable
room with my board and laundry. I promised to move in, bag and baggage,
the following morning immediately after breakfast. At our first
interview she impressed me so favorably that I failed to notice either
the thinness of her lips or the color of her eyes.
On my return the following morning she again greeted me with great
cordiality. And even as I accepted her extended hand the color and
expression of her eyes, and the thinness of her lips were revealed to me
as though by a blaze of light. With this realization there flashed
across my memory a remark of the late Mrs. Jefferson Davis.
I had been to the opera—“Faust” with a wonderful caste, Eames and the
two de Reski. On my return I went into Mrs. Davis’ bedroom—I was
spending the winter in New York under her chaperonage—to tell her about
it. She was sitting up in bed reading, and laying her book aside she
listened attentively to my praise of Marguerite and Faust, and my
criticism of Mephisto. Then I boldly declared:
“Only a tall, thin man, intensely brunette, should attempt to play the
devil.”
“A tall, thin, dark man?” Mrs. Davis questioned, shaking her head. Then
she took off her spectacles and wiped them. “No, my dear. No. My idea of
the devil is a beautiful blonde woman with childishly innocent blue eyes
and thin lips. Yes, the devil is a woman. I’m sure of it. Only a woman
of the type I describe will conceive, plan, and perpetrate a deed of
supremest cruelty and selfishness. I never trust a blonde woman.”
What queer ideas old women have! As if the color of a person’s eyes and
hair really had anything to do with the quality of their heart. Then
there popped into my mind a lawyer, a member of the New York City bar in
good standing, who had gravely cautioned me against trusting a man who
“ran-down” his shoes. Evidently queerness was not limited to old women.
But a woman with the intelligence of the widow of the President of the
Confederacy—the thousands of persons she had met and known during her
eighty years—might not her judgment be of value? All of these thoughts
raced through my consciousness during the brief instant that Mrs.
Bossman clasped my hand. Vexed by what seemed to me my own trivial mind,
I was pleased by her suggestion to take me to my room.
Such a charming room it proved to be! On the second floor and
immediately over the main entrance to St. Rose. It was tastefully
furnished and spotlessly clean. At the end facing the door there was a
broad double window festooned by ivy that looked into the green feathery
foliage of a giant elm.
Gratified by my exclamation of pleased surprise, Mrs. Bossman told me
that she had selected the room because it was next her own and
convenient to the bathroom, shared by herself and Miss Pugh, the
assistant matron. Miss Pugh, she explained, was an old friend whom she
had induced to give up her former position in a large foundling asylum
to come to St. Rose. She, Miss Pugh, was a wonderful disciplinarian, and
as chockful of ideas as an egg with meat. With her as her assistant, and
me as her secretary, Mrs. Bossman declared that she felt her success
assured.
She had been in charge of St. Rose, I then learned, less than two
months. Previous to coming there she had, for many years, been at the
head of a reformatory.
Chatting about odds and ends, Mrs. Bossman waited while I removed my
coat and hat, and brushed my hair a bit. Just as I turned away from the
mirror there was a quick rap on the door, and without waiting for a
reply in stepped a little woman whose head reminded me sharply of a
hickory-nut doll.
“My dear!” she cried, grabbing hold of my hand. “Three educated women!”
She indicated herself, Mrs. Bossman, and me. “We can stand against the
world.”
Just what call we would have to stand against the world I did not
understand. Being ready to do my best as secretary to the matron of St.
Rose, I graciously accepted her greeting and the compliments that
appeared to belong to it. Walking between the two I passed down the
broad stairs and into the private office of the head of the institution.
Confidently expecting to spend the summer in this charming place I
glanced about the room that was to be my headquarters. Like every part
of the house that I had seen, this room was spotlessly clean and
furnished tastefully.
Sprays of ivy moved by the breeze peeked in at the two broad windows
that, opening on the street, were shaded from the direct rays of the sun
by the low-sweeping limbs of the elm. From the windows my eyes travelled
to the walls. I met the gaze of several bewhiskered gentlemen of solemn
countenance in clerical garb and black frames.
My secretarial duties, as then outlined to me, would consume about two
hours each morning, excepting Sundays. Once I had finished this daily
stint my time was to be my own to do with as I preferred.
“Only,” Mrs. Bossman added smilingly, “Miss Pugh and I both hope that
you will spend at least a few evenings with us in my private
sitting-room.”
Why did Mrs. Davis’ caution against blonde women keep bobbing up in my
mind? Ah, why indeed!
Being in my room when the lunch-bell sounded, I was a fraction of a
minute late entering the dining-room. A woman whom I had never seen met
me and introduced herself as the housekeeper. She gave me as my
permanent place a chair at a long table about which there were already
seated eighteen women.
