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 Jenny'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 those 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 to be matters of course 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
willfulness."
"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."