When I had taken my chair the housekeeper took her seat and introduced
me to the other women. As each name was called the owner would glance up
at me, nod her head, and then drop her eyes back to her plate of soup.
Never a smile, not one word. The soup finished, while they waited for
the next course I noticed that three or four women spoke to their next
neighbors, always so low that they seemed to whisper.
Was this the effect of the presence of a stranger? I wondered. If so it
was up to me to break the ice. Selecting for my first attack a handsome
woman with red hair, who sat just across the table from me, I inquired
in what capacity she was connected with St. Rose.
She was the “mother” of a cottage, she informed me. All present
excepting the housekeeper, the seamstress, and myself were either
cottage mothers or their assistants. Yes, they took all their meals in
the dining-room. The children ate in their cottages—that is, excepting
the large girls serving us. They took their meals in the kitchen with
the cook.
By a persistent effort, addressing directly first one woman and then
another, I succeeded in arousing quite a buzz of conversation. Suddenly
silence. Even sentences already begun broke off half uttered, as though
the tongues had become suddenly paralyzed. Puzzled, I glanced around the
table. The eyes of every woman, even the housekeeper, were fastened on
her plate; more puzzled, I glanced around the room.
Mrs. Bossman and Miss Pugh had entered and were taking their seats at a
small table near the door. After this the women seated at the long table
opened their lips only for food. At the small table the matron and her
assistant conversed in subdued tones. After making two or three remarks
in the hope of reviving the conversation I gave up. Judging by their
faces, I might as well have tried to make myself entertaining at a table
of deaf-mutes. So to the end of the meal—depressed and depressing
silence.
After lunch, on my expressing a wish to be made useful, the assistant
matron invited me to go with her to one of the cottages. This “mother”
was having her afternoon off.
Much to my surprise I found that the attractiveness of St. Rose did not
extend beyond the building occupied by the matron and her immediate
staff. Desolate is the only word that adequately describes the cottage
to which Miss Pugh conducted me. Never a picture on the walls, not a
flower, nor a book. Bare walls of a forlorn dingy tint, and dingier
floors. Even the bewhiskered gentlemen in their black frames would have
been an improvement.
There were thirty-odd little girls in this cottage ranging in age from
five to thirteen years. The supper, which was served by the older girls
under the supervision of the assistant matron, consisted of canned
salmon, bread cut in hunks, and sweet milk. The tables were bare,
unpainted, and as dingy as the floors. Indeed they looked to be a piece
of the floor. The crockery was of the cheapest, nicked and sticky, and
there were no napkins.
Since that day I have visited many tenement homes. I have been in the
homes of New York City’s poorest. In none of them did I find less
attempt made to humanize the unlovely sordid surroundings. Even in the
home of the drunken Irish mother, who had sold every stick of furniture
excepting a broken table and the mattress she and her children huddled
on, I saw a picture of the Virgin.
St. Rose’s Home for Girls was conducted by a church claiming to follow
the teachings of Him who said: “Suffer the little children to come unto
Me.”
On my remarking to one of the older girls that they all took such dainty
helpings, she explained that each child had to clean its plate. That was
the rule, now, she said. This seemed such a good rule that I told the
table, in a way I imagined to be humorous, that Mr. Hoover would be glad
to know how much they were helping him. Though they knew all about Mr.
Hoover there was no smile, and I noticed that two of the older girls
exchanged glances and lifted their eyebrows.
A minute or so later a slight disturbance at a table behind me attracted
my attention. The assistant matron was standing over a little girl,
forcing her to eat food left on her plate at lunch, and using her
forefinger in the operation. It was the longest and boniest forefinger I
had ever seen. And that plate of cold spaghetti was about as appetizing
as some of the messes dished up to the waitresses at the Hotel Sea Foam.
Now, I belong to a family noted for good health and perfect digestion.
So much so that humorous friends declare we can, one and all, digest
flint rocks. Yet I do not believe that I could have swallowed, much less
digested, that mass of cold, sloppy, bluish spaghetti.
The victim of this economic tyranny was a delicate little girl of about
six years. Her cheeks were colorless, her lips were almost as white, and
there were dark circles about her eyes. Glancing around my eyes took in
the sordid unloveliness of the whole scene—and the little children with
meekly bowed heads, forcing down food which I could see few if any
relished. A lump rose in my throat, and a mist obscured my sight.
How could any woman! How could Miss Pugh! She was not a blonde. As
though feeling my stare the assistant matron relinquished her hold on
the girl’s shoulder, and straightening up, faced me.
“This is Mrs. Bossman’s order,” she said. “She found it a most
satisfactory disciplinary measure in her reformatory work. You knew she
had been in that work, didn’t you?”
“Ah?” I replied, as my estimate of Mrs. Jefferson Davis’ judgment
bounded upward. Living to be eighty has its compensations. Perhaps in
time I may learn to distrust men who do not tread squarely on their
heels.
At dinner that evening the talk was more general than it had been at
lunch. The entrance of Mrs. Bossman and Miss Pugh resulted in the same
frosty atmosphere. Determined not to finish my meal staring at my plate
while I shovelled down food, I fired question after question at the
woman with red hair. Amused, and I believe not a little encouraged by my
daring, she finally took hold and kept her end of the conversation
going.
During the balance of that meal we kept up a steady flow of talk, back
and forth, across the table. Not another woman said a word. Even the
matron and her assistant stopped whispering to each other. As I now
recall it, that conversation included the heavens, the earth, and the
waters under the earth. As we were leaving, the red-haired woman slipped
her hand through my arm and whispered:
“Come over to my cottage to-morrow when you finish your work. I’d like
you to see my children. I have forty little girls.”
It was after eleven o’clock the next day when I joined her. Her older
girls were at school, and the little tots were playing in a sand-pile in
the yard. She, seated on an upturned soap-box under the trees, was
making tatting.
Chatting with her I learned that she was Miss Jessup, and had an
orphaned niece and nephew dependent on her. Having been a saleswoman in
Chicago for years, she had, at length, broken away and come to New York,
firm in her faith of “bettering” herself.
“The stores were turnin’ off salespeople instead of takin’ ’em on,” she
told me, speaking of her efforts to get a position in New York. “I was
’most on my uppers when I heard about this place. The pay ain’t so bad,
and I just love children. Mrs. Bossman is new, you know. I don’t know
how long she’ll keep me, but as long as she does”—her jaw squared—“I’m
goin’ to see to it that my forty gets a square deal.”
“Among so many I suppose there must be some of the mothers who do not
understand the children in their care,” I questioned, with the same
object that a fisherman throws out a baited hook.
“No, they’re all right,” she assured me positively. “There isn’t one of
them who doesn’t do her best with her cottage. An’ things ain’t as easy
for us as it used to be, neither.” Here she glanced around, including
the overlooking windows of her own cottage. Then she added: “Mrs.
Bossman believes in what she calls lovin’ discipline. She got Miss Pugh
here to carry out the discipline.”
“Who carries out the loving?”
She flashed a quick smile at me. She was an attractive woman. In spite
of her grammar I believe she sprang from educated people.
“Mrs. Bossman,” she replied. “Yes, she really does try. You watch the
back yard this afternoon after the girls come from school. You’ll see
Mrs. Bossman walkin’ around with one of the older girls—the girl’s arm
around her waist.”
“Mrs. Bossman’s waist?” I asked, incredulous.
“Mrs. Bossman is holdin’ it there. Sometimes she has to hold real hard.”
She chuckled. “It’s odd what some folks don’t know. You can buy the love
of a man or a woman—that is if you have their price. But you can’t buy
the love of a child nor a dog. I know, for I’m one of a large family,
and I was brought up in the country. I know children and I know dogs.”
After lunch the assistant matron claimed my services. And her manner was
such that if by chance I had lost my memory I would have been sure that
she had a right to dispose of my time. Conducting me to a cottage of
which the mother was taking her afternoon off, she left me in charge. It
being a rainy day the children were forced to remain indoors. And I was
surprised to find them so easily entertained, or, I should say, that
they entertained themselves. Those who did not devote the time to their
dolls had some quiet game which they played alone or with one or two
others.
By and by, noticing how each child seemed trying to crouch within
herself, or huddled against her neighbor, I realized they must be
cold—it being a chilly afternoon. When I proposed a romping game,
something to warm them all up, they exchanged glances and shook their
heads. Then one of the older girls, taking her stand close beside my
chair, explained:
“We used to play lovely games—blindman’s buff, base, and a lot of others
that Mrs. Hoskins taught us, but”—she shrugged her shoulders—“Miss
Bossman said we made too much noise, and——”
A little girl seated nearer the door reached over and gave the speaker’s
apron a sharp pull, at the same time motioning with her head toward the
door. Instantly the child who had been talking to me slipped back to her
seat on the floor and picked up her doll. For a moment there was
profound silence. Though every one of the little people appeared to be
intent on her own play, I felt sure that even the littlest tot was
holding her breath.
There was a faint rustle—something on the other side of the closed door
had moved. The children exchanged glances but made no sound.
“Wouldn’t you like me to tie your doll’s sash?” I asked the littlest
tot.
She was standing by the arm of my chair, her doll’s face downward on my
knee, when glancing up I found Miss Pugh entering the door. Of course
she was smiling. Women of her type smile even when brushing their teeth.
She explained that when “rushing” by she had dropped in to see how I was
getting along. At the word “rush” I again saw the older girls exchange
glances—children are not so blind as many of their elders imagine. Being
in a rush the assistant matron could remain only a few minutes. The
little folks took her going as calmly as they had her entrance.
When supper-time came the older girls whose turn it was to prepare the
meal, went about their task without any reminder from me. After setting
the tables and drawing up the food from the kitchen on the dumb-waiter,
they announced that supper was served. When the others came trooping in
they seated the little ones and helped them put on their bibs.
Then, after whispering among themselves, one—perhaps the oldest—called
my attention to a plate of cold food, and pointed out the little girl
who had failed to eat it at lunch.
Without a word I took the plate and emptied it into the garbage-bucket.
For a moment there was not a sound, not a movement. Then all eyes turned
and stared at me. Then they stared at each other. A little girl chuckled
and rapped softly on the table with her spoon. The next instant every
little girl was chuckling and beating softly on the table with her
spoon.
It was a subdued demonstration. Every one of these little people
understood just what had happened. Also they realized that something
unpleasant might happen if it were found out.
Late that afternoon I learned that my room was to be changed—from the
cheerful surroundings of the building in which the matron lived to the
dingy desolation of the cottage in which I had spent that afternoon.
This information was not given me by either the matron or her assistant.
I was told by the girl who was to change with me. She had come to St.
Rose, so she explained, for the purpose of training for an institutional
worker, and had been helping Mrs. Hoskins, for whom I had substituted
that afternoon. She didn’t like it, and neither did I.
After supper Mrs. Bossman smilingly informed me that I had managed the
children so charmingly that she had decided to change me to that
cottage. She was sure I would be of great assistance to the mother, so
much more useful to St. Rose. It really did seem a pity, she went on, to
waste my genius for managing children—yes, it was nothing short of
genius—on her small correspondence.
Glad to be thrown more closely with the children, and sincerely wishing
to be of use to the institution, I agreed to the change. Though
conscious that several of the workers had watched us closely during Mrs.
Bossman’s explanation, I did not dream that any of them excepting,
perhaps, the girl was interested.
On going to my room with the intention of packing and being ready to
move to the cottage the first thing in the morning, I found Miss Jessup
waiting for me. Her face was pale, and I noticed for the first time that
her mouth had a very stern expression.
“Did you come here to take Mrs. Hoskins’ job?” she demanded as soon as
the door closed behind me.
“Mrs. Hoskins!” I exclaimed, so surprised that for a moment my memory
failed me. “Who on earth is Mrs. Hoskins?”
Her mouth became more stern.
“The mother whose place you took this afternoon. You never met her
because she won’t take her meals here. She takes ’em with the
children—eats with ’em same as she would with her own. She got the idea
that it makes the children feel more like home, havin’ her eat at the
table with ’em. There ain’t no doubt about it givin’ ’em better manners,
though Mrs. Bossman says it’s not good discipline.”
Miss Jessup then assured me that Mrs. Hoskins was the best mother at St.
Rose. She was a widow and had lost her husband and two children before
she was thirty. Ever since, for more than twenty years, she had been
mothering motherless girls at St. Rose. The children under her care were
the best trained, received the highest marks in their school, both in
deportment and studies, and they were, one and all, devoted to their
“mother.”
But Mrs. Hoskins had not co-operated as cordially in carrying out Mrs.
Bossman’s theories as that lady wished. One of these theories was
forcing a child to eat all food left on its plate at the previous meal.
She also objected to the children doing all the housework. She thought
some work too heavy even for the older girls.
Mrs. Bossman intended, according to Miss Jessup, to have me act as Mrs.
Hoskins’ assistant for a couple of weeks, or as long as it might take
for me to learn the ropes. Then she would discharge Mrs. Hoskins and
install me as “mother.”
“I ain’t sayin’ you wouldn’t make a good mother,” Miss Jessup wound up.
“I dunno but what I believe you would make a first-class one. What I
aims at is to get you to wait. I’ll be movin’ on soon—goin’ back to
Chicago. If you would wait and take my cottage. I don’t want to see Mrs.
Hoskins turned out. It would break her heart. That’s a fact. None of us
wants her turned out. I’ll go at the end of the month if—if you want me
to.”
“May the Lord love you, woman!” I exclaimed, more moved than I cared to
show. “I don’t want either Mrs. Hoskins’ job or yours. I wouldn’t have
either as a gracious gift.”
“What you goin’ to do? You’ve got to move into her cottage in the
mornin’. When the time comes—when Mrs. Bossman discharges Mrs.
Hoskins——”
“She’ll never discharge her on my account,” I interrupted. “As for what
I am going to do—how I’m going to get out of it, I haven’t the slightest
idea. But you let me sleep on it—you’ll know in the morning.”
The next morning when I went down to breakfast I took my bag with me.
After the meal, the matron not having made her appearance, I bade her
assistant good-by. Beyond saying that Mrs. Bossman’s methods did not
appeal to me a statement seemed unnecessary.